Chapter 14
14
Boathouse Cottage, St Aidan
Inhale, exhale
Saturday
‘W hat the hell happened here?’
It’s Saturday morning, and since I put my newly acquired screen into position Pumpkin and I have spent the morning ambling between the cottage and the harbour, bringing more of my clothes from the car. The sun has come out, and so have the visitors, but as Pumpkin was feeling especially sociable, we’ve only managed two trips so far.
With the screen’s four sections zigzagging across the floor between the kitchen island and the sofa, it’s given me a surprisingly useful amount of draping and hanging room, and once things are up there, they’ll be easily visible, which is a feat in itself. No more digging in rucksacks for lost tulle skirts or vintage flowery tea dresses or silky hot pant shorts– they’re all out on glorious show. Not only that, but I can also get to them from both sides.
As expected, it took approximately five seconds for Miles to walk in, take in the changes at my end of the tranquillity zone and kick off with his complaints.
He’s so predictable, I’m ready for him. ‘I know the screen has patina, but if I cover it with vintage wallpaper, I’m hoping it will make a pretty signature piece slash room divider.’
He’s shaking his head. ‘It’s not the screen, it’s what’s on it– it’s like your laundry trail has gained a fourth dimension.’
I look through the open square window and exchange what the eff? glances with Pumpkin who is out in the field, nibbling grass. Then I turn back to Miles. ‘Thank you for making the room so tidy, Betty, and don’t the sweet peas on the kitchen island look gorgeous… might be nice, Miles.’ Then I have another thought. ‘If you’re thinking of folding up my clothes, don’t you dare!’
He blows out his cheeks. ‘Fine, I give in. Take the bedroom. Permanently.’
I’m laughing. ‘I don’t want the bedroom. I like it in this bit.’ I tilt my head towards the riot of colour cascading over the screen. ‘This isn’t a wind-up, this is just who I am. I’ve never had this much space before. It’s actually amazing.’
He pulls a face. ‘Stars above, you’re not even joking?’
‘I’m not.’
As I confirm that, his despair is so real I go past the point of hilarity, through amusement, and reach a place where there’s a twang in my chest. Truly, I never ever saw myself getting to the point of feeling sorry for Miles Appleton, but for a fleeting second I do. Obviously it’s completely misplaced, because at the end of it all he’s still the same knob he’s always been.
He’s staring at me intently. ‘Not wanting to force you to overshare, but if this place is big, where were you before?’
I take a breath. ‘I was at uni in Bristol, and after that I mostly stayed at an animal sanctuary in Somerset and paid my rent with jobs around the yard.’
‘Totally rocking the Country Living dream, then?’
I blow out a breath. ‘A room the size of a cupboard in a clapped-out porta cabin wouldn’t be for everyone, but I enjoyed the animals. And the rural pieces I wrote when I was there came straight from the heart, and the readers seemed to like that.’
He nods. ‘That’s why you’re all over the pisky stuff.’
I smile. ‘I can write all day about hay meadows and Morris dancers, and I’ve blown a few rural myths out of the water in my time– there’s no such thing as micro pigs.’
His eyes are wide. ‘I’ll take your word on that.’
I hesitate for a moment, but it’s only polite to ask. ‘I landed here when the refuge was evicted by a property developer. How did you end up in St Aidan?’
He shakes his head. ‘I came down to Cornwall to help someone, and when she unexpectedly found she could manage without me, Tate suggested I stay here.’
Well, that’s cleared that up. There’s no ambiguity with the pronouns there. He definitely came here because of a woman, and there’s no reason at all I should feel like I’ve had a pony kick in my stomach knowing that.
He looks down. ‘I had my foot in a pot at the time, too.’
I remember Zofia mentioned this. ‘A broken ankle and a shattered heart. No wonder Tate caved.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘It wasn’t quite like that.’
It never is. This is guys all over. They never truly open up; they’d always rather leave you guessing.
If you think that the card Clemmie gave me yesterday has been on my mind, you’d be right. During my first trip into town this morning I actually dismissed it entirely as I waved up at her on her balcony. Then I walked back into the cottage to find Beethoven’s 9th symphony bouncing off the kitchen roof, so the second time in town I got directions to the Net Loft, and found I was looking at a simple whitewashed building just off the end of the harbourside which had been split up into small shop units. The end one looked empty, but since I’m looking for a bedroom not a retail space, I put it in the too difficult pile, went back to my car and got on with the rest of my life. So that’s the end of that.
Miles is frowning now. ‘Excuse me, but what exactly are you wearing there?’
What was I saying about him being an arse? Flipping the attention back onto me to avoid being straight himself. I look down to remind myself. ‘Paper bag shorts in floral cotton, a bra top, two silk kimonos and some fairy wings.’ I take in his grimace. ‘They were under the front seat of my car, I put them on to carry them back.’
I dress to please myself, and I always have, and I love seeing Miles wince at my combinations because it’s like me waving a finger at his boring conventionality. If Miles were selecting a woman’s outfit, I imagine he’d choose a short, strong-coloured satin cocktail dress, with eff-me heels, and bare shoulders. My point is, it would be very obvious, but even more, it would be a million miles from the pale satin bridesmaid’s slip I was flopping about in at Scarlett’s wedding two years ago.
In the interest of keeping this balanced, I bat the conversation straight back to him again. ‘Would you like to tell me about your clothes?’
He gives me a strange look then looks down at himself. ‘Jeans and T-shirt. A stylist sends me a selection from the company collection, and I put them on. Does that answer your question?’
I’m picking my jaw up off the floor. ‘That’s as much input as you have? And what happens to the surplus when this woman sends the next batch?’
He gives a cough. ‘It’s actually a guy, and any input from me would have happened earlier when the ranges were being designed. Whatever I don’t wear to destruction is responsibly handed on.’
How can anyone make clothes sound this boring? Especially when they’re supposed to have a hand in making them and they’re the kind that cost shedloads. But I shouldn’t be surprised, because it all goes with the territory. And like everything else with me and Miles, we couldn’t be further apart if we tried.
Men who leave their choice of anything as individual as T-shirts in the hands of someone else must be more interested in money than what they actually put on their back. At least it’s good news on the repurposing and the gender of the stylist. My tummy drops again, and then I recap and reassure myself, because that wasn’t ever an issue; I’m pretty certain that Miles likes women not men. And it’s no concern of mine anyway. Definitely no shits are given in that direction from here.
As for what Miles’s life looks like beyond the boundaries of Boathouse Cottage, if it includes boardrooms, free clothes, fancy cars and friends like Tate’s wedding crew, I can only imagine it’s light years away from the places I’ve inhabited or the life I’ve lived. Which is why we have absolutely nothing in common and even less to talk about unless we’re disagreeing– which we are amazeballs at.
Obviously, the pricey kit is the reason his bum looks so hot. The upside of expensive gear is that it makes the most of every asset. And leaves poorer mortals like me struggling to keep my (mental) hands off them. At least that’s that problem explained to me.
‘How exactly would you describe your style?’
His voice cuts into my thoughts, and I have to say he’s got me there. I think about earlier, doing twirls along the beach singing at the top of my voice with ‘Prada’ in my ear bud, Pumpkin trotting beside me.
‘Each outfit I choose is thrown on in a multilayered way so it’s easy to move in, but with unexpected gaps.’ I know he loves a definition. ‘If you insist on giving it a name, I’d say it’s pre-loved stratification. Or it could even be retro-surprise-lamination.’
He lets out a slightly bitter laugh. ‘A bit like that damned laminated pastry, which proved so impossible to make.’
My heart sinks again because this is another thing that’s been playing on my mind since yesterday. I know Miles isn’t my favourite person, and I know I was sizing him up and couldn’t afford to appear weak, which is why I was economical with the truth when the situation came up that first day. But as a person, overall I like to think I’m honest and would treat people as I’d like to be treated myself. And since the question of the pastry came up again yesterday, much as I disapprove of and dislike Miles, I’m going to have to come clean on this.
I remind myself of the way he opened the roof of his car and swung my battered old screen into the space without any more hesitation than a quick dust down with his jacket sleeve. Then I screw up my courage, and launch.
‘You’d made a tray of pastries the day we arrived.’
He pulls a face. ‘Every one ended up on the ground in the field. Not that it mattered– the bin was the best place for them.’
I’m wrinkling my nose. ‘Why do you say that?’
He gives a shrug. ‘I’m not chef-trained, but coming down here sparked an interest in artisan baking. As an on-trend growth area it’s a no brainer. The entrepreneur in me had this warped idea that muffin shaped croissants would be the perfect base for hundreds of different fillings.’
Something in the intensity of his gaze has caught my interest. ‘Go on.’
He pulls a face. ‘I had time on my hands, so I studied the YouTube videos, and began to experiment for myself. My idea was to short-cut the croissant dough process to speed up production. I’d been trying to perfect the bake for weeks and every batch had been like rock.’ He takes a breath. ‘I’d made one final change with the method, but I seriously doubt it had made any difference. That one final disaster felt like a subliminal message, so I took the hint to leave baking to the bakers, and moved on with my life.’
I’m screwing up my courage. ‘The bin might not have been the best destination for those buns.’
He looks at me. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I ate one before they fell.’
His eyes narrow. ‘And?’
‘They tasted good enough for you to bake more.’
He looks like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. ‘So they were edible!?’
‘More than that.’ Damn, now I’ve come this far, I might as well go all the way. ‘They were delicious. Beyond delicious. I actually ate four.’ Thinking back to the crusty outsides giving way to the soft, doughy centres, I remember the taste of the toffee pecan and I’m practically drooling. ‘I only stopped at four due to dropping too many flakes on the kitchen floor, and because Scarlett rang to ask me to test the shower.’
Miles is nodding. ‘Now you mention it, I wondered where all the mess had come from.’
I have to protest here. ‘There weren’t that many crumbs.’
He refocuses and looks at me again. ‘So two weeks down the line, what do you suggest I do with this information?’
I might as well give my honest opinion. ‘I wouldn’t waste any more time. I’d say go and bake your ass off. ASAP!’
There’s a smile around the edge of his lips. ‘And if I do, would you be around to assist with some analysis?’
‘Hell yes.’ A housemate who bakes croissants could turn out to be a dream houseshare after all, except he hasn’t moved yet. ‘So what are you waiting for? Go and do baking!’
He raises one eyebrow. ‘To get in the zone, I’m going to need Figaro…’
I let out a groan. ‘Please tell me you’re not going to make the ceiling shudder again?’
He nods. ‘It only works when it’s extra loud.’
I brighten. ‘So you won’t be using the sun terrace?’
He holds my gaze. ‘Only in between rolling sessions, while the dough is resting.’ Then he blinks. ‘If you’d like to use it, don’t let me stop you.’
There are clouds with silver linings, and there are no-win situations, and I already know which this is.
I make my smile extra bright. ‘Lucky for me I won’t be here this afternoon. I’m going out to research my pieces.’
Any other time or person, I might have been prevaricating. The awful reality of life with Miles means I’d rather go to work.
He turns his attention to the kitchen. ‘I won’t disrupt the chiller trays in here, I’ll take over the fridge in the mud room.’
I just hope there are some decent bakes to show for the inconvenience.