‘But are you OK?’
‘Not really.’
I take a deep breath. I will not tear up in the middle of Lime Street station.
‘What time is your train?’ she asks, sensing my discomfort. I check the departure board. Train is delayed by fifteen minutes.
‘Half four,’ I reply. ‘Should get home around eight.’
‘So just get the train here instead.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be—’
‘That wasn’t a request, Sophie. There’s a train for Whitby at ten minutes to five. I’ve just googled.’
‘That’s a five-hour journey!’ I protest. ‘And two changes.’
‘So what? Just buy some food and sleep. You’re not going back to work straight away. You’ll come here, spend a couple of days with us. We have a new chicken called Rihanna, you’ll like him.’
I agree to reroute my sad self in the direction of Naomi’s house. This saying yes shit is getting out of hand.
I reach Manchester and buy some sandwiches for the next leg of my journey to Thornaby, a place I didn’t know existed until now. I mentally add this to my list of new places visited on holiday. Despite now being an adept traveller of both land and sea, I can’t help feeling like I’m just as stuck as I was before I left. All that effort, all that hope and nothing has changed. I wish I’d never read that bloody article. Time to let Alex Steward know that I’m officially out.
To:Alex Steward
Dear Alex,
This has been a disaster. After kissing me, the captain declined my request for a date. I don’t think the two are related but I’m not ruling it out. The cruise is over and I’m now on a train to Whitby to meet a fucking chicken. I hereby resign. Good luck to the next person who thinks this might be a good idea. They’ll need it.
Sophie
Chapter 52
Esk Farmhouse. Naomi’s childhood home. Previously owned by Naomi’s dad Jerry, who passed it on to her after he died. I’m not sure she ever planned on moving back here after university, but she couldn’t bear to sell up.
‘Leave those cases,’ she insists, watching me haul them out the boot of her car. ‘Philip will get them.’
I’ve been here many times before. When Naomi’s mum Helen ran off with, as Jerry put it, ‘that prick Russell with the caravan’, it was hard on them both. He couldn’t keep up with repairs on the cottage and Naomi focused on her schoolwork more than housework. Jerry was convinced that Helen would return one day when she grew tired of Russell. He died in 1998, still waiting for her to come home. She never did. Over the years, Naomi and Philip have turned the three-bedroom, once shabby cottage into something quite magical.
‘Boys are in bed,’ she tells me. ‘Dogs are in the living room. Try not to get them overly excited, they’ll bark up a storm.’
‘Sophie, how are you?’ Philip comes over and hugs me. He’s grown a moustache since I last saw him.
‘I like this!’ I say, admiring him. ‘Suits you!’
‘I should have gone full beard,’ he replies, ‘to cover up this weak chin. I’ll stick your cases in the spare room.’
‘You’re pretty with or without it,’ Naomi tells him. ‘And I love everything about your face, chin included.’
It’s 11.30 p.m. by the time we’re at the kitchen table. I just want to sleep.
‘Have you painted in here?’ I ask as she hands me some tea. ‘I remember it being cream.’
I love this kitchen. Light-wood cupboards, plants hanging everywhere and a little white table for four in the centre of the room.
‘It’s been yellow for ages,’ she replies. ‘We got the floor tiled, though. I got sick of trying to keep the hardwood clean. Constantly cleaning with vinegar to get the mud and smells out was an arse ache.’
She opens a tin of biscuits. ‘You get the chocolate ones. The boys get those cheap, broken ones as no one would ever get a fucking biscuit otherwise.’
