Chapter 7
Harry
Lando’s not asleep when I sneak out the next morning, but he’s pretending to be. It should bother me that I know the difference between his sleeping breaths and his conscious ones, but I can't muster the energy to care right now.
His waking breaths are quieter and shallower, and he’s curled up on his side facing away from me. He doesn’t usually snore, but he does fart a lot in his sleep, and he hasn’t farted once since I woke up fifteen minutes ago.
Ergo, he’s faking it.
I tiptoe around his room, gathering up my clothes, and take them to one of the guest bathrooms to get dressed. I don’t fully understand why I’m sneaking out or why Lando is feigning unconsciousness. All I know is that it’s consensual. Neither of us actually wants to speak with the other.
The drink and emotion-fuelled haze of last night’s playful banter has well and truly burnt off in the blazing light of the morning, and now I want nothing more than to be as far away from here as humanly possible.
I toy with leaving a note on the breakfast bar, but besides “Let’s never do this again,” what would I write?
It’s just before midday when I reach the end of the lane connecting Hooke Manor to the main road of Mudford-upon-Hooke.
There’s a sign on the pub that says CLOSED FOR A FAMILY FUNCTION.
Thankfully, they’ve still left their router switched on, and I connect to their Wi-Fi as I circle the deserted beer garden for the optimum spot.
After ordering an Uber for myself, I sit at one of the picnic-style tables and wait.
The app tells me it’ll be a thirty-eight minute wait.
Considering how remote this place is, it’s about what I’m used to.
My phone battery is only on fourteen per cent, so instead of wasting the rest and finding myself stranded in case of an Uber cancellation, I pillow my face on my arms and shut my eyes for a bit.
An unknown amount of time later—could be a couple of minutes, could be fifteen—a voice pulls me out of my stupor.
“Harry Ellis!”
I don’t need to lift my head or even open my eyes to know the voice belongs to Daisy Bosley.
“Not you doing the walk of shame, is it?” she says.
It’s not the first time Daisy has discovered me in this precise location, though in the past, Lando had accompanied me to the beer garden to wait for a taxi. He’d always said it was much easier this way, that drivers often struggled to find Hooke Manor.
The bench on the opposite side of the table creaks as she sits down. I don’t mind telling Lando to fuck off, but I’ve never had a problem with Daisy, so I keep my mouth shut. Even though I want to scream at her.
She doesn’t speak for ages. I assume she’s observing me, looking for clues to what happened last night. She’s probably thinking my standoffishness is a hangover symptom. I don’t bother telling her otherwise.
“I’m glad you two have finally made up.” Her voice is quiet—uncertain, I realise. After a few more minutes of me ignoring her, she adds, “He needs a decent friend like you around right now.”
I lift my head and stare her straight in the eye.
Daisy looks more tired than I’ve ever seen her.
There are bags under her eyes, her hair is scraped back into a scruffy ponytail, and she’s still wearing yesterday’s smudged makeup.
There are two cups of tea on the picnic table.
She cradles one in both hands with the sleeves of her hoodie pulled down to her fingernails even though it’s got to be twenty-two degrees already.
The other cup sits a hairsbreadth from my left forearm in a Bath Centurions branded mug.
Even with this kind gesture, and my current loathing of Orlando, irritation bubbles in my gut. “You’re the one leaving him to go live in Scotland.”
Daisy’s fake smile fades away. “He told you?”
I nod.
“Did he mention when?”
“No, he didn’t. He just said you were moving away, and that he has a job he hates.”
Daisy slaps herself in the face. “Shit! His job. I keep fucking forgetting.” She takes her phone out of her back pocket as though she’s going to call or text Lando there and then, but she thinks better of it and places the device on the table.
Her wallpaper is a photo of her and Serasi on Lando’s dad’s yacht.
My stomach flips over itself, heart suddenly ticking at quadruple its normal speed.
That night.
I don’t want to spiral thinking about that night, but I’m still annoyed with Daisy. “We haven’t made up, by the way. If you’re feeling guilty for fucking off up north and you’re relieved I’m here to look after him, you’re mistaken.”
“But—”
“I’m not doing it. Lando’s a grown man now. He’ll take care of himself or he’ll fucking learn how to.”
Daisy’s face crumples. Her brow furrows, she chews on her bottom lip, and tears flood the corners of her eyes. “I thought . . . Couldn’t you just—”
“No.”
She picks up her phone and stares down at the screen, but doesn’t unlock it or open any apps.
“What happened last night, then?” she asks, setting the device down again. Her voice is softer now, almost resigned. “Did you fight?”
I go with the full truth. “I broke into his house, stole Warwick’s wine, messed up Lando’s Netflix preferences, then we watched a movie and ate snacks.”
Daisy blinks at me like she’s surprised, but then concern sweeps her features. “What movie did you watch?”
“Some Like It Hot.”
“Shit!” Daisy folds her arms on the table and bangs her forehead against them. “Shit, shit, shit.” Then she whines and drags a hand down her face.
“So, when are you leaving, then?” I make little effort to remove the venom from my tone.
She puffs out a breath. “June.”
“That’s next month,” I say.
“Yeah.” She stares into her mug, and I gulp from mine. After a few more moments, she speaks. “Listen, you don’t get to make me feel guilty about Lan when you’re the one who ignored him for almost a year.”
“He blocked me. On every platform. He blocked my number, he blocked my Instagram, my Facebook, my TikTok. He even blocked me on Call of Duty.”
“Communication goes both wa—”
“No. If he’s gone to that much effort to cut me out of his life, I will not come crawling back begging for scraps of his attention,” I say. Shout, actually. Fuck, I’m shouting.
“But do you want to know why he block—” Daisy stops herself mid-sentence. “Why he did the things he did?”
My stomach swooshes. My hastily drunk tea threatens to make a reappearance. Did he tell her what happened on the twenty-ninth of August? Everything that happened? Everything I said?
“Why did he?” I ask and instantly regret it. “Actually, I don’t want to know. Don’t tell me.”
“Abs, come on.”
“Enjoy your life in Scotland.” I drain the tea—because I’m desert-thirsty—get up from the bench, and move to another table.
I’m officially a cunt. But nothing’s new there.
“Oh, Harry, please.” Daisy moves to the new bench, but she doesn’t sit down this time. “Please give him another chance.”
I check my phone. Still twenty minutes before my ride arrives. “Has it really come to you begging me to make up with him? I’m sure Lando will appreciate the pity friendship.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” she says.
I do, in fact. But I’m not admitting that to her. I haven’t had even half a second yet to decompress from the unexpectedness of last night. I don’t know how I’m feeling about it all, and I sure as shit don’t need Mathias Jones’s new step-daughter telling me what to do or how to feel.
Instead of answering her, I pillow my head once again and shut my eyes to the rest of the world. She hovers beside me for a moment, then I hear the soft scrape of china against the wooden tabletop as she collects the mugs, and she’s gone.
It occurs to me that it might be the last time I ever see Daisy May Bosley.
At my flat, and when I can finally plug my phone in to charge, I go through the messages I received last night and this morning. There are none from Lando. Though he probably still has my number blocked, so it’s not in any way surprising.
There are a few from Eggo.
Yo, Abs, where you to?
Hello. You there?
Did you pull?