Page 2 of Carry Me Home

I take it, and he drops into the chair in the corner. The one that has become, over years of Jude turning up uninvited to my flat above the veterinary clinic, essentially his chair. He stretches his long legs out and says nothing.

He’s good at saying nothing. It’s one of his more irritating qualities.

I drink the coffee. It’s good coffee. Typical. The man breaks into your home and makes better coffee than you do.

Outside, a car goes past, then another, then the distinctive rumble of a campervan taking the corner by the war memorial too fast. Even with the curtains drawn I can feel the weight of the village in summer, the density of it, more people in the lanes than the lanes were designed for, the car park at the top of the hill groaning under the strain of too many cars. Somewhere down the hill a child is shrieking, either in joy or outrage over a bucket-and-spade disagreement. Hard to tell at this distance.

‘I’m not on the rota until this afternoon,’ I say.

‘I know.’

‘So you’ve come to check on me out of the pure goodness of your heart.’

‘Something like that.’ He turns the mug in his hands. ‘Brynn said you walked past the harbour yesterday evening and didn’t stop.’

I didn’t know she’d seen me. ‘I had somewhere to be.’ I didn’t. I’d been musing over the events of the weekend and wondering how I could have fucked up so badly.

Jude says nothing. His face says several things, most of them sceptical. Which is exactly why I’m not telling him about the events of last weekend, because he will be all over it. Well done, mate. You’re moving on, mate. Nothing wrong with getting some, mate.

So why does it feel so wrong? Why do I feel guilty and eaten up in this chewed and mulched way that’s giving me a permanent migraine? Cheating. That’s what it feels like, except it’s cheating on an idea, not a person, and I’m not sure that’s even a thing.

I haven’t answered, and it’s been way too long. ‘I was tired,’ I say, which is pathetic but vaguely true.

‘Tom.’

‘Jude.’

He just looks at me. To be fair, I’ve given Jude Harding that exact look he’s giving me now on more occasions than I can count. Usually when he was drinking too much, or working too hard, or refusing to admit that Brynn Trelawney had crawled under his skin and set up permanent residence there. I like it considerably less from this side.

‘I’m fine,’ I say.

‘Obviously,’ he says, in a tone that makes the word mean the opposite of itself.

I drain the coffee and get up to pull on yesterday’s jeans from the floor. I give them a little shake, which practically means they’re clean. Jude watches this from his chair with an air of quiet judgement that’s almost eating him alive.

I open the curtains.

The day comes in hard and bright, late-May sunshine behaving like high summer and already acting as if it owns the place. The sky is the sort of Cornish blue reproduced on postcards, the sort that makes tourists think this is what it’s always like and then act personally betrayed when it rains for six days straight in August.

Down the hill, the village is stirring into its summer self. Bunting has gone up along the harbour road. Tilly’s doing. She gets competitive about the bunting. Someone has put out the chalkboard sign for the pasty kiosk, the same sign that’s been there every summer for as long as I can remember.

Today’s Special: Cornish Pasty.

It’s always a Cornish pasty. This is Cornwall.

The Lavender Café is shut.

There it is. The thing under my ribs tightening before I can stop it.

It’s been shut for three weeks since my best friend decided she needed a change of scenery and left without a confirmed date of return. The door is locked, the blinds drawn, the little menu board that usually stands on the pavement nowhere to be seen. The hanging baskets are still there, though. Terracotta pots overflowing with fuchsias and trailing lobelia, the sort of controlled chaos that looks effortless and actually requires daily attention.

The fuchsias are getting leggy now. The deadheading isn’t being done.

She’d hate that. She’d have been out with the secateurs before her first customer arrived, mug of tea in her hand, because Nina Ellis has feelings about fuchsias the same way she has feelings about most things. Strongly held, immediately acted upon, communicated to anyone within earshot whether they’ve asked or not.

I look at the café for a moment too long.

Jude doesn’t say anything, which is worse.