Michael got through to Bateman and Primrose, but only after Nush had failed to pick up on his first try. Her phone rang on and on, not even switching to voicemail, Michael’s inexplicable worry deepening with each unanswered ring. The office hadn’t heard from Nush but felt confident she was probably just lost. Nothing out of the ordinary, especially with the long drive from London and it being out of her usual stomping ground. They took the garage’s contact number in case they heard anything else and couldn’t reach Michael on either his mobile or at the beach house.

  ‘Technology!’ Judith Bateman had said, with a light-hearted eyeroll, which did nothing to allay his anxiety over Nush. ‘She was really looking forward to seeing you, Lord Lorimer.’

  There was a lasciviousness in her tone, a hint of schoolyard gossip, that made Michael faulter. His concern was for the property deal first and foremost, he told himself. That’s what mattered. Wasn’t it? He had Sam to think about too. Though in truth, he didn’t know what to think about Sam. And Michael was sure that went for Sam about him too. But a year ago, a few days before his mother died and his luck seemed to want to follow her to the grave, there had been that dinner and drinks with Nush, and that kiss. Maybe it would have gone somewhere. He’d considering texting Nush about another date. The phone was even in his hand with her number primed, when another call came in about his mother. It lit up in his hand like the short fuse of a bomb. The whole affair with Nush had gone out of his head until he needed to shift the beach house, and she was the first to come to mind. Funny that.

  Whatever the reason for his anxiety over Nush’s fate, it was snuffed out with the next call. He dialled Nush’s number for the second time. Having failed to get through before and trying to mix technologies from different eras, he scrutinised the digits on his useless mobile before carefully spinning them into the rotary dialler of Nat’s ancient phone, the same one his father and grandfather had used. Was the whole of Hernshore in a time warp? It seemed like it. Nush’s phone started to ring.

  Michael turned and, serpentine, the spiral cable coiled around his body. Toby and Nat were in a serious conversion. Nat’s joker persona had fallen away, the same way it did when they were kids. There was another magic card memory ready for Michael to flip over. What was it? A memory about Nat and... and. It wouldn’t come. Whomever was dealing had palmed the card. Nat noticed Michael watching them, and the Joker was turned back over. Flashing a gapped tooth grin, Nat doffed his invisible cap. Michael returned the hail with a half-nod, bulky phone pinned under his chin. Nat’s grin looked fixed. They were talking about him, probably to do with the car. Nat must have fed Michael a generous line about how long or how much it was to fix. The phone stopped ringing and he let that line of thought go as the sound of Nush’s voice popped in his ear and a weight lifted from his chest.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Nush, can you hear me? It’s Michael. Michael Lorimer.’

  ‘Hi Michael. I can hear you. So sorry I’m late. You wouldn't believe the day I’ve had.’

  ‘Try me. It’s just good to hear you are okay.’ Was that too much? If she heard the relief in his voice she didn’t let on.

  ‘I broke down half-way up the M1. Fucking AA took their time. They had to tow me home. Then they shagged up the courtesy car. I’m still trying to sort one. Looks like I won’t be able to make it to you until tomorrow.’

  He smiled at the profanity. She must have been having a bad day. Nush had a way with words. Colourful, his mother would have said, probably disapprovingly. Dad would have liked her though. Where did that come from? Why would Michael give a damn what he thought?

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  ‘I’m glad you are okay. Don’t worry about it.’ And that was the truth, though the cash flow pressure wasn’t going anywhere, and for some reason Michael’s subconscious threw his father at him, and not in a way he was expecting. This trip home was raking up more than he was ready for.

  ‘You’re a star. And don’t you worry about the sale. I’ve got buyers already primed. One of them is a Yank, Hollywood guy. Can’t say who. Client confidentiality and all that bollocks. He knew all about your dad and the Spielberg connection and some cult movie your old man made.’

  ‘Across the Dunes.’ It was his father’s magnum opus and the last movie he worked on before coming back to Hernshore. A war-cum-horror movie set in the desert during World War II, in which British and German forces were pursued by an unseen force beneath the sand. Kubrick, the Coppolas (Francis and Sophia), Tarentino, Del Torro all cited it as an influence. So did Sam’s mother: Tara.

  ‘That’s the one. Selling will be a breeze, assuming you don’t die before then.’ She laughed.

  ‘I’ll try not to.’

  ‘Good. I’d like my commission. We can have that second date, my treat.’

  Michael liked how forward she was, cutting through all the dating bullshit, still it set him on his heels. ‘What? Yeah. Of course.’

  She laughed at his awkwardness. ‘I’ve not completely forgiven you for not calling after last time. But once we sell your country pile, all will be forgiven.’

  ‘Fair enough. What time should I expect you tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll set off early doors, but with the ball ache of London traffic: hopefully lunch time.’

  ‘Same as today.’

  ‘I fucking-well hope not.’ He could hear the smile in her voice.

  ‘Tomorrow then.’

  They finished the call, and with the knowledge Nush was okay and things would be back on track tomorrow, a sense of acceptance came over Michael. This morning he’d wanted to be in and out before any ghost from his past had a chance to stir, but now they were stuck at least until tomorrow. It was then that something Tara, Sam’s mother, used to say came back to him: It’s easier to swim with the tide. Which he thought meant something like a combination of pick your battles and work with what you’ve got in the meantime. She was full of sayings like that, not clichés as such, but pieces of wisdom she used to season away the bitter taste life could leave in the mouth, even lucky Michael Lorimer’s. Everyone’s luck runs out sooner or later.

  The sun was bright in the clear sky, causing Michael to shield his eyes as he emerged from the shade of the garage’s interior. ‘Fancy a pint and some lunch?’

  Toby and Nat were detaching the mangled bumper from the front of the Merc.

  ‘I could go a pint. Stag and Snake?’ Nat said wiping his hands on a rag dangling from the hip pocket.

  Toby retained his worried look and Nat gave him a subtle one-two of a nudge and a knowing look. Michael guessed it was about the car. Toby struggled to snap out of it. ‘Right, yeah, the Stag and Snake.’

  ‘Let me get out of these.’ Nat hurried into the garage to take off his green coveralls.

  ‘Sorry about earlier,’ Michael said to Toby as we waited.

  He looked perplexed.

  ‘The car,’ Michael nodded at it. ‘Had a lot on my plate with finding out I’m a dad and...’ He waved his hand airily to play it down, like it was no big deal. ‘...some business crap. You know how it is?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  Michael didn’t know what to say to that, but thankfully Nat reappeared. ‘First round’s on the Lord of the Manor.’

  ‘You’re such a tosser,’ Michael said. But Lord Lorimer was back, and Michael had no idea what that meant. No idea at all. Buying the first round sounded like something his father would do, and it was something he’d be happy to do too. The familial similarity he was less happy with.