“I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye.”
“I’ll let you off – just this once. Someone called about a booking, but I held off – had a feeling you might end up darkening my door again. The great escape plan didn’t quite work out?”
“No,” I say, frowning, “I think next time I might dig a tunnel… Anyway, is it okay if we stay another night?”
“I suppose so. I can even stretch to another Starshine Special; you look like you need it.”
“Why is it,” I ask, “that you always seem to be subtly insulting the way I look?”
He grins, and casts his eyes over me. “There is nothing wrong with the way you look, Ella, believe me. Go on, take a seat. Matt’ll take over on the bar.”
I have no idea who Matt is, but assume he is the same barman I saw the night before. I move away quickly, not wanting to meet another new person – he might start psychoanalysing my choice of trainers or something.
I am keen to lay my weary head down for the night, but I know that I owe at least one drink to Jake – he kept my room for me, after all – plus I get the feeling that he understands, that if I say ‘Sorry, I need some emergency alone-time’ at any stage during our conversation, he won’t judge.
I manage to find a small table tucked away in the corner, near the jukebox, settle Larry down and go over to look at it. It’s better than sitting there twitching. It’s one of those olde-worlde affairs, with curved glass and neon lights. It looks a bit like a fairground ride, now I come to think of it. A quick glance at the music listed on little handwritten cards tells me there is a fair amount of olde-worlde going on with the contents as well – lots of Motown and soul, 60s classics, country, a few compilations from the 21stcentury scattered among them. There’s even a collection of famous operatic arias. I’m rooting around in my purse for change when Jake appears beside me.
“It’s free,” he says, shrugging. “I had the coin mechanism disabled.”
“And again,” I reply, “it is impossible to see you as a wheeler-dealer. What do you fancy? Kylie? Venga Boys? Puccini?”
“I’m more of a soul boy, but also partial to a bit of Spice Girls.”
I laugh, and press the buttons that bring ‘Spice Up Your Life’ into the room.
“Thank you,” I say, as we sit down. “For the drink, and the room.”
“What about the Spice Girls?”
“Yeah, well, I thank God for the Spice Girls every night in my prayers. But…seriously. Thanks. You might have suspected I’d be back, but I didn’t.”
“You’re welcome. Where did you go?”
“Oh, so many places. Fossil hunting. Ice cream eating. Mainly driving. Possibly a tiny bit of thinking. It was an ill-formed plan at this time of year, I now realise, with a dog in tow. Nowhere else would take us. Plus, I was talking to a friend – well, not talking, messaging, I haven’t actually seen her for years – and she seemed to think I was mad to have left at all. I was thinking about it afterwards, why I felt it was important I moved on – I don’t actually have a schedule; I could stay for as long as I wanted to. I realised it was for all kinds of reasons, but at least one of them was that I was scared that thing was happening.”
“The falling in love with the place thing?”
“Yes. And obviously, that’s not exactly a fate worse than death, is it? But it’s also not something I’m ready for right now. I’ve recently broken up with someone, and I think I’m on the run from my own life. I’m just not sure I’m ready to stop running yet. Does any of that make sense?”
I have no idea why I am telling him all of this, or asking his opinion. I barely know the man – but something about him seems to make me open up in ways that more inquisitive people don’t. Sheer contrariness on my part, probably.
He is silent for a few moments, looking at me intently, and then replies: “Yeah, it does make sense. I get it. I’ve been on the run myself in times gone by. Not physically, maybe, but definitely from anything that mattered. Anything that felt too complicated.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push him. Instead, I say: “Exactly. Are you sure you weren’t actually a therapist before you moved here? I feel like I should be paying you for your time!”
“Definitely not a therapist. In fact I wasn’t a man who was especially interested in other people at all. It’s not a time in my life I’m proud of.”
“Well, you’re not like that now, are you? Now you make time for your guests, and sit listening to the woes of the various stray humans that end up in your pub…”
“Not all of them,” he replies, seriously. “And I feel obliged to add that I’m not just talking to you because I’m a nice guy. I’m a work in progress, but I’m not quite there yet. I enjoy talking to you. It can get lonely here, despite appearances – I stay busy, and I love living here, but I’m not quite like the others. They have ties, history, shared experiences. I’m still on the outside looking in a bit, which is how I like it for the time being. Most people who stay at the inn are in couples or families, and they certainly don’t want me hanging around them…”
“Ah,” I announce, pointing at him, “are you in fact saying that I’m doing you a favour, not the other way around?”
He laughs, and answers: “Maybe it’s a symbiotic relationship. And on that note, I actually have a proposition for you…”
“Already?” I say in fake shock, clutching my hands to my chest. “But I haven’t even had one Starshine Special yet!”
“Ha ha. Don’t worry, your virtue’s safe. No, my proposition is this – why don’t you just stay for the week the room was booked for? Why don’t you just treat it as a holiday? A pleasant stay in a luxury hotel in a beautiful place, with an extremely charming – it has been said handsome – host, and the whole of the south-west coast on your doorstep? Be as much involved, or not, with the village as you like – you’re not trapped here, you have wheels, you have Larry, you have time. Why not just give yourself a break from the running, just long enough to catch your breath?”
