Page 12 of Cassian is Getting Out

Colin settled Tala’s carrier against the counter and caught Ruari’s eye. “Morning,” Colin said.

“Morning.” Ruari’s gaze moved back to Cassian. The dark circles under his eyes were the blue-grey of day-old bruises, and his movements were sluggish. On any other day, Cassian vibrated.

Tala saved him from having to find a way into the conversation. She was awake in the carrier, her dark eyes enormous, her tuft of black hair sticking straight up like she’d been rubbed with a balloon. Her fist came up and batted at Colin’s chin, and her whole face split into a gummy grin at the contact.

“Hullo there, Tala. My girl.” Ruari bent over the counter so she could see him. He made the face he always made for her: a slow, exaggerated widening of his eyes followed by a sharp puff of air that blew her hair sideways. She shrieked with laughter, her feet kicking against the carrier.

Colin winced. “Right in my ear, Tal.”

Ruari did it again. Her laugh was the best sound in the shop, alongside Cassian’s voice in full flight. She grabbed a fistful of Colin’s jumper and screamed.

“Would Tala like a Chelsea bun?” Ruari asked, directing the question past Colin to the stool where Cassian sat.

Colin picked up the cue at once. “What do you think, Cass? Should Tala have one?”

Cassian shook his head.

“That Felix been giving you trouble, Cass?” Ruari asked.

Cassian looked down at the counter and shook his head again.

Ruari couldn’t stand behind his counter and watch Cassian sit there like someone had unplugged him.

He pulled a pastel de nata from the display case, and the waft of caramelised sugar hit him. Ruari held the tart up in front of Cassian’s face. He pitched his voice into the singsong register he’d heard Cassian use on Tala when she was refusing a bottle.

“Here comes the pastry train, Cass. Open the tunnel. Chooooo choooo.”

Colin laughed into Tala’s head.

Cassian’s mouth thinned.

“Come on. Have one tiny bite. For the tunnel. The tunnel’s been very good today, it’s been staying nice and quiet, and it deserves a treat.”

“Stop it.” Cassian turned his face away.

“The pastry train is very sad that you’re ignoring it, Cass. Look at it. It’s come all this way just for you.” Ruari rotated the tart until the blistered caramel gleamed. “You’re going to make the pastry train cry if you don’t take a bite.”

Cassian slid off the stool and reached for Colin’s arm. “I want to go home,” he said.

Colin shifted Tala higher against his shoulder. “We’re going to take Tala to the park, remember? You said you’d push the pram.”

“I know.” Cassian’s hand was on his wrist, thumb moving across the scar tissue in the slow rhythm Ruari had noticed but never asked about. “I want to go home, Colin. Please.”

Colin met Ruari’s eye over the top of Cassian’s head.

“He’s had a bad night,” Colin said.

Ruari nodded. Colin settled a hand at the small of Cassian’s back, guiding him towards the door.

They left Ruari standing behind the counter with the rejected pastel de nata in his hand. He ate it himself, in two bites. It was perfect. Everything he’d made that morning was perfect.

Chapter Five

Notting Hill had the gossip infrastructure of a council estate, on top of the central London property prices.

Ruari had grown up on an estate and now ran a bakery on Portobello Road, and he could confirm that the mechanics were identical. There were the same curtain-twitchers, the same forensic interest in who was shagging whom, the same aunties who materialised at your elbow in the supermarket to inform you that Janice’s youngest had been seen getting into a taxi at half two on a Tuesday. The only difference was that in Notting Hill, the curtain-twitchers wore cashmere, and nobody called it gossip. It was all part of being a community.

He knew this because he stood behind a counter for twelve hours a day, and people told him things while he handed them bread and pastries.