Summer at the Lakeside Cabin. Catherine Ferguson
table, dumps it on the bedside table and puts his laptop on the table instead. ‘Just need to check in. Won’t be a mo.’
My heart sinks but I smile and say, ‘Okay. I’ll go and freshen up while you’re busy. I really hope you like it here. It’s such a gorgeous lakeside setting, isn’t it?’
But he’s already peering anxiously at the screen and doesn’t appear to have heard me. So I go off to investigate the tiny bathroom, hoping Toby won’t be too long. I hope he manages to get us a table for dinner at the Starlight Hotel. It sounds utterly gorgeous. Possibly even more romantic than eating al fresco! And definitely no bugs.
My stomach is already rumbling like mad at the thought of Poppy’s freshly baked breakfast pastries …
*
‘Let’s just walk along to the hotel, Toby. It’s a lovely evening.’
I finally managed to prise Toby away from his laptop in order to get ready. While he was in the bathroom, I took the magazine with my prize-winning story in it out of my case and, with a little lurch of excitement, slid it onto Toby’s bedside table. Hopefully he’ll finally have time to read it this week!
Toby frowns. ‘I thought you were hungry,’
‘I am. But Clemmy said the hotel was only a ten-minute walk away, and I thought it might be nice to take a stroll along there by the lake. You know, get to know our surroundings a bit?’
‘Okay. Let’s go.’ He pockets his work phone and I know there’s no point objecting. The office comes before everything else for Toby – even relationships. That’s just the way he is, and I’ve always had a theory that there’s no point trying to change the person you’re going out with. Sure, some of your own good habits will likely rub off on each other. But essentially, they’re not likely to undergo a great transformation, so you either accept them, warts and all, or you move on.
There’s no doubt that Toby and I are very different in some ways. But every time I imagine us going our separate ways, I think of just how much I would lose. Toby and his family have basically taken me in and provided the love and comfort I missed so badly when Mum died. I couldn’t leave Toby. And what about my friendship with Rosalind? How could we still meet up for coffee and a chat if I was no longer going out with her son?
I swallow hard. Toby and I get along fine together. Every relationship needs to be worked on. And this week, we’ll have the chance to do just that …
I tuck my hand in his arm and we start walking down the road to the hotel.
‘So, what do you think of glamping?’ I ask. ‘I know it’s not what you were expecting, but I think our tent is incredible.’
He smiles at me. ‘It’s certainly different. And I’m looking forward to finding out how springy that mattress is.’
‘Ooh, yes, me too.’ I give him a wicked grin and snuggle closer, laying my head briefly against his shoulder.
He nods. ‘Of course, I prefer a pocket-sprung, memory-foam hybrid mattress. As you know. But hell, I’m willing to try something different!’ He gives me a jolly wink.
This is promising, I think to myself. Toby actually seems quite relaxed now and he hasn’t checked his phone once since we left our tent. Admittedly, we’re only five minutes down the road, but even so …
Approaching the hotel entrance, I spot a ‘workmen’ sign just to the left, with a cordon in a ring around whatever they’ve been working on. Toby takes my hand and guides me firmly around the obstruction.
Then he suddenly stops and takes hold of my other hand as well. ‘Thank you, Daisy, for my birthday treat. I know I’ve been preoccupied with work today, but I promise I’ll make it up to you while we’re here.’
I smile shyly up at him. ‘You will?’
He nods and I stand on tiptoe to kiss him. His mouth tastes of fresh minty toothpaste and it’s lovely.
I slide my hands up around Toby’s neck as the kiss deepens and my head spins deliciously. This is what a romantic break should be like.
This, right here … kissing under the stars … just us and no one else to ruin the moment …
‘You’re blocking the way.’
I jump at the sound of a deep voice behind me.
Toby, too, is startled and springs back, colliding with the workmen’s barrier.
A tall, well-built man, wearing a backpack and hiking gear, strides past us and mounts the hotel steps, his long legs making easy work of them.
‘Hey, hang on, mate,’ protests Toby, and the man turns at the top of the steps.
‘Yes?’ he snarls, glowering at me for some reason and not Toby.
I swallow, staring up at his dark shock of hair and rough, unshaven face.
‘An “excuse me” would have been nice,’ I point out testily.
But he just gives a snort of contempt and disappears into the hotel.
‘Ah, shit. Fucking shit,’ says Toby. And when I turn, he’s extracting one foot from some syrupy, just-laid cement.
‘Oh, God, your shoe!’ I wail, staring at the gunge that’s welded to it and feeling Toby’s pain. Toby prides himself on his quality shoes. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got some wipes in my handbag.’
Luckily, Toby always keeps a stash of baby wipes in the car in case of messy emergencies.
We manage to get him cleaned up fairly satisfactorily, but it’s put a definite dampener on the evening. This particular pair of shoes was handmade in Italy; Toby’s pride and joy. It would be like if someone threw my best handbag into the back of a bin lorry. It would never be the same after that. I totally get where poor Toby is coming from.
So basically, that rude stranger who pushed past us on the stairs has managed to ruin Toby’s night. Which obviously means I’m not exactly leaping about with joy, either. Still, it can only get better from here …
We haven’t booked and the restaurant is full.
All the waiter can suggest is that we have a drink in the bar and there will be a table for us at nine o’clock. Toby’s face falls and I decide not to point out that Clemmy offered to book us a table but he said he would sort it. Work, of course, got in the way …
Toby looks at his watch. ‘That’s nearly a two-hour wait. Is there anywhere else around here we can eat?’
I shake my head. ‘The nearest village, Appley Green, is ten miles away and I didn’t see a restaurant when we drove through earlier.’
‘Bloody countryside,’ mutters Toby, glaring down at his shoe, as if a rural cowpat was to blame, not wet cement. ‘At least in the city, everything’s just a phone call away.’
He sighs, looking thoroughly exhausted, and I take his hand and say softly, ‘Why don’t we just go back and microwave the moussaka I brought?’
He grimaces. ‘Don’t fancy it.’
‘Okay, well, we could get some basic stuff from Clemmy’s store cupboard, like she suggested?’
He frowns. ‘Beans on toast?’
I nod. ‘Beans, anyway. I’m not sure there’s a toaster.’
He flicks his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Great.’
Toby likes to sit down to a proper dinner – at least two courses – every night. So I can understand why a tin of beans isn’t exactly floating his boat. Especially when this is supposed to be his birthday