Chapter 24
24
Boathouse Cottage, St Aidan
Waving and dotted lines
Saturday
O ur mum always told us, in the face of catastrophe keep a cool head and keep on going. I’m guessing she based that on our dad leaving us when we were too small to remember, and her having to be both mum and dad to us afterwards. Or it may have been how she stayed so chilled when she dumped all those supremely suitable boyfriends of hers for the most insubstantial reasons, always at the point when Scarlett and I were just getting to know them. Whatever, I’m happy to live it myself now.
When I hear Pumpkin gently rubbing his forehead against the French windows shortly after six later that morning, I make sure that when I think back to two hours earlier and get up and run around the place shrieking what the actual eff have I done? it’s only in my head. In reality, I tiptoe around the living room, pull on some different shorts and a new combination of skirts and cropped T-shirts, slip on Pumpkin’s lead rope, and quietly make my way down to the beach.
I’d hoped a blast of pure salt air off the sea would blow away the pain in my head, but instead the noise of the breakers is so loud I’m holding my fists over my ears. But like everything, a few yards in I get used to it and start to walk normally.
Once we hit the expanse of flat, damp sand left by the retreating tide, I resist the immediate impulse to stop and write ‘hands on…’ or ‘hands off…’ anything, and limit myself to a brief Keep calm and dot dot dot.
My plan to stay out on the beach until Miles leaves the cottage works like a dream. When we get back the only sign of him is a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice sitting on a Post-it note on the kitchen island, saying 4U B B in fat black Sharpie next to a pack of paracetamol. And just like that, with a half pint of OJ on board I’m getting on with the rest of my day and heading off to Saltings Lane to take pictures of the next stage of the various items that Edie is in the process of painting.
The readers of Fenna’s magazine want inspiration for projects that are pretty but achievable, so I’m mainly concentrating on smaller bits and pieces that don’t look too daunting and that could easily be done in a few leisurely sessions over the course of a weekend. There’s a small pair of petrol-blue coffee tables, a pink child’s chair, a simple cornflower blue bookshelf, and four olive green stools. Once I’ve taken pictures of the items on their own from all angles, I go on to style them with different accessories. At least it takes my mind off my pounding head, which hopefully will pass, and my other giant problem, which unfortunately never will.
By the time I have a full set of photos, give Edie a hug, and wander back up the lane, the Saturday market in the barnyard is in full swing, and as I go past the entrance the smell from the coffee van draws me in.
I’m standing sipping my Americano, when an arm flops around my shoulder.
‘Would you like a chocolate muffin?’ It’s Clemmie, and she pulls me towards her stall in the stable. ‘I’ve almost sold out. How’s your head this afternoon?’
‘You know about my hangover?’ Of course she does. ‘Don’t tell me– your cousin works the bar at Jaggers? Or your mum peels potatoes in the chippy?’
She raises one eyebrow. ‘Beth’s dad, Malcolm, was at the Hungry Shark quiz night when Miles got the call to pick you up. Sounds like you pushed happy hour to the max!’
The second I hear Miles’s name, my early morning trip to the bathroom comes rushing back like a rockfall. What the hell was I thinking? The truth is… I wasn’t. It was the middle of the night, I was off my face and half asleep. But excuses won’t help me. Keeping calm and carrying on is total bullshit. If I can’t even bear to think of Miles as an abstract idea, I can’t possibly be in the same cottage as him, let alone put myself in a place where I may lock eyes with him across the kitchen. It’s only now when I come to imagine the horror of the situation that it sinks in: I need to avoid seeing Miles ever again. There’s no time for hanging about on this; I need to act fast, and I need to act now!
I drag in a breath, pull every last scrap of my courage together, and go for broke. ‘Actually, Clemmie, the place we were talking about yesterday…’
Clemmie carries on. ‘The Net Loft studio?’
‘I’ll take it.’
There, now I’ve said it, there’s no going back, but I could be pulling myself out of the biggest hole of my life.
Clemmie’s eyes light up. ‘I can’t wait to tell Plum and Nell. We knew you’d be perfect the first day we saw you. Well done for being brave!’
I’m opening and closing my mouth in shock at what I’ve said.
She’s carrying on seamlessly. ‘Let’s make this as easy as we can. Malcolm’s only next door, he’ll be able to run off a copy of the lease for you to take away.’ She’s looking at my face, reading my expression. ‘Or if you’d rather sign it now, that’s not a problem either.’
So much has changed. When we talked about the Net Loft yesterday, me moving there was the kind of pie-in-the-sky fantasy that might happen to someone else, but I was ninety-nine per cent certain that would never be me. Twenty-four hours on, I’ve embarrassed myself so completely, this is the only sensible option I have, and I’m frankly lucky it’s there at all.
It’s not only me messing up big time by grabbing Miles. Scarlett’s situation has changed too. If the unthinkable happens and she splits from Tate, she may well run for home. With their main house in Manchester properly let for their entire stay in New York, Boathouse Cottage would be the natural place for her to come back to. So the studio at the Net Loft is the proverbial port in the storms that are powering in from all directions. The sooner I clinch the deal, the better.
My mouth is dry. ‘I’ll sign straight away.’ My mind is racing, and as I add up the figures there’s really nothing left to lose here. ‘If I transfer you three months’ rent and the deposit, when could I have the key?’
If I pull this off, I never have to see Miles again.
If Clemmie’s surprised by my sea-change she doesn’t react. ‘We’ll have to run this past Malcolm, but it could be pretty quick.’ She gives me a nudge. ‘Just think, no more arguments over fruit or tussles for the bathroom.’
I die silently, replaying that last phrase in my head. I clutch at my throat where my heart is pounding. ‘Okay, let’s do this before I start hyperventilating.’
And two minutes later, as we speed across the gravel towards Malcolm’s cottage next door, I’m ready to sign away my life.