“That sounds promising,” I say, thinking,Sensible. Reliable.
“Yeah, and he’s one of those people who makes proper eye contact, and actually listens when you speak.”
I realize it’s been a long time since I heard Jools really enthuse about a guy.
“So anyway,” Jools continues, “what I’m saying is, much as I loved living with you, Luce, Nigel definitely has more long-term potential, romantically speaking.”
I laugh. “God, Jools! You never get all mushy about guys.”
“I know! What’s wrong with me?”
“Are you drunk?”
“Sober as a judge.”
“Well, then I guess it must be love at first sight.”
“I guess it must.”
Sixteen
Stay
Sunday night, and Caleb and I are sitting in the little courtyard of my parents’ cottage in Shoreley. They’ve spent the weekend in Sussex, and as Tash and Simon have been in Bristol visiting Simon’s brother, we agreed to house-sit, because Mum’s paranoid about burglars and Dad worries about their cat, Macavity, starving to death. We’ll lock up tomorrow morning before they get back, post the key through the letter box.
They’ve seemed under strain over the past few months. Not quite themselves. Dad’s migraines have been persisting, and talk of redundancies at his company has started up again. So I was pleased when they announced they were getting away for a couple of days.
Caleb and I are wrapped up in our big coats, scarves, and gloves. The metal of the seat I’m on feels icy through my jeans. We’ve just finished eating, a feast of local scallops and bacon fried in butter. It’s aclear night, the sky spangled with a million stars, so Caleb suggested making hot chocolates and lighting Mum and Dad’s little firepit, so we could sit out here in the darkness and wonder at the array of hot-white constellations above our heads.
We’ve been discussing my novel, which he’s just finished reading the full draft of. There are a few minor tweaks and edits left to make, but I wanted Caleb to read the whole thing before he goes, in case he’s got any salient feedback.
He got the Southeast Asia job, of course. And I’m so excited for him. He’s a genius behind the camera, and he more than deserves this opportunity. He flies to Bangkok in a fortnight for orientation, and will be away six months.
I’m going to miss him hard. Really, really hard.
“Honestly, I think it’s epic,” Caleb’s saying. “Seriously. You are such a talent, Lucy.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Well, I do. The ambiguity of that ending... It’s genius.”
I bite my lip. I mean, if I were to be really honest, the ending was actually Ryan’s idea, dreamed up over postsession drinks in The Smugglers. “You think?”
“No, I know.” He leans over and kisses me. His lips are warm and sweet from the hot chocolate, and the kiss is long and deep and slow, like we’re marking the moment.
“Thank you. Shame it’s taken me so long.”
He draws back from me, tilts his head. “Didn’t it take Margaret Mitchell ten years to write—”
“—Gone with the Wind.” I smile. “So they say.”
And I suppose, in a way, I’ve been writing my novel for ten years, too. Maybe not on the page—but it’s been in my head ever since I boarded that flight at Heathrow on Boxing Day eleven years ago.
I burrow deeper into my coat, shuffling a little closer to the firepitin an effort to ward off the icebound November air. An occasional fit of wind is laced with the briny scent of the sea as it stirs.
Caleb leans back in his chair, gazing up at the stars. “I’d go as far as to say the worldneedsto read your book, Lambert.”
I snort. “No. The world does notneedto read my book. The world needs... equality, and human rights, and an end to corruption and famine, and—”
