By the time they left, having shared the joint sixty/forty in Paul’s favor, Annie’s limbs felt deliciously soft, the grass beneath her feet a thick bouncy underlay that cushioned her every step. She found it impossible to stop giggling in a high-pitched “Squeee,” especially when everything around her seemed so hilarious; that squirrel was definitely strutting like Mick Jagger and she was pretty certain the herring gull on the church roof had just screeched “Fuck off, Melvin!” to the gull on the flagpole.

Paul decided it would be best to do a couple of laps around the village before reintroducing Annie to society, so by the time she entered the pub, she was relaxed and rampantly peckish.

Chapter 28

Hi, Raye,” Annie called over the bar.

If Annie had had to guess what the Captain’s Bounty’s interior would look like, it would have been exactly this. Strings of multicolored fabric birds with tiny bells between them hung down the black wooden joists that punctuated the long, dark pub. The uneven plaster on the walls was painted a deep Moroccan orange, which burst like a warm sunset between the wonky crisscross of beams. A visual anthology of Willow Bay’s nautical history decorated the walls; black-and-white photographs of fishermen past with their boats sat beside paintings of clipper ships, coastal maps, and cottages—some of which Annie recognized from her hazy village tour.

A band was setting up in a cleared space opposite the bar. Raye gave a cheery wave, and Annie saw her nudge Aiden conspiratorially. Paul rested his hand in the small of Annie’s back and guided her toward the far end of the pub, to a table for two by the fire. For Annie, a woman sex-starved and mildly stoned, a hand in the small of the back was practically foreplay.

They started the meal with salt and pepper squid with aioli that melted in the mouth.

“Oh my God, I’m so ready for this,” said Annie.

“That’s called the munchies,” said Paul, a knowing smile playing at his lips.

“I am a chef, you know,” said Annie. “I don’t need to be stoned to appreciate good food.”

“No,” said Paul. “But maybe it takes your appreciation to another level.”

Annie wanted to argue but she was too busy eating to speak. Paul chose beer-battered Dover sole and thrice-fried chips for his main, and Annie had pan-fried plaice with Hasselback potatoes and samphire. She would have dearly liked to sample Aiden’s famous tiramisu, but in the event of the evening taking the turn she hoped it would, she didn’t want to be too full of mascarpone to enjoy it.

The thronelike wooden benches on which they sat had high backs, and floral motifs had been cut out of the wood so that the light filtered through them and danced patterns on the table. Annie ran her hand idly over the undulating wood. She saw Paul watching her.