Page 63 of Carry Me Home

My hand pauses on the coffee cup. A small pause. Brief enough that Dot might not have noticed, except Dot notices everything.

‘Then they’re friends,’ I say. ‘Like Tom said.’

‘Friends don’t look at each other the way she was looking at him.’

‘How was she looking at him?’

‘Like she was thinking about it.’ Dot’s expression is triumphant. ‘Make of that what you will.’

She leaves before I can respond, off to distribute intelligence. Chips watches her go, then circles back to me, sitting on my feet.

‘Don’t listen to her,’ I tell him. ‘She’s a gossip.’

Chips tilts his head.

‘Tom has friends. Of course he has friends. This is completely normal.’

Chips keeps looking at me with those patient brown eyes, and I don’t know why I’m explaining myself to a dog, except that my chest feels tight in a way I can’t account for and the dog is the only one in the room who won’t form an opinion about it.

‘Fine. Don’t believe me.’

He thumps his tail once, like he’s humouring me, and follows me back to the kitchen.

She arrives at half eleven.

The café is quiet – the mid-morning lull, just a couple of tourists by the window and Frankie nursing his usual tea. Chips is dozing in his sun patch. I’m restocking the pastry case, flour on my apron, hair escaping, when the door opens and the heat rushes in along with a woman I’ve never seen before.

She’s tall. That’s the first thing. Tall and slim and wearing a white bikini top under a loose cotton sundress that falls exactly right – the kind of effortless summer look that I know from experience requires approximately forty-five minutes and three outfit changes to achieve. Her hair is blonde and cut well and her legs are long and tanned and she moves with the easy confidence of someone who has never once apologised for walking into a room.

I’m suddenly, acutely aware of my apron. The flour across the front. The fact that I’ve been up since five and almost certainly look it.

Chips lifts his head, assessing. Then his tail starts wagging and he trots over to investigate.

‘Oh, hello.’ She crouches to greet him, letting him sniff her hand before scratching under his chin. Her nails are painted – a dark red, precise, the kind of detail I notice because my own nails haven’t seen polish since approximately 2019. ‘Aren’t you gorgeous? You must be the famous rescue dog.’

‘That’s Chips. He’s—’ I stop. ‘Famous?’

‘Tom talks about him. The dog with no manners and excellent taste in people.’ She looks up at me, still petting Chips, and her smile is warm and open and I can’t find anything wrong with it, which is annoying. ‘He said he sits on your feet.’

‘He does. Constantly. I’ve given up fighting it.’

‘Smart dog.’ She straightens, and Chips follows her to the counter with his tail wagging. ‘Nina? I’m Cara. Tom’s friend.’

She says Tom’s with a particular ease – not possessive exactly, but familiar, comfortable, the sound of a woman who has known him long enough to own a version of his name. My version is Tom – flat, warm, the way I’ve been saying it since I was sixteen. Hers is different. Hers has history I wasn’t part of.

‘He’s told me so much about you,’ she says, shaking my hand. Firm grip. Warm.

‘All good, I hope.’

‘All glowing.’ She slides onto a stool at the counter with an ease that suggests she’s comfortable everywhere. Up close she’s striking – dark eyes, sharp cheekbones, the kind of face that knows its own angles. ‘The café’s even prettier than he described.’

‘I haven’t done anything with the space. It’s been like this for thirty years.’

‘Then it’s timeless.’ Her eyes travel the room – the fairy lights, the chalk menu, the pastry case – and land on the pink bear in the corner. ‘And what on earth is that?’

‘That,’ I say, ‘is a very long story involving a coconut shy and Jude’s wounded pride.’

‘Where did it come from?’