Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 130255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
“Is she even old enough to retire?”
“I don’t know. How old do you have to be these days? Doesn’t the government keep raising the age to keep stealing our money? Oh, I’m sorry. I meant to say tax us.”
It was hard to argue when she was right.
“Whatever,” she continued, putting her wine glass down and switching it for a giant bar of chocolate. “I’ll text Francesca when we’re done talking and ask her for a meeting in the morning.”
“Good idea.”
“How’s the book going?”
“Well, I’ve just finished painting my toenails and I’m talking to you instead of writing, so…” I shrugged.
“It’s going well, then.”
“It actually is. I think I only have about fifteen, maybe twenty per cent of the book left. It depends how the final scenes pan out.” I hugged my knee and rested my chin on top. “Maybe two weeks or so.”
“Are you coming home when you’re done?”
I nodded. “I might take a couple of days to relax a bit, but yeah, I’ll be back after.”
“Good. I miss you.” She tilted her head to the side, staring at the screen for a moment. “El, are you all right?”
I was going to say that I was totally fine, but no words came out.
Evidently, I’d been silent for a little too long, because she said, “What’s wrong?”
There were words for that.
They fell out of me—starting with dinner and the tension between Max and Esme, followed by our conversation yesterday and how it had all happened.
“Wow.” Meg snapped a piece off the large chocolate bar. “That’s a lot.”
“Yeah.” I nodded slowly, dropping my gaze to my freshly painted toes.
“Wait. Windermere? Windermere. Of course.”
I glanced up in time to see her look away with a deep frown.
“I knew that was familiar.”
“What?” I asked, leaning forwards. “How?”
“I watched a show a few months ago. It was a list of, um, British tragedies, I guess. Notable public figures, like Amy Winehouse, and others who died before their time or in really tragic circumstances.” She turned back to the camera. “And it was, oh, God. Two weeks ago? I was watching Great British Murders and there was a story about a duke and duchess who were recovered from a lake in their car, and it was deemed a murder-suicide.”
My stomach churned.
It wasn’t bad enough knowing the truth, but Max had to live with people making documentaries about how his parents died?
“That was Max’s parents,” Meg said softly, casting her gaze downwards. “I can’t believe I didn’t make that connection.”
“It’s not really a connection one wants to make.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “It’s… difficult. I’m not sure he’s spoken to anyone other than me about it for a long time.”
“Did you know his parents were dead? Of course you did, he can only be a duke if his dad isn’t alive,” she said, somewhat rambling. “Did it really take you this long to ask?”
I nodded.
“Wow. Okay. That’s new for you. Get a load of that restraint.”
“Meg.”
“Sorry, sorry.” She broke off a square of chocolate. “That’s heavy, man. He’s not over it, huh?”
“I’m not sure anyone is supposed to get over that,” I admitted. “Especially not if people are making documentaries about how your dad murdered your mum.”
Meg grimaced. “Yeah. That’ll hamper the healing process.”
I sighed and buried my face in my hands. “God, I feel awful.”
“Why?”
“Because I made him tell him, Meg.” I peered through my fingers. “I just kept going on and on and on about it instead of just accepting it.”
“Whoa, okay, no.” She shook her head emphatically. “Well, yes, you probably did if I know you, but you didn’t force him to tell you, El. He could have just walked away and left without telling you everything—or anything, actually. He obviously trusts you enough to open up like that.” She snapped the piece of chocolate into each individual square then held one out to me. “Want one?”
I stared at her.
Shrugging, she popped a piece into her mouth.
“I did push it, though. He asked me to stop, and I didn’t. I haven’t spoken to him for a whole day.”
“Not a whole day,” Meg deadpanned. “However will you cope?”
“That’s not helping.”
“Jesus, you are in so over your head with this guy, aren’t you?”
I didn’t reply, momentarily averting my gaze instead.
“Wow.” She paused, then leant in closer to her camera, making her face bigger on the screen. “I was kidding, but… Ellie, you really like Max, don’t you?”
I looked down at my dusty, crumb-covered keyboard from my date with a bag of salt and vinegar Chipsticks earlier. “It doesn’t matter,” I said quietly, flicking my gaze across the keyboard from one key to the other. “Even if it did, we want very different things out of our lives. I understand him not wanting kids or marriage, more than I did before now that I know why. I’d never try to convince him otherwise. You probably think I’m an idiot and will tell me something else.”