Page 59 of The Cornish Cream Tea Holiday
‘Look how tiny your van is,’ she said.
‘A pocket van. No wonder I’ve been struggling to get my work done; I can only fit pencil-length planks of wood in it.’
Thea laughed, and picked up her Scotch egg. ‘The coating is so crunchy,’ she said, when she’d tried it. ‘Usually it’s soft.’
‘That’s because I made them this morning.’
‘What time did you get up?’ she asked, as he poured her more wine.
‘About five thirty. I don’t sleep once the sun’s up. Not without curtains, anyway.’
‘You should really get some curtains,’ she said, pointing a serious finger at him. ‘Part of your remodel, I presume? And you made these in your building-site kitchen?’
‘I cleared a small corner to cook in,’ he admitted. ‘And yeah, I will do. But curtains feel a long way down the list.’
‘Would you …’ she hesitated. ‘Would you consider getting someone else in to help you?’
‘I don’t – it’s not my usual style.’
‘But if there’s some kind of block on it, for you? If you’re finding it hard, working on your own place, then perhaps you should.’
‘I’ve renovated all my previous places,’ Ben said, a hint of defensiveness in his voice. ‘My first house – the one I told you about – it was even worse than this.’
Thea smiled. ‘Even worse than an abandoned lighthouse with killer spiders and at least three ghosts?’
‘Why three?’
‘Three is a good number for everything,’ Thea said. ‘Three ghosts seems right for this place: it’s three floors, isn’t it? Or is it four?’ She giggled. She’d only had two glasses of wine, but it was so light and bubbly, and it had gone straight to her head. ‘I think we should put the stopper in this.’
‘It’s in my bag.’ Ben gestured to where his rucksack was resting against the wall, just behind Thea.
She turned and peered into its dark depths, seeing nothing, then put her hand inside. The first thing her fingers closed around was very familiar. ‘Oooh. A book!’
‘Thea, don’t—’ Ben said, but it was too late.
She looked at the paperback, taking in its broken spine and the curled-back corners, the cover tatty and ripped along the bottom, as if it were a much-loved tome he’d had for ages. But it wasn’t the state of the book that was making her mind buzz with questions.
‘Oh,’ she said, rereading the title. ‘I’m sorry, Ben.’
He didn’t reply, and when she risked a glance at him, he stared straight back, not ducking his head or looking away. There was resignation in his expression, and also – she didn’t think she was reading too much into it – sadness. Definitely sadness.
‘I’ll put it back,’ she murmured, hurrying to replace the book, to find the stopper she’d gone in there for in the first place, though the title of Ben’s reading material,Trusting Again After Betrayal, was already seared into her mind.
‘No.’ He wrapped his fingers gently around her wrist. ‘I mean, you can. But you don’t have to.’
Thea nodded, her lips pressed together. Scooter was lying stretched out around the glass bulb, his jaw resting on his front paws, his pale eyes fixed on his master.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she asked.
Ben huffed out a laugh. ‘Not really. But also … maybe? I don’t know.’
‘Well, look,’ she said, taking his empty glass and the bottle of wine. ‘You can haveoneof these, can’t you?’
He put his hand over the glass. ‘I don’t ever drink if I’m driving.’
‘OK.’ Thea bit her lip. She knew it was the right thing, but he sounded so serious, on the edge of stern.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Thea. Let’s forget about it – the book, I mean.’
