Page 66 of Carry Me Home

‘About what?’

‘Cara.’

‘She’s lovely.’ I’m cashing up. Counting coins. Looking at the till. ‘Really lovely. Smart, warm, good with the dog. Isla was sucking up, having a gushing fan to talk to. Then Maisie tried to convince Cara the pub has a ghost.’

‘Did she believe it?’

‘She was politely agnostic.’ I sort the coins into their slots. ‘Everyone likes her. Dot’s already obsessed.’

‘Dot’s obsessed with everyone new. It’s a compulsion.’

‘Tilly’s planning your wedding.’

He goes still. ‘There’s no wedding.’

‘I know there’s no wedding. I’m telling you what Tilly’s doing. It’s informational.’

I say it lightly. Brightly. The coins go into the drawer and I close it – not quite a slam, but harder than necessary, and Tom hears it because Tom hears everything.

‘Nina.’ He’s moved further into the café, and perches on his stool. Chips settles between us on the floor, looking from one to the other like a small furry referee. ‘She’s a friend.’

‘I know.’

‘We dated at university. Years ago. It didn’t work out.’

‘I know. Dot gave me the full dossier.’ I make myself look up. Make myself smile. ‘It’s fine, Tom. You’re allowed to have friends. You’re allowed to have friends who are women you used to date. I’m not going to interrogate you.’

‘I know you’re not. I just⁠—’

‘You don’t owe me an explanation.’

The words come out flatter than I intended. Tom looks at me. I look at Tom. The café is quiet – just the fans and the fading light and Chips breathing between us.

‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘I don’t.’

I pick up a cloth. Wipe the counter. The counter is clean. I wipe it anyway, because my hands need to be moving or they’re going to do something I can’t predict, like grip the edge of the counter or throw the cloth at the wall or reach out and⁠—

I wipe the counter.

‘She’s great,’ I say. ‘Really. I hope she has a brilliant visit. You deserve—’ I stop. The sentence has a destination I didn’t see coming. I change course. ‘You deserve a break. From the practice. It’ll be nice to have company.’

Tom is quiet. I can feel him watching me. The specific quality of his attention – focused, patient, missing nothing. I’ve been on the receiving end of that attention for years and it’s never made me feel like this before. Exposed. Transparent. Like he can see through the counter-wiping and the brightness and the it’s fine to whatever is underneath, the thing I can’t name because naming it would mean looking at it and looking at it would mean⁠—

‘He’s good for you,’ Tom says. ‘The dog.’

I stop wiping. ‘What?’

‘Chips. He’s good for you. You’re different since he arrived. More…’ He searches for the word. ‘Settled. Like you’ve stopped holding your breath.’

My throat aches. My eyes ache. I look at Chips, asleep in the last of the light, his paws twitching in a dream.

‘He’s a good dog,’ I say. ‘I hope I get to keep him.’

‘Me too.’

Tom stands. He’s leaving. He’s going back to his flat where Cara is waiting – Cara with her sharp cheekbones and her easy confidence and her version of Tom’s that sits in a different part of her mouth than mine does.

‘See you tomorrow?’ I say.