Page 25 of Take Me Away

London.

With every step I take down the uneven cobblestones I’m preparing my grovelling call to Piper. Bail me out, I’ve made a mistake…

Until I see shadows walking ahead.

Kit and Maisie, making their way home from the pub, although where their home is, I’m not sure.

I consider turning around, taking the longer route, but something makes me continue, my footsteps soft on the wonky pavement.

As I draw closer, I can hear Maisie chattering away, her voice carrying in the still night. ‘But Dad, she’s really nice. And she liked my drawing. And she’s Isla Quinn. She was in The Lighthouse!’

Kit murmurs something I can’t quite catch, his voice a low rumble in the darkness.

‘But why can’t we just say hi when we see her?’ Maisie persists. ‘That’s what you always tell me to do with people. Be polite.’

I slow my pace, torn between listening in and giving them privacy, knowing which one will win out. ‘It’s complicated, Maisie,’ Kit says, just loud enough for me to hear.

‘Because she’s famous?’

‘No. Because…’ He sighs, and even from this distance, I can feel the weight of it. ‘Because sometimes grown-ups have history.’

‘Like I’m learning about the Romans at school? Mrs Denver says we should look at pots to know about them.’

I bite down on a laugh while a soft chuckle from Kit bounces into the night air. ‘Not exactly.’

They’re nearly at the fork in the road now where I’ll go right, up to Salt Cottage. I should call out, announce my presence. The longer I wait, the more awkward it becomes.

But before I can speak, Kit’s head turns slightly. His posture stiffens. ‘Hold up.’ He places a hand on Maisie’s shoulder, while I wish he would just give me a smile … something…

Maisie whirls around, face breaking into a toothy grin when she spots me. ‘Isla!’

‘Sorry,’ I say quickly, stepping forward into a patch of moonlight. ‘I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I was just heading home.’

‘We’re going home too,’ Maisie informs me, as if this is a remarkable coincidence. ‘We live in the blue house with the door knocker that looks like a fish.’ She points just along the lane, the same fork to the one I need to take.

‘Oh right,’ I say, though what I remember is the old couple who used to live there, not Kit and his family. ‘Didn’t Jerry and Anne live there?’ I ask, peering up the dark lane.

There’s the briefest nod. No round of applause that I recall the names of previous tenants I haven’t set eyes on in a decade, and I do think that deserves slightly more accolade than a head dip.

‘It’s late, Maisie,’ Kit says. ‘We should let Miss Quinn get home.’

‘But she’s going the same way!’ Maisie protests.

‘Please call me Isla, Kit. I can’t cope with being Miss Quinn the whole time I’m here.’ My heart thumps just with the act of talking to him.

He’s all tall and brooding, this mountain of disdain, and yeah, maybe he hates me, maybe to him I’m the devil in designer clothes who’s come back to his bloody beloved village – but he can bloody stop calling me Miss Bloody Quinn. Right. Now.

‘Isla,’ he says, and he says it in such a way that I die a little on the inside and my eyes prickle at the back with water saltier than that sea right there.

Maisie’s eyes are bugging out and she’s staring between us. Our unspoken tension has got vibes even a child can pick up on.

‘Dad.’ She tugs on his hand. ‘You’re totally being embarrassing right now.’

Kit seems to realise we’re at an impasse. Refusing to walk together would only make things more uncomfortable. And I guess no dad wants to be a total dick in front of their daughter. He drops his shoulders, probably a good thing too before he gets stuck like that. ‘Fine,’ he says, with forced lightness. ‘But straight home, no detours. You’ve got swimming in the morning.’

‘I know, I know,’ Maisie sighs, but she’s too pleased by this turn of events to truly be annoyed.

And so we fall into step together, the three of us walking down the moonlit lane. Maisie in the middle, chattering away. Kit on one side, silent and tense. Me on the other, trying to read his body language in the dark. Which is like trying to catch fireflies on the first of July.