Well, that last chapter certainly provoked some angst - as with all good relationships nothing is straightforward because humans aren't straightforward. Well, maybe the wonderfully sweet Charles is... Elsie still has a lot of shit to work through. Hopefully the flashback will balance the drama.

Wednesday

Elsie wakes disorientated, a loud bang startling her. Her head is heavy with sleep - the clock only says 4:17 and she can hear Charles groaning in the bathroom.

She gets up, pulling a sarong around her shoulders because it's the first thing she sees.

She taps on the bathroom door and it swings slightly and she can see his feet, he's sitting on the side of the bath.

"Charles…" She goes in, takes a look at his appearance and finds a cloth, pressing it to his forehead and standing in front of him, between his legs, holding it there in silence.

"I'm sorry," he says when she turns to freshen it. "Made a fool of myself."

"No, you haven't." She touches the top of his head.

"Did I embarrass you in the restaurant?"

She looks down at him, this giant of a man suddenly seems so small sitting there, "No, you didn't. We just looked like every other married couple – not speaking and getting drunk."

He smiles at her quip and finally lifts his head up, the lights killing him.

"Do you feel sick?" She asks, cupping his face with her hands, he shakes his head.

"Just hot, and this throbbing here." He touches his forehead.

She searches in her cosmetics bag then hands him tablets and a glass of water.

"Thanks."

She freshens the cloth again and places it on top of his head, "You want to try going back to bed for a while?"

He nods and leans against her as he gets up. "Sorry," he says again.

"You have nothing to apologise for, nothing."

"I ruined our holiday."

"No, you didn't, I did."

He climbs back into bed and she gets him water from the fridge and switches off the lights; he's asleep by the time she gets back in bed.

She lies on her back listening to his breathing and it lulls her back to sleep too.

When she awakens again Charles' head is on her stomach and her hand is threaded into his hair and she can't think of how they got into that position.

The clock tells her it's way after nine but the room is in darkness thanks to the thick drapes covering every window. She listens to the sea, to his breathing, and strokes her fingers through his thick hair.

Soon he moves, turns and she watches as realisation dawns and he quickly pulls himself up from her.

"Morning," he says, startled that she's awake and watching him, "sorry about that."

"Don't be."

He spots the bottle of water on the side and drinks the majority of it straight down before lying beside her again.

She turns to face him, tentatively running her hand along his upper arm, "How are you feeling?"

"Physically – not bad. Otherwise… like a complete fool."

"You mustn't."

He turns to face her on the pillow, lifts his hand to fan out her hair.

"I'm sorry for how I spoke to you yesterday, for anything I may have said when inebriated."

"You didn't say anything out-of-line. And I deserved it." She squeezed his arm and he can't help how he feels, drawn to her, intoxicated by her. "I was the one who was out-of-line. I was nasty," her stomach twists at the memory of her words. "I was cruel to you and there was no reason for it..."

"There's a reason for it, you just don't seem to want to tell me."

Her eyes tighten for a moment and then she looks so sad. So lost.

He leans forward, gently touching her lips with his before retreating again. She doesn't complain so he does it again. And again. Until they're kissing softly and warmly; one arm over the other's body.

His body forgets about harsh words and the hangover clawing at his brain and instead he rolls on top of her, her legs willingly parting for him, his hands pushing up her nightgown and the sweet taste of her mouth on his.

Her arms come to circle his body and he feels her tongue touch his and he groans painfully, rolling off of her, scooting up the bed and covering his face with his hands, "Christ, I can't do this." He says.

The loss of his touch makes her ache and she sits too, clumsily, her head dizzy, leaning against the wall.

His hands slip from his face, "I can't do this. I can't switch off how I feel. If you don't want more…"

He throws his legs out of the bed and gets up, "I'm going to take a swim, it might clear my head, then pack."

"Charles, please…"

"I don't KNOW what to say to you." He didn't mean to raise his voice and he's annoyed with himself, ruffling his hair as he stands in the middle of the bedroom searching for an escape.

"I don't want this to stop, I don't want to stop seeing you." She says gently.

"But maybe crumbs aren't enough Elsie, maybe I'm not content to just settle. Clearly you aren't." He grabs his towel and swim gear and is gone within seconds.

For the first time since the argument started she sits and cries, alone in the bed they've lovingly shared for a week.

She packs most of her belongings whilst he swims and orders room service for them. Taking sandwiches, fruit and tea outside. Settling on her lounger she eats and watches as he relentlessly pounds back and forth through the water – clearly he wants to get something out of his system.

It's already hot and she covers herself in cream, puts on her hat and settles back to enjoy her last day in the fine weather.

Already thoughts of work are returning – planning, marking, revision, deadlines, targets… Her gut tightens at the thought.

Charles finally stops, midway across the pool, clutching his side. She sits forward, "Are you okay?"

"Stitch," he seems surprised to see her there.

"Come have something to eat," she says softly.

He does as she asks, rubbing his hair with a towel before wrapping it around his waist and sitting on the chair by the table, eating a piece of melon.

She turns on the lounger to face him, "Please talk to me."

"There's nothing to say."

"I don't want our last day ruined."

"It's only half a day." He says.

"Charles!" She sighs heavily. Then notices they aren't alone out there anymore; parents with three young girls are throwing floats into the pool and a young couple have taken loungers not far from them. She lowers her voice, "I don't feel like I've settled." She reaches to touch his leg, "Of course I don't, why would you think that?"

He stares at her, "You're asking me why… After yesterday!" His voice is sharp.

She glances around, "Charles."

"Look, I don't want to argue with you out here. Let's just leave things."

"Leave things where exactly?"

He shrugs and she flops back on her bed, torn between wanting to strangle or hug him.

They have a late flight and arrive at the airport just before 21:00. Check in is straightforward and he insists on pulling both of their cases leaving her just with a bag to carry.

The airport is huge and they get lost twice on their way to passport control but the queue is short which is a kind of blessing. He watches other couples as they stand there in silence, then counts them and of the nine couples he can see in nearby queues only two are talking. So, at least they're part of the majority. Which is a slim triumph.

"Shall we get some coffee?" She asks waiting for him to put his belt back on and shoes.

"Sure, is it just me or do they pick on men – you got through without removing a thing."

She shrugs, "Don't wear a belt."

"My trousers will fall down without it."

She's smiling as they head towards the restaurants and shops, Charles is behind her and she takes comfort from the fact he has his hand on her back.

"There's a Starbucks, they do coffee right?"

She can't help but grin at his lack of knowledge when it comes to things like this, sometimes he's so unbearably cute. "Yes, they do coffee. I'll go, you get a seat somewhere, what would you like?"

"I don't know, anything drinkable, you choose. Here," he pulls out his wallet, "Take some money."

"It's fine. Don't worry."

He looks lost, of course he's chosen a seat away from everybody else and is facing the water garden and she feels such a rush of affection for him that she has to stop – her hands burning from the paper cups she's squeezing.

His voice keeps coming back to her; lying warm and safe in his arms and his breath by her ear and 'I Iove you.' And she so wishes she could say it back.

He turns and sees her and waves and she swallows painfully before going to sit with him.

"What do I have?" He asks taking the lid off, "Is that cream?"

She smiles, "Yes, hot chocolate, with cream."

"Oh, but you're wonderful." He says taking a drink.

She wishes she was as wonderful as he thinks she is.

He wishes she thought him wonderful too.

It's a difficult journey home. They've hardly spoken and when they do its in monosyllabic form. He sleeps on the plane. She watches him – this puzzling, difficult man who has fallen in love with her – and fears she's lost something very precious.

She lifts the armrest between them and snuggles into his side. It's a night flight and most of the plane is asleep. He lifts his arm automatically and she finds her head against the side of his chest, his arm tight around her side. She pulls a blanket up over his legs and her shoulders before closing her eyes.

He wakes her when they bring breakfast, ordering her tea and doing his best to ignore the fact they were sleeping wrapped tightly together. Clearly the air hostess thought it adorable from the look she gave him.

Elsie sits up, loosening where her shirt has become wrapped tight around her waist and folding the blanket. They'll be landing in just under three hours, the longest part is over.

She glances behind them to where the toilets are and not seeing a queue she turns to Charles, "Can I just get past? I'm going to wash my face before breakfast."

"Sure," he stands, bending to avoid banging his head, and annoyed at the awkwardness between them. He doesn't want that. She's been his friend for years. He didn't mean to ruin it by getting carried away with his feelings. He can get over this, he's sure, he just needs a bit of time apart from her to get his head straight.

She's back soon enough and slipping past him again and he can smell her perfume and feel her hair brush his arm and he wants to kiss her so badly that he's glad of the air hostess handing out a tray of aeroplane food – glad of aeroplane food, he wonders if it's an oxymoron.

They hit turbulence just as breakfast is finished and the seatbelt sign comes on followed by a warning from the captain – at least thirty minutes of it.

At first it's just a slight shaking, though she sees him grip his armrest, but then they bump quite suddenly and he grabs her arm so tightly he pinches her skin and she yelps.

"Sorry," he says through gritted teeth, snatching his hand back.

They bump again and he closes his eyes, "Shit Els…"

She takes hold of his hand, holding it tightly between both of hers. "It's fine," she whispers soothingly. "Look, the staff are still moving about so it's fine."

"It doesn't feel fine. I told you I hate flying." She recalls their conversation before they left her flat – it seems like a lifetime has passed since then, they've done so much, learnt so much about each other.

She rubs his fingers, leaning closer to him, her head near his shoulder. "So, the historical figures I'd like to meet are – Charles V, Anna Boleyn, and... Elizabeth I has to be on there of course. I know it's a cliché but I don't care."

"I'll go cliché too and say Shakespeare." He says quietly, focussing on the sound of her voice, the feel of her hand, grateful for her attempt to distract him.

They bump again and the tray with his drink on wobbles.

"Ask him if he really wrote all those plays." She says quickly to cover it.

"Ask him who inspired those wondrous sonnets."

"Mm, maybe we could get a whole Tudor era reunion."

"You think they'd argue? Wouldn't Henry want to chop Anne's head off?" His grip on his armrest is lessening.

"He'd be happy if we gave him pie."

The plane jerks again and his breath snatches, "Oh god – your favourite play?"

"Erm, still Shakespeare?"

He nods. His eyes called again.

"Tough choice – I do like Much Ado About Nothing, Beatrice is such a wonderful character, I know comedy wise Rosaline is highlighted but I like Beatrice, she's feisty and quick-witted."

"Like you?"

"Like me."

"Not the Scottish play?"

She smiles, "Not the Scottish play."

"How long has this lasted?"

"Erm, I'd say quarter of an hour, maybe twenty minutes."

"He said half an hour, it should be over soon."

"Hopefully…"

"Favourite tragedy?"

"Seems odd to have a 'favourite' tragedy. And I have to admit I haven't seen them all."

"You should see them all. I'll take you. We'll make a list and start crossing off the ones you have seen." He says confidently.

"Alright." She rests her cheek on his shoulder, "it seems to be settling." And closes her eyes.

"Thank you." He says relaxing back in his chair a little.

"For what?"

"Talking to me. Getting me through my fear."

She pats his arm, "I'll always talk to you."

"I know. That's the reason I asked you out."

8 months ago

It was Sunday and Elsie was bored. She'd pretty much done all there was to do in her new flat, tidying, painting, rearranging. Anna was in Portugal with her friends and Beryl always spent the summer in France with her brood of a family.

So, the sun was shining on a lovely August day and she had nothing to do…and she resented it.

She got in the car, put on the radio and drove out through the countryside. It was days like this she regretted not buying a soft-top, she'd always wanted one. Maybe one day.

'It's classic love this fine morning,' the presenter said and Elsie rolled her eyes. 'So let's get back to it with a song originally recorded by Diana Ross and…who fact fans? Call in if you know.'

"Lionel Richie," Elsie said to herself as the first notes filled the car, "Endless Love." She found herself singing along, though she didn't believe a word they sang. All that stuff about giving your all to one person, about love never ending… Garbage… But then she could now tick the 'divorcee' option on forms which somewhat clouded her judgement.

Eventually she parked in town, buying a paper as she walked towards the Montpellier quarter, heading for her favourite café for lunch.

At the other side of town Charles was also bored, though for different reasons. It was his Sunday lot, meaning the old ladies who frequented his shop to natter and ask him inane questions.

He positioned himself behind his counter awaiting their inevitable arrival – it filled him with gloom. And the morning had been going so well, he liked Sunday's for the papers and poached eggs on wholemeal toast in the coffee shop around the corner. Thomas has joined him, filling him in on his latest conquest and he'd laughed at the so-called 'outfit' he was wearing, they must look like the archetypal odd couple. Often Thomas had called him his sugar daddy and he hated to think people saw them together and thought that very thing.

The purple rinse brigade, he used to call them as a lad, old ladies gathering for a chat. Three of them wandered in – thick foundation, a basket on their arm.

"Good afternoon," he said overly cheerily. He hated playing this game, he really wasn't cut out to be a salesperson. 'Bit late for a change of career old boy,' he thought to himself.

It was whilst he was mumbling to himself about how they'd messed up the language section by putting the 'I authors' before the 'e authors' that he heard someone giggle from behind the other shelf.

He popped his head around ready to pounce on some young idiot obviously using the shop to canoodle (it happened more often than you would think) and spotted his favourite customer.

Elsie looked up to see his glare, "I'm sorry," she said, "you made me laugh."

His stance softened. "Mrs Burns, how are you?"

"Having a better day than you it would seem. And you forgot, again…" She waved a book at him.

"I'm sorry, it's Hughes isn't it."

"It is. Would these be the cause of your bad day?" She whispered, indicating the chattering women making their way to the counter.

He nodded, "I shouldn't complain, they buy well. Excuse me a moment."

Elsie returned the book to the shelf, moving around into the new fiction area and taking one down to read the blurb. She was only half-reading though, she was half watching him serve the ladies – all grace and charm as he wrapped and packed their buys. He was the last bookshop she knew of where the books were still wrapped in brown paper for the customer.

She put the book down again.

"Do you want something in particular?" He asked down the shop and she realised they were alone.

"Not really, I'm just browsing." She headed up to him, he watched her over the top of his glasses before returning to scribbling in his ledger. "I was bored, felt I was wasting my day."

"So you came into town?"

She fiddled with the bookmarks on the counter, shuffling her bag higher on her shoulder.

"Yes, thought I'd have lunch and a wander." She paused watching him write, he had lovely handwriting, all curved edges and flowing script. "Can I ask you something?" She asked.

He looked up sharply, surprised to find her so close. Her hair looked lighter than when he'd last seen her, and slightly longer, he liked it. And he wasn't usually one to notice such things.

"Of course."

"Why do you still do it that way? Doesn't the computer do it for you?"

"Well, I erm… It does, but we don't always get on this thing and I." He indicated the cash register, slipping his glasses off and pointing at it with them. "I feel more at ease with pen and paper, then if something goes wrong I know I have it."

She smiled, tilting her head to one side and biting her lip – he thought her lovely, he always had, but on that particular day she looked more lovely than usual.

She moved to another shelf and started scanning the titles.

"And are you enjoying your summer break Mrs Hughes?"

She shrugged, "In a way. My daughter's away and most of my friends, and the ones that aren't are married with children – its not always easy when you're the only single one at gatherings."

"I can empathise with that. I find I've become very good at forming excuses."

"I'm getting better at it," she glanced over to him and smiled again and her eyes sparkled and he found he followed the line down her neck, the slender curve of it, then his eyes betrayed him and he glanced at her breasts in that pretty summer dress, her cleavage…and coughed to clear his head. Such inappropriate thoughts.

"I used to enjoy gardening," she took a book on Gardens of the World from the shelf, "But since I've sold my house and moved into a flat I'm limited to a few window boxes."

"You've moved?"

"Yes, a few months ago. Not great timing mid-term but I'm getting there now. The only problem is…" she snapped the book shut and returned it to the shelf. "…as I say, I'm a little bored."

"I suppose you're used to the bustle of teenagers."

"I'd call it noise rather than bustle but yes, I suppose I am."

He coughed again, fiddled with his jacket, later he could never quite recall what made him do it but suddenly he blurted out, "If you'd like to have dinner one night that would be nice."

Her face was a mixture of surprise and amusement at his awkwardly phrased question, or was it a statement, she wasn't sure.

"Yes, I suppose it might be." She stated in return.

He stared at her, unsure of what to say next, did she just accept?

"Thursday?" He suggested.

She smiled again, intrigued by his raised eyebrow, the slightly confused expression and his obvious unease in this type of situation.

"Do you ask many of your customers out to dinner?" She asked teasingly.

He flustered, "No, never, I'm sorry, you must think I'm terribly forward…"

She waved her hand, "Not at all, I was only teasing." She must remember he didn't tease that easily. "Why have you never asked me before? I must have been using this shop for at least fifteen years."

"Well, because you were, er…" He gestured to her hand, the now absent wedding ring.

"Oh yes, of course."

"So…" He prompted.

"So, I'm not actually sure you've asked me a question."

Damn and blast it Charles! He cursed himself, he'd made a right mess of this. "Haven't I?"

"Now you have."

He chuckled, she was fun, easy-going, he liked that. And there was something there, there must be otherwise he wouldn't have asked, he'd not asked a woman out on a date in almost ten years.

"Mrs Hughes, would you like to join me for dinner on Thursday night?"

Her eyes glistened again and he realised he'd never noticed how blue they were before, he always thought them dark, possibly brown. "Yes Charles I would. But I think perhaps you ought to call me Elsie if we're to go out for dinner."

Now he smiled, his cheeks reddening, "Elsie."

She liked the sound of her name on his tongue. The low, deep rumble his voice had as if he caressed the word.

"What time?" She asked.

"Well, I could book a table say for 7:30?"

"That would be fine." She dropped her bag to the floor and leant across the desk and picked up his pen, scribbling on the blotter pad he kept by the register, "This is my number, should you need anything."

He swallowed, a woman had given him her number and he felt giddy.

"I should like to pick you up."

She looked up from writing, "You would?"

"It's only right, really."

How old fashioned he is, she thought, not usually the type she went for. A little bit worn around the edges, older than her, always in a shirt and tailored trousers, always so very proper. But he was handsome, behind the tweed exterior, and she had always liked tall men.

"There's my address then too." She tore off the paper and handed it to him, amused as he folded it and placed it in his shirt pocket.

"Excellent," he said, fumbling now with the stack of wrapping paper in front of him, unsure what to do with his hands.

"I'll look forward to it." She picked her bag up. "Until Thursday."

She was heading to the door and he found his eyes on her backside – he couldn't recall the last time he'd stared at a woman's sway as she walked.

"Oh, wait, Elsie."

She glanced over her shoulder at him, "Yes?"

"Do you like Italian food?"

"I do, very much."

And then she was gone and she'd accepted – she'd accepted(!) – his grin didn't disappear for the rest of the day.

Present Day

An hour later they're in a shared taxi heading back to Harrogate and it's silent and painful. She tips her head against the cool glass and watches the bright blue sky sweep by, she must have fallen to sleep because the next thing she knows he's waking her and they're in her street.

The taxi stops, the driver gets out and Charles follows him, "I'll just be a moment," he tells him, taking hold of her case.

He follows her upstairs to her flat, and she has that twisted feeling of being back home and back to reality and not being ready for it.

Beryl has been watering her plants and she's clearly cleaned as it smells like lavender in the room.

"I'll call you later," he says putting her case in the hall.

"Oh, okay - you don't want to stay, have a drink?"

"I best get back to the shop."

She feels something sharp in her chest. "Alright, if you're sure. Call me later then, and let me know which weekend you want to start packing up books and moving out shelves." She says, trying to lighten the mood.

"I will, I er, well I need to think it through, decide what I'm going to do."

She feels crestfallen. She reaches for his hand by her door, stopping him before he goes, his palm is a little clammy, "Don't not do it now, not because of me. I'm really not worth that." She leans forward and kisses his cheek. "I had the most wonderful time Charles."

She squeezes his hand again and then he's gone, out of her flat, out of her building, and the taxi is pulling off and he wonders if that's it, if that's the end of it all.

Continued love for all the comments - I'm enjoying all the debate, especially regarding Elsie's behaviour. Don't worry, the holiday may be over but they've still got a long way to go...