“Not one.” Which was true. “You?”
“That we didn’t do this again sooner.”
Any worries went. “I’m still the best you’ve ever had?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll need to try you out a few more times before coming to that conclusion.” She rested her head back against my shoulder, rushing water over us. “Can you reach the champagne?”
It wasn’t as cold as it had been, but champagne was always drinkable. We sipped it in the bath while the water cooled, watching the drops clear from the window now the rain had stopped, the view clearing, London illuminated again and we talked about her house, about where I wanted to live, about the dreams we still had and the dreams we thought we were starting to have.
They were tentative, these plans, vague clouds of ideas that hadn’t taken a form yet, mainly theoretical. We talked about houses, what we’d ideally like, where they would be and what we’d want to do to make them ours, and we talked about them as if they were separate entities rather than a joint project.
After the water had cooled, we dried off. I watched Zoey coat herself with moisturiser, offering to help because standing there observing made me feel too much like a voyeur and my hands itched to touch her again.
We slept in the same bed after the moisturising turned into more, which evolved into more champagne in bed, room service sent up so we didn’t have to leave and we could just ignore London and Puffin Bay and Peter Cash and resurrect those night from years before.
Zoey fell asleep before me, curled up with her back against my chest, her backside pushed against my groin. She’d slipped into that nightdress because she didn’t like sleeping naked in hotel beds, but I’d already warned her she wouldn’t be clothed in the morning.
Then she’d made me make that a promise.
Returning to Puffin Bay felt like the start of September after the summer school holidays had ended, the fleeting magic of freedom had dissipated leaving just the summer’s detritus as a memory.
It was, of course, raining when the car service drove down the road towards the bay, the sky a swirl of dark blues and grieving greys. I was on call for the lifeboat this evening, which I wasn’t thrilled about as I was keen to spend more time alone with Zoey after what had ended up being a busy couple of days in London.
We’d visited her house with the removal company, and I’d watched her make decisions and assert herself like I hadn’t done before. She was focused and determined, her mind made up, and by the end of Monday, there was a date for completion when she’d no longer own the house she now associated with Peter Cash and all of her furniture and belongings were either being sold or put into storage, with the exception of the recording equipment which would be making its way to Puffin Bay in a week’s time, meaning she had a week to find somewhere for it to go.
I’d decided not to pass comment on that.
“Will Finn be in the pub tonight?” She put her hand on my knee and squeezed, the car coming to a stop in the Puffin Inn’s car park. “I really need to ask him about his storage space.”
Finn Holland owned a farm which he’d converted into a gin distillery. There was a main farmhouse, a huge ex-barn that was the distillery and numerous outbuildings over several acres. Some of those outbuildings had been made good for storage over the years, which Zoey was aware of. There was a high chance that one might be turned into a temporary recording studio if she had her way.
“He might be. He’s on call tonight as well.” It was a Tuesday, the same five of us were on call most weeks, and most weeks we met for a pint of lime and soda in the inn, mainly to chew the cud. It was rare a call out happened during the week after seven in the evening, but not unheard of.
“I’ll try to find him. Or Ruby. It’ll only be for a couple of months until I’ve bought somewhere.”
The driver, who’d been a total professional, opened the boot and took out Zoey’s luggage, and my small suitcase. We’d been dressed for the gala, so we didn’t have any hefty outfits to sort out, and I travelled light even if Zoey did not.
We were met by Amelie and my dad, Gully lurking somewhere in the background with Aurora, his eldest kid and only girl. Technically, she should’ve still been in school, so something must’ve gone on.
“How was London?” My dad picked up one of Zoey’s bags. “We saw the video of you on the red carpet. Amelie insisted re-enacting it, including the punch.”
“Our version, not yours.” She gave Zoey a hug. “You looked fabulous. No regrets having to come back here?”
Zoey laughed, shaking her head. “London isn’t home anymore, thank god.” She picked up a small suitcase that contained make up and lotions and other shit I now knew more about because we’d shared a bedroom for three days.
“Good, well things have happened since you’ve been away.” Amelie raised her brows.
“That doesn’t sound good.”
She shook her head, leading us into the pub, organising us so we brought our luggage in there.
The Puffin Inn had its usual regulars in for this time of day and this time of year. The chair where Mavis would’ve sat was empty, as it always was at the moment. No one still dared sit there.
“You can’t use the flat.” Amelie sat down at the first table we came to. “That’s the headline news.”
I glanced at my dad and then back to Amelie. “I wasn’t that bad a tenant.”
“To be fair, you were.” She raised an eyebrow and studied me. “The boiler had a moment and decided to leak. Unfortunately, the damage is pretty extensive and there’s no way you can live there. I’m having it stripped back to the brick and made good which I should’ve done ages ago.”
