The Red Panda was going from strength to strength under Penny’s command, and her impact on staff morale, the kitchen, the décor – all of it was immediate. Profit was up, overheads were down, but more than that: she was good at running a bigger place. There’d been a few early issues – she’d not known how to work the till, and screwed up the rota the first three weeks she’d been there, not to mention sleeping in one Sunday and almost missing service because she was used to Bridges being closed on a Sunday and having the day off – but mostly, she’d hit her stride. Maybe it was because there wasn’t much else to focus on – no men to distract her, no big city to seduce her and occupy her time – but Uncle David had been right that she’d thrive under a different sort of pressure. Penny had updated the menu and streamlined how service was run, as well as laying out training days and enforcing ‘Family Dinners’ so that staff got fed together between lunch and evening service.

She missed Sharon, and Stuart, and the tiny kitchen at the back of Bridges. She missed her routine, and the rhythm of her days. She missed so much of her old life, but took comfort in being surrounded by lush green hills and the almost obscene friendliness of everyone in the village. It was lovely to go for a walk and see people who knew her name and asked after her uncle. There weren’t many people she’d gone to school with left – loads had moved to Nottingham, or Leicester – making the median age of the immediate demographic closer to sixty than thirty. But Havingley was where her mother was buried and being there made Penny feel close to her. She was enjoying the change of scenery, too, and the physical space around her meant she felt physical space in her mind as well.

Especially from him.

Penny had been steadfast in her promise to herself: she’d never cried over him, and hadn’t spoken to him since she’d left, either.

That prick, is how Sharon referred to him. She’d been even more furious than Penny. That. Prick. Penny tried not to think of him by name, either.

That prick is all he got.

That prick had tried to text and tried to call over and over again for weeks after Penny had left. He’d even sent a letter to the pub. He’d started out hopeful, wondering how she was, if they were allowed to talk – they’d not discussed any ‘rules’ around communication, but friends stayed in touch so this was him staying in touch, he’d said.

Stay in touch with that woman you were kissing, Penny had thought, darkly.