Ed blinked. ‘No, Mum, that’s Angela. My partner. You’ve met her before, remember?’
‘Have I? Oh, that’s nice. Hello, Alice.’
‘Close enough,’ Ed said gently.
Beth’s chest tightened. She had grieved for babies that never were; this was grief for a person dissolving in front of you. Different pains, both sharp.
‘Come and sit down,’ she said, guiding Mags to a table. ‘I’ll get you a cuppa.’
‘She’s worse,’ Ed murmured as Beth passed him. ‘Dad says she’s started wandering at night. Keeps packing to go “home”.’
Beth squeezed his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’
When she brought the tea, Mags brightened at the biscuits. ‘Ooh, shortbread! I used to make these, didn’t I, Ken?’
‘You did, love,’ Ken said, smiling. ‘Best in the village. Jo always said she didn’t know how you got them so buttery.’
Mags beamed, then frowned. ‘Who’s Jo? Is he the awful plumber who never cleaned up? I don’t remember.’
Ken took her hand. ‘That’s all right. I remember enough for both of us.’
Beth blinked hard and turned away to polish a glass that didn’t need polishing.
Later, after Ken had coaxed Mags upstairs for a lie-down, Ed slumped at the bar with a whisky.
‘She didn’t even recognise the pub at first,’ he said. ‘They ran this place for years. She used to belt out karaoke on Fridays. Now she doesn’t know what “Dancing Queen” is.’
Beth poured herself a splash of wine and sat beside him. ‘She knows she’s safe with you. That’s what matters.’
He smiled, faint and grateful. ‘You’re kind, Beth.’
‘Remind me to have that engraved on my headstone.’
They both huffed a laugh.
Her phone pinged. She glanced down, expecting Diana’s meme of the day. Instead, a message from Luke:
I can’t stop thinking about you.
Beth’s heart stuttered. Weeks of silence, then that. She shoved the phone into her pocket.
‘All right?’ Ed asked.
‘Yeah,’ she lied.
‘If you need to talk?—’
‘I don’t.’ It came too fast. She softened. ‘Thank you. Not tonight.’
He nodded and drifted to the snug, where Ken was swapping stories with Jimmy.
Beth retreated to the kitchen, stacked plates, wiped a clean surface. Eventually, inevitably, she went downstairs.
Gigi hovered above the playfield, his lights dim. The machine gave a small, mournful ping.
‘You’re quiet,’ she said. ‘Or are you busy meddling in someone else’s skull?’
‘Even I know when to keep schtum,’ he replied, surprisingly gentle. ‘That message rattled you.’
