Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Fern and Daniel boarded the tube at Green Park Station, weaving their way through the steady stream of commuters and tourists.
The Piccadilly Line train arrived with its familiar metallic screech, and they stepped aboard, settling into a corner of the carriage as the train rattled and hummed beneath London’s sprawling streets.
At Earl’s Court they switched platforms and hopped onto the District Line.
The carriage was wider, the seats newer and less scuffed from years of city life, and the air carried the mingled scent of coffee and sweat, the signature perfume of London’s Underground. Eight minutes after their journey began, they emerged at Fulham Broadway, stepping out into the sunshine.
They navigated the busy high street, passing an assortment of artisan bakeries, slick wine bars and the occasional independent boutique nestled between glassy new developments.
Turning off the main road, they reached Fern’s apartment block, a stark steel-and-glass building that loomed sharp against the soft sky.
It was the very definition of contemporary urban living: angular, unapologetically sleek and utterly devoid of the warm, weathered charm that clung to the coastal cottages on Puffin Island.
The block’s facade was a grid of floor-to-ceiling windows, each reflecting the London skyline and the shifting clouds. The lobby was polished and pristine, minimalist, all cool marble and brushed metal.
The lift doors slid shut and Fern pressed the button for her floor.
Daniel raised an eyebrow, watching the numbers glow. ‘The penthouse,’ he remarked, his voice light with surprise.
Fern tilted her head, offering him a playful, almost conspiratorial smile. ‘Only the best.’ She grinned as the lift began its smooth, silent ascent.
‘Here we are,’ Fern said as she pushed open the door to her apartment a few moments later, stepping aside so Daniel could follow her in. She caught the way his eyes swept over the place, knowing exactly what he was going to say.
‘Do you actually live here?’ he asked, eyebrows raised as he wandered further inside. ‘Because, honestly, there’s more personality in a dentist’s waiting room.’
Fern let out a dry laugh as she slid her keys into the dish on the otherwise bare console table. ‘I don’t like clutter.’
Daniel grinned. ‘Says the woman who’s just inherited an antique shop. Bit of a plot twist, that one.’
She pulled off her jacket and draped it over the back of a chair, the weight of his words sinking in more than she expected.
She’d always been proud of this flat, the clean lines, the calm, the order.
It was her safe little bubble, her grown-up badge of honour.
But standing here now, with Daniel’s familiar, easy energy filling the room, the place suddenly felt … dull. Cold, even.
The home at No. 17 Curiosity Lane was the complete opposite – mismatched, a bit battered around the edges, and cluttered with the ghosts of someone else’s life.
But after the initial shock of the place, she had found she loved waking up there.
It all felt warm and cosy in a weird kind of way. Lived in. Real.
She glanced over at Daniel, who was now poking around her bookshelf, no doubt judging the alphabetised spines.
‘I hate to admit it…’ she said, surprising even herself. ‘But it does feel a bit … empty.’
He looked back at her, one eyebrow raised, playful as ever. ‘Careful, you’ll ruin your reputation. Next thing you know, you’ll be leaving mugs out and buying scatter cushions with actual colours.’
She nudged him gently as she passed. ‘Let’s not get carried away.’
But deep down, she couldn’t help thinking: maybe a little mess or chaos wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
‘You must have at least a dodgy candle?’ he said, running a hand over the spotless kitchen counter before his eyes landed on a single potted plant sitting by the window. ‘Wait. Is that … a plant?’
‘That’s Leonard,’ Fern said matter-of-factly.
Daniel raised an eyebrow. ‘You named your plant Leonard?’
‘He seemed like a Leonard,’ she replied with a small shrug.
Shaking his head with an amused grin, Daniel wandered over to her fridge and pulled it open. ‘All right, let’s see what culinary delights—’ He stopped short, then laughed. ‘Fern. There is nothing in here but wine and a tub of butter.’
‘Essentials,’ she said defensively. ‘I’m about to add Chinese takeaway to the mix. Are you hungry?’
Daniel leaned against the counter as she handed him her phone with a menu on the screen from her favourite takeaway. After a few minutes of scrolling, they both pointed at the same dish at the exact same time.
‘Sweet and sour chicken?’ Daniel asked, looking mildly impressed.
‘It’s the only correct choice,’ Fern confirmed. ‘Looks like you have decent taste after all.’
Twenty minutes later, they were curled up on Fern’s spotless grey sofa, the coffee table transformed into a makeshift dining space covered in cartons of noodles, sticky ribs, and enough prawn crackers to feed a small army.
The scent of soy sauce and sweet chilli hung in the air as Fern balanced her laptop on her knees, scrolling through her notes for tonight’s interview.
Daniel sat with chopsticks in hand at the other end of the sofa, twirling them between his fingers. She could feel his gaze flicking from her screen to her face, his curiosity impossible to ignore.
‘You actually prepare for the interviews?’ he asked, leaning in a little closer. ‘I thought you just waltzed in, flashed that smile and asked whatever popped into your head.’
Fern crunched a prawn cracker, smirked and pointed a finger towards the shelf. ‘Contrary to popular belief, I do take my job seriously. See those?’
Daniel followed her gesture to the neatly stacked pile of music magazines, arranged – like everything else in her apartment – in perfect order, spines aligned, not a corner bent. He reached across, swiping the top few copies off the pile then flipping through them.
Page after page, her name stared back at him in bold print, alongside glossy photographs of gigs, album reviews and exclusive interviews with bands that had filled stadiums and topped charts. His fingers paused on a double-page spread, the photo catching his attention before the headline did.
‘Lust Theory,’ he read aloud, angling the page so she could see, even though she didn’t need to look. She knew the photo by heart. ‘You’ve been hanging out with the big boys, then. Look at you, standing there next to Jax Devlin, looking like a proper rock chick.’
That photo had been taken on a night that was burned into her memory for all the wrong reasons.
It was when the whirlwind had properly started.
She could still see it: the dim, smoky glow of the club, the crowd pressed tight around the stage, the bass so loud it thumped in her chest like a second heartbeat.
Jax Devlin had owned the room the moment he swaggered onto the stage, leather jacket clinging to his frame like it was stitched onto his skin, dark hair falling perfectly messy over his eyes.
Those eyes … that’s what got her. He’d locked onto her from the second the spotlight hit him, holding her gaze between every song, like the rest of the crowd didn’t exist. It wasn’t entirely the fame, or even the music, that pulled her in.
It was that feeling. That laser focus. Like, for that night, she wasn’t invisible. She was the girl.
After the gig, the band had swept her along like she was part of the furniture for drinks in some exclusive, hidden-away bar, the kind of place where you didn’t ask for the menu, the staff just knew what you wanted.
Jax’s arm had been around her waist by the second drink.
By the fourth, he’d had her laughing like they’d known each other for years.
The night ended in his hotel room, if you could even call it that.
It was more like a penthouse playground.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking London’s skyline, a grand piano casually perched in the corner like some oversized prop, and a sunken spa tub that seemed more suited to a music video than real life.
Champagne, the expensive kind, the kind she’d never even looked at the price of, let alone bought, flowed like water and so did the compliments.
You’re different, he’d told her. You’re not like the others. You’re clever, sharp, funny. Not like the clingy ones. Not like the ones who just want to be seen on my arm.
For a while, she’d believed him, and for a while, it had suited her.
The thrill of it all. The backstage passes, the free drinks, the whispers when people recognised him and, by default, her.
The sex, wild and unfiltered, with Jax always knowing the right thing to say, the right way to touch, like he was reading her mind.
The longer the game went on, the clearer the rules became.
Whenever he was in London, the phone would ping.
One text – sometimes with just a hotel name and room number – and Fern would go, every single time.
No questions, no expectations. Just her, at his beck and call.
When he wasn’t in London? She knew the drill.
There was always another girl. Different cities, different names. The same tired story.
At first, she’d told herself it didn’t matter.
She wasn’t in it for love, after all. She was having fun, wasn’t she?
She was living the life people dreamed about, dipping her toes into a world of fast cars, private parties, gated mansions with driveways longer than most streets.
There were nights spent in his sprawling house, lying by the indoor pool under fake stars printed across the ceiling, drifting off to the sound of him strumming on an acoustic guitar, whispering lyrics she later realised weren’t even about her.
But ultimately she’d been coming to realise that the price of admission had been steeper than she’d initially expected.
The longer she stayed, the more she saw behind the curtain.
The drinks were never just drinks. The late nights bled into early mornings, fuelled by things that came in neat little bags.
The women weren’t just ‘fans’ and, sooner or later, they stopped pretending they didn’t know about her.
She was just another notch on the bedpost. Another face, another night.
Yet still, every time his name flashed on her phone, she’d answered. Like clockwork. Like a fool.
Fern caught herself glancing sideways at Daniel.
God, he was worlds apart from Jax. No leather jackets, no smoke and mirrors, no penthouse views or afterparties that stretched until sunrise.
Just him. Easy, honest, no hidden agenda.
Pure, in a way that felt rare. He was naturally funny and made her laugh without trying, never using charm like a weapon, the way Jax had done.
In fact, the more she thought about it, the harder it was to find a single fault with him. She’d been searching, too, because old habits die hard. But so far, Daniel was uncomplicated. The kind of man you could rely on, and she always felt safe in his company.
‘Earth to Fern,’ Daniel’s voice cut through her thoughts, light and teasing. He nudged her foot with his. ‘You’ve gone all quiet on me. What’s going on in that head of yours?’
She blinked, shaking her head, covering the slip with a small laugh. ‘Just thinking…’
For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t chasing the high. She wasn’t waiting for the text, or the next fix of attention. She was here. With him. That was enough.
Just as she reached for another prawn cracker, her phone buzzed twice on the coffee table, the screen lighting up with two new messages.
The first was from Ella.
ELLA
Are you home? Are we going to the gig together?
The second, almost perfectly timed, was from Jax Devlin.
Jax
Strap yourself in. I’m in town.
Her stomach did a little flip, though not the kind it used to when his name flashed on her screen. The old Fern would have felt that spark of adrenalin, the quick rush of excitement that came with the promise of his attention. Tonight, she didn’t feel any of those things. All she felt was flat.
She already knew Jax was in town and headlining the same gig she was meant to be covering after interviewing the band.
She’d pencilled it into her diary weeks ago.
But the prospect of the backstage passes, the free drinks and schmoozing, wasn’t what she wanted tonight.
She’d rather stay right here where the air smelled of soy sauce and sweet chilli, and the only soundtrack was the soft murmur of the TV in the background and the occasional rustle of Daniel shifting beside her.
She’d rather finish the food, curl up under a blanket and pick a film to watch with him, feet tangled, conversation easy, no makeup, no pretence.
She realised Daniel was talking but she hadn’t been listening.
‘Have you checked?’ he repeated, nodding towards her phone. ‘More items sold today from our No. 17 Curiosity Lane.’
When she turned to face him, he was wearing that crooked, boyish smile of his.
‘What are you smiling at?’ he teased. ‘You didn’t think we could actually make money, did you?’
Fern bit her lip before the smile she hadn’t realised had bloomed stretched wider.
It wasn’t the sales, or the growing list of customers, or the fact that their little second-hand treasure trove was starting to turn a real profit that had her grinning.
It was one word. One small, casual, off-the-cuff word that had slipped so naturally out of his mouth.
Our.
She hadn’t expected it to land the way it did, but it wrapped itself around her heart like the softest, warmest blanket.