Chapter Twenty-Five

I wake up on my thirty-third birthday to what must be the hot-blooded fantasy of a decent percentage of the population. A shirtless Theo Eliott is in my bed, and he's singing ‘Happy Birthday' to me.

More precisely, he's not in my bed but on it, sitting on top of the covers, playing his guitar next to my ears. Very loudly.

‘Jesus, Theo,' I groan, turning and pressing my face into the pillow. ‘What time is it?'

‘It's seven thirtyyyyyy,' he sings, strumming the guitar.

‘Why… is… anything?' I mumble.

‘It's your birthday!' He nudges my arm. ‘I was so excited I couldn't sleep.'

I sit up, rubbing my bleary eyes, and glare at him. ‘And yet, I was managing just fine.' My eyes flicker over his bare chest and I will myself to feel nothing about the rippling muscle, those two little grooves at his hips, disappearing down into his pyjama bottoms. Nothing. I am ice. ‘And why are you half-naked?' I ask, waving my hand vaguely in the direction of all of that.

‘I spilled stuff on my shirt while making breakfast,' he explains patiently.

I groan. ‘I thought we agreed that you were not to be let loose in the kitchen unsupervised. Remember the scrambled eggs? We had to order Petty a whole new set of pans. I didn't even know you could melt eggs. Like, I think it defied the laws of physics.'

‘As I pointed out at the time, I think if you had been a more patient and understanding teacher, that incident wouldn't have occurred…'

‘I was a patient and understanding teacher!'

‘You threw a spatula at my head.'

‘It was silicone,' I grumble. ‘And it was in a panic, when you hurled a pan of fire towards me.'

‘I think you're really overreacting,' Theo says. ‘I know loads of chefs and they're always setting fire to things.'

‘Oh my God.' I flop back down and close my eyes. ‘Why are you in my bed, arguing with me at seven thirty in the morning?' I ask weakly.

‘It's nice, isn't it?'

I crack open one eye and he's looking down at me with such warm affection that the corners of my mouth lift all by themselves.

‘It's not nice,' I say firmly. ‘It's too early for anything to be nice.'

‘Anything?' Theo lifts an eyebrow, and for a second it flashes in front of my eyes, the image of him leaning down, pressing those warm lips to mine, the weight of that hot, hard body on top of me, my hands in his hair, his hands under my pyjama top.

I blink and the image is gone, but the way Theo's looking at me makes me think that the whole fantasy was written all over my face.

‘I meant presents, you little perv,' he says, his voice rough. ‘And a nice breakfast. Though I'm very open to your suggestions.'

I feel the blush travel up my body from my toes to the roots of my hair. ‘I do like presents,' I manage.

‘Then get up and meet me downstairs.' He jumps off the bed.

‘I will if you put on a shirt,' I yell after him, because, honestly, there's only so much a girl can take.

When I shuffle downstairs, still in my pyjamas, yawning and combing my fingers through my messy hair, I find that Theo has laid the table. There's a jar full of Michaelmas daisies, glasses of fresh orange juice and a plate full of warm pastries as well as a small pile of wrapped gifts.

‘I'm just making coffee,' he calls from the kitchen.

When he walks in, I'm still staring at the table. I blink hard, but my eyes won't stop tearing up.

‘Hey!' Theo exclaims, striding towards me and wrapping his arms around me in a hug. ‘What's this about?'

I press my face into his chest and sniffle into the T-shirt he is now, thankfully, wearing. He holds me tighter, rests his cheek on the top of my head. It's the greatest hug I've ever had, by a factor of a thousand, and I give in and let myself cling to him. Call it a birthday treat.

‘This is just really nice,' I say finally, breaking away with no small amount of reluctance. ‘How did you even know it was my birthday?' I certainly hadn't made him aware of the fact.

‘I knew it must be coming up because you said you were a couple of months younger than Serena, so I asked Lil when she was here last week.' He pulls out a chair for me. ‘We've been scheming.' He looks so boyish and pleased with himself that it honestly feels like an attack. It would be the most natural thing in the world to lean over and kiss him, and even acknowledging that feels dangerous. Neither of us have discussed the fact that in four days we'll be going our separate ways. It's like we're just pretending it's not happening at all, and that's making everything even more confusing.

Which is why, instead of kissing him, I sit and return my attention to the table. ‘And you really did make breakfast,' I say. ‘Without burning the house down or anything.'

‘I had some help from Mrs D,' he admits, taking his own seat across from me.

Mrs D is approximately one hundred and fifty years old and she owns the general shop in the nearest village. She has absolutely no idea who Theo is, but she's known me since I could walk and she insists on calling Theo ‘Clemmie's nice young man'. Theo never corrects her, and the two have become unlikely friends, bonding over their shared love of Mini Milk lollies and muscle cars.

‘She made the pastries and all I had to do was heat them up in the oven.' Theo's brow creases. ‘Which was actually a lot harder than she made it sound because some of them started burning around the edges before the others were warm, but I don't think I did too badly.'

‘They're perfect,' I say, biting into one, and they are, but at this point I think I'd eat a lump of charcoal if he'd got up early to make it for me on my birthday. Aside from my family, no one has ever made a fuss before. Not Len, who said birthdays were ‘not something to be celebrated by people over the age of thirteen'; certainly not Sam, whose big gift was breaking up with me right before my eighteenth birthday; and I don't think Ripp even knows when I was born, not exactly. He might have sent the odd card, but come to think of it that was probably Uncle Carl.

‘Okay, okay,' Theo says impatiently. ‘Now open your presents.'

He doesn't have to tell me twice, and I rip into the paper.

There's a sunny yellow hardback first edition of Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret by Judy Blume; a bottle of my favourite perfume; a voucher for two people to take a goat yoga class; a poster of the Chaucer painting I have on my wall at home but with Theo's head superimposed on top (‘I got David to make it in Photoshop and now he thinks you have a really weird kink.'). And, most impressively, a signed and framed photo of the cast of Blood/Lust.

‘I asked them to do one for me too,' Theo says, starry-eyed. ‘I'm going to put it on my wall next to the platinum records.'

I'm laughing so hard that there's orange juice coming out of my nose and I don't care.

‘And that's not all,' he says when we've finished breakfast. ‘You have to go and shower and get dressed. We're not done with birthday celebrations.'

‘Why are you doing all this?' I ask, bewildered.

Theo groans. ‘Honestly, Clemmie. For someone so clever, you can be very, very dumb. If you need to ask that, then you're really not paying attention.' He ushers me from the room.

I try not to think too much about what that means as I shower and get dressed. Theo tells me not to worry about getting dressed up so I pull on my denim shorts and a loose, cropped black T-shirt which is a variation on a theme of what I've worn since we got here as it's been so hot, but I take my time doing my hair, scrunching product in to make the waves more defined, and I put on make-up, trying with middling success to recreate the cat's-eye flicks Lil is so good at, and painting my lips a bright red because it feels vaguely festive.

The perfume Theo bought me is the kind that comes in an old-fashioned bottle and I'm usually pretty stingy with it, but today I dab it liberally on all my pulse points, enjoying the sweet, heady scent of it.

‘You look nice,' Theo says when I finally come back down. His eyes linger on my mouth for a long moment. The smile he gives me is slow and wicked and the air temporarily leaves my lungs. He steps closer, brushes the hair away from the side of my neck and leans in to me. ‘You smell nice, too.' The words rumble across my skin.

‘So,' I say nervously, taking a step back for the sake of my sanity. ‘Where are we going?'

He looks shifty for a moment. ‘Er, actually, there's been a very slight change of plans so we're going out for coffee first.'

‘Oh,' I frown, unsure what plans he's talking about. ‘That's okay. We can just hang out here if you want, we don't need to do anything special.'

‘No!' Theo exclaims. ‘I mean' – he collects himself – ‘no, I really want to go and get a coffee. I checked the tides and we can get over the causeway to Holy Island for a walk if you like?'

‘Do you think that's a good idea?' I ask. We've been so careful about keeping a low profile since Cyn's call.

‘It's still too early for crowds. We haven't heard anything to suggest anyone knows where to find me. We're only here a few more days – where's the harm?' He looks at me, his eyes soulful, his smile winning. ‘Please? I can't leave without seeing the place.'

‘I guess that's true,' I agree, softening because I absolutely love Holy Island, and I want to share it with him.

We get into Theo's car and drive with the windows down. It's the end of June and the world is clear, clean blue: pastel-blue skies dipping lovingly into turquoise water. The sun is shining and the breeze through the window is ruffling Theo's hair, making my own fingers jealous.

We travel over the long causeway, past the signs urging visitors to check the tides, not to try and drive if the road is unsafe. As a tidal island, when the water is high the place is cut off. For now, the tide is out about as far as it can go, and aside from the small puddles of water that punctuate the side of the tarmac, you'd never guess how quickly the whole road can be swallowed up by the sea.

Theo wants to stop and look at everything, and I don't mind. I know how special this tiny island feels, separated from the rest of the world half the time. It's still morning so the place is quiet, not yet overrun with tourists, which means that he was right and there's little chance of him being recognized, but he pulls his cap down low and keeps his sunglasses on anyway.

We wander the cobbled streets, grabbing a cup of coffee from the local café. I think maybe the woman serving us does a bit of a double take, but she doesn't say anything, and I hope I've imagined it, that I'm just being over-sensitive.

‘Birthday girls get second breakfast,' Theo insists, stopping at the ice cream counter.

‘Don't you want one?'

‘No, it's not my birthday.'

I choose a strawberry cone and he complains that this is the worst flavour, despite me pointing out that he doesn't have to eat it and can order his own ice cream in any flavour he likes.

We meander down the beach towards the castle, which juts out dramatically, a dark, huddled shape against the sky.

‘What's that noise?' Theo asks, tipping his head. ‘At first, I thought it was the wind, but it's not that windy. It sounds more like…'

‘Ghosts?' I say innocently. ‘The wailing spirits of the undead?'

‘Yeah, actually.'

‘It's the seals,' I say with a smile. ‘They sing.'

‘What?'

‘It's seal song. If we climb up the hill there, you'll be able to see them all.'

‘Seals do not sing,' Theo insists, a slow, delighted grin spreading across his face.

‘In fact, they do.' I reach for his hand, tugging him gently back towards the village. Swallows arc over our head as we walk a path cut through a meadow of wildflowers, the ruins of an abbey looming to one side. Theo just shakes his head over it all.

‘This is a dream,' he murmurs. I pretend I haven't noticed that we're still holding hands, his fingers tangled carelessly with mine.

When we reach the top of the hill, I gesture out to the sand dunes with my ice-cream cone to where a long, huddled line of seals are just hanging out, making their haunting, whistling sounds.

‘I want to live here,' Theo breathes.

‘You might struggle getting your Pop Tarts delivered,' I reply.

‘Please, Clemmie?' he widens his eyes. ‘Let's move to Holy Island and I can sing with the seals.'

‘That sounds like a euphemism, like "sleep with the fishes",' I say, trying to ignore the zing that comes with his casual mention of us living together. Honestly, his Theo-ness is relentless. I think I deserve a medal for holding out this long – I don't doubt that, had I not been the only person around for the last five weeks, he'd have moved on long ago, but as things stand, every day that passes it's becoming harder and harder to cling to all the reasons I must not fall for him.

Theo laughs, puts on an exaggerated mobster boss voice. ‘Clementine Monroe, if you don't hand over the ice cream, you'll be singing with the seals.'

‘I knew this would happen. I told you to get your own.'

‘I don't want my own. It tastes better when it's yours.' The dimple peeps out and I roll my eyes but hand him my cone, which he polishes off in a few bites.

‘I'm glad we came here before we have to leave,' I say quietly.

Theo frowns but before he can reply, his phone dings and he pulls it out of his pocket, looking at it in a way that I think is supposed to be furtive. ‘Right,' he says brightly. ‘I think we should go home now. Not for any specific reason.'

‘You do know you're being weird, right?' I ask.

‘You're the weird one,' Theo replies, already tugging me back towards the car.

We get home without incident, but Theo keeps glancing at me, a secret little smile on his lips.

‘What?' I ask, half-laughing after he does it the fourth time.

‘Nothing,' he says. Then he reaches over and grabs my hand, lifts it to his mouth and presses a soft kiss across my knuckles. ‘I'm just glad you were born,' he says, then he gently places my hand back in my lap and returns his to the steering wheel like nothing happened.

‘Oh' is what comes out of my mouth.

‘Oh?' The dimple flickers.

‘I mean, I'm glad you were born too.'

‘You can tell me that on my birthday,' he says.

‘I don't know when that is.' I flex my fingers, trying to get them to stop tingling.

‘October 7th.' Theo pulls the car into the drive.

He'll be back in LA by then, I think as I get out the car. He won't even remember telling me about his birthday. There will be a big party, one full of models and millionaires, and he'll probably be on a yacht, actually. Maybe he even has his own yacht? He could have his own yacht and I don't even have a flatshare. Serena's words echo in my head as they have so many times of late: Theo Eliott is not for you, Clemmie.

While I'm busy spiralling, Theo has raced ahead of me, letting himself in the house.

‘Let's go down to the beach,' he suggests.

‘Oh, Theo, I don't know,' I hedge, ‘I'm pretty tired.'

‘Please?' he asks. ‘Just humour me?'

I follow behind him, and I wonder if he has any idea how I feel, how I'm all tangled up over him. Would he be mortified if he did? Or is it just something he's used to? All the girls with their Theo Eliott posters, swooning over him.

We have less than a week left here; I just need to keep it together for a few more days and then we can go our separate ways. And I can pretend the thought of that doesn't crush me, just a little bit.

We make our way down the path, and then through the dunes, and right when we're about to crest them, right before the beach comes into view, Theo reaches for my hand again.

‘Happy birthday, sweetheart,' he says, and then he turns and I follow, and there, standing on the sand, are my family.