I’ve got extra food and drink in, put fresh bed linens on in the spare rooms, and written down instructions for the sometimes temperamental TV and broadband. I can’t think of a single other thing to do now, other than stop delaying, and actually go and collect my house guests. There is literally zero reason to be nervous about this.
I get into the car and drive down through the village. It’s another fine afternoon, and people are still out on the beach, walking dogs and enjoying the last of the day’s sun. I beep my horn at Xander as I pass him going into the Kestrel, and continue on down past the harbour to Kate and Brody’s cottage.
I sit for a moment, and take a few deep breaths. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m not normally the kind of man who worries about meeting new people. Sure, I like my own company, but I’m not anti-social. I’m not completely feral. I’m good with words, I can lay on the charm, I don’t struggle with crowds. I’ve stood in front of packed courtrooms and argued cases; I’ve given lectures at universities. I’ve spoken at gallery openings and I’ve taught classes. I am not shy, or crippled by a lack of confidence. So why am I sitting here in my car, faffing around and procrastinating? I’ll be practising my damn smile in the mirror next.
I think it’s Moira, and all her talk of the universe. It’s unnerved me. I think she’s got me half convinced there’s some truth in it. That she’s somehow magically drawn my perfect woman to Bonnie Bay for me, and now I’m a wee bit worried that if she has, I might still find a way to stuff it up somehow.
Enough. I run my hands through my hair – I really need a trim – and glance down at myself. Battered but clean Levi’s, fresh-from-the-wash white T-shirt, steel-capped boots. I learned early on in my second career that it’s the best way to keep my toes attached. I look okay. I don’t look like a serial killer or a predator or the kind of man who might lock you in a basement and feed you M&M’s and starlings. It’s all good.
I get out, and walk up to the cottage. She’s probably as nervous as me. Or maybe not. Maybe she does crazy shit like this all the time, maybe her life is full of unpredictable shenanigans – she’s the kind of person who brought her daughter all the way to Bonnie Bay because of something a stranger wrote on a card that she found tucked inside a book, after all. Then again, so was Brody, and he’s one of the most practical and sensible fellas I’ve ever met. I don’t suppose I’ll know until I meet them.
I’m about to knock when I hear music from inside. Two female voices, singing along at the top of their lungs to a track I immediately recognise. It’s ‘You & Me Song’ by The Wannadies. Stone-cold nineties classic, from theRomeo + Julietsoundtrack. Damn. Now I feel like I’ve travelled through time, back to my younger days. I shake my head, throw off the memories like a wet dog shedding water. Get your head in the game, Rory Callaghan.
I smile as they hit the chorus, loud and discordant and obviously not caring. They reach the ‘pah pah pah’ bit in the middle, and I catch a hazy glimpse of their silhouettes through the net curtains. One is taller and slimmer, jigging around with a blonde-haired woman. She has her back to me, shaking hertail feathers and giving it some welly, yelling the nonsense words with her arms in the air. It’s the kind of scene that makes you think there might just be hope for the human race after all.
They dissolve into floods of laughter as the song draws to a close, their giggles reaching me out on the doorstep. I feel a bit creepy now, watching them like this, so I make the most of the pause to knock, loudly. They both jump slightly in surprise.
The shorter woman says something I can’t hear, and heads off into the kitchen. The other person heads to the door, and pulls it open.
This is very clearly the teenage daughter, fair hair in bunches, a small hoop through her nose, wearing a Pulp T-shirt that looks like it’s been washed a million times. Probably her mum’s, stolen in a ‘retro is now cool’ move. Damn. That means I’m so old that my first-time-around era is now vintage. She gives me a huge grin that lights up her face. ‘Hi! Are you our gift from the universe?’
‘Ah. I see Moira’s been sharing her theories with you as well. I can’t claim to be anything so grand as a gift from the universe, but I do have a couple of spare rooms and you’re welcome to use them.’
‘That’s all we need! That’s perfect! I’m Beth, by the way. My mum’s just getting our stuff and doing that thing she does, where she checks all the taps and the cooker, like, a million times before she leave the house…’
She rolls her eyes, and a reply floats through from the kitchen: ‘I heard that! You wouldn’t want to blow up the cottage because we left the hob on, would you?’
‘My mammy was always the same,’ I whisper to Beth. ‘Always had to go back in the house at least three times to check. Though to be fair, she was often right. I’m Rory. Rory Callaghan.’
Beth quirks her head on one side, a picture of curiosity. ‘Are you Irish?’
‘I am indeed.’
‘But you live in Scotland?’
‘I do. They have a lot in common.’
She nods, and pulls a face. ‘You all have such great accents. We live in Watford, and we sound soooo boring… anyway. Here she is. Finally.’
There’s a wee kerfuffle in the background, a gentle swearing session as the suitcase gets stuck on the edge of the rug and she bumps into it. She sets it right, and pulls it towards us, staring at the wheels and telling them to behave themselves in a way that makes me smile. I talk to inanimate objects as well. She’s not a tall woman, she’s on the curvy scale, and her blonde bob falls in front of her face as she walks towards us.
‘I’ll just get my bag, be with you in a sec. Mum, this is Rory Callaghan. He’s our gift from the universe, or at least our gift from Moira. Rory, this is?—’
She suddenly looks up, eyes wide and blinking, and brushes the hair back from her cheeks to stare at me. I stare right back, my stomach on the floor and my heart somewhere in orbit around Saturn.
‘Jane,’ I whisper.
EIGHT
JANE
No. No. No. NO!!!!
This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. This isn’t a gift from the universe, this is the universe kicking me in the teeth. This is the bloody universe mocking me for being stupid enough to relax for one single solitary day.
Seconds ago, I was dancing. We were dancing. My daughter and I, united by the power of music – ironically the soundtrack from theRomeo + Julietmovie from the nineties, the one we watched at school all those years ago. Why was I listening to that? Did I just want to show off how cool I could be to Beth, or was I… was I winding the universe up, inviting it to give me a kick? I’m going mad. I need to stop seeing the universe as a sentient being that is solely concerned with the life of Jane Clarke. I’m sure if she is a sentient being, she has better things to do than plot my downfall.
Still. How else could this be happening? I stare at him, at this man who has become legend in my mind. And he is very much a man now, not the boy who broke my heart at eighteen years old. Taller, broader, face showing its years, but unmistakably Rory.
