‘Remember that old B and B we always used to walk past in St Agnes?’ he said, his green eyes shining. ‘It’s for sale.’
The price was there for all to see at the top of the page.
‘I’ve spoken to a financial adviser, and we can afford it. Someone is interested in buying my business. They want to tie me in for three years as a consultant, but I could work remotely, one day in London, four in Cornwall, until my contract is over.’
Abby looked at him, not believing what he was suggesting.
‘It just seems like the time is right, Abs. With your job being downsized at the RCI, and me selling the business, it could be a fresh start for us both.’
Three years ago this would have been her dream. The conversation they’d had every time they walked past this B&B had been an annual ritual; an electric, excited discussion of what they would do with the property if it ever came on the market. There would be an art gallery in the stone outbuilding, an organic café at the front, and an office for the surf school somewhere among their living quarters upstairs.
‘How is it the right time, Nick?’ she said with sadness. ‘We’re here to discuss the breakdown of our marriage. After your affair. We’ve both instructed solicitors. Mine wants me to get the house valued, and not so that we can cash in our chips and buy a Cornish B and B together.’
‘It wasn’t an affair,’ he said, his voice choked. ‘It was one night. One stupid, idiotic night.’
‘It only takes one minute to betray the person you love, to destroy the bond of trust between two people. One minute to break everything.’
Not for the first time, she imagined him in some corporate hotel, his eyes meeting a woman’s across a half-empty bar.
It was a scenario that had played over and over in her head. A Stockholm hotel with smart teak interiors, soft subdued lighting. She wondered how many drinks they had imbibed on expenses. When had their conversation turned flirtatious, and who had initiated that first loaded, intimate touch? Who had said ‘Come back to my room’, in the way that Elliot had taken charge of the sexual tension?
‘Are you at least going to come and see Dr Naylor?’ he asked more soberly.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied, and she honestly didn’t.
He pushed his hand across the table, trying to stretch out and touch her fingers.
‘Abby, please. I will do anything to make this right again.’
It was a gesture so loaded with love and hope that it seemed wrong to accept it under false pretences.
‘Nick, I’ve met someone,’ she said finally.
She expected him to look furious, to accuse her of hypocrisy, at least to come back tartly with ‘That was quick.’ Instead he looked as if his heart was breaking.
‘Is it serious?’
Abby had no idea herself what the answer to this question was. Yes, she enjoyed Elliot’s company, yes, they’d had sex, and yes, they’d eaten breakfast on the balcony like any self-respecting mini-breaking couple the morning after. She didn’t want to dwell on where this was leading back in England, especially since they hadn’t seen each other since they’d parted at Heathrow. Elliot had a hectic work schedule, including a five-day trip to San Francisco to interview the wunderkind founders of the latest billion-dollar Silicon Valley start-up. But he had phoned three times, sent dozens of text messages – inconsequential chat, most of it: a man he had seen with a silly hat at the airport, a great restaurant he had discovered in Pacific Heights, a novel he recommended about the Russian Revolution – and a dinner date was pencilled in for his return to London on Monday. She didn’t know whether this meant nothing, or everything; either way she suspected that she should be economical with the truth before she knew where their relationship was going.
‘No. We’ve just had dinner. A date,’ she replied, willing herself not to blush.
‘But you like him?’
‘I like feeling good about myself,’ she said honestly, realising that that was exactly what had attracted her to Elliot Hall. Not his obvious good looks or his public school charm, but the way he made her feel like the most interesting person in the room, whether he truly believed it or not. ‘I haven’t felt good about myself for quite a long time now.’
Nick folded the B&B particulars carefully into a square and pushed it back into his pocket.
‘I know approximately what the house is worth,’ he said, adopting a more formal tone, the tone she had heard him use with clients when he took calls at home. ‘I’ve done some back-of-the-envelope sums and I don’t think we’ll have to sell it, so I don’t want you to worry about anything like that. And I’ve also put extra money into the joint account, so try not to get too bogged down about your hours being cut at the Institute.’
‘Nick, you didn’t have to . . .’
He drained the dregs of his drink and stood up to leave.
‘Are you going to see Dr Naylor?’ she asked, suddenly not wanting to leave.
He nodded, but didn’t ask her again if she was planning to go too. He left without another word, and it was another minute before Abby realised she was crying.
Chapter Twenty