8. Chapter 7 #2
We are sitting on a low stone wall above the quarry path while the rest of the group spreads out across the grass.
Nancy is explaining something about route options to Luke, who looks as if he would rather be pushed into the quarry than look at another map.
Mrs Higgins is holding court near the viewpoint with three women from Lowdale and a man with walking poles who has already made the mistake of asking Bernard’s age.
Bernard himself is with us.
Not by invitation.
He has planted his elderly beagle backside directly between Hunter’s boots and is leaning against his shin as if moments from collapse. Mrs Higgins handed Hunter the lead ten minutes ago with the words, “Be a dear,” and then walked away before he could refuse.
Bernard has since eaten a corner of Hunter’s sandwich, sneezed on my trouser leg and sighed six times with the bleakness of a dog denied basic human rights.
Hunter looks down at him. “You are not getting any more.”
Bernard does not move.
“He understands you,” I say.
“He is choosing not to respect me.”
“That is his whole brand.”
Bernard huffs through his nose and rests his chin on Hunter’s boot.
“You know,” Hunter says, looking back at me, “for a man supposedly savouring flapjack, you look extremely solemn.”
“I am surrounded by natural beauty.”
“You are staring at a sheep trough.”
“It has character.”
“It has algae.”
“Character.”
Hunter leans back on his hands. The wind ruffles his hair, and he squints towards the path where two women, tourists by the look of it, are taking photographs of the view.
They passed us earlier with bright waterproofs, cheerful smiles and the mild confusion of people who thought a village walk would involve less mud.
One of them looks over and smiles.
Out of habit, I almost smile back properly.
Almost.
Then I remember Mandy’s hand on my jaw and look down at the flapjack instead.
Hunter makes a small noise.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“That noise was not nothing.”
“It was observational.”
“Since when do you make observational noises?”
“Since you started behaving strangely.”
“I am eating a flapjack.”
“You are holding a flapjack.” Hunter nods towards the two tourists. “You have also ignored at least three opportunities to flirt today.”
“It is a Ramblers walk, not a singles night.”
“That has never troubled you before.”
“I have other things on my mind.”
“The bank?”
“Yes.”
“Monday?”
“Yes.”
“The cottage?”
I look towards the quarry.
Below us, rainwater has gathered in the old workings, dark and still except where the wind wrinkles the surface. Moss clings to the exposed stone, stubborn and bright in the cracks.
“Among other things,” I say.
Hunter is quiet for a moment.
Bernard, who has been leaning against Hunter’s boot with the solemn exhaustion of a dog who has crossed several continents rather than one damp field, chooses that exact second to fart.
It is not loud.
It does not need to be.
Hunter closes his eyes. “Christ.”
Bernard gazes out over the quarry, blameless.
The two women on the path turn at the same time, then very politely discover something fascinating in the opposite direction.
I cover my mouth with the back of my hand.
Hunter points at me. “Do not laugh.”
“I am not.”
“You are shaking.”
“I am grieving for the clean air.”
Bernard sighs and settles more heavily against his leg.
For a moment, the tension loosens.
Then Hunter looks back at me. “It is not just the job, though.”
I take a bite of flapjack. It is dry enough to absorb shame.
Hunter waits.
That is one of his worst qualities. He knows when silence will do more damage than questions.
“You are distracted,” he says at last. “But not miserable. That is new.”
“That sounds insulting.”
“It is not.” He studies me. “When the bank news first hit, I thought you would either pretend you did not care or make some grand decision purely to prove you were fine. You have not.”
“Still time.”
“Maybe.” His expression softens. “But you are steadier than I expected.”
I say nothing.
“You have talked to someone.”
It is not a question.
I think of Mandy’s kitchen. Her steady eyes. Who are you embarrassed for?
I think of her saying quieter did not mean smaller.
I think of her in bed afterwards, watching me as if she had seen through every ridiculous defence I had and decided to stay anyway.
“I am seeing someone,” I say.
Hunter turns his head properly then. “Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Well.” His voice stays mild, but his expression changes. “That explains the sudden lack of flirting.”
“It is casual.”
“Of course.”
“And private.”
“I gathered.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
I glance at him, because that is not the answer I expected.
Hunter looks back towards the quarry. “You are protecting her.”
“I promised discretion.”
“That is not usually your opening move.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“Apparently.”
There is a joke waiting there, but he does not take it.
“It is not serious,” I say, too quickly.
Hunter only nods.
“I heard how that sounded,” I add.
“I thought you might.”
Bernard noses at my hand, clearly hoping emotional discomfort comes with more flapjack. I lift it out of reach. He stares at me as if I have personally ruined his afternoon.
Hunter looks at him. “At least one of you still knows what he wants.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
I look down at the last piece of flapjack, then out towards St Claire, small and ordinary beneath the grey sky.
“It is early,” I say.
“All right.”
“And nobody knows.”
“Clearly.”
“And I would like to keep it that way.”
Hunter gives me a brief look. “Then I will keep my mouth shut.”
“That may be a first.”
“Enjoy the historic moment.”
I almost smile.
The wind moves across the quarry, cool enough to make me wish I had worn a better coat. Bernard lifts his head, sniffs the air, then immediately decides the weather is not worth his attention.
Hunter gives the lead a small tug. “Come on, you elderly biohazard. Society awaits.”
Bernard remains exactly where he is.
Mrs Higgins waves from the path. “Has he been good?”
Hunter looks down at Bernard, then at me. “Memorable.”
Mrs Higgins beams. “He does make an impression.”
“That he does.”
We start walking again, down through the trees towards the village. Hunter does not ask who she is. He does not tease. He only lets the silence sit between us until, annoyingly, I want him to say something.
Near the final stile, he does.
“Whoever she is,” he says, “she seems good for you.”
I snort. “You have almost no evidence.”
“I have enough.”
“You have a missed flirtation count and a dog with digestive issues.”
“And you sitting still for more than five minutes without performing for anyone.”
That shuts me up.
Hunter climbs over the stile first.
I am still deciding whether to argue when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Mandy
Does your dick have time to come over later, or is it busy being useful elsewhere?
I stop walking.
Only for a second.
Unfortunately, Hunter has known me since we were little. A second is plenty.
He turns back. “Good news?”
“No.”
“Your face disagrees.”
“My face is unreliable.”
“It is doing something deeply embarrassing.”
I should put the phone away.
Instead, I look at the message again.
And smile.
Big mistake.
Hunter’s grin spreads slowly. “Ah.”
“No.”
“That one deserved it.”
I turn away from him and type.
Me
It has cleared its schedule.
The reply comes before I have taken three steps.
Mandy
Good. Tell the owner to bring wine.
I put the phone back in my pocket.
Hunter is still grinning.
“Not one word,” I say.
He claps me on the shoulder as he passes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You absolutely would.”
“Constantly,” he says, and carries on down the path.