Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
RORY
‘And how’s it all going up in the man cave?’ Moira asks as we stroll along the jetty. It’s easier for her than the sand, and the views are amazing – when you reach the end, you feel like you’re walking on water. ‘That isn’t quite a man cave any more?’
Three days have passed since Jane agreed to stay, and they have been complicated days. We’re both conscious of not upsetting each other, of not accidentally saying the wrong thing, of making sure we keep to our own space. The house is big enough for that, and I do most of my work outside anyway.
She spends a lot of time at the bookshop, and when our paths cross there, we talk about the murals, or her project, or books.
She keeps it polite, surface level, safe.
Firmly non-personal. I know why she’s doing it – but I also hate it.
Frankly it’s been torture seeing her every day and keeping this distance from her, but maybe she’s right, maybe it’s the only way to deal with it.
We’re both still confused, both still recalibrating, and I have no clue how I feel about it all from one minute to another.
One second I want her to pack up and leave so I can go back to my nice peaceful solitary life, the next I want to crush her into my arms and kiss her until her knees go weak.
‘It’s grand,’ I say to Moira, hoping she leaves it at that.
She leans against the railing at the end of the jetty, and gazes off at the seal colony on one of the islands.
She’s quiet for a moment, and I wonder what she’s thinking about.
She’s not quite herself and hasn’t been for a while.
The signs are subtle but there, and I don’t think I’m imagining them.
‘Aye? Grand is it?’ she says, turning back to face me. ‘Then why do you two tippy-toe around each other like you do? I’ve never seen you so polite with anybody, Rory Callaghan!’
Naturally enough, being Moira, she’s figured out that something is amiss – and it must be driving her mad not knowing.
Maybe, once Jane’s left and all of this is a distant memory, I’ll tell her.
We’ll sit by the fireplace in the bookshop and crack open the whisky, and I’ll tell her the whole sad story.
Not now, though – Jane and I have both agreed that nobody needs to know.
It would make everything even more complicated, and involve more people in what is a very private matter.
I shrug, and aim for nonchalant. ‘You’re imagining it, you daft old biddy. And anyhow, when was it a crime to be polite?’
‘When it makes me think there’s a problem – when it makes me worry that Jane is going to leave Bonnie Bay before her time. I don’t want her to leave, Rory.’
I nod, seeing a flash of real distress and hating it. ‘I know. The cards. Angus. Plus she’s helping you with the grant you need, and with the portrait project. Grand idea, by the way – it would be wonderful to get some of the outliers more involved in the village.’
Moira bites her lip. ‘It would. And she is. She’s making a difference to this place, and I’ve felt so much better about it all since she got here – like fate sent her for me, too, to help me get everything done in time. Are you sure everything is all right?’
‘One hundred per cent. Now, come on, let’s be having you – you know Joanne is waiting for a lift home.’
She grins wickedly. ‘Is she now? That must have slipped my mind.’
It has not slipped her mind at all, she’s just messing with her sister as usual.
We make the walk back along to the village, and when we reach the end of the jetty Moira pauses, takes hold of my arm.
She looks up at me, her eyes intense, and says: ‘I don’t just want Jane to stay because she’s helping me, you know that don’t you?
And also, I hope you know that I love you dearly.
I’m not sure I’ve ever said that out loud, but I do, Rory. I love you.’
I wrap her up in my arms, and kiss her curly silver hair. My mammy loved me, I know, but she didn’t say it out loud that often – mainly when she’d had a few tipples. ‘The feeling’s entirely mutual, Moira.’
She nods into my chest, then pulls away, setting her face back to something more mischievous as we see Joanne outside the bookshop, glowering at us. Brody’s busy doing some work at the gallery, and I go over to stand with him. It’s best not to get in between these two when they start.
‘What time do you call this, woman?’ Joanne snaps. She’s taller than Moira, whip thin, with the kind of face that could sink whole fleets, never mind ships. ‘I’ve been waiting here for a half hour!’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, your ladyship – doesn’t the good book preach patience?’ Moira replies.
‘Aye, well, Jesus never met you, Moira McLeod – even He would be sore tempted to smother you in your sleep!’
‘Well, at least if you were up, it’d stop you snoring like an asthmatic St Bernard!’
Brody shakes his head. ‘The joys of sisterhood, right?’ I say.
‘Right. Keeps ’em going though, doesn’t it?’
I laugh, because he is bang on. They bicker all the way home, and as they get out of the car I say: ‘You two should do stand-up.’
‘Aye,’ Joanne responds, scowling. ‘Except we’re old ladies. We’d have to call it sit-down.’
‘Maybe even lie-down,’ Moira adds. ‘Thanks for the lift, Rory!’
I drive off with a wave and a toot of the horn, feeling the now-familiar mix of excitement and dread in my belly as I deliberately drive the long way home.
It’s a beautiful journey through the swoops and sways of the countryside, the sea glimmering below.
I pull up outside the house and sit for a moment, staring at my hands.
Covered in paint, one nail black from a mishap with a washing machine drum.
I was known to have the occasional manicure during my barrister days, and was always turned out in a designer suit – today’s ensemble is my usual uniform of old Levi’s and a T-shirt.
I prefer this version, with all its mess.
That, though, is the mess on the outside.
The mess on the inside is trickier. I stare at the house, knowing that two women are inside it, with their own mess, and their noise and chatter and clutter.
Beth never met a door she didn’t like to leave open, my bathroom is unrecognisable and smells of flowers, and don’t get me started on the way they leave the toilet seat down.
It’s disruptive, having them here – but it is also glorious.
Beth is a great girl, and Jane? Well. That’s a whole different story. Being around her is like being on drugs, with all the highs and lows. I’m fighting hard to not show any of that, to not make her feel uncomfortable, but it isn’t easy.
My phone beeps, and I see a message from Catrina.
It tells me she’s heading back to Scotland in a few weeks’ time, that she’s not sure exactly when, but if she’s in the area, would it be okay to meet.
Normally, I’d be buzzing at the prospect – now?
Now I realise that every other woman I’ve ever known has been a pale imitation of the one waiting for me inside the house.
I shake my head. I need to get a grip. The memory of Jane has haunted me my whole life, and it’s time to move on.
To let go of all that past pain, and look to the future.
The future does not include her, but that doesn’t mean I have to be alone.
By the time Catrina finds time to visit, Jane will be gone back to her real life – and I will be left with mine.
Great, I type back. Look forward to it – call in any time. I add some kisses, because that’s what I should do.
I sigh, and drag myself inside. The smell of cooking hits me straight away, and Jane appears in the hallway. She whispers urgently: ‘Whatever happens, pretend you love it, okay?’
I nod, confused but willing, and she beckons me into the living room.
The table has been cleared, and I clamp down on a moment of annoyance.
It might have looked chaotic, but there was method in my madness, and I knew where everything was.
I suck it up, because the table has now been laid – table cloth, the good plates, silverware, napkins, the lot.
I’m fair convinced I don’t even own some of this stuff.
‘You’re here! Hurrah!’ says Beth, bustling in behind us. ‘I’ve cooked you dinner, as a thank you for having us.’
I can tell from the expression on Jane’s face that this might not be the act of kindness it sounds like, but I nod and smile. ‘That’s grand!’ I say. ‘I’m starving, I could eat an old boot.’
‘Be careful what you wish for…’ Jane mutters, as Beth pours wine. She disappears off into the kitchen, and returns with plates of pasta. At least I think that’s what it is – there are vague shapes swimming around beneath the blood-red sauce.
‘It’s only a spaghetti bolognaise,’ Beth says. ‘Except you had no spaghetti, so it’s a macaroni bolognaise I suppose. I’ve been learning how to cook at Rosie’s café!’
She sounds so proud of herself it’s impossible not to grin.
Rosie is a tremendous cook, so it could be worse.
I take a bite of the food, and realise Beth might need a few more lessons.
The pasta is so hard you could crack a tooth, and the sauce is filled with solid clumps of mince.
I chew it up, force myself to swallow down the salty glob, all the time with Beth watching me expectantly.
‘Delicious!’ I announce, once I’ve managed to force it down my tubes. Jane is fighting back a smirk, hiding it behind her wine glass. She has a much smaller portion than me, the witch. I can’t even claim I’m not hungry, given my last declaration about boots.
Beth is thrilled at my reaction, and launches into a spiel about her day, barely pausing for breath.
Jane is looking at her, smiling and laughing, and I feel her relief – she’s told me Beth has been struggling back at home, been miserable, and the Beth here tonight is neither of those things.
She’s happy and bubbly and possibly the world’s worst chef, but so animated that it sweeps us along with her.
‘So,’ she says, once she’s finally drawn to a halt. ‘Did Mum tell you about her secret history with this place? About her Romeo?’
Jane’s face drops, as does her fork. ‘He doesn’t want to hear about that,’ she says firmly. ‘Ancient history.’
Huh. Ancient history that’s sitting right across the table from her. I get why she’s reacting this way, but it stings to be dismissed like that.
‘No,’ I reply, a touch of the devil creeping in. ‘I do. Tell me about it.’
‘Well,’ Beth says, grinning with her mischief. ‘Like, a million years ago, Mum met a boy. Disgusting concept, but I have to acknowledge it’s possible. She was eighteen, and they were star-crossed lovers, fighting against an unjust world!’
Jane is pale, her fingers trembling slightly, and I suddenly feel bad for encouraging this. It was cruel, and I’m finding that sometimes she brings that out in me – I’m so desperate for a response from her, to crack her polite veneer, that I go too far.
‘She was madly in love,’ Beth continues, ‘and he was the dreamiest boy who ever lived!’
I have to smile at that. ‘He was now, was he?’
‘Oh yes! Handsome, cool, funny, clever, and apparently the world’s best kisser too.’
I glance over at Jane, who is now glugging down her wine and refusing to meet my eyes. World’s best kisser. I’ll take it.
‘He sounds class. So what happened?’
‘Well, they were supposed to run away together to Bonnie Bay, against their parents’ wishes – total Montague and Capulet stuff, right?
They chose the place by picking it at random from a map – and actually it is really nice here, but what if they’d randomly picked, I don’t know, a retail park in Dartford or whatever? Nowhere near as romantic!’
She’s understandably amused, but I still recall that moment. The magic of it. The knowledge that wherever we’d picked, even if it was a retail park in Dartford, it would have been enough. It would have been perfect as long as we were together.
My stomach is churning now, and it’s not just the dodgy pasta. It’s the way all of this is making me feel, taking me back in time. I stay silent, and Beth asks: ‘Do you want to know the ending to our tragic lovers’ tale?’ I nod. It’s the only thing I can do.
‘Well, Romeo turned out to not be the hero of our story at all,’ she continues. ‘He turned out to be the villain – he abandoned our poor Juliet, totally ghosted her, moved away and left her heart broken into a million pieces. And – oh, sorry, it’s my dad, I have to take this!’
She grabs up her ringing phone from the table, jumps to her feet and skitters off.
The sound of her footsteps galloping up the stairs the last we hear of her.
It’s like she threw a hand grenade into the room and then made a run for it.
I glance over at Jane, and she won’t meet my eyes.
She’s staring at her glass, the table, the window, anything but me.
‘You okay?’ I ask quietly.
‘Of course,’ she replies, obviously lying. She’s upset, and I don’t know how to handle it. I want to touch her, to comfort her, but that would be far from appropriate. I’m also angry, annoyed that she’s lying.
‘You don’t look okay.’
‘Well, I am, all right!’ She throws her napkin across the table, and manages to knock her wine glass over in the process. There’s not much in it, but she still frets, jumping up and fussing, calling herself a clumsy oaf under her breath.
‘Leave it,’ I say, standing and reaching over the table to grab her wrist. ‘It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.’
She stares up at me, both of us frozen in place, leaning towards each other. My fingers are circling her wrist, and the touch of her skin beneath them is soft, warm. Perfect. Enough to make my heart thud, and for me to want more.
She pulls away, eyes huge, and flees to the other side of the room. Jesus. This rollercoaster is crazy. I start to apologise, but we’re interrupted by the return of Hurricane Beth flying back into the room. Her eyes take in the scene, but she is clearly wrapped up in her own news.
‘Mum – you’ll never guess what?’
Jane rallies. ‘No clue – Take That have got back together?’
‘No! Better!’
‘Um… we’ve won the lottery? Jacob Elordi sent you a love letter? Santa is real?’
‘No!’ Beth says, jumping up and down on the spot, she’s so excited. ‘Better than all of those – I’m going to New York!’