The Accidental Honeymoon. Portia MacIntosh

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СКАЧАТЬ I make my way towards the casino exit, I wonder what to do with myself now. Other than the brief mutterings of the dealer, I haven’t really spoken to anyone since I was in the salon. Now I think about it, I’m glad. I don’t really want to speak to anyone. A free dinner in a beautiful restaurant seems like a silly thing to waste, but I cannot think of anything sadder than sitting there on my own, ploughing my way through three courses of Vegas’s finest on the off-chance it makes me feel better.

      I step into the lift and take a look at the map of the hotel. I don’t really want to be around too many people, but I definitely don’t want to go back to my room alone. I browse the list until the perfect place pops out at me: the rooftop garden. It’s not exactly the warmest evening, so hopefully there won’t be too many people there. I can get some air, clear my head and try and think about what the hell I’m going to do.

      Obviously breaking up with someone you live with causes a lot of upset, both emotionally and in your day-to-day life, but I have problems that are more immediate: going home to England for my cousin’s wedding without a fiancé. I know what you’re thinking – why can’t I just be honest with everyone? Well, the truth is, I made no secret of the fact I was moving to LA for a bigger and better life, but it hasn’t exactly worked out that way. My mum and my auntie have always measured me and my cousin against each other – they had us months apart, after all. They’ve always had this rivalry about whose daughter was doing the best. I never managed to bag the job I wanted, but I had John… and now, suddenly, I have nothing. No job, no home, no fiancé. My cousin, on the other hand, has it all. She’s marrying the man she loves in a wedding that is sure to be spectacular, her fiancé is a rich businessman who gives her everything she could possibly want – he’s even started her own business for her, selling candles. So you can see why I don’t want to go home with nothing, in the midst of all this wedding stuff. Not only would it be so embarrassing, having to admit it to everyone, but everyone would pity me. And it would certainly take the focus away from my cousin, which my auntie would no doubt think I’d done on purpose. No, I’ll have to lie. Tell them John is away for work or something.

      Looking at my reflection in the mirrored lift doors, I can’t get over how different I look. Hair, make-up and clothes can make such a huge difference. Whether I look better or not, I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go. Ever. Just up in this lift to a rooftop garden where no one in their right mind would be hanging out.

      Seeing the sadness in my own eyes only upsets me more. How could he do this to me? Even if you decide you don’t love someone anymore, you break up with them. You don’t do this to them.

      As fast as I wipe my tears, more fall from my eyes, streaking my foundation. It was probably a little too dark for me anyway, which only enhances the white pathway each tear has left on my cheeks.

      As the lift grinds to a halt, I hurriedly wipe my tears, but it doesn’t matter. The doors open to reveal nothing but plants and fairy lights.

      It’s beautiful up here. As I make my way towards the edge to look at the view, my new stupidly high heels keep getting stuck in the pebbles. I can’t help but feel mad at myself for buying them as I kick them off.

      Once I get to the glass fence and take in the sights properly, it’s worth it. The view from up here is even more stunning than the one from my room. God, every inch of this trip has been so romantic to far – well, it could have been. A beautiful room with a gorgeous view, champagne, dinner, this stunning garden… it would all be so nice with someone to share it with.

      Tears leap from my eyes again.

      The more I think about it, the more I’m sure it will be fine to tell people John is away for work. Well, he does work away a lot, touring with different orchestras. But we’ve had this trip planned for months, and I spoke to my mum about our flight times the night before I caught him… Maybe a work emergency? Are pianist emergencies even a thing?

      ‘Erm… hey,’ I hear a man’s voice call from behind me.

      I don’t want him to see my face, so I keep looking over the edge of the terrace.

      ‘Hi,’ I reply coolly, not exactly pulling it off.

      ‘Everything OK up here?’ he asks.

      ‘Fine, fine,’ I reply. ‘Thank you.’

      ‘Erm…’

      Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why can’t people just leave me in peace?!

      ‘Want to come over here and have a chat about stuff?’

      I furrow my brow. What the hell is this guy’s deal? Is he hitting on me?

      ‘I’m fine where I am, thank you,’ I say politely, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave me alone.

      ‘Look, that money you lost… it might have meant a lot to you, but it’s not worth getting upset over.’

      For a moment I laugh, because that’s the least of my problems. But then it occurs to me this person has been watching me. Streaming eyes and messy make-up no longer matter to me as I turn around.

      ‘Are you following me?’ I ask accusingly.

      ‘I saw you, at the table. I saw you lose, I saw that you were upset and then I saw you come up here. And now you’re standing too close to the edge for my liking, so…’

      ‘You think I’m going to jump?’ I shriek.

      ‘When you took your shoes off…’

      ‘Oh, yeah, I took my shoes off. I’m definitely going to kill myself.’

      I can’t exactly see the person I’m talking to. He’s standing in the shadows under a particularly tall plant that blocks the light above it.

      I wouldn’t normally be so outspoken; this is not me at all. I feel like I’m spectating someone who isn’t me because she doesn’t look like me, sound like me, or act like me. Perhaps my new look is empowering me – then again, maybe it’s the champagne.

      ‘All right, there’s no need to be sarcastic,’ he replies. ‘Just… won’t you come over here, sit down and talk to me for a second?’

      If I want to shake this one, I’m going to have to convince him I’m not suicidal. Things might be bad, but they’re not that bad.

      I wipe my eyes and walk over to where he’s standing.

      ‘See, not jumping,’ I tell him, finally coming face to face with my stalker.

      He’s tall – 6’2” maybe – with broad shoulders and huge arms. I can’t see under his T-shirt, but I can tell from the way it clings he’s an absolute unit of a man. He has stylish brown hair and strong facial features, but his sharp jawline contrasts with his adorable dimples, which, in spite of his hulking muscles, give him this soft, approachable look. He must be a security guard of some kind, given his size and the fact he’s up here and on my case.

      ‘That’s better,’ he says softly. ‘So, go on, what’s his name?’

      ‘Whose name?’ I ask.

      ‘The guy who’s driven you to crying on the rooftop.’

      ‘What makes you so sure it was a guy?’ I ask angrily.

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