3. Chapter 2
Mandy
By the time we reach the top of the hill, Bernard has recovered from both the climb and his assault on the group’s air quality.
He trots ahead of Mrs Higgins with his tail held high, as though he has personally led us up the slope rather than stopped twice to inspect a stone and once to sit down in protest. Mrs Higgins follows behind him, still muttering about the sausage roll he stole from her hand.
“Do not look so pleased with yourself,” she tells him.
Bernard looks back at her.
Then carries on walking.
The path levels out along the ridge, opening the view across the fields and hills. St Claire sits below, roofs clustered around the church tower, smoke lifting from a few chimneys into the pale sky. The rain has stopped, leaving everything damp and bright beneath the thin sunlight.
Nancy and Luke pause by an old wooden signpost to check the map. Hunter stands beside Alexandra a little further ahead, one hand resting at the small of her back while she points towards something beyond the next field.
Peter has taken off his beanie, leaving his copper-brown curls slightly flattened as he walks beside me in silence.
“You did not say it would all work out,” he says.
I glance at him. “No.”
“Everyone else has.”
“That must be… comforting?”
“It is very irritating.”
“I thought so.”
Peter looks down at the path, kicking at a loose stone with the side of his boot.
“Mrs Patel said I would land on my feet.”
“Who is that?”
“One of our regulars.”
“Has she ever asked what’s next for you?”
“No.”
“Then she is guessing.”
“She means well.”
“People often do.”
His brown eyes meet mine again, waiting.
“I am not saying you will not be fine,” I add. “I am saying you are allowed to be angry first.”
His mouth pulls slightly to one side.
“You are very good at making things sound manageable.”
“I did not say manageable. I said you are allowed to be angry.”
“That is less reassuring.”
“It is more honest.”
Peter gives a quiet laugh. “You really are a terrible comforter.”
“I am not trying to comfort you.”
“No?”
“No. I am trying to stop you from making yourself miserable because you think you ought to have your whole future mapped out by next week.”
He is quiet for a moment, fingers brushing absently over his full, neatly trimmed beard.
Then he says, “You make that sound like a very Peter thing to do.”
“It is a very Peter thing to do.”
“That is unsettling.”
“You should try being less obvious.”
He smiles, but it fades when he looks towards the valley.
I watch him for a second. Not because I think he is about to fall apart on a footpath. Peter is not built that way. He will keep moving, keep making people laugh, keep telling himself that he has time to work it out.
But he looks tired.
Not physically. He has walked up the hill without slowing. It is something else. The kind of tiredness that comes from having a future taken away before you are ready to let it go.
“You will tell Alexandra,” I say.
Peter rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I should. But she’ll worry.”
“She is your sister.”
“That is exactly the problem.”
I smile. “You say that as if it is a bad thing.”
“It is not bad. It is just… Lexi does not do anything halfway. She will have a plan by tea time. Three options, a spreadsheet and at least one person she has already contacted on my behalf.”
“That sounds useful.”
“It sounds exhausting.”
He glances sideways at me.
“I am changing the subject before you decide I need a wellbeing plan.”
“I am not writing you a wellbeing plan.”
“Good. I have a theory instead.”
“That is rarely reassuring.”
“Lexi did not get you here at all.”
I turn to look at him. “No?”
“No. She was convenient cover.”
“Cover for what?”
“For wanting to see me.”
I laugh. “Why would I want to see you?”
Peter’s mouth curves.
“My kitchen skills.”
“You did not demonstrate any kitchen skills.”
“I demonstrated plenty of skill in a kitchen.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It was from where I was standing.”
“Of course it was.”
He watches me for a moment, looking far too pleased with himself.
“You are not denying it,” he says.
“I am not giving you the satisfaction.”
“Which is not a denial.”
“You are very confident for a man who has spent the last ten minutes insisting he has no plan.”
“My professional life is in turmoil. My other talents remain intact.”
I shake my head, but I am smiling.
Peter sees it.
“There,” he says quietly. “That.”
“What?”
“You have thought about it.”
I keep walking.
“Peter.”
“Have you?”
He does not sound smug now. Not quite. There is something more careful beneath the question, as though he is prepared for me to shut him down.
I look at him.
“Of course I have thought about it.”
His eyebrows lift.
“Right.”
“Do not make that face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you think you have won something.”
“I have not won anything.” His smile gives him away. “I just assumed you would be imagining a happily-ever-after by now.”
I stare at him.
“A happily-ever-after?”
“Us. Matching towels. You letting me keep a toothbrush at yours.”
“Peter.”
“I thought it was possible.”
“I was thinking about your dick.”
He stops walking.
I take two more steps before I notice, then turn back.
For once, Peter has no answer ready. The wind catches his curls, and his mouth opens slightly before he closes it again.
“Well,” he says at last. “That is considerably clearer.”
“You asked.”
“I did.” He starts walking again, his grin returning slowly. “For the record, my dick is available for a repeat performance.”
“How generous of it.”
“It likes to be useful.”
“Does it?”
“Very much.”
I laugh, because he is ridiculous and because the memory of that night has arrived in far too much detail for the middle of a Ramblers walk.
Peter looks at me, waiting.
I lift one shoulder. “I will bear that in mind.”
“That sounds promising.”
“It was not intended to.”
“Of course not.”
He lets it go then. No push, no expectation, no attempt to turn a joke into an arrangement before I have decided whether I want one.
Which is useful.
It means I can carry on walking beside him and pretend the idea of a repeat has not lodged itself firmly in my head even if it very much has.
By eleven, St Claire has settled into itself.
The last of the Saturday drinkers have gone home, the chairs inside The Running Horse are upside down on the tables, and the only light on the high street comes from the pub windows behind me and the lamps spaced along the pavement. Rain earlier has left everything shining.
Alexandra keeps me for a glass of wine after closing, then another half while we talk about a delivery that has not turned up, a wedding booking that has changed numbers for the third time and Bernard’s apparent belief that sausage rolls are a basic canine right.
Eventually Hunter appears to help Alexandra to close down and I take this as an excuse to leave.
I pull my jacket closer as I pass the churchyard. The village is quiet enough that I can hear my boots on the pavement and the faint rattle of a bin lid somewhere behind a garden wall.
I should be tired. I am tired.
The week has been long, the walk longer than I expect it to be, and I have spent far too much of the day thinking about a man’s dick.
Not just any man’s dick.
Peter’s.
Which is inconvenient, but not complicated.
Peter himself is not uncomplicated. He has just lost his job. He is worried, angry and trying to keep both hidden beneath jokes before Alexandra can take over. I care about that. More than I would like to examine while I am walking alone in the rain.
But the arrangement between us is simple.
He is attractive. He makes me laugh. He knows what he wants, and he does not pretend that one night in my kitchen has made either of us responsible for the other’s life.
Neither of us is looking for more.
That is ideal.
No dating apps. No noisy bar where I have to make polite conversation with a stranger before deciding whether he can be trusted with the truth of my life.
No explaining that my marriage ended because Karim and I realise we are better friends than spouses, then watching someone decide whether that makes me reassuringly mature or somehow suspicious.
No shifting my routine, my home or my plans to make space for somebody who expects a permanent place in them.
Peter has his life.
I have mine.
There is room for a few hours in between.
By the time I reach my cottage, that thought has followed me all the way through the gate.
I let myself in, switch on the light and hang my jacket on the hook by the door. My boots go on the mat, damp but not soaked. I have barely picked up the post from the floor when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Peter
You make it home?
I look at the screen.
Me
Just walked in.
The reply comes almost immediately.
Peter
Good.
Me
Is that concern, or are you checking I have not been carried off by a dangerous puddle?
Peter
I was very concerned about the puddles.
I smile.
I drop the post beside the fruit bowl. The cottage is quiet around me, warm enough now that I have shut the door behind me.
My phone buzzes again.
Peter
I keep thinking about something you said earlier.
Heat moves through me before I have even finished reading the whole message.
Me
I said several sensible things. You will need to narrow it down.
Peter
Your assessment of my kitchen skills.
I lean against the counter.
Me
You mean your ego.
Peter
I mean the part where you admitted you had thought about my dick.
There it is.
Direct, ridiculous and very Peter.
Me
You asked a stupid question.
Peter
And you gave me an excellent answer.
I should leave it there but I can’t help myself.
Me
Do not get carried away.
The three dots appear almost at once.
Peter
Would you like a repeat?
No joke after it. No attempt to turn it into something clever.
Just a question.
I look around the kitchen. The washing-up from yesterday is still in the rack. A stack of unopened letters sits beside the fruit bowl. My jumper is hanging over the back of a chair because I took it off earlier and couldn’t be bothered to carry it upstairs.
My home. My mess. My quiet.
Letting Peter in for one evening does not hand any of it over.
He wants a repeat.
So do I.
Me
Come over.
The pause lasts long enough for me to wonder whether I have read the whole thing wrong.
Peter
You sure?
My mouth curves.
Me
Yes.
Peter
Me and my dick can be there in fifteen.
Me
Sounds like a plan.
I put my phone on the counter before he can send anything else.
Fifteen minutes is enough time to change out of my walking clothes. I take my rain jacket upstairs, wash my face, then pull on soft black trousers and a dark green top that does not look as though I have made an effort even if I have.
When the doorbell rings, there is a flutter of what I assume is nerves although I’m not sure why I should be nervous.
Peter stands on the step with rain darkening the shoulders of his jacket and damp curls falling across his forehead. His hands are in his pockets, and his smile is smaller than it is when he is performing for a room.
There is that flutter again.
Ridiculous.