By evening, the cottage resembled a war zone. Dust coated his laptop, rendering the touchpad temperamental, and his attempt to test a new feature on the app had ended in a frozenscreen and a string of expletives that made even Prom look offended.
‘Right,’ Kieran muttered, brushing plaster crumbs off the keyboard. ‘Minimalist wardrobes are hard enough without you crashing every five minutes, you useless lump of crap code.’
The app refused to respond, smug in its silence.
With no energy left for renovations or recalcitrant software, Kieran grabbed his coat and wallet and headed for the pub. A peaceful pint and a bite to eat would make things better.
‘Hear you’ve knocked half the cottage down.’ Ed grinned as he pulled a pint.
‘Didn’t realise you were into demolition,’ someone else chimed in.
Kieran held up his hands. ‘All lies. I’m simply modernising.’
‘Aye, modernisin’,’ Janette echoed from her stool in the corner. ‘By next week, he’ll have invented indoor rain.’
The room erupted in laughter, and though Kieran rolled his eyes, he couldn’t help the twitch of a smile. Somehow, being teased meant he was accepted – plaster dust, broken code and all.
He drained his pint, already imagining tomorrow’s double headache: rebuilding his wall and figuring out why his ‘streamlined user experience’ now resembled the menu screen of a 1998 video game.
‘Penny for them.’ Beth had appeared, holding a plate of Killer Kedgeree.It looked like regular kedgeree to Kieran, but he’d noted the quirky menu names before.
‘Sorry, my head’s mince, to use a favourite phrase of my dad’s.’ Kieran patted the chair next to him, and to his surprise, Beth sat.
Her hands trembled as she put down the food. Kieran noted the still-present pallor and the red-rimmed eyes that suggested sleeplessness or tears. Or both. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes. I mean, no. I don’t know what I mean. It’s just…’
Beth’s voice faded away. Kieran forked up a mouthful of rice and fish, chewing as he figured out what to say next.
‘Do you believe in otherworldly things?’ she asked.
Didn’t see that coming.‘Erm, if you mean ghosts, malevolent spirits and things that go bump in the night, the answer is no. Although my mum swore she saw a shadowy figure dressed in Victorian garb. My dad reckoned she’d mainlined too many gins and mistaken a dress on a hanger for some 1800s dame.’
Beth tapped her fingernails on the table: a rhythmic, staccato sound that jarred Kieran’s nerves. ‘I saw something last night. Here, in the pub. It made no sense, and when I woke up this morning, it didn’t feel real. I checked where it happened, and it’s simply impossible.’
‘A bad dream?’ Kieran wanted to find a rational answer to whatever was troubling Beth. ‘I dreamt the other night that Kate Bush smashed my sunglasses, we were on theTitanic, and everyone was singing “Wuthering Heights” in the style of Black Sabbath.’
Beth laughed. A strained laugh siphoned through whatever was troubling her. ‘Ozzy Osbourne channelling Kate Bush? I’d pay money to see that. But I’m babbling on when I should be cooking. Enjoy, Kieran, and pay no heed to my nonsense. See you around.’
Then she was gone. What had that all been about?
‘Hi, Kieran.’ Jo from the café appeared, with a man beside her. Kieran recalled that her husband was an actor, and he vaguely recognised his craggy but kindly face.
‘Nice to meet you, Kieran. I’m Harvey, lucky enough to be married to this gorgeous woman, and not only because her baked goods are legendary.’
Jo rolled her eyes. ‘I’ve hardly got the Greggs bakery chain quaking in their boots, Harvey. Anyway, you’re the famous one in these parts. Well, apart from Sam.’
‘Who you know very well doesn’t like to flaunt it.’ Harvey gave Jo a gently reproving look.
Kieran recalled Jinnie saying that her husband was an author. For a sleepy Scottish village, Cranley seemed to have its fair share of celebrities. He’d never be one of them. A quiet life. That’s all he wanted.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Nice gaff.’ Diana prowled around Beth’s small living quarters, straightening a cushion here, a coaster there – her natural habitat was any place she could impose order.
‘Thank you, my neat-freak friend.’ Beth forced a smile. She’d shoved her drying underwear into a drawer minutes before Diana arrived; small victories. ‘It’s not Bilberry Cottage, but I’m trying to make it feel like home.’
Diana nodded, her dark curls swishing. ‘So, how are you really settling in? We’ve talked on the phone but seeing you in person … something’s off. Am I right?’
