Page 121 of Take Me Away

‘Are you going to autograph my reading record?’

‘Will you sell it on eBay?’

Maisie’s nose scrunches. ‘What’s eBay?’

I laugh and give a gentle tug on her hair. ‘Don’t worry. Probably for old people now.’

She nods, like this is a satisfactory answer. ‘Can you do my hair for school? Dad tries but he’s not very good at plaits.’

‘I can try. Though I should warn you, I’ve never done anyone’s hair but my own.’

‘That’s okay. I can show you.’

‘Let’s get you ready for bed and then I can do it. Hopefully they will stay in overnight.’

Maisie sings in the shower and it reminds me of Kit doing the same many, many years ago. While she’s in there, I potter around her room, giving it a little tidy. Wondering, if my life had been different and I’d had a little girl of my own, if her room would have been like this. I think it would have been. I’d have given her anything she wanted that wasn’t a dorm at a boarding school and an impersonal room in a too-big house that never felt like home.

When she’s clean and smelling of strawberry shampoo, I sit on the edge of her bed and Maisie sits cross-legged in front of me, patiently instructing me on how to make a proper French plait. My fingers are clumsy at first, but she doesn’t complain, just corrects me gently: ‘Not so tight. You have to keep it loose or it hurts.’

When I finish, she checks it in her little mirror and beams. ‘You did it!’ The pride I feel is disproportionate to the accomplishment. But as she bounces off to show Kit, I realise something: I’m good at this. At caring. At being here.

I never knew I could be.

And the truth is, I never want it to end.

I make pasta for dinner. Successfully, which feels like a small miracle given my track record with domestic tasks. Maisie sets the table without being asked, placing forks and knives with careful precision. Kit sits at the head of the table, present but not really here, his eyes distant.

We eat in near silence. I try to keep up light chatter with Maisie – what book she’s reading next, whether she thinks it will rain tomorrow – while Kit moves food around his plate more than he eats it.

Then his hand reaches across the table, fingers curling around mine. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at me. Just holds on.

And I hold back.

After dinner, I hesitate by the door. Should I go back to Salt Cottage? Give them space?

Kit’s hand finds mine again, pulling me towards the stairs.

‘Stay’ is all he says.

So I do.

Jude stops in to see Kit early the next morning, which, from what I can tell, doesn’t involve any talking at all.

‘Was he like this after Jess died?’ I ask Jude as I pass him a cup of tea. I think my tea-making skills are improving.

‘Yep. Silent.’

‘What did you do?’ I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans.

‘Waited.’ Jude shrugs. ‘He gets there eventually.’

‘I hate seeing him so sad.’

Jude reaches for me and envelops me in a strong-armed hug. When he shifts back his eyes are brighter than normal, a little salt water swimming along his lashes. ‘Kit always blames himself.’

‘What do you mean?’

His shoulders rise and fall in a half-hearted shrug. ‘When people go, Kit thinks it’s him.’