CHLOE 

I try not to look at Harry as he comes out of the bathroom, his hair wet and hanging in his face, wearing just a hotel towel around his waist. He avoids my gaze too, and I hurry into the bathroom clutching the bag containing my new clothes and my little make-up bag, shutting the door behind me and sliding the lock just in case Harry decides to barge in.

I spend fifteen glorious minutes under the shower head, washing every inch of my body twice, including my hair. I raid the basket of toiletries and use a disposable razor to shave my legs and my underarms, and once I am finished I step out of the cubicle, wrap myself in one of the warmest and softest towels I have ever felt in my life, and stand in front of the mirror. My skin is looking golden bronze thanks to all the time I have spent outside in the sun, and my already highlighted hair has been bleached even lighter, although it is hard to tell when it is wet and plastered to my head like this. Tucking the end of my towel in so it won't fall down, I comb my hair through, flip my head upside down and blast it with a hairdryer. It doesn't take long to dry, particularly as I am scrunching it as I go to give it a few natural waves. 

Once it is dry, soft and bouncing around my shoulders again I open the carrier bag and examine my new clothes. I have stuck mainly to cheap tshirts, a pair of shorts, some leggings and some more underwear, but I also grabbed a little dress on impulse, thinking it would be a change to wear something nice tonight instead of looking my usual scruffy self. It isn't anything special - it was half price in the sale, and is probably from last season or something, but I like it. It is red with delicate white daisies all over, has a short floaty skirt and a little v-neck that would likely show a bit of cleavage, if I had anything to display (which I really don't - I'm very much on the small side). It is made of a soft, lightweight jersey material and will look nice with a cheap pair of diamante flip flops that I picked up while I was waiting for the assistant to fold all my clothes at the till. I pull it out of the bag and rip the labels off, holding it up against myself to make sure it isn't going to be too short. I pull on some clean underwear, and then yank the dress over my head, smoothing it down my body into place. The hem of the skirt sits half way down my thigh, and the neck dips low enough to tell the world I am not exactly well-endowed in the chest department. But overall it is a good fit, and it's not as though Harry will be looking at me in that way anyway. 

I pull out my make up bag and begin applying a bit of blusher to my cheeks and some mascara to my eyelashes. I search the basket of toiletries for a pair of tweezers, as my eyebrows are looking like they have seen better days, but there isn't one there so I make do with filling them in lightly with a blunt eyebrow pencil. I slick on a bit of tinted lip balm with my finger and scrutinise my reflection again.

I look healthier than I have in ages. I have lost a bit of weight, albeit unintentionally thanks to all the walking. My skin is glowing from all the fresh air and sunshine (and the hot shower) and my hair is glossy and sunkissed. I look like a different person. Smiling at myself happily, I pull the bathroom door open and head back into the bedroom where Harry is sitting on the bed in a pair of clean shorts and a new tshirt.

"I'm ready to go whenever you are," I tell him, feeling instantly self-conscious as his eyes drop to my chest, and then my legs.

"Yeah, ready now," he mutters back, not taking his eyes off my bare skin. I wonder if he is thinking I look stupid, or chubby, or out-dated. 

"Come on then, let's go." 

He picks up one of the key cards to the room and follows me out of the door, down the corridor and down the stairs to the lobby. As we emerge opposite reception I catch the blonde girl looking at us out of the corner of my eye, but Harry seems preoccupied as I hold the door for him and his eyes rake up and down my legs again. I wish he would stop doing that. I feel like he is going to take the piss out of me any minute for trying to look pretty or something.

"So did you find anywhere you wanted to go?" he asks gruffly, shoving his hand deep into his pockets as we step out onto the sea front and head in the opposite direction, towards the cliffs at the other end of the bay this time. We haven't ventured up this way yet since we have been here, although of course I used to come here all the time as a child. In some ways it feels as though I have taken a step back in time. If I close my eyes and think very hard, I could pretend it is my dad walking alongside me with the heavy footsteps and low breathing. 

"I didn't, but there will be loads of places along here," I reply. "Is there anything in particular you fancy? Any type of cuisine?"

"I wouldn't mind a pizza," he says wistfully, and I give a single nod as we saunter along in the early evening sun. 

The shadows are lengthening now and the temperature has dropped, although it is still warm. Viking Bay is below us to our left, the most popular beach with the tourists in Broadstairs. In the summer months there are trampolines, a little merry-go-round, a bouncy castle and donkey rides for the young children. Several shops along the sand sell Mr Whippy ice cream, lollies, sweets, and various hot and cold drinks, and beach huts are available for anyone wanting to store their belongings or get changed in privacy. It is a beautiful crescent shaped bay with high cliffs ahead of us and a small jetty with a couple of boats moored behind us. Along the sand is a line of seaweed, left behind as the tide is going out, and as I look down over the railings I can see the last of the families packing their things up from a day on the sand, carrying inflatable lilos, buckets and spades, and a pink and blue striped windbreaker. Three little children, the oldest probably no more than seven, run around their parents in circles, still in their swimwear, laughing excitedly. The sound of their squeals carries up to the path, and I catch Harry watching them too, a faraway look on his face as his eyes follow the family's movements along the beach to the stone steps and out of sight.

"Did you ever go on holiday as a kid?" I wonder out loud, and he turns to look at me with a wry smile.

"No. My mum was a drunk. I was pretty much left to fend for myself as soon as I was able."

I am as taken aback by this blunt confession as Harry probably was when I told him about my parents.

"What about your dad?" I ask, curiously.

"Never knew him. He left before I was even born. I don't think he ever had a proper relationship with my mum. I don't know if it was a one night stand, or a casual thing, but he wasn't interested in being a dad. My mum got married when I was six, to a guy who used to... to knock her about and stuff. And when I stood up to him, he used to knock me about, too. I hated him. I left home as soon as I was old enough."

I am staring at Harry with my mouth open - not only because of his own sad childhood that I can identify with on so many levels, but also because he has just told me this part of himself without any hesitation. I don't know if he readily opens up to everyone about this, but something in his tone of voice tells me he doesn't.

It also explains a lot about the way Harry behaves: if he has been brought up with violence and aggression at home from an early age, it is no wonder he reacts the way he does when things don't go his way. He is simply displaying a learned behaviour. 

I feel a rush of compassion and sympathy for him. It just reinforces my belief that we should never judge another until we have walked a mile in their shoes. And I have been decidedly guilty of judging Harry since the moment I met him. While his past may not excuse his behaviour, it certainly explains a lot of it. And I more than most should have known not to judge.

"I'm really sorry, Harry," I tell him softly.

He gives his usual shrug. "Why? Not your fault. Not anyone's fault. I just drew the short straw when it came to parents. Might as well be dead, for all the use they were..." He trails off and looks at me uncomfortably. "Fuck - I didn't mean it like that... sorry."

I stop dead in the middle of the path, feigning shock. "Oh my God," I whisper, holding my hand to my chest. "Did you just - was that... an apology?"

"What?"

"You. Just then. You said the 's' word."

"The 's' word?"

I look over my shoulder, as though making sure we are not being overheard, before leaning into him (he bends his head towards me, his expression the picture of seriousness). 

"Sorry," I repeat, in a loud stage whisper, and he straightens up immediately and looks away as I begin to laugh.

"You're a dick," he huffs, but he has half a smile on his face as he says it, and I laugh harder.

"Hey look - there's an Italian up ahead." I point up the road at the red, white and green signage above a little glass-fronted restaurant with tables and chairs outside and the words De Luca's written in swirly font. "Shall we give it a go?"

"Yeah, if you want."

We head over and are seated inside the main restaurant; the tables outside are all already full on such a beautiful evening. The waiter brings us two menus and a wine list, before lighting a tall, thin candle stuck into a rustic looking wine bottle with months of melted dried wax dripping artfully down the neck. I deliberately avoid catching Harry's eye, as I can just picture the look of horror he is no doubt wearing on his face right now at this obviously romantic setting.

I cast my gaze down the menu, my mouth watering and my stomach growling at the idea of all this beautiful food. Pizzas, pastas, salads, steaks, fish... garlic bread, bruschetta, sweet potato fries, onion rings.... I want to sample everything on the menu, it all sounds so delicious.

When the waiter comes back I order a king prawn linguine and Harry orders his pizza, and when the waiter suggests some garlic bread to start we both nearly snatch his hand off. Harry asks for a pint of beer to drink, so I ask for a glass of pinot grigio (working in the pub had its advantages, although most of the house wines at the Flute were from the reduced end-of-line section at the cash-and-carry). When our drinks arrive I close my eyes as I take my first sip, relishing the icy cold on this warm evening. I set my glass on the table and look across at Harry, feeling instantly more relaxed.

"This was a great idea," I smile.

He looks at me suspiciously. "OK," he says slowly.

"I'm serious. It was."

"So you've snapped out of whatever mood you were in earlier?" he asks.

"I wasn't in a mood earlier," I lie.

"Don't lie. You had a right face on. You never did tell me why."

"I didn't have a face on. And it doesn't matter now, anyway."

It doesn't matter because the stupid blonde girl from reception is far away from here, with her stupid flashy nails and her stupid white teeth. Harry is sitting opposite me, looking at me, having dinner with me. I'm not deluded - I know that if she were here in my place it would be a very different situation. It would be a date, that would involve flirting and laughing and smoldering looks. Not two people who can just about tolerate each other sharing the same table to eat their dinner because they were thrown together by a twist of fate. 

But even so, no matter how reluctant our partnership may be, I'll take it, and just for tonight I can pretend that I am the sole object of Harry's attention. 

Our garlic bread arrives, a sliced baguette dripping with garlic butter, tomato puree and topped with mozzarella cheese. One bite tells me this is the best garlic bread I have ever tasted in my entire life, and judging by the look on Harry's face (eyes half closed and a little glazed, mouth relaxed as he chews) he is thinking the same. We devour it between us in less than five minutes, barely saying a word while we eat. My pinot grigio is slipping down far too easily, and I tell myself I need to slow down or risk being half cut by the time our main course arrives. 

"You want another?" Harry asks awkwardly, after draining the last few drops of his pint of lager.

I shouldn't, but it is too delicious to resist, and a minute later the waiter appears with another pint for Harry and a new glass of pinot for me. 

Our main arrives not long after, and I tuck into my prawn pasta, struggling not to close my eyes with every bite. I watch Harry wolfing down his pizza and before I can change my mind, I gesture to my dish. "Would you like to try some of mine?"

He eyes it suspiciously, before looking up at me. "What's it taste like?"

I swallow a laugh. "Well... sort of like prawns, tomato, garlic and pasta."

He nods thoughtfully, unaware I am gently mocking him. "Sure, why not?"

I spear a prawn on my fork, scoop up some of the sauce and wind a strand of pasta around the tines before holding it out to him. He leans forward to take it, chewing thoughtfully for a minute or two. 

"Yeah, it's nice. I've never had king prawns before."

"Really?" I am shocked for a moment, but then I suppose if you'd been left to fend for yourself growing up, you would probably have stuck to basic, easy food. I'm not sure if Harry lives alone or with his girlfriend, but something at the back of my mind makes me think they live together although I can't remember how I know this.

"So... do you live with your girlfriend?" I ask after a minute.

He hesitates, looking as though he is afraid to answer, but why I am not sure. "Um, yeah, I do."

"So it's serious, then?"

"Yes." He answers this immediately, bluntly. Do I detect a grudging tone to his voice? I'm not sure.

"Won't she be worried? I mean, she won't know where you are. Or did you tell her before you left? Did you tell her what happened?"

Harry's eyes are faraway, as though recalling something he would rather not.

"I told her bits. It was all a bit of a rush when I left. I told her not to talk to the police, but she never listens to anything I say..."

He sounds bitter, and I want to probe more. I want to know about his relationship with this girl I don't know, the one he obviously loves enough to move in with, to commit to. Yet I know he has strayed: with Katie, and according to Chris, with Colette too. 

"You never answered my question the other day," I say in a rush, cutting my losses. "About whether you love her?"

He looks at me, focussing sharply as though he has been brought out of a daydream. "Why are you so interested?"

I'm about to deny it, but something stops me. Perhaps it is the challenging way he is looking at me, or perhaps it is how I have got to know him over these last few days and that I know I will get more out of him if I throw him off guard by being blunt and saying what he least expects. 

"Because I hardly know anything about you," I answer, staring him down and speaking clearly and confidently instead of in my usual hurried whisper. "We were thrown together into this mess, and only in these last couple of days have you started to open up to me a little bit. You're intriguing, Harry. You're so mysterious, so closed up. You never give anything away."

He watches me for a moment, seemingly processing my words. He sits back in his chair and takes a sip of his beer, running the tip of his finger around the rim of the glass. "Things are complicated."

"You said that already."

"That's because it's true," he snaps. "We got together and... things moved quickly. Too quickly. We moved in together and... well, there was a lot of pressure to make it work."

"Why? You're not married or anything are you?" I feel the colour draining from my face. "Oh my God, is that it? Are you married?!"

He sighs, looking down at his half-finished pizza. "No I'm not married. Feels like it sometimes, though. She nags constantly. I never get a minute's peace."

"Then why stay?" 

He takes his time before answering. "I'm not a quitter," he says finally.

I pull a face at him as I put my fork down on my now empty plate. "Not a quitter? That's no reason to stay in a relationship!"

"Yeah, well, I told you it was complicated," he mutters, shoving another chunk of pizza in his mouth. 

"But if neither of you are happy, why drag it out? Why not set each other free?"

He doesn't answer this, but finishes his mouthful and takes another swig of beer. 

"What does she look like?" I ask.

He puts his glass down a little harder than necessary. "Dark hair, slim. Why?"

I've pushed him too far again, but the wine has loosened my tongue and it seems there is no stopping me tonight. "Is she pretty? How tall is she?"

"What's with all the questions?" he snaps, shoving another huge bite into his mouth.

"I told you, I'm interested."

"Well you shouldn't be," he says forcefully around his mouthful of dough. "There's really nothing interesting about it. About me."

"I disagree," I reply softly, staring at him through the haze of the candle, the alcohol in my system and the gentle hum of background chatter. "I think everything about you is interesting. That's why I want to know more. I want to know everything."

"Tough." He drains his glass and puts his cutlery on his empty plate with a clatter. "Shall we get the bill?"

"Already?" I frown, my own disappointment clearly showing on my face as I look up at his grimacing face. "It's only early. And what else is there to do, apart from go back to the room and watch tv or something? Or are you just looking for a way to shut me up; to stop me asking so many questions?"

"Got it in one," he snaps, signalling for the waiter to bring the bill over.

Usually this kind of attitude from him would have me cowering with embarrassment, eager to avoid a scene, but the wine has given me confidence and indifference, so I plough on regardless. "What are you hiding?" I smile, taking the last sip of my own drink and setting both hands on the table to look at him squarely. "What is it you don't want me to know? I mean, I've already seen the worst of you: back in London when you attacked Chris, and pretty much every day since then when you've been vile to me. What is it you're afraid of? Have you done worse? Or is it the best of you that you're afraid of showing me? Have you spent so long being Horrid Harry, that you're scared to drop the mean guy act and show me your nicer side? Believe me, I won't judge you. You've seen me at my best and worst so there's really nothing -"

"That's enough, Chloe!"

He bangs his fist on the table just hard enough to make the crockery clatter, and the tables surrounding us fall silent to stare. I stop dead, my eyes wide in alarm and my mouth open a little as I stare at him in shock. His eyes are dark and hooded, and his expression is menacing. I had been goading him, yes, but I didn't expect him to take it so seriously. I am used to his harsh words, but I had come to the conclusion that his bark is a lot worse than his bite. The way he is looking at me now, however, is making me question all of that.

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I'm intrigued to know - what do YOU think about Harry's behaviour? And is Chloe right to think he is hiding something from her? Leave me a comment and let me know your thoughts! Thank you for reading xx