5. Chapter 4
Mandy
An arm across my waist wakes me.
It is heavy and warm, pinning the duvet to my stomach, and for several foggy seconds I cannot work out why I cannot turn over. Then I feel the slow breath against the back of my neck and the solid weight of a chest at my spine.
Peter.
The rest comes back in fragments. His mouth. His hands. Him saying he would leave after five minutes. Me apparently falling asleep before I could remind him of that promise.
Carefully, I shift enough to look over my shoulder.
Peter makes a quiet sound into the pillow, then opens one eye.
“Morning.”
“Why are you still here?”
He opens the other. “That is a surprisingly hostile first question.”
“I thought you would have left.”
“I considered it.”
“And?”
“At some point, I woke up.” His hand moves once over my waist, then stills. “You were tucked into me, and I liked having you in my arms.”
For a second, I have no useful response.
“That is not the sort of thing you say before coffee.”
His mouth twitches. “Would you prefer I lie?”
“I would prefer coffee.”
“Practical. I should have known.”
“You can make some, then leave… please.”
“Right.” He shifts onto his back, stretching his arms above his head. “I am being rewarded for honesty with catering duties.”
“You are being rewarded for staying in my bed without permission.”
“I had permission. You were asleep on top of me.”
“I was not.”
“You had a firm grip of my chest hair.”
I look at him.
Peter grins into the pillow.
“Coffee,” I say.
“On it.”
By the time I come downstairs, I have showered, pulled on leggings and an oversized navy jumper, and convinced myself I am not thinking about how easily I slept with Peter behind me.
He is already dressed in yesterday’s jeans and shirt, the sleeves pushed to his elbows. His shirt is buttoned correctly, which feels disappointingly competent, and he is standing in front of my open fridge with the concentration of a man reading a legal document.
“What are you doing?”
He glances over his shoulder. “Making breakfast.”
“I said coffee.”
“I have made coffee.” He points at the cafetière on the counter. “Breakfast is a bonus.”
“You have been here less than twelve hours. You do not have fridge privileges.”
Peter turns back to the shelves. “You have yoghurt, strawberries, blueberries and half a banana.”
“I also have eggs.”
“Too much responsibility for a Saturday morning.”
“It is not Saturday.”
He pauses. “Is it not?”
“It is Sunday.”
“Christ.”
“Exactly.”
He looks faintly alarmed for half a second, then relaxes. “I will still make breakfast.”
“Why?”
“Because I am here now.” He lifts the yoghurt pot. “And because this has potential.”
I pour coffee into two mugs and lean against the counter while he finds bowls. He spoons yoghurt into them, slices the banana and begins arranging the fruit with absurd concentration.
“What are you making?”
“Breakfast.”
I take a sip of coffee.
When I look back, one bowl has become a face.
Banana slices form the cheeks. A row of strawberries creates a bobbed hairstyle. Two blueberries sit at either side of the yoghurt pretending to be earrings.
I stare at it.
“Is that Mrs Higgins?”
Peter looks pleased with himself. “It is an affectionate likeness.”
“She looks unwell.”
“She looks glamorous.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Not a small one, either. It catches me so unexpectedly that coffee sloshes over the side of my mug and onto my hand.
Peter reaches for a tea towel.
“Careful.”
“I am fine.” I wipe the coffee away, still laughing. “You have made her look deranged.”
“I have captured her essence.”
“Bernard would eat her earrings.”
“Bernard would eat the whole bowl.”
“That is because it is food.”
Peter carries the bowl to the table with a flourish.
“Breakfast, Doctor.”
“Silly man.”
His grin widens. “You are welcome.”
We sit opposite each other at the small kitchen table. Peter eats his own yoghurt without turning it into a portrait, which feels like a missed opportunity, while I pick one of Mrs Higgins’s blueberry earrings out of mine and eat it.
The conversation drifts, as though we have been having breakfast together for years rather than one night.
Bernard’s sausage-roll theft becomes a discussion about whether Mrs Higgins has created a monster.
Peter tells me he has once seen Bernard steal a pork pie from a table outside The Running Horse without breaking stride.
“That cannot be true.”
“It was terrifyingly efficient.”
“A whole pork pie?”
“Mrs Higgins was devastated. She had not even had a bite.”
I laugh again.
Peter watches me over the rim of his mug, and there is something in his expression that makes me look down at the table.
This is not a date.
It is breakfast because he stayed too late. It is yoghurt and fruit and a stupid impression of Mrs Higgins.
That is all.
Peter seems to read something in my face because he puts his mug down and stands.
“I should get out of your way.”
“You probably should.”
He nods, neither hurt nor offended. “Good chat.”
He takes his bowl to the sink. I start to get up, but he waves me back.
“I can wash these.”
“You do not need to.”
“I am trying to redeem my kitchen credentials.”
“You made Mrs Higgins out of fruit.”
“And you laughed.”
“At you.”
“Result is the same.”
He rinses the bowls, puts them in the rack and reaches for his jacket from the back of the chair. I follow him to the door, coffee still warm in my hand.
Peter crouches to tie his boots.
The doorbell rings.
He looks up. “Are you expecting anyone?”
“No.”
I’m not sure why my voice is suddenly so high pitched.
I open the door.
Dan, the postman, stands on the step with a padded envelope in one hand. He smiles at me, then his eyes move past my shoulder and land on Peter, who is still bent over his laces.
“Morning, Mandy,” Dan says. “Parcel for you.”
“Thank you.”
I take it.
That should be it. A parcel. A polite goodbye. Peter leaves two minutes later, and Dan thinks nothing of it.
Instead, panic arrives so fast it makes my mouth move before my brain catches up.
“Peter is here about the mice.”
Dan pauses.
“The mice?”
“Yes.” I nod too enthusiastically. “Possible mice. I heard scratching in the kitchen last night.”
Behind me, Peter makes a small choking sound.
Dan looks from me to him.
“Peter came to look behind the cupboards,” I continue. “He has a torch.”
“And a screwdriver,” Peter says.
I turn my head and glare at him.
Dan’s eyebrows rise.
“For the kickboards,” I say, although I have never called them kickboards in my life. “Obviously. He was checking the gaps. There may not even be mice. It could be pipes. Or the fridge. But he stayed because it got late.”
There is a small silence.
Then I make it worse.
“Not that he stayed because of the mice. I mean, he did stay, but not to monitor the mice. There are no confirmed mice. He was just making sure I was not dealing with a possible rodent issue on my own.”
Dan nods once, slowly.
“Right.”
Peter clears his throat. “No visual confirmation yet.”
I close my eyes.
Dan takes a step back.
“Well,” he says. “Hope you get it sorted.”
“Thank you.”
He heads down the path with the careful speed of a man who has made a firm decision not to hear one more word about my imaginary rodent problem.
I shut the door.
For a few seconds, I keep my hand on the handle and stare at the wood.
Behind me, Peter says, “That was remarkably thorough.”
“Do not speak.”
“You have invented an entire overnight pest-control operation.”
“Do not.”
“You gave me tools.”
“You mentioned the screwdriver.”
“I thought we were building credibility.”
I turn around.
Peter is leaning against the wall with one hand in his jacket pocket. His mouth is pressed together, but he is not even pretending he is not about to laugh.
“You are not allowed to find this funny.”
“I am trying very hard not to.”
“You are failing.”
“I have never been more proud of you.”
“Peter.”
He lifts both hands. “Sorry. Genuinely. I am sorry.”
He is not.
The post van pulls away at the end of the lane. I can see it through the narrow glass panel beside the door, disappearing past the cottage opposite.
“This is exactly why we need rules.”
Peter’s amusement fades slightly. “Rules?”
“Yes. About this.”
He straightens, watching me properly now.
“No more sleeping over.”
His eyebrows lift. “That feels pointed.”
“You were supposed to leave.”
“I know.”
“You did not.”
“It was comfy.”
“And we have just told Dan you stayed overnight to hunt imaginary mice.”
Peter nods. “That was all you.”
“No leaving each other’s houses in the morning.”
“That is going to require some planning.”
“It requires you leaving before daylight.”
“Very romantic.”
“It is not meant to be romantic.”
“Right.”
“No telling anyone.”
“Obviously.”
“Especially Alexandra.”
Peter’s mouth twitches. “Absolutely especially Lexi.”
“And no more mice.”
“Real or imaginary?”
“Either… both.”
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
Peter looks towards the door, then back at me. “Anything else?”
I think of him asleep behind me. His arm around my waist. The absurd yoghurt portrait. The way breakfast has felt easy enough to be dangerous.
“No,” I say. “That is enough for now.”
He nods, pulls his jacket straight and opens the door.
“See you around, Doctor.”
“Thank you for your assistance, Peter.” I sound way too formal.
His smile flashes. “Any time.”
I close the door after him and lean back against it.
By lunchtime, Dan will have delivered letters from one end of St Claire to the other. It will only take one raised eyebrow, one question asked over a garden gate, one version of this story with Peter’s name attached to it.
Before a fun arrangement turns into a village council meeting, we need rules.