Scrolling through his contacts, he found the name he wanted and pressed call, his hands twitching with impatience as he listened to the long drones of the dialling tone.
‘Max? Is everything okay?’ said a sleepy voice on the other end of the line.
‘Hi, Poppy, sorry—I forgot it’d be so late where you are,’ he lied.
‘No problem,’ his friend replied, her voice strained as if she was struggling to sit up in bed. ‘What’s up? Is everything okay?’
‘Yes. Fine. Everything’s fine. I won a pivotal contract for the business today so I’m really happy,’ he said, acutely aware of how flat his voice sounded despite his best efforts to sound upbeat.
Apparently it didn’t fool Poppy either. ‘You don’t sound really happy, Max. Are you sure there isn’t something else bothering you?’
His friend was too astute for her own good. But then she’d seen him at his lowest after Jemima died and had taken many a late night call from him throughout that dark time. He hadn’t called her in a while though, so it wasn’t entirely surprising that she thought something was wrong now.
‘Er—’ He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, feeling exhaustion drag at him. ‘No, I’m—’ But he couldn’t say it. He wasn’t fine. In fact he was far from it.
A blast of rage came out of nowhere and he gripped his phone hard, fighting for control.
It was a losing battle.
‘You did it on purpose, didn’t you? Sent Cara to me so I’d fall in love with her,’ he said angrily, blood pumping hard through his body, and he leapt up from the bed and started to pace the room.
His heart gave an extra hard thump as the stunned silence at the other end of the line penetrated through his anger, bringing home to him exactly what he’d just said.
‘Are you in love with her?’ Poppy asked quietly, as if not wanting to break the spell.
He slapped the wall hard, feeling a sick satisfaction at the sting of pain in the palm of his hand. ‘Jemima’s only been dead for a year and a half.’
‘That has nothing to do with it, and it wasn’t what I asked you.’
He sighed and slumped back down onto the bed, battling to deal with the disorientating mass of emotions swirling though his head. ‘I don’t know, Poppy,’ he said finally. ‘I don’t know.’
‘If you don’t know, that probably means that you are but you’re too pig-headed to admit it to yourself.’
He couldn’t help but laugh. His friend knew him so well.
‘Is she in love with you?’ Poppy asked.
‘She says she is.’
He could almost feel his friend smiling on the other end of the phone.
Damn her.
‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ he said, ‘I’ve had a very long day and my flight back to London leaves at six o’clock in the morning,’ he finished, not wanting to protract this uncomfortable conversation any longer. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow after I’ve had some sleep and got my head straight, okay?’
‘Okay.’ There was a pause. ‘You deserve to be happy though, Max, you know that, don’t you? It’s what Jemima would have wanted.’
He cut the call and threw the phone onto the bed, staring sightlessly at the blank wall in front of him.
Did he deserve to be happy, after the way he’d acted? Was he worthy of a second chance?
There was only one person who could answer that question.
* * *
The house was quiet when he arrived home at eight-thirty the next morning. Eerily so.
Cara should have been up by now, having breakfast and getting ready for the day—if she was there.
His stomach sank with dread as he considered the possibility that she wasn’t. That she’d taken him at his word and walked away. Not that he could blame her.
Racing up the stairs, he came to an abrupt halt in front of her open bedroom door and peered inside. It was immaculate. And empty. As if she’d never been there.
Uncomfortable heat swamped him as he made his way slowly back down to the kitchen. Perhaps she hadn’t gone. Perhaps she’d had a tidying spree in her room, then gone out early to grab some breakfast or something.
But he knew that none of these guesses were right when he spotted her keys to the house and the company mobile he’d given her to use for all their communications sitting in the middle of the kitchen table.
The silence of the house seemed to press in on him, crushing his chest, and he slumped onto the nearest chair and put his head in his hands.
This was all wrong. All of it.
He didn’t want to stay in this house any longer; it was like living in a tomb. Or a shrine. Whatever it was, it felt wrong for him to be here now. Memories of the life he’d had here with Jemima were holding him back, preventing him from moving on and finding happiness again. Deep down, he knew Jem wouldn’t have wanted that for him. He certainly wouldn’t have wanted her to mourn him for the rest of her life.