It actually feels weird, going out. On my own. At night. Luckily, I’m only actually on my own for about forty-five seconds, which is as long as it takes for me to cross the road from my house and reach the Horse and Rider on the opposite side. It’s about three doors down from the Budbury Chemist, which is a slightly longer commute of about a whole minute.
Having set out my stall as a busy woman-about-village for my mother’s benefit, I found myself having to go the whole hog. Clean jeans, a fresh top, a touch of grown-up make-up rather than Beauty Parlour style, and even an attempt at doing something with my hair. Admittedly not much – just a slightly off-centre French plait. I always find my arms aching way too much to do them well.
I give myself a spritz of perfume, and pull on my trainers. Okay, so it’s not a hike and I could have gone for heels – but it’s only my local pub. And it’s only Auburn.
It’s only Auburn, and it could have been Van, and a tiny part of me regrets my choice. Still, it was the right choice. The sensible choice.
I tell myself this repeatedly as I get ready, tiptoeing around upstairs so I don’t wake up Saul. The cat follows me silently, looking at me with what I can only describe as scepticism.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ I whisper, as he perches on the toilet seat and watches me put my slap on. ‘I’m not ready for anything like that, okay?’
In response, he twists one leg up and elegantly licks his own bottom. Well, that told me.
Now, after bidding farewell to my mum and telling her where I’ll be in case of emergencies, I’m out. Standing in the doorway of the pub, wondering if it’s not too late to change my mind. The bus stop with a plastic bottle of cider is looking more attractive by the second.
I make my way inside, and am amazed at how different it is at night. I’ve brought Saul here in the day once or twice, just to fill in time. He likes it well enough, but there’s only so long a little boy stays amused by a glass of orange juice and a bag of Quavers.
It tends to be quiet in the day, a few locals, a few walkers, the aroma of pub grub wafting around the place, the tinkling sound of the fruit machine. That sound always makes me smile, and remember holidays to Somerset as a kid, where my nan had pots full of coins to use in what she called the ‘one-armed bandits’.
Tonight, though, it’s bustling – a veritable cacophony of chatter and laughter and cheers from the corner, where some kind of highly competitive game of darts seems to be going on.
I glance around and nod to the few people I know, giving a wave to the landlord as I walk past the wooden-topped bar. It’s a good, old-fashioned boozer, with two main rooms and various tucked-away alcoves and corners, and every chair and stool seems to be occupied.
I search the crowds, looking for Auburn’s distinctive hair, and failing to find it. I mill around a bit, checking in the corners and cubbies, wondering if I’m early or if I’ve gone to the wrong pub. That, though, would be difficult, as there’s only one in the village – the other one roughly classed as local is a drive away.
I’m on the verge of giving up and creeping back home in shame when I spot a familiar face over in the back room.
Familiar, but not what I expected. It’s not Auburn, for sure. It’s Van.
My heart does something skippy and thuddy that under normal circumstances would have me heading straight to A&E, and I stand still, staring at him. He hasn’t seen me yet, so I could still make a run for it. I silently curse Auburn and chew my lip, and manage to be both excited and terrified at the same time.
It’s Van – not Count Dracula. It’s Van, who is my friend, and why can’t we have a friendly night out as friends, discussing things that friends do?
Because I fancy the arse off him, that’s why. And I think he feels the same about me. And there’s alcohol in this pub. And … no, this is a terrible idea.
I’m on the verge of turning around and leaving when he spots me, and waves. He’s grinning at me, and looks so happy that I can imagine him as a little boy. Damn. I can’t just snub him like that. I have to stay, even if it’s just for one Diet Coke.
It still takes me a moment to force myself forward, though, climbing over discarded bags and umbrellas and random legs until I reach him.
He’s managed to hook a small table by the fireplace, which is one of those that begs to be described as roaring, logs blazing and crackling in a massive stone hearth so big you could roast a suckling pig in it. He already has a pint in front of him, which looks like a member of the real ale family, and probably has one of those borderline rude names like the Bishopric or Old Bessie’s Buttock.
Unlike me, he hasn’t been able to do much with his hair – it’s cut so short – but he is wearing a navy blue T-shirt that stretches over his shoulders and brawny upper arms in such a snug way that I can almost imagine him without it.
This, obviously, is not the kind of thought I want to be having as I walk over to the table, especially as this is not a date. This is just two friends, out for a friendly chat about friend things. As friends. It’s not my fault that one of us looks like he does. Probably not his either, but … well, he could’ve worn a baggier top.
I giggle to myself as I think this, as it is a ridiculous thought to have had. This confuses him as it coincides with me arriving at the table.
‘What?’ he asks, looking down at himself self-consciously. ‘Did I accidentally wear my pyjamas or something?’
‘No, no … just me. Being weird. No pyjamas involved. Do you wear pyjamas? You don’t strike me as a pyjama kind of man.’
‘You’re right. I’m not. I’m usually a buck-naked kind of man. But I don’t half feel the cold, living here, after years travelling around much warmer places. Winter in Budbury is not a prospect I’m relishing. Last night I used a sleeping bag and two duvets, and I was still a wuss about it. You look nice, by the way – I like that hair thing. Makes you look like a ballerina. What would you like to drink?’
This is a good question, especially right after his distracting buck-naked comment. It’s also skipping right past the other, more glaring question that needs to be asked.
‘What are you doing here, Van?’ I ask, trying not to sound upset. That would be rude.
‘I’m meeting you for a drink …’ He frowns, looking as confused as I feel, then continues: ‘Didn’t you know I was coming?’
‘Umm … no. I’d arranged to meet Auburn.’
‘She said she had a migraine, because I’d set her on fire. She said she couldn’t come, but didn’t want to let you down at the last minute, and she said she’d told you and it was fine.’
He takes in my bewildered expression, and the way I’m hovering by the chair but not actually sitting on it, and I see a moment of hurt flicker across his face before he wrestles it into something more neutral.
‘I take it from your reaction that she didn’t?’ he says. I nod, and he smiles at me.
‘Well, don’t worry,’ he adds, standing up. ‘It’s not a big deal. Either stay for a quick one, spend the night with me getting hilariously drunk, or we’ll call it a night right now and go home. I don’t mind. It’s your choice.’
Every single one of those options sounds both acceptable and wrong. There is no right thing to do – so I go for the middle ground.
‘I’ll stay for a quick one. Or maybe two. That’d be nice.’
‘Are you sure?’ he asks. ‘Because the way you say “nice” makes it sound a bit more like “I’d rather be stung by a thousand angry bees.”’
‘Sorry. I was just surprised to see you. I’m staying, honestly.’
‘All righty then … well, as I’m up, what do you want to drink? Arsenic? Invisibility powder? Man repellent?’
‘Hmmm … just a Bacardi and Coke please,’ I reply, grinning. I used to drink that when I was much younger, and it seems as good a time as any to revive the tradition. He raises one eyebrow in what might be surprise, and goes off to fetch it. I quickly grab my phone out of my bag, and see a text has just landed from Auburn. Well, not so much a text as a screen full of devil emoticons and laughing faces. I tap out a reply that informs her in simple language that I am planning to kill her the next day.
‘So,’ says Van, when he returns with my glass – complete with little umbrella, very fancy – ‘how are things going? With your mum? I’m guessing not brilliant if it’s actually driven you out.’
‘That’s a harsh assessment,’ I reply, taking my first sip and trying not to sigh out loud. ‘But an accurate one.’
‘I can imagine. I know how weird it is being back with your family after years away, believe me.’
For him, of course, it must be even weirder – he’s been abroad for so long, and now finds himself not only back in Dorset, but sharing a house with his sisters, and a mother with Alzheimer’s. So, yeah, I believe him when he says he understands.
‘Well,’ I reply, staring into the fire, ‘it’s a work in progress, I suppose. I mean, it’s not easy – she’s not easy. But she needs to be here for a while, and that’s okay. Half the time I want to hug her, and half the time I want to kill her. But that’s kind of normal for families, isn’t it?’
‘I think so. It’s easy to love your family – but not always easy to like them. Have you spoken to your dad yet? And how do you feel, about the whole them-splitting-up thing? Are you sad? I know you’re not a kid or anything, but it’s still got to hurt.’
I let out a laugh at that one. I can’t help myself.
‘No, it doesn’t hurt. It’s confusing, and strange, and part of me doesn’t even believe it yet – mainly because I’ve not spoken to him beyond a couple of texts. He’s not good at texting, or apparently using phones at all. Mainly, to be honest, I just wish they’d done it years ago.’
Van looks understandably flummoxed by this, so I explain: ‘They’ve been making each other miserable as long as I’ve known them. Seriously, I grew up in a war zone, Van. They fought constantly. It was one long line of rows and screaming matches and actual physical fights.’
‘What?’ he says, looking distraught. ‘He hit her?’
‘Yes, but it wasn’t that simple. She hit him too. She’s small but scrappy, my mum. It wasn’t one of those mean-dad scenarios – they were both mean. I’ve seen her literally hanging off his back trying to gouge his eyes during one of their spats. He was more of a shover and a grabber. Basically, neither of them ever came out of it unscathed.’
‘And neither did you, from the sound of it. That must have been terrible. My childhood was hardly conventional – you know, born in a hippy commune, Dad died young, moved here and got raised by Lynnie during the Yoga and Incense years. But it was never, ever like that. Mum was all for peace and self-expression – she never even raised her voice. The only violence in our house was between us lot when she wasn’t looking.’
‘Still the same now, isn’t it?’ I reply, smiling. ‘Did you really set Auburn’s towel on fire?’
‘Just a little tiny bit. It was all under control, honest. And you’re avoiding the subject. Is that why you came here, to get away from them?’
I chew my lip for a moment, and then decide to break the habits of a lifetime and actually talk openly about all of this stuff. Maybe, I think, it’ll help. I’ve joined the Cake Club. I’m in the pub. Maybe things are changing, and I need to push them along a little instead of being a passive witness to my own life.
I don’t think I’d have had this conversation with Auburn – we are both highly skilled at talking about nothing of consequence for hours on end – but with Van, it feels more natural. More organic. Maybe that’s what scares me.
‘Not just them,’ I say. ‘I needed to get away from Saul’s dad as well … from everything, to be honest. Me and Jason – well, we were heading down the same path as my parents.’
I see him stiffen slightly as I say this, and his hand clenches into a fist on the table top.
‘Don’t get all macho on me,’ I say, trying to keep my tone light. ‘I never let it escalate. It was about me and what I needed as much as him – we were never going to work as a couple. But that’s the past, and this isn’t one of those situations where some big tough man can come to the rescue and sort my life out, okay? I sorted my own life out, and, I think he’s sorted his out too. He lives in Scotland, with the woman who’s now his wife, and that suits us all fine.’
‘What about Saul? Doesn’t he see him?’
‘He did, a bit, when he still lived in Bristol. And he stays in touch, sends cards and presents, that kind of thing. He was talking about making a trip down to see him a while ago, but it hasn’t materialised … I suppose I’m kind of hoping it won’t, which is very selfish of me. He’s still Saul’s dad, at the end of the day, and sometimes I do worry about him growing up without one. I’m not very good at football, you know.’
Van gives me a little grin as he replies: ‘I bet you are. And there’s more to being a dad than playing football anyway. I grew up with Lynnie as the sole parent, and I turned out … well, maybe I’m not the best example, I’m just a professional backpacker and basic New Age slacker. But I did learn how to play football, and Saul will too. He has all of us for that as well – it’s not like you’re on your own with him.’
He’s just vocalised, in a nutshell, the very thing that I struggle with. All of these baby steps – going to the café more, my job, socialising – are taking me somewhere I have mixed feelings about going. Most of me wants to be more rooted, more involved, to give Saul the stability and sense of community that this place offers us both.
But part of me is still anxious and concerned – what if it all goes wrong? What if things break? What if I need to leave? What will that do to Saul, and to me? And more importantly, why am I such a nutter that I always assume the worst? I seem to live my life waiting for the other shoe to drop – in fact, waiting for an enormous great boot to not only drop, but land firmly on my head and squish me into the ground. It’s about as much fun as it sounds.
I’m trying to override it, to be brave and sensible and optimistic, but unfortunately, I don’t seem able to completely change my world view. It’s my default setting. I don’t suppose there’s any point analysing it – I just have to try and manage it, and not let the fear of things going wrong get in the way of things going right.
Just now, for example, I am sitting in a pub, finishing off a delicious Bacardi and Coke, getting a supportive pep talk from a man who makes my girl-brain tingle. Why can’t I simply relax and enjoy it? Maybe I just need to drink the rest of the bottle of Bacardi and go with the flow.
‘You’re freaking out inside, aren’t you?’ he asks, grinning. ‘You’re feeling overdosed with community spirit, and too involved, and wishing you could run away to your nan’s house?’
‘How do you know about my nan?’ I ask, genuinely surprised.
‘You told me about her. You told me you used to run away there when you were fed up at home – although you didn’t explain why. You told me she was kind and sweet and fed you cake and custard and always smelled of Parma Violets. You tell me a lot of things without even noticing, Katie. I’m like your stealth confidante.’
All I can do to that is make a small hmmph sound, and decide that ever so possibly he’s right. When I’m with Van, I do open up more than when I’m with other people – he just seems to have this easy knack of peeling back the layers of self-protection. It’s probably why I’ve avoided being alone in a pub with him for so long.
‘Do you want another?’ says Van, pointing at my empty glass. I think he’s picked up on the fact that this has all got a bit too serious for me, and is giving me time to process it all.
‘It’s my turn to go,’ I reply, preparing to move.
‘No. Let me. I have to get rid of my big tough man urges somehow, you know. At least allow me to be a caveman when it comes to your booze requirements.’
He doesn’t give me much choice, as he’s already walking away, chatting to people from the village as he goes. I lean back, and feel the warmth of the fire on my face, and the warmth of the alcohol in my system, and I have to say – it does feel pretty good. Like I said, baby steps.
By the time he comes back, I’ve snapped myself out of whatever morose and overly analytical mood I was heading for, and restart the conversation on a different tack. One that isn’t about me. I’m bored of me.
‘So,’ I say, nodding in thanks for both the drink and the bag of dry roasted peanuts he offers, ‘tell me about travelling. Tell me about Tanzania.’
He immediately smiles, but also looks a little wistful. A little sad – like he’s happy to be here, but he’s also missing his old life.
‘Well, that’s a big topic. I left home when I was nineteen, and apart from a few visits back for birthdays and such, kept moving until this spring, when I came home again. I’m thirty-three now, so that’s a lot of years spent with a backpack on my shoulders. Mainly, I spent my time getting dirty, getting drunk, getting high. They were the early years – when I was hanging around with posh kids called Tristram who were on their gap years. It was a lot of fun, but it does start to wear you down after a while – you start to yearn for more in life, like a clean toilet.
‘So then I stayed in Tibet for a bit. That was … amazing. It taught me a lot, about myself and others and the whole big world. Made me realise I needed to find a different path, not to go all Dalai Lama on you or anything. And that’s when I started working for charities.’
‘In Africa?’ I ask, genuinely fascinated. The furthest I’ve ever travelled is for holidays in the Canary Islands, where you eat and drink yourself to death in an attempt to break even on your all-inclusive deal. And since Saul was born, I’ve never left the UK – or even the southern half of it. Very lame indeed.
‘Thailand initially, then Tanzania. I’ve been there for the last few years, setting up a school. It’s … well, it’s a beautiful place. But complex, like most beautiful things.’
‘Do you miss it?’
He blinks hard, like he’s trying to clear his mind, and replies: ‘Only every day. I think I left a part of myself there, to be honest. I miss the air, and the space, and the landscapes, and the people. Mainly the people. The kids. The kids were so great … it’s hard to get used to things the way they are here, you know? Over there, even though life is harder in so many ways, they’re also so much happier when things go right. They don’t take anything for granted; there’s a kind of joyfulness over small triumphs. But I’m okay here, honest. I love my family, even when I’m setting their towels on fire, and my mum … well, she needs us, doesn’t she?’
‘I think your sisters need you too. I can only imagine how hard it is to settle back down to normal life.’
‘Ha!’ he snorts, laughing. ‘Normal is a relative term in our house, between the Alzheimer’s and the dogs and the fact that we’re all basically crazy anyway … but it’s all right. I’m enjoying lots of it. This, for instance. I’m enjoying this. It’s nice to be out with someone I’m not related to and don’t work for.’
I smile at him and nod. This Bacardi is possibly making me a bit more flirtatious than usual. Or maybe it’s the dry roasted peanuts acting as a little-known aphrodisiac. Either way, I feel it – I feel the tug of attraction between us; that’s always been there, ever since I first met him.
‘I can imagine,’ I say. ‘In fact I think that’s the only reason you’ve been asking me out. You’re swimming in a very small dating pool.’
‘Outrageous! You do know there are places outside Budbury within swimming distance, don’t you? I could have a harem in Applechurch for all you know. Or a cougar in Dorchester. There’s even ways to meet people on this wondrous new invention called the internet …’
‘Have you ever tried that?’ I ask. ‘I’ve heard tell there’s a whole world of singletons out there.’
‘I did sign up to Tinder, yes. But I came off it again straight away when my first match was Auburn. I mean, I know we’re in the countryside, but I draw the line at my sister … she’s really not my type.’
‘What is your type then? What was your last girlfriend like?’
‘She was called Annika, and she was Swedish. She worked for the same charity as me, and had that whole blonde-one-from-Abba thing going on.’
‘Ah. Did she take a chance on you?’
‘She did,’ he replies, grimacing slightly. ‘And it’s not one that paid off, because I upped sticks and moved back here, didn’t I?’
‘Oh – was she upset? Are you kind of still together?’
I know this thought shouldn’t bother me – we’re just two friends, out for a friendly chat about friend things, as friends – but I have to admit that it does anyway. Feelings don’t always do what they’re told, I’ve found over the years. I feel low-level anxiety thrum through me at the thought of Van being with someone else, even if she is on the other side of the world.
‘No,’ he says hastily, shaking his head. ‘It’s a transient world. People who work in it sometimes make long-lasting connections, but much of the time we’re on the move. No, we’re definitely not still together, in any sense. Don’t worry.’
I’m about to launch into a response about how I’m not worried, I have no reason to be worried, and that I’m worried that he thinks I would be worried – but luckily we’re saved all of that by the arrival of Willow and Tom. Who looks worried.
Willow is wearing her pink hair tied up into a scrappy ponytail, and a dress that seems to be made of Miss Haversham’s wedding gown, coupled with her usual Dr. Marten boots – extra-long ones that almost come up to her knees. Willow is really, really tall, and really, really slim. Tom is even taller, and must have spent a lot of time since his move to Dorset ducking to avoid banging his head on all the random low-flying beams.
He’s wearing a T-shirt that tells the world The Truth Is Out There, and seems stressed. A bit like Matt, Tom isn’t one of life’s chatters. He’s geeky and warm and always a tiny bit awkward, and is currently clinging on to his phone for dear life.
‘Mind if we join you?’ asks Willow, as Tom troops off to the bar to get us all more booze. We scuttle around making room for their stools, and I end up squashed next to Van in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.
‘What’s wrong with Science Boy?’ Van asks, nodding off in Tom’s direction. ‘He looks like he’s just found out the Force isn’t real.’
‘Hush your mouth, big brother,’ she replies, reaching out to swat him across the head. ‘Of course the Force is real. And he’s … well, he needed a drink. Rough night at genius camp. He has a house full of mega-brainiac boffins at Briarwood, all trying to build time machines or next-generation handheld microwaves or whatever – but one of them at least hasn’t figured out how to use a toaster. Set one of the kitchens on fire.’
She takes in our shocked expressions, and adds: ‘Only a bit. Nothing that couldn’t be solved by me and a fire extinguisher. But I think he’s worried about it all – some of them are young, some of them are borderline other-worldly, and some of them are partying a bit too hard. So he’s playing house dad and not enjoying it.’
Briarwood is a big old Victorian mini-mansion just outside the village, on top of a huge hill. It used to be a children’s home – where Tom was raised after his parents died, and where Lynnie used to work, and where he and Willow first met when she was only eight. Tom seems to have made a bundle of cash from inventing some kind of doo-hickey nobody really understands, and bought the old house when it came on the market earlier this year.
He’s turned it into a kind of hot-house for budding beautiful minds, people who had brilliant ideas but needed the time and space and investment to bring them to life.
They mainly keep to themselves, but every now and then you’ll see a stray wandering around the village or coming into the café – always easy to spot by one or all of the following signs: trendy glasses, awful glasses, bowl-cut hair, long hair, sci-fi reference tops, flannel shirts, odd socks, pens behind their ears, ear buds in the shape of skulls, membership cards to the Stephen Hawking Fan Club, the ability to speak Elvish and/or any of the languages of Middle Earth.
Tom himself fits right in, apart from the fact that he’s also very, very good-looking – if mainly unaware of it, or at the very least unconcerned with it. He’s also back at the table with a tray of drinks, and yet more snacks.
He sits down, raises his glass in a ‘cheers’ that we all join in with, and gives us an uncharacteristically outgoing grin.
‘I’ve solved the problem,’ he announces happily.
‘While you were at the bar?’ asks Van.
‘Of course while he was at the bar – my man is a born solver of problems!’ says Willow, leaning in to give him a quick smacker on the lips. ‘Go on then – hit us with it.’
‘I’m going to employ someone,’ he answers, gazing off at the fire, the cogs of his super-tuned brain almost visible as he fleshes out his plan. ‘I’m going to create a new job – I don’t have a title for it yet, but for the time being, I’ll stick with Star-Lord. Because he or she will be the Guardian of the Briarwood Galaxy.’
Van frowns a little – I guess living in Tanzania has dulled his knowledge of pop culture references beyond Abba songs – but doesn’t ask.
‘And what will Star-Lord do?’ Willow asks. ‘Apart from some cool dancing.’
‘Star-Lord will live at Briarwood, and basically be in charge of the geek squad. He’ll bring order from chaos, and make sure they occasionally sleep, and check the oven isn’t left on after late-night pizza, and be the keeper of the keys to the Red Bull cupboard. He’ll be part-father, part-boss, part-benign-dictator. I don’t suppose you’d be interested, Van?’
Van looks shocked by the very idea, and quickly replies: ‘Me? God, no! Thanks for asking, but that would drive me nuts. Little kids I can handle – adult ones, not. I’m happy to carry on doing the maintenance and gardening for you, big man, but I’m not your Star-Lord.’
‘Okay,’ says Tom, looking temporarily disappointed. ‘No worries. I’ll find him, even if I have to scour the entire galaxy …’
‘Or,’ I suggest quietly, ‘you could go to a recruitment agency?’
‘Or that, yes,’ Tom says, grinning. ‘Anyway. How are you two?’
I finish up my latest Bacardi, and decide that that’s enough. I’m starting to get tempted to rest my hand on Van’s jean-clad thigh, and that wouldn’t be a good idea. Who knows what kind of lovely trouble it could cause?
‘I’m a bit drunk,’ I reply, and stand up. ‘So it’s time for me to leave. Saul will be jumping on my head at six a.m., and it won’t feel better with a hangover.’
I gather my belongings, and Van insists on walking me home – all the way across the street. We manage that without any incidents at all other than a close encounter with a crisp bag that flies at my head in the breeze, and end up standing awkwardly outside my house.
I feel a bit like a teenager who’s been out with a boy for the first time, a feeling that isn’t dissipated by the fact that not only is Tinkerbell lying in my windowsill, staring out at us with his all-seeing cat eyes, but noticing a twitch of the curtains as my mother takes a quick peek as well.
‘So,’ he says, grinning at me, blue eyes somehow managing to pick up on the moonlight and look ever-so-slightly wolfish, ‘that was nice. We should do it again some time.’
‘Yes,’ I reply, fumbling for my keys in my handbag and trying not to gaze up at him in a way that might invite A Goodnight Kiss. He’s moved in closer, and he looks so good, and smells even better, and it would be a matter of millimetres for my body to meet his. Holding my keys is the only thing stopping me from reaching out and resting my hand on his chest, just to see what it feels like.
‘It was,’ I say. ‘And we should. And now I’ve got to go …’
I get the key into the door with shaking hands, and slam the door open so hard it bangs the back of the hallway wall.
I dash inside like a woman being pursued by a pack of hyenas, and bang the door shut again.
‘You big chicken!’ I hear him shout outside, before he starts laughing. I peer at him through the frosted glass at the top of the door, watching his hazy image walk back over the road to the pub.
I take a deep breath and try to calm myself down. I have nothing to be ashamed of – now I just need to convince Tinkerbell that’s true.
I lean against the door and breathe hard, and try not to imagine what would happen if I opened the door again. Called him back. Took this to a level that wasn’t just friends being friendly.
I’m too much of a big chicken, like he said. Too frightened. Or, being kinder to myself, just not ready. Kissing someone is just no good if you’re not ready to lose control, to surrender yourself to it – and I know I’m not.
I stand and listen for a few seconds, making sure there’s no noise from above, and tiptoe up the stairs. I go to the loo, and notice the flush on my cheeks that wasn’t just caused by the cold, and close myself into my bedroom.
I slump down on the duvet, and wonder if he’s back in the pub now. If he’s thinking about me. If he even wanted to kiss me at all.
My phone beeps, and I lazily pull it out and look at the screen.
It’s a photo, from Van. A picture of the Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz.
I smile, and read the message: ‘One day, Katie – one day xxx’
I close my eyes and kick off my trainers, and drift off into a sleep full of dreams that make me blush.