After six months, Jonathan had become more independent. Gillian no longer needed to drive him to appointments, make his tea just the way he liked it, or guide him through his recovery. He had regained his strength and confidence, and started to feel like himself again. With that came something Gillian hadn’t had in a while: space—quiet, precious space—which she gratefully used to return to her first love: historical research.


She began making her quiet trips again to the record offices in Shrewsbury, Stafford, and Chester. The dusty reading rooms, the scent of old parchment and leather-bound books, the soft silence broken only by the turning of pages—these were the places where she felt most at home. Though she now only went once a month, the thought of those hours spent among long-forgotten names and buried family stories brought her a quiet happiness. For Gillian, the past had always made more sense than the present.


Life with Jonathan had fallen into a routine—comfortable, if a little unremarkable. She saw him every day, often without stopping to think why. It was just what she did, as natural as brushing her hair or making coffee. But routine has a way of hiding things. Beneath the surface, quiet doubts had begun to stir.


That evening, after they’d eaten, he watched her as she stood at the window, brushing her fingers along the cool pane of glass. Moonlight made a halo of her loose blonde hair. She was aware of his eyes on her.


He broke the silence. “Only if you want to. But… fancy staying with me tonight?”


He was healthier now, his skin tanned from walks by the river, his voice full of strength. But his desire, she comprehended, didn’t stem from affection. It was in how her dress clung to her hips, in the way her laughter filled a room. Her time behind the bar at the Tern Inn taught her everything she needed to understand about what most men wanted. She played the part—smiling, teasing, alive with energy—but never deluded herself that it was more than that.


“I care about you. But no… not unless we’re married,” she said, her tone firm but not unkind.


“It’s just a word on paper. I don’t get why it has to change everything.” 


“Just a word on paper? It’s not a word on paper — it’s a commitment.”


She twisted a strand of hair around her finger, a nervous habit she believed she’d overcome.


“An evening of passion can lead to children. And I won’t bring a child into the world without commitment.” 


“Come on, we’d be careful. It’s not like we’re being reckless.” 


“And what if one of us forgets? Or if something goes wrong? It happens.” She looked at him, eyes steady. “I won’t risk

bringing a child into the world just because we got carried away.” 


“If I got you pregnant, I’d look after you. You know I would.”


“It’s not about whether you’d look after me. It’s about whether you truly see me — not just as someone you care for, but someone you’re willing to commit to.”


Jonathan frowned. “I do care about you. I thought that was obvious.”


He shifted on the edge of his seat, looking away. “But I’m not one for all that wedding stuff. Doesn’t mean I don’t take you seriously.”


Gillian looked at him. “It’s not about the white dress or the big reception. It’s about knowing you won’t walk away when things get hard.”


He let out a breath, almost a scoff. “I’m not going anywhere.”


“A promise without a commitment isn’t much of a promise, is it?” she said quietly.


There was no anger in her voice now, only a kind of sadness — a realisation they weren’t speaking the same language.


Jonathan rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re making this too complicated.”


She stood up. “No, Jonathan. I’m just not pretending it’s simple.”


A long silence stretched between them. Outside, a fox barked once in the distance. Inside, her words hung in the air like a challenge.


She was starting to have doubts. Jonathan was spending more and time at the Tern Inn. He didn’t hold his drink well; by closing time, he was slurring his speech, red-eyed and unsteady. During the day, he drifted between the bookies and the pub, gambling away what little he had saved. Gillian had seen this pattern before — in other men, in other lives. She knew where it led.


She looked at him now, sitting with pleading eyes and a careless promise on his lips, and wondered — not for the first time — if she was falling into something she’d once sworn she’d never return to.


***


The next day, it was her turn behind the bar at the Tern Inn. The pub had opened only half an hour earlier, and already the familiar scent of ale and wood-smoke filled the room. Black beams of oak, cracked through the ages of time, stood like soldiers on parade. Outside, the wind curled through the narrow lanes of Market Drayton, but inside, the pub glowed with a soft, golden warmth. The only customer in at this hour was Bill.


He sat in his usual place beside the log fire, a pint of mild resting comfortably in his thick, calloused hand. In his sixties, Bill was solidly built, barrel-chested, ruddy-faced, with a beer belly that looked like it had arrived sometime in the late 1980s and never left. He wasn’t there for the beer alone. 


Gillian knew why he liked that seat. The log basket sat beside the fire, and when she bent to add more wood, the neckline of her blouse—already low—would offer a fleeting view. Bill was one of many who rarely missed the spectacle. He moved to the billiard room only after the fire was burning well. On other nights, she might have exaggerated the lean, given him something to talk about when he recounted his evening to his mates. She enjoyed the game most of the time.


But not tonight.


Tonight she wore a high-necked jumper, and her hair was tied up in a no-nonsense bun. Her eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, were clouded; her movements were mechanical. When she tossed a log onto the fire, she didn’t glance over her shoulder, didn’t flash a smile. She didn’t care whether Bill looked or not.


Bill watched her for a moment, afterward setting his pint down with a sigh.


“You okay, duck? Just not quite yourself this evening.” 


She turned toward him and forced a smile that barely lifted one corner of her mouth. “Bit tired, that’s all.”


He gave her a long, knowing glance. “Is it him again?”


She nodded as she sat on the seat beside him. The pub was still quiet. No one would be in for another hour or so. “Yeah, yeah. Bit of a row. Nothing new.” 


Bill took a swig of his beer.


Gillian twisted her hair. “He wants us sleeping together. I said no.” She picked at the cuff of her sleeve, her voice quieter now. “He thinks it’s no big deal. That’s wrong… isn’t it?”


Bill studied her a moment; he said gently, “You’re one of the clever ones, Gilly. Got more sense than most. But you’ve also got a soft heart. You fall for people like him because you want to believe they’ll change.”


She looked away, eyes suddenly stinging.


“I want to believe someone will love me for more than… how I look. For more than the show I put on behind this bar.”


“You’re more than all that,” Bill said. “And the man who deserves you will know it.”


There was a pause. The fire crackled. Outside, the wind pushed against the old wooden door like a child begging to be let

in. Gillian took a deep breath and straightened up.


“Thanks, Bill. I needed that.”


He smiled and reached for his pint. “Now go on and pour me another before I get sentimental.”


She emitted a small laugh—a trace of her usual sparkle returned—and retrieved his drink; the warmth of his words lingered. 


Perhaps one day I’ll meet a guy as handsome as Jonathan and understanding as Bill. But to gain his love, she would have to reveal her secret.