“All true. But as long as books exist, yours should, too.”
“Ah, you’re biased.”
“Nope. When are you going to let Ryan show it to his agent?”
I smile. The four of us—Ryan, Emma, Caleb, and I—have become pretty close over the past eighteen months. We cook dinner for one another, meet for drinks and Sunday roasts at The Smugglers, go out to see films and plays and poetry readings.
Ryan’s been badgering me for weeks to let his agent in London have a sneak peek at my draft. But I’m not quite ready yet.
“Soon,” I say, obliquely.
Caleb reaches for my hand, his fingers twining with mine. “Promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Don’t go and get published while I’m away. All right? Youhaveto wait till I’m home. I want to be here for your big moment. It would kill me to hear about it over Skype.”
I smile at his faith in me before slinging my head back, readjusting my eyes to the glinting galaxy in the sky. “Okay. I’ll try my very best not to achieve the impossible while you’re away.”
By my side, he exhales. “Six months.” His breath ices the air between us. I feel him looking at me, but I don’t want to look back, because I know it might make me cry.
So instead I just nod, and wash away the sadness with the last of my hot chocolate. “It’s going to be the best six months of your life.”
I’ll be staying in Caleb’s cottage until he gets back. I’m so pleased he’s not giving it up. I mean, yes—it has leaks and loose tiles and bits always falling off it. But it’s cozy and ramshackle, decrepitly romantic. I picture myself sitting in it alone while Caleb’s gone, listening to the sea, the gentle rumble of the waves reassuring as a heartbeat.
—
As we’re getting ready for bed, my phone buzzes. It’s Jools, about next weekend, when Caleb’s agreed to do an engagement shoot for her and Nigel in London. We’re traveling to Tooting on Friday, then I’ve organized a surprise going-away party for Caleb on Saturday night. I can’t imagine a better way of spending his last weekend before he goes.
Jools and Nigel are getting married in Shoreley next summer, and Caleb will be taking the pictures. Before meeting Nigel, Jools never showed much interest in marriage, largely because her parents couldn’t even take their own on-off engagement seriously. But since saying yes, she’s become the white-wedding enthusiast none of us saw coming. We’ve been dress shopping and venue hunting, we’ve sampled catering and cakes, we’ve spent hours gazing at honeymoon destinations and fantasizing over gift lists. One of her colleagues even jokingly called herbridezillalast week, and she beamed as she told me, as if she’d just been promoted, or Reuben had finally paid her back all that money she’s subbed him for rent.
—
In the middle of the night, I wake to a tarry, acrid smell. It burns the back of my throat like smoke, turning it raw. I lie there for a few moments, confused, trying to remember if we ate anything last night that tasted smoky.
Then I realize. Itissmoke.
Next to me, Caleb is sitting up. “Lucy,” he says, very calmly. “I think the house might be on fire.”
—
Er, Mum,” Tash says. “Do you need a brandy, or something? You look really pale.”
Tash rushed round as soon as she heard, and I’ve taken the morning off work. I told Ivan I’d escaped from a house fire, which was a bit of a white lie, given only part of the living room was actually destroyed in the end. A socket behind the TV was overloaded and ignited in the night, but the fire service was able to put it out before too much damage occurred. We were permitted to reenter the cottage just minutes before Mum and Dad arrived home from Sussex. Luckily, Macavity was perfectly fine.
The five of us are crammed around the breakfast bar in Mum and Dad’s tiny kitchen, shivering because all the doors and windows are wedged open. I’ve always loved this room, with its handmade wooden cabinets and uneven ceiling and cherry-red Aga. It has character. Soul.
The stenciled words on the wall above the corkboard catch my eye.What’s meant for you won’t pass you by.I’ve been known to rib my parents about the triteness of that saying, but today it seems painfully poignant.
Caleb’s made a pot of tea, is passing round cups. I meet his gaze as he hands me mine, and feel comfort sink through me like an anchor gently dropping.
What am I going to do without him?
Mum shakes her head to the offer of brandy. “No, thanks, darling. I always hated that picture, anyway.”
Tash shoots me a funny look. Mum must be talking about the oil painting of poppies above the TV. It’s not the only thing that was burned: many other items went up in flames, including—ironicallyenough—the copy ofJane EyreI was reading last night, but I guess she’s focusing on that painting because she’s in shock, or something. I’m pretty sure Dad bought it for her, once upon a time.
“It’s just soluckyyou and Caleb were here,” Mum says to me, shaking her head. “Imagine if you hadn’t been. The whole house would have gone up, and Macavity would have...” She breaks off, clamping a hand over her mouth, unable to continue.
