Even in a ridiculous tin shed at the end of the world, he looked like he’d just stepped off a private jet. It was hard to imagine him out of a suit, really; she’d never seen him dressed casually, not at the firm’s Christmas party (which she hated; she’d spend hours getting ready, then hover near him as he socialized with the partners and flashed brief smiles at the crowd of support staff also all done up to the nines and also all trying to hover close to him, before he left after an hour or so to go somewhere more glamorous), not on Friday afternoons in the summer, never. She couldn’t even imagine what he looked like with his tie loosened, although she wanted to, very much.
“The car’s just there,” she said, hoping that she hadn’t gone too pink.
Joel strode toward the Land Rover, the wind catching him slightly off guard as they left the airport building.
“Is it always this cold?” he said.
Flora hadn’t thought it was the least bit cold. She must be adjusting, she realized. She shook her head.
“Oh no. It gets much much worse than this.”
Joel half nodded, then opened the door of the Land Rover and got in.
They both paused for a second. He’d gotten in on the driver’s side.
Flora decided that the best thing under the circumstances, the circumstances being that he was her boss, was simply to go along with it, so she got in on the other side.
It was very rare to see Joel flustered about anything.
“Um . . . I got in the wrong side,” he said.
“Yes,” said Flora.
“In the States . . . this is the passenger side.”
“Yes, but you live in the UK, don’t you?”
There was a pause as Flora realized what they both already knew: he never sat in the front seat of a car. It was only because the Land Rover didn’t have a backseat.
“You can drive if you like,” she said, smiling. Joel didn’t smile; he clearly felt on the wrong foot.
“No, no,” he said.
“You can if you like,” said Flora, wondering how on earth they’d gotten themselves into this awkward situation.
Joel looked down, obviously feeling the same.
“I . . . This is a stick,” he said.
“A what?”
“A stick shift. I can’t drive a stick shift.”
Flora suddenly wanted to giggle, but had a hideous feeling this wouldn’t go down well at all. Some men were not very good at being laughed at, and Joel was definitely one of them. Instead she simply hopped out of the car, and they crossed round the truck without catching each other’s eyes.
“So, you’re going to the Harbor’s Rest?” she said, once they were both ensconced and she’d jolted the car into reverse out of nerves.
“What?”
“Where you’re staying.”
“Right. Yes. What’s it like?”
Flora didn’t answer straightaway.
“That good. Great! Perfect.”
They turned in to the harbor. Joel made no comment on the pretty little houses, or the way the narrow street gave way to the huge wide sweep of white sand. Most people did. He was stabbing at his phone crossly, searching fruitlessly for a signal.
“Christ, how do you stand it?” he said.
Suddenly Flora felt incensed. It was an utterly glorious day. If you couldn’t see that this place was amazing, then you were an idiot. It felt odd to be so defensive when, as everyone kept on pointing out, she hadn’t been able to get away from it fast enough.
She couldn’t help it; she glanced over toward him. His long legs were stretched out in the footwell, the expensive suit covering rock-hard thighs. This was ridiculous; she felt like a dirty old man.
She parked in front of the pale pink building next to the peeling black and white paint of the Harbor’s Rest. It had once been a drugstore, but the owner, who’d been an English incomer, had moved back down south to help her daughter with her new baby. Nobody had taken it over, and it sat there like a missing tooth in the harbor parade. It made Flora sad to see it.
Outside the Harbor’s Rest, two old fishermen with big beards were pulling on pipes. They looked like east London hipsters. Flora hoped this was what Joel would think they were. Whether he’d think the sticky, curly-patterned carpet was ironic was a different matter, though.
Inge-Britt, the lazy Icelandic manager, came to the door. She was wearing some kind of slip—it couldn’t be her dressing gown, could it? Flora wouldn’t put it past her. She got out of the car and Joel emerged with his expensive luggage. Inge-Britt smiled, showing her perfect teeth, when she saw him.
“Well, hello,” she said, raising her eyebrows.
“This is my boss checking in,” said Flora meaningfully. “Joel Binder? Have you got his booking?”
Inge-Britt shrugged and looked at him with unveiled interest.
“I’m sure I’ll squeeze him in somewhere.”
Joel, who wasn’t paying attention, went to follow her in, before glancing round at Flora.
“Pick me up at two,” he said.
Flora shrugged and turned round to see Lorna on the other side of the road.
“I was just passing,” lied Lorna hopelessly. Flora rolled her eyes. Lorna watched Joel striding into the breakfast-scented interior of the Harbor’s Rest.
“Well?”
“He’s a very handsome man,” said Lorna. “You’ll have to keep him out of Inge-Britt’s clutches.”
“She smells of bacon,” said Flora petulantly.
“Oh yeah, men hate that,” said Lorna.
Lorna came back to the farm for lunch. Flora sat her down, made tea, and, to cheer herself up, decided to whip up a quick batch of oatcakes, heavy on the salt, with a perfect nutty crunch to them. They didn’t take long to bake, and before they’d cooled, she topped them off with wedges of Fintan’s cheese.
“Jesus,” said Lorna, as she took her first mouthful.
“I know,” said Flora.
“These oatcakes are sensational.”
“Thank you! And that’s Fintan’s cheese.”
But it was the combination with the perfect crunch of the immaculate little biscuits that made it something else.
“This almost makes up for not having had sex in . . . humphy humph, a while,” said Lorna.
“Don’t say that,” said Flora. “You’ll jinx us ever having it again.”
“I won’t care if I can just eat this stuff all day,” said Lorna. “Seriously. More. More. Yes. Yes. Yes.”
“Let’s be clear, this isn’t actually sex,” said Flora.
“Well, I’m putting nice things in my mouth, so it’s definitely close,” said Lorna defensively, grabbing another two oatcakes with a combative look.
She stared down at the cheese.
“Fintan? Really?”
“He’s been making cheese in his spare time. And other stuff, I think.”
“That boy just hates working on the farm.”
Flora blinked.
“Does he really? I thought he was just a bit of a lazy arse.”
“Totally.” Lorna looked at her. “You can’t say you hadn’t noticed?”
Flora fell silent.
“Seriously?”
Flora shrugged.
“I thought he was fine.”
Lorna looked at her strangely.
“Flors, he’s never had a girlfriend, he’s patently depressed, he drinks too much . . .”
“That sounds like half the island,” said Flora nervously.
“Well, it’s amazing he’s managed to make something like this,” said Lorna tactfully. “So anyway, what are you all dolled up for?”
“I am actually at work,” said Flora. “I do actually have a job.”
Lorna raised her eyebrows.
“Making oatcakes. Because I will say, you’re good at it.”
Flora shook her head.
“We’re . . . we’re heading out to meet Mr. Rogers after lunch.”
Lorna sniffed.
“Oh, we are, are we? By the way, Charlie was asking after you.”
“The gigantic Outward Adventures guy?”
“He’s nice,” said Lorna. “Have sex with him.”
“Is Jan his wife or what?” said Flora.