He looks across at me. “Not really.”
“And are you...?” I break off, the wordsplanning to divorcedissolving in my throat. Because really, is that any of my business? “Sorry. It’s probably a bit weird to be talking about this stuff on a—”
“On a what?” he whispers, but before I can reply, he is leaning across and kissing me. It’s a kiss so good it makes my heart thump—full and intense, undercut by the sea breeze and the tang of salt and vinegar. A kiss that makes me forget everything else, that makes the whole world drop away, until there’s just the two of us, getting lost in each other, set on fire by this incredible sunset.
—
As dusk descends, Caleb invites me back to the fisherman’s cottage he rents a couple of streets back from the seafront. We walk there along the cobblestones, our hands and shoulders occasionally colliding and sending a tingle of anticipation all the way to my toes.
It’s been a long while since I went back to someone’s house, and I’m trying very hard not to overthink the idea of being in an unfamiliar space with a man I barely know.
But as Jools often reminds me, I can’t let my history hold me back forever. And despite the belly-deep anxiety threatening to override my craving to kiss Caleb again, what we’re doing feels strangely right.
As we walk, I distract myself by telling him about my sister, that I was saving up to buy my own place before I walked out of my job.
“Why?” he says.
I inhale the scent of salt and seaweed for a couple of seconds. The coast always feels so much more alive than Tash’s farmland fortress in the middle of nowhere. “Why what?”
“Why do you want to buy somewhere?”
I glance across at him. “That’s just... what everybody does, isn’t it? Renting’s a nightmare.”
“Depends on the landlord, I suppose. I kind of like the idea that I can just up and leave whenever I like.”
“Did you own your place in London?”
“Sort of. I mean, Helen did. She inherited it. Which meant... it never felt fully mine, I guess.”
“Whereabouts in London did you live?”
“Islington.” He smiles. “It was nice and everything, lifestyle-wise... but that doesn’t really mean anything, if there’s more important stuff missing.”
“True,” I say, thoughtfully.
We come to a pause outside Spyglass Cottage, a narrow-fronted whitewashed end-of-terrace, where the air is perfumed by a blush-pink clematis winding skyward up the wall facing the street. All the houses on the row have things propped up against them, like buoys and ancient lifebelts and old crabbing pots. The evening has cooled now, and there’s a coastal quickness to the breeze.
As Caleb lifts his key to the bright blue front door, he hesitates. “You know, we don’t have to... I mean, we can just talk. This doesn’t have to be...”
He trails off then, but I know what he means, so I just nod and say, “I know. Thanks.”
Inside there is a tiny living room, with only just enough space for a two-seater sofa and single armchair. A wood burner is set into the chimney breast, and there’s a faint lingering smell of essential oils, or perhaps it’s scented candles.
He cranks open the living room window, the one that looks directly onto the street. We’re so close to the beach, I can hear the gentle crush of waves on the shoreline as the tide rolls in.
“Can I get you a coffee?” he asks.
I say yes, then follow him over to the doorway to the kitchen. He fetches mugs from a cupboard, starts boiling the water on an Aga that looks like it’s seen better days. I realize I am trying not to stare too hard at his hand gripping the kettle, the broad set of his shoulders.
“How do you take it?” he asks, once he’s poured out the hot water.
“Just a splash of milk, thanks.”
As he retrieves the milk from the fridge, he starts talking about his love affair with the Aga, which came with the cottage. I tell him I’ve always wanted one, ever since my parents got theirs, and he says, “Me too. My kitchen in London was horrible. Like, properly space-age. You couldn’t tell where any of the cupboards were. There wasn’t a single handle in there. I had to push in ten different places just to get to my cereal in the morning.”
I glance at the design on the mug Caleb’s handed me. It’s faded, like it’s been through a dishwasher a few too many times, but I can still just about make out theI HEART LONDONmotif on the front.
He notices me looking. “Stocking filler from Helen, once she’d worked out I was itching to leave.”
