Chapter 6
6
Boathouse Cottage, St Aidan
Long distance calls and pressing matters
Tuesday
W ho knew there was so much to find out about sea nymphs? I spent the rest of Monday on the sun lounger and was so absorbed by sprites and water kelpies I emptied two cans of Garnier Ambre Solaire dry mist without even noticing. At this rate I may spend more on sun products than I earn from selling pieces, but as I wrote in one of my lines in the sand yesterday, Every long road has a beginning . Scarlett would argue that’s not strictly true, but I’m embracing the sentiment not the facts.
When Pumpkin and I head out for this morning’s walk I take my writing stick again. With the width of the bay stretching out beside us as we amble towards St Aidan, I’m running things past him. ‘I’ll write something for you first.’
I work my bum off to make sure Pumpkin wants for nothing, but whether you’re a pony or a person, happiness is all about the small things. ‘How about I heart carrots ?’ He has to wait a few minutes until I draw a bunch of the things too. ‘And I could do This is my lucky day . If you walk across the bottom of the writing, I’ll take a photo of horseshoe prints in the sand going past it.’
It takes four attempts to master, but we persevere and the results are fab.
As Pumpkin falls back into step beside me again, I can’t help smiling. ‘After so long getting that right, my next phrase has to be Never give up .’
There’s something all-embracing and positive about writing in the sand. The noise of the waves pounding further along the beach gives it a power all its own, and for someone like me, who finds commitment hard, it’s deliciously impermanent. There’s always the thought that in no time the sea will rush in to obliterate what you’ve written, so you can put yourself out there, and push yourself to be even more daring.
With that in mind, I move on to a Kick ass , a Get off your butt , an I am, I can, I will , and as an afterthought I add in Dream BIG! By the time I’ve snapped all those, my stomach is aching for breakfast, so I’m more than thankful when we get to the harbourside.
As I pass Seaspray Cottage at the end of the beach, I see The Little Cornish Kitchen sign by the low wall to the beach and look up to see Scarlett’s friend Clemmie is on the balcony with a toddler in her arms. She points down and waves at Pumpkin, and I wave back with extra warmth because even though we’re all different shades of auburn, it’s still rare to find four redheads together. Then I head to the bakery up the hill where they are happy to serve me while I stand with Pumpkin at the door.
The carrier in my hand is fully loaded as we make our way back along the beach, and I’m still talking to Pumpkin. ‘The weight of this lot, my next message in the sand should be, Never visit a cake shop when you’re hungry .’
Pumpkin’s look tells me he’d rather press on and get back to his field.
I give his side a nudge with my thigh. ‘You were bred to be sturdy, you’re the one who should be carrying the cakes here, not me.’
He ignores that, but as we turn towards Boathouse Cottage I’m feeling so upbeat that I take my phone out. Before I know it I’m surfing my can-do wave and tapping out an email to the editor of my favourite magazine.
Morning, Fenna, writing from the beach with a pocket full of shells and the waves breaking over my toes. Staying in a gorgeous Cornish cottage with views of the ocean, all the way to October. If you’d like me to send you and the readers a first-hand taste of Cornwall, you know where I am.
Waving from St Aidan, with the wind in my hair, Betty xxx
I add my mobile number and the full Boathouse Cottage address for authenticity, and that’s it.
When I read it back, it sounds a lot more like something Scarlett would send than me, but it’s too late– it’s gone.
I turn Pumpkin out in the field and fill up his water bucket. When I get back inside and put the kettle on for coffee, the first surprise is that it’s already midday. The second surprise is that Miles is in the house rather than out somewhere, and the third is what he’s doing.
‘You’re ironing ?’ Without a shirt on! Don’t you just hate it when unpleasant guys strip off and they’re disgustingly tanned, toned and attractive under their clothes?
He looks up at me. ‘You’ll find the board and iron in the end cupboard in the mud room when you need them. If you’d like me to leave them out for you, I’m only doing a couple of T-shirts.’
Though stunned by the half-naked man in the kitchen, I was still able to wonder why would anyone iron those?
I threw on three different sheer cotton dresses earlier, nipped a belt around my waist, and topped it with a cropped sweater that’s falling off one shoulder. Far from needing a press, the whole outfit works because of the creases.
I point at my crumpled skirt. ‘Do I look as if I iron?’ I take in Miles’s bemused stare. ‘Thanks for asking, I’ll get the iron out myself if I need it.’ I already know I won’t!
I sound a lot more chilled than I feel. As for Miles, I’d be happier if he weren’t around at all, because I get a weird adrenalin rush every time I have to even look at the hollows in his cheeks or the stubble shadow on his face. Add in the flashes of muscled torso, and my whole body is thrumming.
With what I’m trying to put behind me, I’m shocked that I’m actually reacting to a man. I can only think it’s my subconscious kicking in to let me run the hell away from those pecs and that gently etched six pack and the arrogant prat they’re attached to who is parading them like nothing’s going on.
I know I’m a libertarian, but for the sake of my pounding heart, maybe we should be making some house rules on exposure. I mean, how would he feel if he came in to find me ironing in a bralette?
I give a cough. ‘For the record, isn’t ironing semi-nude a health and safety issue?’
He laughs. ‘I’ll be careful not to burn myself.’
‘Even so…’ I open my mouth to argue this, but as my phone rings all I can think is, if this is New York calling they must have got up before they went to bed.
I jump and press accept. ‘Scarlett! You’ve started early! How are you getting on?’ Somehow I’ve also accidentally switched on speakerphone, because my voice is echoing back at me.
When she replies her voice is so loud it’s bouncing off the ceiling. ‘Super busy. I’ve been doing calls since six.’
There’s no hope of privacy, so I’ll keep this simple. ‘And how’s Tate?’
Miles is shaking his head, mouthing ‘not now’ at me across the kitchen.
Scarlett sniffs. ‘Straight off the plane and into the office.’
I’m so dismayed for her I blurt out more than I should. ‘What happened to taking time for the two of you? That’s why you wanted to go!’
She ignores that and moves straight on. ‘I’ve organised a hay delivery. They’re dropping it in the outhouse later in the week.’ She turns the spotlight back onto me. ‘Since when did you play Britpop, Betty?’
I’m pointing at the mini speaker further along the island unit, making cut throat actions to Miles but Scarlett’s on to us. ‘I distinctly heard a line from Champagne Supernova just before. Is someone there with you? ’
I’m stamping on the ember before it bursts into flames. ‘Alexa’s gone rogue, or maybe Zofia left it on.’
‘Zofia came yesterday, Betty.’ She has a point there, but the music is off now. ‘I meant to warn you– I bumped into Miles Appleton last time we were down.’
I take a gulp.
‘You know, he’s the one who?—’
I need to stop her! ‘Sorry, you’re breaking up. I can’t hear you, talk again soon…’ I end the call with a shout, and turn to Miles.
His eyes are wide with curiosity and laughter. ‘I’m the one who what? What did I do? ’
I move on quickly. ‘I’m not comfortable lying to Scarlett.’
That distracts him. ‘There’s no point making unnecessary problems. Tate and Scarlett are bound to compare notes soon.’
I watch him make meticulous folds in his T-shirts, then glance at my own clothes tumbling out of my bag beyond the sofas. ‘Why aren’t you at your office?’
He hesitates then he grins. ‘Working from home today.’
My phone rings again. ‘If this is Scarlett calling back, I might be best just to tell her now.’
When I look, it’s not her number, but I answer it anyway.
‘If you just sent me an email from Cornwall, you must be Betty? This is Fenna Weaver, editor of Inspire magazine.’
She actually rang me! My mouth falls open with shock, then it hits me I need to get my shit together. ‘I am. I did. How can I help?’
‘How wonderful that you’ll be holidaying for so long! I’m looking for six hundred lyrical words on the theme of “Garden”. I recall you write well about fairies?’ She sounds as confident, well-spoken and pleased with herself as Miles.
‘I have done.’ My mind is racing. ‘I could do some tips on how to attract them– a bit like you would do for blackbirds or bees? By Friday?’
‘By four this afternoon would be better. And after that, if you could make me a list of local makers and their specialities. You know the kind of people we like to spotlight?’
Inspire ’s submissions requirements are imprinted on my brain and I rattle them off. ‘ Ordinary yet remarkable, simultaneously relatable, interesting and photogenic. ’
‘That’s it. We’ll see how they fit with future themes, and take it from there.’
‘Fabulous…’ I’m pondering how many thank yous would be too many, but I’m saved the trouble, because she’s already gone.
Miles is unplugging the iron. ‘Looks like you’re working from home too.’ He pulls a face. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing. Maybe take your phone off speaker next time.’
The way Fenna and Miles come across, I can’t begin to imagine what it must be like to feel that entitled! It’s seriously not the kind of club I’d ever want to join. But if Fenna needs bulletins from the real world, that’s something I can do. I have three short hours to prove to her that I’m up to the job.