The Casanova by T L Swan

KATE

The transfer car pulls up in front of the villa, and the driver turns in his seat. “Here you are, Miss.”

I peer out as relief fills me; looks okay. I always have that panic moment when I see a place I booked online.

I pay him and he takes my suitcase from the trunk.

Thank God I arranged all this last week.

When I hadn’t heard from Elliot, when he was with her . . . the thought of seeing him at work was mortifying. I booked this holiday to give myself some space. I didn’t tell anyone about it except Brad. Not even Daniel and Rebecca. If they didn’t know where I was then they couldn’t accidently tell anyone, and thank God I didn’t. I had no idea how much it was going to be needed.

I’m on Lanikai Beach, Kailua, on the island of Oahu, Hawaii.

The sound and smell of the ocean overwhelms me, and I wave my driver goodbye and walk up the steps.

The keys are in a lock box and excitement fills me. A hot shower . . . and some sleep.

I’ve had a horrendous trip, and to be honest I was half expecting the Miles jet to pull up alongside us and hijack my plane, and for Elliot to board mid-air and drag me off.

To get here alone and safe is a relief. The key turns and I walk in and gasp.

Oh my God. “So beautiful.”

It’s a little villa, in the shape of a hexagon, on the edge of a cliff. Huge windows with views of the sea are everywhere you look, and palm trees are on the edge of the waterline.

This place looks straight out of a movie.

I smile, lock the door behind me, and look around: one bedroom, a small, tidy bathroom, and an octagon-shaped living and kitchen area with light timber floors. Through large timber French doors is a huge deck, and I walk out to feel the sea breeze on my face.

“Wow.” I smile into the view, stare out for a while, and then my mind goes to Elliot back home . . . and I can almost feel his panic. I know he’ll be worried.

But I can’t think of him right now. For once in my life, I have to put myself first.

I understand what he told me yesterday, that he loves me and that he didn’t do anything with his beloved artist. And maybe if he had come straight home after he saw her I would have forgiven him and moved on.

But he took a week to convince himself that he wanted to be with me. To talk himself into his so-called happiness. If he loved me as he said he does, there would have been no soul-searching to arrive at that decision. He would have come straight home . . . to me.

I hate that he didn’t.

I get a vision of us laughing and making love and of all the wonderful late-night deep and meaningful conversations we had in bed, and my heart hurts.

For a while there, I let myself believe that we had something special.

I exhale sadly; but it wasn’t to be.

Elliot Miles isn’t the only one who wants the happily-ever-after with someone extraordinary . . . and guess what, I’m waiting for it.

Even if it kills me . . . and the way I feel now, it just might.

“Hello.” I smile at the kind-looking waiter. “I’m here to see Steven about the waitress position.”

I’ve been here for four days and can’t stomach the thought of going back. I called the real-estate agent and the place I’m staying at now is coming up for long-term rent.

I’m going to stay for a while and put some roots down while I sort myself out.

“Hi.” He smiles as he wipes down the bar. “I’m Steven.”

“Hi.” I feel so awkward, and I clutch my résumé in my hands with white-knuckle force.

“Have you ever waitressed before?” he asks.

“No.”

“Ever been in hospitality?”

“Nope.”

“What do you normally do?”

“IT.” I twist my fingers in front of me. “Computer analysis.”

He frowns. “What are you doing here?”

“Honestly?” I shrug. “I broke up with my boyfriend and ran away. I figure Lanikai is a pretty amazing place to stay for a few months while I lick my wounds and get my shit together.”

Oh no. . . I wrecked it.

He smiles broadly. “It is. I did that five years ago and never left. When can you start?”

“Today.”

The sound of the ocean laps at the shore and I smile into the sun as I walk along.

This place is heaven.

And not just because it was my escape plan.

For the first time in a long time, probably since my parents died, I feel proud of myself.

I’ve pushed myself way out of my comfort zone.

I didn’t want to stay in London; my gut told me to leave.

There were too many questions between us, too little trust on my behalf.

Even though I wanted to stay and fight for us, I knew that I needed this time alone.

To regroup and find out who I am again.

It’s as if I’m finally coming into my own. I’ve lived in the shadow of my parents’ death for seven dark years . . . but somehow, this new heartache over Elliot has snapped me out of it.

For a long time, I wanted a change, but I was always too cautious and scared, then this happened and suddenly without hesitation I moved to the other side of the world. I was tired of IT so I now work nights in a restaurant.

Everything I’ve been pushing through over the last few years, the staleness and boredom . . . I don’t feel it anymore.

I wake up every day renewed, a little sad . . . but still, excited for what’s coming.

I’ve been doing yoga as the sun comes up on the beach; I swim in the ocean and lie in the sun. I go for a big walk and then have an afternoon nap. At night, I go to work in the restaurant. It’s fun and easy and the people there are so nice.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” a man says as he rides past me on a pushbike.

“Sure is.” I smile as I get to the row of shops in town. This place is so lovely and quaint, and I come here most afternoons to buy my food for the following day.

I walk past a hobby shop and stop and look through the window: what’s in there?

I’ll take a look, so I walk in and a bell rings over the door.

“Hello.” An elderly woman smiles.

“Hi.”

“Can I help you with anything?”

“Just looking,” I reply. I walk through the cross-stitch section and smile sadly as I look at all the patterns. My mum would have loved this shop.

When I was a teenager we used to spend hours together in the garden house, and she would do her cross-stitch and I would paint. We would laugh and talk and listen to music. I smile as I remember making her play Taylor Swift on repeat for hours and hours.

I pick up a cross-stitch pattern of a duck and I smile as I think of Elliot and his girls. Maybe I should learn how to do cross-stitch? It could be an ode to my mum. I look through all the patterns, but end up back at the ducks.

I want this one; I liked those bat-shit crazy ducks of Elliot’s. I remember the day they attacked him and it brings a smile to my face. I tuck the packet under my arm and keep looking.

“All the art supplies are marked down by fifty percent,” the old lady calls.

“Oh, thanks.” I keep walking. “I haven’t painted since high school.”

“You should start again, it’s the best therapy.” She smiles.

Hmm, I guess it could be. I mean, if I’m learning how to cross-stitch, I guess I could paint a picture too. I’m totally crap at it . . . but it would make me feel close to Mum, by association.

She always loved my paintings, said every new painting I did was her new favorite. Isn’t that what all mums say to their kids about their hideous hobbies?

I pick up a packet of paintbrushes and a starter pack of ten tubes of paint, go to the back and look through the canvases. Shit . . . these are expensive.

Did Mum really pay this much? I smile, knowing exactly why she did: so that I would sit with her while she did her cross-stitch. There was a method to her madness, after all.

I pick up a small canvas, which will be easier to fit into the bin when I fuck it up.

I take my things to the cashier, and I feel really excited for tomorrow. When I get back from the beach, I’m going to start learning how to do my cross-stitch, just like Mum. How fun.