Those words...
Circling for days, tugging her every which way. Anthony had said she could forget it, live free and be happy if she thought he was wrong to have written it. He said he didn’t want to burden her with his mistakes, but that was exactly what he had done! And now what was she supposed to do?
She owed him so much but—seriously?—helping Will find his light! Helping him when, aside from that one time, he’d never shown the slightest interest in her, made the slightest effort to get to know her, when, on the few occasions he’d actually been around her, he’d sailed wide or been curt. As for the funeral, he’d been downright rude, stepping back like that, turning away so she’d been left with her stupid hand grasping at air.
Was that what Anthony wanted for her? To be jumping through Will’s hoops only to land flat on her face?
Her heart pinched. No. He wanted her to land on her feet smiling, with Will smiling alongside. He wanted her not to be alone, to find a friend in Will, and he wanted Will to be happy.
She dropped down onto a bench, losing herself in the sparkling froth of the fountain. All very laudable, but was it achievable? She felt a knot tightening somewhere. She wasn’t up for putting herself on the line just to be dissed. Hurt. Not again, not after Liam.
She’d bent over backwards to design the right look for his café, sidelining her real clients in the process—not exactly at their pleasure—giving him her time, her skill, her advice, all so he’d feel her love. Oh, and he’d been so grateful, hadn’t he? All over her like a rash, pulling her into bed, eyes aglow, saying ‘I love you’ over and over again. Saying it with texts. Flowers. Roses by the dozen, little cards with cupid arrows...
Her heart clenched. Some love! Because when it came to the crunch, when she had needed him, when she was tied up juggling work, and the hospice, and the shelter, too tired to see him—sleep with him—his love had died a sudden death. And no, maybe it wasn’t great for him that she was stretched so thin, but it was worse for her, being the one who was stretched. And he knew—knew—that Anthony was dying, that the long hospice hours would come to an end. He could have stuck it out, supported her, for God’s sake, but no. Too busy tomcatting around, finding someone else to buy roses for!
Liam was a selfish, cheating, grade-A jerk! She was well shot of him. But knowing it didn’t stop the thoughts coming, the same thoughts that always came. Why? Why could she attract attention but never hold it? What was wrong with her? Sadie would say ‘Nothing’, give her the stern eye, tell her she was being too down on herself, that she rocked. But she was twenty-nine now, still rocking it single.
Oh, she’d masked up with a little feminist zeal for Will’s benefit, hadn’t she? Because he’d irked her, assuming she was havering about coming out here because of some guy. She’d rattled a bit of steel because she didn’t want him seeing in her eyes that that was exactly her pattern: putting the boyfriend first, falling over herself to be available, not wanting whoever she was with to be deprived of her love, but also—crucially—not wanting to deprive herself of theirs. Living for every sweet act of intimacy, that sublime headrush feeling of being wanted, cherished...
She bit her cheek.
Needy Quinn!
Always chasing unicorns. Was it because Mum had died just as she, Quinn, was drawing her first breath? Had she somehow sensed she was losing something irreplaceable even as she was coming into the world, so that ever since she’d been snatching at love, twisting herself to make it fit, even when it didn’t?
She sighed. Who knew? And anyway, what did any of this have to do with Will? Other than that, if she couldn’t convince the ones who’d at least started off liking her that she was worth sticking around for, then what chance did she have of convincing him, indifferent to her at best, that she was his friend in need?
Her heart tugged. But she owed it to Anthony to try, didn’t she? Because he’d been beset with this stuff for weeks before he even wrote that letter. Guilt over Will. Going to his grave with all that heartache. How could she not feel for him now when she’d been feeling for him every day for weeks? That letter was just the grim icing on the cake, churning her up even more, so she couldn’t stop thinking about it, about Pete, and Will.
Pete, the son she’d never met, the one Anthony would never talk about, but that photo on his desk spoke volumes. Pete, frozen at sixteen, tanned, tow-haired, smiling, his legs crossed, elbows on his knees, meeting the camera’s eye all comfortable in his skin; Will beside him, mirroring the pose, except that his brown head was turned, tilted, looking at his brother, the adoration clearly visible on his face, his expression so sweet and open that it was impossible not to feel warmth burling, impossible not to fix on that face over and over again.
The last ever photo of the brothers together. That was what Marion, the housekeeper, had told her the day she’d found her holding the frame in her hands. Taken on holiday in France, she’d said, just weeks before Pete was knocked off his bicycle and killed.
She felt her eyes prickling, welling. Unimaginable, losing a beloved brother like that. Will had been fourteen. Fourteen, yet only weeks later, drawing strength from some hidden place Anthony didn’t even know about, devastated by loss but launching himself at cracks, trying to fill the void. She swallowed hard. Rudeness aside, curt nods and miles of distance aside, she couldn’t not feel for the boy Will had been. And Anthony must have known that about her, known that if he trickled in just a bit more information he could turn her to his side, hitch her to his cause.
She pressed her fingers to her eyes. Fine! She’d try her best. Except, what did she have to build a friendship with Will out of? Only that one sweet moment of kindness long ago, which he was bound to have forgotten about, and that other moment in the boardroom when she’d said that stupid thing about the site visit which had made him smile.
Crinkling eyes, twinkling blue, the planes of his face turning handsome...
She felt the knot inside loosening a little. That moment had felt nice, as if they were getting along, as if they could. And he had seemed genuinely impressed about her work with the homeless. Impressed and a little bit introspective, a little bit softer. Her stomach swooped. But, of course, that was before Edward had given them their letters...
What had Anthony put in Will’s letter? That he loved him, respected him, was sorry for tying him to a project he had no love for, with a partner he had no love for, but that it was for his own good? Or was it straight-up business, laying out their vision for the hotel, laying it on thick about her ‘wondrous creativity’, about how different this hotel was going to be from all the other Thacker hotels? Whatever it was, it was unlikely to have gone down well.
It was why she’d bailed on flying out with him, so she didn’t have to sit with him on the plane, trying to make conversation, worrying about which gears were grinding away inside him. Flying out last night, staying over, had seemed like a better plan, and maybe he thought so too because when she’d called to tell him he’d sounded fine about it. Maybe he’d been faking civility, or maybe he was just relieved that he didn’t have to sit with her either.
She glanced at her watch, felt her stomach swooping again. No bailing now, though. She rose, forcing her feet to walk. At least it would be easier seeing him for the first time since the will reading with Julia Levette there to act as a buffer. And who knew? Maybe when Will saw the building with his own eyes he would feel switched on, inspired. That would make everything easier.
Lisbon was such a great city after all, faded but elegant. How could Will fail to be caught up in the sight of these Pombaline buildings with their Juliet balconies? And if those didn’t grab him, then maybe he’d fall for the scrum of candy-coloured buildings jostling for space on the surrounding hillsides, orange roofs fencing with the crisp blue of the March sky. Crazy pavements. Rumbling yellow trams. Warmth. Light. Life! Oh, and what about those custard tarts? To. Die. For.
She felt her step lightening, a sudden smile straining at her cheeks. Surely Will could find something to love here.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘YOUR FATHER WAS lucky to get his hands on this...’ Julia was running her eyes over the façade with a sort of beatific smile on her face. ‘So many of these old buildings sit unclaimed for ever, all because the laws of inheritance here are so complicated.’ And then she was turning, looking at him again, her smile tapering somewhat. ‘I won’t get on my soapbox about it, though, bore you to death.’
What to say?
He forced his lips to smile then lifted his gaze to the building, trying to seem thrilled with what he was seeing: pale gold stucco, mottled and crumbling; weathered boards where windows should have been; tufts of grass sprouting from every unfortunate crack. Right now, the word ‘lucky’ was not even a bottom feeder in his personal lexicon for this project. ‘Ignorant’, on the other hand, was headlining. Because ignorant was how he was feeling right now in front of Julia, who seemed to know so much more about Dad’s love for Lisbon and its architecture than he did, and was clearly wondering, behind her eyes, why that was.
If only Quinn was here. Oh, and the irony of that particular thought wasn’t lost on him either. To think he’d been relieved when she’d said she would make her own way out. Relieved that he wouldn’t have to sit beside her on the plane, making polite conversation, pretending she wasn’t the spanner in his works, pretending he wasn’t noticing her honey skin and the warm, floral smell of her.
Now, all he could think was that he could have used the time to grill her about the building, about what Dad was thinking, and that if he’d been able to do that then at least he would have been able to talk to Julia like a competent adult instead of standing here floundering like some prize idiot.
‘Is this Quinn, coming now?’
He turned, following Julia’s gaze, felt his heart catching. There! At the street end, coming towards them. Green coat, orange scarf, chunky black boots, not that different from his own brown ones, and those glorious dark curls, bobbing to the rhythm of her walk. He felt a smile coming, a swell of relief. Smiling because of the relief, obviously.
He looked at Julia. ‘Yes, that’s her.’
‘Hmm.’ Her eyebrows flickered. ‘Anthony said she was lovely.’
His chest went tight. He didn’t need Julia Levette reminding him how enamoured Dad was—had been—with Quinn. But he couldn’t very well say nothing, could he? He was getting a vibe that Julia already thought he was a bit strange, so if he didn’t declare himself a member of the Quinn Radley fan club, especially as Quinn was on his team, then the architect would likely give him another of those cryptic, assessing looks.
He geared up with a smile. ‘Yeah, Quinn’s great.’
Not ‘lovely’, because he didn’t want Julia getting any fanciful notions. Of course, ‘great’ needed fleshing out, substantiating.
He cranked up his smile a touch. ‘She has a good eye...’
