“Plants,” I correct softly. “They’re better listeners.”
She laughs. “Honestly, Eve, you make it sound like a crime to have a bit of fun. Go on, tell me you’ve at least got plans to do something while you’re there. Go walking or… sightseeing or whatever it is people do in Yorkshire.”
“I’ll see how I feel.”
“You’ll sit in your room with your laptop, won’t you?”
“Possibly.”
“You’re hopeless,” she says, though I can tell she’s smiling. “Still, I’m glad you’ve gone somewhere nice. You deserve a break.”
“Thank you.”
“And send me a picture later,” she adds. “Something scenic. I need proof you actually left the house.”
“I will.”
“Good girl. Now, I’d better go before one of the children sets fire to something. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The line clicks off.
I set the phone on the table and exhale. The waitress returns with my tea, giving me a kind smile before retreating again.
Outside, the wind rattles the tall windows, and the grey light settles across the room like a heavy blanket. I lift my cup, inhale the warmth, and let the quiet wrap around me.
It’s nice, the quiet. Mostly.
I used to think I was built for it. I like my own company, or at least I tell myself I do. No small talk, no awkward pauses, no wondering if I’ve said the wrong thing. Just peace. But every so often, on days like this, the quiet stretches a bit too far. It starts to echo.
It isn’t that I don’t like people. I just don’t seem to know what to do with them. I miss cues, or fill silences badly, or say something perfectly ordinary that sounds strange the moment it leaves my mouth. And when you’ve spent years watching conversations for a living, analysing every pause and word choice, it’s hard to stop dissecting your own.
I take another sip of tea. It’s good. Too hot, but good.
Loneliness, I’ve decided, is like static noise—it fades when life’s busy but comes back the moment things go quiet. And trying to fix it would meanmeeting people, which is exactly the kind of situation that makes me wish for silence again. A cycle I haven’t quite figured out how to break.
A door opens somewhere behind me, letting in a brief gust of colder air and the sound of laughter. Someone arriving, maybe.
A movement at the edge of my vision makes me glance up. The man I’d noticed earlier, the one with the steady confidence, has stopped by the table of women nearby. They all brighten as if someone’s switched the lights on.He exchanges a few words, a laugh, that kind of effortless charm people either have or don’t.
Then he turns, scanning the room again, and starts walking in my direction.
I sit up a little straighter, unsure why, and automatically check if there’s anyone behind me he might be heading for. There isn’t.Brilliant.
“Good afternoon,” he says as he reaches my table. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Hunter Thompson, the owner here.”
“Oh,” I say, caught off guard. “Hello. I’m Eve Crawford.”
“Nice to meet you, Eve.” His smile is genuine and natural. “I just wanted to check how your stay’s going. Everything comfortable?”
“Yes, very. It’s lovely.” I wave a hand vaguely, immediately regretting it. “The tea’s good. And the chairs are… very comfortable.”
“Good to hear. We pride ourselves on the chairs,” he says with a straight face, though there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“Are you planning to do some hiking while you’re here? Or visit the National Trust place down the road? It's a very interesting place if you like that sort of thing.”
“Yes,” I say automatically, though I’ve no idea which thing I’ve just agreed to.
