Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
ISLA
The rhythmic thud of Kit’s footsteps on the roof has become the heartbeat of my morning – a constant reminder that I’m not alone.
For the past two hours he’s been up there, fixing what the storm broke, while I’ve been down here, pretending to look busy, my hands restlessly organising books it looks like Maggie read countless times.
She always read, every evening, something soft and melodic on the CD player, a book in her lap.
Percy purring on the back of the sofa. Sometimes she’d nod off to sleep, thumb still pressed between the pages, and I’d creep into the lounge when I returned from wherever I’d been with the Harding boys, or later just Kit, and carefully close the book, placing her flower-pressed bookmark between the pages.
She’d mumble, eyes still closed, ‘Not sleeping, just visualising the scene.’
The memory is so achingly real, I could turn and expect to see her there.
Occasionally, debris rains down past the windows – ancient roofing nails, bits of rotten wood, decades of moss that’s been clinging on for dear life. Much like me to this cottage.
I’ve made tea he didn’t drink. Offered help he politely refused. Eventually, I retreated to my current position, sorting through Maggie’s dusty bookshelves. The cottage feels smaller with him in it, even when he’s technically outside.
I found an old veg box in the larder, still strong enough to hold some weight, so I’m stacking the old paperbacks when the back door bangs. Kit stomps in, plaid shirt tied around his waist, arms glistening from the damp air, his hair now more curl than wave.
I’m staring.
And suddenly really bloody hungry, but I don’t think it’s for food.
His sea-storm gaze drops to the box of books, his mouth crimping into a line. ‘Packing.’
I shake my head, swallowing. ‘No. Just organising.’ I pluck a well-thumbed paperback from the top of the pile. ‘I’m not sure I want to read Her Throbbing Saviour from nineteen ninety-seven.’
Kit’s gaze widens. ‘No way. That dirty old woman.’ His shoulders drop and the air between us relaxes a notch.
‘I know, right?’
He shakes his head, a grin fighting the frown he seems to have permanently on his face like a badge of honour. When he rubs the back of his neck, I can’t help but stare indecently at his arms. Kit Harding is ripped.
With a warmth I haven’t felt in months tingling through my veins, I pull at the neckline of the black sweater I tugged on to ward off the chill.
‘How’s it going out there?’ I nod to the roof, but honestly, I’m not sure what fixing a roof entails.
‘Not bad. She’d lost about ten tiles, hence the internal sprinkler system.’
‘Thanks, Kit. I know you’d rather be anywhere but here, helping me.’
For a flash, his gaze settles on my face, paired with a beat of silence.
‘You didn’t need to be out on the boat? I could do without your dad glaring at me any more than he is.’ I try not to wince. Fail.
‘Ignore him. He’s got crankier with every passing year.’ There, a flicker across his face, something deep.
‘What?’ I leave the box and turn back to Maggie’s old wing-backed armchair, the one with the lace arm protectors and green crochet blanket.
Kit shakes his head. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘Tell that to your face.’
He laughs and the sound is so unexpected, so electrifying, that it’s a high-voltage shock straight to my heart. His laugh. It’s the same.
There is some part of Kit Harding that hasn’t changed, and it makes my eyes sting.
‘Why – why don’t we just sit for a moment.’ I gesture to the sofa. I think he won’t.
Then I let out a breath when he lowers down onto the floral print, a ghost of a smile flickering across his lips when he glances down at the well-worn fabric we used to make out on.
Neither of us speak, which would be awkward apart from the uneven beat of my heart thudding in my ears.
‘Jude went out this morning.’
I nod. ‘My first day back, Frankie and Bill were saying your dad still goes out too.’
Kit’s laugh is dry. ‘Of course, the great Reuben Harding is going to be out in that boat until the day he dies.’
‘That must be frustrating.’
He shrugs, lips pursed. ‘I don’t want to talk fishing boats, Isla.’
My fingers pluck the edge of the blanket. ‘No, and what do you want to talk about?’
His gaze is city-levelling as it meets mine. ‘What you said last night, about suicidal thoughts. I mean, that’s what you meant by oblivion, right?’
‘What?’ Heat crawls up my throat. ‘It was a throwaway comment, Kit.’
‘Not a funny one.’ He leans forward, elbows on knees. ‘Isla. You haven’t been back to Sea Salt Bay for ten years. Come on. You show up, out of nowhere…’
‘Oh, right. So the man who apparently hates my guts, the man who is grieving his dead wife so much he’s barely existing, is now so concerned with me he’s skipped out of work. What? To be on suicide watch?’
‘Isla, that’s not—’ He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Why is it so hard to talk to you?’
I huff out a snort of air. ‘Because we don’t know one another anymore, Kit. Not at all.’
When he opens his eyes, I want to weep at the shadows of pain that linger there. ‘No, I guess we don’t.’ He gets up from the sofa and walks back towards the kitchen and the back door. ‘I’ll finish your roof and then I’ll get out of your hair.’
‘Kit,’ I call, but I’m too late. The back door slams. ‘Fuck.’
My phone buzzes – Simone. I hesitate, thumb hovering. She’s relentless but fair. Brutal honesty in Louboutin heels. I’ve been ignoring her for over two weeks.
I swipe to answer. ‘Simone.’ My stomach tightens into a hard ball, while my ribs crank with the effort of simply breathing.
‘Isla, darling!’ Her voice snaps like a perfectly starched collar. ‘Please tell me you’re not dead in a ditch.’
‘Not dead, not in a ditch,’ I say, rubbing my temple. ‘Just taking some time away.’
‘Well, your time away is causing absolute chaos, sweetie. The Vogue shoot’s been rescheduled twice. Miranda’s about to bump you for that new Netflix ingenue if we don’t lock this down.’
I pace towards the kitchen, trying to find air that doesn’t feel heavy with damp plaster and regret. ‘I’m dealing with some personal things.’
‘Honey, we’re all dealing with personal things.
That’s what therapists and Merlot are for.
’ The clack of her keyboard undercuts her breezy tone.
‘Richard’s losing it. Says you’ve gone off-grid.
We hired him for a reason, Isla. He deals in crisis management, and frankly, darling, your career is in crisis. ’
‘I know.’ I omit that I don’t care.
Although in my line of work, that’s the same thing. No career? Might as well be dead anyway.
Reality hits like cold water. ‘I need time to think.’
‘Time is a luxury you can’t afford, darling.’ A beat. Then softer: ‘Look, I know Marcus gutted you. But hiding isn’t the fix. You did what you wanted, you spoke out, but he’s going to ruin you. I know Marcus and he won’t stop until he’s been exonerated and your name is six feet down in mud.’
‘I’m not hiding. I’m regrouping.’
‘Call it what you like. But call Richard tomorrow. You either have to stand up the whole way and let people in;, or let them see what happened to you and why it’s taken you so long to speak up.
If you don’t, you need to realise you are just going to be labelled the mad bad woman of the moment and people – producers, directors, studios – they’ll just see you as a liability. ’
My grip tightens on the windowsill. ‘I’ll call him.’
‘Promise me, Isla.’
‘Tomorrow,’ I say, but my breath is coming in tight little jabs now.
‘That’s my girl. Now – Vogue. I’m thinking stark contrast. Structured, sharp. Diana in monochrome meets vengeance chic.’
My chest contracts. I can’t breathe. The walls of Maggie’s kitchen feel too close.
‘I need to go, Simone,’ I manage. ‘Tomorrow.’
I lean down, clutching the kitchen work surface. There’s a wild pulsing in my ears.
I can’t fucking breathe.
‘Isla.’ A hand on my shoulder makes me jump. I glance over to find Kit so close, the warmth of him spreads straight through all my layers until it gets to the cold numb parts of me I like to hide.
Neither of us speaks. His expression is torn, but perhaps not as shredded as I feel on the inside.
Eventually he says, ‘The roof is finished,’ and just like that, I switch myself back on, smiling, pretending, acting, moving away from the weight of his hand on my shoulder.
‘Thank you,’ I say, forcing on my best smile. ‘How much do I owe you?’
His expression darkens. ‘Nothing.’
‘Kit, I can’t just—’
‘You can.’ He tucks a rag into his back pocket. ‘The flashing will need replacing properly at some point, but this will keep you dry for now.’
‘At least let me make you a cup of tea before you go,’ I offer, not ready for him to leave. ‘You’re soaked.’
He hesitates, then nods once. ‘All right.’
I busy myself with the kettle, hyperaware of his presence as he moves into the kitchen, looking around at Maggie’s things with a quiet familiarity that makes my heart ache. He knows this cottage almost as well as I do – probably better, given how long I’ve been away.
‘Not much has changed,’ he says, running a finger along the edge of the countertop, eyes catching on the collection of sea glass Maggie kept in a jar by the window.
‘No.’ I feel the weight of that truth. ‘Sometimes I think time just … stood still here.’
‘Not everywhere.’
I hand him the mug of tea, our fingers brushing. The contact sends a jolt through me, and I can tell by the slight tensing of his shoulders that he feels it too.
‘Kit…’ I start, not sure what I’m going to say, only knowing I need to say something. ‘I’ve spent so long wrapped up in half-truths and lies and what other people wanted me to say,’ I whisper, setting my mug down with a shaking hand. ‘I don’t want to do that anymore. Not with you.’
He studies me, those blue eyes seeing through all my carefully constructed walls. ‘What do you want, Isla?’
The question hangs between us, loaded with a decade of missed chances and unspoken words.