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Kier

Devon, July 2018

‘You’ve broken up?’ Penn asks, a quiet uncertainty in his voice. His eyes scour my face as if looking for a cue, a hint at how I’m feeling so he can gauge the right reaction.

I nod, forking a piece of lime and pistachio cake into my mouth. The cake is delicious, moist and tangy from the drizzle of lime juice, but it’s an effort to even chew, let alone swallow it down. ‘A few days ago … Monday?’

A pause, then he raises an eyebrow. ‘That’s nearly a week.’

I give a non-answer. ‘Honestly, it was in the works for a while. I think we both needed space. The best thing all round, with the wedding coming up. I just want to enjoy it. No drama.’

‘So where’s he gone?’ Penn shovels the last of his pastry into his mouth. Tiny flakes stick to his chin, and I lean over and brush them away.

‘Back to the US. He’s still got his apartment.’ My eyes flicker to the newspaper on the table beside us. The same copy from the other day, blocky headline shouting from the front page: BOAT KILLER STILL NOT FOUND .

Penn studies my face again, really looking this time. ‘Sure it was nothing to do with the stag? I probably overreacted. Shouldn’t have made such a fuss of it. This wedding … its put everyone on edge, me especially.’ He laughs, but it sounds strained.

‘The caterer still not playing ball?’

He nods. ‘They’re asking for more money.’ Another forced laugh. ‘One word of advice. If you do ever decide to tie the knot, make sure the budget is locked down at the start. It’s been a steady creep-creep upwards ever since we’ve started digging into the details.’ As he looks at me, he tries to smile, but I can tell it’s an effort.

He’s still going through it. ‘You need some help?’ I ask. ‘Can’t promise I’m up to much from a budgeting standpoint, but I make a mean Excel chart …’

‘Nah, you’re fine. I’m getting there and you’ve done enough, geeing up the best man for me.’

‘He told you I called?’

Penn nods. ‘Said you’d given him a “polite reminder” on a few things.’ Pausing, he studies me again. ‘So you think you and Zeph … it’s properly done?’

I shrug. ‘I’m not sure. Maybe if we both get our shit together …’

A silence settles between us before he changes the subject. ‘You used to come here with Mum on Saturdays, didn’t you, when I was at football?’

‘Yeah.’ I glance around. ‘It’s changed a bit since then, though.’ The bakery has responded to its brief: modern coastal. Gone are the plastic chairs and tables and the white vinyl floor tiles. The aesthetic is all crisp white and wood, pots of social media–friendly herbs and plants trailing down the shelves. Sticky buns and rock cakes have been replaced by a rustic counter displaying rows of homemade glazed doughnuts: Yuzu. Marmalade. Nutella.

But it’s still there – the bones of the building, the memories. Mum sat at the corner table with her book, the little noise of satisfaction she made as she took her first sip of coffee .

I swallow hard. Memories like that, they’re good memories, happy memories, but they also hurt. Make me ache for what I’ve lost. For what I’ll never get back.

Penn nods, putting his finger to his plate to collect the crumbs, like he did as a kid. I catch his eyes as they lock on my plate.

I slide it across the table. ‘Finish it. I’ve had enough.’

As he digs his fork into the cake, I sense him scrutinising me again. ‘You’ve hardly eaten anything.’

‘Stomach’s a mess at the moment.’

‘Stress?’ He puts the cake into his mouth.

‘Probably.’ I force a smile. ‘A twin thing. Maybe I’m feeling the wedding jitters on your behalf.’

Penn makes a joke about telepathy, but it’s lost on me, something out on the street catching my eye.

Someone stood on the opposite pavement, a large camera lens obscuring their face.

Tracing the angle of it, the skin on the back of my neck prickles. The lens isn’t focused on the group of people sat outside the café, as I’d first thought. It’s on us.