Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
ISLA
Every step is agony, but I’ve spent years perfecting the art of hiding pain. Red carpets in shoes that pinch. Award ceremonies with pneumonia. Twelve-hour shoots on sprained ankles. This – a bruised foot and injured pride – is nothing by comparison.
When we finally reach his front door – a cheery blue – I’m breathing harder than I’d like to admit. Kit pretends not to notice, busying himself with keys and the door, giving me a moment to compose myself.
‘Just to warn you,’ he says, face half turning to face me, almost but not quite, ‘she fully plans on covering your foot with glitter plasters.’
There’s a hollowing ache that scoops my insides out, leaving me empty and echoing.
‘My favourite kind.’ I smile, and that dark denim gaze of his catches it.
He gives the briefest of nods and then pushes the door open, letting a triangle of warm light spill out, capturing me in a spotlight of illumination.
Kit’s home.
Where he chose to stay and have a family.
Shoulders back. Deep breath.
‘Dad!’ Maisie’s voice rings out the instant the door opens. ‘Is she here? Did you—’ She breaks off as she spots me. ‘You came!’
Her delight is so genuine it catches me off guard, a flash of warmth that jolts into me.
‘Of course she came,’ Kit says, ushering me inside. ‘The roof is leaking in three different places.’
‘Four,’ I correct, hobbling over the threshold. ‘There’s another one started in the bedroom.’
The glow of the house hits me immediately – not just the physical heat after the chilly rain, but the sense of a home.
It smells of spices and something sweet, with underlying notes of wood, wool, and the sea.
The cottage hallway opens straight up into an open-plan living space, kitchen at the back.
Drawings haphazardly cling to the fridge.
Shoes in various sizes clutter the entrance.
A patchwork throw lies rumpled on the sofa where someone – Maisie, presumably – has been curled up.
It’s so different to the vintage formality of Maggie’s place you wouldn’t know it was the same town, let alone the same row of houses.
‘Wow, your home is beautiful.’ Christ, there’s this gigantic pressure on my chest.
‘Your hair is all wet.’ Maisie is eyeing me with fascination. ‘And your foot! Does it hurt real bad? Is it purple? Can I see? I’ve got plasters, do we need plasters, I think we need plasters.’ I’m sure this girl forgets to breathe.
‘Maisie,’ Kit warns, hanging up his dripping coat. ‘Give her some space to breathe.’
She does, biting her lower lip, looking like she might combust, when a barrel of fur launches at me instead. ‘What the—’
‘Cap!’ Kit barks, and the dog that’s as wide as he is tall slopes down, all sheepish and contrite.
I lean down and scratch his ears. He’s an old guy, a proper old dog with stiff legs and warts.
‘Sorry, Isla. That’s Captain, Jess’s dog.
’ The present tense in his statement smacks me hard in the chest.
‘It’s okay,’ I say before turning my attention to Maisie, who is still biting down on her questions. ‘And yes, it hurts a bit, but it’s not as bad as I thought it would be this afternoon.’ An outright lie – it’s throbbing like an absolute bitch.
‘Come sit down,’ Maisie insists, taking my free hand and guiding me towards the sofa. ‘Dad made curry. I finished mine while he came for you. It’s really good, even though he puts in too much garlic.’
‘I do not put in too much garlic,’ Kit mutters, gathering my wet coat and hanging it on a peg by the door. I try not to notice a woman’s coat hanging there. ‘The recipe calls for three cloves.’
‘He always puts in five,’ Maisie informs me with the wise confidence of someone who has witnessed this particular crime repeatedly.
I lower myself onto the sofa, unable to suppress a wince as I elevate my foot on the coffee table.
Maisie immediately arranges the throw over my legs, tucking it in with a motherly efficiency that’s endearing and heartbreaking in equal measure.
‘Do you need a cushion? You need a cushion, don’t you. Let me—’
‘Maisie!’
‘There,’ she says, satisfied. ‘Comfortable?’
‘Very.’ I smile at her. ‘Thank you, Maisie.’
Kit disappears down into the kitchen, the sound of bowls and cutlery following him. Maisie perches on the edge of the sofa beside me, studying me with open curiosity.
‘I was watching your movie,’ she announces. ‘The Lighthouse. It was really good.’
Heat rises to my cheeks. Nothing is quite as disconcerting as having someone watch your work right before meeting you. Imposter syndrome is real and it never ever goes away. ‘Oh. That.’
‘You were amazing. Especially the part where you yell at your dad in the lighthouse. Was that real crying or pretend crying?’
‘Real,’ I admit. ‘The camera can always pick up on fake tears, so you have to dig deep, think about something that makes you very sad.’
‘What did you think about?’ Maisie asks, leaning closer.
‘Just … missing someone,’ I say. ‘Someone I’d left behind. That feeling when you realise you can’t go back to the way things were, even if you wanted to.’
‘I miss my mum sometimes,’ Maisie says quietly. ‘Even though I don’t remember her that well. Dad says that’s okay not to completely remember and that little bits will stay with me forever, and I can miss the little bits I do.’
My chest tightens, an intense sharp dart right between the ribs. ‘Your dad is right. It’s always okay to miss people. What bits of her do you remember?’
Maisie chews on her bottom lip. ‘Her hair.’
‘I bet it was like yours.’
She nods, still worrying her lip with her teeth. ‘And her smell.’
I don’t say anything, feeling like space is better than empty words.
‘But,’ Maisie tilts her head to the side, ‘her face is blurry now. Like I can remember the outline of it, but not the bits that go in the middle.’
I think I’m going to bawl. I want to reach out and give her a hug that she can feel in her bones, but I also don’t want to overstep. Kit’s made his feelings about me being around his daughter more than clear.
‘Can you draw her? You’re an amazing artist, maybe you can draw all the impressions you have of her and create a collage that gives you a full portrait.’
‘Do you think?’ Her blue gaze blinks at me.
‘I think she would look glorious in—’ I stop, realising Kit is standing in the doorway, a bowl of curry in his hands, watching me. I scan his features, trying to ascertain if he’s angry. Furious. About to turn me out in the pissing rain.
‘Isla’s right,’ he says, crossing to hand me the bowl but not meeting my gaze. ‘Here. Eat while it’s hot. You mum would be stunning in glitter.’
‘Thank you.’ Our fingers brush gently as he hands me the bowl, a momentary contact that nonetheless sends warmth spreading up my arm like I’ve touched a live wire. I try desperately not to react, but I swear there’s a matching tremor in his hand before he pulls away.
I look down at the bowl, the aroma of spices rising with the steam. My stomach growls appreciatively until I spot chunks of chicken nestled among the rice and sauce. He wouldn’t remember I don’t eat meat. And I wouldn’t expect him to.
‘Do you need anything else?’ Maisie hovers. ‘Water? Another pillow?’
‘I’m fine, really,’ I assure her. ‘This is perfect.’
I take a spoonful of rice and sauce from the edge of the bowl, carefully avoiding the chicken.
The flavours are complex and comforting, not bad for a fisherman, and considering the boy I used to know couldn’t even flip a burger on a summer barbecue without it sticking.
I continue eating around the meat, trying to be discreet, while Cap, tail banging the floor, positions himself directly in front of me, puppy eyes on full force, clearly realising I’m the weakest link in the chicken consumption line.
Kit sits in an armchair across from us with his own bowl. His eyes narrow slightly as he watches me picking at the food.
‘Something wrong with it?’ he asks.
‘No, it’s delicious,’ I say truthfully.
A flash of something crosses his face. ‘You’re a vegetarian,’ he says, shaking his head. For a moment he pinches the bridge of his nose, which is overkill if you ask me. ‘Want something else?’
‘Absolutely not. This is perfect,’ I insist, taking another careful spoonful of rice. ‘I’m an expert at navigating around meat. You should see me at Hollywood parties with those tiny appetiser plates.’
Kit gives a noncommittal grunt that might mean ‘okay’ in his current vocabulary of mostly monosyllabic responses to me.
‘Why are you a vegetarian?’ Maisie latches onto the newest snippet of information about me. Kit’s gaze is laser sharp from his side of the living room.
Okay, Isla, let’s not fuck up a child’s relationship with food before the age of ten.
‘I’m not actually a vegetarian, I’m what’s called a pescatarian.’ I take another mouthful of rice, hoping that will confuse her enough to stop the conversation.
‘What’s a pesca, pesca—’
‘Pescatarian.’ And here we go. ‘It means I eat fish and eggs, but I don’t eat chicken or other’—ah, fuck—‘animals.’
Maisie considers this, while I shovel more food in my mouth.
Kit shrugs, carries on eating.
That wasn’t so bad.
‘But why? Do you not like the way they taste, or is it because they’ve all got Bambi eyes?’
I almost snort a grain of rice up my nasal passages.
‘Because Daisy Webber at school, she doesn’t eat meat because her mummy says all animals have feelings and it’s murder. So she eats those weird Quorn cocktail sausages in her packed lunch. She gave me one once and it was yuck. That is not a sausage.’
I laugh. It just bursts out of me. For the briefest moment, Kit meets my gaze.
‘Let’s just say, various reasons, but not quite as extreme as Daisy Webber’s mum.’
Maisie nods, clearly satisfied, and we lapse into silence as I finish picking and Kit clears his bowl.
For around thirty seconds, until Maisie’s brain gives her something new to talk about.
‘Did you know our lighthouse is one of the oldest lighthouses in Cornwall?’ she informs me.
‘I do. It’s a special place.’