Chapter 5 #2
‘Fascinating,’ I say again, taking another long drink and wondering if there’s a way to climb inside the pint glass and disappear.
Nina Ellis squeezes into a gap next to us at the bar, hair scraped into a loose knot, the smell of coffee and vanilla still clinging to her even though the café’s been closed for hours.
I glance around for Peter – her bloke, and our local lifeboat crewman turned pub philosopher – but he’s not with her tonight.
That’s unusual. Where one of them is, the other’s usually not far behind.
I make a mental note to check in with him tomorrow.
See if he needs an extra hand on the boat this week.
‘I feel sorry for her, honestly,’ Nina says, catching the thread of conversation.
‘With everything they’re saying in the press about her keeping quiet all those years.
Like she’s to blame. Wasn’t she only just out of her teens when she made her first movie?
Who exactly would have believed her back then? ’
Something shifts low in my gut.
‘It’s not fair,’ Nina adds, stirring her G & T. ‘They act like she let women down when she probably couldn’t even find a way to protect herself.’
‘Blokes are shits,’ Frankie calls from across the room. ‘Present company excluded. Mostly.’
‘Language,’ I mutter automatically, shooting a glance at Maisie – who’s doing an excellent job of pretending not to listen while storing every syllable for later discussion.
She’s got her innocent face on. The one she pulls out when she doesn’t want me to censor the grown-up talk.
It’s terrifying how good she’s getting at it.
Maybe if Jessica were still here, we wouldn’t be in the pub tonight. Maisie would be upstairs with a book, pretending to sleep, while Jess and I shared a bottle of mid-priced red in the kitchen, her cold feet tucked under my thigh. But Jess isn’t here. She hasn’t been here for two years.
And we are at the pub.
‘She came by the shack, you know,’ Bill says, puffed up. ‘Day she arrived. Had a cod bap. Extra vinegar, just like the old days.’
‘We’ve heard,’ Jude says. ‘Multiple times, mate.’
‘Proper star,’ Frankie nods. ‘But no airs and graces. Not like some of ’em on telly.’
‘She’s just a person,’ I mutter, tension prickling at the back of my neck. ‘Like the rest of us.’ My voice comes out sharper than intended. ‘Can we talk about something else?’
Nina gives me a look but lets it slide, tucking her legs up on the bench and sipping her drink. Around us, the conversation shifts – back to boats, the weather, the new paint job on the Mary Jane. The usual noise. But my brain’s snagged on her words.
Those headlines – they’ve been gnawing at me.
The timeline of it all. The things Isla was going through … right after we broke up. After she left Sea Salt Bay. After I stood in the rain like a proper idiot and told her to chase her dreams.
What if her dreams were nightmares?
And then there’s the guilt. The quiet, creeping kind.
Because while she was getting cornered by predators in dressing rooms and told to shut up or lose everything, I was here. Falling in love with Jessica. Getting married. Having Maisie. Learning how to hold a baby without panicking. Laughing. Loving.
Isla Quinn never came back, but then I didn’t follow her either. Didn’t tell her that I saw her film. That I was proud of her.
Peter saw one of her early films years ago. Told me straight after: ‘She’s good, mate. Really good. You okay with that?’ That’s Peter – says what needs saying, nothing more.
I shrugged. Said I didn’t care.
I did, though.
And maybe part of me still does.
‘You all right, son?’ Dad asks. ‘Looking a bit murderous there.’
I shake my head. ‘Fine. Just tired.’
‘Well, we did tell her that Friday night was still good down here,’ Frankie says, circling back to his favourite topic. ‘Told her nothing’s changed much.’
‘Except Kit,’ Jude adds. ‘He’s much grumpier now.’
‘I’m not grumpy,’ I grumble.
‘Do you think she’ll come tonight?’ Maisie asks, eyes wide with hope. ‘To the pub?’
I laugh, maybe too loudly. ‘You honestly think an award-winning actress is going to take time out of her busy life to come and hang out with all us losers? You’ve all gone crazy.’
The room falls suddenly, unnaturally quiet.
I turn, following everyone’s gaze to the door, where a slim figure stands silhouetted against the darkening evening sky.
Isla Quinn, in jeans and a simple sweater, blonde hair, lighter than I remember, loose around her shoulders, hesitates in the doorway like she’s considering making a run for it.
Can’t say I blame her. Every pair of eyes in the place is locked on her like she’s an alien that’s just beamed down.
Dot’s knitting needles freeze mid-stitch.
Bill’s dart misses the board entirely, thudding into the wall.
Even old Ted Thompson, half deaf and usually oblivious to anything that isn’t his whisky or the racing results, has turned in his seat.
The silence stretches one beat too long – awkward, heavy with expectation. I can see Isla’s shoulders tense, her chin lift slightly. It’s the same look she used to get before diving off the high rocks at the cove – a moment of fear followed by stubborn determination.
Maisie gasps beside me, clutching my arm with unexpected strength. ‘Dad,’ she hisses. ‘Dad, it’s her.’
As if I could possibly miss that fact.
Isla’s eyes scan the room, finally landing on me. The impact is physical. Like taking a rogue wave full in the chest. All the air goes out of me in one sharp exhale.
For a brief, unguarded moment, something flickers across her face – relief, maybe, or recognition. Hope, even. Like seeing me here might mean she’s safe.
Then her actress mask slides into place, and she smiles politely to the room at large. Not the real smile. Not the one I remember from when we were eighteen and the world was smaller and she was mine.
My hands grip the edge of the bar so hard my knuckles bleach white.
Don’t come over here. Please don’t make me do this in front of everyone.
‘Well, bugger me,’ Dad murmurs. ‘She actually came.’
‘Language,’ I say automatically, unable to take my eyes off her.
Maisie is bouncing on her stool. ‘Can I go say hi? Please, Dad? Please?’
But before I can answer, Ayo steps out from behind the bar, arms spread wide. ‘Isla Quinn, as I live and breathe! Get yourself in here, girl. First drink’s on the house – for old times’ sake.’
The spell breaks. Conversation resumes in a rush of whispers and not-so-subtle pointing. Isla moves towards the bar with that natural grace she’s always had, even before Hollywood claimed her.
I catch myself watching how she moves, how every eye in the place follows her, and something uncomfortable twists in my gut. Isn’t this exactly what those news stories described? Men staring, claiming, as if they had the right? Christ, I’m no better.
‘You look like you’re about to be sick,’ Jude mutters in my ear. ‘Breathe, brother.’
‘Shut up,’ I manage.
But he’s right. I do actually think I might be sick.