Chapter 8
Aaron
It’s a slow, grey morning. The kind where the whole village smells faintly of wet stone and moss.
Abby and I are at the kitchen table, mugs of tea in hand, the remains of breakfast between us.
Jon’s already taken Layla to school, leaving the house quiet apart from the ticking of the old clock on the wall.
Abby gives me a knowing smile as she butters another slice of toast. “So,” she says, “how was the spa?”
I blink at her over my mug. “That didn’t take long.”
She grins. “Petra called this morning."
"The village gossip mill is working, I see," I grumble.
Abby ignores my comment. "She gave us the full report. Said you two were very polite and didn’t break anything.”
“High praise,” I say, smiling into my tea. “And yes, it was good. Quiet. Peaceful.”
“Peaceful, hmm?” she says, her tone too casual to be innocent. “You looked rather pleased with yourself when you got in last night.”
“Just relaxed,” I say lightly. “First time I’ve been in a hot tub without a dozen rugby lads shouting over me.”
Abby laughs. “I’d imagine Eve was a bit more civilised company.”
I pause, then nod. “She was.”
Abby tilts her head, studying me with that quiet curiosity of hers. “What’s she like?”
I open my mouth to give some polite, vague answer, but what comes out is more.
“She’s different,” I start, then shake my head. “No, that’s not right. She’s genuine. You know when someone talks and you can tell they’ve thought about every word before they say it? That’s her. It’s not pretence, it’s just how she is. Careful. Thoughtful.”
Abby smiles faintly, letting me go on.
“She’s funny too, though she doesn’t realise it.
Dry humour, blink-and-you-miss-it kind of funny.
And smart, frighteningly smart. You can tell she’s used to thinking in patterns, like she’s always analysing something in the back of her mind.
But when she talks to you, it’s like she’s completely there. Present.”
I stir my tea without noticing, staring out the window at the drizzle softening over the hills.
“She told me a bit about her work. She analyses threatening messages for NGOs and journalists. Heavy stuff. And yet she talks about it like it’s her responsibility to make sense of all that ugliness so others don’t have to. That takes guts.”
Abby doesn’t say a word, and I realise I’m still talking.
“She’s shy, though,” I continue, half to myself.
“You can see how much effort it costs her to speak up. But when she does, when she lets you in, it’s something else.
There’s honesty in her. Real honesty. She doesn’t sugar-coat, doesn’t try to sound impressive.
She just says things the way she sees them.
And somehow, that makes everything she says matter more. ”
I stop, finally aware that I’ve been talking far too long. Abby’s smiling into her mug, clearly enjoying this more than she’s letting on.
“She sounds remarkable,” she says softly.
“She is,” I admit before I can stop myself.
Abby looks up at me, eyes warm. “You really like her.”
I shake my head quickly. “It’s not like that. We’re just… friends.”
Her smile turns faintly sceptical. “Friends?”
“Honestly,” I insist. “She doesn’t seem interested in anything more. And after the divorce, neither am I. We’ve only known each other for two days, and she’s leaving tomorrow.”
Abby studies me for a long moment, clearly unconvinced. Then she says, “Well, even so, you should do something with her today. Make a memory that isn’t just about hot tubs and rain.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “That might be tricky. She doesn’t like crowds, and the weather’s not exactly on my side.”
Abby glances out the window. “Pity, really. The clouds are high today, so the views will be good, but they’ve forecast rain all day. Otherwise, I’d have said take her for a winter picnic. Bit of scenery, some quiet, a flask of tea.”
I lean back in my chair, thinking it over. “A winter picnic in the rain. Sounds very British.”
She grins. “Exactly. We’re built for drizzle. You could make it work. There are plenty of sheltered spots if you know where to look.”
I sip my tea, a small smile forming. “Maybe you’re onto something.”
“I still think you’re completely mad,” Eve says, though the way she’s smiling takes the sting out of it.
“Mad or resourceful,” I reply, steering us down a narrow lane edged with hedgerows dripping with rain. “You don’t like crowds, and it’s been tipping it down since breakfast. This was the only option left.”
She glances over her shoulder and lets out a soft laugh.
The back seats are folded flat, lined with a couple of camping mats Jon dug out of the shed.
I’ve piled six of Abby’s guest-room pillows on top to make it more comfortable, and there’s a thick blanket folded neatly at one end.
A shopping bag sits in the middle, packed with sandwiches, crisps, fruit, and a slab of cake.
A flask rests beside it, keeping the tea steaming hot for us.
“You’ve really gone to some effort,” she says.
“Professional problem-solver,” I tell her. “And Abby might’ve helped. I’m more of the ideas man.”
Eve shakes her head, amusement glinting in her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Efficiently ridiculous,” I say. “You’ll thank me when you’re eating Victoria sponge in a car while the rest of Yorkshire’s drowning.”
She gives me that small, shy smile that I’m starting to realise means more than a dozen words from most people. “You even brought cake.”
“Abby insisted. She said morale depends on sugar.”
Her laugh is quiet, genuine. “I can’t decide if this is charming or tragic.”
“Let’s go with charming,” I say, slowing the car as we pull off near a quiet lay-by overlooking the valley. “Tragic is only if the sandwiches are soggy.”
Rain drums steadily on the roof, soft and constant. She looks at me, eyes bright, a little uncertain but not unhappy.
“So,” she says after a moment, “where exactly are we going for this grand car picnic of yours?”
I nod towards the windscreen. “See that building up there, at the top of the hill?”
She squints through the rain. “The one that looks like it’s about to be blown off the edge of the world?”
“That’s the one,” I say, grinning. “Britain’s highest pub. Tan Hill Inn. Jon took me there last time I visited. The views are brilliant when the weather’s not trying to kill you.”
She laughs softly. “And we’re going there?”
“Not quite,” I say. “There’s a lay-by just before the pub. Good view of the hills, decent bit of shelter from the wind if we park right. We can sit in the back, eat our sandwiches, and pretend we’re on some daring expedition.”
She gives me a look that’s half disbelief, half amusement. “A daring expedition involving egg mayonnaise?”
I gasp in mock outrage. “How dare you. Do I look like the sort of man who brings such a common sandwich?”
Her mouth twitches, fighting a smile. “Alright then, enlighten me. What culinary masterpiece have you prepared?”
I tap the steering wheel, pretending to think. “My own creation. A finely tuned balance of flavours, years in the making. Lettuce, salami, Gouda, peppers, and a hint of mayonnaise—all on a baguette.”
She blinks at me, then laughs. “That’s… oddly specific.”
“It’s a work of art,” I say solemnly. “The perfect sandwich. Not too soggy, not too dry, never falls apart mid-bite. I’ve survived whole expeditions on this recipe.”
“I’m sure you have,” she says, grinning now. “Sounds very tactical.”
“Absolutely. You’ve got to keep morale high in the field.”
Her laughter fills the car, light and genuine. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: you’re ridiculous,” she giggles.
“Ridiculously prepared,” I correct her. “Now, brace yourself for sandwich perfection.”
Rain streaks the windows, wind sweeping across the Dales outside. She gazes at the rolling hills and smiles, that small, quiet smile that always catches me off guard.
It might be pouring, it might be freezing, but somehow, it already feels like the best picnic I’ve ever had.
After another ten minutes of driving, we reach the top of the hill. The rain hasn’t let up, but even through the drizzle, the landscape unfolds like something from an old painting—endless, rugged, and quietly magnificent.
I pull into the lay-by, angle the car so the front faces the road and the boot opens out towards the valley. The wipers squeak one last time before I cut the engine. The sudden silence makes the patter of rain against the glass sound louder, almost like drum roll.
Eve twists in her seat, looking through the back window. Her breath catches. “Oh,” she says softly.
That one syllable says enough.
I glance over my shoulder. Beyond the misted glass, the hills stretch away, dark stone walls carving through the fields like crooked seams.
“Told you,” I murmur. “Yorkshire never disappoints.”
She glances back at me, her eyes bright with that quiet spark I’ve started to recognise, the one that appears when something catches her off guard in a good way.
We both unbuckle and start the awkward crawl into the back. There’s laughter, a couple of bumps, a muttered sorry from her when she elbows me, and then we collapse in a heap on the camping mats.
“Smooth entrance,” she says between small bursts of laughter.
“Graceful as ever,” I reply, leaning back against the pillows I’d stolen.
Eve helps me unpack the food, careful fingers brushing past mine as we unwrap the sandwiches and pour tea from the flask. The windows are fogging from the warmth inside, blurring the world into soft shapes.
I glance at the boot. The rain has turned the glass into a silver sheet, the view hidden behind a thousand tiny droplets. “Want me to open it? You’ll see better.”
She zips up her jacket and nods. “Go on then.”
I press the button. The boot lifts, slow and smooth, and the world spills in, the sweep of the valley below all muted greens and greys, the horizon lost to mist. Wind rushes past the open hatch, tugging gently at her hair, but the car shields us from the worst of it.
Eve leans forward, her eyes following the line of the hills. Her face softens, almost glowing in the dim light. “That’s incredible,” she says quietly.
“Worth the trip?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
She turns, smiling, small, genuine, and a little shy. “Definitely worth it.”
I watch her watching the hills, that quiet smile curving at the edge of her mouth, and realise I don’t mind the rain at all.