Chapter Five
Eloise pulled her knitted hat down over her ears, put on her gloves, and took a lungful of fresh, chilled air.
There was a breeze which she guessed might become stiff out on the headland, but for now only moved the uppermost branches of the trees.
Buoyed by the faint trace of seaweed and salt on the wind, and by the sight of the glittering sea, she kept glancing at the view, unable to believe she was actually here.
It was less than a week from the idea occurring to her, to it becoming a reality.
Eloise was more at home with routine and deliberation, and she never made hasty decisions—which had been a definite advantage at work—so this unusual attack of spontaneity was out of character.
She supposed her love of routine stemmed from her often unpredictable childhood, so to do something this off-the-cuff was both rather freeing and slightly unsettling.
Then again, these last few months she’d felt constantly unsettled…
As she marched down the hill, she glanced through the windows of the houses she passed, smiling ruefully at the bauble-encrusted Christmas trees.
It wasn’t going to be easy to pretend Christmas wasn’t taking place, even in a small place like this.
Despite it being out of season, the heart of the village would undoubtedly have Christmas-themed displays in the shops.
Tomorrow she’d take a look around, and with any luck she might find a sneaky perfume bottle treasure in one of the charity shops, or in an antique shop, if there was one.
Eloise was looking forward to finding out!
Genteel was the best way to describe this sleepy, quintessentially English seaside village, and she was pleased to discover that what she could see of Honeycombe Bay so far had changed little since she was last here.
As she made her way down the hill, the larger, detached, set-back-off-the-road dwellings on the outskirts of the village morphed into sweet rows of terraced houses the nearer she got to the seafront.
One with ivy growing around the porch caught her eye, and she had a flight of fancy about what it would be like to live in a gorgeous little cottage like that.
She’d be able to take a morning walk along the promenade and stop for a coffee and a cake in one of the cafés, or sit on a bench in the tiny garden out front and stare at the sea.
Then she came down to earth with the realisation that “sleepy” in the depths of winter would transform into “ultra-busy” at the height of summer, with day-trippers and holidaymakers galore.
Emerging out of a side street, she stepped onto the promenade at the opposite end to the harbour, and when she looked back along the broad, paved boulevard, she noticed there was a surprising number of people out for a stroll.
Older couples, arm in arm; women with pushchairs and small children; dog walkers, both on the promenade and on the beach; a chap with a metal detector and headphones; two people in the sea…
Eloise paused to watch, her skin goose-pimpling in sympathy. It looked positively arctic. And she was right about the breeze being livelier down here, because the water in the bay was speckled with racing white flecks. Ugh, no, thanks, she thought, as a swimmer dived headfirst into a cresting wave.
A young woman and her little boy caught her attention, mostly because of the noise he was making but also because she had a feeling it was the same woman and child she’d seen yesterday decorating their tree.
In fact, she was certain it was. She estimated the little boy to be about three years old, and he was running around on the sand with the jerky, uncoordinated gait of a marionette and squealing at the top of his voice as his mother chased after him, her arms outstretched as she made playful roaring noises.
When he tripped over his own feet, she grabbed him and tickled his tummy.
The little boy’s giggles were infectious, and Eloise found herself joining in, the wind whipping the laughter from her lips.
The simple, unadulterated joy of the pair was a delight to behold.
They didn’t need any of those overpriced, overwrapped toys and gadgets that every TV station, newspaper, and magazine urged parents to buy because they were this year’s Christmas must-haves.
The little boy was having the time of his life with nothing more than a sandy beach to run around on and his mother’s undivided attention.
Eloise continued to watch and smile as the child picked himself up and ran off at breakneck speed, before being tripped up by his own wellie-clad feet again. The wellies were bright red, and he wore a luminous yellow coat and a blue hat: a symphony of primary colours.
Then her pleasure seeped away, replaced by wistful regret.
She would have loved to have had a mother like that.
She would have loved to have been a mother to a child like that.
The first had been beyond her control, and although the second might have been a possibility once, she’d never met the right man, so having children hadn’t become a reality.
None of her boyfriends had made her heart sing and, determined not to “settle,” she’d thrown herself into her career while she’d waited to fall hopelessly in love. And now it was too late.
If only she hadn’t let herself become so immersed in her career and had paid as much attention to her private life as she had to her job, she mightn’t be staring at a young woman and her little boy with regret and envy, and a desperate longing for her life to have been different.
Ever since she’d received the shocking news that Steerhope Pharmaceuticals was being bought out, she’d felt adrift.
And when she’d been informed there was no place for her in the new company because the incoming CEO had no need of a PA when he had an “executive assistant” (a twenty-something who hadn’t been the slightest bit interested in the way Eloise did things), Eloise had been shattered.
She’d given the best years of her life to her job, had worked evenings and weekends, and had gone in to the office when she was supposed to have been on holiday.
And for what? To be cast aside without a second thought.
Feeling deflated, she left the pair to their fun and carried on with her walk.
The beach ended where the headland began.
A café, steamy-windowed from the warmth inside, sat at the juncture of the paved promenade and the steep, rough path leading to the clifftop and the lighthouse beyond.
The café looked inviting, and Eloise vowed to pop in on the way back.
With the wind chill making the temperature feel North Pole cold, she’d be in need of a warm-up later.
Soon she was puffing and panting her way up the incline, grasping the wooden handrail to haul herself up, grateful for its support.
The path had become a series of steps cut into the hillside, and to Eloise it felt as though she were climbing the stairway to Heaven, there were that many of them.
But with each heaving, gasping step, the view became even more spectacular.
In places, the path had been widened to accommodate a bench, and eventually gravity overcame her determination and she was forced to sit on one and take a breather.
“Oh my,” she murmured once she’d got her breath back. This was even more spectacular than she remembered.
From her vantage point, she could see the little island of Otter’s Rock, purpled by distance, wallowing in a choppy sea of battleship grey, denim blue, and indigo.
At the other end of the bay, another headland sheltered the harbour from the prevailing westerly winds, one of which was currently trying to blow her hat off her head.
There were a couple of boats in the bay, but most appeared to be moored in the harbour itself. Maybe she’d take a walk in that direction tomorrow, weather permitting. She quite liked a boat—to look at, that is; not to set foot on.
The village of Honeycombe lay between the two headlands, nestled in a narrow V-shaped valley which was wider at the bottom where it met the sea.
Eloise could make out the Pavilion, at the centre of the promenade, where she’d gone to see a play the last time she was here, as well as The Bumblebee Inn and a row of brightly coloured beach huts.
There wasn’t a Ferris wheel or an arcade in sight, and she sighed with contentment.
Breath now caught, she got to her feet and continued on her way, reaching the top with a self-satisfied grunt as she heaved herself up the final climb on reluctant and slightly trembly legs. Gosh, that had been more of an effort this time than the last!
That’s what this little break can be about, she said to herself, getting fit. Okay, fitter, since it would take more than a daily jaunt along the seafront for the next three weeks to move a dial on her fitness meter more than a notch or two. But at least she could make a start.
The clifftop was even more bracing than she’d anticipated, and she made sure to stay well away from the edge for fear of being blown over it.
By the time she reached the lighthouse, her face ached from the cold as the winter air gnawed at her cheeks.
It was sharp and clean, and the wind tugged at her coat and made her eyes water.
Even with gloves on, she couldn’t feel her hands, and she circled around to the leeward side of the lighthouse for some protection from the wind.
Out to sea, the white-topped grey-and-green waves rolled to the shore with unstoppable, deliberate power, to break in a wash of boiling foam against the rocks below, and Eloise watched them for a while, her breath misting around her head, her gloved hands buried deep in her pockets.
The sound of the surf was steady and rhythmic, like the pounding heartbeat of the earth itself, and she felt small and insignificant in the face of the sea’s relentless force.