My Better Half (Sequel to My Cup of Tea)

Chapter Sixteen

This is one of the scenes I've been dying to write, but also one of the scenes I've been so unsure about. I've changed my mind about what would happen like fifty times.

It took Simon a little over three hours to get from his flat in London to the cottage in Burley. It probably would have taken less time if the buses ran on a better schedule and if he'd been able to peg a taxi sooner, but it didn't matter in the end because at least he made it. And now he was standing outside the small, red cottage with his hands in his pockets and his chin up and forward. 

The paint looked like it needed to be freshened up––it was chipping and pulling under the window sills and at the corners and edges. The grass was overgrown and the thatched roof looked like it might cave in any day, but this was it. This was the address, the red cottage, that D.M. had put on the letters. There were no Christmas lights or decorations outside which seemed okay because Simon wasn't sure putting lights in the overgrown trees would have done much to liven the place up. 

There was light in at least two of the windows, so someone was home. Simon took a deep breath and trudged up the small, moss-ridden stone pathway up to the front of the house. The front door was chipped, too, like it had needed to be replaced ten years ago. The knocker was tilted and broken and there were at least six newspapers laying discarded in the long tufts of grass off the pathway. He furrowed his brow and found a doorbell obscured by a long, twisting tree branch and pressed it. 

He could hear someone acknowledge the bell so he combed his fingers through his hair and straightened his scarf, trying to look presentable as he waited. The door creaked open and a middle-aged woman poked her head out of it. She looked tired––Simon could see it in her eyes. Her hair was reddish but turning grey at the roots and her nose was like a small bauble. Her lips were pursed in a thin line as she looked at him up and down, trying to decide who he was.

"Hi," he smiled, wondering if this woman was D.M. He'd always pictured the mysterious writer to be his mother's best friend from some posh, all-girl's boarding school. The way they wrote made it clear that they had been taught properly––taught to write in elegant cursive writing with strong word choices. Simon's own handwriting was child-like and barely legible. 

"Can I help you?"

He cleared his throat. "I'm Simon. Simon Snow? Are you––"

"Simon Snow?" the woman asked like she'd never heard the name before. 

He pulled the letter out of his pocket and waved it in front of her face. "I kept getting these letters––"

Her eyes widened. "Simon," she grinned. "Of course. You...come in, come in." 

She moved out of the door frame and let Simon step inside, closing the door behind him. 

Maybe, at some point, this house had been nice. It still looked nice in its own way, but everything was coated in a layer of dust. There was a small table by the door with dusted over picture frames and a bowl with keys in it. It was dark, too. Like turning the light on was an after-thought.

"I––are you D.M.?"

She shook her head. "No. I'm his friend."

Simon quirked an eyebrow. "His? I thought D.M. was a woman?" 

She laughed a soft, half-laugh. It sort of reminded him of Baz in a way. It sounded like she was only half interested in what he was saying or like she was pretending not to be interested. Like she was holding herself back. 

She took his elbow and led him out of the small entry room and into the kitchen. "Davy," she called as she dragged Simon along behind her. The lights were on in the kitchen, but there was no one there. Simon looked around, confused, before he found a figure in the sitting room beyond the kitchen counter.