Finn has turned away too, and we begin walking back to the hotel.
“As it turns out, I think he loves her,” says Finn after a few steps.
“Yup.” I nod. “I think he does.”
“You were right,” adds Finn thoughtfully. “You saw it before I did. I just saw fighting, but you picked up on their love.” He smiles at me, his voice warm. “You saw love.”
Stop saying “love” out loud, I tell him silently and furiously. Stop saying “love.” Because every time I hear you say it, I melt, and I mustn’t melt.
“So, what now?” Finn continues in the same warm voice, and just for one stupid, mad moment, I think he’s talking about us.
Oh God, I’ve lost all sense of reality. I need to get my head straight.
“Actually,” I say, “I need to make some calls. So I’ll head back to my room.”
“Oh, OK.” Finn nods. “Well, I’ll catch you later.”
“Sure!” I try to sound casual. “See you then.” I shoot him my best effort at an easy-breezy smile, then quickly turn my steps toward the hotel, almost stumbling in my hurry.
Here’s the problem. Here’s the issue. I’m falling in love with this man. Properly, hopelessly in love. And I need to get away, while I still have a chance of un-falling in love.
Nineteen
By that evening, I feel more levelheaded. An invitation had been shoved under my door midafternoon, inviting me to a Reception and Presentation of Skyspace Beach Studios, 6 P.M., Smart Casual. I’m actually quite intrigued to hear about these new buildings, and the invitation promises champagne. So I’ve put on the only outfit I have here that might fit the bill of “smart casual”： a clingy black dress that packs easily and a pair of heels, which I only brought because I thought the Rilston might still be all liveried porters and a dress code in the lobby.
I’m dressing to impress Finn, I realize. I’m seeing myself through his eyes. But I have to be realistic: It’s not a goer. He sounded so awkward when he told me he’d sworn off casual sex. It was so obvious what his actual message was. And if I’m anything, I’m someone who can take a hint. We’re supportive friends, is all—and that’s good.
Anyway, maybe I’ll meet someone else tonight, I think, giving myself a little pep talk. Yes. Finn is not the only man on the planet. I will meet a brand-new man, who will sweep away all thoughts of Finn and who is actually romantically interested in me.
I spend a few moments conjuring up this new man in my mind—maybe really tall and thin, maybe very shy and reserved … anyway, nothing like Finn—and as I head down the staircase, I’m almost imagining he’ll be at the bottom, ready to greet me. But instead I come across Simon, manhandling a big display of flowers.
Oh God. Is the universe trying to offer up Simon Palmer to me?
No way. La la la, I can’t hear you, universe …
“Miss Worth, I must apologize,” Simon begins, in his usual abject manner. “I have been shamefully absent these last few days, distracted as I have been with tonight’s investors’ reception.”
“Don’t worry!” I say, but Simon doesn’t seem to hear me.
“I am devastated to have been unavailable to guests,” he continues mournfully. “In acknowledgment of this, I have arranged for a small gift of a bottle of vintage champagne to be delivered to your room. To each of the resident guests. A very meager recompense.”
“Really, it’s fine,” I try to say again, but Simon is on a roll now.
“Your stay is satisfactory?” he inquires anxiously. “Your wellness break is progressing to your liking? Chef Leslie tells me he has found a very reputable source of organic kale, would you concur?”
“Yes, the kale’s great,” I assure him. “It’s so … green.”
“Indeed. And I believe that as of this afternoon …” His eyes swivel to behind my shoulder and he emits a small gasp. “Yes! Perfectly on time! Ms. Worth, I’m pleased to announce that at last we have sourced you some noni juice!”
I turn to see Nikolai approaching, holding a silver salver with a glass of brown fluid sitting on top. Nikolai’s face is wreathed in smiles, and as he proffers me the salver, Simon clasps his hands together as though overcome with emotion.
“Noni juice for Madame,” says Nikolai, grinning even more widely. “Please enjoy.”
“Thank you!” I say, feeling self-conscious, and take the glass. “How … wonderful.”
I peer at the glass, repulsed. What is this stuff? Why is it so brown and manky-looking? Do I actually want to drink this?
“Enjoy!” repeats Nikolai, gesturing encouragingly at it. “Please enjoy your noni juice!”
OK. Here goes. Nikolai and Simon watch in fascination as I take a cautious sip and try not to retch. Good God, what is this? It tastes like someone collected together some putrefying body parts, liquefied them, and called it “juice.” My mouth feels polluted. My body feels polluted. How can this be good for you?
“Is it good-quality noni juice?” asks Simon, already looking worried. “Is it of the highest standards?”
“Madame is feeling the health benefits?” inquires Nikolai eagerly.
“Definitely!” I manage, trying to swallow down the revolting aftertaste. “It’s … it’s very good noni juice. Very pure. Very filtered. Thank you so much.”
“I don’t mind saying, you’ve inspired us all, Ms. Worth,” says Simon admiringly. “With your kale and your noni juice and your yoga—we’re considering launching a little wellness-break program, on the strength of what we’ve seen you doing. Maybe you could be our health and diet consultant!”
“Oh, right. Well, I’m not sure—”
“Madame is strong,” Nikolai asserts encouragingly. “The healthy drink always. The healthy walk on the beach. The salad. The zero alcohol. All the other guests, alcohol. Madame, no alcohol.”
“Well.” I swallow, my mind flitting guiltily to the empty wine bottles in my lodge. “I suppose it’s just a matter of … you know, self-control—” I turn as something catches my attention, and freeze.
Coming through the hall toward us is the guy from the supermarket. He has a large cardboard box in his arms, emblazoned with CLUB BISCUITS and Orange Flavor. And he’s heading straight for me.
No. Noooo. Frantically, I try to think of a way out of this, but it’s too late to head him off.
“Got your you-know-whats,” he addresses me in his usual sepulchral tones, then seems to realize his lack of discretion. He places a hand over CLUB BISCUITS—only hiding three letters—then winks at me and resumes. “Didn’t see you in the shop and I was coming up here anyway, so I brought them. There’s ninety-eight in there,” he adds, nodding at the box. “That enough to keep you going?”
My face is blazing. I can’t look at anyone. Club biscuits. Not even oatcakes. Club bloody biscuits. The guy thrusts the box at me, but I don’t take it. I can’t admit I ordered ninety-eight Club biscuits for my own private consumption. What do I do?