The Party Starts at Midnight - Page 69

And therein lay the problem, he thought, his heart plummeting for a moment as all those feelings of pain and inadequacy rushed back, because he might be in love with Abby but that didn’t mean that everything was suddenly wonderful. That didn’t mean that history wouldn’t repeat itself.

But nor did it mean that it would.

So did he dare hope that this time things would be different? Was she it? And was he prepared to take the risk to find out?

He was, because she was incredible, he adored her, and the idea of not taking the risk, of letting her go, of not having her in his life was simply unbearable so he really had no option.

‘I need to go and find her,’ he said, his pulse galloping with the desire to see if he could sort out the mess they were in.

‘It’s late. The pub will be closed.’

‘There’s a lock-in. I overheard one of the waitresses mentioning it.’

Jake grinned. ‘Then what are you waiting for?’

* * *

‘And you know the worst thing?’ said Abby glumly, sitting at the bar and staring down into her second shot of tequila. ‘I have the feeling it’s partly my fault.’

‘How can it be?’ said Sheila, who stood behind the bar with her hand on the bottle and a clear intention to keep the tequila coming. ‘You told him you loved him, and he just stood there. Silently.’ She sniffed dismissively. ‘Pillock.’

What with a lousy ex-husband who refused to pay the child support he owed, Sheila, Abby had discovered over the past couple of days, didn’t have all that great an opinion of men.

Yet despite what had happened back there in that folly, Abby did, especially of Leo, and the problem she had now was that he wasn’t a pillock. He really wasn’t. He was the man of her dreams and unavailable, and in the twenty minutes it had taken her to pull herself together and drive back to the pub, during which her mind hadn’t stopped, she’d come to the miserable, heartbreaking conclusion that she’d utterly screwed things up.

‘Maybe I wasn’t being very fair,’ she said, swallowing away the lump in he

r throat and sniffing back the ever-threatening tears. ‘I mean, there he was, expecting me to be agreeing to a fling, and I came out with a declaration of the for-ever kind of love. It’s hardly surprising he was speechless. No wonder he didn’t do anything. He was probably frozen in shock.’

‘Could be,’ said the man to her right, who nodded slowly and then drained his pint. ‘Men don’t tend to like surprises.’

‘Not even good ones?’ asked Abby.

‘Was it a good one?’ said the man to her left, for in the half an hour she’d been in the pub the tales of her woes had gathered quite a crowd.

‘Probably not,’ she said sadly. ‘But I can’t go back. I’ve burned my bridges there. I really have.’ She swiped a tear that had dared to spill over. ‘And you know, for him I’d have totally been prepared to pretend not to know how to change a light bulb. I could have done that. I’m sure I could. But the truly, devastatingly ironic thing is I wouldn’t have needed to.’

Another tear fell and her glass was topped up. ‘Thank you,’ she said and blew her nose.

‘No problem,’ said Sheila with a quick pat on her arm. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about but if you ask me he doesn’t deserve your tears. He sounds like all men. Crap.’

‘I wish he was,’ said Abby with a shaky sigh. ‘But he isn’t. So he’s not perfect, but, you know what? Neither am I. I’ve always sought out perfection, but it doesn’t exist because, actually, being perfect is a flaw too, isn’t it?’

Sheila gave her an uncomprehending look.

‘What I mean, I think, is that maybe a fling would have been enough. And maybe I ought to go back and tell him. Maybe I should just take what he has to offer because, you know, the alternative, which is never seeing him again, is just about breaking my heart. Maybe I should go now.’ She glanced at the clock that hung over the bar. ‘Or is two o’clock too late? I’m not sure I can wait though.’

But then there was a hammering on the door and all thoughts of leaving shot from her head because there came a voice from beyond the entrance to the warm, cosy pub, and Abby went so dizzy she nearly fell off her stool.

‘Open up!’

Everyone went deathly silent, as if taking a collective breath could somehow detract from the fact that they were all partaking of an illegal lock-in.

‘Maybe it’s the police,’ said someone in a hushed voice from over by the fire.

‘It can’t be the police,’ said someone else. ‘I’m the police.’

‘It isn’t the police,’ said Abby, her voice sounding as though it came from far, far away and her heart beating so wildly she feared for her ribs.

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