‘What are yours?’
‘Complicated.’
I wait for more, but it doesn’t come. Which is a shame, because we could probably have wasted quite a lot of timesharing our stories. He seems to allow himself a few moments to settle, then comes to a decision.
‘One foot in front of the other,’ he says, as much to himself as me, and heads off towards the gate that leads to the edges of Starshine. I join him, and feel strange when I see that the gate is new. The old one was wooden, worn smooth with the touch of thousands of hands. It would have been comforting beneath my fingers. There’s a sign on it, painted by children, welcoming visitors to the village and directing them to the Cove Café. It’s pretty and bright and friendly, but it is new, so I don’t like it.
I feel a rush of weirdly misplaced fear. I mean, I’ll allow myself the nerves – that’s natural enough after all. But why the terror? Why the sense of doom? What the hell do I think is going to happen to me when I walk through that gate? Nobody is going to scream my name and stone me to death on the village green; nobody is going to call the police or set killer Dobermans loose on me. The worst that will happen is that I will need to have some awkward conversations.
I will need to talk to my dad, and Connie, and Archie. I will need to go back to the cottage where I last saw my mum, to the room where she slipped away, her tiny hand in mine. I will need to face the past.
I freeze solid, rooted to the spot, my hands clenched into tight fists. I think I’d prefer the Dobermans.
Guy opens the gate, studies me with way too much perception. ‘You’re having an adrenalin reaction. Fight, flight or freeze. Possibly all three in your case. Try taking some deep breaths.’
That’s ironic. I’ve spent years both learning and teaching yoga, and I’m adept at telling other people to breathe. Somehow, though, I seem to have lost the ability to do it myself right now. I nod, and at least try.
One breath in, one breath out. One gate. One village. One foot in front of the other.
I follow him and watch his reaction as we walk through. The Starshine Effect is normally immediate, a combination of gasps and sighs and sometimes tears at how beautiful it is. The village itself is spread around a traditional green, a collection of chocolate-box pretty cottages with thatched roofs, a handsome village inn, a bakery and a café and a little store. It’s all incredibly picturesque, and so wholesome it makes my brain ache. It even smells amazing, the scent of the sea, the woods, the wildflowers, and depending on what time of day it is, sugar and vanilla from all the baking.
I see him take it all in, his eyes running calmly from one building to another, surveying the lie of the land.
‘Pretty isn’t it?’ I ask, slightly surprised by his lack of obvious response.
‘Yes. Is this it?’
‘Basically, yeah. Come on, we’ll walk along the beach. Where exactly are you going?’
‘I don’t really know.’
He frowns again and looks down at me with a borderline bewildered expression.
‘I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing,’ he says quietly.
‘You and me both, pal. You and me both. So, either I’m hallucinating you right now, or the universe maybe put us here at the same time to help each other out. Come on. Like you said, one foot in front of the other. Let’s go and look at the sea. It’s bigger than us, and it knows what it’s doing.’
He nods, and I lead him to the back of the Cove Café. In my childhood version of Starshine, it doesn’t exist – Connie and my brother Simon built it together once they got married. Connie used to own some fancy Michelin-starred restaurant in London before she literally crash-landed here, and became a Llewellyn. Idon’t know her that well – I was away at uni when she arrived, and my history with this place has been patchy ever since. I was at their wedding, and she was great when my mum was ill, and I imagine she’s been a huge solace to my father in the intervening years. Unlike yours truly, who has been nothing but a smudge on the horizon.
I shudder a little and hide behind Guy’s bulk as we skim the café and its full-length windows. I think I can see Connie in there, and I’m really not ready for that right now. My nostrils have other ideas, twitching slightly at the waft of freshly-baked bread that floats towards us. A hint of sea-salt, maybe some rosemary.
The café building is perched on the edge of the village, the back looking right out over the bay. A series of gentle steps and terraces lead down to the beach, scattered with troughs of summer flowers, tubs of lavender, and wooden picnic benches. It’s mid-afternoon in high summer, and the seashore is busy, a pleasant blend of dogs and kids and people devoted to the fine art of ice cream eating.
We stroll down the steps and onto the sand. I lay a hand on his arm, and gesture at his feet. He’s wearing jeans and huge boots, the kind that are great for walking miles or kicking in doors, but not so great in a situation like this.
‘Barefoot is best,’ I explain. ‘You know, to communicate with the spirits?’
I’m winding him up a little, and he quirks an eyebrow at me. He has a series of expressions that cover all the versions of ‘stern’ I could possibly imagine.
‘Oh, go on,’ I say, nudging him. ‘Be a devil – don’t you like the feel of the sand between your toes? We could even strip down to our skimpies and go for a swim…’
‘I don’t think so,’ he replies, as he leans down to untie his laces. ‘I’m not sure you’d be able to control yourself if I took my top off.’
He sounds one hundred per cent serious, but when he glances up I see the slightest hint of a twinkle in his eyes.
‘Yay! There you go!’ I say, clapping my hands together. ‘I knew you had some flirt in you somewhere! Your boots and your bag will be fine here. This isn’t the kind of place people steal your belongings.’
He glances around, his eyes vigilant, but eventually nods in agreement. He’s quiet and self-contained, but hyper aware of his surroundings at the same time.
