The Burnout(43)

The magazines. The chocolate wrappers. The crisp bags. The empty ice-cream tub. The wine bottle. The tissues from my crying jag, still spilling out of the cardboard box. And, like an exhibit in a court room, my two undrunk kale smoothies.

I’m trying to think of some witty remark, some way to style it out.… But I can’t. I have no style. No veneer. Nothing to hide behind.

This is me.

“I’m sorry,” Finn says at last, in a different, awkward voice. “I shouldn’t have intruded. I apologize.”

I open my mouth to tell him it’s fine, but before I can make a noise, he’s gone, the door has closed, and I’m standing there, breathing out hard. Slowly, I bring my fists to my forehead. I can’t even utter a sound. Any sound would be inadequate.

It seems like an eternity that I stand there, reeling from the entire exchange. The shouting. The sight of that red weal on his flesh. And the mortification. For a moment I feel like leaving. Just packing up, checking out, going back to London. Anything rather than face him again.

But that would be pathetic. And there’s a more pressing matter. Why wasn’t there a dressing on that wound?

At last I take a deep breath and stride out. Finn is sitting on the deck outside his lodge and he starts as he sees me, shooting me a wary look.

“How did you injure your arm?” I ask bluntly.

“Nikolai spilled coffee on it.”

“Oh God!” I bring a hand to my mouth. “No!”

“He’s a jittery guy,” says Finn with a wry half smile. “Shaky hands. Not a good fit for serving hot beverages.”

“So that’s why you sounded so curt. When you were talking about the toast.” I exhale sharply as it all falls into place, and a look of comprehension comes over Finn’s face too.

“Right. OK. Now I get what you meant earlier. The reason I spoke to him the way I did is I was in quite a lot of pain. For me at that precise moment, that was top-level charming. Bearing in mind he messed up the breakfast order too. Guess he was unnerved.”

I’m replaying the entire breakfast scene with this new knowledge, and I have to say, it all makes sense. No wonder Nikolai looked so abject.

“As for the incident on the train …” Finn looks strained. “I know. It was bad. I was just very, very sensitive to noise at that moment, and the sound that child was making was intolerable. It was hurting my brain and I just flipped. Guilty.”

I let this all sink in for a moment. I kind of understand now. I’ve had a few frayed moments when every noise in the world seemed unbearable, and I sympathize. Not that he should have been so curt and rude—but it’s an explanation.

Then suddenly I come to.

“But wait. Why are you still sitting here? Why aren’t you having your arm seen to? You haven’t even got a bandage on it!”

“I ran some cold water on it. It’s fine.” Finn waves his arm impatiently, and I roll my eyes.

“It’s not fine. You need to get that dressed. It might get infected. Are you aware of the risks of infection?”

I know I sound like Mum. But I can’t help it. The sight of his raw skin is making me all itchy round my spine.

“We’re going up to the hotel right now,” I continue firmly, “and we’re getting you some first aid. Actually, I might have a Band-Aid …” I reach into my pocket and bring something out, but it’s not a Band-Aid. It’s a chocolate wrapper.

Finn’s eyes fall on the wrapper and meet mine, then hastily look away again. For a moment we’re both silent.

“You’re right,” I say at last, trying to sound light. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

“I made … assumptions about you,” says Finn heavily, his gaze still averted. “I would like to apologize for doing that. I’m also very sorry that I raised my voice. And that I swore.”

“You didn’t swear,” I point out.

“Didn’t I?” Finn’s brow flickers. “Well, that was a mistake. I intended to.”

I can’t help laughing, but Finn doesn’t relax. He looks stricken. Anxious, even.

“I can only apologize for my behavior,” he says, clearly following the official script, and I sigh, feeling a sudden wave of compassion for him. It can’t be easy, issuing apologies all day.

Well, I should know.

“It’s OK,” I say, softening. “You don’t have to give me the official apology. But thank you. And I apologize too. I overstepped the mark. I shouldn’t have called you a …”

I trail off. I can’t believe I called him a sociopath with anger issues.

“I overstepped the mark too,” he replies quickly. “I made inappropriate comments, which I now deeply regret. I’m sure you have a very good relationship with your PA, and her remuneration is no concern of mine.”

Oh God, I have to put this myth to rest.

“Look, you should know something,” I say. “The person calling the desk every morning isn’t my PA. It’s my mum.”

“Your mum?” He looks briefly staggered. “Right. OK. Why … ?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Let’s … let’s not. Not now.” As he meets my eyes, I see a mirror image of my own compassion and quickly turn away. He sees me. He sees the real, messed-up, struggling me. And I’m not sure I’m ready for that.