The Little Wedding Island: the perfect holiday beach read for 2018. Jaimie AdmansЧитать онлайн книгу.
going to give him the satisfaction of replying.
‘It’s okay, it was a pointless question anyway. The answer is obviously yes. I think that might’ve been the best cake that’s ever existed.’
I clunk my head back against the wall, so tempted to say something that’ll make him laugh, to go back to the easy flirtation we had going earlier. That’s what I want – to un-know what I know now.
He’s quiet for a while and I think he’s finally given up, until he speaks again. ‘I know I deserved it, but would you happen to know how to get red wine out of a shirt?’
I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘That was my favourite shirt too. It’ll probably never be the same. Clara’s going to get some oxy-powered stain thingy on it for me. Apparently she’s seen some stains in her time after cleaning the honeymoon suite for twenty-something years.’
I clamp a hand over my mouth to stop myself laughing. This isn’t fair. He has no right to be this adorable after what he did online. This has got to stop.
I do a loud snore in the hopes he’ll get the hint.
‘That was the worst fake snore I’ve ever heard!’ he shouts. ‘You sound like a pig hunting for truffles on a whoopee cushion. Two out of ten, and one was for inventiveness!’
I roll my eyes and thunk my head back again. He’s quiet for so long that I’m sure he’s given up this time. I’m just thinking it might be time to lie down and actually try to sleep when he speaks again.
‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for posting the screencaps. I deleted the tweet the next day but loads of people had already RT-ed it by then. I went to DM you to apologise but you’d already blocked me. I am sorry, Bonnie, really.’
‘That’s not the point, is it?’
‘Ah-ha! So you are awake!’
Oops. I didn’t think that one through. ‘No, I’m talking in my sleep. I’m having nightmares about you.’
‘Aw, don’t be like that. Can’t we start over?’
‘No, Rohan, we can’t because you still don’t get it. I don’t care that you posted screencaps of me calling you every name under the sun – that’s my own fault. I should’ve known better than to try to reason with a troll on Twitter. I don’t care about the argument earlier. The main issue is still the same. What you do is horrible. Other people’s weddings have nothing to do with you. You can’t publicly ridicule them just because you have a sharp tongue and a way with words.’
‘Firstly, if pictures are posted on the internet then they’re in the public domain, and secondly, this was a one-off. I don’t usually ridicule random weddings. Sometimes I do investigations into what divorce lawyers earn or in-depth explorations into celebrity break-ups, and my last column was about how men can win at the gift registry.’
‘How romantic. Most of my job is covering real weddings. It’s our most popular section of the magazine. I get to go to all these amazing weddings and interview the couples and do little write-ups about them and the venue and the dress and the flowers, and—’
‘And you haven’t died of boredom yet?’
‘It’s not boring, it’s amazing. I have the loveliest, most privileged job in the world. People let me in to their special, private days and share their love with me and our readers. And if I’m not doing that then I’m writing about bargain dresses or the best eyebrow shapes to compliment an up-do or how to DIY your own place setting cards.’
‘Cor. I bet paint watches you dry.’
I shouldn’t laugh, I should be insulted, but I let out a guffaw so loud that I’ve probably woken people back on the mainland. I have to get a hold of myself. Twitter was bad enough but actually validating him when he thinks he’s being funny is much worse. ‘I spend my days trying to make people’s weddings better. You spend yours trying to destroy them. We’re complete opposites, and one of us is going to lose our job this summer, and no matter how complacent you are, it isn’t going to be me.’
He goes quiet again and I think I’ve finally got my point across and he’s going to leave me alone now. We have nothing in common and I want nothing to do with him or his alter ego. I really don’t.
‘Do you like Some Mothers Do ’Ave ’Em?’ he says after a blissful silence.
‘What?’ I ask in confusion.
‘It’s an old show from the Seventies.’
‘I know what it is.’
‘If you put your TV on channel nine, it’s on all night. I love it. It’s an absolute classic, and this is a great episode.’
I’m not going to. I’m going to ignore him. I know the show well enough, I don’t need to put it on now just because he likes it. Even as I’m telling myself that, my hand sneaks out towards the remote control on the nightstand.
I settle back and get comfortable against the headboard, leaning my head on the wall, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s doing the same. It’s probably the weirdest thing I’ve ever done with a guy – sat and watched a TV show together, back to back, in different rooms – but I can’t bring myself to care as I laugh at Frank Spencer getting into his usual pickles, listening to Rohan’s laughter through the wall.
‘We laugh at the same things,’ he calls out when the adverts come on. ‘I don’t think we’re that opposite after all.’
‘Oh, we are,’ I say, but from the lifeless pile where they’ve landed like rocks in my stomach, one butterfly wing twitches.
When I wake up in the morning, there’s silence from Rohan’s room and I get the feeling he’s already gone out. And then I have to give myself a stern telling-off for my first thoughts being of him.
He’s R.C. Art, for God’s sake. I’ve only seen bits and pieces of his columns, but I’ve heard enough about him over the years I’ve been working at Two Gold Rings, colleagues sniggering over his articles like kids passing a banned book around the school hallways, comments and discussions about how The Man Land can let him get away with it, and now this stupid competition between the magazines.
I have to remember who he is. The funny, sweet guy from the boat yesterday is the same man. He is not someone who makes my knees go weak and butterfly wings beat in the pit of my stomach. He is a man who hates everything I love. My first thoughts in the morning can’t be of him. I’m going to lose my job if I don’t nail this article. All of my colleagues are going to lose their jobs. I have to think about all of the women who have turned to Two Gold Rings as they’ve planned their weddings, who will one day go to pick up a copy for their daughters as they plan their own weddings, and the magazine just won’t be there any more.
It’s not just about me losing my job, it’s about losing the whole magazine. And keeping the awful, controversial men’s magazine who think that employing people who get their kicks out of insulting others is a good thing. That is what I have to concentrate on, not Rohan Carter, no matter how sexy his name is. And the rest of him.
Why was he so nice to me though? Before he knew who I was, he was kind and sweet. And even after I threw my wine over him last night, he still seemed to care. He wanted me to talk to him afterwards. He even brought me cake. Why? What did he want? It’s not like he’s looking for love, is it? It’s not like he actually liked me. I get the impression that R.C. Art is not someone who likes people very much.
I scrub my hands over my face. I have to stop thinking about it. He’s a jerk who can turn on a nice-guy act when it suits him. It’s probably how he gets most of his column topics – by pretending to be someone he isn’t. I can’t let him spoil my time here. What I saw of this island yesterday looked beautiful and I can’t wait