I begin to apologise on Rupert and Barbara’s behalf, but she waves me off.
“It’s fine. It was actually a lot of fun. Painful, but fun. Anyway, I got them back good. Turns out I’m a decent shot. And I didn’t mind being on Rupert’s team. I wasn’t sure about Barb, though. I think she was on a teamof her own.” Her laugh is quick, light. “I guess this counts as following your advice and getting more life experience. Suffering builds character, right?”
“Rupert would have you think so,” I reply as we enter my kitchen. “He conscripted me once. Promoted me rather rapidly to sergeant.”
“Rupert said you’re a deserter.”
“That too.” I smile faintly. “I’m a pacifist.”
She smiles back and goes to the sink, scrubbing paint from her forearms. “I’m not sure what I am after today. I wanted to kill Rupert and Barb!”
“Growing on you, are they?”
“They’re a piece of work. But Barb is worse! She made it sound like a relaxed shopping trip with lunch and ‘a spot of tea’! Did you know you can get high tea as a takeaway?”
“I did not.”
“A cardboard tower of cakes and sandwiches. It was lovely, but I didn’t expect to be eating it in a trench!”
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. I’ve yet to see Lily-Anne this fired up, not even after the open mic.
“Anyway, sorry for barging in like this when you’re sick,” she says. “Although you’re looking a lot better.”
“Thanks. I feel it. Had lunch at the pub, actually.”
“Oh?” She leans back against the counter, drying her hands on a tea towel. “How’s Sean?”
“As delicate and soft-spoken as ever.”
She laughs, the sound bright, unguarded. “We’ll have to do lunch there again.”
She freezes the instant the words leave her mouth, her gaze flicking to mine worriedly as colour rushes to her cheeks.
“Lunch sometime would be good,” I say, without missing a beat.
“Yes—once Ellenor gets here.” She retreats towards the hall. “We can all go together.”
“Would you like to stay for some tea?” I ask.
She shakes her head, still flushed. “Thanks, but I should shower. And then I need to practise for that gig.”
We pause at the foot of the stairs.
“Earlier,” I say, after a moment. “I heard you. The music you’ve been writing—it’s very good.”
Her flush deepens, spreading down her neck until the angry paintballwelts blur into the rest of her skin.
So much for helping her feel less embarrassed. Still, it had to be said.
She hovers, biting her lip. “Do you think it’s good enough to play for others?”
“Yes,” I say immediately.
Her eyes lift to mine. “Yes?”
“Yes,” I repeat. “Absolutely.” I don’t embellish. I don’t need to.
She nods, but there’s a flicker of something in her expression I can’t quite read—something that feels like a quiet thank you.
