Page 89 of The Clifftop Cottage

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Leah sipped cold tea on the edge of the sofa, staring out at the garden as if it might explain something.

It didn’t.

A grey sky, dead leaves plastered to the fence. The garden gnome Maisie had painted purple last spring leaned sideways in the damp. Even he looked miserable.

Maisie had retreated upstairs an hour ago, claiming homework. Leah had checked once to find no books, just her daughter curled under the duvet, headphones on, the blue glow of the screen against her face.

She hadn’t pushed it.

Not tonight.

Earlier, Leah had suggested the cinema, bowling, ice skating, even a spontaneous trip to the city. But Maisie had just shrugged, eyes half lidded with boredom, and mumbled something about being tired. She’d settled on the sofa for a while before drifting off to her room, leaving Leah with a half-watched baking show and the quiet hum of disappointment.

How had her daughter turned into a moody kid before her very eyes?

But she couldn’t blame her. Adults had a way of letting her down. Leah included.

They didn’t have much family nearby. Dylan’s parents had emigrated to Australia in their old age, and he was an only child. No cousins to speak of.

When Erica moved to Rock Cove, Maisie had lit up like a string of fairy lights. Every afternoon: “When’s Auntie Erica coming?”

And now there was nothing to say.

Leah had hoped this time would be different. That London had been the worst of it. That coming back here meant settling.

But Erica had folded inward again. And hope, Leah was learning, was not something to rely on.

After all, it was Erica who had called Leah when she needed to leave London. It had seemed like a turning point. For a time, things had levelled out. Erica had laughed more, Maisie had flourished with another adult to lean on, especially since Dylan and Leah had started to argue more than they talked.

Dylan.

He’d said six. It was now half seven.

She checked her phone again, though she already knew there’d be nothing.

She was right, no message. No explanation. Just the quiet assumption she would wait.

That silence scraped at her.

Then a thought hit her, should she worry? Maybe something had happened. Maybe she was being unfair.

But no, the feeling in her chest was steady. Not fear.

He was fine.

That was almost worse.

It wasn’t something she often admitted, even to herself, but she had a kind of sixth sense for these things – a nudge in her chest when something was off. She’d felt it the day her father died – a cold stillness that started in her spine. Or the time Dylan had gambled money they didn’t have. No matter how many times he denied it, something in her churned …

A stupid, reckless thing. Their savings, gone.

Dylan had said he wanted to feel alive again. That must be the rite of passage at forty. A midlife unravelling. But what was her crisis? Was she just the one who stayed behind and swept up the pieces?

She looked around at the living room. Crumbs on the rug, stale air and the faint smell of wet dog. She cast a disapproving eye over at Dusty sprawled on the floor by the front door. He was waiting for Dylan, like she was.

She stood up, wrestled the vacuum out of a cupboard and began to clean – not aggressively, but with the practised rhythm of someone who had done it a thousand times before. Vacuuming the same spots, wiping down the same surfaces, chasing a kind of control in the little things.