“Relentless. Tiring. Soul-sucking.” We entered the pub through the back, pulling the suitcases through a narrow corridor past the kitchen. A couple of the staff shouted hello – I wasn’t a stranger around here and what I did as my day job was no longer a big thing for them.
“Being fawned over by your adoring fans, earning a fortune – sounds fucking terrible, Zo.” He parked up one of the cases at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the rooms above the pub where Caleb lived most of the time. “You go up and I’ll bring these up. I can’t get two of them up there in one go, even if I have the strength of The Hulk.”
“More like Mr Bean.” I squeezed his bicep. It was not like Mr Bean’s in the slightest. His arm was firm and thick and unfortunately all very nicely male, just how I remembered it from last time I saw him, which had been six months ago, maybe a shade longer.
“Less of that.” He swatted my hand away. “If I thought you’d be interested or impressed I’d tell you how much I can bench press.”
“Yeah, don’t bother. There’s more in the car.” I bit back a grin. There was a lot more in the car.
He shot me a frown, a genuine one this time, but didn’t follow it up with a question. I followed him upstairs to the flat he’d commandeered when he’d been in his second year at university, the campus close enough for him to drive there in less than half an hour, and if he needed to stay over, there was usually a girl who wouldn’t mind sharing her bed.
Suitcases and boxes were lugged upstairs, our chatter reverting back to how it always was. Town gossip, the island, the Puffin Inn, his dad and Amelie, my parents – safe topics that we knew about anyway because we spoke once a week, unless he was somewhere remote that didn’t have Wi-Fi or network coverage. Even when I’d been touring Australia and the time difference had been stupid, we’d managed to talk, just like we had been doing since he was sixteen and I was seventeen and we’d spent a summer being two teenagers who had no idea what life had in store for them.
That felt like two lifetimes ago. Maybe three.
“Do you want to unpack now or - ” he looked in disbelief at the boxes. “Next month. Seriously, Zo, are you sure you haven’t just moved in?”
I shrugged. “Kind of. I’m homeless at the moment.” There was a story he didn’t know. “Let’s get on the boat and I’ll tell you what’s happened.”
“Was this something you couldn’t tell me on the phone?” Caleb picked up his phone and a set of keys.
“Yes.” A decade and four years of friendship had taught me lot about my friend, including how he’d react if he thought that I was in any form of danger, or someone had upset me. I’d learned it was best to wait until after things had been sorted.
“Why am I not liking the sound of this?” He picked up a coat, one that was purely practical and would not be gracing any fashion magazines, not that he cared about that.
Unlike the rest of my life, Caleb didn’t give a hoot about how he looked, or what he wore unless he was going out somewhere fancy. He wouldn’t care if I wore make-up or not, or even brushed my hair.
“Is my coat still here?” I looked at the mess of outwear hung on pegs near the door. There was a woman’s coat I didn’t recognise, probably one from a recent conquest of Caleb’s as it wasn’t Amelie’s style. “I hoped my stuff was here from last time.” There was a sudden flash of panic that maybe he’d given it away.
“Look under the black waterproof. Your stuff’s still in the spare bedroom. I did change the sheets in there and vacuum so it’s okay. Not brilliant. Amelie cleaned the bathroom when she knew you were coming.” Caleb looked half-sheepish.
“Any reason she did that and you didn’t?”
He shrugged. “I only got back two days ago from the arctic trip and I spent eighteen hours asleep.”
I paused, taking my turn to frown. “I thought you got back last week?”
He pushed a hand through thick dark brown hair. “I should’ve got back then. A storm came in and we had to hunker down so everything got delayed. Wasn’t fun.” Caleb was a marine biologist, working for the University of Menai and based on the island. He lectured there, but the main part of his role was the research, often working collaboratively with other universities. His most recent project had taken him down the Norwegian Fjords and into the Arctic Circle for six weeks. He’d video called me one day from what had to be the most amazing place on earth.
“You should’ve said. I’d have hung back for a few days so you could’ve had some time to yourself.” I knew from previous trips that the crew and scientists were on top of each other and when Caleb got back he liked to spend at least a week out at sea by himself or just with Thane, the town’s boatbuilder and lighthouse keeper. When he wasn’t away, he immersed himself in town life, mainly around the boats and Strait, one of the lifeboat crew and often on call.
Or charming the women who ended up in Puffin Bay and the surrounding areas.
My best friend was a magnet for women looking to fall in lust, or occasionally, in love.
“Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen. Let’s just get on the water and then Amelie can start feeding you up. She’s going to say you’re too skinny.” He gave me a look that told me he thought the same thing.
“That’s what six months of touring does to you, Cay. Dancing every night, travelling during the day – those calories are burned.” He wasn’t wrong. What he didn’t know what that worry and anxiety had knocked a few of those calories off too.
“She’s made lasagne tonight and I think there’s a prawn and chorizo in red wine starter with sourdough. If you’re not feeling hungry, I’ll eat yours. You’re not the only one who needs to bulk up.” He patted his stomach through the big waterproof coat that’d seen better days. “Food on the ship was shite.”
“I thought you’d have been full of herring and fish.”
“Full doesn’t describe it. The portions were child sized. Anyway, I have a new boat I want to show you.”
We walked the short route down to the boat house at the other end of the beach from the Puffin Inn, Caleb giving me a run down on his new toy. He’d been the same since he was seventeen and as new to the town as me, obsessed with the sea and what could sail on it. On his eighteenth birthday he’d signed up for the lifeboat crew, heading off to Poole to do his training as soon as he could. When we’d spoken or seen each other after that he’d been full of what he’d been up to with the crew, tales of storms and boats and engines and waves. I knew he was clueless about it, but I’d written a song about him one night, an album track that was a fan favourite and I always ended up playing it as the penultimate song at concerts.
“Nice.” I was half an expert after more than a decade of boat talk. “She’s cute. What’ve you called her?”
