—
Shortly before lunch, the door to Pebbles & Paper jangles, and Caleb walks in.
It’s been a slow morning—so far, I’ve sold only some deckchair-shaped candles and a handful of greetings cards—and I’d just got to the point of starting to scribble notes for my novel onto the back of the complimentary gift wrap.
“Hey.”
I swallow as I try to work out if he looks as though he’s spent the night having sex with his estranged wife. He certainly seems tired and wrung out, like he needs some coffee and a plate of food.
“You’re barred, you know,” I remind him, as a sort of joke. (It’s true—he actually is. On my first day, Ivan handed me a sheet of paper bearing the names of six people no longer welcome in the shop, one of whom was Caleb—though quite how Ivan expects me to ascertain the full names of the offenders on sight, I have no idea.)
“I literally could not care less.” Caleb stands where he is in the middle of the shop, next to the sheepskin soft furnishings, hands stuffed into the pockets of his charcoal wool coat. His hair looks damp, and I realize with a thud that he must have had a late start. “How are you?”
I nod, slowly. “Okay. You?”
He nods back, his expression somber. “Can we talk?”
“I get off at one.”
“Meet me at the beach hut?”
“All right,” I say, realizing as I do that he could be about to break my heart. That he might tell me he slept with Helen last night, that they’re getting back together, that splitting up with her and being with me has all been a horrible mistake—a mere bump in the road on his journey through married life.
—
When I get to the hut after my shift, Caleb’s lit the stove and boiled a kettle. I sit wordlessly down on the seat opposite him, and he passes me a coffee.
“You had a good night, then,” I say, my voice heavy with resignation.
“What makes you say that?”
I shrug. I know I risk sounding petty, but I can’t help myself. “One o’clock’s pretty good going.”
He just nods, like he’s conceding some sort of point, and sips his coffee. “It was... a weird night.”
I don’t say anything, just watch him and wait. I’m not going to help him out here—he has to start talking, to be straight-up with me about whatever went down between them.
He pauses for a long time before elaborating. “Helen... wants me to move back in with her, in London.”
My stomach becomes a fist. “Oh.”
I feel his gaze barrel into me. “Lucy, you need to know, I told her straightaway that I was in love with you. That that’snevergoing to happen.”
Relief radiates through me like some sort of narcotic. Still, I can’t help thinking there must be more to the story than that. “That sounds like a pretty quick conversation, though. What took you till one o’clock?”
“She was upset. We went back to the cottage.”
I picture them there together, in the tiny wonky living room I’ve grown to love. Did Helen crack open a bottle of wine, put his favorite music on to tempt him to reminisce? Maybe under that coat she was wearing a dress he always liked. Or worse...
“But you’re separated,” I say, exasperation flickering inside me like a failing lightbulb. “You moved out, you live two hours from London now. Have you been...?”
“Have I been what?”
I frown, clamp my hands a little tighter around my coffee cup. “I don’t know—giving her a different impression, or something? I didn’t think you were in touch.”
“We weren’t. I promise, this came totally out of the blue.”
“She just... changed her mind about being separated? Just like that?”
