The Road Trip(30)

‘Come on.’

I lead him back to the flat, through to the cupboard where me and Deb are storing our suitcases. Dylan leans on the door frame and watches as I pull out my suitcase and unzip it.

He laughs when he sees what’s inside and my cheeks instantly flush. I’m already clumsily re-zipping the case by the time his arms close around me from behind.

‘No, no, don’t. I love this. Please tell me you build model trains for fun.’

I squirm in his arms. Why did I do this?

‘I love it, Addie,’ he says, more gently. ‘I wasn’t laughing at you. It was – it was a delighted laugh. A surprised one.’

He presses a kiss to my cheek. After a long, painful moment I lift out the Flying Scotsman. It’s tucked at the base of the suitcase where it won’t get squashed. There’s a wheel missing but otherwise it survived the journey to France pretty well.

‘It’s my dad’s thing,’ I say. Dylan tries to turn me in his arms but I stay put. It’s easier this way, not looking at him. ‘He’s always loved it. We used to do it together, with Deb, when I was a kid. She went through this phase where she was train mad, and that’s how it started, and then Dad just never stopped. I usually do a project with him whenever I go home. This is the one we did before I came to France.’

‘It must take ages,’ Dylan says. ‘May I?’

I let him take it and step away. I glance up from under my eyelashes. He’s not laughing now. He’s examining the model train like it’s totally fascinating.

It’s like he’s just dropped the last coin into the slots machine. It all comes rushing down and I’m falling in love with him, I am, I can’t stop myself.

‘It’s amazing,’ he says, inspecting the joins. ‘Is it hard?’

I shake my head. I’m feeling so much I’m sure he must be able to see it all radiating off me.

‘It just takes patience,’ I manage.

‘Ah, I’d be dreadful at it.’

I laugh. ‘Yeah, you’d be crap.’

He kisses me on the cheek again. They’re still burning hot.

‘So? Where’s my tat?’ I say, moving away. It’s that or burrow into his chest. The emotions are getting too big.

‘Really?’ He grimaces, rubbing one hand up and down his arm. ‘Do I have to?’

‘I showed you my train!’

‘Your train is adorable. My poems are . . . pompous self-indulgence.’

‘I bet they’re brilliant.’

He shakes his head. ‘Nope. Drivel. Really, Addie, they’re tripe.’

‘Come on. I know you’ve got your notebook in your pocket.’

‘That? I’m just pleased to see you.’

I lunge for him. He runs, darting through into the kitchen, down to the courtyard, through to the gardens. I catch up with him on the lawn and tackle him. He shrieks as we go barrelling into a rosemary bush.

‘Christ!’ he says, laughing, breathless. ‘Are you secretly a rugby player, too?’

‘Built for it,’ I say, fumbling for the pocket of his jeans. ‘Are you going to let me steal the whole book, or read me one?’

‘Read you one, read you one,’ he says, rolling out of the bush and brushing himself down. He holds out a hand to help me up, then pulls me over to the bench set on the edge of the lawn. The view’s amazing from here. The vines are so perfectly spaced on the hills, like green pinstripes.

Dylan leafs through his notebook. I set my legs across his lap and nestle close.

‘A short one?’ he says in a small voice.

‘OK. A short one.’

He clears his throat and begins.



Before I Heard Her Name

All that time – poised

In the dark, waiting,

Questless, undone, unmade –

And it wasn’t a guiding star at all.

It was a heart, mine.

She had it even then,

Before I heard her name.



My eyes prick. I don’t get what it means, not really, but I don’t think that matters. I know he wrote it for me.

‘Addie? Ads?’

I swallow. I hide my face in his neck. ‘I love it,’ I whisper. ‘I love it.’





Dylan

For the first time, we spend the night in my suite instead of Addie’s flat. The grand house makes her look smaller than ever, her fine-boned hands trailing up the oak bannister, her tiny shoes left at the bottom of the stairs; she seems a little skittish, dancing out of my grip and treading so lightly you can hardly hear she’s there at all. Once we’re in bed, though, she’s herself again: fierce and beautiful, heavy-eyed, plaintive when I make her wait.

Tonight, I plan to tell her I love her. It’s risky, certainly – there’s a very real chance I’ll scare her away. She’s always retreating then returning, disappearing to the village for hours and then curling up catlike beside me when she comes back; unzipping that suitcase and then trying to zip it closed again like she wishes she’d never given me that glimpse of herself. She ebbs and flows, my river sprite.

Addie lies with her head on my chest, her legs tangled in the dark blue coverlets, her hair spilling across my arm. I stare at her, aching with it, loving her, loving every freckle that leaves its tiny kiss on her cheek, and I have to tell her, I have to, it’s burning on my tongue.