My eyes open wide. ‘What– the obsessive-who-pursues-you-relentlessly sort?’
He nods. ‘That’s the one.’
I gasp. ‘That’s not a bump in the road. That’s a mountain.’
He pulls a face. ‘St Aidan was the ideal place to hide away, but the drawback was the locals know everything about everything.’
I’m with him on that. ‘Every seagull that squawks, every message in the sand.’
He laughs. ‘For the first few months I went into stealth mode, because it was the only way, but I caught the habit.’ His lips twist into a grin. ‘When my problem eased, it became a bit of a challenge to see how long I could stay under the radar.’
I grin at him. ‘If you went to the over-sixties baking evening and you’ve been spotted drinking in the Yellow Canary, I guess your incognito days are over.’
He shakes his head. ‘It was a lucky break for both of us I went out to that.’ Miles is chewing the last of his ice cream, rubbing his hands together, and standing up.
I stand up too. ‘So what’s next?’
He narrows his eyes. ‘We could walk past your favourite stalls, and then we can head down the coast again.’
I smile. ‘Back to St Aidan?’
He looks at his watch, then back at me. ‘It’s barely afternoon, Betsy Bets. I’ve got two more shops to show you, then I’ll take you somewhere to help you make up your mind.’ He cocks his head. ‘If that’s okay with you?’
‘Fine.’ I say it like it means nothing at all, but I’m not telling the truth.
None of this is okay. The whole day has felt as if I were walking over tectonic plates that are shifting underneath my feet as I move. Every new step feels like it’s taking me further away from the person I am, from the things I know. It’s as if I’m crossing a metaphorical bridge and that when I get to the other side there will be no going back.
None of this is comfortable, none of it is what I’d have chosen even this morning, but I’m still here. I can stop it at any moment. I can walk away. But for some reason I’m not. It’s terrifying, and it’s entirely not me. But I’m here, and a tiny voice inside me is telling me I’m going to follow this all the way to the end. Wherever that might be.
And even stranger still– as we walk back towards the market, it feels like I’m walking with a friend not an enemy.
42
The Walled Garden, Abbots Sands
Life on Mars
Friday
‘Four shops would mean industrial quantities of pastries, Miles. How would you handle all that baking?’
It’s six on Friday evening, the sun has begun to lose its heat, and we’re in a walled garden in a tiny hamlet a couple of miles inland from the village where we saw the last available shop, spreading out travelling rugs on the neatly cut grass square at the centre of an outdoor wildflower meadow restaurant, where Miles has said we’ll be the only diners.
My question isn’t the kind that’s waiting for an answer. It’s designed more as a sign off, a full stop to finish the day, to say it’s been lovely to dream, but as what he’s suggesting is actually not feasible, let’s leave it there.
The stress of tearing from town to town with Miles, visiting three potential shops and a market was pushed up a notch when it was all done with the big unanswered question hanging in the air between us– am I about to get on board for the ride of my life, or am I going to follow every natural instinct in my body and run as fast as I can in the opposite direction? The surer he became that he was winning his argument, the more I felt like I had a helicopter in my chest that was about to lift off. Add to that the growing warmth between us now he’s opening up and sharing, there’s no wonder I’m dazed.
Miles had every reason to feel proud of what he’d lined up. For the second shop he’d used his fashion industry contacts to pull out the most unbelievable newly vacant place on Falmouth High Street. As we left the final shop in Abbots Sands, which was as bijou and hidden away as the second was impressive and out there, my insides felt like a tightly stretched rubber band.
If we’d spent the afternoon at Boathouse Cottage and come straight to the walled garden from there, we would only be missing the rush of the waves. But after the throb of the traffic in Falmouth, this meadow with the swish of the long grass against a backdrop of birdsong feels like an idyll. When the owner comes out and brings us a large picnic tray, some flutes, and two bottles of fizz each in their own ice bucket, I lie on my back, watch the cotton-white twists of the clouds against the deep blue beyond, and decide I’ve landed in heaven.
I talk to the sky as much as to Miles. ‘Are champagne buckets like buses? I’ve barely met one in my life, and now two come together!’
Miles laughs. ‘One is Prosecco, the other is zero alcohol for drivers.’
I push myself up, take the full flute he passes me, and enjoy the prick of bubbles on my nose as I sip. Then, as the feel-good wave of the alcohol seeps all the way to my toes, I help myself to a sandwich.
I look more closely at the wicker platter beside me. ‘Avocado toasties, teensy tomatoes and mint salad, apricots with dill seed, hummus, coriander and carrot wraps, peach and mozzarella with croutons, sourdough bread, cheese pastry triangles, courgette and viola flowers! It’s literally like eating my magazine pieces.’
