7 November 2026
Maren’s bag was smaller than Simon’s, which seemed reasonable until he admitted that half of his contained food.
“There’s a shop,” she said.
“There is. I like this food.”
He took a paper parcel out far enough for her to see the bakery label. She recognized the pastries from the rehearsal. No raisins. She smiled at him over the top of her coffee.
They were in two ordinary first-class train seats rather than a private carriage, a distinction she had made him laugh by asking about. Money had provided a car to the station, good coffee and the ease of not checking which fare had restrictions. It had not protected them from a man across the aisle loudly negotiating a delivery of bathroom tiles.
Simon leaned closer. “Do you think he’ll choose the grey?”
“He should. The white’s too cold.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“I’ve heard enough to form an opinion.”
He laughed. His thigh rested against hers. She had kissed Willa goodbye after breakfast, reminded the sitter where the spare key lived and left without a catastrophe. Her daughter had asked if they could have noodles for lunch. The modesty of that concern had unsettled her more than tears might have done.
Now the city was receding behind glass and she was going away with a man who looked at her as if the journey itself was a pleasure.
“What?” he asked when she kept looking.
“I’m deciding whether you’ll spend the whole weekend discussing tiles.”
“Only if we’re unlucky.”
She put her hand on his knee beneath the small table. He covered it with his and stayed that way until the train slowed for their stop.
The car he kept near the station was clean but contained three parking receipts and an old bag of mints. He offered her one, checked the date and withdrew it.
“Luxury service,” she said.
“I can supply a mint with a full provenance later.”
The house appeared at the end of a gravel drive, pale stone and deep windows, larger than any place she had ever stayed without a reception desk. Bare branches spread above the lawn. The river was not visible, but she could smell damp leaves when she got out of the car.
She had prepared herself to admire. She had not prepared for the small shoes lined up inside the hall, a red child’s boot lying sideways among them.
“My brother’s family were here in August,” Simon said, following her glance. “I keep meaning to post that.”
“It’s November.”
“Yes. An efficient uncle.”
There were other signs of ordinary neglect: a dying plant beside a handsome window, a stack of mail, a bookmark in a book that lay open facedown. The rooms were beautiful, but somebody had sat in the chairs. Maren felt herself breathe more easily.
Simon carried his bag upstairs, then called from the landing, “There ought to be towels.”
“Ought?”
“I had a system.”
She followed him to find a wide bedroom with a soft blue quilt and a view into trees. The bed occupied more space than her entire work area at home. Her first clear thought was not about money. It was about being able to stretch out beside him without worrying that an elbow would hit a wall.
He stood outside an open cupboard containing a vacuum cleaner and wrapping paper.
“An unusual linen arrangement,” she said.
“I was certain.”
“Try the next door.”
“That would be surrender.”
The next cupboard held towels. He accepted her victory with what she judged insufficient grace and put two on the bed. Then he looked at the bags, the bed, her. The comedy thinned into a charged quiet.
“Is this all right?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“If you’d prefer—”
“Simon.” She stepped close and put her hands on his chest. “Yes.”
He kissed her, slowly at first, then with the unmistakable relief of having her somewhere they could take their time. Her bag slipped from her shoulder. He caught it before it hit the floor, and she laughed against him.
“I should give you lunch,” he said.
“You should.”
“I also promised a walk.”
“Did you?”
“I thought it was implied by boots.”
“It’s a very confident boot-based itinerary.”
He rested his forehead against hers. “I don’t want to rush any part of this.”
She nodded. Neither did she. That did not make stepping away from him easy.
After lunch he showed her the room at the back of the house.
The model railway filled a table almost the size of her bed. Half a mountain rose at one end, bare ribs showing through plaster. There was a station with no roof, a forest of unpainted trees and one exquisitely finished signal box that looked as if it belonged to a much more disciplined owner.
Maren stopped in the doorway.
“You’ve hidden an entire second profession.”
“I’ve hidden evidence against the first.”
“Does it run?”
“Sometimes.”
He switched on the power. A little engine moved six inches, stopped and emitted a faint complaint.
“Mostly sometimes,” he said.
She came nearer, delighted by the unapologetic incompletion. Simon tried the control again. The engine reversed into an uncoupled wagon and stopped.
“Your passengers will be writing letters.”
“They’ve had twenty years to complain.”
“Twenty?”
“I started it before the company got large. Every time I come here I think I’ll finish the mountain. Then I decide I should do something more useful.”
She examined a hand-painted sign. “Did you make this?”
“Yes.”
“It’s very good.”
“I was twenty-four. I had considerably more time and much worse shoes.”
She stood beside him, their shoulders touching. She could imagine a young man working on this, proud of the sign, impatient with the mountain. It made the present man less mysterious and somehow more desirable.
“Don’t finish it for my benefit,” she said.
“I wasn’t going to ask you.”
“I know. I was telling myself.”
He looked down at her, understanding enough to smile.
Outside, the air had a cold brightness that made every remaining leaf look deliberate. They walked along a path between bare trees, passing a stone wall and a field where two horses ignored them thoroughly. Simon knew which gate stuck and which stretch became muddy. This was not a borrowed landscape for a weekend performance. He had been lonely here often enough to know the small inconveniences.
She asked what he did when he came alone.
“Read. Work when I mean to read. Cook something too large. Walk this way and promise myself I’ll use the railway room.”
“Do people come?”
“Sometimes. Family. Friends. Less often than I pictured when I bought it.”
They stopped at a gate. The horses remained unimpressed. Maren pulled her scarf higher.
“What did you picture?”
“A house people would want to come back to.” He sounded faintly embarrassed by the plainness of it. “That isn’t a property description. Though it would probably sell.”
She leaned against the gate beside him. “I think most people picture that.”
“I was very good at buying the house part.”
A horse flicked its tail. Maren watched it instead of answering too quickly. The desire to reassure him was powerful. She could say she wanted to return before she had spent a full day here, give him an easy thing to keep. Instead she put her gloved hand through his arm.
“Show me the rest of the walk.”
He did. They argued about whether the distant village was nearer than it looked, discovered she was right, and bought hot chocolate from a small cafe because Simon had confidently left the house without water. He paid while she found a table in the window, then came over carrying a biscuit on each saucer.
“I’ve been instructed that these improve the experience.”
“By the person who sold them?”
“A highly informed source.”
She laughed. He watched her across his cup, and she felt desired with a simplicity that surprised her. There was no dress, no elaborate setting, no proof that she was making the best possible use of the day. She was cold and hungry and had a leaf caught in one black wave. He reached across to remove it and let his fingers rest briefly against her cheek.
By late afternoon the house smelled of a fire. Simon opened a packet of chicken and considered the oven. Maren had offered to help. He had asked her to choose music instead.
It was a good answer. She selected something unsuitable on purpose, watched his reaction and relented when he promised to tell her the worst song he actually liked. They ended up arguing over a singer’s later albums while she sliced bread and he searched for a roasting dish he was certain he owned.
After dinner he opened a cupboard full of board games.
“Choose carefully,” he said. “Some of these friendships have never recovered.”
She chose one with a faded box and rules that appeared to have been translated by a person tired of the whole undertaking. Simon said he knew how it worked, then spent ten minutes looking for a missing card. Maren read the rules and discovered he had played it wrongly for years.
“That can’t be right,” he said.
“It’s printed.”
“Printing isn’t infallible.”
“Your entire business depends on people reading instructions.”
“That doesn’t oblige me to enjoy them.”
They played his version first. It was terrible. They played the printed version next. It was marginally less terrible and Maren won.
He leaned back in his chair. “A statistical accident.”
“Would you like to lose again?”
“Desperately.”
By the third game her feet were in his lap. He had one hand around her ankle while he considered his next move with an excessive seriousness that made her want to tip the board over and kiss him. She waited until he had committed to the wrong choice, then won before doing precisely that.
The pieces scattered over the rug. He looked down, then at her.
“You could have done that before humiliating me.”
“I wanted both.”
He caught her waist as she came around the table. She settled sideways on his lap, feeling the solid warmth of him through their clothes. His mouth found the place below her ear, and the words she had been making jokes to avoid suddenly seemed possible.
“I’ve missed this,” she said.
He drew back enough to look at her. “Being appalling at a board game?”
“Being wanted when I’m doing nothing useful.”
His hand stilled against her back.
“I know I’ve been wanted in other ways,” she said. “I’m not saying nobody’s loved me. But I’ve been so busy making everything work that pleasure started to feel like something I could only have when all the other things were finished.”
“And they never are.”
“No.”
He touched her cheek. “I didn’t bring you here to impress me.”
“I know.” She smiled a little. “I brought the good underwear anyway.”
He laughed once, surprised and unguarded, then kissed her with such clear delight that she stopped feeling brave and simply felt hungry for him.
When she stood, his hand followed hers.
“Come upstairs,” she said.
He rose at once. She liked that too: no feigned restraint, no speech about how he had waited. They gathered the game pieces because neither of them wanted to step on a wooden token at three in the morning. Then she turned off the music, took his hand and led him out of the room.
At the bedroom door she paused. Not from reluctance. She wanted to remember the moment before it ceased to be anticipation: the warm house around them, his hand in hers, the terrible game abandoned downstairs. He was looking at her with an eagerness that made it impossible to hold his hand loosely. She tightened her fingers.
He brushed a loose wave away from her face.
“Still yes?” he asked.
She smiled and drew him inside.
“Very much yes.”
She shut the door herself.
Later, Maren lay with her cheek against his shoulder while the house settled into small unfamiliar noises.
The lamp was off. Moonlight made a faint shape of the window. She could hear Simon breathing, feel his hand resting loosely at her waist, and the pleasure she had expected to be difficult had become a warm, astonished ease.
“Comfortable?” he asked quietly.
She lifted her head. “Extremely.”
“I thought I should check. You haven’t moved in some time.”
“I’m planning to remain here until February.”
“A seasonally appropriate ambition.”
He kissed her forehead. She moved closer, not because she needed more warmth but because she could.
They talked in the dark about nothing that would survive a sensible account of the evening: the broken clasp on her bag, the breakfast he could make, the terrible game and his insistence that the next round would prove something. Once she laughed too loudly and stopped by habit. Simon’s hand moved over her back.
“You can laugh,” he said.
She had forgotten there was nobody down the hall to wake.
So she did. Then she kissed him again, and the conversation went unfinished for a while.