Chapter 9
After I ran from the inn, I expected my inner homing pigeon to take me back to the cottage – but instead my feet directed me down the steps at the side of the building, and onto the beach.
I sat myself down on a large boulder, and started to take in some big, deep gusts of breath, counting them in and counting them out in a way I knew would help. Even being alone, being outside, not feeling enclosed, immediately improved things.
I touched my hands on the firm bumpy surface of the rock, concentrating on the way it felt beneath my fingertips, telling myself over and over that I was safe. That nothing here was going to hurt me. That everything was fine… that I could breathe again.
None of this was new – it is part of me now, part of my life. Part of how I react to certain situations. It used to happen with alarming and inconvenient frequency – on the bus, in toilet cubicles, in shops, in lifts, on one lovely occasion at an especially busy parents’ evening at Rose’s school. These days, it is less frequent, which I take as a huge gift. Last night was just… a lot. A perfect storm of what my daughter’s generation would call triggers.
After five minutes alone, in the open air, my panic reaction started to calm down, and I even managed to take some pleasure in my surroundings. The night air was cool and dry against my skin, and the gentle hiss of the waves on the sand was a soothing lullaby. The moonlight shimmered on the dark, silvery mass of the sea, and everything about the scene – the sights, the smells, the sounds – seemed to tell me that the world was not a terrifying place after all. That everything would be fine in the end. The tide would still come in, the sun would still rise, life would carry on. That my momentary lapses of control are nothing in comparison to this natural splendour; that I am part of something bigger and grander and longer-lasting than all my petty worries.
By the time I’d wandered back to Kittiwake, I was feeling so much better – apart from the killer headache that always follows, and which I could already feel creeping around inside my skull. I started to massage my temples, hoping that nobody had noticed my abrupt dash outside. If they did, I told myself, they’d probably just assume I’d had too much to drink. Better a reputation as a lightweight than a neurotic freak, I suppose.
I drank some water, and messaged Rose, and took myself off to bed. I didn’t sleep well, but that isn’t really anything new – I’m not great at sleeping. It’s not one of my skills. I either lie awake until 3am worrying about the fact that I’m not sleeping, or I snooze off just fine but then wake up constantly throughout the night. The lightest of noises will rouse me, and once my eyes snap open I’m hypervigilant, listening to every tiny creak and planning which weapons I’d use if I was under attack, how I’d get to Rose to protect her, and picturing escape routes that don’t involve jumping off the roof. It’s about as restful as it sounds.
I’d heard Rose come in at about 11pm, and listened with a grin on my face as she stumbled around downstairs, clearly struggling with complicated things like taking her boots off, noticing walls, and not falling up steps. If I had to guess, I’d say she managed to snag some contraband booze from one of her slightly older new pals. We’ve all been there.
This morning, after managing to stay asleep for two whole hours between 6 and 8am, I am feeling like the very definition of the word “meh”. I get up, take a quick shower, and sneak into Rose’s bedroom. She is sleeping on her stomach, her face splayed to one side and squashed against the pillow, her eyeliner streaked across her temple and a string of drool hanging from her open mouth. I desperately want to take a photo – I know she’d do the same for me – but haven’t got my phone with me.
I place one of her favourite Rice Krispie cereal bars and a glass of water on her bed-side table, along with a couple of ibuprofen just in case. That’s pretty much premier league parenting right there, I reckon. I remember my own mum doing the same for me, and feeling so pathetically grateful for it when I woke up with my first proper hangover.
I force myself to eat a small bowl of granola, sitting down at the dining table. Like sleeping, I’m not very good at this stuff either – making myself slow down, making myself take a minute to give my body some nourishment. Making myself pause before the day begins. I know it’s good for me, but it’s a struggle. Left to my own instincts, I’d mainline coffee while on the go, and not eat until I was on the verge of falling over, feeling suddenly dizzy and wondering why.
Today, I must behave better than that – today I must make sure that none of my own issues spill over into Ella’s world. She is getting married tomorrow, and I know today is a stressful one for her, and I need to be a rock-solid pal, not a flake.
That, I decide, grimacing as I wash up my bowl, also means sorting things out with Josh. The Gods of Random Coincidence have clearly had a great laugh at my expense, and have basically shat all over me from a great height – like a vindictive seagull. The odds of me bumping into Jake’s brother at an airport – and of me then pretending to be an entirely different person while I flirted with him – must be astronomical. And yet, here we are; I have defeated those odds. I should probably buy a lottery ticket as well.
He is here, and he can’t stand the sight of me, and I hate the thought of any of that causing my old friend any extra drama on what should be the happiest day of her life. I would be ecstatic to never see Josh again, and that feeling is very clearly mutual, but as we are currently living in the same tiny village, it seems too much to hope for.
I run a brush through my hair and give myself a quick once over in the hallway mirror. Uggh. No make-up, no fancy duty-free perfume, no jewellery. Basic pale-blue T-shirt and jeans. Zero glamour, minus-zero confidence, and absolutely no hint of Amelia Leamington-Smythe. I have completely banished her. On the plus side, my hair is at least clean and shiny, my top is free of jelly vodka, and I am not wearing a young farmer’s Y-fronts on my head. That’s a win, for sure.
I walk over to the Starshine Inn, enjoying the gentle warmth of the morning sunshine on my face, smiling up at the sky with my eyes narrowed against the yellow glare. I love that feeling when spring finally comes, when the days start to stretch out, when you realise that yes, finally, there is sunlight and blue skies and blossoming buds appearing on the trees. That the birds are singing and the daffodils are blooming and, yet again, that magnificent thing is finally happening – spring has arrived! It’s my favourite time of year by a mile, because it always feels fresh and optimistic and hopeful.
In fact, it’s such a lovely morning that by the time I walk into the inn, I’m almost feeling fresh and optimistic and hopeful myself – despite the challenges that the day might hold. The central room is set up for breakfast, and I spy Priya sitting at a table for two, a plate of toast in front of her, and a baby on her lap.
The toast I expected – the baby not so much. I frown in confusion, and walk towards her.
“What happened to Katie?” I say, pointing at the small human she is bouncing on her knee. “Did you shrink her?”
“This is Evan!” replies Priya, in that high-pitched sing-song voice that just seems to happen when we’re around babies. “He’s almost four months old, and he is adorable. Just look at those chubby arms!”
I sit down next to her, and have to smile. He really is adorable, she’s right – a big round face, blonde hair, large blue eyes that are staring at me unashamedly. I reach out and he grasps hold of my finger, laughing when I shake it around. Babies laughing is the best thing in the world, isn’t it? Goodness me – a lovely spring morning, and a laughing baby. I suspect I’ve peaked, and I should probably go back to bed now.
She passes Evan over to me and he feels so solid and warm on my lap, his little legs kicking in delight. I hold him under the shoulders to keep him steady, but he is a robust little man, and his head is almost wobble-free. I blow a gentle raspberry at him and he laughs some more. Okay, I think, this is fun – maybe I can just sit and do this all day.
“Um… not that I’m complaining,” I say, as Priya finally scoffs her toast, “but where did Evan come from? And I don’t mean biologically, before you explain the reproductive system to me.”
She makes a “give me a moment” gesture as she chews, then sips her coffee and replies: “Gosh, I’d forgotten how hard it is to do stuff like eat and drink when you have a baby around! Evan here belongs to Miranda, who lives in Starshine and works at the inn. She brings him to work with her for the breakfast shift, and this morning he was being a little… what’s the technical term? A little toe-rag, that’s it! So I said I’d mind him for a minute while she was back in the kitchen. I like him a lot – but I’ll be happy to give him back too.”
Evan reaches out and tries to grab a lock of my hair. He doesn’t quite have the coordination just yet, and ends up whacking me on the face instead. Even that makes him laugh. I gently hold his fingers, kissing his podgy knuckles, and feel a rush of emotion at the thought of Ella having one of these of her very own before too long. She’ll be exhausted, but she’ll be so happy.
“So, are you okay, Lucy?” Priya asks, leaning back in her chair and smiling at the baby. “That was a bit weird last night. You must have been totally freaked out when you realised that Jake’s brother was the man from the airport.”
“I was,” I say, keeping my voice high and reassuring for Evan’s sake. “It was pretty bad. I’m here looking for him actually – just wanted to clear the air, you know? Face it head on, sort it all out before the wedding.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” she says firmly. “Impressively mature. Problem is, he’s not staying here, so what you’re actually doing is just playing with an admittedly gorgeous baby.”
“Oh. Right. Well, maybe I’ll just do that instead then?”
At that moment a young woman who I presume to be Miranda walks towards us. She is short, still showing some signs of her recent pregnancy, and has that look on her face that so many new mums have – a combination of harassment and delight. She reaches out and picks Evan off my lap, and he immediately gurgles at her. She holds him up and kisses his forehead, before turning to Priya.
“Thank you,” she says quietly, “that was a life saver. It’s all a bit calmer now, Matt’s turned up for his shift too. This working mum thing isn’t easy, is it? I mean, I suppose I could have had more time off, but… I think I was starting to go a bit stir-crazy on my own with Evan all day. Much as I love him, he’s not the world’s best conversationalist.”
I can tell from the tone of her voice that she feels guilty about even saying such a thing, and smile as Priya comes up with the perfect response, as ever.
“Having a baby to look after is much harder work than anything else I’ve ever done,” she says, sipping her coffee. “And whatever you decide, you feel guilty – go back to work too soon, and you wonder if you’re somehow abandoning them. Leave it too long, and you worry you won’t set them a good example. Whatever we do, as parents, we tend to feel guilty about it – and that’s fine. It’s a sign that you care.”
Miranda frowns as she ponders this, and eventually rewards us with a small smile. She is only young – I’d say late teens or early twenties – but has a very serious way about her already.
“That’s a good way to look at it,” she announces. “I shall at least try to stop feeling guilty about everything, even the fact that I feel guilty!”
She makes her farewells, and once she’s gone, Priya says: “She’s raising that little fella on her own. Not easy, is it?”
“Nope,” I reply, stealing a slice of her toast. “But better to do it on your own than with the wrong person – so maybe she’s wiser than we think.”
Priya nods, and gives me a warm smile.
“You’re right, Lucy. And thank you, for talking to us all about Robert. About what happened. We… well, we had our suspicions, but none of us could get you to open up about it. I’m sorry that I didn’t try harder.”
I finish my toast, and shake my head. “You have nothing to apologise for. And neither do I, now I come to think of it, even though I really want to. It was a thing. It was bad. It wasn’t our fault. I’m just glad you don’t hate me for turning my back on you.”
“Never!” she says, looking horrified. “And I’m so glad we’re back in touch.”
“Me too. We won’t make the same mistake twice.”
I stand up, stretching tall, wondering what I’m going to do next. I came here with a sense of purpose – a task I very much wanted to shirk, but which I knew had to be done. And now I have no idea what to do next. I came here to talk things through with Josh, but he’s not here, and it’s a bit of a relief to be honest. I did at least try.
“He’s staying in Ella’s old apartment,” Priya says, smirking at me. “That’s the little place right over the Betties’ bakery, in case you weren’t sure.”
I narrow my eyes at her, and silently curse her mind-reading powers.
“You’d have been burned at the stake for a witch in more reasonable times,” I announce, lifting another piece of toast just to spite her. I don’t even want it.
As I walk towards the door, I see Katie enter the room. She looks awful – her curly hair is squashed to her head on one side, and wild as a hedgerow on the other. There’s mascara panda marks under her eyes, and she’s looking distinctly wobbly on her feet. She proves this by walking right into me, bouncing away, and colliding with the side of the bar.
I widen my eyes at her, and say: “Everything all right?”
“It will be, I’m sure – not gonna lie though, quite glad I don’t have to fly a helicopter or perform open heart surgery this morning. I suspect I am still drunk. I spent the night at Trevor’s…”
“Oh my God! You didn’t? Did you?”
She laughs, then belches, and laughs again.
“Well, I did spend the night at Trevor’s, but no, I didn’t… you know what. Even though I probably would have. We were chatting in here after you left – sneaky exit, by the way – and at the end of the night, he asked if I wanted to come back to his place to see his standing stone. So, I’d had a few by then, and I thought it was a euphemism, and… okay, I was shit-faced. So I went back with him, only to be confronted by a replica stone circle in his back garden… not kidding, an actual standing stone. He talked about it for ages, and didn’t seem to have the slightest interest in sex, and then I threw up in his herb garden, and that was that… I crashed on his couch.”
I hold my hands over my mouth to stop the laughter coming out, but don’t quite manage.
“Yeah. I know,” she says, shaking her head. “I live to entertain. Seriously, though, I think it was a bit of a wake-up call… it’s been a riot, but I need to sort myself out. I’m a walking disaster zone.”
Her tone is light-hearted, but there is a sadness in her eyes that she can’t hide. She’s going through one of the toughest times in her life, and trying to cope in any way she can.
“You’re not,” I say firmly, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “You’re just a human being going through a rough patch. Allow yourself some mistakes, Katie – we all make them. Including yours truly, who is about to go off to find Jake’s brother, Josh, and apologise to him.”
She ponders this for a moment, then punches me on the shoulder, grinning.
“You know what? You’re right. Things could be worse – I could be you! Good luck, Amelia!”
She totters off, cackling as she goes, and I roll my eyes as I leave the inn. The little village is coming to life – Trevor has opened his Emporium for business, and I see the Cove Café that Connie owns doing a brisk business. I see Cally and her partner, Archie, walking by with two little girls between them – both vibrantly ginger – heading towards George’s big cottage.
I walk in the direction of the bakery, and the smell is absolutely divine, almost sucking me in with some kind of supernatural power. I glance up above the building, and see the little round porthole window of Ella’s former apartment. I recognise it from photos she sent me last summer, and know it was a haven for her. Back then I thought it looked cute – now I think it looks terrifying.
I decide I need a peace offering, and cross the green to the café. It’s a more modern building, all sleek wooden lines and vast floor-to-ceiling windows that wrap around the whole place. The front of it looks out over the green, and the back, I discovered yesterday, has the most staggering view of the whole bay and the sea stretching out into infinity. The perfect place to waste an hour or a day, or an entire life.
The café is already quite busy, and Connie is manning an enormous and very noisy coffee machine, showing absolutely no sign of a hangover. Her blonde hair is up in a messy bun with pencils stuck through to hold it in place, and she is singing along to Adele on the radio, bellowing out the chorus to Rolling in the Deep.
I wait until she finishes what she’s doing, and Cally’s son, Sam, appears to deliver the tray of drinks to a table. He gives me a vaguely nautical salute in acknowledgement.
“Morning, Lucy!” Connie says when she spots me. “What can I get you? It was fun last night, wasn’t it?”
“It was!” I reply enthusiastically, hoping she leaves it at that, but guessing from the mischievous look on her face that I am hoping in vain.
“So, is Amelia like your super-hero name? Does she wear a costume and shrink to the size of a gnat, or is she strong enough to stop meteors from crashing into Earth’s orbit?”
“Oh God,” I say, holding my face in my hands for a moment. “This is so embarrassing.”
I feel mortified – caught out by what appears to be the whole village indulging in a stupid little fantasy. It reminds me of when I was fourteen, and my mum read my diary – in which I’d included some graphic and completely made-up details about snogging the class heart-throb, Callum Jones. I hadn’t ever snogged Callum Jones – he was way out of my league – but in my fake wish-fulfilment diary, we didn’t just snog, he actually got his hand up my top (over bra only). I still cringe when I think about it now, decades later. I’m right back there – and I’ll have to explain it to my own daughter later as well. Yay.
“It really is, isn’t it?” says Connie, laughing. “But on the plus side, it’s given us all something to talk about! Don’t worry – it’ll pass. Now, do you want a coffee, or are you going to actually die of embarrassment? And if you are, could you do it outside please – not good for business!”
I shake off my shame, and tell her I’d like two coffees to go. When she asks me if I want milk or sugar, I realise I have no idea – I don’t actually know Josh at all. The only thing I’ve ever seen him drink is Becks and very expensive whisky, neither of which is appropriate right now. I frown, wondering if I should take some sachets, and she asks: “Who’s it for?”
“Ummm… Josh.”
“Right, peace offering, I get it. Well, he takes milk and two sugars.”
“Really? How do you know?”
“He’s been visiting his brother here for years, love, and that’s my super power – I never forget an order. I know now that you’re black, no sugar. It remains to be seen what Amelia drinks though.”
“Battery acid, probably… Connie, give us a couple of those almond croissants as well. Might as well go in fully loaded.”
She makes my drinks and packages the pastries, and after a brief chat with Sam, I finally get ready to leave. I don’t want to leave, because it’s very nice in the café. It smells of sugar and lavender and sea salt and coffee, and the early morning sunlight floats through the windows to dapple the whole room in stripes of pale yellow. It is also, most importantly, completely Josh-free. I stand by the door, staring out at the world beyond, until I hear Connie making loud squawking chicken noises behind me. She’s flapping her arms and bobbing her head so hard her bun collapses and blonde curls tumble all over her shoulders.
I laugh, wave at her, and force myself out. I stride firmly over the green, determined not to let myself put this off any longer, and make my way up the little iron staircase that leads to Ella’s old apartment. I pause at the doorway, and wonder if I should text Rose and tell her where I am. As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I realise she’ll still be out cold – and that Connie, Priya and Katie all know where I’m going.
I shake my head, annoyed that my mind works this way – that I feel like I have to leave evidence of where I’m going, as though some harm might come to me. Not every situation is a threatening one, but this is conflict, and my brain automatically translates conflict into threat. Into the need to leave a breadcrumb trail for people to follow.
I knock on the door as hard as I can, compensating for my worries, for the fact that what I actually want to do is give a tiny little weedy knock, shrug when nobody answers, and use it as an excuse to run away.
It’s only after I’ve hammered on the paintwork like I’m a bailiff coming to take the telly away that I wonder if he’s still in bed. If he stayed out late last night, and is sleeping off a hangover. If he’s even alone in there – because really, I have no clue. He could have a woman with him, someone he’s brought to the wedding as his plus one – I mean, it’s not like he’s the kind of man who would struggle for a date, is it?
I’m on the cusp of heading back down the stairs when I hear a shout from inside, telling me to hang on. Shit. I left it too late.
I put the pastry box and his coffee down on the step, because I’m jittery and seem likely to make a mess. I shift awkwardly from one foot to another, sipping my own coffee even though it’s too hot. I am suddenly floored with nerves, with embarrassment, with anxiety. I don’t know what to say, or how to behave, or why I am even trying. In short, I am rubbish – I am being totally Lucy and not at all Amelia. I remind myself that I am a forty-year-old woman and mother to a teenaged daughter. I might not be Amelia, but I am also not worthless.
I am giving myself this silent pep talk as he opens the door, and I immediately spit coffee all over him.
I don’t think it’s entirely my fault, because he opens the door wearing a white towel around his waist, his dark hair dripping from the shower, and his entire torso on display. He is all firm, tanned flesh – droplets of water skimming over toned muscles, a plume of deep brown hair snaking from his chest to the top of the towel. I’m only human, and he is really quite magnificent, and I don’t think I’m the only woman who would be taken aback by seeing a semi-naked hunk standing in front of them.
I am, maybe, the only woman who would react to it by choking on my own coffee, spluttering it out, and then finding myself trying to improve the situation by swearing, apologising, and reaching out to dab at his chest with my fingers.
That, of course, doesn’t help, and I end up wiping my own hands on the front of my T-shirt, leaving a brown stain on the fabric. It seems impossible for me to be around this man and keep my clothes clean.
I try to hide my fluster by crouching down to pick up his coffee cup and the pastries, trying not to look up his towel as I do so. Josh has remained totally silent throughout the whole fracas, and that isn’t helping at all.
“Sorry!” I say, straightening upright. “I had this idea I’d bring you breakfast, and apologise properly, and we’d sort things out so we don’t throw any shade at Jake and Ella’s wedding, and… well. I’m sorry. I can’t even apologise without making an idiot of myself. Plus, you’d just got clean and now I’ve made you dirty.”
Oh God. I am rambling. I am incoherent. I am an absolute pillock.
I force myself to look up and meet his eyes. I don’t know what I expect to see there – annoyance, anger, exasperation. Entirely possibly disgust. Instead, he seems to be trying to stop himself from laughing, biting down on his lip, one eyebrow quirked up at me. He has such a good face. That almost-smile I see him trying to hide is actually even more distracting than the body.
“You’d better come in,” he says, his tone amused. “If your face goes any more red you might spontaneously combust on my doorstep, and that wouldn’t be a good start to the wedding, would it?”
“Probably not – covering the village green in bits of embarrassed ginger woman probably isn’t on Ella’s wish list.”
He gestures for me to step inside, and I find myself smiling at the space I’m in. It’s an open plan living area, with a little kitchenette, and a bed that I know folds up to be a sofa. Ella loved it here, especially the circular porthole window that captures the horizon of the sea. It’s way too small for me – I’d go crazy trying to cope here – but it is also really rather perfect.
The bed is currently still a bed, the linens tangled and bunched up from the night. I try not to imagine him lying on there even less covered up than he is now, and instead place my items on the kitchen counter.
“Coffee, milk, two sugars,” I announce, “sorry about the mess. Do you want to go and get dressed?”
The last few words come out in a bit of a tumble, because I really am struggling to talk to him while he’s so… bare. And wet. And shiny. It’s just too difficult to pretend I’m not at all flummoxed by it.
His lips curl up at one corner, and I swear he seems to give me a look that tells me he knows exactly what effect he’s having on me. Impossible as it seems, I do feel my cheeks blazing even more brightly.
I walk over to the round window, and stare out at the bay. It’s a beautiful view, but frankly I’d be happy if I was gazing at the side of a concrete multi-storey car park – anything other than Josh.
“Are you up for a bit of a walk?” he asks, his voice floating towards me as he heads to the bathroom.
A walk, I think. That might be okay. Obviously, there is a substantial risk that I will trip over a snail, fall down a well, or get pooed on by a passing flock of seagulls, but if we’re going for a walk, he will definitely have to put some clothes on.
“Sounds brilliant!” I shout, maybe a little too enthusiastically.