A Quiet Kind of Thunder(71)

He squeezes back, like he’s heard.

Texts from Edinburgh

To Mum:

Back at Dad’s! Hope Bell is doing OK! Xx



To Dad:

How’s Rita doing? Tell her I miss her! Xx

Um, and you and Lucy too, obvs! xx



To Tem:

Not to boast or anything, but my

boyfriend has a very nice face.

And bum.



Tem:

STEFANIE BRONS!

I’m so proud of you ilu xxxx





If you were looking for a perfect day, you wouldn’t find much better than this.

It’s early evening and the sun is just starting to dim over the city. Rhys and I are sitting on a bench looking over at Castle Rock, sharing a portion of fish and chips. It’s all we can afford if we want to hit Rhys’s target of spending less than a tenner for the entire day – he calls it a game rather than simply being poor, and I play along because it’s more fun. At lunchtime we had sandwiches from Tesco. Breakfast was the biscuits we got free from the hotel.

Everything we’ve done today has been free – and wonderful. In the morning we went to Greyfriars Kirkyard, and I told Rhys the story of Greyfriars Bobby, which was one of my favourite stories as a kid. We went around the cemetery together, reading the gravestones, making up lives for the people buried underneath them. My anxiety tried to interrupt, reminding me that I’d be under a gravestone one day and forever, but I pushed it away and it didn’t come back.

We made up our own city walk, ignoring street signs and maps and just taking left turns for twenty minutes, then switching to right. We ended up discovering weird side streets and steep flights of cobbled stairs that would probably have been shortcuts somewhere if we’d been paying attention. Rhys bought a single Creme Egg and we shared it in tiny, nibbly bites, cuddled together on a bench in the Old Town.

As the afternoon set in we took our time on the Royal Mile, stopping in every souvenir shop and trying on tartan hats and scarves. We were the annoying English teenagers who loitered and didn’t buy a single thing, and I didn’t care. Nobody knew what we were saying as we signed and teased and laughed. The day, the city, the world – it was all ours.

Are you happy? Rhys asks me.

I can’t stop the grin breaking over my face. I am so happy.

He grins back at me and we beam at each other like children let loose in Toys R Us. He leans over to kiss me and I lift my face to meet his. I taste salt and vinegar and Rhys.

What shall we do tonight? Rhys asks when we break apart.

Are we still aiming for less than ￡10? I ask, pondering.

He nods. It doesn’t count as a win if it’s not the whole day.

What could we do that’s free? I muse, and I don’t even realize what it is I’ve said until after my hands have finished. I flush scarlet, flail my hands a little, then look away. ‘God, Steffi,’ I groan out loud.

I hear Rhys laughing, and I look back at him, too embarrassed to speak. He kisses my nose.

You’re adorable.

I cover my face with my hands and he pulls them away, pressing his lips to the tips of my fingers, his eyes on mine. God, those eyes. If I could keep just one part of Rhys, it would be his eyes. And, OK, maybe his mouth too. Basically his whole face. I’ll keep his face.

Maybe we should go out for drinks, Rhys suggests, releasing my hands so we can talk.

I hold up one finger. One, I’m seventeen. I hold up two fingers. Two, do we have enough left of the ￡10 for drinks?

Rhys reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of change. He stretches out his palm and counts the coins, nibbling his bottom lip between his teeth. He looks up at me. Do you think we could find a bottle of wine for ￡3.47?

I roll my eyes. I think you’re taking the ‘less than ￡10’ game a bit far with that. ‘Cheapskate,’ I add, sticking out my tongue.

Challenge accepted! Rhys grins, eyes lighting up. Come on. He stands, holding out a hand to me, and I take it happily. We’ll get some cheap wine and decide what to do next.

We walk in silence, swinging our knitted hands between us. I am squidgy with happiness, warm all over. This is love, I think, and I am in it. I have it. No wonder everyone goes on about it so much. It’s really nice.

Rhys stops at an off-licence and I wait outside while he goes to find an impossibly cheap bottle of wine. I dawdle, pretending to read a tour poster on the wall, trying to act like I’m not the underage girlfriend of the boy who just walked in. When he emerges again, he’s beaming.

What did you get? I ask.

He twinkles. Wait and see.

I bet you didn’t get anything, I tease, trying to grab the paper bag so I can look. No way did you find any alcohol that cheap.

Wrong. He waves the bag in front of my face, the weight of the bottle within unmistakeable.

I bet it’s just Coke, I amend. Or lemonade.

He laughs, pulls me towards him and kisses my forehead. You’ll see, he says.

He’s bought us champagne.

OK, it’s not quite champagne. It’s sparkling wine, and it didn’t cost the earth. But it has bubbles, and the cork comes off with a satisfying, heart-pinging pop. He refuses to tell me how much it cost, saying only that his ￡10 challenge didn’t include alcohol. And, anyway, he loves me, and we deserve champagne. Or sparkling wine.

We don’t even have glasses, let alone flutes, so we end up pouring the fizz into the hotel mugs that look like they’ve gone through the dishwasher about five thousand times. When we toast, the mugs clunk instead of clink, but I don’t mind. Everything feels perfect.