Love at the Little Wedding Shop by the Sea - Jane Linfoot Page 0,137

solicitors office by the quayside, on first name terms with George, going through the final contract agreements. In the end, it turns out that letting go isn’t hard at all; a couple of signatures is all it takes. And I’m free.

I’m throwing myself into the Brides Go Wild blog too, filling the pages with dreamy stories of lovely summer weddings as they happen. And little by little, if I say it often enough, I’ll be able to persuade myself that I’m doing fine.

But my favourite part of every day is at night, just before I go to bed, when I look out at the navy blue sky, studded with tiny, bright white stars. There’s the slivery splash of moonlight on the inky water, the arc of lights curving out around the bay, and if I open the little porthole window and lean out into the warm evening air, I can just make out Snow Goose’s tall mast and rigging, etched against the night. And I try not to remember that the stars Nic’s looking out on are in a totally different sky. Because when I stand and will my love for Nic to travel into the night and right across the ocean, it feels less like he’s gone forever.

AUGUST

Chapter 39

Saturday, five weeks after Pixie’s wedding.

Birds nests and flowers on doorsteps.

When I say the last thing I look out at before going to sleep is Snow Goose’s mast, it’s also the first thing I see when I wake too. Today is Saturday and because, for now, I’m still counting, that’s five weeks and two days on from Pixie’s wedding. When I ease forward on my pillows and peer out of the porthole window at six, the clouds are washed with the pale apricot of dawn and a solitary seagull is perched at the top of Snow Goose’s rigging.

And then, as my eyes slide downwards, my body jerks upright – because for a second, there in the distance, through the mist rising off the water, I swear I see a figure on the deck. Hand propped against the mast. Just like …

I screw up my eyes and scrape away the sleep. And when I look again it’s gone. But when you’re as wired as I am, nothing’s completely rational. And it’s not like I can turn off the possibility in my mind. So I’m already across the room, shrugging on a cardi over my sleep-shorts and T-shirt, leaping down the stairs, wincing as the wind chills my skin.

I dive into the stepped alleyways and skid out at the bottom by the dune path. Then I’m curling back towards the harbourside cottages, scrambling over fishing nets, and leaping a pile of lobster pots. By the time I’m finally racing towards the jetties, my throat is burning and my lungs are bursting and as I get to the walkway where Snow Goose is moored, I’m pulling to a halt. Standing. Staring. And I already know what I’ll be looking at.

It’s the same empty space I’ve seen every other time I’ve rushed down here chasing moonbeams, only to stare out across the deserted deck.

I sag against a lamp post and blink back the tears pricking my eyelids. When my gasps finally subside, I’ll wind my way back up the long route by the empty cobbled street, past the brightly painted cottage doors, the windows with closed blinds, the early morning smells of freshly-baked bread from Crusty Cobs bakery. Past the Deck Gallery.

But for now I’m kicking myself for being so stupid. So reactive. So raw. Seriously, if I’m going to find myself half asleep down at the harbourside on a regular basis, I need more substantial pyjamas. Ideally ones with whole legs. And maybe that counselling Poppy keeps talking about – for people who’ve totally lost their shit.

I pull my cardigan closer around me. I’m scraping every last bit of energy together ready to walk back up the hill when a noise behind me makes me jump.

‘Milla?’

I glance down at the expanse of thigh on show, try to slide behind the lamp post and pretend I’m not here but it comes again.

‘Milla … are you trying to hide? It is you, Milla Vanilla …?’

And as I turn I’m blinking because, silhouetted against the streaky orange sky, there’s a figure hurrying along the quayside. Tall. Muscled. Dark wavy hair. A dusky tan. Jacket tossed over his shoulder. ‘Captain Kirk?’ I screw my eyes closed in case I’m dreaming but when I open them again he’s still