‘You make it sound like a prison.’
‘A prison I choose and where I read William Spakespeare! That’s close enough!’ She giggled. ‘Me! Reading William Shh . . . akespeare. I used to think I couldn’t do that; I used to think I couldn’t do lots of things, but I can, Miguel. I can.’
‘I think you can do anything you put your mind to. I also think we’d better get you home.’ Miguel downed the remainder of his pint and helped her from her chair.
‘Sorry, I’m a little out of practice; feel a bit tipsy.’ She smiled and followed him out into the cooler night air, which hit her face and made her realise just how tipsy she was. ‘You’re my first friend here, Miguel.’
‘I’m honoured.’ He gave a mock bow. ‘People talk about you a little bit; they wonder why you keep yourself to yourself so much. I mean, you are young, how old are you, thirty-four? Forty?’ He laughed and she slapped his arm.
‘Charming!’ It was a moment that defused the hurt she felt that people talked about her here too. The very thing she had been trying to escape – the thought was sobering. ‘What do they say?’ Her voice was quiet, as if she didn’t really want to know the answer.
‘Nothing bad, nothing nasty; you’re well liked. Everyone says you’re sweet, friendly, hardworking, reliable, it’s all good, Merrin, but that you seem a bit . . .’
‘A bit what?’ she pushed, as a lump grew in her throat.
‘As you said earlier – sad, I guess.’
She nodded. Her head spun from too much booze and she hoped she wasn’t going to be sick.
‘There’s a lady where I live, where I used to live, where I’m from in Cornwall.’ She was gabbling a little. ‘She’s called Lizzie Lick.’
‘Is that a common surname? Mr and Mrs Lick!’ he called out, as if announcing them. His humour was like a balm; it lifted the moment.
‘No. It’s cruel, really. That’s the name everyone has given her; I don’t know why. I used to hide from her when I was a little girl; she has long, unbrushed hair and wide eyes.’
The two paused in Castle Street and Merrin rested on the porch of Epworth House, leaning on the oak beams as if she lived there. ‘I remember seeing her coming towards me on the beach one winter morning. She was staring. I had my wellingtons on and we were collecting shells. I ran to my mum and gripped her hand and she bent down and whispered to me, “You don’t need to be afraid of Liz, she’s just sad. She won’t hurt you. She’s never hurt anyone.” I wanted to know why she was sad and my mum told me that it was because the person she loved most in the whole wide world died and it was like Lizzie had fallen to the floor and couldn’t get up again.’ She looked up at Miguel, who didn’t have a quip, but stared at her, as if taking in her words. ‘I asked if it was her mummy that died? Because I loved my mum most in the whole wide world and I couldn’t begin to imagine the loss of her.’ She gripped the post as her legs swayed a little. ‘But she told me it was her daughter she’d lost. It was the first time I understood that you didn’t have to be a grown-up to die. I’ve never forgotten it.’
‘No wonder Lizzie Lick is sad and doesn’t brush her hair.’ Miguel took her hand and prised her from the post, tucking her arm into the crook of his for the walk home. It felt nice to have human contact. She’d missed it.
‘I understand now I’m older that what you see isn’t her, it’s not Lizzie, it’s the shadow of her. And I know because that’s been me for the last year or so. People are talking about me too, like they do her.’
He slowly formed his words. ‘Did you . . . did you lose someone, Merrin? And don’t feel you have to tell me. I don’t want to pry.’
She leant into him, liking the support he offered as they ambled along the winding street lined with dainty cottages where lamplight shone from the windows and potted plants and hanging baskets graced the frontages. ‘Have you ever owned something so beautiful that you can’t quite believe it’s yours and then through no fault of your own it gets broken, and you can’t bear to look at it any more, because it’s smashed and yet it used to be perfect, and even to glimpse it makes your heart break?’ She looked up, almost having forgotten she was talking to him and not herself.
‘I haven’t, Merrin. I’ve never owned anything like that.’
‘Well, I did.’ She swallowed. ‘I owned a lovely life in the most beautiful place you can imagine and I fell in love and got dressed up in a big, frothy wedding dress, and my dad covered the old cart with flowers and all the village came out to wave and then . . . and then it was all gone. All of it. And here I am.’
And just like that her tears had gathered and, suddenly weary, she rested her head on his shoulder.
‘Well, for what it’s worth, not that I would wish you a moment of sadness, I’m glad that you went through that because it brought you here, brought you to me.’
The two stopped and leant on the high stone wall of a garden. Merrin looked up at the man who she had trusted with her story. ‘You are very good-looking.’
‘Yes, I am,’ he stated, and again she felt laughter erupt from her mouth without hesitation or self-consciousness. He moved in as if to kiss her and she pulled her head back.
‘I want you to understand, Miguel, that I’ve been badly hurt and it’s left a mark on me, changed me. And you are really kind and funny and good-looking.’
‘Yes, I think we’ve established that.’ He smiled and held both her hands in his.
‘I’m sad that you will only ever know this new-shaped Merrin Mercy Kellow because I used to be different, better.’
Words raced around her head that felt at once presumptive and weighted. I’m wary of any long-term commitment, suspicious of words of affection and I will never be able to love as freely as I did before because part of my heart has been boarded up, cut off, sealed . . .
‘I want to kiss you, Merrin, is that okay?’ Again he leant in and, as he did so, she felt the rise of bitter wine in her throat.
‘Oh God!’ she shouted, before rushing to the kerb, bending over and throwing up into a drain, while Miguel palmed circles on her back.
‘I gotta admit’ – he pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to her – ‘this isn’t quite how I pictured the evening ending.’
‘Do you still want to kiss me?’ She looked up at him from where she crouched on the pavement, a line of spit dangling from her mouth.
‘I don’t.’ He grimaced and helped her up. ‘I really, really don’t.’
‘I understand. I wouldn’t want to kiss me either. What is it about me?’ She stood up straight. ‘Digby didn’t want me, Ruby treats me badly and now you don’t want to kiss me.’
‘I . . .’ He looked up and down the street. ‘I don’t know who Ruby is but I can’t imagine anyone treating you badly. Digby, also a stranger to me, is a complete fool, and the reason I don’t want to kiss you is because you have a little . . .’ He touched his own mouth and she wiped her face on her sleeve.