Priddygrabbed his dressing gown off the back of a chair.The wool wasstill warm, as if his guest had helped himself to that recentlytoo.The lingering heat trace, the tang of suntouched kelp, was farfrom unpleasant, and he huddled into the garment, shivering.He wasstill pissed off.What did this stranger know about his badmornings, the days when he’d have given his soul for one sweet hitof dope, or pills, or any fucking thing at all to take the edge offthe bleak grey sky?To steer him for once past the Hell’s Teethrocks that lay just beneath his own newly smoothed-down surface,just as this godlike bastard had somehow swept to safety lastnight...“I’m fine,” he snapped.“Just tired.”
“Well, you really do have a car down there, so at least youwon’t have to walk.”
“Walk where?And what is the big bloody deal about thecar?”
“They’re such fun.Not an automatic, is it?”
“No, it’s a clapped-out Vauxhall Viva.And I don’t have myclothesmade, forheaven’s sake—I buy them.From Asda, mostly.”
“Of course.I forgot.Hurry up and get ready, and we can go fora drive.”
Priddy found himself in the bathroom, showering and cleaninghis teeth, as if Merou had made the most reasonable suggestion inthe world.His acquiescence was partly lack of strength toargue—bad mornings did that to him, leaving him beached andhelpless—and partly sheer habit.The suggestionwasreasonable.Why the hell not getready and go for a drive, do what the out-of-season tourists didwhen they were trying to make winter Cornwall fit with the picturesin their brochure, track down a tea shop brave enough to take thedesperate punt of staying open all year round and sit eating sconesby the fire?Find a cliff-top pub and have a couple of pints,although Priddy’s queasy bad-morning cravings couldn’t decide ifthe idea of booze was heaven or hell...The only weird aspect ofany of this was Merou, who’d washed in with the storm last nightand now wanted to pop out with Priddy in the car as if they’d knowneach other for years.
Whoseemed more at home in the lighthouse than Priddy would ever be.Heemerged from the bathroom to find Merou slouched in front of thelaptop on the kitchen table, surfing rapidly from screen to screen.“Look at all this stuff!”he called out as Priddy entered the room.“It’s the internet time.I’d forgotten.Absolute blast, or it willbe until it comes alive and scares you all back to carrier pigeonsfor a while.”
Therewas no point in arguing.Priddy was an empty shell.If Merou choseto prise him open—to look into his drawers, his search histories,his pitiful efforts to cobble together job applications—he hadnothing to give or to lose.“That’s my computer,” he said dully,dragging out a chair next to him and sitting down.
“Right.And that’s your breakfast.Eat up.”
A mug ofcoffee was steaming on the table.It didn’t smell like Priddy’sbrand of instant.He was absolutely certain he hadn’t bought theDanish pastry sitting on a plate beside it, even though the icedones with raisins were a half-forgotten favourite, the treat he’dused to ask his mum for on the rare occasions when the familybudget allowed.“Where did these things come from?”
“Just from your kitchen.The bun was in the freezer.Youmust’ve forgotten about it.”
“No, you can’t freeze those.And—”
“Mind you eat the apple too.Can’t fill you up with sugar andno vitamins.”
The apple hadn’t evenbeenthere a second ago.Priddy would’ve sworn to it.He rubbed his eyes.“What the hell are you doing?”
“Playing about on the internet while you eat your breakfast.Ordinary weekend morning.”
“Is it...Is it the weekend?”
“Oh, Priddy.Yes, it’s Saturday.And I know the weather’s a bitcrap, but the forecast says it’s sunny further inland.I bet it’squite nice up on Bodinnar hill.We really should take the dayoff.”
Priddytook a mouthful of his coffee.He really had fucked himself overwith his chemical misadventure, hadn’t he?Maybe somehow, beforehis life had hit the pan, he’d scored himself a lovely boyfriendwho knew and indulged his tastes in Danish pastries, and the two ofthem lived here together in the lighthouse and drove out onSaturdays to enjoy a day off.This fantasy was nice enough to stophim questioning his breakfast, at any rate, and the coffee wasperfect.Black, sweet, dash of caramel, hot enough to skin histongue.The buzz of it shot to his fingertips, driving out hisnausea, and he reached for the bun.“I think one of us is batshitcrazy.But this is lovely.Thanks.”
Meroushot him an amused glance.“Any other fella would’ve punched methrough the window for using his computer.”
“Oh.”Priddy shrugged.“Me, I’m anyone’s for aDanish.”
“And the apple.Don’t forget about that.”
“All right, all right.”He took a big bite: choked and snortedas juice shot down his throat and ran down his chin.“Bloodyhell!”
Meroupassed him a napkin.“What a mess.Don’t you like it?”
“No, it’s delicious.Just...a bit juicy.What sort isit?”
“Pomme de mer.Haven’t you had onebefore?”
NowPriddy knew he was being had on.“Pack it in.I know that’s Frenchfor potato.”
“De mer, notde terre, you idiot.They’re ever sogood.I was pleased to find one in your, er...fruitbasket.”
“I don’t have a fruit basket.This is a lighthouse, not FawltyTowers.God, I feel as if I woke up in Eden orsomewhere.”
“The Project?”
