The Last Love Note(72)

When I open my eyes, Hugh is observing me over the menu.

‘Byron Bay suits you,’ he says. That’s all. He returns to the menu, and I feel about a foot taller.

‘Every time I’m near the beach, I wonder why I don’t just pack up, sell the house and all our stuff and move somewhere new with Charlie,’ I confide.

He looks surprised. ‘Like the women in those novels?’

‘Sort of. A fresh start, you know. Somewhere warmer, without any memories. Somewhere I could write.’

He considers this for a second. ‘You serious about this?’

I think I am. Maybe. Even if the logistics of moving away from Grace and Mum break my heart. ‘Why Hugh, would you miss me?’

I am a walking example of what happens when you marry your childhood sweetheart and never learn how to flirt properly as an adult. The words are out of my mouth before I can shut it, and Hugh looks taken aback. Of course he does. Inside my head lives a lawless train of thought that charges right out of my mouth.

He’s about to answer me when he sees his friend across the cafe, coming towards us, saving us from ourselves. Jonesy hasn’t even reached our table before he makes me smile. He’s taken the relaxed spirit of this town and made himself the epitome of it. Surf shorts, faded neon T-shirt, thongs, shaggy brown hair, creases around his eyes. He and Hugh, who is always immaculately dressed, look so different that I struggle to imagine them as friends.

‘Mate!’ he says, hugging Hugh and pounding him on the back. ‘Good to see you!’

They turn to me.

‘This is Kate,’ Hugh says. ‘My colleague and friend—’

Just in case I wasn’t clear on the labels.

‘Kate!’ Jonesy says, warmly. ‘It’s so good to meet you at last!’

At last?

He pulls me into an enormous, enveloping hug that lifts me off the floor. When I surface from it, slightly breathless, Hugh is giving him an incredulous stare.

We sit down, Hugh opposite me in his white open-necked shirt and jeans, looking a little bit spectacular, and more nervous than I’ve ever seen him. Jonesy sits to my left and I feel like I’ve known him for years. He’s infectious.

‘Well, this is nice,’ Jonesy says, winking at Hugh, who shifts uncomfortably in his seat, looking like he’s rethinking this entire social event.

‘Hugh tells me you’re a screenwriter,’ I say politely. Writing. Safe, common ground.

‘He tells me you’re a writer, too.’

He does? ‘He exaggerates. I do love writing, though. Nothing published.’

‘Nothing yet,’ Jonesy answers, and I like him even more.

‘Do you go by a name other than Jonesy?’

‘It’s Andrew.’

‘And you two met at uni?’

‘First year,’ Andrew confirms. ‘We were eighteen-year-olds, living on campus.’

‘But not doing the same course, presumably?’ Hugh did economics as an undergrad. Explains all the spreadsheets.

They look at each other like they’re about to run a prepared script.

‘We met through a mutual friend,’ Hugh explains. ‘Shall we order coffees?’

Interesting.

‘Are you writing at the moment, Kate?’ Andrew asks.

I feel exposed. ‘Actually, Hugh is trying to convince me to write something based on my . . . recent personal experiences. I don’t know how much he’s told you . . .’

It’s awkward, every single time. I don’t want to make everything about the fact that I lost my husband, but if I don’t mention it early in a conversation, people invariably ask me some question that lands us all in excruciating discomfort, with me breaking the news as gently as possible while they feel horrendous about having put their foot in it and I’m forced to comfort them over my loss.

‘I told him about Cam,’ Hugh says.

‘I was sorry to hear it, Kate. Writing about it could be a good idea. Some people sit on their grief for decades. They let it close in their lives completely.’

I nod. Hugh turns a page in the menu sharply.

‘Sometimes they become such a slave to their grief,’ Andrew continues, ‘they won’t take risks. They pass up opportunities that are right in front of them.’

‘The eggs Benedict looks good,’ Hugh observes, conveying this fact to Andrew in particular, as if it’s imbued with a secret code. ‘What are you having, Kate? Smashed avo?’

‘Am I that predictable?’

He shakes his head. ‘Only where avocado is concerned.’

‘I’ll have the granola,’ I say.

‘To prove me wrong?’

Andrew sits back and watches us as if he’s taking mental notes for his screenplay.

‘Are you going to the festival?’ I ask him.

‘Yeah. You?’

‘Definitely. Can’t wait. I’ve never been. I’m so excited!’ I sound like a thirteen-year-old, rambling about seeing her favourite pop star, but I don’t care.

They’re both smiling at me.

‘What can I get for you?’ a waiter asks us, looking at me first.

‘I’ll have a latte thanks, and, hmm. Actually I think I’ll have the—’

‘Smashed avo,’ Hugh says under his breath, while I say it aloud. I ignore him. ‘He’ll have a double-shot long black, no sugar and eggs Benedict with a side of field mushrooms. Andrew?’