‘Alone? I’ve never heard such stuff and nonsense! You’ll no be alone, woman! You can stay here, with us. We know enough about bairns between us to write a book.’
‘That’s not realistic,’ I insist, even though the idea is so very comforting. ‘My job. My flat…’
‘Pah. Details, that’s all they are. Details that can be worked out. Did I tell you that James Fraser came to see me yesterday? Seems to have some mad scheme about turning the shop into something more than it is. He might be talking out of his bahookie, but he might not be. I wonder where he got the idea in the first place?’
Her gaze narrows, and I bite my lip. ‘Um. Yes. That might have been me. Plus, what’s a bahookie?’
Rosie interjects: ‘Backside, Kate – bottom, buttocks, arse!’
She says each word with great relish. That prosecco is going down well.
Moira nods, unsurprised. ‘I suspected as much. I know we’d mentioned it as a vague idea, Kate, but now he’s talking about investment and business plans and the like. The more he talked, the more I started to like it. Much better than that whole bijou hotel nonsense. And if it goes ahead, I’ll need help – I’m too old to take charge of it all. I’ll be needing a manager, won’t I? And someone to look after the cottage for the time being. You’d be useful here, Kate. And you wouldn’t be alone, darling.’
She leans forward, patting me on the shoulder, pinning me down with her all-seeing gaze. ‘How does that sound?’
I turn it over in my mind. It sounds mad. It sound impossible. It sounds… right.
TWENTY-NINE
BRODY
I make it to London, but my plan to get the train to Oxford to see Shannon doesn’t quite materialise. In fact nothing materialises apart from some heavy drinking, and almost getting into a bar fight.
I checked into a hotel, and headed for the nearest pub, where I propped up the bar and tried not to talk to anybody apart from the bartender. The Guinness was followed by whisky, and the whisky was followed by free shots of something green. No clue what it was, but it hit the spot. The spot being total annihilation.
A couple of women tried to chat to me, but my natural charm soon put them off. And as usual, as the night wore on, a few wannabe tough guys decided to try and prove themselves by tangling with the biggest man in the room. I’m used to this, and now recognise the signs that some asshole is about to take a run at me, try and provoke something.
My usual approach is to stay polite and refuse to engage, but last night I came close to losing it. One idiot kept pushing me as I sat on the bar stool, making comments and physically invading my space. The woman serving had told him to get lost three times, having that instinct for trouble that people who work inbars often have. He kept asking if I wanted to ‘take it outside’, which is pretty much international code for a dustup.
He wouldn’t take the hint, and in the end I physically picked him up like he was a child, carrying him in my arms through the door. He was punching my shoulders and screaming at me, which I ignored, and then I stood him up very carefully on his unsteady feet. I patted his face gently, and said: ‘There. We took it outside. Sober up, asshole.’
This was ironic coming from me, possibly the drunkest man in the room by that stage, but I was in control. Just about. I didn’t hurt him, but I wanted to. Or maybe I wanted him to hurt me, who knows? I was feeling pretty messed up, and I’d have welcomed something simple like a good old-fashioned bar-room brawl.
The guy had wobbled and threatened, but in the end his pals persuaded him to leave it. He’ll wake up this morning with a sore head, and a phone full of mocking messages, because the same pals had filmed the whole thing.
The bartender had given me more free shots as a thank-you, and made the kind of comments that suggested she wouldn’t mind meeting up when she finished her shift. She was cute, pink hair and full-sleeve tattoos, but I wasn’t interested. There is only one woman on my mind, and I left her behind in Bonnie Bay.
I woke up today with a hangover that is threatening to kill me, chugging water as I sit on the side of the bed and consider standing up. My back is giving me crap, and my heart is giving me even more.
I am heading back to Chicago tomorrow. I am leaving the UK, and returning to the only life I’ve ever known. My beautiful city, and my friends and family, and a new job. This should feel like a fresh start. It doesn’t. It feels like a fresh hell.
I should talk to someone who isn’t a random stranger in a bar. I should reach out, and get some support. Shannon wouldbe there for me, my folks, my brother Connor, who I’m closest to and has had his own troubles. They’d all listen.
The problem is that they’d also talk, and I’m not sure I want to hear what they’d be saying. Shannon liked Kate, I know. She’d be telling me to get my ass back up there. Connor would be more measured, but essentially tell me I was being a dick. I don’t need anybody to make me feel worse than I already do.
I was so sure I was doing the right thing in leaving. I was so sure it was right for both of us, no matter how difficult it was in the moment. Now I’m hundreds of miles away from her, and I feel like there’s no oxygen in the room. I’m constantly wondering what she’s doing, where she is, how she’s feeling. I can’t get the image of her out of my mind, the way she stood outside the cottage waving me off, trying to be brave but her lips trembling with the emotion of it all.
I consider calling Rosie and checking in on her. I consider calling Kate, just so I can hear her voice. Even if I hung up straight away, the sound of her saying hello might be enough to calm me. I feel like a goddamn junkie jonesing for his next hit.
As well as Kate, I realise I’m missing everything else – the store, Moira, even Joanne’s venomous humour. What’s happening in Bonnie Bay right now? Does Moira know I’m gone yet, and will she forgive me for not saying goodbye in person? Is the store open? Is Betty wondering where I am?
Why does any of this matter? I’ve done the right thing. I’m sure of it.
My phone rings, and I grab it up, hoping it’s Kate. It’s not. It’s Shannon, and I hate myself for feeling disappointed when I see my daughter’s name.
‘Dad, why are you in London?’ she asks straight away.Shit. I’d forgotten she can see where I am. I can hear bells ringing in the background, the sound of Oxford in the morning.
‘I… uh… well…’ I mutter, trying and failing to come up with a decent reason.
