Chapter 6
Chapter Six
ISLA
‘Come on, Quinn,’ I mutter to myself. ‘It’s just a pub, not a firing squad.’
But my feet don’t move. Ridiculous. I’ve been coming here since I was a kid.
The Ship Inn was the backdrop to my childhood summers, with its packets of crisps and bottles of fizzy pop, sitting with Kit and Jude while the grown-ups talked about boring things, like tide times and fishing quotas and whether England would ever win a football championship again.
Jude and I were the same age, Kit the older brother, but the three of us were so tight.
Until the summer Jude and I turned fifteen and I found myself looking at his older brother in a different light.
One that made me realise we weren’t meant to be only friends.
I push the door open with more force than necessary, as if I can shove the memories aside with the same motion.
Every head in the place turns towards me, and the room goes so quiet I can practically hear the tap dripping behind the bar. My stomach flips, then plummets. It’s that horrible falling-dream sensation, the one that jolts you awake at 3 am, heart hammering against your ribs.
Then my acting training kicks in. Shoulders back. Chin up. Easy smile. I scan the room like I’m looking for someone, a casual gesture to mask the fact that my heart is climbing into my throat, threatening to choke me with its wild rhythm.
And then I see him.
Kit Harding, leaning against the bar, looking at me like I’m a ghost – the ghost of a girl who used to believe in summer love and happy endings…
He looks just as good in the warm pub light as he did on the rain-slicked path.
Better, even. The dim glow softens the lines around his eyes, catches on the faintest hint of silver in his beard.
His flannel shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, revealing tanned forearms corded with muscle from years of hauling nets and tying knots.
Even from across the room, I can see the tension in his shoulders.
A current passes between us, quick and electric, before I wrench my gaze away, heart stuttering. Not your business anymore, Isla. Not your life. Not your story.
Maisie is there too, perched on a bar stool beside him, her eyes wide as saucers.
Beside her sits an older man with Kit’s jawline and determined downturned mouth, his father.
And next to him is Jude – Kit’s younger brother, who used to tease us mercilessly whenever he caught us kissing behind the boat shed.
Two generations of Harding men, and the little girl who carries their legacy forward now.
My throat tightens at the thought of what Kit’s been through – losing his wife, raising Maisie alone.
Bill and Frankie’s words from the fish shack echo in my mind: ‘Cancer. Jess was a good sort. Kit’s not been the same. ’
The silence stretches too long. I’ve made a mistake. I should go. This isn’t a homecoming; it’s an intrusion.
But then a familiar voice booms across the room: ‘Isla Quinn, as I live and breathe! Get yourself in here, girl. First drink’s on the house – for old times’ sake.’
Ayo steps out from behind the bar, his broad face split with a grin.
He looks exactly the same – maybe a few more lines around his eyes, but the same colourful cringe-worthy sweater, the same gold earring, the same warmth.
He sidles out from behind the bar and envelops me in a bear hug that has my nose pressed against the wool of his jumper.
The scent of him – beer and cigarettes and that spicy aftershave he’s apparently worn since the dawn of time – unlocks something in me.
‘Hey, Ayo. I wasn’t sure you’d still be here.
’ This is the truth and it hits me smack in the chest that all these people from my youth are all still here, still getting along, still living their lives while I’ve been…
Where have I been? In the warmth of Ayo’s hug it feels like I’m returning from being lost at sea.
The spell breaks. Conversation resumes in a rush, though noticeably louder than before as Ayo ushers me up to the bar, pulling me out a stool and pointing at me to sit.
‘Thanks,’ I mutter, and my face is a little warm as I glance about.
Bill and Frankie wave enthusiastically from where the dartboard has stood since time began.
There are new faces too, people who must have moved to Sea Salt Bay after I left.
‘Look at you.’ Tilly, Ayo’s wife, emerges from the back room and leans over the bar to wrap me in a hug that smells of peonies and whisky. ‘Still breaking hearts, I bet.’
‘Not intentionally,’ I say, hugging her back.
Tilly laughs and lines crease her face, the fading edge of her summer tan still dotting well-weathered freckles across her cheekbones and nose.
I don’t think Sea Salt Bay stocks SPF 50.
She’s wearing the silver bangles that I’ve forgotten until right this minute, big hoops swaying from her ears.
And a ring on every finger. ‘You’re dating Reid Usher, aren’t you?
I’ll be damned, that man is so fine he makes me wish I hadn’t dried up with the menopause. ’
‘Mm.’ I don’t know what else to say. Yes, I’m supposed to be dating Reid Usher, Hollywood’s Golden Boy, but I haven’t heard from him since the tabloids started shredding my life in print.
Not that I’ll ever let that show. Another lesson Hollywood taught me – never reveal your wounds. Sharks can smell blood in the water.
‘Maggie would’ve been proud, you know,’ Tilly whispers against my ear. ‘Everything you’ve done. Everything you’re standing up for now.’
Something catches in my throat. I blink rapidly, willing the sudden moisture in my eyes to retreat. ‘Thank you,’ I manage. ‘Although Maggie wasn’t one for sentiment, was she?’
Tilly squeezes my arm. ‘She’d tell you that you look too thin and need some protein, that’s what she would say right now.’
What’ll it be, then?’ Ayo asks, gesturing to the taps. ‘Still a half of the local cider? Or do you like things fancy now?’
‘You remember,’ I say, genuinely touched. ‘And I think I’ve outgrown half pints. Maybe I’ll risk a whole one.’
‘Course I remember. You and Kit, corner table by the window. Every Friday night like clockwork.’
Kit tenses at the mention of his name. I’m trying not to look in his direction, but it’s almost impossible not to. Nope, he’s still brooding, still stiff-shouldered, still every single thing I’ve tried to forget over the years.
‘Miss Quinn?’ A small voice pipes up beside me, and I turn to find Maisie standing there, practically vibrating with excitement. ‘I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, but I just wanted to say hello again. Properly. Without my dad being weird.’
I can’t help but laugh, although my traitorous gaze slides to her dad – who, yes, is still being weird. ‘You’re not bothering me at all. And please, call me Isla.’
‘Really? Okay, Isla.’ She tests out my name like it’s a new flavour of ice-cream she’s not sure about. ‘I’m Maisie. Maisie Harding. And that’s my dad over there, looking like he’s going to throw up.’
I risk another glance at Kit, who indeed looks like he’s just done a tequila shot. He’s watching us with an intensity that makes my skin tingle, like I’m standing too close to an electrical storm.
‘We’ve met,’ I say softly.
‘I know. On the path. But he was really rude, even though he says you used to be friends. He’s not always like that.
Well, he is grumpy a lot, but he’s a good dad.
The best dad. Was your dad grumpy too? I think all dads are grumpy.
Like they wake up and decide, “Today I’m gonna be super grumpy!
” and then they are.’ The only thing I take from this jumble of words is: he says you used to be friends.
‘I’m sure he’s a great dad,’ I say, but my heart is thumping wildly, loudly. Kit was always the one with the steady moral compass, the one who knew exactly who he was and what he stood for. Of course he’d be a good father.
‘Did you really move to Hollywood, from here? What’s it like?
Do you know Saoirse Ronan? Is Johnny Depp actually weird in real life?
I saw him in that old movie with the pirates.
Dad says he might not be a good guy, but I think just because someone acts weird doesn’t mean he is, what do you think?
Have you met Taylor Swift? I love Taylor Swift, my favourite song is “22”.
I also like her new album, but Dad says it has too many naughty words in it, and I can only listen to the version that doesn’t have an E next to the song name.
E means it’s for grown-ups, which is totally unfair because I know all the words anyway.
Is it true you learned to fence for The Crown’s Guard? ’
The questions tumble out of her in such a rush that I can’t help laughing again.
‘Slow down,’ I say. ‘Let’s see… I live in London and New York mostly, but I work in LA sometimes.
It’s very sunny and people eat a lot of kale.
I’ve met Saoirse at an awards show, and she’s lovely.
Johnny Depp, I don’t know personally. Taylor is epic, but I’ve only seen her from the other side of a red carpet at an awards event.
And yes, I did learn to fence for that role, though I wasn’t very good at it. ’
‘C-o-o-l,’ Maisie breathes, looking like she’s filing away each answer for later examination.
‘Maisie.’ Kit’s voice is low but carries across the space between us, deep and baritone. My memory version of Kit does not have that deep rumble going on. ‘Let Miss Quinn get her drink.’
‘It’s fine,’ I call over to him, voice steady, insides jelly. ‘Really.’
Our eyes lock again, and for a moment, it’s like no time has passed at all. We’re just Kit and Isla. No scandals, no deaths, no decade of silence between us. Then he looks away, and just like that, it’s gone. Poof.
‘Would you like to sit with us?’ Maisie asks hopefully. ‘I could show you my drawing. It’s a dragon-mermaid.’
Before I can answer, Ayo slides my pint across the bar. ‘On the house,’ he reminds me.