He looked. Ed and Angela were shoulder to shoulder in the slipstream, sneaking a quick cuddle. Rose was blethering to a couple in their eighties. Jimmy cradled his dram like a fragile artefact.
Warmth. Normality. Everyday life.
‘Right now, yes.’
Food arrived. Lisa dissected her fish, stole a forkful of his mac and cheese, declared the wine acceptable. She talked thread count, organic vineyards, hygge. He nodded, half-present,watching Beth glide from table to table, a quiet sun the room orbited. When her path brought her near, he tried to catch her eye. She glanced away.
‘Sven was a mistake,’ Lisa said suddenly, snapping Kieran out of his reverie.
‘And you realised that when he cheated?’
A flicker of emotion crossed Lisa’s face. Whether it was hurt or anger he couldn’t tell. ‘I already knew. He doesn’t laugh. We used to, right? You and me.’
Did they? Lisa had tolerated his favourite comedy shows, not loved them. Maybe they’d laughed more at the start, before kale and mantras and everything else.
‘Listen, I’m only here two more days,’ she said, topping up their glasses. ‘Let’s see how this feels.’
Kieran looked at Beth again. She was smiling at a table of Americans, the smile reaching her eyes. When she finally met his gaze, something like sadness crossed her face, quick as a cloud. Then she turned away.
‘Let’s settle up,’ Lisa chirped, gathering her bag. ‘We can talk about ways to spruce up the cottage. Make it more homely and welcoming. It just needs a woman’s touch.’
They stepped into the evening light. Cranley wasn’t a wine bar and tapas place. It was something else. Maybe he’d been OK withsomething else, right up until he complicated it.
Have I just messed that up?he thought but didn’t say.
Prom would have answered. Prom always did.
Chapter Thirty-Five
It had started as a teenage sulk of a sky – low, moody, and oppressive. By mid-afternoon, the first fat drops of rain splashed on the cobbles of Cranley’s main street, leaving dark freckles that quickly bled together.
Beth stepped out of the back door of The Jekyll and Hyde, kitchen heat colliding with the sudden chill outside. A strong gust of wind tugged at her apron and she shivered.
‘Oh, brilliant,’ she muttered, watching the rain bounce off the bins. ‘Exactly what we need.’
Inside, the old pub groaned as if in harmony with the change in pressure. Bottles rattled faintly on the shelves. Down in the basement, something gave a hiccup – a bright metallicping!– followed by a faint, petulant voice only Beth could hear. ‘That’s not thunder, is it?’
Beth froze.
‘Gigi, don’t start,’ she hissed, glancing towards the handful of sodden customers who’d braved the downpour.
‘It’satmospheric, darling. Storms make me feel positively giddy. I love, love, love a good old hooley. Wind howling and things flying around. Makes me want to?—’
‘No.’
‘But—’
‘You’re not doing anything. It’s just weather. It’ll pass.’
There was a wounded hiss, like a kettle on the brink of boiling. ‘Fine. But if you need a little magic to keep the water out, I’m your genie.’
‘I need a mop, not a miracle,’ she muttered, retreating to her chopping board.
By five o’clock, the rain was biblical. Sheets of it slanted sideways, drains gurgling in protest. Out front, the street shimmered like a river, the flower tubs outside the bakery floating away like little lifeboats.
The door burst open and Kieran stumbled in, drenched, hair plastered to his forehead. ‘Got an ark out back?’ he asked, shaking water from his sleeves.
Beth tossed him a towel. Tried to keep her tone even. ‘Just the mop and bucket. Are you all right?’
