JEREMY
Six months and three and a half weeks.
Two hundred and six days.
Four thousand, nine hundred and fifty hours.
That's how long it's been since she left. That's how long I've been driving myself crazy.
Oh, who am I kidding?
I was done for the moment I heard her cotton-candy laugh at that God-forsaken party.
Her orchid is right where she left it, at the centre of the dining table instead of the horrid green vase my mother had bought me as a house warming present. It's the most beautiful thing in the house now. Her sticky note is still on the pot hoping that one day I'll see the words on it as ones of wisdom rather than ones of mocking sarcasm.
Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure. E. Bennet.
E. Bennet.
Of course, Mr. Darcy got his heroine. I didn't. Like I had told her, I'm more of a Heathcliff.
I guess it doesn't matter now. She's gone and she's not coming back.
I wonder how she's doing. All the fucking time. I wonder how she is, if she's happy, or at least happier than she was with me. I wonder what book she's reading. I wonder if she has enough books. Maybe, I should send her a couple more at the address Mark gave me. Even though she never acknowledged the ones I sent her already. A dozen, I have sent her. Two every month. One new, one from my own collection.
I wonder if she's angry at me for not being here when she left. But surely, she knew it was impossible for me to say goodbye. I could never watch her leave. I would have handcuffed her to my wrist and swallowed the key.
And that would not have been fair because she made her choice. I have to respect it. I have to grit my teeth and tell myself that I should not go to London and bring her back at all costs, even if it means tying her hands and gagging her mouth.
I should have stayed away. I always knew she was too good for me. It was only a matter of time before she realised it. Still, a small part of me hoped I'd find her here when I got back from my run twenty-nine weeks ago.
She wasn't. She was gone and so were all her things.
And then the doorbell rang and I was sure it was her. I was sure she'd forgotten something, like a scarf, a book or the fact that she loved me. But she didn't. And when I opened the door, she wasn't the one standing behind it. It was Stephanie with the fucking paperwork for the store.
And then the phone rang and I hoped it was her saying she'd missed the plane and she was coming back to me but it wasn't. It was my father, calling in a rage to tell me once again that I made the biggest mistake of my life when I quit his company.
But the joke was on him. The biggest mistake of my life was driving Alison Lewis away from me.
And then the next day, while I was pacing up and down the living room, glaring at the unopened bottle of whiskey I'd just bought from the supermarket, I received an email that should have infuriated me. But it didn't. It was addressed to both of us, Ally and myself, by none other than that mastermind who decided it was high time to confess she was never really pregnant.
That's right.
A confession and apology for me, a confession and apology for her and a plea that maybe we can someday understand that what happened over the past years was not intended to hurt either of us.
What the fuck? Who gives a shit, Stephanie? It's too late. She's gone.
It's been two hundred and six days since I've heard her voice and on every single one of those days, I dialed her number and failed to press the call button. Every day I wrote a text or drafted an email but never pressed send.
But not today.
Today, I look into the mirror, shave the out-of-control scruff off my face and splash on the aftershave on my skin, welcoming the sting. I have to come to terms with the fact that she moved on. She turned a new leaf and started over. Without me. And I can only hope that she's happy.
I put on her shirt. My shirt... but I've always thought of it as hers ever since I saw her in it. God, she made this shirt look so good. It kind of still smells like her. It will always smell like her to me. Like cotton and coconut and that shea shit she used to rub on her body that drove me fucking nuts.
I can't believe I had her and let her go. I'm such an idiot.
I put on a pair of dark grey trousers, fix my hair, grab my folders and leave the cold and empty apartment.
I stop for a quick brunch before going to the hotel. I've taken to eating outside a lot lately. I only go home to shower and sleep, when I manage to sleep, that is.
I notice a thirty-something-year-old woman a few tables away from me, sitting on her own. I pretend not to notice her eyeing me over her hot chocolate. She has full red lips and long blond curls. She's wearing a tight pencil skirt and heels.
I smile sardonically as I think of a time where I would have found her attractive. I would have had her for breakfast and made her late for work. Now, it all seems so pointless. There is no other woman who can compare to her. Or who can melt my heart the way she did when she smiled.
God, I loved it when she smiled because of me. I hope she's smiling now.
I leave enough money to cover the bill and tip on the table and walk straight out, ignoring the woman's flirty gaze.
I fortify myself as I climb into the car. She hated this car. She sat on the passenger seat for less than twenty minutes, two hundred and fifteen days ago and some part of me still expects to turn around and find her there, looking at me with contempt in her eyes because I sold the fucking Porsche.
Of course, I sold the fucking Porsche! How could I stay away from her if the one thing that physically carried me away was a constant reminder of her? Of her scowling at me after I went too far and upset her? Of her blushing under my gaze, as though she could read my mind as I struggled to keep myself from kissing her? Of her laughing and screaming freely into the wind in the middle of the night?
I had to sell the fucking Porsche. And if I don't get my shit together, I'll have to sell this one too. But I doubt it will make it easier for me to forget her. It didn't work the first time. Why would it work now?
So I drive off, focusing on the sound of the loud engine to push the memory of how she held her breath as I leaned towards her with the pretence of wanting to do up her seat belt. I loved how she reacted to my closeness, how she shuddered at my touch, how she bit her lip without realising when I teased her.
Millie must be laughing her head off right now, wherever she is. She always found my obsession with her amusing. She told me over and over that Ally was a tough nut to crack. She said if I'm not careful with her she'll break my heart. As always, she was right. I wasn't ready for her. I leapt into a war unarmed and she made a right fool out of me.
I find an empty space right in front of the hotel. I look up at the wide façade. It looks good. The painters did a great job. It's white-washed walls with colourful windows and balconies. The front door is bright blue, the same colour as Millie's. They haven't installed the door knockers yet, gold-coloured, fish-shaped, the exact same ones Millie had. The contractor who bought her old house in the alleyway had kept them to install on his own front door. Luckily, I convinced him to sell them to me. The motherfucker overcharged me like hell but it was worth every penny.
The doors are thrown open and I'm happy to see that the activity inside is going at a good pace. I can't believe this place will soon be ready. The thought of throwing a launch party crosses my mind and I cringe. Who would I even invite?
I stride through the flurry of busy, white-matted workers.
"Titov?" I call out hoping my Project Manager is already here.
His head appears in the doorway that leads to the dining room. His eyes go round in his red shining face as soon as he sees me.
"Morning Boss," he says coming towards me with a huge archer file in his arms. "I got the wallpaper samples right here."
Nicholas Titovsky is my greatest investment. He's completely new to the job. He's very young and very eager, but he's also serious about his work and he's loyal. He needed a career boost and I gave it to him. He's Maltese and has a Polish father. Or, Russian. I don't know. Either way, he's very socially awkward, so I tend to bully him a little, just to toughen him up and also because I can't help it. But I like him. He's a good boy.
He sets the file on a round rickety table and immediately starts flicking through it. I roll up my sleeves and lean over it, focusing on the task at hand.
This hotel has been my salvation. My one distraction and yet my only link left to her. I promised her I'll get it done. And I will. I just hope she's following her dreams too. I hope she gets her English degree and that little bookstore. And if she does come back, her library will be waiting for her.
I ordered the shelving three days ago and I'll start looking for reading chairs as soon as we choose the colours for the walls and carpets. She'll love it. Maybe I can send her a photo of it when it's ready. Maybe her dad would consider relocating once he's better. The sea and the sun will make him feel like a new man.
"Now, before we confirm the colours I want to make sure we're on the same page regarding the theme and ambience," Titov says in his business-like manner, bringing me back to the present. "The designer had some great ideas but I'm not sure they're in line with your vision and well, she can be a bit pushy."
"Pushy is not good, Titov. I don't like pushy."
He stares back at me nervously, trying to figure out whether I'm being serious or making fun of him. Then he says, "I know, Sir. That's why I interfered."
I clap him on the shoulder and say, "Show me what you've got, Titov."
He leads me to the courtyard where he's set up three large glossy posters of how the façade, dining room and bedrooms will look once everything is done.
I take them in and see that he's been listening to my ideas and taking everything on board. I feel something inside me swell. Pride. I'm proud of what we're accomplishing and I'm proud of Titov. The bedrooms look luxurious yet practical considering their size. The dining room looks cosy, quaint and tasteful. The library lining the room is everything I imagined it would be. Straight out of The Beauty and the Beast, just like she wanted. The façade is simple but welcoming with the warm lighting and the elegant letters over the great front door.
THE ALISON
"Whoa, Nick," I start trying not to sound too choked up. "This is-"
"Amazing!"
I turn around towards the voice behind me. I blink once, twice and put a hand to my mouth thinking that for sure my brain has finally caved under the desire to see her again and is resorting to hallucinations to ease the physical pain from missing her so much for so long.