Page 47 of Tribute Act

“Why not? You love to play—getting paid for doing what you love sounds like a no-brainer to me.” I grinned, but he didn’t return my smile, concentrating instead on cleaning the stubborn milk residue off the steamer wands.

“There’s probably not much point,” he said after a while, sending a blast of steam out of one wand before turning his attention to the second one. “He said he’s looking for a regular, and I’ll be heading off soon.”

My stomach sank. “Not that soon.” My voice came out way more relaxed than I felt. “Your final scan’s not for another few weeks.”

He shrugged. “I feel fine.”

I put my hand on his arm, pulling him round so he had to face me. “Hey,” I said. “You can’t leave till after that scan. They’ve got to check your liver’s growing back properly—that’s not something you can just skip.”

He sighed, heavy. “Yeah. I know.”

His reluctance to stay in Porthkennack was painful, but I covered up my disappointment with a smile. “So . . . are you going to agree to play at the Sea Bell? I think you should.”

His mouth quirked in a lopsided smile. “Yeah, I suppose. I might as well get a couple of gigs out of this stay before I leave.”

I wanted to ask him what would happen after that, when he decided it was time to go. I wanted to demand to know if he’d tell me he was leaving or if he’d just get up one morning and decide he was done.

If he’d even say goodbye.

But I didn’t ask any of those things. Instead, I took the tubs of sandwich filling through to the kitchen and started stacking them in the fridge.

On Friday mornings, Denise—a totally unflappable sixty-year-old who used to have a burger van on the sea front—opened up the café. Since she could run the place with one hand tied behind her back, I only had to go in at lunchtime. Even then, I usually felt like I was getting under her feet.

Thanks to Denise’s efficiency, I tended to have a bit of a lie-in on Friday mornings, so when Mack slouched into the kitchen early one Friday morning to find me up and dressed with my laptop already open at the kitchen table, he seemed surprised.

“Is Denise sick?” he asked as he poured himself a coffee from the pot I’d made.

I shook my head. “No, I’ve got that meeting in Truro—the one with the deli people.”

He leaned against the worktop, all sleep-rumpled and appealing. “Oh, right. Is Derek picking you up?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. He’s not coming now. Rosie’s got a hospital appointment.”

Mack frowned. “I see.” He paused, then added, “Are you okay going on your own?”

I shrugged. “I’ll cope—it’s not like I have a choice.”

I turned my eyes back to my keyboard but could feel his gaze on me. After a bit, he said, his tone hesitant, “I can come with you—if you’d like a bit of moral support?”

I glanced up, opening my mouth to say no, it was fine, I could manage.

But then I stopped myself and really thought about it.

The truth was, my stomach was knotted with nerves and I felt totally out of my depth.

And actually, it would be nice to have someone there to chat to me on the way so I didn’t spend the journey fruitlessly obsessing over what to say. And to postmortem with on the way back.

“Okay. That would be great.”

His smile was oddly sweet, and I felt warmth bloom in my chest.

“Can I have ten minutes to shower and change?” he asked.

“Better than that. You can have fifteen,” I said.

“In that case, I’ll shave as well, if you like.”

“Nah, let’s rock the entrepreneurial hipster look. A clean shirt’ll do.”