“That can still happen if you’ve got room for a mildly alcoholic, emotionally malfunctioning friend in your life.”
My bad joke was out before I remembered I’d picked the wrong audience for my lousy brand of humour, but Kim’s grin remained.
“I’ve always got time for my friends, mate. You’ve got my number. Give me a call sometime.”
He unfolded his lean frame from the hay bale and stood. I thought for a moment that he might say more, but he didn’t. He put his hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently enough to set my bones on fire, and then turned away, disappearing through the barn doors and down the grassy path that led to the main road.
I watched him go, entranced as ever by his slim shoulders and loping stride. It seemed like the end of the world when he disappeared. After all, I’d spent every summer in Porthkennack and never crossed his path. Chances were I’d never see him again.
In the week that followed Kim’s visit to the farm, he called my father and committed to furnishing the barn while I wallowed in a pit of introspection. And then, as random deliveries of tables and chairs started arriving at the farm every few days, after years of not knowing he existed, I saw himeverywhere: the shops, the bank—the pub, of all places.
I even ran into him at the Truro train station on my way back to London to tie up some loose ends.
“You stalking me?”
His tone was light, his grin playful, but after a fortnight of trying to ignore how ridiculous his sudden presence in my world made me feel, I wasn’t in the mood. Or, rather, I wasn’t in the mood for trudging up to London to scrape together the remnants of the life I’d left behind, but the semantics didn’t matter. All I knew was the longer he stood in front of me, the more likely it was that I’d bite his beautiful head off.
I sidestepped him, forcing a grin of my own. “Not my fault you’re everywhere I go, is it? Who’s the stalker?”
“Today? Technically, it’s you, as I was here first.” Kim caught my arm. “What’s the matter? You look like you’re shitting a fridge.”
Charming. I stopped and tried to gather the enthusiasm to reclaim my arm, but it was a tough ask as Kim’s scorching hold seeped into me, threatening to break through the bleak mood I’d woken up in that morning. “I’m fine. Just got a train to catch. What are you doing here?”
“I sent one of my guys to Edinburgh with a bunch of aluminium crockery sets for a gastro-pub.”
“Edinburgh? That’s some distance to go to deliver some plates. You couldn’t post them?”
“I could’ve, but Jack’s nanna lives up there. Might as well let him go and save my tax bill, eh?”
Couldn’t argue with that. How many hours had I lost to pouring over my own accounts and wishing I’d figured out better ways to spend my money? “Anyhow, I gotta go.”
I started to move away, assuming Kim would let me go, but he didn’t. His grip on my arm tightened, and he pulled me back, turning me so I was facing him. “Seriously, what’s the matter? Is something wrong?”
“Wrong? Nah.” I shook my head slightly, for some reason unable to look him square in the eyes. “Just got some shit to sort out.”
“Bad shit?”
“Not bad in the tragic sense, but it’s . . . uh, difficult.” That was one way of putting it, but I didn’t feel like explaining it toanyone, even now, months after the event.
Shame Kim hadn’t picked up the unwritten Manning family rule that reticence was a sign to leave me the fuck alone. He put his arm around me and stared up at the big screens. “What train are you getting?”
“The midday one.”
“To London?”
“Yeah.”
“It doesn’t leave for fifteen minutes. I’ll wait with you, if you like?”
For all my desire to wallow in a pit of solitary self-pity, I couldn’t bring myself to refuse. We drifted to the northbound platform and sat on the grey metal benches. Kim eyed my twisting hands. “No bags. Day trip?”
“Hope so. I’m completing the sale of my flat tomorrow. Just got to sign some papers and pick up a few bits I left behind.”
“Oh. Where’s the flat? Anywhere nice?”
“Hoxton, so depends what you mean by ‘nice.’ You don’t strike me as the type of guy who appreciates grand-scale gentrification.”
Kim pulled a face. “Charging people eight quid for a sarnie and all that hipster crap? No, thanks. My mate Calum says the studio would make three times the profit if we set up shop in the big smoke, but we’d all be fucking miserable, and I reckon he’s right.”