Chapter 2

The woman in the shop had saved the paper for him, remarking on how nice and peaceful the hamlet looked. John had intended telling her to throw it away, but was distracted by a call on his mobile phone that turned out to be a wrong number and ended up taking the brochure home and absent-mindedly dropping it on the small table in the hallway of his flat.

A couple of days later his mother-in-law had popped in for a chat and a cup of tea. Doris, bless her heart, had done a lot of “popping in” since George’s death. The woman was well-meaning, but she reminded John of George, and—at least she and her husband Bill had been supportive of George’s sexuality, which was more than could be said for John’s own parents, who had treated his coming out with indifference.

Doris had pounced on the brochure and immediately started in on how John should take a break. “You haven’t had a holiday since George died.”

“It’s been less than a year.” He could quote the exact number of days and possibly hours since George had collapsed after climbing out of the bath. He could also quote the doctor who had tried to offer comfort by telling him George probably was dead before he’d hit the carpet.

“I know,” Doris had said, no doubt picking up on his thoughts. She’d taken his hand and given it a squeeze.

John had sighed. He knew a holiday without George wouldn’t be much fun. They’d been a couple for almost twenty years and had done pretty much everything together.

But Doris had been determined to get him moving forward, trotting out all the old sayings about how John should get out more, how George wouldn’t have wanted him to sit at home and mourn for the rest of his life. Then she’d brought out a few new arguments, the most persuasive of which was that he and George hadn’t ever visited Cornwall, so there wouldn’t be any ghosts of past visits to haunt him.

John had done what he did best…prevaricated. The most Doris got out of him was a promise to think about it. He knew, however, that if he were to go anywhere, it would be somewhere exotic with more amenities than a rustic cottage close to the edge of—if not beyond—civilisation. He’d wondered about a holiday on a tropical desert island with cool breezes and hot scantily-clad male natives serving him drinks and—no, he wasn’t ready to move on. George was barely cold in the ground.

But Doris had been relentless. She’d brought up the Cornish cottages on her next two visits. John had admitted he’d mislaid the brochure. In point of fact, he’d thrown it in the waste paper basket.

“But it’s on the hall table, I saw it when I came in.”

“What?”

Doris got up, walked into the hallway, and came back a few seconds later holding the brochure.

Jesus, I must be losing it. Maybe I need that holiday more than I think, John had thought, eyeing the creased sheet of paper. It had definitely been the same brochure, with the same slight tear in the upper-left corner.

John took in another deep breath of fresh sea air, opened his eyes and started to turn back to the cottage. He might as well go to bed—not that there was any prospect of sleep; he hadn’t had a single night of uninterrupted rest since George’s passing. Although, maybe the crashing waves, the long journey from London, and Morwenna’s wine might just…

He gasped and froze in place. There, not fifteen feet in front of him, between him and the sanctuary of the cottage, was a huge—no, make that enormous—brown bear.

The creature turned its head and stared at him. The bear’s blue eyes narrowed and he could hear the animal’s steady breathing. He was drawn back to the eyes. Do bears have blue eyes? Does blue show up in moonlight? Or maybe it’s the light spilling out from the open kitchen door that allows the colour to show. And why the hell am I dwelling on colour perception when I should be running for my life?

He couldn’t move. His brain was telling him he should be shitting in his underwear, but instead he felt a curious calmness wash over him. It had to be that bloody wine. He’d definitely pour the rest of it down the sink when he got back into the kitchen. Assuming I ever get back into the kitchen and don’t end up as dinner for a hungry bear, he thought.

“Uh, nice Teddy.” Jesus, what was he saying?

The bear continued to stare at him.

“Nice night isn’t it?” John shut his mouth, knowing he was sounding like a total prat. Definitely the alcohol.