Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
ISLA
Iwake to the distinct sensation of being watched.
For a disorienting moment, I don’t recognise my surroundings – unfamiliar walls, sunlight filtering through strange curtains, a bed that isn’t mine. Then memory floods back: the cottage leak, Kit’s unexpected invitation, our midnight conversation.
The first thing I do is wiggle my toes, slowly rotating my foot. Thank God, it no longer feels like my ankle is an overripe melon that wants to explode. Don’t think I’ll be running any time soon, but I would like very much to not have to get carried through the village like an invalid again.
A soft shuffle pulls my attention and I turn my head to find Maisie standing beside the bed with the dog, Cap, approximately three inches from my face, studying me with unblinking interest.
‘Holy sh—’ I bite off the word, jerking upright. ‘Maisie. Hi.’
‘You snore,’ she informs me solemnly. ‘But only a little bit. Like this.’ She demonstrates with a delicate, kitten-like snuffling sound while the dog wags its tail and butt.
‘Thanks for the review,’ I manage, pulling the blankets higher. ‘How, um, long have you been standing there?’
She considers this, head tilted. ‘Since I finished brushing my teeth. Dad said not to wake you, but I didn’t. I was just looking.’
‘That’s…’ Creepy? Sweet? ‘…thoughtful.’
‘Dad’s making pancakes,’ she announces. ‘Because you’re a guest. He only makes pancakes for special occasions.’
I’m a special occasion. Not sure what to think of that.
‘I should get dressed then,’ I say, glancing at my overnight bag.
‘Okay.’ Maisie doesn’t move.
‘I need some privacy,’ I clarify.
‘Oh!’ Her eyes widen. ‘Right. Sorry. I’ll tell Dad you’re awake.’
She dashes out, closing the door with a bang, and I sink back against the pillows, heart still racing from the surprise wake-up call. The clock on the bedside table reads 7:36 am.
My foot throbs dully as I ease out of bed, and I spend a moment or two testing my weight.
It’s okay, to be fair. I’ve had much worse.
I dress quickly in the jeans and sweater I turned up in; I only packed clean underwear, not wanting to make Kit wait too long for me yesterday when he turned up with a face like miserable thunder and invited me over like he was asking the devil for tea.
I run fingers through my hopeless hair, and attempt to make Kit’s bed with military precision.
No trace – just respect, not permanence.
The smell of cooking greets me as I limp downstairs.
The kitchen is warm and bright, morning sunlight pooling across the floorboards.
Kit stands at the stove, flipping pancakes like he’s done it a thousand times, and something in my chest constricts.
It’s a vision I never expected to see. Domestic Kit.
Grown-up Kit. Deep, dark, locked away in my fantasies Kit.
How things could have been if I hadn’t left. If what happened next hadn’t happened.
He glances back. ‘Morning.’
‘Morning,’ I manage.
In daylight, our midnight confessions feel like a dream – something that happened to other people in another time.
‘How’s the foot?’ he asks, sliding a pancake onto a plate.
‘Better,’ I say. ‘Just stiff, I think.’
‘Sit.’ He nods towards the table. ‘Breakfast’s almost ready. Unless you want your foot up? You can sit in the armchair, and I’ll bring it over.’
‘No, no, this is fine.’ I take a seat across from Maisie, who beams at me.
‘Dad makes the best pancakes. They’re fluffy.’
‘They look amazing,’ I say, and they do – golden and perfect.
Kit places a plate in front of me, then Maisie, before making one for himself. There’s an easy domesticity to his movements that makes my chest hollow.
‘Syrup?’ Maisie offers, pushing a bottle towards me.
‘Thanks.’ I eye her stack. She’s attacking it with almost military precision, cutting away at the crispy edges and leaving the fluffy middles to last. ‘You know in America they have stacks of pancakes twenty high, per person.’
Her eyes pop open. ‘Awwwesome.’
‘And they put syrup on their bacon too.’
She pauses, fork midway between plate and her mouth, and her cute little nose wrinkles up. ‘Ewww.’
‘I agree. Very much ewww.’
Kit’s glance flickers between us, before doubling down on his own breakfast.
We lapse into what should be awkward silence, but Maisie fills it with cheerful chatter about her upcoming school day, a project about the solar system, and whether plesiosaurs could actually still exist in deep ocean trenches.
I focus on my pancakes, which are indeed excellent.
The kitchen is cosy and lived-in. Glitter-bomb pictures five deep on the fridge.
A calendar on the wall packed with reminders – swimming lessons, dental appointments, school events.
Real life, scheduled and organised. I want to ask why Kit’s bedroom is so utilitarian, but I think discussing home decor choices might push it a step too far.
‘Can I take a picture with you before school?’ Maisie asks suddenly. ‘None of my friends believe I know you.’
I glance at Kit, whose jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. ‘That’s up to your dad,’ I say.
Maisie turns pleading eyes to her father. ‘Please, Dad? Just one? It’s not like I can post it anywhere, you won’t let me have any cool apps.’
Kit’s gaze flicks to me, then back to his daughter. ‘One picture,’ he says finally. ‘But it stays on your phone.’ His gaze meets mine. ‘Isla, is it wise for people to know where you are?’ Is he concerned for me? Or his daughter? His gaze is inscrutable.
He’s got a point, though.
‘Maisie.’ I give her a bright smile. ‘I’d love to have my picture with you, but can you promise me you’ll only show it to your best friend, Lily?’
‘Yes!’ Maisie pumps her fist, already pulling out her phone. ‘Dad, can you take it?’
Kit looks like he’d rather wrestle a shark, but accepts the phone with a resigned sigh. Maisie bounces over to my side, throwing an arm around my shoulders. I lean down so we are close together. She smells of shampoo, golden syrup and innocence.
‘Smile,’ Kit instructs, holding up the phone.
I arrange my features into what I hope is a natural expression, but I doubt it matters because Maisie’s smile is bright enough for the both of us.
‘Got it,’ Kit says, handing the phone back to Maisie, who studies the result with satisfaction.
‘Perfect!’ she declares. ‘Thanks, Isla!’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘We need to go,’ Kit says, checking his watch. ‘School starts in twenty minutes.’
‘But Isla—’ Maisie begins.
‘I’m fine,’ I assure Maisie, whose expression has fallen. ‘I need to get back to the cottage anyway, see how bad the damage is.’
‘Will your foot be okay to walk on?’ she asks, concern furrowing her brow.
‘I’ll manage. Maybe your dad has some painkillers I can take.
All Maggie’s were out of date and went in the bin.
’ Along with all the other toiletries I found in the bathroom when I arrived.
It felt like a sin throwing her cold cream into the trash, but at the same time I’m not sure Pond’s Cold Cream is supposed to sit with its cap half screwed on for a few years and still be used.
Throwing away Maggie’s belongings is just another layer of guilt for me to contend with.
Kit’s expression is unreadable as he helps Maisie gather her backpack and lunch.
Am I supposed to leave with them?
Should I wash up?
Not knowing what I should be doing, I start to gather their plates.
‘Leave those,’ Kit says. ‘I’ll deal with them later.’
‘It’s the least I can do,’ I insist. ‘You made breakfast. You gave up your bed.’
He just nods once before turning his attention back to Maisie.
‘Coat,’ he reminds her. ‘It’s supposed to rain again later.’
‘Again.’ She rolls her eyes and I love her for it. ‘Bye, Isla!’ she says, stepping over to me and wrapping me in another quick hug before bouncing towards the door. ‘Feel better!’
‘Bye, Maisie.’ I smile. ‘Thanks for the hospitality.’
Kit hesitates in the doorway, keys in hand. ‘There’s painkillers in the cabinet above the sink if you need them,’ he says stiffly before turning to Maisie and saying, ‘She’ll be fine.’
Then they’re gone, the door closing behind them with a soft click. I stand in their kitchen, surrounded by the remnants of a family breakfast I had no right to be part of.
I wash the dishes quickly. I don’t know where things go and am resisting all urges to look through Kit’s cupboards, so I leave a neat pile of clean plates and knives and forks on the table.
I do take two painkillers from the cabinet, before locating my bag.
Kit has placed it by the front door beside my trainers, still caked in mud from our slow walk up the lane in the storm.
Right. I can do this.
The walk back to Salt Cottage is slow and painful, not helped by the slippery pavements, the mush of mud and leaves. It’s still damp, a decided drizzle – forget the mizzle.
I could be auditioning for a part in a zombie horror movie; I must remember to twist my ankle should a part like that ever come up.
I’m nailing a superior zombie gait. For a moment, I forget I’m in Sea Salt Bay at all.
I’m back in a drama class, twenty-five of us groaning, dragging a leg as we perfected the zombie walk.
I got a crick in my neck from holding it at an angle so long because I refused to come out of character when the teacher stopped us all with her corrections.
‘Isla? What on earth are you doing hobbling around like that?’ A bicycle bell cuts through my memory as Nina comes to a squealing stop beside me on the road, putting her foot down for balance.
‘You shouldn’t be walking on your ankle.
There is no way it’s fixed already.’ She’s eyeing me critically.
‘Where are you coming from this early? I must give you my number so if you need anything you can just give me a shout.’
Fuck. I think I’m going to cry.