She blinked, caught off guard. ‘Daniel…’
He sat up straight and ran his hands through his already messy hair. ‘You know what? Never mind. You’re right. It hasonly been a few weeks. What was I thinking? That you’d just fall in love and decide to throw your London life away for me?’
‘People dodo that,’ she said, but even as she said it, her voice faltered.
‘They do in movies,’ he muttered. ‘Not in real life, it seems. But if someone makes you feel uncomfortable at work, well, that’s a different matter.’
The air between them was suddenly colder. Fern reached for the duvet again, tugging it back over her like a shield.
‘I don’t know what’s real anymore,’ she admitted. ‘Ella was supposed to be one of my constants and now I feel like I don’t even know her. I feel like I’m being pulled in two completely different directions. My old life. This new one. You. The shop.’
Daniel stood and crossed the room to the window, his eyes now fixed on the moon as he spoke. ‘You mentioned selling the shop.’
‘I saidifI sell it, then at least I could make sure you have enough money to buy your own place, maybe with a decent central heating system, windows that don’t rattle in the wind and a shower that doesn’t sound like a dying goose.’ She was trying to lighten the tension in the room, but it didn’t work.
‘I don’t want a flat,’ he said, turning sharply. ‘I want the shop.Thisshop. Matilda’s shop. It’s starting to work. People are buying the antiques. Using social media has been successful. We’re building something.’
‘Do you think I’m tearing it down?’
‘No.’ His voice softened. ‘But if you sell it to that anonymous buyer then yes, you kind of are. They know something we don’t, and you’re settling for greed over the truth.’
The silence this time was more final.
When Daniel climbed back into bed, he lay stiffly on his side, facing away from her. She mirrored him, her stomach twisting in knots. What was she doing? How could she possibly make a life decision based on a couple of weeks? That wasn’t how responsible people made choices. That was the stuff of fairytales, of meet-cutes and sweeping declarations. Not of real, messy people who had tangled loyalties and rent to pay.
She thought of Ella. Of the giggles and prosecco-fuelled late nights, of all the times she’d said, ‘You’re my person,’ and meant it. But now? How was their friendship even going to work?
Fern glanced over her shoulder at Daniel’s back. His breathing was slow and steady, but she knew he wasn’t asleep. She closed her eyes and felt more alone than she had in a long, long time.
ChapterThirty-Eight
Fern woke to the smell of toast and the faint clinking of crockery drifting up from downstairs. For a moment, she didn’t move. The duvet was twisted around her legs, her neck ached from sleeping too stiffly on one side, and she felt that uneasy, dull ache in the pit of her stomach after last night’s disagreement.
She could hear the sound of plates clattering and the hiss of the kettle reaching a boil. She sat up slowly, then shuffled to the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face and pulled on a cardigan over her pyjamas. She checked her phone: 8.32a.m. Only half an hour until her Zoom with Tom at nine.
Downstairs, the shop was bathed in golden morning light, the dust motes dancing like it was all part of some magical antique diorama. On the counter was a plate of toast, butter already melting into the slices, and next to it a mug of tea with just the right amount of milk.
Daniel looked up from where he was pulling on his coat by the door. ‘Morning,’ he said, not quite meeting her eyes.
‘Morning,’ Fern replied.
‘I made tea,’ he said. ‘And toast.’
‘I see that. Thanks.’
Grabbing the keys, he said, ‘I’m going to nip to Beachcomber Bakery. Pick up some bits for lunch.’
‘Oh. Okay.’
He hesitated for a moment. ‘You’ve got your call soon, right?’
‘Yeah. In twenty minutes.’
‘Good luck.’
‘Thanks.’
The bell over the door jangled as it closed behind him, leaving the faint scent of his aftershave behind. She knew he was disappearing to give her space and privacy while she took the call, and she was grateful for his tact.
