Page 89 of The Next Chapter

I’d hoped that I could maybe have a positive impact on her, seeing as we’ve been through something similar, even if Harper doesn’t know it. But as she gets ever more sweary, I do wonder if I’m actually corrupting her further.

She finishes, ‘… and then they asked us to take a selfie.’ Her voice is dark. Selfies are obviously up there with row boats and vegetables in the list of things that Harper hates. We’ve eaten all of the food.

‘What have you got against selfies?’ Noah asks.

‘Nothing.’

Harper looks down at her vegetable pile. It’s not the selfie she had an issue with.

‘I get that it must be weird, feeling like you’re playing at happy families.’

And I do understand playing at being happy. Sometimes I think I deserve an Oscar for my acting skills. Or if not an Oscar, one of the lesser acting awards. The equivalent of a British Soap Star award, maybe.

Harper pulls at a black thread from her hoodie. ‘Yeah, that’s it,’ she says.

We all sit quietly for a moment then, until the silence starts to get uncomfortable. For me, at least.

‘Well, I’m going to take these plates in.’ I go to stand up.

‘I’ve got it,’ Noah interrupts. ‘You cooked. We can manage it, can’t we, Harper?’

God, if they’re alone, she will definitely tell him about the ‘wife me up’ comment.

But I’ve got nothing. Instead, I’m forced to watch as Harper and Noah carry everything into the cottage and strain my ears for words that sound like ‘obsessed’ and ‘married’ while they’re doing the washing up.

I don’t hear anything but sit silently stressing about the whole thing, just to be on the safe side.

‘All done. Shall I put some music on, just for ten minutes?’ Noah asks. ‘We should let our food settle before we start work.’

He’s not looking at me any differently. Maybe Harper really is going to do me a favour and not say anything. She plonks down in her chair as Noah passes over his phone to her so that she can scroll Spotify. I’m not sure when exactly it was decided that Harper would have dictator levels of control over what we listen to, but that’s the way it is. I don’t mind, she has good taste.

She puts on No Doubt and her and Noah talk about music a bit. I just listen because No Doubt were one of the bands Beyond Baton Rouge were compared to. I notice that Harper never maintains the same level of vitriol for Noah that she does about almost everything else. I think it’s because he’s just so affable, it’s hard to muster any hate towards him. It’d be like hating on a puppy, or a cupcake. But a cupcake that has this prominent vein running down the front of its bicep that I’m low-key obsessed with.

We drink and chat and when it starts to get dusky, Harper says that she needs to get back. I breathe a faint sigh of relief. She really did do me a favour. I make a mental note to source yet more Pringles tomorrow.

‘I’d better leave you to it anyway,’ she says louder than she’s talked all evening and I’m hit with a dose of dread, deep in my stomach.

‘Harper.’

‘You know, because you’re madly in love and she’s obsessed and wants you to wife her up.’ She uses air quotes and adopts a high-pitched voice whenever she’s relaying my bits. ‘Whatever the hell that means.’

I sink down in my chair, halfway under the table at this point.

‘You’re welcome,’ she says to me, winking before she walks off.

I have a feeling that Harper thinks that she’s done me a favour, so I can’t even be irritated by this turn of events. Maybe I can just crawl right on under the table and run away. Noah has those long legs, though, so he’d definitely catch me.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see that Noah is looking at me, even though I am very determinedly not looking at him.

Maybe I’ll just go swan dive into the loch of death and be done with it.

‘I didn’t say that to Harper,’ I say, still not looking. ‘She overheard me on Zoom to Seb, but it was a joke. He was winding me up. I’m not in love with you, I know there’s no… you know, future.’ Why does my voice sound weak when it’s the god’s honest actual truth?

Noah looks… oh god, he looks in actual pain. That’s how bad the thought of me being in love with him is. He’s rubbing the back of his neck and frowning.

I stand up. I need to do something. ‘I’m going to have a quick shower; I’m literally covered in sweat.’

I make a run for the bathroom, thinking that the cramped little space is not the place you might want to be when you’re having a mild nervous breakdown. It’s claustrophobic enough in here without adding all of the heavy breathing I’m doing.