Once on the estate agent’s website, I search for Lower Hadwell and I’m relieved to see a picture of the boathouse near the top of the list, sporting a banner alerting prospective buyers that it’s newly on the market. When the page loads, the first thing I do is scroll hungrily through the photographs.
It looks amazing, and I’m warmed to see he’s put some of my suggestions into place – a doorstop made of a ball of white waxy rope that looks like it belongs on a yacht, a driftwood carving on a windowsill. That bloody conch shell in the bathroom.
I scroll further down the page to remove it from view, and that’s when I spot some large type in bold letters:Open House, 10 – 4 p.m. …And it’s today’s date! I check the clock. It must have only just started.
I close my eyes. I want to go so badly. I’ve forbidden myself from reading those messages again in case it muddies the waters, but I still have all these big feelings towards Gil. It’s almost more than I can bear.
I talked to Naomi about it when I saw her for the last time just before Christmas, even though I felt like a complete idiot. She says it’s unlikely my feelings for Gil are down to the head injury.I’d probably have other random fixations too if that was the case. She said to step back, give myself breathing space rather than responding in the moment when I’m up in my emotions and ready to jump in and follow a whim. So that’s what I’ve done.
I’ve waited, and I’ve waited.
And I can’t stop thinking about the way Gil looked at me the last time I saw him.
Always and only you.
Stuff it.
I head back to the hallway and pick up my car keys.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
Present Day
Devon looks different in February compared to high summer. All the bright blues, fresh greens and warm yellows have been stripped away, leaving browns and greys, with the odd sprinkling of snowdrops and crocuses to add dots of colour. I drive down familiar roads that twist through fields and hedgerows, across bubbling rivers and ancient bridges, and begin the descent down the steep hill into Lower Hadwell.
When I spot the turning for Heron’s Quay, I take a deep breath and flip my indicator on. The lane is muddy and I have to crawl along certain stretches to avoid the potholes, but finally I pull into the drive. Four cars are parked there. None of them are Gil’s.
I tuck my little Fiat into a gap and take a moment to breathe the sharp river air and then hurry towards the front door. According to the clock in my car, I only just made it. The open house ends in just over fifteen minutes.
I knock on the open door rather than marching straight through it and when I hear footsteps, my pulse goes into overdrive. However, it’s not a familiar long, lean frame that turns the corner into the atrium,but a shorter, stockier man in a suit. ‘Good afternoon,’ he says.
‘I’m here for the open house,’ I say breathlessly.
He walks towards me and extends his hand for me to shake. ‘There are a couple of other people looking around at the moment. How about I show you the key features and then you can take a bit of time to look around yourself?’
‘That sounds perfect.’ I peer past his shoulder. ‘Is … is the owner here?’
‘He’s not in the house at present.’ He clasps his hands in front of himself, making him look more like a bouncer than an estate agent. I sense he’s been trained to keep nosy people in their place.
I knew when I got in the car it was a long shot that Gil might be here, but my spirits sink into my comfy boots. I don’t want to explain to the agent I already know this house, so I just play along and allow him to give me a tour, tuning out his spiel about mid-century architecture and the benefits of riverside living.
I don’t have to speculate why Gil changed his mind. Being here is bittersweet. Heron’s Quay is full of memories I didn’t even realize I was making, but now I’ve come to cherish them.
As I walk through the kitchen pretending to admire the cabinets, I see the empty space where Gil used to put a mug for me in front of the kettle each morning so I could make myself a cup of tea when I was ready. It was always the same mug because somehow, he’d worked out which one was my favourite.
When we go up to the roof, all I can hear is the sound of his voice drifting through the darkness towards me. The entire universe had been sparkling and twinkling above our heads, but yet it had felt so intimate.
When we look at the rooms downstairs, both complete now,I can’t help laughing out loud at the memory of those stupid shelves collapsed on the floor in a heap. The estate agent gives me a funny look and I have to hide my smile. They’re attached to the wall now, painted a beautiful soft grey and the matching built-in bunk beds look wonderful, the perfect den for a couple of children.
When he shows me the primary suite, the set of rooms that once were mine, I’m stopped in my tracks. Gone is most of the pre-loved furniture, save a few pieces, and in its place is a stylish and inviting private space with off-white walls and soft furnishings in muted greys and greens. And there, as a pop of colour above the bed, is a painting. My painting. The one I didn’t know I wanted Gil to keep, but then left with him anyway. It makes me sad and hopeful all at the same time.
When we come full circle and return to the living room, I’m not listening to the sales patter. All I can see is the look on Gil’s face when he stood on the corner of that rug. All I can hear are the distant whispering echoes of the moment he told me he loved me, that he’d always loved me.
What an idiot I was not to have realized it was him I loved back all along.
Or maybe I did realize … My subconscious had certainly been aware of it, hadn’t it? Just as my pre-wedding nightmares had been warnings that I didn’t really know the man I was about to marry, my strangely long and complicated dream in hospital had been an accurate depiction of Gil. Ihadknown. I just hadn’t known I’d known.
‘Is there any last thing you’d like to see, madam?’ the agent says, moving to the doorway. The new oversized sunburst clock on the wall tells me it’s five past four. I really should be going.
