He blows out his cheeks. ‘Fine, I give in. Take the bedroom. Permanently.’
I’m laughing. ‘I don’t want the bedroom. I like it in this bit.’ I tilt my head towards the riot of colour cascading over the screen. ‘This isn’t a wind-up, this is just who I am. I’ve never had this much space before. It’s actually amazing.’
He pulls a face. ‘Stars above, you’re not even joking?’
‘I’m not.’
As I confirm that, his despair is so real I go past the point of hilarity, through amusement, and reach a place where there’s a twang in my chest. Truly, I nevereversaw myself getting to the point of feeling sorry for Miles Appleton, but for a fleeting second I do. Obviously it’s completely misplaced, because at the end of it all he’s still the same knob he’s always been.
He’s staring at me intently. ‘Not wanting to force you to overshare, but if this place is big, where were you before?’
I take a breath. ‘I was at uni in Bristol, and after that I mostly stayed at an animal sanctuary in Somerset and paid my rent with jobs around the yard.’
‘Totally rocking theCountry Livingdream, then?’
I blow out a breath. ‘A room the size of a cupboard in a clapped-out porta cabin wouldn’t be for everyone, but I enjoyed the animals. And the rural pieces I wrote when I was there came straight from the heart, and the readers seemed to like that.’
He nods. ‘That’s why you’re all over the pisky stuff.’
I smile. ‘I can write all day about hay meadows and Morris dancers, and I’ve blown a few rural myths out of the water in my time– there’s no such thing as micro pigs.’
His eyes are wide. ‘I’ll take your word on that.’
I hesitate for a moment, but it’s only polite to ask. ‘I landed here when the refuge was evicted by a property developer. How did you end up in St Aidan?’
He shakes his head. ‘I came down to Cornwall to help someone, and when she unexpectedly found she could manage without me, Tate suggested I stay here.’
Well, that’s cleared that up. There’s no ambiguity with the pronouns there. He definitely came here because of a woman, and there’s no reason at all I should feel like I’ve had a pony kick in my stomach knowing that.
He looks down. ‘I had my foot in a pot at the time, too.’
I remember Zofia mentioned this. ‘A broken ankle and a shattered heart. No wonder Tate caved.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘It wasn’t quite like that.’
It never is. This is guys all over. They never truly open up; they’d always rather leave you guessing.
If you think that the card Clemmie gave me yesterday has been on my mind, you’d be right. During my first trip into town this morning I actually dismissed it entirely as I waved up at her on her balcony. Then I walked back into the cottage to find Beethoven’s 9th symphony bouncing off the kitchen roof, so the second time in town I got directions to the Net Loft, and found I was looking at a simple whitewashed building just off the end of the harbourside which had been split up into small shop units. The end one looked empty, but since I’m looking for a bedroom not a retail space, I put it in the too difficult pile, went back to my car and got on with the rest of my life. So that’s the end of that.
Miles is frowning now. ‘Excuse me, but what exactly are you wearing there?’
What was I saying about him being an arse? Flipping the attention back onto me to avoid being straight himself. I look down to remind myself. ‘Paper bag shorts in floral cotton, a bra top, two silk kimonos and some fairy wings.’ I take in his grimace. ‘They were under the front seat of my car, I put them on to carry them back.’
I dress to please myself, and I always have, and I love seeing Miles wince at my combinations because it’s like me waving a finger at his boring conventionality. If Miles were selecting a woman’s outfit, I imagine he’d choose a short, strong-coloured satin cocktail dress, with eff-me heels, and bare shoulders. My point is, it would be very obvious, but even more, it would be a million miles from the pale satin bridesmaid’s slip I was flopping about in at Scarlett’s wedding two years ago.
In the interest of keeping this balanced, I bat the conversation straight back to him again. ‘Would you like to tell me about your clothes?’
He gives me a strange look then looks down at himself. ‘Jeans and T-shirt. A stylist sends me a selection from the company collection, and I put them on. Does that answer your question?’
I’m picking my jaw up off the floor. ‘That’s as much input as you have? And what happens to the surplus when this woman sends the next batch?’
He gives a cough. ‘It’s actually a guy, and any input from me would have happened earlier when the ranges were being designed. Whatever I don’t wear to destruction is responsibly handed on.’
How can anyone make clothes sound this boring? Especially when they’re supposed to have a hand in making them and they’re the kind that cost shedloads. But I shouldn’t be surprised, because it all goes with the territory. And like everything else with me and Miles, we couldn’t be further apart if we tried.
Men who leave their choice of anything as individual as T-shirts in the hands of someone else must be more interested in money than what they actually put on their back. At least it’s good news on the repurposing and the gender of the stylist. My tummy drops again, and then I recap and reassure myself, because that wasn’t ever an issue; I’m pretty certain that Miles likes women not men. And it’s no concern of mine anyway. Definitely no shits are given in that direction from here.
As for what Miles’s life looks like beyond the boundaries of Boathouse Cottage, if it includes boardrooms, free clothes, fancy cars and friends like Tate’s wedding crew, I can only imagine it’s light years away from the places I’ve inhabited or the life I’ve lived. Which is why we have absolutely nothing in common and even less to talk about unless we’re disagreeing– which we are amazeballs at.
