‘No, I’m okay, thanks,’ I reply, not wanting to burden him any more than I already have. I drag and bump the stupid thing up the narrow stone staircase, emerging onto a dimly lit landing. There are three rooms, one used as an office. The other two are larger, and one is clearly Robbie’s – assuming Moira doesn’t have a thing for American football, or a crush on Dua Lipa.
The main room looks out over the sea, and I pause and stare through the glass. It’s almost seven now, but the sky is still bright. I can’t wait to look out at the stars later, maybe see the sunrise over the waves. I smile, and lay my case down on the bed – a big old thing with a brass frame. I’m half tempted to get in for a nap, because the Guinness and the brandy on a mainly empty stomach have left me a bit giddy.
I look around, admiring two framed illustrations on the wall. Beautiful women who seem to be half seal. I smile, recognising them as selkies, a shapeshifter from old legends. My gran used to read fantastical stories to me as a child, and these were from Scottish folklore. Maybe I’ll be able to shapeshift while I’m here, too.
Moira’s trinkets and toiletries are scattered around, a paperback left on her bedside table. I’m sad about her accident, but I’m glad I’m here, in her home, picking up where she left off. Maybe I’ll even read the book… except when I lift it up, I see it’s a Stephen King, and that is very much not my vibe. Still. I’ll find something else downstairs, or in the whole magical bookshop I now have access to.
I get out my phone, and quickly type Moira a message:
We’re here, and the cottage is wonderful. Thank you so much for letting me stay!
By the time I’ve unpacked my few belongings, a reply has landed:
You’re most welcome my dear. Treat the place like your own home.
Huh, I think, my eyes returning to the windows. To the sunlight bouncing off the water, and the fishing boats bobbing on the swell. I already feel so comfortable here, truthfully more at home than I do in my own flat. It’s like a load has been lifted, getting away from London, escaping into this tiny place on the edge of nowhere.
I hear Brody moving around upstairs, not looking happy as he emerges into my room. ‘How come,’ he asks seriously, ‘a kid from Scotland has his walls covered in posters of the Dallas Cowboys?’
‘I have no clue,’ I reply earnestly. He looks genuinely flummoxed. ‘Would it be better if it was the Chicago, uh, Antelopes?’
‘Bears!’ he says scathingly, shaking his head. ‘And that would be even weirder… you know there’s only one bathroom?’
‘How many do you need?’
‘It’s just different than what I’m used to in the States is all,’ he explains. ‘This is small. I’ve already cracked my head on the beams a dozen times.’
‘Poor baby. It obviously wasn’t built for giants.’
He humphs, and I stare at a framed poster of a quote. The small print at the bottom tells me it’s Robbie Burns, from ‘Ae Fond Kiss’:
But to see her was to love her; Love but her, and love for ever.
I sigh a little. ‘It’s a nice thought, isn’t it?’ I ask, glancing at him over my shoulder. ‘I wonder if it can ever be true…’
He reads the quote, sadness flickering over his face. ‘Yeah,’ he replies quietly. ‘It can be true.’
He heads back downstairs without another word, and when I join him there I notice he hasn’t moved his suitcase at all, it’s still where he left it in the kitchen. I say nothing.
I’m in the middle of putting the kettle on, rummaging for tea bags, when there’s a knock on the door. Brody is immediately alert, and I wonder how much tension a job like his must leave in a person. Constantly seeing the dark side of life, his fight-or-flight responses off the charts.
He strides to the door, keeping me behind him, but by the time we peer outside there’s nobody there. Just two boxes abandoned on the step. I lean down, and find that our mystery benefactor has left us milk, bread, cheese and bacon. Plus a four-pack of Guinness and a bottle of red wine. There’s also a stack of chopped firewood.
I point at the Guinness. ‘That’s for you,’ I announce. ‘The wine is mine, all mine!’ I let out a supervillain laugh, and he looks at me like I’m crazy.
Without a word, he takes everything inside. He starts making a fire, and I get to work on cheese on toast. Within minutes, we’re warm, settled at the table, and indulging in our feast. ‘This is good,’ he says, after taking a few bites. He is devouring it, and I guess he eats a lot more than me. He probably eats a lot more than most people.
‘Well, even I can’t mess up cheese on toast!’ I reply. It’s nice watching him tuck in, giving me an unfamiliar warm feeling in the pit of my stomach. He pauses, looks across at me.
‘Even you? Why do you say that?’ he asks, frowning. ‘Why are you so down on yourself?’
I blink at him, suddenly self-conscious. I look away, too embarrassed to meet his eye. I want to argue, but don’t have the confidence – which I guess just proves his point. I stand up, ignore his question, and go to run myself a glass of water. I turn my back on him, and hope he leaves it alone.
He doesn’t.
‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Kate. I just… I don’t like the way you sometimes apologise just for being you. You should never have to apologise for being yourself.’
Ah, what a wonderful idea. Completely alien to me, of course, but still a fantastic concept. At this point I should crack a joke, make light, deflect. I should lie, or tell him to back off. He’s a stranger, a man who crossed my path at random. He’s not a friend or confidante, or someone I owe an explanation to.
