Chapter 13
The man of my dreams doesn’t call. Not the next day or the day after that.
I know he’s busy and I’m busy and we’re both adults and I could call him.
Eventually, I do send him a text thanking him for our day out, and he responds with a short message saying he hopes to see me again soon.
But as time goes by and there are no further communications, I feel well and truly ‘ghosted’.
I know that there’s no point in checking my phone every five minutes to see if I missed a call or a text due to a patchy signal.
I know it shouldn’t matter that Bridget manages to rub my nose in it, both with her own blooming relationship with Alex the ice-cream van boy, and her incessant criticism.
‘Sorry the Pirate King hasn’t called,’ she says, when she sits down at the table for breakfast a week after my boat trip. Her tone has a distinct ‘sorry, not sorry’ note to it.
‘It’s fine,’ I say flatly.
‘I mean, you’re probably a little “mature” for him. And he probably knows we’re going to be leaving.’
I choke down a sip of coffee. Over the last week, I’ve kept myself busy negotiating with workmen, procuring materials, and revising plans and costings.
Today, the crew of workmen I’ve hired are supposed to make a start on repointing the inn’s exterior.
It’s always stressful managing a project like this, and I don’t need Bridget reminding me of my other failings.
‘I wish you’d stop mentioning it,’ I say. ‘I went with Ollie on his boat and that was all it was. He’s nothing to me. And here’s a newsflash for you – we might not be leaving.’
‘What? You mean… ever?’
‘I’ve told you over and over. We don’t have a home in London any more.
Your dad is a liar and a cheat, and our marriage is over.
The house is being sold, and he’s buying me out of the business.
You can go and live with him if you like – if you can bear to leave your new “boyfriend”.
But I own this property, so we have to give the option of staying here some serious consideration. ’
Her mouth gapes open. I know that wherever we end up needs to work for all three of us, and that there are more practical places to live. Besides, Bridget and I have been getting along reasonably well in recent weeks. Is this really the time to rock the boat?
She glares at me and I glare right back.
Yes, I decide. It definitely is.
‘You drove Dad away,’ she says. ‘You were always complaining. On at me about my phone, and Connor about his video games, and Dad about how he never helped with the school run or driving to activities. You were a complete nag. It’s no wonder he did what he did.’
‘Is that what you think? That I deserved him cheating on me. Is that how it’s going to be with your “Alex”? You may look like the girl in the painting, but that doesn’t mean you need to cling to some old-fashioned notions about what a woman needs to put up with.’
‘How dare you.’ She stands up. ‘You’re a crap mum, and I hate you.’
‘What else is new?’ I say to her back as she storms out.
I sink down at the table and put my head in my hands.
I am a crap mum. Most certainly, Bridget will go back to London at the end of the summer, and maybe Connor will decide to go live with his dad too.
Am I really going to stay here if that happens?
Just because a handsome man asked me out on his boat, kissed me, and then didn’t call?
The morning seems ruined as I try to get on with my day.
I’ve been to the supermarket, so I decide to make Connor a good breakfast and hopefully stay in his good graces.
So often he’s out – at the beach, at the docks with Cliff, at the museum with Elspeth helping her dust the display of model ships and sneaking down into the pirate cave to gape at the wax figures.
I’m glad he’s been occupied, even though I miss seeing him, and feel guilty that we haven’t bonded the way I’d hoped.
I cook a pan of scrambled eggs. The clock in the common room strikes ten o’clock – I hadn’t realised it was so late.
Connor never has a lie-in, so he must have gone out very early.
Usually, I hear him clomping down the creaky backstairs, but maybe today I slept through it.
What would possess him to go out so early without breakfast?
I go upstairs and check his room. It’s empty. I’ve no choice but to brave the lion’s den. ‘Bridget,’ I say, knocking on her door. ‘Have you seen Connor?’
‘No, I have not,’ she snaps.
‘He’s not in his room, and he didn’t have breakfast.’
‘Maybe he’s run away – and who can blame him?’
‘Will you at least help me look?’
‘I’m busy.’
Great. I swallow back all the things I want to say to my teenage daughter, and rush back downstairs.
I came down around eight, so that means he must have come down no later than seven.
Three hours! I know there’s no reason to worry – he’s probably out with his friend Med – whom I still haven’t met or even seen.
Crap mum?
Bingo.
* * *
The morning is grey and misty – Connor’s hoodie is on the hook by the door so he must be freezing. I put on my jacket intending to walk out to the beach and look for him. Maybe we can explore tidepools together, or crack open rocks looking for fossils. I need to make more of an effort.
I’m barely out of the door when my phone rings. Breathlessly, I take it from my pocket. The stupid, needy part of me hopes – knows – that it’s Ollie. Maybe if I find Connor, we can all go out on the boat. Maybe even Bridget could be persuaded…
I check the number – it’s local, but it’s not Ollie.
It could be an estate agent, or the builders – or it might be the architect’s office I applied to in Truro calling to schedule a job interview.
Trying not to feel deflated, I let the call go to voicemail.
Connor has to be my priority right now. But as I reach the cliff path, the phone rings again.
‘OK, OK,’ I mutter. This time, I answer it.
‘Mrs Cartwright.’ A deep and slightly pissed-off-sounding male voice.
‘Yes?’ I don’t bother to correct the Mrs.
‘I have your son here.’
Connor – oh God.
‘My son? What? Who is this?’
‘Will Penhelion.’
The name incites a little flash of terror inside me.
‘Oh. Why do you have my son?’
‘He’s been injured. Can you come round? You know the house, right? Polgothley?’
‘I’ll find it. I’m on my way.’