Tracy Buchanan - The Atlas of Us

‘Okay, if you’re sure?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’ When she walked over to the table, Matt pulled out a seat next to a blond man. ‘This is Jay Hemingford, my best man,’ he said as Claire sat down. Archie darted under the table as Sarah threw a piece of bread for him. ‘And this is my animal-loving fiancée, Sarah,’ he said, gesturing towards her.

‘Very grateful fiancée too,’ Sarah said. ‘Thank you for saving my foolish husband-to-be.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard all about your heroics, Clara,’ the man sitting next to her said. He was wearing a dark Victorian-style suit, an expensive gold watch around his freckled wrist.

‘Jesus, Jay, her name’s Claire!’ Matt said, shaking his head.

Jay pulled a face. ‘Christ, sorry, I’m terrible with names. Claire, Clara, whatever, you’re still a hero.’

‘Ha, I didn’t have a clue what I was doing,’ Claire replied as Archie tried to jump up at Jay’s trousers. She pulled him away. ‘Sorry, he has a thing for ruining expensive-looking trousers.’

‘And expensive-looking dresses,’ Jay said as Archie turned his attention to scrabbling at Claire’s long print dress. ‘Is that an Alexander McQueen?’

‘Alexander who?’

Jay laughed. ‘Maybe not then.’

‘I got it from Singapore.’

‘Very nice. So, Matt tells me you’re a journalist?’

‘Yes, I write for a travel magazine.’

‘Splendid. Which one?’ he asked.

‘ Travel Companion ? You won’t have heard of it. It’s a trade magazine.’

‘Ah, no.’ He took a sip of the champagne he’d been nursing. ‘I’m a journalist myself.’

‘Who do you write for?’

‘ Daily Telegraph . I cover the European markets.’

‘That’s impressive.’

‘Honestly, my dear, if you caught sight of my pay cheque, you wouldn’t think it impressive at all.’

Claire looked at his expensive suit. She knew exactly how much national newspapers paid. If the Daily Telegraph hadn’t paid for that, she wondered who had. A gust of cold air drifted in as someone opened the entrance door. She peered towards it – still no sign of Milo. She felt a mixture of relief and disappointment.

But once the starters arrived, he appeared, no wax jacket and wellies this time. Instead, he was wearing a dark grey shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal his tanned forearms, his hand wrapped in a bandage. His hair looked newly washed, and he’d shaved.

He paused at the entranceway to the restaurant and fixed his eyes on Claire, making her stumble over her sentence.

‘Finally,’ Matt said, jumping up and placing his hand to his heart. ‘My hero.’

Everyone laughed and Milo’s gaze broke from Claire’s.

‘He even looks like one, doesn’t he? Tall, dark, handsome,’ Matt said, striding over to him and shaking his hand. Milo flinched. ‘Jesus, of course, sorry. How’s your hand?’

‘I’ll survive. How’s the ego?’

Everyone laughed as Sarah clapped her hands.

‘Bruised,’ Matt said, leading Milo to the chair across from Claire’s.

Claire didn’t remember much about the start of that dinner, just the way Milo looked, his lips red from the wine, his dark fringe in his eyes. And how, each time he caught her eye, she felt her skin turn warm. So she avoided his gaze by watching the happy couple instead. Had things been like that with Ben before they married? She thought so, despite how stressful it had been balancing her job with organising caterers and florists and God knows what else. Was it natural, this gradual abrasion of feeling? Or was the infertility just the death knell for a marriage that had been weak from the start? She took a quick sip of wine. Why was she being so bloody negative? She should be fighting for her marriage, riding the good waves and the bad, as her sister Sofia would say.

Milo caught her eye again and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Did fighting for her marriage mean blushing every time a handsome farmer looked her way?

Sarah shot Claire a knowing smile as she looked between them. Claire wanted to shake her by the shoulders, tell her she’d got the wrong end of the stick, it was just the emotion of the day, the drama.

When pudding arrived, so did Milo’s brother Dale. He pulled a chair up next to Claire. ‘I hear my brother nearly shot you yesterday,’ he said, pouring himself a glass of red wine, some of it sloshing over the sides. His eyes were like Milo’s: penetrating, intense. But there was something else there too, a detachment that unsettled her.

‘Not quite,’ Claire said. ‘It’s all a bit embarrassing now really.’

‘It’s just the way it is. If an animal needs to die – for food, to put it out of pain, to save a younger animal – you kill it. That’s what our father used to say.’

Claire laughed nervously. ‘You make it sound like Milo was trying to put me down.’

Dale didn’t return her laugh, just stared at her with that dispassionate look in his eyes. Then he turned his gaze to his brother. ‘Milo’s too soft, you know. When he was sixteen, one of our bitches had a mongrel litter and Dad was about to shoot them all and who turns up but my little brother, the sap. Just goes and stands right in between that gun and those pups, kicks up a stink, saves their lives. Dad told me he beat him black and blue after,’ he added, laughing. Claire moved away slightly, feeling uncomfortable. She could see what Henry meant now about Dale. Maybe seeing all he’d seen in the Falklands had made him like this? ‘Five of the pups died anyway,’ he continued in a bored voice. ‘Only Blue survived. Milo reckons it was worth a broken rib to save that mongrel.’

‘He does adore Blue,’ Claire said, not sure what else to say. Dale gave her a cold smile in response, his gaze holding hers for a beat more than was comfortable.

Claire looked over at Milo. He was talking to Sarah, his face animated as he tried to explain something to her. How different your first impressions can be of someone. When he’d killed that stag, she’d thought him heartless, violent. But it appeared he was very far from that, just a man who cared deeply for his family and the animals in his care. His brother, it appeared, was a different story.

Dale followed Claire’s gaze. ‘He’ll be gone soon enough. He’s got the travel bug like our grandfather, always going on about running a farm in another country.’ He laughed. ‘Wonder if he’ll end up putting a gun in his mouth and blowing his brains out like our grandfather did?’

Chills ran down Claire’s spine. How could he say things like that so flippantly?

He slugged back more wine, some of it spilling from the side of his mouth, leaving a trail of red down his chin. ‘He’s definitely got the bug all right. Just needs to save enough money. Then I’ll be left alone to deal with all the crap.’

Claire looked towards Jay as a way to escape but he was deep in conversation with the man to his right. She could make her excuses and go to the toilet but what about Archie?

‘Ah, the blushing bride,’ Dale said, leaning back in his chair and watching Sarah over the rim of his glass. ‘They’re never as innocent as they look, you know, especially the pretty ones. I told Henry to stop doing the weddings, makes us look like a bloody chain hotel. Makes me sick, every one of them.’ He slugged back another mouthful of wine, his face stony, shoulders tense. Milo peered over at his brother, his face clouding over as though he could sense the tension.

‘All right there?’ he asked, looking between Dale and Claire.

‘Just saying how tedious it is,’ Dale said in a loud voice, ‘seeing one wedding after another here. They all blur into one after a while, one boring sentimental mess.’