Page 64 of Meet me at the Seaside Cottages

‘No, that’s a normal level of warm.’

‘Bloody hell,’ says Essie, who has adopted the Edinburgh practice of pretending that cold houses are much classier, actually.

‘I really don’t care,’ he says, finally, gesturing at the paint charts. ‘Also I’m colourblind.’

‘Dwight!’ says Essie. ‘What? We have sat here this entire morning looking at paint colours and . . . they all look the same to you?’

He is clearly quite embarrassed about it. Being colourblind possibly doesn’t go with his cowboy image, although it would explain all the black clothing. Today he is wearing a two-toneshirt, with a cow’s head bootlace tie. Normally Essie would be in hysterics. Now she feels like pulling the tie gradually towards her, grabbing his hat and sticking it on her own head. Which would be an absurd thing to do.

‘Notexactlythe same!’ he says. ‘Just . . . ’

Essie picks up an odd aubergine colour he’d put aside as a definite maybe. ‘What colour is this?’

‘Titmouse,’ he says immediately.

‘No, I mean, what normal . . . Titmouse, really?’ She reads the writing on the card. ‘Huh. Anyway. What actual colour is it really?’

‘Brown,’ he says. ‘I thought that would be fine given the doorframe is – you know. Wood colour.’

‘It’s not brown!’ says Essie. ‘Oh, my God. It’s purple.’ She bursts out laughing.

‘Don’t laugh at me!’

‘Why didn’t you say?’

He shrugs. ‘You wanted me to choose one.’

She looks at him then. He is normally so confident and bullish about everything; it’s unusual to see him cowed in any way.

‘Yes, but not if you can’t . . . ’

‘I can.’

‘This is a horrible colour.’

‘Is it?’ He shrugs. ‘Purple’s not a colour I can see.’

She moves closer. His eyes are a distinct green, just like Shelby’s. But Essie isn’t thinking about Shelby right at that moment. She’s not, if she is being one hundred per cent honest with herself, really thinking about Connor either.

‘What can you see? Is the world black and white?’

He shakes his head. ‘Naw! I can see fine.’

‘It’s just . . . ’

‘You call it purple, I call it brown, that’s all.’

‘Well, I suppose you do,’ she says. ‘Is it brown you’d like?’

‘You choose,’ he says, finally. And holds her gaze.

‘I like green,’ Essie finds herself saying.

‘I’m not too good on that either,’ he says. ‘Red and green are a bit . . . ’

‘You can’t tell the difference between red and green? Is this why you never pay any attention to traffic lights?’

‘Traffic lights are for pussies,’ he says.

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