I determine to say it all again as soon as we’re out of the bar, but by then of course we’re all riding high on Nigel’s musical triumph—which culminated in the barman perking up and inviting him to pop in next week to discuss a regular gig—and by the time Caleb and I are on our own again, in Jools’s bedroom back at the house, it feels as though the moment has passed.
—
And then. Like a really bad joke from some higher power, it comes.
I’m downstairs in Jools’s kitchen, fetching water to take to bed while Jools is talking Caleb through how to use the shower, and showing him the best way to jiggle the bathroom door so the lock actually works, when my phone buzzes.
A message.
From Max.
Max Gardner.
Hey, Luce. It’s been too long. It was so great to see you in Shoreley back in April.
Kind of wish I hadn’t dashed off that night.
I’d love to catch up.
Let me know if you fancy it. I still think about you. M x
I stare at the phone for so long that when I next look up, I wonder if hours might have passed and the whole house has fallen asleep. But then I realize Jools has snuck into the kitchen and is leaning against the sink with an odd expression on her face.
“Everything okay?”
“I don’t know. I just got this... from Max.” I pass her the phone. Above our heads, the kitchen striplight flickers ominously.
Jools scans the message, then looks at me. “Is this the first time—”
“Yep. Haven’t heard from him since that night.”
“The night you met Caleb,” she says, meaningfully.
“Also the night my horoscope said I’d cross paths with my soulmate,” I say—I’m not sure why. It sounds stupid the moment it’s left my mouth.
Jools tilts her head, meets my eye. “Come on, Luce.”
I put a hand to my face. “I know, I know.”
She passes the phone back to me. “You haven’t done anything wrong. But you should delete it.”
I say nothing. Suddenly, the grimy malfunction of the kitchen—the leaky tap, the fizzing light, the mound of dirty dishes in the sink, the cupboards with their badly angled doors—seems to echo the abrupt dip in mood.
Jools peers at me. “You’re not seriously considering getting in touch?”
“No, I—”
“Oh God, youare.” She sighs, shakes her head.
“No, but... I don’t know. All this stuff with Helen...”
“All this stuff with Helen is in your head. They split up six months before you met.”
“And went through some fairly life-defining stuff together.”
“So what? So Caleb has some baggage—who doesn’t?”
“Max, probably,” I say, as a sort of joke. “He was always pretty good at processing things.”
