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No, I can’t ring the doorbell. Not now. Not in this emotional state.
*
When I get back to our room at The Old Bell Inn, I find Maisie nursing a cup of coffee. Her eyes are shadowed as she looks up at me. Just one look at her and my heart melts. She puts her mug down and reaches up for a hug, which I readily give. I’m not good at holding a grudge where Maisie is concerned.
‘I’m sorry, Emmie,’ she whines. ‘I came here to help, not to make your life more difficult. I promise I’ll behave from now on.’
‘Thank you. I don’t mind you sleeping with someone in the village, of course, but don’t expect me to do the same. I’m not cheating on Stephen.’
‘OK, got it. But believe me, I never meant to intimate to that bloke that you were game.’
‘I know. It’s his fault for assuming so.’
She nods and wipes her eyes.
‘But if you really want me to forgive you…’
‘Yeah, anything for my mate!’
‘Let’s go eat. I’m always hungry down here. It must be the air.’
She laughs and wraps her arm around my neck.
‘I saw this pasty shop that’s going to blow your mind!’ she promises and we head downstairs a little happier than before.
Who am I to refuse another pasty?
*
We sit on wooden benches outside the place I’d bought my first pasty earlier. The sun is setting as we happily munch away (I swear I’m going to put on a stone before we leave on Monday afternoon), I tell Maisie about my grandmother’s house.
‘Get out! It would be hilarious, wouldn’t it, if you turned out to be of noble blood,’ she chirps.
‘I know!’
‘The MIL would have kittens. And it would serve her right, too, calling you orphan Emmie all these years.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh, look!’ Maisie says, shading her eyes. ‘There’s a scarf like yours…’
I sit up. ‘Where?’
‘There, around Pickled Loverboy’s neck.’
It’s true. There he is, standing at a drinks kiosk with a German shepherd the size of a small horse, and a beer in his hand, of course. And he’s got my scarf around his neck! The nerve, especially when he saw how upset I was at losing it.
‘I’ll be right back,’ I promise as I march in his direction.
Upon seeing me and my murderous gait, the dog’s ears prick up and it begins to growl. If it bites me, I swear I’ll bite back. I clear my throat, ready for battle.
‘Erm, excuse me,’ I say to his back. ‘That’s my scarf.’
He turns round to look at me, then down at his (my) scarf, then back at me with an attempt at making an innocent face.
‘It is?’
I cross my hands in front of my chest. ‘You know it is.’
