Page 38 of The Next Chapter

I only have my head poked out through the door.

‘Perfect, won’t be two ticks.’

I shut the door in his face before he has chance to reply, rounding on Seb.

‘Why did you let me have so much wine?!’ I ask him.

‘It was you.’ He’s rubbing his forehead with his hands. ‘It was all the crying you were doing. Just tell him you can’t go.’

‘You’re the one who kept telling me to climb him last night! No, I’m going. I’m going to ask him about Lola. It took us eight hours to get here. This trip cannot be a waste of time!’

Hangovers make me prone to hysteria.

But I’m determined. I will hike up that mountain this morning if it kills me.

I throw back two paracetamol and glug water like I’ve been trekking through the desert for days and just happened upon a watering hole.

I gather up my walking gear. Some sick comes up when I bend to pull fresh socks out of my suitcase and I have to pause a second, one hand on the edge of the bed until it passes.

I make my way to the bathroom and chew on my toothbrush.

As per my rota, technically, it’s hair wash day. I in no way have the strength for that, so I just go overboard with the dry shampoo. I’m basically held together by the stuff when I emerge back into the living area.

Seb has laid down again. ‘Don’t hurry back,’ he mutters as I pass.

I’ve taken max five minutes to get sorted, but I feel awful for being late for my hike with Noah as I knock on the door to his cottage.

‘Good morning,’ he says, brightly. ‘How’s the head?’

Noah must have some dark tendencies, because he’s clearly enjoying this. He’s happy that I’m suffering.

I open my mouth, hopefully to bring him down a peg or two with some quick wit, or else to puke on him, I can’t quite be sure.

‘We missed you at karaoke.’ He smiles, stepping aside so I can follow him into his cottage. ‘Seb was pretty into it.’

‘Wait, what exactly did he sing?’ I ask.

‘Just a couple of Queen songs,’ he says. ‘It was good fun.’

‘It’s Freddie Mercury,’ I rush out. ‘He gets really emotional at “Rocket Ship”.’

‘Yeah, there was some crying.’

Noah smiles again and moves further into his cottage.

I follow him, realizing that it’s almost identical to ours. He doesn’t have a sofa bed taking up most of the living space, though, so it’s all very neat. There’s a small pile of notebooks with Post-it note tabs on his glass coffee table. They look like they might be colour coded. Well, that’s hot.

‘Do you write by hand?’ I ask him, eyeing the notebooks, hovering just inside his doorway.

‘Initially, yeah,’ he tells me. ‘It’s just easier than carrying a laptop or whatever all the time. Plus, I like notebooks.’

‘Oh my god, me too. They have a stationery expo in Manchester every year. I’m pretty sure that’s what heaven looks like.’

‘I’ll have to check it out. Do you want a coffee before we go? There’s still some in the pot.’

Stationery and coffee. At this point it’s a miracle that I don’t just turn into that meme which says, ‘and then she was pregnant’.

‘Please.’ It comes out like a beg.