Had a nice day. Chatted with your mate’s brother. Decent bloke. The bride to be is out of sorts. How’s Capri?
Hmm, should I say something to Nick about Pippa? But that would be letting on that I know about the wedding – maybe I should wait for Nick to tell me. If he ever does.
But there’s something else. I read the message again, trying to pinpoint exactly what doesn’t sit right about it. Oh, I know – it’s the complete lack of romance or intimacy or any indication that WE ARE A COUPLE! Nicholas could have sent it to hismom.
‘Argh!’ I mutter through gritted teeth.
Has it always been like this? I scroll up, reading through our message thread, eyes wide open – literally but more importantly, metaphorically. This from two days ago is particularly annoying:
Nicholas
When do you fly out?
Me
1.20pm – can’t wait to see you xxxx
Nicholas
Safe flight
Safe flight– something you’d say to a colleague, not your girlfriend. I return to last night’s message and reply:
Had a nice day too. Capri’s sunny.
I hitsendwithout adding anything cutesy or girlfriendy. Petty? Sure. But will he even notice? Doubtful.
‘All yours,’ Nick says, startling me.
He emerges from the bathroom with damp hair and smelling fresh, notes of his citrusy cologne wafting the air. He’s also wearing a towel –onlya towel – andcarryinghis clothes. The clothes that should be on his body.
‘Thanks,’ I say, looking anywhere but at his naked torso. ‘And new ground rule – no walking around like that.’
‘Oh, right – sorry.’
I scurry over to the closet and take out the first dress I can find, grab a clean pair of underwear and a bra from the dresser, and rush past him into the bathroom, closing the door a little too forcefully.
‘Sorry!’ I shout through the door. I don’t want him thinking I’mmad– just trying to maintain our platonic pact.
‘No worries,’ comes his muffled reply.
I undress and slip into the shower, doing my best not to imagine Nick in here or –worse– Nick in here with me.
‘Not helpful, Delaney.’
I shower quickly, except for the shaving part – like any woman who shaves, I too have had the trauma of peeling the skin off my shin with one swipe. And the Red Wedding has nothing on a gushing shin.
Out of the shower, I scoop my unwashed hair into a high ponytail, zhuzhing the ends with leave-in conditioner, apply tinted moisturiser, dot on cream blush, brush on mascara, and swipe lip gloss across my lips. I get dressed and give myself an appraising look in the mirror.
Even in a hurry, I’ve managed to look cute.
‘It’s for you, Delaney,’ I tell myself unconvincingly. Nothing to do with the hulking hottie in the next room. I give myself a stern stare. ‘Nicholas could definitely do more in the romance department, but he’s your boyfriend and you are not a cheater. So, keep your lips and every other part of you to yourself, woman.’
And with that, I collect my PJs and leave the bathroom.
It’s silent in the suite – maybe Nick’s outside. I peek through the window as I put my PJs away, but the balcony’s empty.Hmm.Would he leave for the day without telling me? He doesn’tneedto tell me where he’s going. I’m not his mom – or his girlfriend – but I was hoping to read his screenplay.
I go into the living room and look around. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who travels around with a printed manuscript, and I can’t see his laptop – not that I’d ever open it without asking. So, if he has gone out, I’m shit outta luck.