Page 48 of Take Me Away

‘I think she would look glorious in—’ I stop, realising Kit is standing in the doorway, a bowl of curry in his hands, watching me. I scan his features, trying to ascertain if he’s angry. Furious. About to turn me out in the pissing rain.

‘Isla’s right,’ he says, crossing to hand me the bowl but not meeting my gaze. ‘Here. Eat while it’s hot. You mum would be stunning in glitter.’

‘Thank you.’ Our fingers brush gently as he hands me the bowl, a momentary contact that nonetheless sends warmth spreading up my arm like I’ve touched a live wire. I try desperately not to react, but I swear there’s a matching tremor in his hand before he pulls away.

I look down at the bowl, the aroma of spices rising with the steam. My stomach growls appreciatively until I spot chunks of chicken nestled among the rice and sauce. He wouldn’t remember I don’t eat meat. And I wouldn’t expect him to.

‘Do you need anything else?’ Maisie hovers. ‘Water? Another pillow?’

‘I’m fine, really,’ I assure her. ‘This is perfect.’

I take a spoonful of rice and sauce from the edge of the bowl, carefully avoiding the chicken. The flavours are complex and comforting, not bad for a fisherman, and considering the boy I used to know couldn’t even flip a burger on a summer barbecue without it sticking. I continue eating around the meat, trying to be discreet, while Cap, tail banging the floor, positions himself directly in front of me, puppy eyes on full force, clearly realising I’m the weakest link in the chicken consumption line.

Kit sits in an armchair across from us with his own bowl. His eyes narrow slightly as he watches me picking at the food.

‘Something wrong with it?’ he asks.

‘No, it’s delicious,’ I say truthfully.

A flash of something crosses his face. ‘You’re a vegetarian,’ he says, shaking his head. For a moment he pinches the bridge of his nose, which is overkill if you ask me. ‘Want something else?’

‘Absolutely not. This is perfect,’ I insist, taking another careful spoonful of rice. ‘I’m an expert at navigating around meat. You should see me at Hollywood parties with those tiny appetiser plates.’

Kit gives a noncommittal grunt that might mean ‘okay’ in his current vocabulary of mostly monosyllabic responses to me.

‘Why are you a vegetarian?’ Maisie latches onto the newest snippet of information about me. Kit’s gaze is laser sharp from his side of the living room.

Okay, Isla, let’s not fuck up a child’s relationship with food before the age of ten.

‘I’m not actually a vegetarian, I’m what’s called a pescatarian.’ I take another mouthful of rice, hoping that will confuse her enough to stop the conversation.

‘What’s a pesca, pesca⁠—’

‘Pescatarian.’ And here we go. ‘It means I eat fish and eggs, but I don’t eat chicken or other’—ah, fuck—‘animals.’

Maisie considers this, while I shovel more food in my mouth.

Kit shrugs, carries on eating.

That wasn’t so bad.

‘But why? Do you not like the way they taste, or is it because they’ve all got Bambi eyes?’

I almost snort a grain of rice up my nasal passages.

‘Because Daisy Webber at school, she doesn’t eat meat because her mummy says all animals have feelings and it’s murder. So she eats those weird Quorn cocktail sausages in her packed lunch. She gave me one once and it was yuck. That is not a sausage.’

I laugh. It just bursts out of me. For the briefest moment, Kit meets my gaze.

‘Let’s just say, various reasons, but not quite as extreme as Daisy Webber’s mum.’

Maisie nods, clearly satisfied, and we lapse into silence as I finish picking and Kit clears his bowl.

For around thirty seconds, until Maisie’s brain gives her something new to talk about.

‘Did you know our lighthouse is one of the oldest lighthouses in Cornwall?’ she informs me.

‘I do. It’s a special place.’