Lily-Anne catches me looking. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. Sorry, still waking up. Cocoa powder?”
“Yes, please.”
I can feel her eyes on me as I finish making her coffee. I add a light dusting of cocoa, then knock the grounds loose and wipe down the machine to buy myself time.
“I’m sorry about last night,” she says. “It’s my fault we were out late.”
This time, my guilt is firmly rooted in the present. How aloof I must seem, so far from the courteous host.
“Not at all,” I reply sincerely. “I had a nice evening with you.”
I hear the smile in her voice as she says, “Me too.”
I slide the mug across to Lily-Anne. “What are your plans for today?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” she admits, taking a sip. She sighs happily, a trace of foam on her lip. “You make really good coffee.”
“Glad you like it.”
“I thought I might check out the sea, now that it’s daylight,” she continues.
“That sounds good,” I say, a little distractedly, glancing out the window at the lightening sky. “I should be heading off soon.”
She nods, and something about her inquisitive expression tells me she wouldn’t mind the mud, or the spray, or the quiet work of the flats.
“Would you care to see it for yourself?” I hear myself ask. “The oyster farm?”
She sets her mug down. “Really? I can come?”
“Only if you want to. It won’t be glamorous, but it’s another way to see Whitstable. We’re famous for our oysters.”
It’s an unusual invitation, but her eyes brighten. “I’d love to! As long as your colleagues don’t mind…?”
“Not at all.” I risk a small smile. “You’ll need to wear wellies.”
She looks momentarily confused. “Oh. Gumboots.”
“Just so. I’m sure we can find you a pair that fits. And a spare set of overalls too.”
“Bright yellow?” she asks.
“I’m sure I can find you a grey one.”
“Oh. So, no yellow?”
She gives a small pout, and I can’t tell if she’s actually disappointed or teasing me.
The sight of her lips sends a flush creeping under my collar, the oilskin overalls suddenly stifling, and I focus on the door before my thoughts stray further.
Nova’s cackle resounds around me.
“Trying so hard to be chaste, aren’t you, darling?” she simpers.“Shame about her baggy PJs. Don’t they make you wonder about her silhouette underneath?”
No. I haven’t let myself think that way since Nova’s passing four years ago.
“Until now.”
