He goes out of the door and pulls it shut behind him.
I decide to take a break and eat my Pot Noodle early, turning my music right up and singing along to ‘Unbelievable’ by EMF while I’m waiting for the kettle to boil. It’s not even noon, but I won’t leave the house before one if I’m taking an hour’s lunch break. I’m over by the French doors punching the air when Charlie calls my name.
‘Holyfuckingshit!’ I gasp, clutching my hand to my chest as I spin around to face him.
‘Sorry,’ he replies with a smirk. He’s standing in the kitchen doorway. ‘Forgot nappies.’
He looks – dare I say it? – amused as he roots around in the cupboard, pulling out what he’s after. ‘See you later,’ he calls over his shoulder, a blindingly gorgeous grin on his face.
I reel backwards. That’s the first time I’ve seen him smile properly when it wasn’t at his daughter.
Or at the memory of his wife.
‘Freedom’ by the lovely, late George Michael is playing at top volume on the stereo inside my head when I finally make it out of the house. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and Padstow isabsolutely rammed. I can barely make my way along the footpaths because they’re so packed with locals and tourists, so I walk on the road instead, hoping I’ll be able to avoid death by motor vehicle. The water in the small harbour is dotted with sailing boats, and a flock of seagulls are going berserk over something a small, gleeful boy has thrown to them. I can see two ice cream vans from where I’m standing, and I passed a crêperie van on the way here, too. Grey-stone, light-blue and cream-painted shops, restaurants and cafés follow the curved line of the road to my left, and, across the other side of the harbour, a hill stretches away from the town, creating a pretty green backdrop to the buildings.
The sweet smell of fudge wafts out of a confectionary shop as I pass, mingling with the aroma coming from the Padstow Pasty down the road. I think there’s a Co-op around the corner. If this is anything like the other posh seaside towns I’ve visited, there’ll be a White Stuff, Joules, Fat Face or Seasalt here, as well.
I find all four. If Marty were around, we could’ve made that a drinking game.
I miss her. In truth, I’ve been missing her for a long time. I’m glad that she’s happy, but, when I dicked off to Australia for a year, I didn’t expect to come back and find her living with a guy I hadn’t even met. I like Ted – he’s a good ’un – but seeing my friends so loved up and popping out babies makes me pine all the more for Elliot.
Not that I want a baby.
After I’ve picked up a few bits and pieces from the supermarket, I nip into Joules and try on a couple of things. I get a bit of a shock when I discover the size 12 is a little on the tight side – damn my Rick Stein’s addiction! – so, on my way back to Charlie’s, I take a detour via one of the bicycle-hire places. The Camel Trail is excellent for cycling, apparently, so I reckon I’ll go on a few bike rides this weekend and try to burn off some excess calories.
I arrive at the house to find that Charlie hasn’t yet returned, so I sit on the wall in the front garden and wait for him, twiddling stalks of lavender and absent-mindedly sniffing my fingers.
A girl with a red T-shirt and matching headscarf pushes a pram along the footpath towards me.
Bandana Central.
‘Are you the author?’ she asks, smiling brightly as she comes to a stop in front of me. She has warm, brown eyes set within a round face, and her legs are surprisingly stick-thin. With her red T-shirt, she reminds me a little of a kindly robin.
‘Yes, Bridget,’ I introduce myself, liking the ring ofauthorway more thanghostwriter.
‘I’m Jocelyn,’ she replies. ‘And this is Thomas.’ She nods at her son. ‘We live across the road.’
‘Hello,’ I say, smiling at her baby. He looks to be about April’s age.
‘Is Charlie out?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, he went into town. I’m just waiting for him to get back.’
‘Don’t you have a key?’ she asks with surprise.
‘No.’
‘Oh.’
Awkward.
‘How’s he getting on with the school job?’ she asks, as though I’d know.
I’m a bit embarrassed that I don’t, so I pretend otherwise. ‘Okay, I think, although it’s a bit tough without childcare.’
She looks dismayed. ‘I can have April! I keep offering, but he never takes me up on it! Will you remind him? Thomas and I are free this afternoon for a couple of hours.’
‘I think he wants to put her down in her cot at two o’clock for a nap, but he might give you a shout later.’ Again, I bizarrely feign knowledge of the situation. I don’t know what’s got into me.
