Page 4 of Swept Away

I’m right behind her. I duck through the door. The first thing that gets through to me is the smell, not what I’m looking at—it smells fresh, like sun and salt.

I straighten up and stare out at the water.

Water. Just water. Sea and sky and sea and sky and sea and sky. No boats. No marina.

Noland.

“Fuck,” Lexi says, clinging to the railing. “Zeke—are we out at sea?”

The daybefore

Lexi

I slump overthe bar of The Anchor, reaching one hand out for the glass of red wine that Marissa is pouring me. She holds it slightly out of reach, so I have to grope around and eventually lift my head to locate it. I glower; she smiles.

“All set on the houseboat?”

“Well, I’ve stocked it with carbs, cheese and booze, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’ll do. I really am sorry about the room,” Marissa says.

I take a slug of wine and then fold over again, resting my cheek on the sticky surface of the bar top. The smell of the pub is so familiar to me: hops, frying oil, the fuzzy tang of a Hoover run over dirty carpet. It’s the smell of my childhood—my life, really. I was raised here, and here is where I’ve stayed.

“It’s all right. Not your fault that I picked this week to try out being overdramatic,” I say, flashing a tooth-baring smile at the fisherman staring at me from the other end of the bar.

You can tell the fishermen by their waterproof trousers and wrinkles. When I was a kid, they were always the worst for thehair-ruffling.Sweet little thing!they’d say to five-year-old Penny, when she started spending time here in the pub.Cute as a button!With my bowl cut, square shoulders and blockish face, I always got,Hello, little lad!This particular fisherman looks startled by my humorless grin and goes back to staring into his pint.

“Well, still, I’m sorry I scheduled my building work for the week you decided to lose your shit,” Marissa says, patting my hand.

Marissa owns The Anchor now—we sold it to her once we finally teetered close enough to bankruptcy to allow ourselves the luxury of giving up on Mum’s dream for good. I am still co-manager, but Marissa employs me these days instead of the other way around. Everyone felt sorry for me and Penny when we had to sell up and move to one of the new flats around the corner, but all I felt was relief.

Marissa is redecorating the bedrooms upstairs, which means I can’t crash here. This is unfortunate, given that I just marched out of my home with half my belongings in a duffel bag and have nowhere else to go.

Thank God the houseboat is unoccupied this week. It took me five attempts to get the combination of the key safe right, but I got there eventually.

“You need more friends,” Marissa says.

This is probably true. I’m not the loads-of-friends type, though. I have my people, all fiercely precious to me, their spots in my life hard-won. I have my family. And that’s it. I should try to make new friends, really, but that requiresputting yourself out there, and—worst of all—waiting around to see if people still like you once you have.

“And a boyfriend,” Marissa says.

“What is this, the 1950s? I don’t need a boyfriend. Suffragettes died for that shit, Marissa.”

“You needsomething,” Marissa counters, wiping down the Stella tap. “Other than your job. Which you don’t even like.”

“I like my job!” I protest, still face down on the bar at which I work.

“You’re only saying that because I pay you.”

“I had Mae,” I say, and I’m embarrassed to hear my voice catch on her name. “I didn’t need anything else.”

“You still have Mae, Lexi,” Marissa says softly. “Just maybe not for every minute of the day anymore.”

I lift my head and twist in my seat, my heart clenching tightly. I can’t think about this. Not seeing Mae wake up with wonky plaits every morning. Not seeing Mae padding downstairs with Harvey the bunny tucked in the crook of her elbow when she can’t sleep. Not seeing Mae for all those thoughtless little Mae moments of the day, the ones that make my life into something meaningful.

I down a few more mouthfuls of wine. Marissa watches me critically, then shoves her glasses back up on her head, catching a loop of her mousey hair so it sticks up behind them. I don’t bother telling her—she won’t care.

“I think what youreallyneed is a distraction,” she says, then turns to scan around the pub. “There,” she says. “The man by the window with the book.”

---