“I also know turning up unannounced at seven in the morning probably suggests either poor judgement or an emergency situation.”
“Which is it?”
He lets out a breath.
“Poor judgement, mostly.”
I fold my arms.
Philip notices and visibly gathers himself.
The result is not especially convincing.
“I landed yesterday,” he says.
I stare.
“Yesterday?”
“Yes.”
A laugh catches in my throat.
He presses on too quickly.
“I stayed in London overnight because coming directly here from Heathrow felt unhinged even by my current standards, and then this morning I drove down and spent twenty minutes sitting in that car trying to decide whether this was a catastrophic mistake.”
I glance at the unfamiliar blue suitcase.
Then back at him.
The sea is somewhere behind us, low and steady beyond the houses.
A seagull cries.
Philip looks like he may be physically sick.
I realise I am not helping.
“Come inside,” I say.
He exhales sharply.
Not relief exactly.
More like temporary postponement of death.
I unlock the door.
Philip lifts the suitcase and follows me in.
The cottage is cool from the open kitchen windows. The faint smell of sea air and the tea I made before my run still hangs in the room.
Philip stops just inside the hallway.
His eyes move over everything.
The stairs.
