Chapter 16 #2
There’s a patter of footsteps, then the door flies open to reveal Maisie in school uniform, white shirt sticking out of a grey pleated skirt, white socks slouched at her ankle, plaster on her knee.
‘Injury?’ I point to the plaster that’s slipped slightly to the right and left that grey sticky mark on her skin that’s always impossible to get off.
Childhood memories are such funny things. Gone, forgotten, until they revisit.
‘Four Square. Daisy said it was an accident.’ Maisie’s eyes narrow, calling bullshit.
‘I don’t know that one, but it sounds dangerous.’
Her blue eyes round and she nods, her mass of brown curls bobbing. ‘You’ve no idea,’ she states, utter seriousness before turning and hollering, loud enough to startle seagulls, ‘Dad! Isla’s here!’
She grabs my hand and tugs me inside before I can respond, chattering a mile a minute.
‘I haven’t done my maths yet. Are you any good at maths, I hate it.
Why do we need to do maths? It’s stupid.
Dad’s making fish, Grandad brought it round, you eat fish don’t you, Isla?
We eat a lot of fish.’ She rolls her eyes.
‘A lot of fish, and I wanted to show you my shell collection but Dad said that could wait too and—’
‘Breathe, Maisie,’ I laugh, letting her pull me through the cosy living room with its cushions and throws, and its decor chosen by the wife who no longer gets to be here. ‘The shells aren’t going anywhere.’
Kit’s voice floats from the back of the house where the kitchen is. I can’t breathe. ‘Maisie, let Isla at least get inside the door before you start showing her every single pebble you’ve ever picked up.’
Kit Harding is at the stove in worn jeans and a simple white T-shirt, barefoot on the terracotta tiles.
His hair is still damp, curling slightly at the nape of his neck.
He looks simultaneously completely at home and impossibly out of place – like someone Photoshopped a rugged fisherman into a domestic scene from a lifestyle magazine.
Cap is at his feet. His tail gives a brush of the tiles at the sight of me, but he’s clearly not giving up his space by the cook who might drop scraps.
I swallow as Kit glances up, eyes meeting mine with an unreadable expression. ‘Rain’s stopped,’ he says, spatula in hand, as if we’re picking up a perfectly normal conversation.
I exhale slowly, tension unwinding just slightly from my shoulders. ‘Yeah, Kit. The rain’s stopped.’
Mundane words carrying the weight of everything we’re not saying.
Has the storm passed?
Is this a truce of sorts?
‘Dad’s making his special fried fish and posh mushy peas,’ Maisie informs me, dragging out a chair from the kitchen table.
‘They’re the best. Although too much garlic.
’ Another eye roll that makes me snort. ‘And sometimes herbs if we have them, but we don’t today because Dad forgot to buy any at the shop. ’
‘I didn’t forget,’ Kit corrects mildly. ‘I chose not to buy the sad, wilted excuse for herbs they were selling.’
Maisie sighs and gives a little shake of her head, lips curved. ‘That’s what he always says when he forgets and has to try and get what he needs from Dot’s shop.’
I grin. ‘Well, I’m sure they’ll be delicious either way.’
‘Do you want some water? Or we’ve got squash … uh, tea, coffee? Dad already made coffee but he says I can’t have any because it’ll stunt my growth, which is stupid because Lily’s mum lets her have coffee and she’s taller than me.’
‘Tea would be lovely,’ I say, trying not to laugh at Kit’s long-suffering expression. ‘I can make—’ I start to rise, but Kit shakes his head.
‘Sit. You’re a guest.’
I meet his gaze, bite my lip.
Maisie continues chattering while I watch Kit make me a cup of tea.
Did Reid ever make me a cup of tea? I mean I’m sure he did, but I don’t remember it looking quite as profound.
I think I need to get out more. ‘Will you come to the village gala? It’s really fun.
’ I tune back in to Maisie’s chatter. ‘There’s games and music and a boat race that Dad always wins except last year when his engine broke and Mr Peterson won instead, but Dad says that was just luck. ’
I glance at Kit, who studiously avoids my gaze, focused on the mug he’s stirring. ‘I don’t know if I’m coming,’ I say carefully, but the drop in her expression is almost crushing.
‘Everyone comes,’ Maisie says, as if makes it all okay. ‘And you can help with the talent show part, because, you know, you have actual talent. Miss Trent is organising it, but Dad says she couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery.’
‘Maisie!’ Kit’s cheeks are pink, but those dark blues of his narrow. ‘We don’t repeat things Dad says when he thinks he’s alone.’
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. ‘I haven’t been invited to help with the talent show,’ I point out. ‘And I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying in Sea Salt Bay.’
The words hang in the air.
‘You have to stay for the gala,’ Maisie insists. ‘It’s the best day of the year. Even better than Christmas.’
‘Better than Christmas?’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘That’s a bold claim.’
‘It’s true! At Christmas it’s just our family, but at the gala it’s everyone, and there’s candy floss, and games, and Dad lets me stay up late to watch the fireworks.’
Kit sets plates of beautifully crisp fish and a vibrant green mash. ‘Maisie, let Isla eat. Not everyone wants to be talked at for twenty minutes straight.’
‘I don’t mind,’ I say truthfully. There’s something refreshing about Maisie’s unfiltered enthusiasm, especially after years of carefully calculated Hollywood small talk.
‘See?’ Maisie grins triumphantly at her father. ‘She doesn’t mind.’
Kit rolls his eyes, but there is so much love painted in beautiful colours across his face, it could almost make me weep. What I wouldn’t have given to have my dad look at me like that. It’s not a memory I have. ‘Just eat your fish before it gets cold. No one likes a cold fish.’
I laugh. Can’t help it. Kit’s gaze meets mine across the table.
‘No one likes a cold fish.’ I laugh again, a little louder, the sound growing and morphing into a giggle that tags along with another.
And then another. My knife and fork clatter down on the table.
Tears tingle at the edges of my eyes. ‘Sorry.’ I press my palm against my face before another fit of giggles hits.
I can’t breathe. The air is squeezed in my middle like a vacuum.
Okay, Isla. Stop making an idiot of yourself.
Three.
Two.
One.
I straighten, sober my face. Look up at Kit and Maisie to find them both watching me with their mouths open. ‘Sorry, I haven’t laughed like that in ages.’
Kit’s eyebrows rise into arches. ‘And what was funny?’
My face still feels damp. I swipe at it, relishing how freeing it feels not to worry about smearing makeup and mascara. ‘It’s silly.’
‘I like silly,’ Maisie assures me.
‘You are silly,’ Kit fires back, knocking her softly on the shoulder.
They both turn their expectant gazes to me.
‘I was working with a famous actor. Very famous.’ I pause, trying to quell a fresh build-up of giggles.
‘And he had to kiss me, and the director was shouting out, on loudspeaker, “Why does it look like Isla is kissing a cold fish?”, and since then, every time someone says, “cold fish”, I just imagine, well, a carp about to be hooked and reeled in.’ I open and close my mouth like a fish. It’s silly and stupid.
‘How famous?’ Kit asks, gaze indecipherable.
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Very.’
He shrugs and scoops up some peas, shovelling them in, chewing as he watches me.
I take a bite and can’t hold back a groan of appreciation. ‘These are good.’
‘Garlicky, right,’ Maisie says around a mouthful.
‘Don’t talk with your mouth full.’ Kit waves his fork at her and I hide my grin behind a forkful of, yes, very garlicky mashed peas.