So, she did. She left for London on the next morning train, her heart feeling like a ball of lead at her feet, heavy and painful. She barely saw beyond the flash of green through the windows of the speeding train as it took her away from him, and away from Hope Cottage, and the life she’d hoped to build.

Her first week in London, she stayed on her friend Stevie’s sofa, a girl she’d been to uni with, and went to see about the flatshare Stevie knew of at her brother’s building the next morning, thankful that it hadn’t been rented just yet – though in retrospect, that should have been a warning sign. The place was almost derelict, smelling of mould, and – she’d discover later – also the noisiest place she’d ever known, as the building was on a through road that allowed police cars and ambulances to put on their sirens so they didn’t have to slow down for the traffic lights across the street. Which they did every hour, on the hour.

Still, by the following week she’d taken the job at the Mail & Ledger and had her own tiny room in a rather dodgy but slightly better flat with four other flatmates. She had paid some of her rent with a small loan from her Aunt Aggie, which she had vowed to pay back. After some time she got in contact with her old friend Pete, who was more than happy to resume their acquaintance and didn’t seem to mind, or notice all that much, that she seemed to be only half there with him, the other half of her left behind, in a broken-hearted heap, in Whistling. He remained oblivious even when they decided to take it further.

Even that decision was a rather civilised affair as far as she was concerned, decided over coffee one morning while they ate eggs Benedict and pancakes – a Wednesday-morning breakfast ritual they kept at a cafe called Scrumptous before he went to his job as a tax solicitor in the building across the street. ‘I think, you know, we get along rather well you and I,’ Pete said, his blue eyes earnest. His dark hair was neatly combed to the side. He was wearing beige slacks with loafers and a skinny black tie. Handsome in an understated, always-indoors-and-pale sort of way. At his side was a copy of the Guardian, folded in half, which Emma knew he bought mostly for the crossword. ‘And well, I was wondering what you thought about making it less platonic between us. I think we’re quite suited despite our differences?’

She wondered if somewhere in his office cubicle across the street, there was a spreadsheet with the pros and cons of their relationship in neat columns, and whether he’d carefully weighed it all up before he asked, and she hid a grin.

There was something soothing about him for Emma. A quiet assertiveness she liked; even his formal tone was a bit endearing, and by the time they’d moved on to the pancakes, she’d agreed. It wasn’t the most romantic of propositions, but she thought that maybe, in a way, this was better, more sensible really, without all the drama. Four years passed in much the same way. Pete grew more affectionate, slightly less formal. Though he still wore a bit too much beige.

He was the sort of man who wasn’t drawn to an excess of anything. In the kitchen in his flat, he had precisely four of everything – bowls, plates, spoons, knives, placemats and chairs. She’d asked him once what he’d do if he ever had more than three people over for tea, and he’d simply shaken his head and said, seriously, ‘I’d suggest we go to the pub instead as this flat only has enough room for four.’ He didn’t quite get the joke.

His wardrobe was colour coded. From light to dark. He owned five pairs of work slacks. Six work shirts. The extra one, presumably, in case he spilled something. His flat was sparsely furnished – a bed with a very firm mattress, and two pillows, no flounces or throws or quilts; one brown leather sofa (no fluffy cushions; unnecessary, he said); a small dining table, free from adornment; and a framed poster on the wall of a pretty Amsterdam street full of people riding their bicycles, which Emma thought displayed a slightly more romantic side of him. She later found out that the poster had been a gift, but she didn’t hold that against him.

They were comfortable in each other’s company. Both weren’t that interested in watching television – and instead would often curl up together with a book for her and a crossword, or a financial magazine, for him. When she’d told Maggie, over the phone, about her life, she’d sounded incredulous. ‘Jesus Em, even my nan has a more exciting love life, Christ, and she’s seventy. You live in London – what about the parties, the nightlife, staying up all hours and then getting a drunken cab at dawn with your knickers in your pocket? You’re young, not some old married couple.’

Emma just laughed. She didn’t fancy the whole nightlife scene that much really, and quite liked keeping her knickers away from her pockets, if she could help it. Mostly she quite liked that Pete was always where he said he was. She didn’t have to worry about him, which, after a lifetime of drama, felt rather nice. On Tuesdays, they went for a curry at Kapoor’s, which was a block away; on Thursdays he made dinner – it was always steak and salad – on Fridays they went to watch a film or visit the theatre – he was rather daring in his choices, and a pretty good sport about hers, not minding if they went to a girly sort of show or something camp or wonderfully intellectual. He was easy company, Pete.

In many ways, he was good for her; he was like an alarm clock for one thing, and a human calendar reminder, so she became an early bird by default when he slept over, and he often told her useful things like, ‘Time to go get your new pill, you’ve got a week left’ or ‘It’s your Aunt Dot’s birthday tomorrow, don’t forget,’ and oddly, she really liked that about him, even if he did sometimes nag a bit.

He was very ruled by routine, and could get amorous after dinner, though she wasn’t always receptive to it, which made her feel guilty. She’d excuse herself, saying she was busy, needed to finish up an article or column, she was stressed, not in the mood.

Sometimes though she’d see that look in his eyes, which she tried to ignore; there was longing in it, like he was waiting for something. She realised now he’d been waiting for her to feel the way about him that he did about her. She’d been grateful for having him in her life; she’d appreciated him, his kindness, his steady presence, the way everything was so black and white with him, with no shades of grey. It had made things simple in a world that, to Emma, never used to feel that way before. She realised now though that wasn’t the same thing as love; and he deserved that.

---

Sitting in the kitchen at Hope Cottage, Emma wondered now how different things might have been had she stayed in Whistling four years ago, had she never gone to London. What if she’d waited like Jack had asked, given him time until things had calmed down at his parents’ business before they broke the news? It wasn’t like she hadn’t understood him asking for the extra time; despite what she felt about Janet Allen she hadn’t wanted to be a source of stress in the woman’s life – it was simply the fact that she was a source of stress to begin with that bugged her, because she’d never really done anything to deserve it.

It was this that she objected to most. Him asking for yet more time had felt like yet another excuse for them not to be together – but perhaps she’d been wrong to try and push it then? Should she have trusted him? Had she given up just when she was about to get what she’d wanted all along? Or was it just another attempt on her part to make a justification for him? Would it have made a difference if she’d stayed? Will it make a difference now? His parents’ business had clearly bounced back. He seemed less hesitant to be seen with her in public now, and he’d even come into the cottage, and risked Evie’s wrath in the process.

She put her head in her hands and groaned. Pennywort came to sit next to her, putting a paw on her shin. She looked down and touched his soft fur, looked into his solemn chestnut eyes. ‘I’m in trouble, Penny,’ she said aloud. The old bulldog gave a little huff. Almost as if he was saying, ‘What’s new?’