With irritation she found that, in her anxiety to board the train, she had forgotten to charge her phone so she spent most of the journey in a suspended state of daydreaming. Images of Matt flashed past her eyes, obstructing her view of the rolling countryside as the train sped eastwards. She could visualise with absolute clarity his wide friendly grin, his carefree approach to life, the taste of his lips on hers, his enthusiasm for all things to do with drink. His presence had brought sunshine into her life in more ways than one.
As the view through the windows became more urban, she glanced at her watch, not sure whether she craved her arrival or dreaded it. Occasionally, her reverie was interrupted by the abrupt ringtone of one of her fellow passengers’ phones or the indignant cry of a toddler who couldn’t get his own way and she was brought crashing back to the present, forced to consider what she intended to do when she arrived back in London.
She wanted to talk to Alice, to indulge in a full regurgitation of every detail of the last two weeks and to seek her sage advice. But then, how selfish was that? Alice would want to regale her with the details of her dream Fenella assignment and it was her duty as a friend to listen and contribute with equal excitement. However, she knew she wouldn’t be able to muster the required animation that day and therefore the better option would be to head straight to her flat and hibernate until she had put her life back into some sort of order.
The familiar sweeping arches of Paddington station brought the first jump in her spirits. She ignored the queue for the taxis and made her way to the Tube, craving the solitude even though it would be crammed with commuters or tourists who would not even notice her existence, never mind comment on her turmoil.
It was only when she stood at the top of the steps that she realised her mistake. She reluctantly turned and retraced her steps to take her place in a now expanded queue for a cab. There was no way she was going to drag her suitcase and prop box through the corridors of the Underground.
By the time she arrived at her apartment she was exhausted and her hands smarted from the physical endeavour of yanking her cases up two flights of stairs. She stood in her tiny kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil and drank in the familiar view. It was eight o’clock and already the light had been stolen from the sky. The clocks went back an hour at the end of the month and she could sense the arrival of winter in the air. It was her least favourite season – maybe it was because she was a July baby that she craved sunshine and warmth and loathed the necessity of piling on layers of thick woolly jumpers and coats and scarves for the best part of four months.
The kettle clicked off. She rummaged in the cupboards for coffee before she realised it was futile as there was no milk in the fridge. Well, nothing at all in the cupboards. She grabbed a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a glass and plonked herself down on the cream leather sofa to surf the TV channels for something to divert her attention away from dwelling on her future.
But it wasn’t to be. Her mind inevitably twisted to the question of whether she should really be considering going freelance. Her passion for photography in all its guises had returned with a vengeance during the Lucinda Loves…Desserts shoot and she had been repeatedly reminded how happy she was when she held a camera in her hands. Even now, curled up on her sofa, she could feel the tingle of excitement as she contemplated getting stuck in to the myriad images she had collected, checking to make sure she had the relevant permissions to feature all the last-minute products they had used in the shoots like the Tregothnan tea, before sending them over to Lucinda for her comments.
It was a scary prospect branching out on her own, she knew that, but what worthwhile pursuit wasn’t? Just because something was difficult didn’t mean she should simply take the easy route of turning up at Dexter Carvill on Monday morning as though the last two weeks had never happened. Hadn’t Lucinda inspired her to reach for her dreams, and taught her that doing so would make her happy and that in turn would shine through her work? And she was absolutely right. Daunting though it was, Emilie had to go for it.
For a few wonderful seconds, elation flooded through her veins. She had so many ideas, so many fresh new concepts she wanted to experiment with. If she only had herself to satisfy she could push her abilities to the max. She had Alice to rely on for an honest critique and she knew that whilst he would be sorry to see her go, Dexter would have assignments for her.
But then, predictably, her thoughts flicked over to Matt who had been the catalyst of her rejuvenated zest for her profession. He had lit her touchpaper and stood back to watch the fireworks. With Matt by her side anything had seemed possible – creatively, professionally, emotionally. But now she was alone, back in her normal life, the whole ‘solo’ project seemed to have lost some of its sheen. Maybe she should just lock her dreams away in their sparkly box and fasten the latch.
As she sipped on her third glass of wine, the alcohol began to soothe her tattered edges and calm the indecision ricocheting around her head so that she was able to organise her emotions into some semblance of order. She realised her short-lived spurt of self-confidence and optimism had been a direct result of Matt’s relentless positivity – his continual insistence she should reach for her dreams because no one knew what tomorrow had in store.
Where was he at that very moment? What was he doing and who with? Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? She didn’t have to delve too deep to know the answer to that last question.
She tipped her head back to rest on the sofa and as she did so, she noticed for the first time that the little red light on the answerphone was blinking. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had left a message on the house phone. Who could it be? She pressed the button and Brad’s voice blasted into the silence.
‘Emilie, where are you? You should be back from your Cornwall trip by now! Listen, I need your help. On the way back to the hotel last night I was robbed. Didn’t realise until this morning. Bloody thieves! Anyway, they stole my passport. I need you to find my driver’s licence and fax a copy across to me at the Baglioni so I can sort this out at the consulate and fly home. I’ve got the Rolex shoot in Edinburgh Castle tomorrow and I can’t risk being late. Ring me when you get this message.’
Emilie stared at the phone and was unsurprised to feel not a smidgeon of sympathy for Brad’s predicament. There was no apology for his behaviour over the Venice shoot, nor any reference to a certain skinny lingerie model. And no mention of his theft of her camera, making him no better than the petty pickpockets he’d just denounced. Neither was there a ‘please would you help me out’ nor ‘thank you for going to the trouble’. Just a list of demands to save his skin.
She pressed the erase button. She had no intention of continuing to be cast as a supporting artist in the drama of her life as Brad’s, or anyone else’s, general dogsbody. From now on she would star in the lead role with her head held high and confidence rushing through her veins. She reached for her laptop and plugged it in to charge.
The urge to check her email proved too difficult to resist so she switched it on. As she waited for it to fire up, she scrolled through the messages on her phone and saw that, as well as six ever-increasingly urgent text messages from Brad for her to call him, she had a voicemail from Matt. Her finger hovered over the dial button, but she could resist anything except temptation and the dulcet tones of her voicemail told her she had three messages.
The sound of Matt’s voice sent shock waves through her whole body. She saw that the first message had been received only an hour ago. In this one-sided conversation Matt had inform her that he’d been discharged from hospital, that his father had arrived to drive him home and whilst he was disappointed about the way things had ended, he understood and wished her well for the future. He had even thanked her for giving him the opportunity to be part of the epic road trip and told her she had been instrumental in reigniting his passion for writing and that he intended to pursue his dream of seeking publication of his book on the diverse beverages of the UK.
But what caused the tears to stream down her cheeks was what he told her at the end of his message.
‘I want you to know that you have inspired me to resume production at the microbrewery. I’ve been running away to Cornwall for too long. I’ve hurt my parents, I realise that now, but I’ve also been punishing myself for something that, as you told me, was not my fault. So…thank you, Emilie.’
She sat in her chair waiting for the tears to slow. By that time, she could only muster enough energy to flop onto her bed and drag her crimson mohair throw over her head in a futile attempt to blank out the harshness of the outside world. She had to be honest and admit that she would miss Matt’s constant cheerfulness and enthusiasm for life in Cornwall – despite the sadness his absence had heaped on his family – and she fervently wished their paths had taken a different route.