Starting Over in Starshine Cove (Starshine Cove #4)

Chapter 1

ONE

Summer, twenty-five years ago

I’m driving too fast. I know I am, but I don’t seem able to slow down. My foot feels like it’s stuck on the gas pedal, the engine is roaring, and the brake seems like a distant land.

I need to slow down.

I push the pedal a bit harder, and I go even faster. This, I think, laughing as I zoom past a Porsche Carrera, is the story of my life – knowing I should be doing one thing, and actually doing the opposite.

I’m so tired. I haven’t slept properly for days, and I haven’t eaten solid food for almost as long. I was working in the restaurant until the early hours, then went clubbing with people I barely know – because it seemed like a good idea at the time.

The club was awful, all neon lights and coked-up monsters, the music a tuneless attack on my eardrums. I should have gone home, but I danced my way through it.

I went straight from there to a business meeting with my agent, and the TV producer who is offering me a slot on his new reality show. Celebrity head judge, at your service. I don’t think they were put off by my appearance – a skin-tight pink mini- dress and last night’s make-up. In fact, I saw the producer’s eyes light up as I wandered in clutching an iced coffee, sucking desperately on the straw. I looked like a train wreck – I am a train wreck – and maybe he thinks that will make good television. Me with a hangover, telling wannabe chefs where they went wrong with their bouillabaisse.

He’s a good-looking guy, Zack the producer – long hair, broad shoulders, glasses that give him a touch of intellect. We’ve always flirted whenever we’ve met; there’s a spark there for sure. Even in my fatigued post-clubbing state, I winked at him as I blustered my way into the room. He gave me the kind of lop-sided grin that would normally make my heart beat faster. But that day it just confirmed what I already suspected – my heart is pretty much dead these days.

My agent, Sal, just shook her head. She’s used to me by now. Used to the crazy nights and panda eyes and the fact that I’m late for everything. I think she’d like to kick my arse, but there’s too much money at stake – the TV show, the recipe book, the tour. I’d like to kick my own arse, but that’s too much trouble.

I left the meeting with an even bigger deal than I walked in with – so much money it makes my eyes swivel. I should’ve been happy. I should’ve been thrilled – I have everything I’ve ever wanted. Everything I’ve ever worked for.

None of it helped. None of it made me feel less empty inside. Not the Michelin star, or the big-name endorsements, or the possibility of seeing my own stupid face plastered over billboards and TV screens. Not the men, or the cash, or the fact that I was winning at life. Technically, at least.

I swaggered out of the TV offices and went shopping in Mayfair. Spent a small fortune on a new handbag and some killer heels to add to the dozens I already have. Realised that I had nobody to tell about my TV deal, that nobody in my life would care unless there was something in it for them.

I went home to my swanky flat in Kensington and tried to sleep. Still in last night’s clothes, still in the make-up. My hair is naturally blonde and curly, but I’d had it straightened the day before. When I woke up from a restless half-hour nap, it was rebelling, and my head was the size of a planet stuck on top of my skinny body. For someone who cooks for a living, I’m not very good at eating.

I stared at the mirror, hating what I saw so much that I went into the kitchen, got one of my fancy Le Creuset pans, and threw it at the glass. I didn’t look any worse when it shattered – in fact the crooked fun-house version of me was closer to how I was feeling inside.

After that, I got in the car. It’s a nice car, German, a sleek machine built for eating up the miles on an autobahn. It’s the kind of car that a person like me most definitely shouldn’t have. Right now, I’m proving that by heading into my third hour of relentless driving. I have no idea where I am, no idea how I got here, no idea what time or day it is. I’m going so fast I feel like Sandra Bullock in Speed , but at twice the MPH.

I’m driving too fast, and I need to slow down.

I’m on a busy A-road, surrounded by people who are far more sensible than me. I spot a big seven-seater packed with kids – mum and dad up front, children between the ages of maybe three and ten in the back. The dad gives me a worried look, and one of the boys sticks his tongue out at me through the window.

I return the gesture, and wonder what that would be like. To not be driving too fast. To be driving sensibly, with a bald husband who looks like the kind of man who could build flat-pack furniture, raising a gaggle of offspring. It would be nice, I think, blinking my sore eyes rapidly to try and clear them of the tiredness. Nice, but not for me.

I zig-zag across into their lane, tucking myself behind them. I see their hazard lights flash on, realise that I’m too close. That I am almost touching their bumper.

I need to slow down – not just for my sake. I can’t hurt anyone – the only person I hurt is myself. I don’t want to crash into that family, ruin their holiday or maybe their entire life. I need to remove my disaster zone from this busy place, from these busy people, before I infect them.

I see a turning coming up on the left. There is no sign, and I have no idea where I am going – as usual these days. I have been ambitious and determined my whole life, taking every challenge that the universe threw at me and turning it into a strength. Surviving my childhood, for one. Managing my first restaurant by the time I was twenty-one. The first Michelin star at twenty-six. Now, at thirty, I have even more – and none of it makes me happy. I am driving too fast because I need to escape my own life.

I twist the steering wheel, taking the mystery turn while I’m still in third gear. The engine shrieks, the tyres skid, and I barely keep control as I rocket down the road. It’s quiet, no other traffic. No other potential victims. I stare ahead through the sunlight, seeing a glittering patch of turquoise blue sea at the bottom of the steep hill. I wonder how far away it is, and whether I’ll be able to brake in time to avoid it. My next challenge.

Foot on the pedal, I wind the windows down and feel the breeze on my face. The speed should be exhilarating, but I barely notice the blur of my surroundings. I am in my metal cocoon, and the rest doesn’t matter.

Faster and faster I go, only realising quite how fast when I see a cat run into the road. Right in front of me. A black one, which is either good or bad luck depending on your superstition.

“Shit!” I yell, swerving to avoid it. I can’t kill a cat. I’ve already broken a mirror, and what if this cat has already used up eight of its lives? I am many things, most of them bad, but I am not a cat murderer.

The next few minutes are a riot of noise, panic, and a brief feeling of weightlessness as the car seems to fly, and my body is lifted up beneath the seatbelt. I am scared, but I am still laughing – right up until the point where I black out.

I don’t know how long I am out for, but when I regain consciousness, I am being smothered by a now-deflating airbag. When I bought the car it came as a fancy option and cost more money, so of course I said yes to it. Now, I think, batting it aside with weak hands, it has possibly saved my life. I have no idea how I feel about that. If I could go back in time, to that day in the car showroom, would I still choose it? Have things really got that bad?

My seatbelt won’t come loose no matter how many times I click it, and all I can see through the windscreen is dirt. It appears that I am stuck in a ditch. This definitely never happened to Sandra Bullock.

I feel a bit battered, and pretty bruised, but mainly I feel frustrated – because now I am not going too fast. I am going nowhere. I shake my head to try and clear the mist, and realise that I am bleeding from my scalp. I’m a chef, I’m used to cuts, and blood doesn’t bother me – not a night goes by that we don’t crack open the first-aid case. I rub my hair clear of my eyes, and my fingers come away red. Huh.

The windows were open, and I am surrounded by green stuff. Broken branches, sheared tree roots, a few pink flowers hanging desolately from crushed stems. I start to swear, because the situation seems to call for it. I’ve just let out an especially ripe string of curses when I hear a voice.

“Hey! Are you all right?”

It’s a man, and obviously a stupid one.

“No, I’m not all right!” I yell back. “I’m stuck in this damn car!”

I follow up with another set of f-bombs, and if the air could actually change colour, it would definitely be blue.

I hear laughter from outside. Annoying.

“Yeah. Right. I’m guessing that you’re doing fine, or you wouldn’t have the energy to swear like that. I’ve called for help, won’t be too long. What’s your name?”

“None of your effing business!”

“Oh. It’s like that, is it? Do you have a head injury or are you always this rude?”

“Both! And… well, it’s Connie. My name is Connie.”

“Is it really Constance?”

“Only when I’m naughty.”

“That’s probably a lot of the time, I suspect. Look, Connie, I’m going to try and prise open the door with a crowbar, okay?”

“Why do you have a crowbar?” I ask, suddenly a bit concerned. I am in the middle of nowhere, and not a soul knows where I am. “Do you have duct tape and rope as well?”

“I do, as it happens, but don’t worry, Constance – I’m trying to help you, not abduct you. I’m a man who likes peace and quiet, and I don’t think I’d get much of that with you around.”

I can’t help but smile at that, despite the circumstances. He’s dead right.

I hear him clamber down into the ditch, but all I can see of him from this angle is his hands and arms. He goes to work on the door, but nothing happens apart from some horrible grinding sounds.

“Constance, I can’t get it open – do you want to wait until someone comes with a truck that can hoist the car out, or do you want me to smash the window?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re a smash-the-window kind of girl.”

I smile once more. He’s dead right again. I tell him to go for it, and he instructs me to cover my eyes and look away.

Within seconds he’s broken the glass, and used the crowbar to clear the frame of any jagged shards. He leans down to peer inside the window, and when our eyes meet I literally lose my breath.

He is gorgeous. Blonde hair, diamond-blue eyes, tanned skin. Crinkly laughter lines that finish me off. He’s not my normal type. He doesn’t look like a bad boy. He looks decent, and kind, and strong. Like he spends a lot of time outdoors, and lives healthily. He’s wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his arms are lean and muscular. Maybe he’s a farmer, or a surfer, or an angel. Yeah. That’s it – maybe I’m actually dead, and this is heaven.

He grins at me, making those laughter lines crease, and I feel dizzy – in a good way.

“I’m Simon,” he says, reaching in and offering his hand. “Do you want me to get you out of there? The sides of the ditch are pretty steep, and I’m not sure you’re dressed right for a climb.”

I glance down at the pink mini-dress, and the stupidly tall wedge heel sandals. No. I’m dressed for nothing good at all.

“Yes please,” I murmur, leaving my fingers in his. “I just need to find my new bag. It’s Louis Vuitton.”

“I’m sure that means something, but let’s concentrate on you first, okay? The bag can wait.”

I want to argue. I want to swear at him, which is my usual response to anybody telling me what to do – but I don’t. Something about his calm, open face and his confident manner quells all of that. It’s as if the fire that’s normally raging inside me is being smothered by this good Samaritan with the bright blue eyes.

He double-checks the frame for glass, then uses the crowbar as a lever to loosen the seatbelt. It’s like he’s been in this situation a thousand times before. He then tells me to reach out towards him. Being skinny is finally good for something, and I easily slither through the window. Simon scoops me straight into his arms, cradling me against his chest. He frowns as he looks at me, and says: “That’s a nasty cut, Connie. Let’s get you somewhere safe, shall we?”

Safe , I think, gazing up at those eyes. I can’t remember the last time I felt safe – but right here, in this man’s arms, I wonder if it might just be possible after all.

Spring, twenty years ago

I am sitting with Simon in the caves that are hidden off to one side of the beach. The little splash of turquoise that I’d seen from the car that first day turned out to be Starshine Cove, the place that I now call home.

A lot has happened in the last few years. I have abandoned my work in London. I have been sacked by my agent, and completely blown all chance of becoming a celebrity. I have ditched my Louis Vuitton bag, sold my flat, and donated all my designer duds to charity. I shed my skin, and disappeared from the world I’d known.

In return, I have gained more than I could ever have imagined. A husband. An extended family. A community. A beautiful little boy called James. Plus, to be honest, over a stone in baby weight that I suspect I might not ever lose. I am rounder and softer and happier than I have ever been in my whole life. This little village by the sea in a hidden corner of Dorset has brought me purpose and contentment. By slowing down I have filled up.

These caves, the place where I am now sitting on a blanket with the love of my life, are my favourite place. It’s dark deep inside them, but it’s magical. We have a torch with us, and Simon switches it on and sweeps it around the cavern.

As always, it takes my breath away – as the beam of light dances through the darkness and shimmies over the cave walls, they shine and glitter and twinkle. Apparently it’s some kind of freak geological thing, but I don’t care about the science – it’s just so beautiful. As soon as the light touches, the place sparkles with reds and greens and blues and purples. The colours glimmer over our heads and all around us, ordinary on the surface but dazzling in the right light – it’s like being surrounded by precious gems.

The first time Simon brought me here I’d been in Starshine Cove for three days. There wasn’t much phone reception and hardly any internet either, so I’d decided the village was the perfect place to hunker down and get a grip on my life. I’d always intended to go back – to patch things up with my agent, to flirt with Zack the producer until he forgave me, to return to my night-time routine of screaming at my team in the restaurant. To keep running on and on and on, with not even fumes left in the tank.

Somehow, none of that happened. Simon’s kind blue eyes and gentle humour distracted me. Then I met his family, and they welcomed me. And then he brought me here, to these caves, and they bewitched me. I’d stood in this exact same spot, looking around in astonishment as Simon revealed the shimmering rainbow that was all around us. It was one of those moments – ones so life-changing that even someone as pig-headed as me recognised it.

I’d looked up at his smile, and known – with absolute one hundred per cent certainty – that I’d found my place. That I didn’t need the Louis Vuitton, or the fame, or the agent. I just needed this place, and time to heal.

I’m not sure I expected to stay forever, but that’s what happened. I sold up in London, and opened my own business here. Not a swish restaurant where tempers boil as hot as the gas and where the pressure threatens to choke you every night. Just a café, perched on the edge of the world, with views to infinity and beyond. Just a haven, a heaven, a safe place filled with goodness. Like these caves – nothing special on the surface but made of pure magic.

Simon asked me to marry him right here in these caves, getting down on one knee with the starshine all aglow around us. We talked about having a baby right here in these caves. We made plans for the café, and for our future, and for our lives together. All right here.

And now, we are back – holding a flimsy scrap of printed paper and staring at it in disbelief.

“So, Constance Llewellyn,” Simon says, using my full naughty name. “This is going to be fun, isn’t it?”

My hand goes to my tummy with a sense of both wonder and fear. Just one more, we’d decided. One more baby. James is almost four, and he is the light of our lives. A little blonde-haired monster with a smile that shines even brighter than the jewelled walls of the cave. I didn’t know it was possible to love someone as much as I love James, and I’d been worried that having another baby would be wrong – surely there was no way I could love anyone else as much?

“Don’t be daft,” Simon had said, giving me that lop-sided grin of his. “Love like this doesn’t come with limits. You don’t run out.”

“Maybe. But I’ll gain even more weight, and things will be even more chaotic, and how do you know that I won’t run out?”

“You could stand to gain a bit more weight – there’ll just be more of you to love. You’ll always be perfect to me, Connie. You could double in size, shave your hair off and start wearing clip- on elf ears. You’d still be the sexiest woman in the world. And I know you won’t run out of love because I know you. You’re made entirely of love.”

“And cake. I think I’m made of cake.”

“Possibly a scone or two – but mainly love.”

It is, as ever, unbelievable to me – that I literally crash-landed into this life. This place. Into the arms of this man, with his strength and warmth and never-ending laughter. I’ve been so very, very lucky – and now, here we are. Looking at that scrap of paper.

“You said just one more,” I murmur, stroking the blurred black and white image. “One more.”

“I suppose I lied. But how was I to know it would be twins? It’ll all be fine, my love. It’s our next adventure together.”

Twins. Two babies who will come into our world later in the year. Two siblings for James. Two more grandchildren for George and Molly. Two more everything. I am excited, but I am also scared. Simon has a lot more faith in me than I do, which is one of the reasons I love him so much.

He takes the scan photo from my hands and puts it away in his wallet. He wraps me up in his strong arms, kissing my neck in a way that is both gentle and promising.

“Stop that right now,” I say, not sounding very convincing. “It’s behaviour like that that got me into this mess…”

“It’s not a mess, Connie,” he replies, stroking my hair back from my face. “It’s our life. And I love it.”

Autumn, last year

I am pathetic. Truly pathetic. I am a grown woman in her fifties, and I am sleeping in a single bed in a room that smells of dirty socks and sweat. The floor is non-existent, coated with an array of discarded clothes, gym equipment and a scattering of video game controllers and chargers. There’s a mouldy towel bundled up in one corner, and a collection of used mugs beneath the desk that seem to be growing their own biosphere. I don’t care about any of it, because it’s all part of my boy.

Last night, I was also pathetic. Last night, I slept in a single bed in a tidier, more fragrant room: pale pink walls decorated with Taylor Swift posters and the scent of Marc Jacobs’ Daisy lingering on the pillowcase. The only clutter was an overflowing jewellery box and a scattering of hair slides on the dresser. I’d spent ages picking them up and stroking the stray strands of long blonde hair that still lived in them, like I was about to steal them for a DNA test.

I look at my phone, see that it is not quite six a.m. I stretch and clamber out of the covers. My bare feet hit one of the plastic boxes for a game called Overwatch, the corner digging into my sole. I put on my slippers and pick my way across the obstacle course to the landing.

Downstairs, I make coffee on auto-pilot. I treat myself to a fancy pod-based mocha, and a dollop of squirty cream on top. I sit with it at the dining table and look around at the kitchen. It’s tidier these days – the table is clear of everything other than the fruit bowl and a copy of Hello! magazine I was reading the night before. Guilty pleasures.

Not so very long ago, this table was always covered in stuff. Textbooks, chargers, notepads – the detritus of my wonderfully feral children. My eyes go to the huge fridge in the corner, the one I always used to call my external hard drive because it was covered in appointment cards and to-do lists and scraps of Very Important Paper.

If fridges could talk – and I kind of wish they could right now – this one would have a few tales to tell. When the kids were small, there were always brightly coloured invitations to parties at soft play centres, school letters, pictures they’d drawn. It was chaotic but joyous at the same time, the mess of our lives.

Now, there are some photos, a postcard from James, and a reminder that I need to go for a smear test. Not so joyous.

One of the pictures shows us all together – me, Simon, James and the twins, Dan and Sophie. The twins were fourteen, and the shot was taken at Disneyland Paris. They thought they were too old for Disney, but Mickey Mouse has a way of shaving the years off everyone. They lost their pretend cool as soon as they saw Sleeping Beauty’s Castle, its towers looming behind us in the picture. We’re all smiling, drunk on Disney, queasy from rollercoasters, all wearing giant mouse ears.

That was our last family holiday together. We didn’t know that at the time – nobody ever does, do they? We take it all for granted – enjoy ourselves, and then start planning the next one. Always assuming that there will be a next one. That’s probably a good thing. You can’t go through life expecting the worst to happen – at least that’s what I tell myself. Most of the time, I manage to trick myself – but underneath, there’s always that layer of fear. Of waiting for a phone call that changes everything.

Simon died a few months after that photo was taken. My beautiful, beloved man – my saviour. The father of my children, the love of my life. My best friend. On mornings like this, I don’t know how I have survived so long without him.

I have done okay, I tell myself. I have not only survived; I have lived. The café is doing well, I have friends, I have my father-in-law, George, and my brother-in-law, Archie. We’re linked forever, because the car crash that claimed Simon also took Sandy, his sister. We’ve helped each other through it, and we’ve raised our children, and we’ve shared our strengths and our tears.

But now, everything feels so damn bleak. James is working in Jersey, which is a whole ocean away, and three weeks ago Sophie and Dan went off to start the next phase of their lives. Dan is studying medicine in Liverpool, and Sophie is at catering college in London. They have new friends and subsidised bars and fresh places to explore – they are living in big, brash cities instead of this tiny village where they grew up. They are loving it, and I am happy for them.

I’m happy for them, but right now I am sad for myself. Does that make me a bad person? Does that make me a terrible mother? Is it wicked that a tiny part of me hoped they’d want to come home? It is, I suspect – but I can’t help it. I was okay when they first left – I was as excited as they were, and to start with they messaged and called all the time. My phone was forever pinging as a new photo landed. I suspect they were worried about leaving me, too, but now I’ve done too good a job of convincing them that I’m okay.

I’m not okay, I decide. At least I’m not okay this morning. This morning, I am brittle and sad and grey. My empty nest is closing in on me, and I am choking on how lonely I feel. I have been a mother for a very long time. I am still a mother, but my babies are all grown up, and nobody needs me anymore. I feel useless, a waste of space – a person without a point.

I know this will pass. I know it is not only the kids leaving – it is a combination of that, of missing Simon like I’d miss my own heart, and the sneaky joys of the menopause. A toxic brew, but one that I know will blow away like a cloud on a sunny day. Until the next time, anyway.

I stare at that photo from Disneyland. Simon’s mouse ears are wonky, and his grin makes him look like a child trapped inside a grown man’s body.

“I know what you’d say.” I speak out loud. “You’d say ‘Constance Llewellyn, stop feeling sorry for yourself, put on some Dolly Parton, and dance around the kitchen.’ That was always your answer to everything.”

He always used to say I looked like Dolly, which I take as a compliment. I nod, finishing my coffee. I have a squirty cream moustache on my upper lip that I decide to leave there. I open Spotify on my phone, and find 9 to 5 , smiling as the opening chords play out their familiar dum-dum-dum-dum-dum rhythm.

The music kicks in, or maybe it’s the coffee – I’ve poured myself a cup of ignition, and suddenly I am full of energy. I dance and twirl and clap my hands, singing along at the top of my voice. I shimmy around the kitchen island, and use a spatula as a microphone, and play air piano on the dining table. My hair is flying, and my heart is pumping, and I am smiling.

I feel a million times better by the time I finish, and I make a solemn vow to myself: I will be more Dolly.