After a few days of steady sunshine that had melted the snow and almost completely dried the underlying mud, Mitchell invites me for a walk along the coastal path. Despite all my resolutions to stay away from him, my heart skips a beat.
I have done all I can for today, having already sent in my next report to Susan until notice of my termination reaches me. What’s keeping her so long? But I’m sticking to my guns, i.e. that currently, there is still no evidence to substantiate the suspicions of malfeasance on the part of Mitchell Fitzpatrick, and that I am instead looking into the feasibility of his being set up by someone who holds a grudge against him.
When my email to Susan gets an ‘Out of the Office until further notice’ notification email back, I know I have a few days off. She must have finally met someone and is hopefully shagging him senseless on some sun-drenched beach. Maybe that will mellow her a bit. Or maybe (wishful thinking, I know) Susan the Sacker has finally been sacked herself. In any case, I’m off the hook for a few days.
So I dash over to the stables to make sure that Jeremy is going to be fine with keeping Danny, but the two hardly acknowledge me as I go, Jeremy raising a hand in salute as Danny is absorbed in filing a horseshoe. They are both in their element, as usual, so I am free to go and discover what Mitchell’s invitation might hold.
Am I seeing too much in this? Could he have any interest in me at all? Or is he simply trying to lure me away from his accounts? Or, worse, is he going to confess some theft to me and then chuck me over the cliff? To be sure, I let him lead.
I have avoided him these past few days, having been a bit all over the place emotionally. I didn’t want him to see how much I really am attracted to him. Because even if he really is genuinely interested in me, we have absolutely no future together.
The weather has freakishly warmed up, and is now not Christmassy at all, even for southern England, with a gorgeously clear blue sky that seems one with the clear blue sea. It looks and smells like my memories of the Mediterranean and even the constant breeze seems to have died down. Everything looks perfect. Could it be the proverbial calm before the next storm?
Wheezing but trying to hide it behind casual-ish gulps of air, I follow him along the path as he points out this and that cove, and while he’s not looking, I can’t help but admire his leg muscles. After all, he is walking in front of me. I’d be blind (and dead) not to notice. After a good twenty minutes he stops, thank you God, looks about, and grins. ‘This okay?’
There is a small family just over the hillock a few yards away, but we’re far enough not to be overheard by them. ‘Sure,’ I say, wondering why we are here.
‘I’m starving now,’ he says, unfurling his waterproof picnic plaid and pulling out some goodies. I should be starved, too, but am feeling queasy. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I was pregnant, but I know it’s only stress.
I take the piece of meat pie he’s cut me and nibble on it absently, watching him down his own food with gusto. He has a nice way of eating, manly and polite.
The views up here are postcard perfect. If only life could be just as perfect. It strikes me that anyone passing us by at this very moment might even think we’re a couple on holiday. And they’d probably also think how lucky I am to be with someone like Mitchell. Oh, if only they knew!
About half an hour later – food, wine and casual conversation all consumed – there’s a strange silence hanging between us.
He glances at me from beneath those fan-like lashes, and then looks down at the patch of grass separating our hands. ‘You have such little hands, Rosie,’ he suddenly whispers as his face turns red under his light beard. Oh my God, is it still possible in this day and age to find a man who actually blushes?
Normally, I’d be the first one to break eye contact, but I can’t. I can barely believe he’s sitting next to me on this clifftop, our hands less than a foot apart. He’s gently raking the grass with his long fingers as we both stop to watch. They are long and elegant, but incredibly strong (I’ve seen him lug barrels downstairs on his shoulder). I am tempted to reach out and touch his fingers with mine – even a pinkie would do – to make a complete fool of myself.
Luckily I still have a modicum of self-control. There is no way that I am going to make a first move ever again. Even if I have to give in to the idea that, no, I am not indifferent to this guy in the least. I can feel my longing in the space between us. And I can feel I’m not the only one. I can hear it in his deep voice that makes my stomach vibrate. And I can tell by the way his eyes flash and his face lights up when I walk into a room. Maybe it’s just a… a thing, that will end when I go away. But for now, it’s here.
But if that’s not enough for him to tell me, then I could ruin it all in one single pinkie-touch. Send him running for the hills. I know he’s still smarting from his previous relationship, and the thought of being rejected keeps me in my corner and has done so for the past eight years. Maybe I’m just not going to have The Relationship. Maybe all I got was Mark. He gave me Danny, which trumps any man any day. So maybe I should just count my blessings.
And even if I’ve been alone since forever, I wonder whether one year for Mitchell on his own is enough before opening his heart to someone new. And in any case, I’m just passing through. Which is lucky. Or not, I wonder?
‘You cold?’ he asks, looking up. It’s like he’s piercing my gaze now, with his eyes that are questioning, probing. I can’t stand it any longer, so to avoid saying something cheesy like I usually would at this point, I just shake my head. And that’s when he grasps my hands and puts them between his own huge ones. I nearly have a stroke for the surprise.
‘I notice you never wear gloves,’ he whispers, his eyes lifting to mine. ‘Your hands are so cold.’
No, I definitely can’t stand it anymore. I’ve never been this attracted to anyone.
In a parallel world, I watch myself whipping to my knees and throwing my arms around his neck, bringing him to me in a lung-crushing kiss. In that same parallel world, his mouth responds to mine like second nature, and before I know it, we’re rolling around on the picnic throw, amidst the pasties, the meat pies, the tiny scotch eggs, cheese and Branston pickle. The packets of Quavers pop softly as they are flattened and explode under us, and the chocolate mousse is long forgotten, along with the family only a few yards away.
And then the real world returns, where he’s talking to me, expecting an answer. What has he just said? My head is lost like a buoy in the enveloping sea of his voice. I can hear it but none of it is making any sense.
‘… Rosie?’
Oh God, this happens to me all the time now around him. He must think I’m a real flake, incapable of remembering two words in sequence. Talk about goldfish memory capacity. I try to guess what he’s said by the look on his face. He’s smiling, rather shyly, so he can’t have just asked me to sleep with him or anything so forward. (Need I say how disappointed I am at that?) I’m completely clueless. Might as well admit it.
‘Run that by me again?’ I whisper, and he grins.
He leans in, his eyes never leaving mine. Oh my God, this is finally it. Is he going to kiss me now? I feel like I’m going to fly, among the highest, purest clouds. And my forehead is still slightly damp from schlepping – that’s Danny’s favourite new word – all the way up here. My hair must be a mess and, I swear, if there’s any Branston in my teeth I’ll die of shame. I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears. But I also hear music. Not daydreamers’ fantasy music, but real music.
Damn. This has almost become a running joke now. Because it’s my mobile phone, or more precisely Stevie Wonder singing ‘You are the Sunshine of my Life’. Mitchell’s face splits into a grin and I cringe in embarrassment for how apt the song is to the situation. But it’s actually Danny’s ringtone.
‘Excuse me,’ I whisper. Yes, I know what you’re thinking, but my baby might need me. The one time I’d ever missed a call, he’d fallen off the swings.
‘Mum! I just rode Mabel!’ he shrieks.
‘What?’
‘The mare!’
Of course. The horse he has a crush on but that wasn’t reciprocated so far. ‘Oh, darling, that’s wonderful!’
‘Jeremy says I can ride her again tomorrow!’
‘I’m so proud of you…’
‘Will you tell Mitchell? He’ll be proud of me, too!’
I look up. He can hear every word and his eyes are twinkling with amusement.
‘Of course.’
‘Okay. Bye, Mum!’
‘See you later, darling.’
I hang up and look at Mitchell. ‘That was—’
‘I heard. Good news, isn’t it?’
I nod, my lips still tingling, waiting for his mouth to resume its journey to mine.
But something’s changed, like he’s disappointed, and he’s already up on his feet. ‘We’d better get back, Rosie…’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Sure.’ What, not even one measly little snog, in this, the most romantic place in the world? Well, thank you very much, Stevie Wonder…
In the jeep on the way back, we sit in total, painful silence. I don’t know what exactly it is that I’ve done, but it’s put him off me completely. It can’t be the song. It’s got to be the Branston, I just know it.
After we get back to the inn and Mitchell helps me down, I thank him for lunch and make a mad dash for my office, where Danny is waiting to tell me all about Mabel. Which is a relief, because I need to lose myself in my son. And work – happy, good, normal things – so I can try and forget the cock-up I’ve just made of the afternoon – and my self-esteem.
‘She’s a true darlin’, Mum!’ Danny says about Mabel. Do I detect a slight Irish accent?
Laura, who is working at Reception, looks up and winks at me. I roll my eyes and dedicate myself completely to Danny’s account of the afternoon, but every now and then I notice Laura leaning back in her chair and smiling at me inquisitively. Am I that transparent?
A couple of hours later, she goes on her coffee break (with Alex), leaving me to watch Reception.
‘Rosie…?’ comes Mitchell’s deep voice. Oh, God. Here it comes, The Uncomfortable Conversation.
‘Yeah?’ I say over my shoulder as he comes in to stand over my desk. I am trawling through TripAdvisor to concentrate on the few complaints on this site, but apart from Ms Lorna Greene who bemoans the lack of castor support cups and The Wanderer who didn’t like the colour of the wood (remember them?), TripAdvisor is definitely not the source of the inn’s downfall.
After the fool I’ve made of myself earlier, I’m lying low like a leper. And my teeth were Branston-free, by the way, in case you’re still wondering about that. It must just have been one of those things. We just didn’t click. Or rather, I clicked big time and scared him off. But maybe our almost-kiss did absolutely nothing for him.
Mitchell leans on the counter, lowering his voice. ‘What’s this I hear about a hotel inspector?’
I sit up in a jerk and stare at him. I can feel the blood draining from my face, and the life seeping out of my Will To Live reserve. Because now I’m dead. He’s dead, Laura’s dead, we’re all dead.
Like a rabbit caught in headlights, I look up into his own narrowing eyes, and I’m hoping he can’t see through me, but who am I kidding? The moment of truth is now upon us. What did I expect?
‘A… h-hotel inspector…?’ I manage.
‘Yes, a hotel inspector, Rosie.’
Well, that solves my problem of how to tell him I’m a lying hound. But now? What can I say? ‘Uhm…’
He leans on his elbows and peers further into my burning face. ‘Gotcha!’
I stare at him, not understanding. Is he joking?
‘Oh, Rosie, your face! Still, it’s always better to stay on guard, don’t you think? Head Office is not very happy with my inn at the moment.’
I swear I almost exhale bits of lung and heart as he ruffles my hair and picks up a folder, leaving me sitting there. Is he bloody kidding me? Nothing – nothing is worth having a heart attack for, of course – but to lose his confidence and friendship would’ve literally killed me. It’s bad enough that he didn’t want to kiss me. It doesn’t help that he’s ruffled my hair like he would Danny’s.
It also doesn’t help that all afternoon while Danny is at the stables with Jeremy that Mitchell doesn’t look like he’ll be leaving the immediate area around my desk anytime soon, as he is instead hanging around without any obvious reason. He’s going through some files, but on the third round of reading them, I deduce he’s bored stiff and simply trying to kill time while spying on me, to see if I’m earning my keep. He just won’t go away, and finds all sorts of excuses to ask me questions, trying to catch me out on something or other. If he asks me where I work in London, I’ll have to make up a name, and then if he looks it up, which he will, I’ll just have to wing it. What else can I do?
‘So…’ he says, his voice deep and chocolatey. Just listening to him makes me want to throw my files into the air, crawl over the desk separating us, grab him by his sweater and… beg him to forgive my deceit.
‘Yes, Mitchell?’
He eyes me directly, a serious look on his face. I can’t tell if he’s going to kiss me (highly unlikely, given his track record) or tell me off.
‘So what’s the deal?’ he asks.
I blink. ‘Deal?’
‘Are you going to stay on and work for me or not?’
Here we are again. I have to give him an answer, eventually, before he takes back his offer. But if I’m not planning on accepting it, what does it even matter?
‘I-I don’t know, Mitchell. It’s a great offer…’
‘It is and I’d help you with everything else.’
‘Everything else?’
He shrugs. ‘Getting Danny a placing in the local primary, finding a place to live. You know.’
Just the idea of starting all over in this beautiful corner of the world makes me smile. But would it really be good for Danny after all? Tearing him away from his school and his friends? But then I tell myself, if it makes you happy, it can only be good for you. But Mitchell doesn’t understand why I can’t do it, not here, with him, as much as I’d love to. And I need to buy some time.
‘I’ll think about it, Mitchell. Thank you very much. I promise not to take too long to give you an answer.’
He smiles. ‘Okay.’
If he’s disappointed, it doesn’t show. Maybe he’s not perturbed in the least. Maybe it’s all in my foggy head. I need someone to help me clear it, so when Laura disappears on her afternoon coffee break with Alex, I dial Liz’s number.
‘Hey, doll, what’s up?’ Her chirpy voice breezes through my phone alongside the tapping of her keyboard.
‘I kind of screwed up,’ I whisper, looking behind me in case someone walks by.
‘What did you do, sleep with the boss?’ she quips.
I cringe, and the typing stops.
‘You didn’t! Tell! Is he as good as he looks?’
‘No, I didn’t sleep with him, Liz! But… we did almost kiss.’
‘Almost?’
‘Well, Danny called me. He’s the only thing that could stop me.’
‘Wow. Looks like someone performed a miracle on you. You told me he was a real piece of work.’
‘Yes… yes, I did. But in fairness, I didn’t know him as much as I do now. He’s hard-working and honest.’
She whistles. ‘Wow, all that from an almost-kiss?’
I blush, but she’s right. I really do sound biased. ‘I don’t know what to do, Liz. I really really like him.’
‘Honey, it’s great that there’s finally a bloke who interests you after Mark. God knows it took you long enough to get over him the first time.’
‘Yes, well, there’s not going to be a second time.’
‘Good, I’m glad to hear you say that. But sweetie, it’s probably for the best if you don’t settle on Mitchell Fitzpatrick either. Besides, you’ll be home soon enough. Don’t put yourself through anything with an expiration date.’
She’s right, of course. But there’s still that one tiny detail. ‘He offered me a job.’
‘Who, Fitzpatrick?’
‘Yes, who do you think? He offered me his own job. Oh, God, if he found out…’
‘Hold it, Rosie, hold it. You’re getting in over yourself. First, focus. You went there to assess the situation and find out why the place has such a bad reputation, right?’
I huff. ‘Yes.’
‘Okay. In order to do so, you have to get to know him on a personal level. They go hand in hand.’
‘Right.’
‘But, and here’s the thing. You can, if you want, seeing as he’s such an Apollo, have a little tryst with him.’
‘But you told me not to get involved…’
‘I meant emotionally, Rosie. No strings attached.’
‘But what about the job offer?’
‘Oh, Rosie, was he even serious? He can barely keep his own job, let alone give a reference for you. Besides, what the hell are you and Danny going to do all alone in Cornwall?’
I don’t have to think about that one. ‘Be happy? Besides, he said he’d be there for us.’
‘So did Mark, sweetie.’
That one shuts me up instantly.
She sighs. ‘I know you’re miserable, Rosie. That tosser ruined your life by dumping you all those years ago.’
‘Yes, but he also gave me Danny. And I wouldn’t – I couldn’t – have it any other way. I’d do it again a thousand times, you know that, Liz.’
‘Of course, hon, I know. Danny is the best thing that’s ever happened to you. But you do need to also have some fun.’
‘But I can’t with Mitchell. I can’t pretend I’m just a girl on holiday. I’ve come here to spy on him. I’m deceiving him. Guys like Mark deserve something like this to happen to them, but not Mitchell.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The poor guy was dumped by his wife last Christmas.’
‘Ah. Are you sure you want to get involved with a married man?’
‘The divorce is being finalised.’
‘He told you that?’
‘Laura, his receptionist did.’
‘So you two haven’t even had that conversation yet? Jesus, Rosie, what exactly does he say to you?’
‘Not much, really. Most of it is looks and innuendos,’ I admit. ‘But he’s really nice to me. And Danny adores him.’
‘Careful, Rosie, or you’ll get seriously hurt again. Because you sound like it’s the real deal for you. But is it the same for him?’
Terrific question. Does Mitchell have feelings for me that will extend beyond Christmas? ‘I’ll have to get back to you on that,’ I answer.
‘All right, hon. Be careful. And keep in touch.’
‘I will, Liz,’ I promise and ring off.
Is it? The same for him? The question keeps jumping around in my head. If it were to be the same for him, shouldn’t he tell me so, before it’s time for me to leave? A job offer is not a declaration of one’s feelings. Or should I tell him about my own feelings? I’m completely out of practice and so rubbish at this.
Experience has taught me to never show my hand (or my heart, in this case), but all my girlfriends say that if I don’t ask, I won’t get, and that I should make things happen. But what if I presume too much? What if I let myself go to the idea that he might be interested for real, and then it turns out I only make a fool out of myself? And not only that: how on earth could I expect him to develop feelings for me, when I know I don’t deserve them?
If this were a BBC Period Romance, it would be easy to make the proper, moral choice. I’d be someone really cool like Kate Winslet. I’d not worry about the consequences and quit my job, take Danny somewhere remote (as if Cornwall wasn’t remote enough) and go and sit on a windswept cliff high above the raging sea, my knitted shawl wrapped around me, while I torment myself with the thought of him, lost to me forever for my one mistake of not revealing my identity to him.
And then, because it’s the BBC (and Cornwall), he, in the form of someone dashing like Captain Poldark himself, would appear at my back and hold me, whispering words of comfort into my ear, hopefully along with some PG-14-rated stuff.
And then he’d take me back home, where we’d live happily ever after.
*
That night Danny and I climb up onto my bed for our bedtime chat.
‘So how’s it going?’ I ask as I ruffle his hair.
‘I love it here, Mum,’ he says as he plays with my necklace. ‘There’s so much to do.’
I smile. What a world of difference. He’s changed so much. This place is good for him. There is literally no trace of the pale city boy who arrived. In his stead is a confident, happy child who bounces out of bed in the morning, whereas I’d have to half-drag him to school in London.
‘Mum, do we have to go back to London?’ he asks.
‘You like it that much, then?’
‘Yeah…’ he sighs.
I laugh. And wonder. Do we really have to go back? And if I lose my job, what is there to go back to? I’ve never worked in any other field. And I can’t work for Mitchell, of course, because once Johnson Hotels fire you, you’re out. Not to mention Mitchell’s disappointment. I won’t even be able to show my face in Little Kettering.
But again, the idea of opening my own pottery shop and giving pottery throwing lessons, albeit on the other side of the county, comes back to my mind.
I left Birmingham for London in search of work, and myself. But what if I have found myself here, in Cornwall? And as far as Mitchell goes, if I lived on the other side of the county, we wouldn’t be bumping into each other, right? So, all in all, is leaving London for Cornwall such a crazy idea after all?
Danny slides off my bed and yawns. ‘Okay. I’m sleepy now, Mum. Goodnight.’ He kisses me and heads for his own room. I watch him go with a mixture of pride and nostalgia. It’s incredible how well he’s doing here. He’s growing more and more confident each day. Maybe I need him more than he needs me.
And Mitchell? Maybe I even need Mitchell more than he needs me. Because there’s no denying it. Something has shifted between us after that near-kiss experience and my drunken declaration of love. Only not in the way I’d hoped, i.e. the two of us being overwhelmed by a sudden passion and promising eternal love to each other. If anything, Mitchell seems more… distant.
Which is just as well. I’m not here for a Christmas romance. Or rather, that’s not why I was sent here. Better to actually concentrate on the reason I am here. And make sure that, whatever happens, and whatever decision Head Office makes, he’s protected. Even by me. Because the last thing I want is to harm him. I know I’d rather quit.
Now all I have to do is find the courage to change my life around.
*
The next morning I get up early and spend all morning sorting out invoices – paid ones, this time – and nod to Laura as she comes in to relieve me for lunch, Danny at her side. Leaving my position behind my desk and taking Danny’s hand in mine, we decide that a stroll into town is what we need.
I have no aim or agenda, so I’m content to let Danny lead the way and bring me to places Mitchell has taken him to, and meet the town folk, whom Danny is already acquainted with.
And I have to say that Little Kettering is the epitome of the quintessential corner of England – no flagship shops teeming with yobbos in hoodies and baggy jeans worn around the ankles slinking away from the CCTV cameras on the high streets or throwing up on public transport. Instead, fairy lights line the streets and bakeries and antique shops and tearooms are abundant. No fast-food joints here, thank God, but simple, old-fashioned food. It is all so lovely, it actually looks like a location set for a period drama.
There are two bus routes – used mainly by the elderly and schoolchildren. On the weekends the kids go into town to catch a movie or to spend their pocket money, while the elderly all chat amiably about the Good Old Days. Everyone is so laid-back it’s refreshing. No one fighting over a seat, no one jabbing you in the ribs because you’re taking up their breathing space on the Tube, and most of all, no one looking over their shoulders just in case.
‘Look, Mum!’ Danny cries, pointing towards the post office. ‘Santa!’
I turn my head, and, sure enough, there he is – red suit, white beard and all, distributing presents. He is absolutely huge. And cheesy beyond hope. But the kids love him.
My own memories of Santa Claus are very vague, but this guy is… how to describe him? Adorable wouldn’t even begin to swing it. You can tell he’s – get this – actually happy to be there, talking to the kiddies on his lap, promising all sorts of lovely presents – if they’ve been behaving, that is.
And then he beckons Danny over. ‘You, over there, young man!’ he bellows in our direction. ‘Have you been good?’
Danny’s face lights up when he realises Santa is addressing him. My little boy is so clever and mature that I sometimes forget how young he really is. And that he still, despite everything, believes in Santa. My nose starts to tingle and I look away, but only for a brief moment, because I want to see the sheer happiness on his face as he climbs up onto Santa’s knees.
‘So, what do you want for Christmas, young man?’ he asks.
Danny thinks about it and cups his hands to deliver his secret wish into Santa’s ear.
Santa stops, and scratches his beard. ‘Is that so?’
Danny nods.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t want something like a bicycle, or a toy tractor?’
Danny shakes his head. ‘No, thank you, Santa. See what you can do, okay?’
Santa looks at him, and then his eyes rest on me. ‘Yes, son. I’ll see what I can do. What about your mum then?’
I can only imagine what Danny has asked for – a functioning father? His very own family, and I can’t bloody give it to him for the life of me. And then I realise everyone has turned my way and is looking at me expectantly. Have I missed something?
‘Come on, up you come,’ Santa says.
I look behind me, just to make sure, and notice everyone still looking at me expectantly.
‘Wha—? Me? No, no, no. Thanks anyway.’
‘Come, now, love, there’s a whole bunch o’ kiddies awaitin’.’
I’m inclined to desist, but everyone is urging me on, so rather than be a party pooper, I make a fool of myself by leaning against Santa, embarrassed.
‘Come on, love, don’t be shy.’
‘But I’m heavy,’ I protest.
‘Nonsense. You’re as light as a fairy. Now, what can I get you this lovely Christmas?’
I huff. This is ridiculous. What can he get me? ‘I just want Danny to be happy forever,’ I whisper, thinking that not even Santa could grant Danny his wish.