‘Should we try Sunday? I have the night off from Dunham Gravey. There can’t be any strops or leaks stopping us on Sunday, surely?’
‘I wasn’t having a strop,’ I laugh, and my heart lifts until I remember I have plans. ‘Actually, I can’t do Sunday.’
‘What, do you have a hot date?’ He says it like it’s funny.
‘Uh.’ I look away.
‘Oh! You do?’ Patrick stands straighter.
‘Kind of. In Birmingham, actually.’
‘Right. Well… that’s great!’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah, of course! I didn’t realise you were seeing anyone, or…’
‘It was Lucy’s idea. I uh…’ I feel my cheeks redden. ‘I’m trying a dating app.’
Patrick nods, his lips forming a tight smile.
‘You ever use them?’ I say.
‘Dating apps? No, I prefer real life.’
‘That’s what I said!’ See! He gets it. Though he’s obviously in a hurry to get to work as he’s stepping away.
‘Well, have fun,’ he says. ‘You should wear those leather trousers on the date.’
I look down at my legs. ‘I should?’ He’s giving me a compliment. It should feel good.
‘Yeah, you suit them.’ He turns and walks away, leaving me blinking after him. I don’t call after him to say thanks, only telling him to drive carefully, the roads will be icy.
When I close the door and walk back into the den, I don’t want to examine too closely what this feeling is, like I’ve crossed a line with Patrick that I hadn’t been aware of before.Have fun, he said.That’s great, he said. He really is glad I’m getting out there again, whichof coursehe is, he’s so nice. That’s exactly how a good friendshouldreact when you tell them you’re recovered enough to date again after being dumped.
Still, something doesn’t sit right within me and I’m conscious of the feeling of distance between us. He wanted to grab some dinner but as soon as I told him I was going out with Rusty on Sunday, he didn’t then suggest another evening. Why is that?
Patrick’s on his way out to Dunham by himself now, working into the night instead of being here with us. There’ll be a hell of a lot more distance when I’m living in Birmingham, and I don’t want to dwell on that too much right now, but there’s a small voice inside me telling me it’s for the best.
Lucy, who’s been rummaging in the reels while I let Patrick out, greets me by telling me, ‘There’s a reel in here says gingerbread village. Looks really old.’
‘Hah, so it does. I didn’t know this existed.’ I take the reel from my niece and put it on top of the fridge for safekeeping. If we’re watching it with anyone, it’ll be with Patrick.
‘I think we’ve had enough reminiscing for one night,’ I say. ‘Let’s get baking.’
We all walked Izz back to her cottage in the dark. Izz had protested, saying we were hovering and making her feel like a little old lady, and we’d waved this away as nonsense, we were only making sure she got home safely, but in truth, I’ve never seen her so tired and despondent.
‘Smiling to cover up a secret sadness,’ Lucy remarks, I think somewhat dramatically, as we make our way back to ours where Tommy Brash is supposed to be coming to collect his daughter.
We all stand outside stamping our feet under the black sky and wait for him to arrive, and sure enough, he trundles up in a puttering Land Rover, a rusting metal box on wheels with three farm dogs in the back, all stinky, and all delighted to see Fern.
Lucy scratches their heads through the gaps – I mean, I can’t technically call them car windows if there’s no glass – as Tommy’s engine idles.
Brash – a stubbly vision in waxed Barbour – nods to me, flicking fingers to his temple in salute. ‘Hmt,’ he grumps.
‘Evening,’ I say.
Fern’s climbing into the passenger seat, but before she puts her seat belt on, she shows him a bit of the film that she’s recorded on her phone.
