‘Train, then another train, then an Uber, and then I walked. The village roads are all gated off at night, so I was dropped off at the visitors’ centre. The bookshop’s further than you think down that hill.’
‘You’re really a vet?’
‘Umm, yes.’
He definitely hesitated that time. ‘You didn’t say where you’re from.’
‘I have a flat in Cambridge. Are you done with the inquisition?’
Cambridge checks out. His voice is definitely posh, but there’s a roughness undercutting it, nothing like Mack’s plummy RP. It’s gravelly too, like Tom Hardy playing someone a bit classy.
‘Who knows that you’re here?’ I ask, though I’m not sure how this is supposed to make me feel better.
‘Well, Jowan knows, obviously, and the bookshop charity, anduh, well, that’s it.’
‘No family?’
‘No, I didn’t get a chance to tell them,umm…’ His voice tails off. ‘Do you mind if I make us some coffee? I really am freezing.’
‘I’m not opening the door,’ I say, alarmed all over again. ‘Go make yourself one.’
I hear what sounds like boots heavily scuffing the floor and he’s up and walking away. The light spills under the door frame once more and I wonder how big this guy is, that he was blocking it out so well.
Pressing my ear against the door, I listen to him in the kitchen. He reads aloud the Post-it about the jam tarts (both scoffed long ago, around about the time I was drawing the avocado bath and sipping my third cup of tea) and I hear the fridge door opening and closing, the kettle whistling, and pretty soon he’s back upstairs.
‘I made you one too, just in case you changed your mind,’ he says, and dammit, I really would like a cuppa. ‘I,uh, brought some KitKats with me.’
Am I going to be murdered in my own room because I couldn’t resist the offer of a free KitKat? ‘Just leave them at the door.’
‘OK, I’ll go dry off in the bathroom.’
I flatten my ear against the door this time as I listen to him retreat and slip the bolt inside the bathroom. That’s followed by the buzzing of the strip light coming on and the water running.
I take my chance to slide open the door and make a grab for the brew and biscuit, giving myself enough time to clock a pair of black DM boots lined up outside the bathroom beside a bulging khaki rucksack (no other luggage; this guy’s travelling light), and a dripping black hooded jacket over the banister. I resent his stuff being there, taking up space, being in the way.
There’s a scent in the air, which I only just catch as I slink back around the door into the safety of my room. It’s something gorgeously sweet and musky, like roses and patchouli but not the hippiefied kind, the expensive kind. He smells nice. So what? I want him gone first thing. I slide the door shut and lock it again.
After a while spent deciding whether it is safe to drink the coffee and wondering if he’s slipped something in it, I conclude it’s probably just made from the jar of Mellow Birds I saw in the little yellow cabinet earlier, and I split the KitKat and get dunking. Soon enough, I hear Elliot step out the bathroom door and rummage inside his backpack.
‘What are you doing now?’ I shout.
‘If you don’t mind I’ll change and then I’ll sleep downstairs tonight? I won’t come up again. Just stay in your room. What do you say?’
I’m thinking.
‘If you want me to go, I will. That Uber might come back for me.’
‘It’s the middle of the night in one of the more sticky-out bits of rural Devon,’ I say.
‘So I can stay?’
‘Any funny business and Aldous will have your extremities off.’
I hear a little sniffed laugh again, deep and amused, and I feel a tiny bit ridiculous. I haven’t heard a peep from Aldous since Elliot arrived. I imagine he’s long since over the excitement of our new flatmate and is snoring peacefully again on his windowsill.
‘Aldous looks like a killer,’ Elliot says as he goes downstairs, heavy-footed like he’s trying to make extra sure I know he’s leaving me in peace. ‘Night, then,’ he calls from the bookshop.
I hear a clatter as a pile of books is knocked over, followed by some low, grumbled curse words and a shouted, ‘Sorry, just some books! It’s OK!’
