I open my mouth to give some polite, vague answer, but what comes out is more.
“She’s different,” I start, then shake my head. “No, that’s not right. She’s genuine. You know when someone talks and you can tell they’ve thought about every word before they say it? That’s her. It’s not pretence, it’s just how she is. Careful. Thoughtful.”
Abby smiles faintly, letting me go on.
“She’s funny too, though she doesn’t realise it. Dry humour, blink-and-you-miss-it kind of funny. And smart, frighteningly smart. You can tell she’s used to thinking in patterns, like she’s always analysing something in the back of her mind. But when she talks to you, it’s like she’s completely there. Present.”
I stir my tea without noticing, staring out the window at the drizzle softening over the hills. “She told me a bit about her work. She analyses threatening messages for NGOs and journalists. Heavy stuff. And yet she talks about it like it’s her responsibility to make sense of all that ugliness so others don’t have to. That takes guts.”
Abby doesn’t say a word, and I realise I’m still talking.
“She’s shy, though,” I continue, half to myself. “You can see how much effort it costs her to speak up. But when she does, when she lets you in, it’s something else. There’s honesty in her. Real honesty. She doesn’t sugar-coat, doesn’t try to sound impressive. She just saysthings the way she sees them. And somehow, that makes everything she says matter more.”
I stop, finally aware that I’ve been talking far too long. Abby’s smiling into her mug, clearly enjoying this more than she’s letting on.
“She sounds remarkable,” she says softly.
“She is,” I admit before I can stop myself.
Abby looks up at me, eyes warm. “You really like her.”
I shake my head quickly. “It’s not like that. We’re just… friends.”
Her smile turns faintly sceptical. “Friends?”
“Honestly,” I insist. “She doesn’t seem interested in anything more. And after the divorce, neither am I. We’ve only known each other for two days, and she’s leaving tomorrow.”
Abby studies me for a long moment, clearly unconvinced. Then she says, “Well, even so, you should do something with her today. Make a memory that isn’t just about hot tubs and rain.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “That might be tricky. She doesn’t like crowds, and the weather’s not exactly on my side.”
Abby glances out the window. “Pity, really. The clouds are high today, so the views will be good, but they’ve forecast rain all day. Otherwise, I’d have said take her for a winter picnic. Bit of scenery, some quiet, a flask of tea.”
I lean back in my chair, thinking it over. “A winter picnic in the rain. Sounds very British.”
She grins. “Exactly. We’re built for drizzle. You could make it work. There are plenty of sheltered spots if you know where to look.”
I sip my tea, a small smile forming. “Maybe you’re onto something.”
“I still think you’re completely mad,” Eve says, though the way she’s smiling takes the sting out of it.
“Mad or resourceful,” I reply, steering us down a narrow lane edged with hedgerows dripping with rain. “You don’t like crowds, and it’s been tipping it down since breakfast. This was the only option left.”
She glances over her shoulder and lets out a soft laugh. The back seats are folded flat, lined with a couple of camping mats Jon dug out of the shed. I’ve piled six of Abby’s guest-room pillows on top to make it more comfortable, and there’s a thick blanket folded neatly at one end. A shopping bag sits in the middle, packed with sandwiches, crisps, fruit, and a slab of cake. A flask rests beside it, keeping the tea steaming hot for us.
“You’ve really gone to some effort,” she says.
“Professional problem-solver,” I tell her. “And Abby might’ve helped. I’m more of the ideas man.”
Eve shakes her head, amusement glinting in her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Efficiently ridiculous,” I say. “You’ll thank me when you’re eating Victoria sponge in a car while the rest of Yorkshire’s drowning.”
She gives me that small, shy smile that I’m starting to realise means more than a dozen words from most people. “You even brought cake.”
“Abby insisted. She said morale depends on sugar.”
Her laugh is quiet, genuine. “I can’t decide if this is charming or tragic.”
