He swings open the minuscule fridge and slides out two craft beers—Badger’s Bottoms—and catches me staring at his tracksuit pant and chunky moss-green knit combination.
“Sorry, I’ve been working,” he says, yanking his pants up.
“It’s cool,” I reply, “nineties student chic.”
“Well then. It was a strategic choice?” he says with a laugh. Then he fills both our mismatched bowls with some kind of brown-red stew and slides them on the table. I take a subtle whiff and look at him, confused.
“It’s goulash?” I say, my brows descending in confusion. “I’ve just... been in Hungary?”
“Yes, that’s the point, silly,” he replies.
“Oh,” I say. It’s quite sweet. “Thank you. It smells yum.”
“Long day?” he asks.
“Yes,” I sigh.
“Everything okay?”
Eyes to the cracked-plaster ceiling, I let out a long, dramatic moan and find that I do want to share everything about my day. Ash is looking at me with a bushy eyebrow raised and a wry grin. “Tell me,” he says, a twinkle in his dark eyes. He leans forward and folds his arms on the small round dining table, invading my space immediately. “Go on. Let’s get this flatmate show on the road. I’ve been looking forward to getting to know you. The new girl in town. Shoot.”
Oh God.This is my worst nightmare. Actual,purposeful, getting to know me. I can already imagine myself sneaking in the side window to avoid him.
“Nothing. I just, one of those late-night flights. You know, you pay seventy quid for an airport hotel and get five hours’ sleep at best,” I say, sitting back to create some space. His eyes follow me moving, and after a moment, he takes the cue and moves back too.
“Nothing worse than a bad trip home after a great holiday,” he says, picking up his fork again. “So, you didn’t want to leave?”
“No, I didn’t want to come back,” I say. “There’s a difference.”
“Oh,” he says, looking worried. His forehead is creased and his fork is still in his hand, hovering as he waits for me to elaborate. I take a bite of the beef and it’s so chewy I have to hold my finger up and ask him to wait so I can explain. After about a minute of chewing, he starts to laugh. “A bit tough?”
“No, no,” I say as I swallow hard and painfully, then smile. Ash laughs as if this is hilarious. He’s not embarrassed by it.
“Room for improvement,” he says and shrugs.
I want to explain that I shouldn’t have moved here. That Broadgate was a mistake. That I imagined it would be something different. That I’d be saving a prewar relic and restoring the heart of the prettiest beachside town I’d ever seen. That I’d be spending lazy summer days swimming and eating ice cream with my best friend. That, as usual, I had foolishly imagined something more whimsical and romantic than the bleak reality I saw in front of me.
My mother called me a fantasist. She worried that all the movies I watched were warping my mind. “It’s not normal,” she’d say, slopping mashed potato on a pie, as though thisnormalwas something to aspire to. It was hardly surprising I enjoyed the big, glossy world of romantic and comedic misadventure more than my drab life in small-town England.
“You’ve been in that room watching movies for five straight hours,” she’d say.
“I’m sure I’ve heard this script before,” I’d reply, rubbing my chin, tired of her jibes.
“Come and spend time back in reality, Mara. Prince Charming isn’t coming to pick you up in his S-Class and whisk you off to Genovia,” Dad would warn me.
“Cut!” I’d shout back at them, backing out of the room.
“You’re becoming obsessed, Mara!” she’d insist.
“Take ninety-seven,” I’d reply, yawning and snapping my hands at her like I was a human clapper.
“You’re nuts,” sensible Ben would say, shaking his head.
“End scene!” I’d retort as I slunk off upstairs to my bedroom, slammed my door, and sheepishly unpausedPretty Woman.
The more they pushed me into a corner, the more I convincedmyself that I was destined for more. And yet, here I was. In the end, at a good, honest council job in a small town. Alone.
“Broadgate is not what I expected,” I say. “That’s all.”
