Page 7

“Hmmm.” He’s trying to start a conversation, but no way is she making this easier for him. She will have to play nice in front of his family—she knows that—but there are no rules when it’s just the two of them.

He glances at her. “I’m flipping a house there. An hour or so outside of Cardiff.”

She stiffens before realizing what she’s doing and forces her shoulders to relax. So he’s flipping houses again. It’s what he was doing when she met him. He always did love it—the adventure, the excitement, moving from one place to the next. She remembers how he lit up, talking about how it gave him such a sense of satisfaction to see the end result. Of course he’s gone back to that nomadic lifestyle, she thinks, a little bitterly. Though at least he hasn’t moved on to someone else, settled down with them in a place for good. Then her pulse jumps against her wrist. What if he has met someone? It might just not be serious yet. Her stomach churns with the thought, before she reminds herself that she shouldn’t care. She is here to get her own back—that’s all.

“If you’re in Wales and I’m in London, how does your mum think we’re back together?” she asks.

His eyes catch the headlights of a car heading the opposite direction, a brief flash of green. “I thought we could say we’re giving long distance a go.”

She looks back out of the window. It’s why he’d moved to London, gotten a job in marketing—so they didn’t have to be long distance.

But all she says is “Fine.”

Silence falls between them, and despite the noise of the radio the awkwardness is like a physical thing, making the air stodgy. It never was like this between them. Almost since the moment they met in Edinburgh, one New Year’s Eve, it was comfortable—yes, there were nerves, but it was never awkward. She closes her eyes. Rule number one—don’t let herself think about the way things used to be.

“Where are we actually going?” She hadn’t asked. They’d exchanged texts on the logistics. He told her he’d pick her up from Aberdeen—that was it.

“It’s in the Cairngorms—you know, the national park.”

She nods, even though she doesn’t know the first thing about the Cairngorms. Still, a national park sounds good. It sounds big—plenty of chances to go on long walks on her own. Maybe she’ll even have some kind of grand epiphany, like in the films. She’ll be on her own and hike to the top of some mountain and realize exactly what she’s supposed to do next in life. Something like that, anyway.

She goes quiet again, leaning her head against the cool window. Why does she feel so tired, when all she’s done today is sit?

Her phone buzzes. It will be work—but she can’t bring herself to look at it. She closes her eyes instead. She tries to pretend Finn isn’t there, though that’s impossible—her body too aware of his, of how close he is to her. She listens to the music, the distant hum of the engine, to distract herself. She’s so, so tired.

The next thing she knows, a big hand is squeezing her shoulder gently, pulling her from sleep. A hand that she finds herself leaning into, craving the comfort of the familiar. “Mel? We’re here.”

She blinks a few times, then stiffens. That’s Finn’s hand on her shoulder. He must sense her tension, because he draws it away, leaving behind an echo of his touch that travels down her spine. She straightens, rolling her shoulders to try to loosen them. The car is toasty warm now and smells faintly of damp, the way everything does in winter. Underneath that, though, there’s the scent of pinewood. Of Finn.

They’re parked in the pitch black, though the light from the cottage windows in front of them offers a glow from behind the curtains. They’re at the end of a long driveway, surrounded by hills in the distance and tall trees up close. It’s two cottages, she realizes—both stone—sitting side by side.

Mel feels her stomach twist and nerves flutter.

I still say this is a terrible idea.

Shit. Priya is almost definitely right, isn’t she? What the hell is she doing?

Finn isn’t making any move to get out the car, either. Maybe he’s also regretting this. Then he turns to her, angling his long body as best he can. “Before we go in, do we need to catch each other up on anything, do you think?”

“What, you think they are going to quiz us on what we’ve been doing together the last six months?” It’s hard not to sound scathing.

“Well, it might not get to the lightning round, but we ought to get our story straight, don’t you think?”

I think I was an idiot to even consider this, actually is what she wants to say. What she tries to say by folding her arms across her chest.

The corner of his beautiful crooked mouth twitches. Too late, he seems to say back, and for a second she thinks that is amusement there in his stormy eyes.

“Fine,” she bites out. “We’ve been doing long distance. When did you tell her we got back together, exactly?”

Something crosses his face before he schools it into a neutral expression. “About two months ago.”

Great. Two months of his mum thinking they were all loved up once again, when in reality she was probably rewatching Bridget Jones’s Diary (rewinding the “All By Myself” scene), The Lord of the Rings, or P.S. I Love You, depending on what she needed at the time.

“So maybe we’ve only seen each other like, what, twice?” she suggests. “Long weekends? You came down to London for them? Because work has been busy.” Which it has, hasn’t it?

He pauses, and she wonders if he’s gearing up for an argument—negotiating how many times they fake met up in the last couple of months, or perhaps he’s going to suggest that she came to him for one of the eight weekends they have apparently been back together. Then he nods. “Okay. And we’ve been voice-noting in the meantime.”

“I’m not sure why you need to clarify that—I can’t imagine Susan is going to ask how many WhatsApps we send a day—but fine.”