Chapter 10
10
The Hideaway, St Aidan
Colour swatches and quick changes
Saturday
I t’s funny what you dread. I’ve been quaking inside for an entire week, and now Milla and the girls are all here, wafting in and out, so far it’s going without any major hitches. The best thing is that as they arrived this morning, the sun burst from behind a fluffy white cloud and warmed the beach and gave us a taste of the endless summer we hope will soon be here.
It’s also funny what you forget. I was totally unprepared for them storming through into the living room, all stripping off, and five minutes later appearing in entirely different clothes from the ones they arrived in.
I frown at Milla as they file back out into the sun, some of them still doing up their buttons. ‘What just happened there?’
Milla looks at the sky and takes a breath. ‘We all like each other’s clothes better than our own and swapping for a day saves us having to buy new stuff.’
I’m staring at their feet. ‘You even changed shoes?’
Milla grins. ‘We do that at school too. You must have done it when you were our age?’
I laugh. ‘I was too much of a beanpole to swap jeans. But now I think about it, I was in love with Fiona Cameron’s velvet frock coat, and she’d happily wear my beaten-up biker jacket.’
Sara gives Milla a nudge. ‘Any sign of Tyler or the crew next door?’
Milla pulls a face. ‘Ty’s younger sister said they’re on afternoon shift this weekend, so they won’t arrive for hours yet. Let’s concentrate on Aunty Florence’s beach hut make-over.’
Thanks to the gardeners only starting work at High Tides at two, we spend a very relaxed and homely morning, with everyone spreading through the hut and out onto the decks. Sure, they dip in and out of activities, but even Sophie on a critical day wouldn’t find fault with their focus and productivity.
By the time Clemmie arrives with picnic hampers of sandwiches and sausage rolls for lunch there are paper bluebirds hanging on a bunch of driftwood twigs gathered from the beach, propped up in a reclaimed clam basket filled with stones, with their more colourful relatives strung in loops across the central wall. Several girls have impressive new hair styles, nails have been buffed and polished in a rainbow of colours, enough chocolate brownies have been made to feed everyone for elevenses, and still leave enough for a big stack by the steps to the veranda, nestled on a tray under a large glass dome.
Obviously these are for personal consumption, but such is the dedication of our women-of-the-future that they leave nothing to chance. So there’s also a price ticket and a pile of serviettes under a stone and a Bonne Maman jam jar, for any passing person who’s brave enough to part with their cash in return for the stickiest cakes this side of Southampton.
Once all the empty sandwich bags have been collected up and tidied into my recycling bin, Shadow has a shampoo, blow dry and groom, which I think he enjoys, in spite of the side-eye. And then they set to work filling in score sheets for all of Sophie’s products. Shamed by all the activity I slide into the kitchen and make a double batch of M the night we met under a bush in the St Aidan pleasure gardens, he was happy to eat chips and curry sauce out of a polystyrene tray.
I remember his new-style mates all being round at ours before some sporting event where they were heading for a hospitality box. I was dipping into the fridge, grabbing a quick snack, and not wanting to be selfish I inadvertently offered round my New York cheesecake. Wrong! If I’d asked them to eat a cow pat from Nell’s parents’ farm they couldn’t have looked more dismissive.
Talking of men with more money than manners, that leads me on nicely to the offer to buy the hut. Despite it looking like a cracking opportunity for someone who – let’s face it – is living in a house with a roof that looks like it may lift off in the next big gust, I’m less delighted than people think I should be.
If anything I’m angry that Ivy went to all this trouble to keep the hut out of the wrong hands, only to find the local magnate is trying to buy me off. It’s like someone – i.e. Dave Byron – thinks money will open any door. But it’s not going to open mine! Not if I can help it.
The other thing it has done is make me prickle with rage every time I see Kit. I know he’s not involved directly, but as part of that whole next-door set-up, he’s implicated. I can’t help thinking of him as just another incomer, here on the make – so until he shows me otherwise, it’s probably best if I avoid him. Fine, his friend caught Shadow, but as I saved his social media stars from going rogue, that pretty much makes us quits. I can carry on my life without feeling I owe him anything.
As two o’clock approaches and the girls head down to the beach their screams go up a notch. The tide is out so they set up a volleyball net, using the excuse of firmer sand and a more level pitch to edge as far as they can towards the hotel grounds. Then they strip off their hoodies and start hurling themselves around, diving after the ball.
I murmur to Shadow as we watch them from the dune edge. ‘If they carry on shrieking this loud, I’m going to be back in Kit’s debt again before we can say “barking dog”.’ Not that I ever intend to think of him again.
As if to prove how wrong I can be, there’s a ping on my phone, and dammit, it’s Kit.
Any chance of some of those scones you made the other day?
I roll my eyes.
They were hard and rocky. Why would you want more? We have very tasty brownies, for sale by the steps.
Rye’s round, and he’s hungry. For the record, we’ve already demolished your brownie pile.
I turn around and see he’s right.
Why aren’t you working?
Ping.
Last minute cancellation due to illness.
Bad luck. Why not get scones from the hotel?
Ping.
Have you seen the menu? Lava cake and seaweed pancakes won’t touch the hunger pangs of a ravenous part-time fireman. Will it help if I beg?
What the hell?
My niece is here with nine friends.
Ping.
So that explains the crowd. We thought it was Netflix casting for extras for a Baywatch remake.
No way I’m rising to that.
Ping.
You’re not that busy if you’re on the beach, playing with your phone. Not stalking, just saying. Please PLEASE PLEASE save us from hotel cakes. What kind of person wants sugar-free sponge?
I’m close to breaking.
It’s going to cost you.
Ping.
Big numbers don’t scare me – I deal in diamonds, don’t forget.
Sometimes it’s more effort to resist than to cave.
With sultanas?
Ping.
An unequivocal yes to dried fruit, and we’ll take as many as you can give us, Rye is a scone fiend. Pop round to pick them up in thirty?
That gives no time to mess up.
Make that an hour.
Ping.
We may have expired by then. But carry on anyway and if necessary our estates will settle on our behalf.
He’s so up himself. It’s going to take at least three M&M cookies to psych myself up for this. It’s lucky I still have the recipe in the drawer from the other day, scribbled on the back of an envelope, just like Mum used to do. And this time I’ll try to get them lighter and fatter.
Ping.
Thanks, Floss x
It’s going to take more than x ’s to get round me. For the record. Just saying. And I really don’t want him calling me Floss. After what happened this week, he’s nowhere near my friend category.