Romantic Association - Loves Me, Loves Me Not

‘Ah!’ One could hear pennies dropping. He eyed my lurid drink. ‘I could say the same about you.’

‘Well, there’s a coincidence.’

‘I don’t know what yours was like, but there was this terrifying girl at mine,’ Patrick confided. ‘She seemed to have spent her life reading miserable newspaper articles and watching gloomy documentaries.’

I smirked, as one who’d got full marks in the exam. ‘A serious sort of girl, you mean?’

‘Yes, very.’ He pulled a face.

‘Oh!’ I was rather taken aback. ‘Don’t you like being serious, then?’

‘Not in the least.’ Patrick sighed. ‘Just because I’m a lawyer, everyone expects me to be solemn and stuffy but I get quite enough of that in my job. I’d much rather be with someone who can see the fun side of life. Someone who’d drink strange purple concoctions instead of dry wine, for example. Now, I can tell that you’re not serious at all.’

‘I can be, if I try.’

‘Yes, I know you can.’ That was definitely a twinkle. ‘But maybe it’s a talent you should save for when you’re with serious people.’

‘Unlike you?’

‘Unlike me. I really prefer being quite silly.’

So Leonora had got Patrick all wrong. But she had been right about one thing. And he was even more gorgeous when he smiled. I could see that my new challenge would be to make him do that as often as possible.

‘Speaking of jobs, you should hear about the place I used to work. You’ll never believe what they made…’

Hardly a challenge at all. He was laughing already.

Sue Moorcroft has managed to wriggle out of all ‘proper jobs’ and works full-time as a writer and a creative writing tutor. As well as her novels, Uphill All the Way and Family Matters, she has sold over one hundred and thirty short stories to magazines in the UK, Norway, Australia, South Africa, Ireland and Sweden, three serials, the occasional article and has written courses for the London School of Journalism. She won the Katie Fforde Bursary Award in 2002. She likes reading, yoga and Pilates and scuba dives in a bimbly kind of way. She’s an armchair formula one addict and hates anyone trying to talk to her when she’s watching a race. Her latest book, Love Writing—How to Make Money Writing Romantic or Erotic Fiction is available in January. For more information about Sue and her writing, visit www.suemoorcroft.com

‘I want to talk!’

Alicia angled her white lacy hat against the glare of the sun. ‘We’re talking.’

‘Only because I followed you to Malta!’ Grant, unwisely for one who disliked hot countries, wasn’t wearing a hat. His dark hair lay damp against his forehead.

‘We could have talked when I was in England,’ she observed reasonably. She fixed her eyes on a bright orange bus chugging through lots of other orange buses and past the horse-drawn carriages called karozzini. Hordes of people milled around the Triton Fountain in the centre of the terminus and the air rang with voices.

The sun was a demon in Malta in July and no one with any sense stood out in it like this. She fanned herself with the big soft-cover book about the history of the Malta Railway. She’d bought it to read this afternoon in the gardens. She kept herself af loat financially at the moment by writing articles about Malta: travel, historical, profiles of Maltese opera singers and snooker players. Her father had been Maltese; she was fascinated by the rocky island, so it was a labour of love.

‘But you were having a hideous time,’ she allowed, softening.

He gazed down into the Great Ditch over the metal railings that edged the bridge to the city gate. Here and there shrubs had seeded themselves into crevices in the mighty ramparts of Valletta, the honey-coloured citadel. ‘What’s going on, Alicia? You’ve abandoned your life, your family, your friends. You’ve been here for weeks—how long before you come home?’

‘Months, probably. But I hope for even a year or two.’

The shadow of stubble hollowed his cheeks and his eyes were very blue. He clenched his fist. ‘ A year? I’ve been wrapped up in myself, I know, but I thought you’d understand why. That you’d wait.’

Between them hung the memory of that ghastly day when everything had changed, when he’d arrived at her door, red-eyed and desperate. ‘The doctors say Robbie hasn’t got long. It’s just a matter of time.’

Even now, she wanted to stroke his face, to kiss the sad lines from his mouth. Place her cheek against the hardness of his chest and hear his heart beat. ‘I did understand! I do. Having to watch Rob—you must’ve been out of your mind with grief when the diagnosis was leukaemia. I realise it became impossible for you to leave as you’d promised. I waited as long as I could.’

Grant touched the hot skin of her arm. ‘When Rob died I was in hell. In a black place inside myself. Michelle and me didn’t even pretend that the marriage was worth saving once he’d gone.’ His voice shook. ‘But I wasn’t ready to let myself be happy with you. I needed time.’

‘Of course!’ Alicia sighed. But time could be so elusive.

She wished desperately that she was alone in the air-conditioned apartment she rented in Sliema, across Marsamxett Harbour. If she began to cry here, with him, she’d never stop. Her arms would wind around him; she’d press herself against the warmth of his body and plead with him to stay with her for the rest of her life. Time! It seemed so simple to him, to let time heal.

But she mustn’t cry! Instead, she shoved her book under his nose. ‘Did you know a railway used to run right here? Under the city? Under our feet? It came out in Freedom Square, by The Opera House.’

He flinched. ‘A railway? ’

She scrabbled through the pages of old photographs. ‘Right here! Look, below us, on the floor of the ditch, you see that platform and the railings—that was the station! Amazing, isn’t it? It ran underground from here and came out in Floriana by another big gateway, the Portes des Bombes, about a kilometre away. Look at this photo, look at the city gate. You can see it’s the same place, can’t you? Even if it’s eighty years since the railway shut down.’ Her voice was shrill. She sounded like a phoney. But at least she wasn’t crying.

Slowly, he glanced from the photograph to the ditch, to the gate and back to the page. ‘Yes. I suppose you’re right. It’s the same place.’

‘Isn’t it fascinating? Steam trains beneath the rock. There must’ve been ventilation shafts everywhere. I think it’s extraordinary.’

He wiped sweat from his forehead. ‘I suppose it looks romantic in the black and white photos, all those upright old guys in suits and hats and women in the black costume—’

‘The faldetta. Also called the ghonella. It was the traditional costume—’

He shoved the book into her bag. ‘Alicia! Really, it’s not extraordinary. Few things are! The railway was part of everyday life then, and the remains are part of the scenery now. That tunnel down there has been turned into a garage. The platform is just an empty block of stone.’

She wriggled her hands free. ‘ I think it’s extraordinary, the way the remnants have survived. I’m going down to look at it.’

He called after her. ‘It’s just a piece of rock! The island’s made of the stuff!’

She halted suddenly, seeing it through his eyes. An abandoned platform and a couple of blocked off tunnels. Anger rose inside her like a swarm of bees. ‘Well, I’ll show you something that is extraordinary, then!’