A dream not of Paris but of rural England, where they would live together. A pub in the Oxfordshire countryside.
When Nora’s mum’s cancer aggressively returned, reaching her lymph nodes and rapidly colonising her body,
that dream was put on hold and Dan moved with her from London back to Bedford.
Her mum had known of their engagement and had planned to stay alive long enough for the wedding.
She had died four months too soon. Maybe this was it.
Maybe this was the life. Maybe this was first-time lucky, or second-time lucky.
She allowed herself an apprehensive smile. She walked back along the path and crunched over the gravel,
heading towards the side door the drunken, whiskery man in the wax jacket had recently departed from.
She took a deep breath and stepped inside. It was warm. And quiet.
She was in some kind of hallway or corridor. Terracotta floor tiles.
Low wood panelling and, above, wallpaper full of illustrations of sycamore leaves.
She walked down the little corridor and into the main pub area which she had peeked at through the window.
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