Page 22 of Take Me Away

‘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.

‘Thank you.’ I take a sip, the familiar taste hitting me with a wave of nostalgia so strong it’s almost dizzying. ‘And I’d love to see your drawing, Maisie, but I don’t want to interrupt your family time.’

‘It’s not interrupting,’ she insists, tugging at my sleeve. ‘It’s just Dad and Uncle Jude and Grandad. And they’re just talking about boring stuff like boat engines and football.’

Jude, who’s been watching our exchange with undisguised amusement, raises his glass in my direction. ‘Been a while, Quinn.’

‘Jude.’ I nod back, a smile tugging at my lips despite not wanting to look too keen and desperate. Jude is still, well, Jude, like time hasn’t touched him here. Wild sandy hair, startling blue eyes and the cheekiest smile to ever grace the earth. He’s wearing the standard coastal uniform of hoodie and well-washed jeans. The wooden bar blocks his feet, but I’d stake a year’s earnings on flip-flops despite it being October. ‘Still causing trouble?’ I ask, while in my head a faded cine reel flashes jellyfish, bonfires, surf and guitars.

‘It’s my defining characteristic.’ He grins, and it’s friendly, and I breathe out. Maybe this isn’t too bad, but then I glance towards Kit’s father who’s glowering next to him and my stomach lurches all over again. Reuben gives me a curt nod, his expression stony and closed. There’s no warmth in his pale blue eyes – only judgement as he takes a long sip of his drink. He’s aged so much. White hair, weathered everything. And I can practically hear his thoughts: Here she is, showing up now, after all this time. After missing Maggie’s funeral. After everything Kit’s been through.

‘Isla,’ he says, voice gruff. The way he says my name – not ‘girl’ like he used to, or ‘love’ – speaks volumes. I want to shout back, I know. I know I missed it all, but it wasn’t my fault, but instead I simply reply, ‘Reuben,’ trying to smile naturally, but it’s like my face has forgotten how to utilise its muscles. If I was on set, I’d have a director screeching down a loudspeaker, saying, ‘Isla, do you intend to look constipated or do we need a ten-minute personal break?’ ‘It’s been a while,’ I add, hoping for an opening, but he simply grunts in response and turns back to his drink, dismissing me as effectively as if he’d turned his back.

The message is clear. I might be welcome in this pub, but I’ve got a long way to go before I’m welcome back in their family circle. If ever. Preferably not.

There’s an awkward silence, all of us suspended in this strange moment, surrounded by our shared history but separated by the years that have passed.

I peek a glance at Kit, whose face is stoically blank. It feels like more than ten years have separated us. It’s centuries. Light years.

Then a woman with dark curly hair, and freckles like punctuation marks, appears beside me. ‘I’m Nina,’ she says, extending her hand, and her smile is so warm and cheek-splittingly wide it’s impossible not to smile back. ‘I own the café in the village. The one that used to be the old bookshop, not sure if you remember it?’

‘Oh, right, I saw that on my way in the other day, it looks lovely.’ I shake her hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘I just wanted to say,’ she continues, lowering her voice slightly, which is cute of her considering I doubt there is a single person in this pub that hasn’t seen the headline The Sun printed six days ago that said, ‘VALE OF SHAME: Quinn Exposes Producer’s Casting Couch’. And let’s not think about the Daily Mail’s female-bashing editorial. ‘I think what you did was really brave. Speaking out like that.’

My chest tightens, palms prickle. I force air into my lungs. ‘Thank you,’ I manage. ‘Still figuring out if it was brave or stupid.’

‘Definitely brave,’ she says firmly. ‘I mean, you hear rumours, don’t you? People being inappropriate, a scandal that no one knows is truth or lies. Sometimes the truth gets out and we see what a patriarchal web of misogyny still exists around us, but we’ve got to wonder how long women have to put up with this and when men are going to understand that things aren’t equal.’ She pushes her hand through her curls, pinpricks of pink staining the fading tan on her cheeks. ‘Equal pay – I mean, that’s a crock of shit, isn’t it? And equal pay doesn’t mean equal experience.’ She huffs out a breath, and then twists her lips into a small smile. ‘Sorry. I know. I can’t help myself.’

Wow. I like this Nina.

Let’s burn bras and stage a protest outside a phallic-shaped skyscraper that’s run by men.

Although I don’t know how to respond because I’m not used to this – barefaced honesty and opinion. In LA, there’s always an angle, an agenda. Compliments come with the unspoken expectation of reciprocity. A party invite is sent because it means something; everything is calculated and political. But not the politics that run a country – rather an industry fuelled by leverage.