“She saw the polite ones, as you call them, when she came to dinner one night, and we were sorting artwork for her to take.”
I want to ask why he keeps these ghosts from our past, but I’m not sure I want to hear his answer.
He knows what I’m thinking. Of course he does. He always understands me. “Shall we walk on the beach?” he asks casually.
I nod, and we walk away. I don’t look back.
It’s silent in the car. I sit holding the takeaway cup and the bag of cake while Reuben takes a few turns before parking in a sand-dusted car park. A small coffee wagon is closed and locked, looking rather forlorn. “This way,” he says, and I follow him obediently down a hard-packed sandy path through rough sea grass to the beach.
“Calgary Bay,” Reuben says, and I stand still for a second in startled pleasure. The sand is so pale that it looks like powdered sugar, and the water is a pure turquoise.
“It’s like the Caribbean,” I say, turning to him. “I did a shoot there last year.”
“For Calvin Klein. I know.”
“How?”
He shoots me a sidelong glance. “I always knew where you were.”
“So, why did you—” I stop myself abruptly. He doesn’t need to hear that I missed him during our time apart. That won’t help anyone.
He waits for me to say more, and when I don’t, he doesn’t push. He rarely does. Instead, he jerks his head, and we start to walk.
The beach is empty apart from a couple of dog walkers in the distance. The rocky headland around it is dressed in Scotland’s winter colours, and the range of clouds above us looks like a magical mountain range. It’s quiet, the only sound the waves breaking on the shore and the mooing of a cow in the distance.
The air is cold and bracing. I remember my grandmother saying cold air would blow all the cobwebs away. I wonder if it works on the dust that seems to cloud my mind so often.
We walk along next to the sea, dodging its attempts to catch our feet, and I sip on my coffee, sighing in pleasure.
He shoots me a grin. “You’re still as addicted to that as ever.”
“People in glass coffee houses shouldn’t throw coffee beans.” He laughs. “I suppose I should drink green tea or something. Dean does.”
“You’re not him. He’s far more serene.”
I smile. “I’m not serene?”
He huffs. “I used to think you were sunshine in human form.”
“And now?”
“You’re more like a category five tornado.”
I start to laugh, and he joins me. Then I sigh. “Okay, give it to me.”
He bites his lip, wisely not saying anything as he hands me the paper bag.
I peer inside. “Lemon drizzle?”
He nods solemnly. “Best on the island.”
“Well, it’s good that the object of my destruction is at the top of its game.”
He chuckles and nudges me with his hip. “Eat it, Xavier. Nothing in life is so serious that it can’t be cured by lemon drizzle cake.”
We walk along as I munch on the cake, occasionally handing him small pieces which he accepts with a gravity that’s belied by his twinkling eyes.
“Am I not allowed to take a bite myself?”
