I wake with a start, a bang in the distance.
I look over to Kate, but I’m in bed alone. I sit up. “Kate,” I call.
Is she in the bathroom?
“Kate?”
I get up and walk to the bathroom, it’s empty. Panic floods through me and I flick the light on. “Kate,” I yell as I look around. “Where are you?”
I march into the living room. “Kate,” I cry with urgency. “Kathryn.” I look around, where’s her handbag?
Her bag is gone.
No.
I run from room to room, screaming her name as my heart races.
She’s not here.
I dial her number, it rings out. I dial it again and it’s switched off.
Anger surges through me and I kick the wall.
I dial security. “Yes sir.”
“Where’s Kate?” I growl.
“Um . . . she’s with you . . . isn’t she?”
“Explain to me . . . how the fuck she got out of here unnoticed,” I yell.
“I don’t understand, sir, we’ve been on the doors all night.”
“You’re fucking useless,” I cry. “Find her!” I hang up and begin to pace back and forth, my chest rising and falling as I grapple for control.
I go to the window and look down over the street.
“Kate,” I whisper. “Where are you?”
I sit in the back of the car and dial Kate’s number; it goes straight to voicemail.
I inhale sharply—I’ve searched for her all night. She simply disappeared into thin air.
Not a trace.
She hasn’t gone home, her phone is off.
“This is the house sir.”
I peer in. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, this is her brother’s house. We dropped her bag off here as she requested.”
I get out of the car and march up to the front door, knock hard, and it opens in a rush. A young man comes into view, early thirties.
“Hello, I’m Elliot Miles—”
“I know who you are.”
“Can I see her?”
“She’s not here.”
“I need to—”
“You’ve done enough,” he snaps, goes to close the door, and I put my hand up to block it, push it open, and barge my way in. “Kate,” I yell. “I know you’re here.”
“You’re too late. She’s gone.” He sighs.
“Where?”
“She flew out first thing this morning.”
The room spins. “To where?”
“That’s for me to know and you to never find out.”
“What are you talking about?” I throw my hands up. “She has to work tomorrow.”
He screws up his face. “You dumb fuck, she resigned last Wednesday, she’s taking a job overseas. If you’d have bothered to come back from your artist’s bed, you would already know this.”
The earth spins on its axis.
My nostrils flare as I battle for control.
He shakes his head, with a deep exhale. “Just, get out, man. You’ve fucked it.” He glances at his watch.
“Where is she, tell me,” I demand.
“You’re too late, she will have already checked in.”
My eyes widen, her plane hasn’t left yet. “I can still catch her then.” I turn and run for the car.
“I didn’t say that,” he calls after me. “She doesn’t want to see you,” I hear in the distance as I dive in the backseat. “Heathrow Airport, quick,” I cry.
Andrew pulls out into the traffic with speed and I dial Kate’s number. Ring, ring . . . ring, ring . . . ring, ring.
“Come on, pick up. Pick up,” I whisper. It rings out and I dial her number again. I imagine her staring at her phone ignoring my call and my fury begins to boil.
At her, at me . . . at this entire fucked-up situation.
Why did she run out in the middle of the night, what was she thinking?
When this is all over, I’m going to kill her . . . that’s if I don’t have a heart attack beforehand. I peer through the windshield. “Drive faster.”
“I am.” Andrew huffs as he changes lane, then he changes lane again and I dial Kate’s number with my heart in my throat.
Please pick up, baby.
It rings out again. “Answer your fucking phone, Kathryn,” I yell as I hit my phone on the back of the seat in anger.
Andrew’s eyes flick up to mine in the rearview mirror. “Don’t fucking start!” I growl.
He puts his foot down and we fly through the traffic, and half an hour later we pull up at the airport.
I dive out of the backseat and run in, my eyes scanning the check-in lines as I turn in a 360.
“Where are you?” I whisper to myself. “Kate.” I begin to panic that I’m not going to find her, there are too many people. “Don’t do this, please.” I run along the back of the check-in queues as I search for her. I get to one end and run back to where I began: perhaps she’s already gone through.
I run to the security checkpoint and stand in line. “Come on, come on,” I mutter. I look around the line to the security guards, working at a snail’s pace.
Hurry the fuck up.
I run my hands through my hair in a complete panic. Every minute that ticks past . . . is a minute I’ve lost to stop her.
Finally I get to the checkpoint and walk through the scanner, and it dings.
Fuck.
“Just step back through sir.”
“I don’t have time for this,” I stammer. I go back through the scanner, it dings again, and I bend and tear off my shoes and throw them to the side, rip my belt off and hurl it on the floor. I go back through the scanner and no alarm goes off.
“Thank fuck.” I pick up my belongings and tuck them under my arm and I run as fast as I can, until I get to an intersection. Six huge corridors go in different directions leading to the departure gates.
No.
I swallow the lump in my throat as I look at my options: what way should I go?
Umm. “Which way?” I’m panting as I gasp for breath. “Right.” I run to the right down a corridor. This is hopeless, I’m never going to find her. “Fuck’s sake.”
I keep running and I just happen to glance to the side and I see the back of Kate, just as she goes through the boarding gate. “Kate,” I cry as I take off in that direction. “Kate.”
She doesn’t hear me and she goes through the double doors.
“Kate,” I yell as loud as I can. People turn and stare and I get to the flight attendants who are doing the check-in.
I gasp for air. “I need to get someone off the plane,” I pant.
“I’m sorry, sir, that’s impossible.”
“No.” I put my hand on my chest. Fuck, I can’t breathe. “You don’t understand, it’s an emergency.”
“You’re too late.”
“No,” I yell. “Kate. I’m here,” I cry. “Come back.”
Two burly security guards come and stand beside me. “Is there a problem here, sir?”
I look between them as I gasp for air. “My girlfriend.” I pant, and point to the flight. “Need . . . to . . . stop . . . her.”
The guards exchange looks and with an eye roll, one of them says, “Leave now or you will be escorted from the building, sir.”
Deflation fills me and I drop my shoes and belt and put my hands on my knees as I try to catch my breath.
Fuck it . . . she’s gone . . .
But where to? I glance up and see the flight destination.
Honolulu
Flight 245
American Airlines
I stand with renewed purpose, put my shoes on, and roll my belt into my hand. “Thanks.” I march off. Fuckers.
I dial my security; he answers first ring. “Hello, Mr. Miles.”
“Hi, have someone meet the plane, she’s landing in Honolulu, American Airlines flight 245.”
“Got it.”
“Do not let her out of your sight! I want an address.”
KATE
The transfer car pulls up in front of the villa, and the driver turns in his seat. “Here you are, Miss.”
I peer out as relief fills me; looks okay. I always have that panic moment when I see a place I booked online.
I pay him and he takes my suitcase from the trunk.
Thank God I arranged all this last week.
When I hadn’t heard from Elliot, when he was with her . . . the thought of seeing him at work was mortifying. I booked this holiday to give myself some space. I didn’t tell anyone about it except Brad. Not even Daniel and Rebecca. If they didn’t know where I was then they couldn’t accidently tell anyone, and thank God I didn’t. I had no idea how much it was going to be needed.
I’m on Lanikai Beach, Kailua, on the island of Oahu, Hawaii.
The sound and smell of the ocean overwhelms me, and I wave my driver goodbye and walk up the steps.
The keys are in a lock box and excitement fills me. A hot shower . . . and some sleep.
I’ve had a horrendous trip, and to be honest I was half expecting the Miles jet to pull up alongside us and hijack my plane, and for Elliot to board mid-air and drag me off.
To get here alone and safe is a relief. The key turns and I walk in and gasp.
Oh my God. “So beautiful.”
It’s a little villa, in the shape of a hexagon, on the edge of a cliff. Huge windows with views of the sea are everywhere you look, and palm trees are on the edge of the waterline.
This place looks straight out of a movie.
I smile, lock the door behind me, and look around: one bedroom, a small, tidy bathroom, and an octagon-shaped living and kitchen area with light timber floors. Through large timber French doors is a huge deck, and I walk out to feel the sea breeze on my face.
“Wow.” I smile into the view, stare out for a while, and then my mind goes to Elliot back home . . . and I can almost feel his panic. I know he’ll be worried.
But I can’t think of him right now. For once in my life, I have to put myself first.
I understand what he told me yesterday, that he loves me and that he didn’t do anything with his beloved artist. And maybe if he had come straight home after he saw her I would have forgiven him and moved on.
But he took a week to convince himself that he wanted to be with me. To talk himself into his so-called happiness. If he loved me as he said he does, there would have been no soul-searching to arrive at that decision. He would have come straight home . . . to me.
I hate that he didn’t.
I get a vision of us laughing and making love and of all the wonderful late-night deep and meaningful conversations we had in bed, and my heart hurts.
For a while there, I let myself believe that we had something special.
I exhale sadly; but it wasn’t to be.
Elliot Miles isn’t the only one who wants the happily-ever-after with someone extraordinary . . . and guess what, I’m waiting for it.
Even if it kills me . . . and the way I feel now, it just might.
“Hello.” I smile at the kind-looking waiter. “I’m here to see Steven about the waitress position.”
I’ve been here for four days and can’t stomach the thought of going back. I called the real-estate agent and the place I’m staying at now is coming up for long-term rent.
I’m going to stay for a while and put some roots down while I sort myself out.
“Hi.” He smiles as he wipes down the bar. “I’m Steven.”
“Hi.” I feel so awkward, and I clutch my résumé in my hands with white-knuckle force.
“Have you ever waitressed before?” he asks.
“No.”
“Ever been in hospitality?”
“Nope.”
“What do you normally do?”
“IT.” I twist my fingers in front of me. “Computer analysis.”
He frowns. “What are you doing here?”
“Honestly?” I shrug. “I broke up with my boyfriend and ran away. I figure Lanikai is a pretty amazing place to stay for a few months while I lick my wounds and get my shit together.”
Oh no . . . I wrecked it.
He smiles broadly. “It is. I did that five years ago and never left. When can you start?”
“Today.”
The sound of the ocean laps at the shore and I smile into the sun as I walk along.
This place is heaven.
And not just because it was my escape plan.
For the first time in a long time, probably since my parents died, I feel proud of myself.
I’ve pushed myself way out of my comfort zone.
I didn’t want to stay in London; my gut told me to leave.
There were too many questions between us, too little trust on my behalf.
Even though I wanted to stay and fight for us, I knew that I needed this time alone.
To regroup and find out who I am again.
It’s as if I’m finally coming into my own. I’ve lived in the shadow of my parents’ death for seven dark years . . . but somehow, this new heartache over Elliot has snapped me out of it.
For a long time, I wanted a change, but I was always too cautious and scared, then this happened and suddenly without hesitation I moved to the other side of the world. I was tired of IT so I now work nights in a restaurant.
Everything I’ve been pushing through over the last few years, the staleness and boredom . . . I don’t feel it anymore.
I wake up every day renewed, a little sad . . . but still, excited for what’s coming.
I’ve been doing yoga as the sun comes up on the beach; I swim in the ocean and lie in the sun. I go for a big walk and then have an afternoon nap. At night, I go to work in the restaurant. It’s fun and easy and the people there are so nice.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?” a man says as he rides past me on a pushbike.
“Sure is.” I smile as I get to the row of shops in town. This place is so lovely and quaint, and I come here most afternoons to buy my food for the following day.
I walk past a hobby shop and stop and look through the window: what’s in there?
I’ll take a look, so I walk in and a bell rings over the door.
“Hello.” An elderly woman smiles.
“Hi.”
“Can I help you with anything?”
“Just looking,” I reply. I walk through the cross-stitch section and smile sadly as I look at all the patterns. My mum would have loved this shop.
When I was a teenager we used to spend hours together in the garden house, and she would do her cross-stitch and I would paint. We would laugh and talk and listen to music. I smile as I remember making her play Taylor Swift on repeat for hours and hours.
I pick up a cross-stitch pattern of a duck and I smile as I think of Elliot and his girls. Maybe I should learn how to do cross-stitch? It could be an ode to my mum. I look through all the patterns, but end up back at the ducks.
I want this one; I liked those bat-shit crazy ducks of Elliot’s. I remember the day they attacked him and it brings a smile to my face. I tuck the packet under my arm and keep looking.
“All the art supplies are marked down by fifty percent,” the old lady calls.
“Oh, thanks.” I keep walking. “I haven’t painted since high school.”
“You should start again, it’s the best therapy.” She smiles.
Hmm, I guess it could be. I mean, if I’m learning how to cross-stitch, I guess I could paint a picture too. I’m totally crap at it . . . but it would make me feel close to Mum, by association.
She always loved my paintings, said every new painting I did was her new favorite. Isn’t that what all mums say to their kids about their hideous hobbies?
I pick up a packet of paintbrushes and a starter pack of ten tubes of paint, go to the back and look through the canvases. Shit . . . these are expensive.
Did Mum really pay this much? I smile, knowing exactly why she did: so that I would sit with her while she did her cross-stitch. There was a method to her madness, after all.
I pick up a small canvas, which will be easier to fit into the bin when I fuck it up.
I take my things to the cashier, and I feel really excited for tomorrow. When I get back from the beach, I’m going to start learning how to do my cross-stitch, just like Mum. How fun.
ELLIOT
“Your paintings have arrived, Mr. Miles,” Andrew says from the door.
I look up from my computer. “What?”
“Your Harriet collection has arrived out of storage, I know how much you missed it.”
I run my hand through my hair in disgust. “Oh.” I pause.
I don’t want to be anywhere near those paintings; I left Kate for those.
All they do is remind me of what I no longer have.
My girl.
“Umm.” I pause as I try to articulate my answer. “My apologies, Andrew, can you have them delivered to my apartment in London please?”
Andrew’s face falls. “But—”
“But nothing,” I cut him off. “I don’t want them in this house.”
He frowns as he stares at me.
“That is all, Andrew,” I snap, dismissing him.
“Very well, sir.”
I inhale a shaky breath and go back to my computer.
This is fucked.
KATE
I walk up the road to my house and see a car pulled up outside. I frown and, as I get closer, I see it’s a mail delivery van.
“Can I help you?” I ask the driver.
“Yes, I’m looking for a Pinkie Leroo, does she live here?”
My heart skips a beat; he knows where I am.
Is he here? My eyes flick around suspiciously. “What do you have for her?” I ask.
“A letter.” He holds up a red envelope and I can see Elliot’s handwriting on the front of it.
Oh . . .
“Yes, I’m Pinkie,” I reply.
“Can I get you to sign here? It’s certified.”
“Sure.” Damn control freak wants to make sure I got it. I sign for it and he hands it over.
“Bye Pinkie,” he says as he gets into his car.
“Thanks. Bye.”
I look at the letter in my hand.
Miss Pinkie Leroo
98 Grosvenor Street
Mayweather, Oahu.
I turn it over and look at the back for the sender.
Edgar Moffatt
Garbologist Extraordinaire
Enchanted Kingdom
I smirk. Garbologist extraordinaire . . . idiot.
I walk back inside and put the envelope on the countertop.
I’m not reading it.
It’s 11 p.m. when I walk in the door and I go straight to the envelope and pick it up. Work was so busy tonight and I was torturing myself the entire shift wondering what this says.
How does he know where I am?
I pick up the envelope and stare at it. What does he want? There’s only one way to find out.
Fuck it.
I tear open the envelope.
My dearest Pinkie,
In light of my inability to call you, and not wanting to stalk you, serial-killer style, I have decided to go old school and write you a letter.
To receive a total package experience, please spray this letter with the spray that is enclosed in the envelope.
I frown: what the hell?
I turn the envelope upside down and a tiny spray bottle falls out onto the countertop.
I pick it up and read the little label.
Elliot Miles—Love Potion.
I roll my lips to suppress my smile, hold it to my nose, and close my eyes as a flood of memories runs through me. It’s Elliot’s aftershave.
Hmmm.
I read on.
I’m writing to you with the greatest of news, you are to be a GG, also known as a Goat Grandma.
I put my hand over my mouth and burst out laughing. What the hell?
The veterinarian has just left and he has confirmed my suspicions. Gretel your goat is pregnant. The expected arrival date is in 40 days, and I can’t wait.
Finally, some good news.
I hope you are well?
I hope you know how much of my strength it’s taking to not come to you.
Please know how much you are missed.
Forever yours,
Elliot
ox
Short and sweet. My heart swells and I bite my lip.
I pick up the tiny spray bottle and hold it to my nose . . . smells like heaven.
Elliot Miles.
I read the letter again . . . and again, and then I do as he asks.
I spray the letter with his cologne.
And with a big smile on my face, and the scent of Elliot Miles swimming around me, I read it again.
