Page 57 of Bare
‘For what we are.’
‘I didn't use a word. I told Tess I'd met someone. She asked if he was worth it. I said yes.’ He changed gear for the hill. ‘That's the word, isn't it. Someone. The rest is detail.’
The Barn sat at the end of a lane. A stone building, low-roofed, amber light spilling from windows that had no curtains and no intention of getting any. A pub sign, hand-painted, Rory's work, Neil could tell from the brushwork, swinging in the January wind. The smell of something roasting, and beneath it the cold mineral scent of open country.
Neil put his hands in his pockets. They were shaking.
He didn't take them out.
Rory came round the car and stood beside him. Didn't take his hand. Didn't touch him. Just stood there, shoulder to shoulder, and the presence was enough. Woodsmoke and frost in the air and the faint peaty dampness of moor. From inside, music, something acoustic, music for a building with a fire.
‘Ready?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Means you care.’
‘I care to the point of nausea.’
‘That's very romantic.’
‘I'm not trying to be romantic. I'm trying not to be sick on your shoes.’
‘These shoes have survived Kieran's cooking. They can survive anything.’
Inside: warmth hit first. A long wooden table in the private dining area behind the bar. Candles in bottles, wax dripped down the sides in patterns that looked meant but weren't.
A fire in a stone hearth, the logs thick and split and burning with the steady orange glow of wood that had been dried properly. Flagstone floors worn smooth. The ceiling low, dark-beamed.
The walls held photographs of the valley in different seasons and a small painting Neil recognised as one of Rory's earlier pieces, a landscape, muted, greens and greys. Gentler than the fierce figurative work. A view, painted without needing to make it about more or less than the thing itself. A gift, clearly. Hung in the best spot, above the fireplace, where the light was warmest.
A woman was already moving to meet them. Shorter than Neil had imagined, sharp-eyed, a woman whose smile assessed you while welcoming you. Chef's apron, flour-dusted hands. Rosemary and lemon. She looked at Neil for approximately three seconds and her face settled. Recognition rather than approval.
‘Rory doesn't shut up about you.’
‘Tess.’ Rory's warning tone. Laughing underneath.
‘What? You don't. It's been insufferable. We've heard about Neil's bookshelf, Neil's spice rack, Neil's colour-coded folders. I feel like I've been dating him myself.’
Patrick stood beside her. Tall, broad-handed. He had the hands of a baker and a carpenter and possibly the one who'd built the table they were about to eat at. His hair was grey at the temples and his face was weathered and kind. He occupied the room solidly, without apology.
He shook Neil's hand. The grip was firm, dry.
‘Alright,’ Patrick said.
‘Thank you for having me,’ Neil said. Patrick's face didn't change, the welcome already delivered, the assessment already made.
‘Sit down, Neil.’ Tess put a glass of wine in his hand. ‘Red. Rory says you drink red. If it's wrong, blame him.’
Kieran was at the far end of the table. Phone. Universal posture. He raised a hand, eyes on his phone. ‘Alright, Mr Ashworth.’
‘Kieran.’
‘Food's good here. Tess cooks. Patrick does pudding. Don't eat the bread too fast. It fills you up and you'll miss the lamb.’
‘The bread's that good?’
‘The bread is a controlled substance. Patrick should be arrested.’
