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He swallowed it dry. The coating stuck to the roof of his mouth before sliding down.
Then he picked up his mobile off the bathroom shelf, opened Dr Hartwell’s contact, and typed: Need to book in. Overdue. Sorry. He sent it before the part of his brain that had been running the show for the past few days could talk him out of it.
The kitchen was still lit up downstairs, the radio still playing to an audience of cooling kouign-amann, and the urge to go back down and start a new batch was so strong it sat in his legs like a cramp. He made himself stay where he was.
He scrolled past Dr Hartwell’s name to another contact he hadn’t opened in months. His sister’s number sat in his mobile under Nic, with a display photo of her girls in school uniform pulling faces at the camera.
Ruari stared at the photo for a long time, his thumb resting on the message field, the cursor blinking in the empty white space where the words would go once he found them.
He started typing.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The medication took three days to flatten him out. Ruari knew it was working when he pulled a tray of sourdough that was technically flawless and felt nothing about it.
First the sleeplessness went, which should have been a relief except that the sleep that replaced it was thick and dreamless, dumping him back into consciousness at four a.m. feeling like he’d been packed in wet sand. Then the speed left his hands. What remained was his hard-won competence, which was…fine.
Dr Hartwell had rung him back within six hours of his text. They’d talked for forty minutes. Hartwell had asked the standard questions about his sleep, appetite, sexual behaviour, and spending. Ruari answered every one of them straight, without trying to downplay things like he normally would.
The one big wound: Nic hadn’t replied.
He checked his messages morning and evening, scrolling past the bakery supplier confirmations to the thread with his older sister’s name at the top. The last message was still his own: a few sentences about wanting to see the girls, worded and reworded until the cursor had blinked in the empty field for so long his screen went dark. He’d sent it before he could redraft it a fifth time, and the single grey tick had turned to double blue ticks within the hour. Nic had read it.
He couldn’t blame her. The last time he’d seen his nieces was eight months ago, a Sunday lunch at Nic’s in Sevenoaks where he’d arrived forty minutes late, talked at twice normal speed for two hours, promised to take the girls to Cadbury World the following weekend, and never followed through. The weekend after that he’d been in bed with the curtains drawn and his mobile on silent, and by the time he surfaced, the window for a plausible excuse had closed.
On Thursday, his younger sister, Gemma, sent a photo of a Yorkshire terrier wearing a knitted jumper, captioned with a single line: thought of you lol.
Nice dog, he sent back. Yours?
obvs not. I live in a studio flat Ruari. where would I put a dog
Fair point. How are you Gem?
Three dots appeared. Then: good thanks. mum said you texted Nic? you alright?
He leaned against the counter and typed with his thumb while Raf handled a short queue. Yeah. Getting back on track. How’s the job?
shit but it pays. listen do you still make those cheese scone things? the ones with the mustard in
Cheddar and grain mustard. Yeah, why?
because I told my colleague about them and she called me a liar and said nobody puts mustard in a scone and now it’s a whole thing. can you send me the recipe so I can prove her wrong
Ruari smiled. He typed out the recipe from memory and sent it in a single message that scrolled past the edge of his screen.
oh my god Ruari I said the recipe not a dissertation
You asked.
She sent a laughing emoji, then a second photo of the Yorkshire terrier from a different angle, in another knitted jumper. this is Kevin btw. he belongs to my neighbour. I walk him on tuesdays
Kevin’s a solid name for a dog.
Nah…I think naming him Kevin was a mistake. Pretty sure Kevin thinks he’s a human. bye Ruari x
Bye Gem x
He texted Gemma a photo of the scones the following Saturday, golden, split and oozing butter, and she replied with a voice note of her colleague admitting defeat.
