I caught up with the woman. ‘You can both come inside now,’ she said, her tone imperious so there was little hope of us refusing.
We ambled through the lady’s garden. Stones sunk into the grass made a path to her back door.
‘Come inside, inside. I always have a whiskey after four o’clock. You’re in time.’
She disappeared into her kitchen and Luke raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Is this how we die?’ he whispered.
‘Ssh!’ I swallowed a giggle. He shrugged and followed her inside, ducking his head as he did so.
Her galley kitchen was long and narrow and the old lady was placing tumblers on a tray.
‘In there,’ she said, indicating the dining room through an arch.
I nodded, feeling the whole day had taken on quite a surreal turn. The low-ceilinged room, one wall covered with a large dresser, every other wall covered in ornamental plates of horsey scenes, smelt of cigarette smoke. I pulled out a wooden chair, its cushioned seat faded pink, the pattern long since worn away. Luke winked at me as he sat down opposite. I could tell he was enjoying the strange twist, beaming at the woman as she appeared in the doorway clutching her tray, refusing his help as he hopped back up to his feet.
‘Pff,’ she said, placing it down, the brown liquid sloshing. ‘Whiskey.’ She pushed the glass across to me.
My hand hovered for a second, aware I was driving back but keen not to appear rude I picked up the tumbler. ‘Thanks,’ I said taking the tiniest sip, wincing as the liquid burnt my throat.
Luke accepted his glass. ‘You’re my kind of woman.’
She shot him a look. Clearly rescuing her chickens was one thing but this over-familiarity quite another.
She sat at the head of the table and methodically sipped at her glass. Then, when she finished, after furnishing us with a few choice details (silky hens, her name was Peggy, the ginger chicken was so old she should be dead, neighbours hate the noise, they haven’t attracted rats in years, those rumours are false) we were evicted as swiftly as we had been invited inside.
She waved us off at the back door and we made our way down the stone path, careful to close the gate. The three chickens gave us baleful glances as we passed. Then, turning the corner back down the alley, we collapsed in giggles on the side wall.
‘Very weird,’ Luke said, rubbing his eyes. ‘Pub?’
I nodded, ‘Definitely.’
Returning to the pub we found the same table as before, freshly wiped down as we placed our drinks on it. We watched the birds overhead, Luke beside me, one hand on my thigh, the blue sky streaked with aeroplane trails. Someone was barbecuing somewhere nearby, determined to make the most of the summer, the charcoal smell wafting our way.
‘I could stay here for ever,’ I said.
‘That’s good’ – I could feel his mouth move into a grin in my hair – ‘because I booked us a room.’
I leaned back, staring at him incredulously. ‘Seriously?’
‘Come and look.’ He stood up and gestured with his hand and we walked back across the pub garden and into the car park. Luke opened the boot. ‘Ta da!’ He revealed a suitcase inside. ‘I even remembered to pack your washbag with the scary unicorn on it.’
‘Luke Winters, how did you know I’d agree to spend the night with you?’
‘You look the easy type,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders and making me snort unattractively. ‘So now you can join me in a bottle of wine and some dinner.’
‘Definitely.’ I grinned. ‘Although it seems a shame to go inside,’ I said, the temperature just starting to drop as I wrapped my arms around myself.
‘I thought of that too,’ Luke said, pulling out two blankets he had stored in the boot.
‘What else have you got in there?’ I asked with a laugh, on tiptoes.
Luke closed the boot, turned to me, deadpanned: ‘Just the body of my first girlfriend. Sooooooo, wine!’
‘I feel someone might have had enough to drink already,’ I giggled, tucking my arm into his and returning to the table we had sat at earlier, enjoying being wrapped in a thick blanket as the sun set and the tea lights and lanterns were lit all around us.
We stayed out for hours eating and drinking, Luke scooting behind me when the temperature dipped, wrapping us both in the blanket so we could stay outside a little longer. With his arms around me we talked about nothing, stifling yawns, taking occasional sips of our drinks. The bar had long since closed and all we had to do was head back to our bedroom.
‘How did you find out about this place?’ I said, leaning back into his body, enjoying the smell of him, faint hint of aftershave and fresh air.
I felt a stiffening around me as Luke rested his head on my shoulder. ‘My mum and I stopped off here once,’ he said, ‘on the way back from one of her friend’s houses.’
Luke didn’t speak about his parents a lot. I knew they had been a close family, travelling together when Luke was a teen, camping in Wales and France, trips to Scotland, a road trip through Europe. Photo albums were cluttered with pictures from these places: Luke as a toothy child, then a gangly, awkward teen, always in the middle of his parents, their arms casually around his waist or shoulders: unselfconscious and content.
When I first met him he had been reeling from the sudden death of his father from a heart attack, and then cruelly, a year into our relationship, his mother had been diagnosed with cancer. She died less than six weeks later. Sometimes it was easy to assume his grief had faded with time but then I would catch him sometimes staring out at something, not focusing, and recognise the expression: that he was somewhere in the past when they had both been there with him.
I didn’t say anything, simply twisted a little and wrapped my arms around his neck, resting my forehead against his. I could feel his breath on my face and he brushed my lips with his.
‘Let’s go upstairs now,’ he said, his meaning clear.
Whispered giggles as we navigated our way up the crooked wooden staircase, Luke narrowly missing cracking his head on a beam. We made it to our room, an upholstered armchair in the corner, a patterned rug, the glow of the bedside lamp and the bed immaculate, crisp white sheets and a small round mint left on each pillow. We left the small window open, the silhouette of the fields and treeline beyond, the sky spattered with a thousand stars, the moonlight streaking our bed. Luke tucked me into his arms and as we lay there together I felt his chest rise and fall beneath me. Everything slow and easy. It felt as if we were somewhere other-worldy for the night, and my eyes drooped.
We barely spoke over breakfast the next morning, the poached eggs runny and delicious, the bacon crispy. Enjoying the silence we meandered down the footpaths through the woods and fields, holding hands, listening to the chatter of insects, the dappled pathways smelling earthy and rich, gradually turning back, past streams where we played half-hearted games of Pooh sticks before knowing we had to head home.
Sliding into the driving seat, I glanced back at the old stone cottage, the weathered sign outside, the garden of the pub, empty now. I was glad to be wearing my sunglasses, feeling a sudden lump in my throat. Biting my lip I tied my hair back in a ponytail, blinked and placed the key in the ignition. Silly to feel emotional.
We’d been gone twenty-four hours but the time had seemed to stretch on and on as if I’d returned from a spa break or a week in the sun. I felt refreshed and energetic as I moved the car back through the lanes, sneaking glances at Luke leaning back in his seat, sunglasses on. Arriving back into London, carefully returning the car to Howard, petrol tank full by way of thanks.