But in my bedroom, reaching for my pyjamas, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. And pause.
My fringe sits perfectly, not a hair out of place. My make-up—soft glam, natural but polished—still looks fresh despite the full day.
This is the image I present to the world. Professional. Put-together. A woman who’s got it all figured out. Even if that’s far from how I feel inside.
I think about what Mum said earlier. About Struan being lonely. I scoffed at the idea because it was absurd. And yet...
What if it’s the same for him? What if his carefree demeanour, his easy smile, his cheeky banter—what if they aren’t the full picture? What if there’s something underneath all that charm that he doesn’t let people see?
My heart gives a quiet pang.
The sad song he played on his guitar last night. That said it all, didn’t it? Maybe music is Struan’s way of communicating how he’s really feeling. If so, last night he wasn’t feeling carefree.
Bloody hell. This is what happens when I get time to myself. Time tothink.
But what if Iammaking a terrible mistake?
I stare at my reflection. The woman there is more uncertain than she was a moment ago.
Fuck it.
The TV can wait. The comfy clothes can wait. I should go talk to him. I’ve been putting it off and putting it off, and it’s getting ridiculous. We’re adults. We can have a conversation.
Just talk. Talk and see how things go.
The idea terrifies me. But he only lives next door. I can be there in thirty seconds. Just walk over, knock, and?—
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m heading downstairs and out the front door.
The evening air hits my face, cool and bracing. His house is right there, separated from mine by nothing but a low hedge.
But his van isn’t in the drive. And there are no lights on inside.
I knock anyway. Wait. Knock again.
Nothing.
I stand there for a moment, arms wrapped around myself against the chill. Maybe this is a sign. Maybe avoiding Struan is the right call. Maybe the universe is trying to tell me something.
I catch myself. Because I’ve notreallytried, have I? One unanswered door and I’m ready to give up?
Back inside, I grab my phone and type out a quick message.
Ainsley
Hey. Are you around? Was hoping we could talk
Send.
I watch the screen. The message sits there, unread.
I try the TV. Some property programme where couples argue about square footage and kitchen tiles. I couldn’t tell you a single thing about it because I keep checking my phone every thirty seconds like a teenager waiting for a text back from a crush.
Which is ridiculous. I’m a grown woman with a business and a child and absolutely no time for this sort of nonsense.
I check my phone again.
Still nothing.
