Page 88 of Take Me Away

The thought should terrify me. Should send me running back to London, back to the sterile safety of my Hampstead flat where no one asks questions and nothing feels real.

Instead, I kick off my boots and pad barefoot into the kitchen, still buzzing.

That’s what it feels like – buzzing. Like I’ve had too much coffee or champagne, except I’ve had neither. Just Kit’s hand in mine. His mouth on my hair. The way he looked at me when Maisie wasn’t watching, like I was something precious he was afraid to break.

I haven’t felt this in years. Maybe ever.

Not with Reid, whose idea of romance was bringing me to premieres and forgetting my name when photographers weren’t around. Not with the handful of others before him – safe, boring men Marcus approved of because they wouldn’t threaten his control.

Definitely not with Marcus.

My stomach twists at the thought of him. The articles speculating about what I’m hiding, why I ran, whether I’m lying about everything.

I silence my phone before it can buzz again. Piper will have to wait.

The kitchen is still exactly like Maggie just popped out. Tea towels folded on the rail. Her favourite mug – the one with the chipped handle, which she refused to throw away – sitting by the sink. The windowsill lined with shells and sea glass she collected over fifty years of walking this beach.

I should have been here when she died.

The grief hits sudden and sharp, stealing my breath. I grip the counter, knuckles white, and force myself to breathe through it.

She died alone. In hospital, with nurses she didn’t know. Because I was too ashamed to come home. Too controlled. Too broken.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper to the empty room. ‘I’m so sorry, Gran.’

The cottage doesn’t answer. Just the tick of the old clock on the wall, the distant crash of waves.

I dry my eyes on the hem of Maggie’s cardigan and make myself move.

The bedroom is hardest. Her clothes still hang in the wardrobe – cardigans and sensible skirts and the one good dress she kept for weddings. Her reading glasses sit on the nightstand.

I should pack it all up. Give them to charity. Clear the space so it feels less like I’m sleeping in a shrine.

But my hands shake as I reach for the first cardigan.

Start small, I tell myself. One drawer at a time.

The top drawer of her dresser is full of scarves – silk and wool, some so old they’re practically disintegrating. I fold them carefully, setting them in a box I found in the hall cupboard.

The second drawer: stockings, handkerchiefs, a small velvet box containing her wedding ring. I open it, touch the thin gold band. She never took it off after Grandad died. Wore it for thirty years, refusing every well-meaning suggestion that she might find someone else.

‘I had my love,’ she used to say. ‘That’s more than most people get.’

I slip the ring onto my right hand. Too big, but I’ll get it resized. Keep it with me.

The third drawer sticks – swollen wood that hasn’t been opened in months, maybe years. I yank hard and it finally gives, spilling contents onto the floor.

Photos. Dozens of them, loose and fading.

I sink onto the carpet, gathering them up. Maggie as a young woman, dark hair pinned back, laughing at the camera. Grandad in his fishing gear, arm around her waist. My father as a baby, then a toddler, then a sullen teenager who couldn’t wait to leave Cornwall behind.

And me.

So many photos of me.

Building sandcastles at five. Gap-toothed at seven. Skinny and sun-browned at twelve, all elbows and knees. Fifteen and trying too hard to look sophisticated in Maggie’s old sun hat.

And Kit.