Chapter 6
Chapter Six
If Kieran had been the sort of man who enjoyed euphemisms, he’d have described recent hours as ‘a learning curve’.
As he wasn’t, he called it what it was: a barrage.
Cranley didn’t do gentle introductions. It did full-frontal friendliness, served with pastry and unsolicited personality analysis.
He stared at his laptop screen as if it might provide comfort.
It didn’t.
The cottage was silent apart from Prom’s vigorous scratching in the corner, which sounded less like grooming and more like judgement.
‘Don’t start,’ Kieran muttered, rubbing his eyes. ‘I’m aware I’m failing at life.’
Prom didn’t respond. He never did when Kieran talked to him. The cat saved his reactions for important matters, like the opening of a tin, or the appearance of a bird he wished to murder for sport.
Kieran flexed his fingers and tried again. Code. Logic. Systems. The things that always followed the rules, even when people didn’t.
Except today the code wouldn’t hold still. Every time he focused, his mind ricocheted back to the café: Janette’s booming voice, Alison’s quiet warmth, Wilma’s unnervingly accurate ‘aura’ assessment.
Dark purple, with a hint of magenta.
He didn’t believe in auras. He believed in caffeine, capitalism and the certainty of a well-written algorithm.
And yet Wilma had looked straight at him as if she could peer into his soul.
He pushed the thought away and opened the ClosetAura prototype, the home screen still showing the placeholder logo he’d thrown together at three in the morning. An outline of a wardrobe with a smug little sparkle in the corner.
The sparkle annoyed him.
He clicked into the onboarding flow. The copy felt too earnest. Too glossy. He needed it sharp, clean, useful.
Welcome to ClosetAura.
Let’s build a wardrobe that fits your life.
It read like something Sven would say on a yoga mat, smiling with his younger-Yoda face.
Kieran grimaced and reworded a whole paragraph with savage satisfaction. A little better.
Then his email pinged.
He ignored it.
It pinged again and, with a reluctant sigh, he opened it.
Re: Seed Funding Enquiry
Hi Kieran, thanks for reaching out. We’ve reviewed your deck and—
He didn’t need to read the rest. He knew the rhythm of rejection too well. Polite. Efficient. Disappointingly civil. He skimmed anyway, just to confirm the universe hadn’t decided to change tone.
…not the right fit at this stage … wish you the best … keep us updated.
Keep us updated. As if he was sending them postcards from the land of Crushing Defeat.
He shut the laptop.
Prom strutted towards him, tail upright like a flag of judgement. He paused, looked at Kieran, then sat down and began licking his paw with exaggerated calm.
‘Oh, I see,’ Kieran said. ‘You’re having a spa day while I sink into a quagmire of despair.’
Prom yawned.
Kieran got up, paced the room, then collapsed into the sofa.
He’d moved here to breathe. To step back. To recalibrate. Instead, he was the same person in a different postcode. Still grinding away. Still lonely. Still convinced that if he stopped moving, the feelings would catch up and tackle him to the floor.
He grabbed his jacket.
Prom’s ears flicked.
‘Don’t get excited. I’m not taking you on a walk. You’re a cat, not an Alsatian.’
Prom watched with bored interest as Kieran shoved his feet into trainers and stepped outside.
The air was crisp, the June sunlight welcomingly cheerful. Cranley looked like one of those villages designed to lure people into complacency: stone cottages, hanging baskets, the smell of something baking that made his stomach clench with hunger.
It should have soothed him.
Instead, it made him feel like an intruder.
He walked towards the centre, passing Janette’s shop with its cheerful sign and the little bell that would no doubt summon her like a foghorn if he dared go in.
‘Not today,’ he muttered.
A Bit of Crumpet was open, but he couldn’t face Jo’s sparkle either. It was too … human. Too warm.
Without meaning to, he found himself drifting towards the pub.
The Jekyll and Hyde sat solid and familiar, as if it had been there forever, holding secrets in its walls. Kieran hesitated outside the door, unsure if socialising was the answer right now.
A cluster of people edged past him, chatting excitedly about something or other. A middle-aged man held the door open for him, but he shook his head and hurried away.
Standing on the street corner, he took a deep breath. ‘Wimp,’ he muttered. ‘Beans on toast it is.’
Back at the cottage, Kieran heated the beans and rammed two slices of slightly mouldy bread into the toaster. Prom, optimistic at the can opening, skulked off when no food came his way.
Returning to his laptop, Kieran vowed to pull on his big-boy pants. He’d venture into the pub soon and try not to behave like a socially inept idiot in future.
As he typed, a flicker of movement caught his eye. Something pale, fluttering in a patch of sunlight filtering through the threadbare curtains.
A butterfly.
Gold-tinged, almost sparkling. Unlike any butterfly he’d seen before – not that he was an expert in lepidopterology.
As Kieran mentally congratulated himself on knowing the word, the butterfly fluttered above his head. It hovered, as if deciding whether to land.
Kieran held his breath. Even Prom, who’d strutted into the room, gazed upwards.
Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the butterfly vanished.
Just … gone.
Kieran looked around, expecting to see it flit elsewhere. Nothing. No movement. No shimmer. Just a light breeze that ruffled the curtains and reminded him how crap the window seals were.
‘All right,’ he muttered, half to himself and half to the universe. ‘Either I’m hallucinating, or Cranley’s got a weird pest problem.’
Prom miaowed, his gaze still fixed on the spot where the butterfly had been. Seconds later, he yawned and curled up in a ball.
Somehow, Kieran managed to dig deep and polish the ClosetAura pitch. It needed more work, but it flowed better.
Stretching his arms above his head, he outdid Prom on the yawn-ometer. A nap might be in order, although Kieran associated daytime naps with older people. Much older people.
‘Sod it.’ Kieran mirrored Prom’s curled-up position, but on the sofa rather than the floor. He tugged a fleecy blanket over his body, for comfort rather than warmth.
His problems hadn’t magically vanished. ClosetAura still needed funding. His cottage still looked like a building site. His loneliness still sat in his chest like a stone.
But something had shifted.
Not been fixed. Shifted.
A satisfying nap later, he opened the laptop again.
The rejection email still sat there, smug and dismissive in his inbox.
He didn’t delete it.
He also didn’t let it stop him.
He clicked into the onboarding flow and began rewriting, fingers moving with renewed purpose.
On the screen, the wardrobe icon still had that ridiculous little sparkle.
Kieran hovered the cursor over it.
Then, despite himself, he left it there.
For now.
Because a little sparkle never hurt anyone.