Page 6 of We Live Here Now

She can’t see me as she turns and walks slowly back up to the house, eyes on the gravel, her stick doing a lot of the hard work. I felt her scars when we were having sex last night—a surprise I’m not going to complain about—and how she pulled away when I touched them, as if I was going to be revolted by them. They don’tbother me. Not like that. But they do remind me of that day on the cliff. The hangovers we had from drinking so much the night before.

What had she been doing drinking anyway? It’s a thought I’ve had more than once since the accident, but I’m not going to broach it with her. Maybe she hadn’t drunk that much at all. Maybe she’d pretended. She wasn’t pretending her bad mood though, and neither was I.

I knew why I was on edge, but she’d been shitty for a couple of weeks despite getting the promotion she wanted. I guess, knowing what I do now, she wasn’t feeling great and probably shouldn’t have been out on the cliff at all. If I’d known—if she’d told me—the whole day would have been different. I’d never have let her up there. But I remember walking behind her, getting closer, both of us sniping at each other as the others got ahead, and having a sudden red-hot wish that she’d just get out of the bloody way, one way or another. When I shut my eyes at night, I still see the surprised terror in her eyes as she fell, reaching out for me.

The coffee machine beeps that it’s done as I hear the front door open and she comes back inside. She looks happy, and it gives me a surprising rush of warm affection.

“Coffee?”

We need to get back on an even keel. A fresh start. I really hope those scars fade.

10

Emily

The Lamb and Shepherd is a proper old-fashioned pub with beams overhead and brass horseshoes on the walls, and the whole building is a rabbit warren of overheated spaces.

I’ve had a glass of wine, which has gone straight to my head, and I’m on the verge of feeling entirely disoriented on the way to the bathroom when I peer into one alcove, and there she is, looking back. The woman from the lane.

She’s animated, midconversation with two men, one an elderly vicar, a dog collar tucked into his blue shirt, and the other a very handsome man of about her age, casually dressed in a loose white shirt, open at the neck against tanned skin, his thick hair cut slightly long. There’s bright paint on his trousers, a dash of blue and a small smear of red. Artist’s paint, not decorator paint. He reminds me of the year-rounders we met in the bars in the quieter spots of Ibiza. Free. Easy. He says something, a wry smile on his face and a hand on the woman’s thigh, and the other two laugh. That’s when she looks up and sees me. Their conversation stops and I become the focus of their attention.

“Sorry.” I’m suddenly embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to stare. I just—I saw you this morning. Outside Larkin Lodge.”

“Oh, yes.” Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I remember now. The new owner. I passed by on my walk.”

“The new owner?” The vicar is immediately on his feet, one hand stretched out, beaming cheerfully. “How lovely to meet you. So gladthe old place has people in it again. It’s been empty too long. I’m Paul Bradley Carr—not to be confused with the other Paul Carr, who owns the liquor store on the high street and is known to drink all his profits. I’m the vicar at St. Olaf’s.” His grin is infectious, although I’m still curious about the woman and the man she’s with. It didn’t seem like she’dpassed bythis morning. It felt like her visit was intentional.

“I’m Emily Bennett. My husband, Freddie, and I just moved in.”

“Always nice to have fresh blood in the village,” the handsome man says, and I swear to god I start to blush. He bleeds a sexual charisma that gives him the air of some movie star. A natural charm. He’s hot, really hot, and even after everything, I feel a rush of attraction.

“I’m Joe Carter. And this is my wife, Sally.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Sally says, before adding, looking at me thoughtfully, “You’re very beautiful.”

It’s an unexpected and odd compliment, and I’m not sure how to respond. “Oh. Thank you,” I settle on. “And so are you.”

“Isn’t she, Joe?” She looks over at her husband. “You should paint her.”

“Maybe give her time to settle in first.” Joe smiles at me. “My wife is my manager. Every new face is a potential masterpiece to Sally. I’m an artist.”

“And a very sought-after one,” the vicar interjects. “All the London galleries want work from him.”

“We lived in the Lodge for a while about twenty years ago. Sally got quite attached to it but it’s too big for us, and then we saw the cottage in Wiveliscoombe and the studio space and we haven’t looked back. Train into London in three hours. Perfect.”

“I hadn’t thought about the Lodge for years,” Sally says. “And then there you were. Bringing it back to life.”

“Welcome to Wiveliscoombe, Emily,” Paul says. “Heart of Dartmoor.”

“Is that a niche Conrad joke?”

“Oh, you’re a bookworm? What perfect timing. We’ve just wrapped up our book club.” He holds up a volume. “The collected short stories of Edgar Allan Poe. A little too horror for me, but interesting. We’ve just done ‘The Raven.’ Poem rather than story.”

“Ravens are drawn to death,” Sally says softly. “Did you know that?”

“Where my imagination goes onto canvas, Sally loves books. This is her thing, not mine.” Joe gets to his feet. “And I still have work to get done tonight, darling, so let’s go.”

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