light of a faulty street lamp, neither of them caring who saw. They’d only stopped when the sky had exploded around them with sudden flashes of colour and noise. ‘What the—’ he’d said, looking up at the impressive fireworks display illuminating the night sky, a bank of grey smoke drifting high above them and carrying with it an acrid, sulphur smell.
She’d pulled him close again. ‘Bonfire Night,’ she’d said, her lips against his.
‘Aha,’ he’d grinned, ‘no chance I can convince you I just arranged that little display then, for our first date?’
She remembered how her stomach had flipped at his use of the word ‘first’, the subtle implication that there might be a second, perhaps even a third? She’d leaned in to test him and when they’d finally pulled apart again, it had felt like the most natural thing in the world to invite him back to her place.
They drive north for several hours, stopping once at a grotty service station to refuel and ask for directions, then navigate their way through an urban sprawl before breaking out into open countryside. Cultivated farmland slowly gives way to a more unruly landscape and they find themselves driving through tangled woods and across open, shrubby moors. Eventually, they pull up onto the verge of a remote country lane, the car’s hazard lights flashing urgently as they stare up a steep, unmarked track.
‘It’s got to be up there,’ says Lila, turning back to the map in her hands. ‘It’s the only place it can be. We’ve driven up and down this lane three times now.’
Tom shakes his head. ‘I don’t like it, Lila. It looks really narrow and muddy. After all that rain . . . what if the car gets bogged?’ He checks his phone. ‘I don’t even have mobile reception here.’
‘So we’re just going to turn around and go home?’
Tom doesn’t answer.
‘Come on,’ she says, surprised to find herself being the encouraging one, ‘we’ve got boots and coats. We’ll survive. It’s the Peak District, not Outer Mongolia.’ She regards him with a sideways glance; he has definitely grown more cautious in recent weeks.
He must feel her studying him because without turning, he pulls a silly face at the windscreen that makes her smile in spite of herself. ‘Come on,’ she says again, a little more softly, ‘we’ve come all this way; let’s not give up now.’
‘OK,’ he sighs, flicking off the hazard lights and swinging the car up the overgrown track, ‘but I’m warning you, it’s you that’s going to dig us out if we get stuck.’
‘Deal,’ she says and feels her grin creep across her face like a strange aberration. When was the last time she smiled?
In the early days, their relationship had been full of spontaneity and passion, born out of the intensity that a long-distance love affair can carry. Tom’s job had meant a fair bit of back and forth; he’d travelled to visit her in London whenever he could but when a project kept him in one place for a time, Lila would jump on trains or planes for illicit weekends in whichever city his work had taken him to. She’d loved the excitement of it all, the anonymous hotel rooms, the big white beds, the fluffy bathrobes and room service. It was a romantic way to start a relationship and the physicality of them – their ease with each other, the uncomplicated way they reached for one another, touched one another – seemed to form the very foundation of all that they shared.
Unlike other men she’d dated, Tom was a man who seemed consummately comfortable in his own skin. He communicated with his hands – and with his body; his fingers grazing the back of her neck, a hand resting lightly on her hip, an arm slung around her shoulders as they walked down the street. Whenever she thought of him in those early days it was always in a physical way – the curve of his bicep, the hollow of his collarbone, the early-morning stubble on his jaw – and it always evoked a tingle of
She’d pulled him close again. ‘Bonfire Night,’ she’d said, her lips against his.
‘Aha,’ he’d grinned, ‘no chance I can convince you I just arranged that little display then, for our first date?’
She remembered how her stomach had flipped at his use of the word ‘first’, the subtle implication that there might be a second, perhaps even a third? She’d leaned in to test him and when they’d finally pulled apart again, it had felt like the most natural thing in the world to invite him back to her place.
They drive north for several hours, stopping once at a grotty service station to refuel and ask for directions, then navigate their way through an urban sprawl before breaking out into open countryside. Cultivated farmland slowly gives way to a more unruly landscape and they find themselves driving through tangled woods and across open, shrubby moors. Eventually, they pull up onto the verge of a remote country lane, the car’s hazard lights flashing urgently as they stare up a steep, unmarked track.
‘It’s got to be up there,’ says Lila, turning back to the map in her hands. ‘It’s the only place it can be. We’ve driven up and down this lane three times now.’
Tom shakes his head. ‘I don’t like it, Lila. It looks really narrow and muddy. After all that rain . . . what if the car gets bogged?’ He checks his phone. ‘I don’t even have mobile reception here.’
‘So we’re just going to turn around and go home?’
Tom doesn’t answer.
‘Come on,’ she says, surprised to find herself being the encouraging one, ‘we’ve got boots and coats. We’ll survive. It’s the Peak District, not Outer Mongolia.’ She regards him with a sideways glance; he has definitely grown more cautious in recent weeks.
He must feel her studying him because without turning, he pulls a silly face at the windscreen that makes her smile in spite of herself. ‘Come on,’ she says again, a little more softly, ‘we’ve come all this way; let’s not give up now.’
‘OK,’ he sighs, flicking off the hazard lights and swinging the car up the overgrown track, ‘but I’m warning you, it’s you that’s going to dig us out if we get stuck.’
‘Deal,’ she says and feels her grin creep across her face like a strange aberration. When was the last time she smiled?
In the early days, their relationship had been full of spontaneity and passion, born out of the intensity that a long-distance love affair can carry. Tom’s job had meant a fair bit of back and forth; he’d travelled to visit her in London whenever he could but when a project kept him in one place for a time, Lila would jump on trains or planes for illicit weekends in whichever city his work had taken him to. She’d loved the excitement of it all, the anonymous hotel rooms, the big white beds, the fluffy bathrobes and room service. It was a romantic way to start a relationship and the physicality of them – their ease with each other, the uncomplicated way they reached for one another, touched one another – seemed to form the very foundation of all that they shared.
Unlike other men she’d dated, Tom was a man who seemed consummately comfortable in his own skin. He communicated with his hands – and with his body; his fingers grazing the back of her neck, a hand resting lightly on her hip, an arm slung around her shoulders as they walked down the street. Whenever she thought of him in those early days it was always in a physical way – the curve of his bicep, the hollow of his collarbone, the early-morning stubble on his jaw – and it always evoked a tingle of
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