Page 37 of One Bed

‘Stop being a drama queen, Caddell. I have enough of those in the house, thank you very much.’

ChapterEight

Dinner on Wednesday night was a lovely paella, made by Nadia, thank God. Reena offered some of her red-hot, homemade chilli sauce as a condiment and Nadia threatened to kick her out of the kitchen for spoiling her food. Nadia had found her voice, and it wasloud.

Golly, now fully recovered from sleeping yesterday away, sat at the head of the kitchen table, a glass of red wine at her elbow.

She looked happy, and a happy Golly was fun. Dangerous but fun. Bea’s godma loved Santorini’s climate, the secret coves and the clear, bright sea. She had friends here, expats like her, and the locals were also incredibly friendly. But there was only so much of the laid back island island life Golly could tolerate and soon she’d be itching to get back to her cosmopolitan London (and New York) life of eating at restaurants, attending gallery openings and auctions, charity events and house parties in the Hamptons and Hampshire. Causing havoc on two continents, unhampered by the demands of her author clients.

Bea was well aware that if Golly never had to check an email, read a contract, or be the bridge between the publishing world and her authors again, she’d be ecstatic. She recalled Golly first raising the subject of retiring a couple of years ago, but Bea accidentally-on-purpose ignored their agreement that Golly would only act as her agent until she found someone else. She hadn’t made much of an effort to find another agent–correction,anyeffort.

Bea leaned back in her chair, the pad of her index finger skimming the rim of her wine glass. Things were changing, and far too fast. And she needed to change with them. But it was hard, so hard, to step out of the shadows and into the sunlight, hard to have eyes on you, to allow others to judge you. If she stepped out from behind her pseudonym, she’d open herself up – herself,notParker Kane –to criticism and comments, with people judging her and her decisions. The thought of being publicly judged, of being so vulnerable, turned her blood to ice.

But, at the very least, and at some point, she would have to reveal her Parker Kane identity to a new agent. How would she find her? Or him?

Should she find an agent first, or should she bite the bullet and reveal she was Parker Kane first? Bea’s skin turned clammy, and her throat constricted, but she needed to consider her options.

Nobody knew how her literary ‘coming out’ would affect her book sales. Golly seemed to think they might take a minuscule dip initially, but Bea’s connection to her mother, Lou –someone who was a professional shit-stirrer – would soon fade from everyone’s minds. Golly believed that as long as Bea kept producing fun adventures for her crew, her readers (and their parents) wouldn’t care who she was related to and what happened in the past. And hey, parents wanted to get their kids to read, and kids wanted to read about Pip and the gang, so they’d buy the books.

Golly said it wouldn’t be nearly as big a deal as Bea thought it would be. Bea wasn’t so sure.

She looked across the table to Gib, who’d pushed his chair away from the table, as if distancing himself from the lively conversation. She’d been surprised, shocked even, when he’d accepted Golly’s invitation to join them for dinner tonight. But she supposed he felt that since he’d stayed in her house as a kid, and had been a recipient of her hospitality so long ago, he couldn’t say no. After helping her with Golly and Reena earlier, he’d eaten the omelette Nadia’d made him, told Bea he’d see her later and disappeared for the rest of the day.

Exhausted, she’d enjoyed an afternoon nap, and then tidied the cottage. She’d made both sides of the bed and washed their coffee cups and the dishes. Seeing the overly full laundry basket, a mixture of Gib’s clothes and hers, she’d carried it up to the laundry room at the villa and threw their clothes into Golly’s big and quick washer and tumble dryer. Before coming up to the villa for a sundowner, she’d folded their laundry and left his on the chair next to the bed.

She wished she could leave the bedroom in a mess, his clothes on the floor and his dishes in the sink, but she was wired through the circumstances of her childhood to make a situation as good as it could be, to be the caregiver and problem solver. It was what she did.

She bit her lip, wondering what Gib thought of her cleaning up after him. Did he even notice? He probably didn’t, assuming Golly employed a maid to clean up after him.

Bea desperately hoped it wouldn’t be awkward or weird tonight when she and Gib returned to the cottage. She couldn’t help wondering if he’d kiss her again. Would she let him? Would he sweep her off her sexual feet and would they make love? She didn’t know: a part of her was desperate to know him that way, but her brain was telling her to calm the hell down, to take a breath, tothink.

Whatever happened, she hoped she’d be able to sleep with him breathing just a short distance from her, that she’d feel warm and safe rather than agitated and off balance.

She caught his eye, and his half smile drilled through her, melting away layers of skin, muscle and bone until it reached her core and started to melt that, too. She’d never had this reaction to Gerry, or any other man. Gib made her feel…

Just that. He made herfeel. Like a woman. Like she was noticed, like she mattered.

And that was bloody dangerous. Because those sorts of feelings opened cracks in her walls, and he could shatter her defences more easily from the inside.He’s dropping in and out of your life, Bea. He’s not staying.

‘Where are Jack and Jacqui?’ Golly demanded, looking at the big clock on the wall behind Gib’s head. ‘They are ridiculously late!’

Jack and Jacqui – fifty-plus, twins and inseparable – friends of Golly’s from way back, had said they’d be at the villa by seven. It was now eight and Golly was starting to get anxious.

‘I’m sure they made a detour into Oia,’ Golly complained, the wine in her glass sloshing. ‘That’s so like them, easily distracted.’

And wasn’t that the pot calling the kettle pitch-black?

‘Do you want dessert now, or shall we wait for them to arrive?’ Nadia asked.

‘We’ll wait for them,’ Golly replied. ‘Bea-darling, call them and tell them to get their asses out of whatever bar they are in!’

She slid her phone down the long table. It skittered off the bottle of hand-pressed olive oil and bumped into a plate. Gib picked it up and leaned over the table to hand it to Bea.

In so many ways Golly was a child who had no patience for delayed gratification. She wanted what she wantednow. Immediately. It had always been that way. Having never married, nor lived with anyone on a permanent basis, she had no concept of compromise, of waiting or of patience. The world revolved around her all the time.

Would she have been more accommodating if she’d had children, if she’d had a long-term relationship? Partners, longtime lovers and children had a way of shaving off those hard edges, of making people a little more thoughtful, able to bend a little. Marriages and partnerships made people realise the world did not spin for them alone, and not everything was about them. Sometimes, most times, compromise and patience were required. Those weren’t lessons Golly ever learnt.

But Bea? She’d learnt that lesson and taken it to the extreme.

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