Everything is Beautiful by Eleanor Ray (best classic romance novels txt) 📕

and Liam grabbed the top of her seat to avoid falling over. ‘But we had fun,’ he said. ‘I really like you.’

‘Liam,’ said Amy, ‘you are married.’ In exasperation, she’d spoken louder than she’d intended. The phone man was staring at them now, and the woman with the newspaper stopped pretending to read. Amy noticed the girl with the earphones slip one out of her ear.

‘Oh,’ said Liam. ‘You found out about that.’ The newspaper woman tutted.

‘Yes, I found out,’ said Amy. ‘Because you told everyone about our date and Mr Trapper, of all people, called me into his office to tell me about your wife. I have never been so humiliated in my life.’ She paused. ‘And I’ve had some pretty awful things happen to me.’

‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I’m separated. I have been for over a year.’

Amy looked at him. He seemed truthful.

‘I know you probably think I’m some sort of smooth Casanova,’ he continued. The music girl made a funny snorting sound that she managed to turn into a cough. ‘But I’m not. You’re the first person I’ve dated since my wife.’

Amy took a breath. ‘I’m sorry about your marriage,’ she said. ‘But I . . . ’ Amy glanced around the train. Everyone was watching them. ‘Maybe we should talk about this another time,’ she finished, her voice gentle.

‘That’s a no, isn’t it?’ said Liam.

Amy nodded.

Liam looked crestfallen for a moment. Then he seemed to remember that he had an audience. ‘Plenty more fish in the sea,’ he said, his voice overly bright and a little too loud. He winked at the girl next to Amy. She turned away and put her earphones back in.

As if on cue, the train pulled into the station. ‘I’ll get out here,’ said Liam. ‘Bye, Amy.’

The passengers settled back into their phones, papers and music as if they’d witnessed nothing.

Amy relaxed into her sofa, the shoebox and a glass of wine in front of her. In vino veritas flickered into her mind, from somewhere in the recesses of her brain. In shoebox veritas, she thought. That was more likely. But she couldn’t work out where in that box the truth was hiding.

The doorbell rang. Amy heaved herself up and went to open it. Richard was standing in the doorway. She felt awkward in front of him. It was the first time she’d seen him since she’d pushed him out of her house.

‘Is everything OK?’ he asked.

‘I suppose so,’ replied Amy. ‘Why?’

‘I saw a car I didn’t recognise parked in front of your house,’ replied Richard. ‘What with the trouble with the pots, I just wanted to check . . . ’ He trailed off.

‘There’s no car there now,’ said Amy, glancing past him.

‘Yes,’ agreed Richard. He hesitated. ‘I wanted to see you,’ he confessed. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Not really,’ said Amy. She didn’t want to see his face react to her treasures again. She didn’t like how it made her feel.

‘Fair enough,’ he said, his face resigned. ‘Listen, I really am sorry. I just wanted to help, and you let me in before and I know that was a big deal for you, and I feel like I blew it. We all have our . . . ’ he gestured around. ‘Baggage,’ he finished, feebly.

‘That’s OK,’ said Amy. It felt nice to be apologised to. ‘I found the box I was looking for.’

‘That’s brilliant,’ said Richard, with genuine enthusiasm. They stood in silence for a moment. ‘I’m pleased for you.’ He smiled at her. ‘What’s next?’

‘I haven’t worked it out yet,’ she said.

‘You will, Amy,’ he said. ‘I have faith in you.’

‘I don’t know how you can,’ said Amy. ‘You’ve seen my house. It took me weeks to find a box.’

‘I know your secrets now, Amy,’ said Richard. He reached out and placed a hand on her arm. ‘And I’m still here.’

Amy sat on her sofa again, but this time she was neither looking at the box nor her wine. Her eyes were closed and she was thinking of Richard. She could still feel a small patch of warmth on her arm where his hand had been.

The doorbell rang again, and for once Amy found she rather enjoyed the sound. Daniel had interrupted their moment on the doorstep with an urgent request for apple juice, but Richard said he would return later. Amy smoothed her hair and glanced in one of the mirrors, liking the excitement she saw reflected back. She went to the door and swung it wide open.

But it wasn’t Richard who was standing there.

‘Hello, Amy,’ said a voice Amy had once known as well as her own.

Amy whispered a reply.

‘Chantel.’

May 2008

‘I still can’t believe you guys have done this for me,’ said Amy, opening up her suitcase.

‘I can’t believe it’s come round so quickly,’ said Tim. ‘I’m going to miss you so much.’

‘Italy is not far,’ said Amy. ‘And it’s only six weeks.’

‘I’ll be watching the clock the whole time,’ said Tim, picking up the little alarm clock they kept by their bed and waving it in her face for emphasis.

‘Please don’t,’ said Amy. ‘Enjoy yourself. I will.’

‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ replied Tim. ‘All those handsome Italian men. Ciao bella, oh, your brush is so sexy. Paint my muscly body and cover me in spaghetti.’

‘That sounds disgusting,’ said Amy with a laugh. ‘And you know I don’t like handsome arty Italians. I like pale media-sales trainees who play guitar.’

‘And don’t you forget it,’ replied Tim. He leaned forwards and kissed her. ‘Aren’t you taking your backpack?’ he asked.

‘No, I bought this suitcase specially,’ said Amy, rather proud of it. Going on an arts programme abroad and owning a suitcase. She felt extremely sophisticated.

‘Well, I’m bringing the backpack when I visit,’ said Tim. ‘If I can get the bloody time off work. If I miss my stupid targets, I’m out.’

‘You won’t,’ said Amy. ‘And I understand if you can’t come.’ She