Chapter 9
9
In Pumpkin’s field, Boathouse Cottage, St Aidan
Buckets, spades and transatlantic fantasies
Wednesday
I couldn’t risk another day like Thursday afternoon. I hate conflict, but I refuse to let myself be pushed around, so in the hope of getting away from Boathouse Cottage and staying out of trouble, I throw myself into my work. But things don’t always work out the way you hope.
Six days later, I’m lying on a rug on the grass near Pumpkin, on the phone to Scarlett, explaining why I still haven’t landed a commission to write a Cornish piece, and silently cursing myself for ever thinking that this would be easy.
‘All Fenna says is “keep on with the legwork, Betty, you’re bound to bring me a gem soon.”’
The other major change is that I’ve also made a permanent relocation to the field for my outdoor working because it’s the one place where I can guarantee Miles isn’t going to turn up. I’d never usually bore Scarlett with descriptions of my life, but if I fill every space in our conversation with me, at least I avoid having to lie about the outrageous and unbearable housemate she still doesn’t know is living here.
I carry on without a pause. ‘I’m desperate for unique selling points, but whenever I come across the right amount of “unusual” there’s always a downside. The company making knicker fabric from abandoned fishing nets sounded fabulous, but their range was far too racy for the target audience.’
This is Scarlett’s territory so she forces her way in with a laugh. ‘I imagine Inspire readers will wear undies made from organic cotton, not recycled polyester.’
I let out a groan, because this is exactly what I’m up against. ‘I’ve trawled the towns and villages right along the coast, I’ve sent hundreds of pictures to Fenna in bite-sized batches to tempt her, so I’m not sure where to go next.’
Scarlett butts in again as I tail off. ‘You’ve been chatting so fast I haven’t had a chance to ask– how’s the house?’
‘Wonderful.’ I’m kicking myself for letting that question through at all, because it’s not just awful: it’s gone from bad to horrendous.
When Miles isn’t doing laundry, he spreads himself all over the sun terrace, which I thought I’d bagged for myself. Worse still, he makes a kind of pretence of asking me if I mind if he sits there, and is down before I can reply. Once there he appears to do zero work, but manages a maximum amount of exposure of hot male body parts that are completely distracting.
Back in the kitchen we clash on everything from how to slice lemons to how much salt chips need. Every time I eat a pastry he follows me around with a mini vacuum picking up the crumbs. The other day he asked me if I knew my shirt didn’t have a back in it. How has he missed the bare midriff trend if he’s got a clothes company? As if the hot naked glimpses aren’t bad enough, even worse is him insisting that floors and furnishings are kept entirely clear (of my clothes), and he’s also got this obsession with playing powerful motivational classics. If I walk in one more time on his speaker blasting the Marriage of Figaro Overture at full volume from the top of the microwave while simultaneously getting a view of his rippling back muscles as he leans into the fridge, I may have to move out.
As things stand, I’m making the most of a bad situation; my clothes are rammed into a couple of rucksacks beyond the sofa where I also sleep, and I go in and out to Pumpkin and my new outdoor field-office through the French doors that open from the living room. If I’m honest, it’s very close to how I’ve lived for years, but with the addition of luxury limestone flooring instead of lino with the pattern scuffed off.
The devastating part of the equation is a hundred per cent down to Miles; add him in and it’s like the world has turned upside down and been shaken very hard. I’m really not a grumbler, and I know these are very much first-world problems, but none of it is good. If anyone had told me one small man could be this annoying to live with, I’d never have believed them. So much for me imagining life with a housemate would be seamless and trouble-free.
Scarlett’s butting in again. ‘Have you seen Miles at all?’
‘What does he do– for a job?’ I’ve blurted it out before I can stop myself.
She sounds slightly awestruck. ‘Miles actually founded the Dedication label.’
Even I’ve heard of that. ‘Jeans and sweatshirts for rich people? That cost arms and legs?’
‘That’s the one.’ She hesitates. ‘I’m not sure about now. Tate’s friends jump in and out of companies so fast it’s hard to keep up. Why?’
With that explained, I’m going to handle this with a true statement rather than a direct answer. ‘If I came across that man on the edge of a huge hole that someone had very thoughtfully dug in the sand, I’d have to push him in. That’s all.’ That expresses exactly how I feel without giving away our actual situation. And him owning a label that well known explains the attitude.
I push this back to her. ‘How about you– ten days on, have you even seen Tate yet?’
She draws in a breath. ‘Let’s just say, if I saw Tate next to a hole on the beach, I’m afraid I’d be very tempted to do the same.’
It takes a moment to grasp the magnitude of what she’s implying there.
‘Scarlie, you can’t mean that?’ With a whole Atlantic Ocean between us, it’s hard to tell.
‘Obviously, I’d have to locate him first.’ She finally laughs. ‘I’m sure he’ll come home before midnight one day soon, but it’s not stopping my enjoyment any, thanks for asking. You were right: the cheesecake here is fabulous.’
I’m wiping the sweat off my brow in mock relief. ‘Phew, at least you’re having the time of your life.’
‘I totally am. We’ll talk again soon, love you lots.’ There’s a second of silence. ‘I’m not telling you how to live your life, but with your pieces, Betsy… you might find what you’re looking for more easily if you stop trying so hard.’
And then she’s gone.
I roll my eyes up to the cornflower blue sky, then look at Pumpkin nuzzling at a patch of grass. ‘That’s just the kind of useless advice a successful person like Scarlett would pass on.’ I blow out a breath. ‘What I need are tips for failures.’
I’ve used up the wave of optimism I arrived on, my attempt to find sensational ideas for Fenna has fizzled to nothing and I’m completely stuffing up being a housemate. Maybe Scarlett is right; I really do have nothing to lose by putting work stress to one side and doing something for me for the afternoon.
I reach for my phone and call Zofia.