Chapter 63 Kier

63

Kier

Devon, July 2018

I glance down at my phone. A quarter past seven.

Elin's fifteen minutes late. No call, no message to say that she isn't coming.

This is the third time we've arranged to meet, and she's been a no-show every time.

Excuses about work, not feeling well.

The beach café is busy, and as a sunburnt group of teenagers jostle past me to get to the door, I tug on Woody's lead, move us to a quieter spot at the side of the terrace, and send another message:

Hi, I'm waiting outside the cafe. No worries if you can't make it. Just let me know.

Another ten minutes pass.

Shifting from foot to foot, I check my phone again, tears springing to my eyes. I blink them back, not sure why I'm taking it so personally. She was probably just being nice, throwing the contact out there, never actually expecting me to get in touch.

I tell myself I'll give it five more minutes and then head back. The prospect of another night alone in the van doesn't fill me with joy, but I'm not sure being out here is any better.

The boat murders are still dominating both the news and people's conversation. A group of men clustered by the restaurant door are dissecting the story now: Another girl's missing in Brixham. They reckon he might have taken her.

I listen for a moment and then turn away. One last check of my phone.

Still no reply.

Crouching down, I pet Woody and then start for home.

I'm about a third of the way along the beach when my phone rings.

Not the ringtone for a call. FaceTime .

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I slowly tip the screen, delaying the moment.

I already know who it is: the only person who ever FaceTimes me.

Zeph.

My heart plummets, a fiery, prickly heat climbs up my neck. I stare at the screen for a moment, his flashing name, internally debating. Part of me knows I shouldn't go there, shouldn't even consider it, but a bigger part of me is craving the connection. A familiar face.

I hit answer.

‘Kier?'

He says my name and every other sound drops away – the waves, the dull buzz of conversation, even the toddler screaming from the buggy – as my eyes meet his.

I slowly exhale, feeling suddenly warm, steady. It's how I imagine an addict feels when they get a hit: dopamine rushing through my veins, a sweet sense of calm despite the fact that my heart is racing.

‘Shit.' He swallows hard, his voice croaky. ‘I had this all planned out and now seeing you … '

I slowly nod, unable to take my eyes off his face, feeling an odd sense of seeing him anew.

Zeph starts again, peering closer at the screen. ‘You're at the beach?'

I clear my throat. ‘Yeah, I'm walking Woody.'

‘Woods … Woods?'

I lower the phone to Woody, who comes up to the screen and sniffs it. ‘I reckon he can hear you.' I bring the phone back up to face height. ‘But can't see you, so now he's trying to sniff you out.'

Zeph pulls a face. ‘What are you trying to say?'

I laugh, and then stop abruptly, not quite sure of what the protocol is here, exes speaking to one another. All I know it's not this – acting like we were when we were together.

‘Look,' Zeph says, clearly noticing my awkwardness, ‘I just wanted to see how you are, and to apologise.' He clears his throat. ‘How I reacted to you saying you wanted space, it was wrong. What I said about you needing help. And bringing up the painting.'

At the mention of the painting, my lip starts to tremble, and I bite down on it, hard.

‘I don't want to go over it again, but the painting, it was private, I see that now. It wasn't up to me to delve into what it means, and I want you to know that whatever it's about, for whatever reason you did it, I don't give a shit. All I'm worried about is you and me. The love I have for you …' He tails off.

I squeeze my eyes tight shut against the tears that are welling hot behind them. I don't want to cry, but it's not just his apology that's throwing me off-kilter, it's what he's saying beneath that. That he loves me whoever I am. Loves all of me.

‘K?' Zeph moves his face closer to the phone screen. ‘You okay?'

‘I'm fine,' I say quickly, wiping the tears away with the back of my hand. I try to take control of the conversation, ask him about being back in New York, the cookbook.

He talks fast, with energy, about a new neighbour, a recipe he's trying out, and I wrap myself up in the sound of his voice. He's more American over the phone. Louder. More intense. Everything around me feels drab compared to what's coming down the phone line. I've missed this, I think. Missed how alive he makes me feel.

He tells me that he's going out tonight with friends.

‘Clio?'

‘Nah, people from work, restaurant before last. Bishop, Lacey.'

‘Lacey?' Her name sloshes over me like acid. ‘Lacey, who you used to date?'

‘Yeah,' Zeph says quickly. ‘But it's nothing like that, you know we're just friends.'

I nod, reprimanding myself. Even if it was, I have no room to talk. A strange recalibration is happening in my head: I'm no longer his girlfriend. I have no claim on him.

We carry on talking, and seamlessly, without me even really noticing, we slip back into our usual banter. Stupid jokes, anecdotes.

I feel calmer than I have in days, and I realise that I don't feel how I expected to, speaking to him. That burning anger I felt last week isn't there any more.

A little seed of doubt settles into me.

Whereas a few days ago the picture was clear, told a coherent story, now it seems loose, none of the pieces fitting together quite like they should.

Did I call this wrong, in the heat of the moment? What if Clio was right? Those photographs of Romy were just that, photographs? Someone passionate, who didn't want to believe the relationship was over?

Then, as I look at him again, reality hits – a slap in the face.

Images flicker through my mind: The necklace. The photos of Romy. His foot on mine.

‘You okay?' Zeph says, watching me. ‘You look a bit pale still.'

‘Stomach's still a mess … haven't really felt like eating. I was saying to Penn the other day, I think it's a twin thing, feeling the wedding jitters on his behalf.'

Zeph smiles, but it falters. ‘You're not …' His voice is shaky.

‘Not what? '

He takes a breath, still not meeting my gaze. ‘You don't think there's a chance you could be—'

Realisation finally dawns as his eyes pull up to meet mine.

‘ Pregnant? ' I laugh automatically.

Zeph nods, brow furrowed. ‘I was thinking about it the other day, before I left, when you said you weren't feeling well.'

I don't reply, my heart pumping as I absorb the implication.

It's not something that I'd vaguely considered. We've always been careful.

But as the thought takes root, I mull over the tiredness I've felt these past few weeks, the queasiness that has steadily built. Could I … ?

‘Just imagine.' Zeph's voice is quiet, shaky, and although he's trying to smother it, there's a faint smile playing on his lips.

‘I … can't even …'

He blinks, closing and then opening his mouth before closing it again.

We're both silent for a moment. Though we've talked about having children in passing, the idea has never stuck. In my mind, at least, you don't consider bringing new life into a life already so uncertain.

Zeph's eyes roam my face. ‘I shouldn't have brought it up. Probably reading into things.' He looks nervous suddenly. ‘Look, I'll leave you to it, maybe we can talk tomorrow.'

‘Okay.'

On the way back to the van, I think it all through, dizzied by the enormity of what he's suggested. It takes until I reach the van for my heart to stop racing and the idea to properly take hold.

Inside, I unclip Woody's lead and sit down at the table, my thoughts whirling. Pushing the nail of my thumb between the gap in my teeth, I pull it backwards and forwards, looking through the window.

This time, I don't see anyone else out there.

Just my own reflection. My own eyes, looking back at me.