He reminded me of Clark Kent, studious and ridiculously sexy underneath his fisherman’s jumpers and beanie hats, and I had no idea why some gorgeous girl hadn’t managed to snap him up. Guilt snaked into the bed with me. While we were charading as a couple, he wouldn’t be snapped up by anyone.
I remembered the conversation we’d had about me living here, how it might be weird if either of us did meet someone else. Caleb had been an issue for boyfriends I’d had; they’d never quite understood why I spoke to another man every other day, exchanged stupid videos of animals doing odd things with him, and knew about most of his goings on.
Maybe moving here wasn’t a good idea. We’d be cockblocking each other.
I snuggled under the duvet, burrowing into it like I was hibernating, which was what maybe this was. Puffin Bay was my sanctuary, my safe place, the place I could be me without worrying about making sure my make-up was fixed or if I looked like the celebrity the paparazzi expected me to be.
I understood why Caleb hadn’t moved away.
My daydreaming about a house that overlooked the Menai Strait with a view that changed with the seasons was rudely interrupted with a knock on the bedroom door.
“I’ve made you a brew.” Caleb’s voice rang through the wood. “And I think there’s something you should see.”
“I sat up, pulling the duvet up as high as it would go, enjoying its warmth.
“Come in. I’m decent.” Just because he’d seen it once before didn’t mean he wanted to see it again. There’d been a time when I’d tried to entice him with low cut tops and short skirts, and he’d been completely oblivious. The favour he’d done when he’d accepted my virginity had been a one and only, it seemed.
Caleb entered carrying a tray laden with two mugs of tea and pastries, which I suspected were from the cakery.
“Another good thing about retiring from recording and being on stage – I can eat what I like.” I nabbed a cinnamon roll, which were my all-time favourite.
Caleb looked amused. “You can definitely do that.” He sat on the end of the bed after putting the tray down on the bedside table.
“What do you think I need to see?”
He shook his head at his phone that was now out of his pocket, opening up something. “This.” He handed me the device,
A photo of Caleb and me filled the screen. It was an old picture, probably from about two years ago when we’d been in Manchester for a day to do some Christmas shopping, mooching about the Christmas markets there. I zoomed out to read the article, fully suspecting that it would’ve been leaked by my publicist under the instruction of Carissa.
It’d been posted by a celebrity gossip magazine, one that an acquaintance of mine worked for. He’d been helpful over the years, kind to quash down drama that would’ve been upsetting for me, and equally all over any tidbit that I gave him that was positive. This picture had definitely been provided by my team, one I’d guarded, only sharing it with them yesterday.
It was a selfie taken next to a research vessel in a remote part of Norway. I’d flown out to spend a couple of days with Caleb when he’d been briefly docked there. It was taken just before he headed off again and we were both laughing – I remember someone on the crew having just eaten rakfisk, a type of smoked fish that they’d really not liked, and they’d made a comical drama out of it. The wind had been almost wild, and my hair told that story. I’d been make-up free and stress-free, and I loved the light in my eyes and the smile on Caleb’s face.
“It’s one we said they could use.”
He nodded, eyes too serious. “From a while ago. And the geolocation, if Peter Cash can work it out is Norway.”
“The police think he’s savvy with all that sort of stuff.” I glanced down at the comments, just the first few. “Aw, people think you’re cute. Someone thinks you’re punching above your weight.” I was used to the negativity that laced anything on social media. You put yourself out there and people thought it was fair game to just be plain awful. Caleb knew that – I knew he checked out what I posted on socials and would look at some of the comments. Our friendship had drawn people to his accounts, which were mainly photos taken from a boat or about sea creatures or the environment. He’d amassed his own following, although I doubted he could tell me how many followers he had, but he didn’t give it too much thought.
“I’m punching abovemyweight?” He frowned, his lips curved in amusement though. “Maybe I need to up my photo-game?” He lifted an arm and showed off his bicep. “Can’t have people thinking you’re under performing.”
I batted his bicep with my hand. “Put the guns away.” I carried on scanning a few more comments. “There’s speculation we’ve gotten married and I’m pregnant, which is why I’m retiring from performing.”
“We suspected that would happen.” He lay back on my bed. “Do you think we should head into Manchester or Liverpool and you can upload some new photos?”
“How about Snowdon?”
“Yr Wyddfa,” he corrected me.
“Yr Wyddfa,” I really struggled with Welsh pronunciations. It sounded likeer widfa, but it just wouldn’t stick. “I don’t feel like going back to a city at the moment.”
“We can go there. There’s nothing else you need to do today?” He pulled a blanket I’d thrown over the bed over him.
“Were you planning on something?”
“A nap. I need to make a start on writing up the research, but I can do that this evening.”
“Why do you need a nap? What time did you wake up?” This was typical Caleb. He liked his late morning naps, to be fair, he liked all naps equally.
