Chapter 13 #2
‘I can tell.’ She pauses at the door. ‘He described the way you run this place – everyone who walks in feels like they matter. He was right. You do that.’
‘That’s just … hospitality.’
‘It’s more than hospitality.’ She smiles. ‘It’s a gift. I can see why he—’ She stops. Adjusts her bag on her shoulder. ‘I can see why he loves this village so much.’
That wasn’t the sentence she started. I heard the edit. The same way I’ve been hearing Tom’s edits lately – the swerves, the substitutions, the sentences that land somewhere safer than where they began.
‘I hope you have a good visit,’ I say.
‘I think I will.’ She waves – easy, friendly – and slips out into the heat.
I watch her go. The swing of her sundress. The confidence. The way she pauses outside to look at the harbour, tilting her face to the sun, completely at ease.
I like her. That’s the uncomfortable truth. I want to find a flaw – a sharpness, an edge, a reason to dismiss her – and there isn’t one. She’s warm and smart and she clearly cares about Tom and she said I had a gift and I can’t find fault with any of it.
So why is my jaw tight? Why are my hands gripping the counter? Why did I hear her say Tom’s friend and feel a door close within me that I didn’t know was open?
Chips nudges my hand. I look down at him – scruffy, ridiculous, devoted – and the tightness eases, slightly.
‘Don’t go anywhere,’ I tell him. ‘Okay? Just stay.’
He thumps his tail. The café settles around us. The bear watches from its corner with its glassy pink eyes.
Tom appears at closing time.
‘So?’ He’s in the doorway, hands in pockets, trying for casual and missing by a mile. Chips bounds over, tail going. ‘What did you think?’
‘About what?’
‘Cara.’
‘She’s lovely.’ I’m cashing up. Counting coins. Looking at the till. ‘Really lovely. Smart, warm, good with the dog. Isla was sucking up, having a gushing fan to talk to. Then Maisie tried to convince Cara the pub has a ghost.’
‘Did she believe it?’
‘She was politely agnostic.’ I sort the coins into their slots. ‘Everyone likes her. Dot’s already obsessed.’
‘Dot’s obsessed with everyone new. It’s a compulsion.’
‘Tilly’s planning your wedding.’
He goes still. ‘There’s no wedding.’
‘I know there’s no wedding. I’m telling you what Tilly’s doing. It’s informational.’
I say it lightly. Brightly. The coins go into the drawer and I close it – not quite a slam, but harder than necessary, and Tom hears it because Tom hears everything.
‘Nina.’ He’s moved further into the café, and perches on his stool. Chips settles between us on the floor, looking from one to the other like a small furry referee. ‘She’s a friend.’
‘I know.’
‘We dated at university. Years ago. It didn’t work out.’
‘I know. Dot gave me the full dossier.’ I make myself look up. Make myself smile. ‘It’s fine, Tom. You’re allowed to have friends. You’re allowed to have friends who are women you used to date. I’m not going to interrogate you.’
‘I know you’re not. I just—’
‘You don’t owe me an explanation.’
The words come out flatter than I intended. Tom looks at me. I look at Tom. The café is quiet – just the fans and the fading light and Chips breathing between us.
‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘I don’t.’
I pick up a cloth. Wipe the counter. The counter is clean. I wipe it anyway, because my hands need to be moving or they’re going to do something I can’t predict, like grip the edge of the counter or throw the cloth at the wall or reach out and—
I wipe the counter.
‘She’s great,’ I say. ‘Really. I hope she has a brilliant visit. You deserve—’ I stop. The sentence has a destination I didn’t see coming. I change course. ‘You deserve a break. From the practice. It’ll be nice to have company.’
Tom is quiet. I can feel him watching me.
The specific quality of his attention – focused, patient, missing nothing.
I’ve been on the receiving end of that attention for years and it’s never made me feel like this before.
Exposed. Transparent. Like he can see through the counter-wiping and the brightness and the it’s fine to whatever is underneath, the thing I can’t name because naming it would mean looking at it and looking at it would mean—
‘He’s good for you,’ Tom says. ‘The dog.’
I stop wiping. ‘What?’
‘Chips. He’s good for you. You’re different since he arrived. More…’ He searches for the word. ‘Settled. Like you’ve stopped holding your breath.’
My throat aches. My eyes ache. I look at Chips, asleep in the last of the light, his paws twitching in a dream.
‘He’s a good dog,’ I say. ‘I hope I get to keep him.’
‘Me too.’
Tom stands. He’s leaving. He’s going back to his flat where Cara is waiting – Cara with her sharp cheekbones and her easy confidence and her version of Tom’s that sits in a different part of her mouth than mine does.
‘See you tomorrow?’ I say.
‘Tomorrow.’
When he’s at the door, he turns back.
‘Nina.’
‘Yeah?’
He opens his mouth. Closes it. The light from the harbour is behind him and his face is in shadow and I can’t read his expression.
‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight.’
The door closes. I stand in the quiet café with the fans humming and the light fading and Chips breathing at my feet, and I press both hands flat on the counter and I breathe.
She said I can see why he— and stopped.
Tom said nothing when he meant something else.
Everyone keeps starting sentences they don’t finish, and I’m standing in the middle of all these half-spoken things like a woman in a room full of open doors who can’t figure out which one the draught is coming from.
I crouch down next to Chips. He opens one eye, shuffles closer, presses his warm side against my knee.
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve decided. Whatever happens.’
He sighs and closes his eye.
I stay on the floor for a long time. The bear watches from its corner. The fairy lights glow. Through the window, I can see the flat above the surgery – Tom’s flat, lit up, two figures moving behind the glass.
I look away.
I look back.
I make myself stand up, and I lock the door, and I go upstairs, and I don’t think about Cara’s hand on my counter or Tom in the doorway or the sentence she didn’t finish or the word I can’t say anymore.
I think about all of it. Obviously. I think about all of it until Chips climbs onto the bed and puts his head on my ankle and I fall asleep at midnight, restless and unsettled and unable to explain, even to myself, what exactly has changed.