The Atlas of Us

by Tracy Buchanan

  ‘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.’

  The table went quiet and Sarah’s blue eyes widened. Milo’s face flushed. ‘Dale, why don’t we—’

  Their sister Jen appeared then, exchanging a look with Milo. ‘Dale, can you help me get a keg from the cellar? I can’t find Henry anywhere.’

  ‘Maybe that’s because he’s hiding in the waitress’s knickers,’ Dale said under his breath, his
lip curling. Jay raised an eyebrow and Claire looked at Jen to see if she’d heard but her expression remained unchanged. Dale stood up, nearly knocking over Claire’s drink. Milo leaned forward and grabbed the glass before its contents spilled all over Claire’s dress, mouthing a ‘sorry’ to her as Dale stumbled off after his sister.

  ‘What a romantic soul your brother is,’ Jay said to Milo.

  Milo swallowed, clearly uncomfortable. ‘He gets a bit cynical after having a few.’ He turned to Sarah. ‘Sorry, he didn’t mean any of it, not really. He’s had a lot of stress recently.’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine,’ she said, smiling. ‘I completely understand, must be very difficult for farmers.’

  ‘What about you, Milo?’ Matt asked. ‘Are you cynical about love? Or have you managed to find yourself a farmer’s wife in between all that muck-clearing and cow-milking?’

  Milo dug his spoon into his apple crumble, his expression unreadable. ‘No time to look for anyone really.’

  ‘Surely they come searching for you?’ Sarah said.

  Milo’s cheeks flushed.

  ‘You better get a move on,’ Matt said. ‘Every man needs a good woman to look after him.’

  Sarah flicked her napkin at her fiancé. ‘Since when did you turn into a chauvinist pig?’

  ‘Damn, I was hoping to keep that bit hidden from you until after the wedding.’ He glanced back at Milo. ‘So?’

  ‘You don’t need a wedding ring on your finger to look after someone. A couple can be just as secure without a piece of paper binding them.’

  Claire stared at her wedding ring. She’d actually been the one who wanted to get married quickly after Ben proposed. He’d wanted to wait, save more money. But she’d needed that piece of paper, that ring on her finger, to prove she wasn’t like her dad and to start on her road to security.

  Jay turned to Claire. ‘Do you agree?’

  She glanced up, noticing everyone’s eyes on her. ‘I don’t know what I think really. But my dad’s old friend gave his wife a ring made from goat’s hair,’ she added, hoping to lighten the conversation. ‘That sounds fun.’

  Everyone around the table laughed but Jay frowned. ‘How strange, my friend’s father was a bit of a hippy and did the same with his wife too. His name was Josh Pyatt, he worked for the Independent. Maybe it’s the same guy?’

  ‘I don’t recognise the name. But my dad wrote a travel column for the Indie so chances are it’s the same man.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Jay said, his blue eyes bright with excitement. ‘Don’t tell me you’re Bo Shreve’s daughter?’

  Claire looked down at her food, wondering why she’d been stupid enough to bring up her dad. Now she was going to have to keep her emotions in check. Milo’s brow puckered as he watched her.

  ‘Yep,’ she said.

  ‘He was a wonderful writer, my mother adored his stuff,’ Jay said. ‘I was sorry to hear he passed away.’

  Claire blinked, trying to stop the tears. ‘He was a good writer,’ was all she could manage. ‘It’s getting pretty late, thank you so much for inviting me to join you all,’ she said, suddenly feeling exhausted with it all. She peered at Archie who was curled up at her feet under the table. ‘I better get this little one to bed.’ Jay raised an eyebrow and she laughed. ‘Yes, he’s my little fur baby, what of it?’

  He looked at Archie in mock shock. ‘That is one hairy baby.’ His face grew serious. ‘It’s very dark out there, I can join you, if you wish?’

  Milo stood up too. ‘I’ll go out with you, Claire. I ought to head back anyway. Yet another early start tomorrow thanks to those pre-menstrual cows.’

  She smiled. ‘You won’t want to keep them waiting.’

  When they stepped outside a few minutes later, Claire breathed in the tart air, hoping it would clear her head of the wine and the memories of her father.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about your dad,’ Milo said. ‘Did he pass away recently?’

  ‘Nearly thirteen years ago. Cancer.’ She saw her dad’s thin face again as he stared up at her all those years ago. She peered back towards the hotel. ‘Will your brother be okay?’

  Milo frowned. ‘Yeah, he gets like that when he’s had a few drinks. Add that to how tough things are at the farm nowadays, it’s not a good mix. Sorry you had to see him like that.’ He peered towards the path. ‘So, what are your plans for tomorrow?’ he asked, quickly changing the subject.

  ‘Just lunch with Henry. Otherwise, I was thinking about driving somewhere, maybe further west towards Cornwall. I’d like to write about some of the places people can visit while here. Saying that, my car struggled enough on the journey down.’

  Milo followed Claire’s gaze towards her aqua Fiat Uno. ‘It’s quite a specimen.’

  ‘I swapped Bob Dylan tickets for that old thing years ago with a friend.’

  ‘You missed a Bob Dylan gig for that?’

  She shrugged. ‘She brought me back a T-shirt.’

  ‘Well, if it’s just your car stopping you doing a tour, I can drive you tomorrow morning if you want? Can’t guarantee you’ll get back in time for lunch. But then maybe that’s not such a bad thing,’ he added, raising a dark eyebrow. ‘Lunch with Henry isn’t exactly thrilling; he’ll just bark on about why he had the restaurant walls painted cream instead of teal.’

  ‘How do you know I don’t find the interior decoration of West Country hotels fascinating?’

  Milo smiled, a swift breeze whipping its way around him and picking up strands of his dark fringe. Claire wanted to reach out, sweep it away from his eyes. She felt guilt burn in her stomach. What was wrong with her?

  She turned her attention to Archie so Milo didn’t notice her blush. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea for them to spend the morning together? ‘I’ll manage on my own, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do with your time.’

  ‘Like terrify tourists with my stag-shooting abilities?’

  ‘I bloody hope not!’

  ‘Never again,’ he said, his face very serious. ‘Look, I’m due some time off. Dale keeps hassling me to take a break. What do you think?’

  Claire held her breath. This press trip wasn’t meant to be about this. A quickening of the heart, the inability to breathe as some virtual stranger looked her square in the eye. She needed space to figure out a future without Ben – ‘see the wood for the trees’ as he had said. But she felt like she’d stepped even further into the forest, the wood and the trees blurring even more than ever.

  But as the seconds ticked by without her answering, and a frown puckered Milo’s forehead, she found herself unable to say no.

  So she said yes instead.

  Claire was nervous as she approached Milo’s Land Rover the next morning. She’d promised herself the night before she wouldn’t read anything into every flutter of her heart, every catch in her breath. It was like looking at a beautiful painting when she was around him. Aesthetics and desire, that’s all, she reasoned. She needed the company, a distraction from dwelling on her problems with Ben all the time. But that didn’t detract from the fact she was anxious.

  As she reached the car, she paused. Milo was reading her magazine, his eyes heavy with emotion. She recognised the article, an obituary for the magazine’s financial director Victoria who’d passed away a few months ago. She’d always got on with the gentle, kind woman, who was a contrast to the magazine’s obnoxious founder. In the article, she’d drawn on a conversation she’d once had with her about how important it was to follow your own path, something Victoria had done by moving from the tiny Italian village where she’d been born to live in the UK, despite her family’s protests. Claire had used a quote by Bob Black, the anarchist her dad loved reading: The reinvention of daily life means marching off the edge of our maps.

  Milo noticed her watching him and smiled, placing the magazine in the back seat and jumping out of the car so he could hold the passenger door open for her. She paused a moment, taking the chance to still her heart as she took in the mist
y valleys ahead of her, feel the cold on her cheeks. Then she clambered in, placing Archie on her lap as Blue regarded them from the back seat.

  ‘You were reading my magazine?’ Claire asked, gesturing to it.

  Milo nodded. ‘Holly got a copy off Henry after hearing you’d be staying here so I nabbed it off her. You’re a great writer, Claire.’

  Claire looked down, feeling her cheeks flush. ‘Thanks. It took a lot to write that article, I really liked Victoria.’

  He was quiet for a few moments. ‘It made sense what you said about how losing someone burns a hole in you. But how the love of the people left behind can make new skin grow back.’

  ‘You talk like you’ve lost someone too.’

  ‘Haven’t we all?’ He started the engine, the smell of petrol filling the car. ‘We better get a move on if we want you back for Henry’s thrilling lunch.’

  He winked at her and she laughed. ‘Your engine sounds a bit dodgy, we may well break down on the way back.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ Milo said.

  Claire looked around at the car’s immaculate interior as it rumbled down the road. ‘Nice and tidy. You’re a farmer. Shouldn’t there be some dead pheasants in the back or something?’

  Milo raised an eyebrow. ‘Or an African drum like the one in your back seat? Holly noticed it when we walked past your car yesterday. And all the books too.’

  Claire thought of the back seat of her car, taken over by items she’d picked up from her travels and books taking her back to the distant lands she’d visited as a child: travel memoirs and novels crammed with dusty roads and stunning vistas.

  She sighed. ‘It’s a mess, isn’t it? I haven’t properly tidied my car since I got it years ago. I like to hoard stuff. My dad used to call me his Littlest Hobo.’

  ‘Like the dog?’

  She laughed. ‘No! He said I was like a homeless person, collecting all these items during my travels. He even got me a shopping trolley once in Spain which I hauled around a campsite with all my stuff. Plus his name was Bo and everyone said I was a miniature version of him, so it kind of stuck.’