I feel a pang of guilt, because he’s right—but I can’t bear to give up my moral high ground now.
“This conversation is over!” I shout back through the door. “Over!”
“It is not over! You don’t malign me and then just do a runner!”
“I did not malign you!” I yell back. “I never malign people! I just report what I see!”
“Well, you didn’t see this, did you?”
I shriek in terror as the door bursts open, and I take a step back, my heart pumping. Is he going to yell at me? Throw something at me? Hit me? There he is, framed in the doorway, his face glowering, one arm raised, his sleeve rolled up to the elbow, and … Hang on.
What’s that?
There’s a red weal on his wrist which makes me flinch to look at it. It looks fresh and raw and really painful. That’s what he’s showing me, I realize. An injury.
“What happened?” I ask, shocked—but Finn doesn’t seem to notice that I’ve spoken. He’s silent and motionless, except for his eyes, which are widening. For a moment I don’t understand—then my insides plunge as I realize what he’s looking at. I turn to follow his gaze—and swallow hard as I see it all through his eyes.
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.
“Come on.” I find refuge in brisk practical tones. “Let’s sort you out. And no arguing,” I add, as he opens his mouth. “You’re not getting an infection on my watch.” As I turn, I hear Finn’s phone buzz, and when he checks it, he emits a sound of frustration.
“Did you download the hotel app?” he asks. “Because it’s driving me insane. ‘We see that you are on the beach,’ ” he reads aloud. “ ‘Fun fact: Did you know Queen Victoria once visited this beach? Why not take a moment to imagine her on the sand?’ I mean, seriously?” He looks up. “Do they need to bother us with this garbage?”