Chapter Eleven

Ella

I look up, startled by the sound of a car pulling up outside the house. I don't know why I'm surprised. It's Friday, after all… and that means Hunter and Livia will be here for the weekend.

Fortunately, they didn't come back last weekend. It might have been Thanksgiving, but Hunter called to say they were going to visit Livia's parents, and would that be okay?

"Of course it will." I struggled with my tears. Not because he wasn't coming home, but because I'd done nothing but cry for days.

"I know we said we'd meet your boyfriend, but we can do that next weekend, can't we?" I didn't reply, unable to say a word. "Are you okay, Ella?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just tired." That wasn't a lie. I was exhausted… and hurt, and confused.

"We'll be down next weekend, so we'll catch up then. Okay?"

"Sure."

Drew called the following day to let me know he'd been sent on an assignment to West Virginia.

That meant I was alone. And I wasn't sorry about that.

If they'd come home, they'd have found me in tears, just like I was when I got back here, after running out on Mac. I may have called him ‘Blake' when I left him, but he'll always be ‘Mac' as far as I'm concerned… even if we're not friends anymore.

I didn't even consider going back to my apartment, but just drove straight home, knowing I'd got some clothes here, plus the ones in the trunk of my car that I'd taken to Vermont with me.

"I'll manage," I muttered to myself, as I wiped away my tears and tried to focus on the road. I needed to be somewhere I could feel safe, and preferably with as few reminders of Mac as possible.

Pat was surprised to see me, but didn't comment on my red-rimmed, puffy eyes. She didn't ask any question at all… not even when I refused to join in Thanksgiving with her and Mick. I'm grateful for that, and I've buried myself in my apartment, ignoring the phone calls Kennedy made every day last week, and the text messages she's been sending twice a day since.

I've been ignoring everyone else, too… until now.

My apartment might be separate from the rest of the house, but I can easily imagine Pat and Hunter talking… and Pat telling my big brother about my sudden, tearful arrival. I know it won't be long before he knocks on my door, but even then I jump out of my skin when I hear the sharp tapping sound.

There's no point in trying to ignore him; he knows I'm in here. Pat will have told him I haven't moved from my apartment since I arrived.

I get up and wander to the door, opening it.

He stares down at me, his head tipped to one side, his eyes filled with pity.

"Where's Livia?" I ask, knowing I'll cry the moment he says anything.

"She's in the kitchen with Pat." He steps into the room, not giving me any choice in the matter, and closes the door behind him, before he turns around to face me again. "Why didn't you tell me you were here? When I spoke to you before Thanksgiving, I assumed you were still in Boston with your boyfriend. I had…"

I burst into tears, much as I expected, and Hunter reaches out and pulls me into his arms.

"Hey, Sis… it's okay."

I shake my head, even though he's holding it against his chest. It isn't okay. Why can't he see that?

He holds me, letting me cry for a while, until eventually the tears subside. I think I'm running dry. For the first few days, I cried and cried and cried, but now ten minutes is about the most I can manage at a time. It's like I'm on a ration of tears, and that's my limit.

I pull back slightly and Hunter lets me go. "Is this something to do with Blain?"

"Yes, but that's not his real name. That's just the name they gave him for the show. His real name is Mac, or Blake." He stares at me, confused. "It's Blake Mackenzie, but everyone calls him Mac."

"I see," he says. "And did you break up?"

I nod my head, swallowing down the lump in my throat. "H—He accused me of betraying him."

Hunter frowns, his eyes darkening. "He accused you of cheating?"

"No. This was about work, not about… us."

It seems odd saying ‘us' when there isn't one anymore.

"How did he think you'd betrayed him at work?"

"Someone at the studio told the press he can't cook."

His frown deepens. "He can't cook?"

"No."

"Then why is he presenting a cookery show?"

"The studio argued he didn't need to be able to cook… just to present. I was there to handle the cookery side of things, and to show him what to do and how to do it."

"Well… you did a good job. I'd never have guessed the guy couldn't cook."

"That was the plan. It made things really complicated to start off with, but we worked it out, and according to the producer, the ratings were going well. They were going so well, the network had commissioned a second season."

"In which case, why would someone at the studio tell the press that the star of their show was a fraud?"

I suck in a breath. "I don't know. Whoever it was knew that Mac had written a book, and according to him, the only two people he'd told were the producer and me. He couldn't think of a reason for the producer to shoot herself in the foot, and to be honest, neither can I…"

"So he accused you?"

"Yes. It probably didn't help that, according to Mac's agent, the studio were claiming they'd been duped by him, and that I was going to take over his role."

"You are?" He's as shocked as I was by that.

"No, of course I'm not. You know as well as I do that I could never appear in front of the cameras."

He shakes his head. "So, that part is a lie?" he says, frowning.

I shrug my shoulders. "I'm not sure. The producer has been either calling me or texting me every day since I got back here. I'm guessing she wants to discuss the situation."

"But you haven't taken her calls?"

"No. I'm not ready to talk to her yet, but when I do, I'm going to tell her I'm leaving the show. Not that I really need to. I had a contract for the first season, and that's ended now. They haven't sent me a new one for the second season, so I in reality, I can just ignore them."

"I think it's best if you make it official and tell her, even if you just send her an email."

He's probably right. "I—I know. I just need to get some strength back first. Kennedy's a tough woman to deal with."

"Do you want me to handle it for you?" he asks, and while I'm tempted to say yes, I shake my head.

"It's okay. I'll email her. I should have done it before now. She's been asking me to call, so I assumed I'd have to speak with her, but you're right, I can just send her a message, and keep it remote, can't I?"

"Yes, you can."

"Does Mac know you're leaving the show?" Hunter asks.

"No. We didn't get as far as discussing that. He'd already decided I was the guilty party. There didn't seem any point in talking things through."

"So you left him?"

"Yes."

"Just like that?"

"He tried to get me to stay. In fact…" I let my voice fade, remembering Mac's words.

"In fact, what?"

"He begged me not to leave him." The pained expression on Hunter's face makes my chest hurt. "What else could I do? He didn't trust me, Hunter."

He reaches out and puts his hand on my shoulder. "It's okay."

"No, it's not. We'd only just got back from Vermont. He'd taken us to a beautiful cabin up there, and we'd had the most perfect weekend. I was going to tell him I was in love with him. I was going to ask him to move in with me… and then we got back to Boston and it all…" My voice cracks and even though I thought I'd run the well dry, my tears fall again.

Hunter steps closer, putting his arms around me, and I sob against him.

My body aches. From the top of my head to the tips of my toes, I'm just a mass of pain, and I struggle against it, my fists clenched against Hunter's chest.

"Why? Why did he do this?"

He sucks in a breath. "Can I say something?"

I lean back, despite my tears, and look up at him. "What?"

"I remember, when I screwed up by jumping to conclusions about Livia, my little sister was the one telling me not to give up."

"I know, but I'm not the one who screwed up, am I? I didn't jump to conclusions. He did. That's why I left him. I've never… I've never…"

"You've never what? Never been in love before?"

"No, I haven't. But that's not what I'm trying to say." I look at his chest, at the button on his shirt. "H—He was my first." Hunter doesn't reply and after a few seconds, I raise my head to find him staring down at me, confusion written all over his face. "Is that a surprise?"

"Would you hate me if I said ‘yes'?"

"No. I've always known how you and Drew lived your lives, and I guess you just assumed the same about me."

"Not exactly the same, no," he says, smiling, although I can't return the gesture.

"I—I was waiting for the right man, and I thought I'd found him. Mac said I had, but…"

He pulls me into a hug again. "Do you wanna come eat with us?" he says after a while, leaning back and looking down at me.

"No, thanks. I'm exhausted. I'm gonna go to bed."

He frowns, narrowing his eyes. "You've gotta eat something, Ella."

"I will, don't worry."

I'm not sure he's convinced, but he doesn't argue with me, and he leans forward, kissing my forehead. "I'll let you get some rest, but promise me you'll fix yourself something to eat?"

I nod my head and he smiles… but once he's gone, closing the door behind him, I switch off the lights and climb the stairs to my bedroom.

Inside, I undress, leaving my phone on the nightstand, and get into bed. Then I pull up the covers and wrap myself up in them, letting sleep claim me.

I've been awake since just after dawn. I didn't close the drapes last night, so I watched the sun rise through the picture window, staring out across the harbor, and trying not to cry. It'll be cold outside, but the sky is a perfect clear blue, and I wonder about maybe going for a walk later. I haven't stepped outside since I got back here, and I need to get some fresh air… and to reassure Hunter that I'm okay, even if I'm not.

My phone beeps. I know who it'll be. It's eight-thirty, and even though it's Saturday, it's time for Kennedy's first message of the day. I turn over, clutching up my phone and flip it around so I can read what she's got to say for herself.

— Ella, I'm sure you're aware of the situation here. We need to discuss your contract as soon as possible. Can you call me? Look forward to hearing from you. KB

I don't know why I bother reading her messages anymore. They're all the same. She probably just copies and pastes them.

I'm not about to reply. I don't want to get into a long, drawn-out conversation with her, or give her a reason to call me… but I could send that email Hunter and I were talking about.

At least, I could, once I've been to the bathroom…

Leaping out of bed, I rush to my adjoining bathroom, wishing now that I'd eaten something last night. I feel a little lightheaded and I don't hang around. I'm just drying my hands when my phone rings, and I let out a curse. Does this mean Kennedy's going to start calling and texting? You would have thought my silence alone would have made the message clear… at least, it would to most people. Just not to Kennedy, evidently.

I saunter back to my bed, where I left my phone, face-up on the mattress, and suck in a breath when I see the word ‘Mac' on the screen.

My legs feel like they're going to give way beneath me, and I take the last two steps, collapsing onto the mattress and staring down at my phone. I reach out to pick it up, but pull my hand away.

Why is he phoning? He's had long enough to think up an apology, if that's what this is all about. Unless it's something else…

I guess there's only one way to find out, and I reach out again, my hand shaking, just as the ringing stops.

Why didn't I answer sooner?

For a split second, I wonder about calling him back, to ask what he wants… but I can't. I can't forget the way he looked at me when he accused me of betraying him.

My phone beeps, making me jump, and I glance at the screen again. He's left a message? Oh… God. Do I want to listen to it? Am I strong enough to hear his voice?

I guess I have to be, if I want to know why he called.

I pick up my phone, barely able to breathe.

‘Hi, Ella. It's me. I… um… I don't know what to say. I've been trying to talk myself out of calling you, but… well, it's been two weeks since Vermont, and… and I guess what I'm trying to say is, if you need to talk, you only have to call. Things may not have ended well between us, but I'm here if you need me. Okay?'

His voice is quiet, and it cracks a little. My heart aches as I wait, wondering if he's going to say anything else… but then the automated voice asks if I want to save the message. I decide against it. Hearing his voice over again won't help… especially when it brought back so many memories. How could I forget the way he used to whisper to me when we made love, or the way he'd implore me to come… just for him? But how can I forgive him for his false accusations… for his unfounded anger?

I throw my phone down on the bed.

Why did he call? And why does he think I'd need him? No woman needs a man who won't trust her.

We're over. Like he said, it ended badly.

The last thing I needed was for him to remind me it was two weeks since we were in Vermont? I know how long ago it was. I'm not likely to forget that it was two weeks ago today that we woke up in our perfect cabin, gazing into each other's eyes, knowing that what we'd done the night before had changed everything… knowing that making love without a condom…

"Oh… shit!"

I leap to my feet.

That's what he meant. That's why he made a point of saying it had been two weeks ago…

But why didn't I think about it?

I snatch up my phone again, going to my calendar to count back the days, trying to remember when my period started. It was the week when the show was all about brunches, and it was on the Thursday night, because we'd been recording all day. I remember, after I'd told Mac about my period starting, and he'd ordered in a pizza for us, I was grateful that at least the Friday would be easier for me…

"Twenty-eight, twenty-nine… oh, God… thirty."

I'm late.

***

Mac

She's not going to call.

That much is obvious.

It's been fifteen days since I finally broke and phoned her. I'm still counting them. I might have tried to convince myself that Ella would call if she needed me, but then as I paced around the flat on that Saturday morning, I reasoned, she might still think I was angry with her. What if she didn't feel she could contact me? She might have left me. She might have been the one to walk away, but putting it all on her to get in touch wasn't the most honourable way of going about things. And I had always tried to be honourable… at least until that last day.

That last moment at my flat wasn't the most honourable thing I've ever done… but I was hurt.

Like that's any excuse.

I had to wait for it to be a reasonable time of day in Boston, but by one-thirty, I couldn't take anymore. I knew that would only be eight-thirty in the morning for Ella, but I couldn't stop myself, no matter how hard I tried. Even as I was connecting the call, I kept telling myself it was a mistake… another one to add to my already substantial list, but what else could I do? I had to talk to her, although I was still worried she'd think I wasn't interested in her, but only in the baby we might have created… which was why I kept telling myself I couldn't mention it.

What I hadn't anticipated was that she wouldn't take my call… that she'd let it ring out and go to her voicemail. I don't know why I hadn't seen that coming. Maybe because it hadn't occurred to me that she might not be missing me, like I'm missing her, but as the automated message finished, and I heard the beep, I knew I had to find some other way to get my point across, without actually saying the words ‘pregnant', or ‘baby'. Even if she wasn't willing to speak to me, I didn't want her to think I didn't care about her.

I was surprised by how hard it was to talk, though… even to a machine. My voice kept breaking up, and although I struggled to finish what I was saying, I'm pretty sure it made sense… and her silence can only lead me to one conclusion.

She's not pregnant.

She'd have called by now, if she was.

I sigh, trying not to think about that, and how it makes me feel, and I put the kettle on, reaching for the tea bags, to find the container is empty. There are some more in the cupboard and I empty the box into the container, turning around to discover my recycling bin is overflowing. It's cold and I've been putting off this task since yesterday morning… but I can't delay any longer, and I grab the bin, carrying it through to the front of the house, where I open the door.

"Good morning."

I look up, hearing Henry's voice, to find he's staring down at me from the steps above.

"Oh… hello."

"I haven't seen you for a while. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

He frowns. "You don't sound fine. Would you like to come up for a cup of tea?"

"I was just making one…"

"Shall I come down there, then?"

I can hardly say ‘no', even though I'm not feeling very sociable. He's been so kind to me.

"Of course."

"I'll just get my keys."

He disappears for a moment, and I use the time to empty my recycling, leaving my front door open for Henry to come in, which he does a few minutes later.

"They're saying we're going to have a white Christmas," he says, closing the door and coming down the hall into the kitchen.

"I'll believe it when I see it. They say that every year, don't they?"

"Hmm… I think so."

I pour water over the tea bags, giving them a stir and turn to face him.

"How's work?" I get my question in before he can start quizzing me.

"It's fine. We're busier than usual for the time of year, so I'm not complaining, although I've got to go in later, just to catch up on paperwork."

"On a Sunday?"

He nods. "There's no peace for the wicked."

I fetch the milk from the fridge and finish making the tea, carrying both cups into the living room, where we sit on the sofa, gazing out of the doors onto the courtyard. It's so grey outside today, I wouldn't be at all surprised if it snowed, but I'm not about to start another discussion on the weather.

"You don't have a tree," Henry says, glancing around the room.

"No. I couldn't see the point when it's just me."

He frowns. "Really? I always enjoy decorating the Christmas tree." Somehow, that doesn't surprise me. He has a glorious beast of a tree that practically fills his front window.

"I noticed."

He turns slightly, so he's facing me. "Is everything okay, Mac? You seem very down in the dumps."

"I am down in the dumps."

"Is this to do with your young lady?" he asks.

"She's not my young lady. Not anymore."

"Okay… but it's to do with her?"

"Yes. I… um… I called her."

He seems surprised. "You did?"

"Yes."

"Can I take it the call didn't go well?"

"She didn't pick up. She let it ring, and then go to voicemail."

"Oh."

"Yeah. I left a message, but she hasn't called me back… and it's been two weeks now, so…" I leave my sentence hanging and he nods his head.

"I realise I'm just a crusty old bachelor, but can I say… I'm confused."

"Why?"

"Because after what she did, I assumed you'd be glad to see the back of her."

"No, not at all. I'm still in love with her, Henry. I didn't want her to leave. In fact, I begged her to stay… not that she paid a blind bit of attention."

"I'm sorry. I didn't understand. Is that why you called her? To work things out?"

"I called because I wanted her to know I'm still here for her… even if I'm three thousand miles away."

His brow furrows. "What does that mean?"

"It means there was an outside chance she could have been pregnant."

"Oh…" he says, pushing his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. "Oh, I see. Can I take it she isn't?"

"I'm making that assumption, yes. She'd have told me, if she was… and she'd know by now."

He frowns. "Excuse me for asking this, but did you know when you left Boston that she might be pregnant?"

"Yes, I did."

"And yet you left, anyway?"

I shake my head, staring at my fingers, twisting them in my lap. "I know it doesn't sound great, but she broke my heart, Henry."

I hear him take a breath. "How do you feel now?"

I look up. His face has softened, and he's studying me with nothing but concern on his face. "What about?" I ask.

"About not hearing from her."

"Desolate." That doesn't even begin to cover it.

"And how do you feel about her not being pregnant?"

There's no point in trying to hide it. "Devastated."

"Because you saw it as a way to get her back?"

I think for a moment. "It would be easy to say ‘yes' to that, but that's not how it is. I wanted Ella to be pregnant because I love her."

"And you want her back for the same reason?"

"Yes. That's why I didn't mention the pregnancy in my message. I just said I'm here if she needs me… because I—I thought she might have been as distressed as I was to find out she wasn't pregnant. I thought she might need someone to talk to, and that maybe I'd be the right man." Except it seems I'm not… not anymore.

"I'm sorry." Henry's voice cuts through me, and I turn away, unable to face him. I stare at the fireplace, which remains unlit for now. Its emptiness seems appropriate, and I struggle against the stinging behind my eyes and the lump in my throat. "How's the writing going?" he says at last, changing the subject… thank God.

"It's okay." I turn again, although I look over at my laptop, rather than at Henry. "I'm planning out the second book, and doing my research for it, and I've already come up with outlines for a couple more."

"That sounds promising. We'll make an author of you yet. Have you heard anything back from your agent at all?"

"No, but I probably won't… not until after the New Year."

"Well… no news is good news, I suppose."

When it comes to Delilah, he's probably right. When it comes to Ella, nothing could be further from the truth.

Henry's been gone for a few hours, and although it's Sunday, I'm working on my book. I need to keep myself occupied, and figuring out how to kill off a back-stabbing leading lady in a way that my female doctor-cum-detective, and her admiring police inspector can solve within three hundred and fifty pages is giving me no end of headaches.

I gave up on the idea of her being hit over the head, or stabbed, and settled on poisoning as my chosen method of murder. It gives Evie more involvement in solving the crime. So, my problem now is not so much the ‘how', as the ‘why'. The most obvious answer is an affair, but that feels hackneyed, so I'm wondering about making the victim a blackmailer, and giving my leading man and murderer a murky secret that Evie can discover while he's flirting with her… much to the annoyance of the detective. This would, of course, make her even more invaluable to the plot, and help enhance the budding romance I've got going on in the background.

The problem is… what would the secret be?

I sit back, staring at the screen, wondering why I do this to myself, when my phone rings. It startles me because it hasn't rung since I've been back in London, and for a moment or two, I allow myself to hope it might be Ella…

I suck in a breath, and pick it up, surprised when I see the name ‘Delilah' on the screen. I've rarely known her to call at the weekend, and usually, she'd only do so if she had bad news, so with a shaking hand, I connect the call.

"Hi, Delilah."

"Blake… how are you?"

"I'm fine." I'm not, but she won't care in reality, so there's no point in explaining.

"Good. I'm sorry to disturb you on a Sunday, but I wanted to let you know, I've heard from that publisher I was telling you about."

"What publisher?"

"The one I said I was going to send your book to."

"I didn't even realise you'd finished reading the manuscript yourself, let alone sent it off to someone else."

"Oh… I finished it within a day. Once I'd started it, I couldn't put it down."

"Seriously?" I'm stunned.

"Yes. It's magnificent, Blake." I don't know what to say, and I sit with my mouth open. "The publisher thought so, too. He read it himself, and passed it to one of the other commissioning editors in the company, who sat up for the last two nights reading it. She called my contact this morning, and they've decided they want to offer you a contract."

"They did all this, even though it's the weekend?"

"Yes. They're that impressed with you." I fall silent again, unable to believe what I'm hearing. "Are you still there, Blake?"

"Yes… yes. What do I have to do?"

"Nothing. They're going to send through the contract in the morning, and I'll look over it before I forward it to you."

"Okay."

"There's just one thing…"

Oh… here it comes. The spanner in the works.

"What's that?"

"I was right. They want more. I know you said you had some ideas for a second novel, but what about a whole series? That's what they're looking for."

I nod my head, even though she can't see me. "I'm right in the middle of planning out the second novel, and I've jotted down ideas for two more."

"That's great. I'll let them know."

I sense she's about to hang up, but there's something I need to ask. "Delilah?"

"Yes?"

"Have you heard anything from the studio?"

"What about?"

"A—About Ella taking over from me, or the legal action they were threatening."

I don't care about the legal action, but I'm wondering if she might have heard anything on the grapevine about Ella.

"Are you still pining for her?"

"Yes." There's no point in lying.

She sighs. "They were never gonna tell me anything about her, Blake. I don't represent her, so why would they? As for the legal action, that was just a line they fed the press. They didn't have a case against you, so stop worrying. And stop pining, too. It's over, and you need to look forward." If only it was that easy. "Just think… in a few months' time, your book will be published, and all your dreams will come true."

That's not the case at all. My dream would be to have Ella back in my life, but getting my book published is now much more realistic than ever seeing her again, and I smile, unable to help myself.

"Yeah… you're right."

"Of course I am. Now keep writing. I'll be in touch."

She hangs up, and I put my phone down on the table, staring at the words on the screen in front of me, and letting the smile on my lips widen to a grin. I can't help feeling happy about this. It's what I always wanted. I just wish Ella could be here to share it with me… I wish someone could be here…

I rush to the front door, grabbing my keys from the hook, and hurry out and up the steps to Henry's door. I hadn't realised how late it was, or that it's dark out here now, but I ring the bell anyway, and I wait… and wait, and then I remember, he said he was going to work.

"Damn," I mutter under my breath. I feel like celebrating, and I turn around, spying the pub on the corner of the road. "Why not?"

I'm wearing a thick sweater, and although it's cold, I don't feel the need for a coat. My wallet is in my back pocket, and I can live without my phone for the next half an hour or so. I cross the road, hurrying to the pub.

I'm hit by a blast of warm air as I enter, and I wander to the bar and order myself a large glass of red wine, taking it to an empty table, close to the roaring fire, where I sit and look around.

I never used to have a ‘local' when I lived in London before, but I've been in here on many occasions when I've visited Henry, and I don't think it's changed since Queen Victoria's day. The wood panelling is dark, the floor worn and pitted, and the chairs and tables have seen better days, but there's a warm welcome, full of festive cheer. A tree decked with far too much tinsel fills one corner, and old Christmas songs play in the background.

I'm still smiling, taking my second sip from the glass, when I feel a pair of hands come around my face, clamping over my eyes, and I jump, trying to turn around, although there's a body right behind me, preventing me from moving. The body is definitely female, and all my muscles tighten against it.

"What the…" I reach up, grabbing the hands, and pull them away, twisting my head, so I can look up into a very familiar face. "Moira?"

She's changed her hair. It's shorter than it was, although it's still longer than Ella's, and is a shade or two lighter, but other than that, she looks exactly the same as she did when I left here… just as pretty… just as shapely.

She steps back slightly, her head tilted to one side as I stand and turn to face her.

"Hello, Mac," she says, like she's in a dream, her blue eyes sparkling and a smile tugging at her lips.

"Hi."

She leans in, planting a kiss on my cheek, and I feel obliged to return the gesture.

"When did you get back?" she asks.

"About a month ago."

"And how are you?"

"I'm fine." It's the answer I give to everyone… even though I'm not.

"Are you meeting someone?" She glances at the vacant chair opposite my own.

"No. I just came in to celebrate."

"Celebrate what?"

"My book's being published. My agent just called to tell me."

Her eyes light up. "But that's great. I knew you'd do it one day."

I can't recall her ever being this enthusiastic about my writing when we were together. In fact, as far as I can remember, she used to hate everything about it. She said I was obsessed with it, and I never had any time for her, but there's no point in worrying about that now.

"Thanks. Can I get you a drink? Or are you here with someone?"

"I am, but it's just some girls from my old office. We arranged to meet up for a Christmas drink, but they'll be fine without me for a while." She smiles up at me. "I'll have a vodka and tonic, please."

I nod my head and turn towards the bar as she sits down, clearly intent on staying, regardless of her friends. The distant tinkle of an alarm bell rings in my head, but I dismiss it. Moira and I are ancient history now. This is nothing more than a friendly drink. And besides, I'm not interested. Not any more.

I pay for her vodka and tonic and return to the table, sitting opposite her.

"Thanks," she says, holding out her glass and I clink mine against it.

"Cheers."

We both take a sip and put down our glasses. "So… why are you back from America?" she asks, leaning on the table. "I thought you were going for good."

"I was, but it didn't work out."

"Why not? Did the work dry up?"

"Not as such. After I'd finished the commercial contract, I did some theatre work, and then I got a job on a cookery show." And fell in love.

She grins. "What as? You can barely boil water."

"Yeah, well… that was the problem. The studio saw through me. They realised I was a fraud and fired me." I'm not about to mention Ella's role in any of that. It's none of Moira's business.

She reaches out, placing her hand on my arm, but I pull away, picking up my drink to put some distance between us.

"I'm sorry, Mac."

I shrug my shoulders. "It wasn't meant to be, and they probably did me a favour. Being unemployed gave me the impetus to re-write my book… and now it's going to be published."

"So, you're back for good?"

"It looks that way." Especially as I haven't heard from Ella. I'm not sure if this publishing contract will require me to go back to the States at all, but if it does, it'll probably be to New York, where Delilah's based. That's a good thing, I think. Going back to Boston would remind me too much of what I've lost. I cough, swallowing down the lump in my throat. "So… what have you been doing?" I ask, changing the subject.

"Not very much. I changed jobs." I gathered as much when she said she was meeting some friends from her old office, and I nod my head, pretending an interest I don't feel.

"Where are you working now?"

"In the admin department at the local college."

As far as I know, Moira's jobs have always been administrative. When we were together, she worked in the office of a furniture outlet, and I believe, before that, she was employed at a printer's.

"Do you enjoy it?"

She shrugs. "It's okay."

I nod my head. "Where are you living now?"

She takes a sip of her drink. "After you left, I moved back in with Mum and Dad for a while, but I've just got myself a new flat." Her eyes sparkle, and she smiles. "You should come and see it sometime."

That alarm bell rings a little louder. "I don't think that's a good idea, do you?"

"Why not?" she asks.

"Because whatever we had is over, Moira. We can't—"

"God, you can be arrogant sometimes."

"I'm sorry?"

She leans back, staring at me. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but it sounds to me like you're assuming I only came over here because I clearly still find you absolutely irresistible, and I guess it follows that I must be trying to lure you to my flat to re-live our intimate past."

"Well… I…"

"Did it ever occur to you that I might be over you?"

I feel myself blush, knowing she's right. "Of course. I mean… sorry. I shouldn't have made any assumptions. It's just that there's someone else, you see, and…"

She frowns. "There's someone else? Already? You've only been back here for a month."

"I know, but she's not here. She's in America."

"So you left her behind too?" she says. "This is becoming habit-forming, Mac."

"It isn't. Not really. It's just… complicated." A lot more complicated than when I left you .

"I see. And does her existence on the other side of the Atlantic mean you and I can't meet up from time to time?"

"N—No. As long as you understand, we can't be more than friends."

"Like I said, I'm over you," she says. "So that's fine with me." She finishes her drink and gets to her feet, looking down at me and taking her phone from her handbag. "Why don't you give me your number and I'll call you? We can do this again. Or if you're feeling brave enough, you can come to my flat. I won't eat you."

I chuckle and give her my number. She doesn't offer hers, and I don't ask for it. But as I watch her walk away, returning to her friends, my mind drifts and I wonder what it must be like to be ‘over' someone. It's not something I've had to contemplate before. I've never cared enough to worry. But will I ever be able to think of Ella as someone I used to love?

I think about that for a moment, shaking my head.

Of course I won't.

I don't even want to.