Page 34
Once I’d changed, I checked myself in the mirror and noted with some surprise that the dress was loose on me.
I’d lost weight.
It was pleasing.
My hair had escaped in tendrils around my face, so I undid my plait and shook it out. My hair fell to my waist and hung in long, thick, unmanageable waves over my shoulders. I disliked it so long, but my mother always begged me not to cut it.
And how could I refuse her now that she was no longer here?
There was a discreet tap on the door, but it still made me jump.
“Come in.”
Dylan opened the door and, for a fraction of a second, stilled in the doorway staring at me.
Do I look that bad?
He ran his hand through his fair hair and closed his eyes, and I knew he was annoyed about something.
What now?
“Is this okay?”
“You look fine, Emily. Let’s go.” He turned to make a hasty retreat.
I slipped on my smartest flats and pulled my hair back. Rather than tying it into its usual plait, I secured it in a high swinging ponytail. I grabbed my black denim jacket and my mother’s huge sunglasses while wondering what was eating Doctor Dyl.
It was another warm summer afternoon. Dylan lowered the roof of the BMW, and while we waited for it to fold away, he handed me a baseball cap.
“This’ll keep the sun off your face.” He sounded sullen.
Perhaps he’s angry with me for the drama.
The thought depressed me because it wasn’t my fault, but I fed my ponytail through the back of the cap and pushed it onto my head. Then I slid my sunglasses on my face and caught sight of myself in the wing mirror.
The sunglasses did wonders for me.
“Where are we going?” I inquired with sweet politeness as he reversed out of the drive.
“Richmond.”
Am I supposed to know what that means?
“Is that a restaurant?”
“No, Emily, it’s a place south of the river. There’s a nice pub there. We can have lunch. We’re just going to take a quick detour.” His voice betrayed his exasperation.
What have I done? Is it me? Or is something else bugging him?
I glanced at him, but his eyes were hidden behind his aviators. Perhaps it was a lack of music that was making him crabby. Glancing at the car media system, I marshaled my inner strength, leaned forward, and switched it on. Loud rock music assaulted both of us like last time, and Dylan instantly switched it off.
“Are you trying to upset yourself?” he snapped.
I shrank from his ferocity. “No,” I whispered, suppressing the urge to cry. I was only trying to coax him out of his sudden, inexplicable bad mood.
His mouth pressed into a hard line, and he pushed a couple of buttons on the steering wheel. The hiss of the music system came to life once more, and the gentle notes of Pachelbel’s Canon played by a string quartet floated between us.
Oh. He’s calling a truce.
