Chapter 8
“I magine pushing out a bowling ball…that’s been covered in hot chilli sauce.”
“I’m not sure I want to, to be honest Jen,” Millie screwed her face up. The video in front of her – slightly blurry due to dodgy hospital Wi-Fi – showed her oldest and best friend Jen with the most gorgeous bundle of newborn baby. Leo had come into the world only a few hours prior and Millie had listened to the exact play-by-play of his dramatic entrance from Jenny.
“She wasn’t a diva at all though Millie,” she heard Jenny’s husband Paul call from off-screen. He appeared in shot, much to Jenny’s dismay. “I only had to hand-feed her ice chips and imitate calming whale noises.” Jenny stuck her tongue out at him as he grinned, and Millie couldn’t help but smile.
“She did a great job really,” he said softly, and I could see the look of adoration on his face and the way Jenny’s arms tightened around baby Leo. She felt tears spring to her eyes and a feeling of overwhelming pain course through her body at the unwanted envy she suddenly felt.
“It’s great to see you guys and I’m so happy for you but I need to go.” Millie gave a little wave and pressed “End” before they could reply. She felt terrible but there was no other way she could deal with it. Slamming the laptop lid shut, she let the tears drain from her eyes.
* * *
She wasn’t sure if it was the fact she’d cried herself to sleep for the third night in a row, or that the sun was streaming in through her bedroom window for the first time in what felt like years, but Millie woke up a few days later feeling a renewed sense of positivity. She’d lived in Sandyhaven now for almost two months and was gradually becoming used to the slower pace of life. She was, however, going a little stir crazy with the lack of purpose and routine in her new life. She hadn’t picked up a paintbrush in months and she missed it terribly. Her wardrobe was looking a little pathetic too, due to the fact she’d dedicated only a suitcase for clothes and shoes when she’d hurriedly left and abandoned the rest. It didn’t leave her with many options. Besides, Cornwall fashion was proving to be very different to the formality of her office-wine bar London wardrobe.
“You about today? I could do with some help,” Millie asked Amy over the phone, as she popped moisturiser on her face.
“Hmm – “help” - sounds intriguing. You’re lucky that it would just so happen that I don’t work Sundays. Day of God and all that.” Millie frowned.
“You’re religious?” she questioned.
“No, but if you say you are, you get Sundays off. Clever, eh?” Millie shook her head in disbelief and gave a little laugh.
“Well, I need to go shopping and as I presume there’s no equivalent to Oxford Street round here - I need some guidance on where to go.”
“Oh, you have definitely asked the right person. Shall I see if Daisy wants to come too? She mainly lives in her wellies and dungarees, but she loves a good trip out,” Amy explained.
And so, with that, Millie found herself on a road trip down to the city of Truro, around an hour away, with Amy and Daisy.
It was very small for a city, Millie found herself thinking but it still had a decent selection of shops and lots of quieter alleys with cobbled streets, cafes with seating outside and pretty bunting fluttering in the autumnal breeze. However, after a browse round some of the chain stores, she found her heart sinking.
“Why is it that fashion these days seems to cater for just a certain type of figure?” she sighed, putting another cropped jumper back on the rail.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Amy replied, absent-mindedly adding another pair of low-rise jeans to her basket from the sale rail. Daisy raised her eyebrows.
“I think you’re proving her point Ames,” she chuckled. “You’re a petite size six and your basket is stacked.”
“Exactly. And that’s not to say that there shouldn’t be fashion available for people of your build. It’s just, what about the rest of us? The ones who have a stubborn muffin top or an arse the size of America,” Millie continued.
“I wouldn’t say that. Canada maybe,” Daisy responded with a cursory glance to Millie’s backside and cheeky grin. Millie nudged her in mock offense. Amy swung her basket round before it dropped it on the floor.
“It’s chain store, mass produced tat. You’re hardly missing out. I’ve just picked up a load of stuff I can’t even afford.” Millie watched her with amusement as she made for the door.
“Where are you going?” Amy paused and turned around.
“Let’s get a coffee. I’m done in.”
* * *
“I can’t get over how lifelike it is,” Beryl sobbed, wiping a tear away. “It’s just exceptional.” Alfie gave a small smile, but inside he was weeping. He’d just handed over a commission to Beryl, an eighty-seven-year-old widow who lived in a cottage on the edge of the village. Her husband had died around four months ago, and she’d asked Alfie to do a painting of the beautiful coastal landscape which adorned Sandyhaven, but with her beloved husband in it. He’d used the view from his apartment window, a stunning seascape looking across the peninsula to the further villages of Trewithen and Carnglaze. It had been particularly grey and stormy the past few weeks and he was going to use a little artistic license to brighten it up, but upon consulting Beryl she’d asked to keep it true to life.
“He’d always commented on the bloody weather, so it wouldn’t seem right to mask the truth,” she’d said, warmth in her voice despite cursing. Alfie had painted in her husband, sat with his back to the onlooker, perched on a bench which was now dedicated to him. He always fussed over commissions because he wanted the customer to be happy, but this one seemed particularly poignant.
With a final squeezing hug from Beryl and some homemade cookies from her tucked in his pocket (he’d politely refused several times, but she had insisted), he left her door and headed back down the hill towards the beach, towards his apartment. The rustle of the cookie bag was just too tempting and with one swift motion he found himself crunching into the oatmeal and raisin treat, the moist, buttery taste spreading over his tongue. As he progressed further through the village, he noticed a commotion down by the village hall. Situated right on the beach front, it featured the old hall – home to several clubs and social events throughout the year – and the historic, 200-year-old clock tower. It was a key feature of Sandyhaven, standing proud before the surrounding cottages were even built. If you bought a postcard from Sandyhaven, it would one hundred percent feature the clock tower. As Alfie drew closer, his inquisitiveness grew.
“It’s madness! It’s just crazy!” he heard Mr Slee from the shop prevaricating. There was a rumble of agreement.
“What’s all this?” Alfie asked, scrunching the cookie bag between his hands. In his head, he expected it to be due to a shortage of pasties or a one-time only cancellation of the local W.I. meeting. This is the sort of “drama” the villagers were used to.
“It’s the village hall! It’s going to be knocked down!” a lady called Ethel, hand clutching a lead belonging to Dennis the enormous Great Dane, exclaimed. Alfie blinked.
“Knocked down?” he repeated, not sure if he’d heard correctly. “But that’s ridiculous. Who would let that happen?”
“The bloody council, that’s who!” Mr Slee raged, growing redder by the second. “These lot who want to sell the land to build luxury flats!” He stabbed furiously at the Perspex covering the noticeboard on the outside of the hall. Alfie squinted and saw a blueprint: “Seascape Towers – coming 2026.”
“But…the village hall…?” Alfie began.
“Village hall, village schmall! The money grabbing thieves at the council don’t care about that. All they can see are the bloody pound signs! A “desirable plot” they say!” Ray the local locksmith who wore an eye patch, growled. The tension was palatable.
“But what about all the events that go on at the hall? Surely if it’s so well used, they can’t possibly knock it down?” Alfie continued, clinging at straws. The truth is, he hadn’t utilised the village hall for years, not since he’d come down for summer holidays with his parents and attended all the children’s activities. He’d remembered going on bouncy castles and getting his face painted there by his mum, who was a fantastic artist. His lovely mum…
“That’s the trouble Alfie. It’s being used less and less these days. People are choosing to venture further afield over to Trewithen for their Slimming World or Pilates. There’s very little uptake for new ventures. The council have been heard as describing it as “dead wood”,” Ethel explained sadly, still a hint of anger in her voice. Alfie glanced upwards at the clock tower, stood gloriously in the autumn air. If the village hall went, so would the clock tower, taking a huge piece of Sandyhaven heritage with it.
He turned on his heel, leaving the gaggle to grunt and despair. This was most certainly horrible news. He hadn’t lived in Sandyhaven all his life like the others, but it had been a staple in his life from birth – he’d visited every summer holiday without fail. In B properly fitting, with high-quality fabrics and designed with a variety of body types in mind. The type of bodies that sometimes do exercise but also very much enjoy pasta and chocolate.
With hands on hips, she twisted left and right to get a full view of the outfit she’d tried on. She’d gone for jeans and a jumper – quite standard casualwear you might think – but instead of the usual faded jeans and baggy jumper she’d opt for, Amy had chosen. This time, she wore fitted, dark wash jeans, with a figure-hugging, cashmere jumper. Daisy had insisted on “function over fashion” so had handed a simple black gilet into the changing room as well but added to Amy’s accessories of a long, silver necklace and knee-high boots, the overall effect was casual chic.
“I guess it’s OK,” Millie relented, her lips curving into a smile. The jumper clung to her, accentuating her shape.
Her glance strayed to Daisy, who was sat on a lounge chair in the changing room, chewing on a strawberry lace. “What do you think?”
“It’s very nice. The boots are a bit extravagant for Sandyhaven, though.”
“Oh please. Coming from the woman who wears muddy wellies and fleeces every day of the week? And yet, somehow still looks a stunner…” Amy retorted. Daisy snorted.
“I’m practically perfect in every way, I’ll have you know,” she said in a mock-posh voice. “In all honesty though Millie, you look great. What’s brought all this on though? The need to change?”
Before she could fashion a reply, the store assistant reappeared with some different sizes they had asked for.
“So here’s the grey wrap dress in the next size down and then the jacket as well,” she said, setting them up on the rack in the changing room. “You look wonderful!” she beamed, taking in Millie’s current ensemble.
“I told you you’d find better stuff here, compared to that mass produced tat,” Amy announced, looking pleased with herself. “Try the dress on next!”
Millie peeled off the jeans and slipped into the grey wrap dress. It pulled her in at the waist and, teamed with the boots and necklace, looked like a winning outfit for a night at the pub. Amy whistled as she walked out the changing room. Daisy’s mass of dark hair bounced as she nodded her head in appreciation.
“That’s cracking,” she agreed, sucking on a lollipop now.
“I like how the boots go with the jeans and the dress,” Millie thought out loud.
“It’s called a capsule wardrobe, honey! It’s the way forwards. I still think you need to buy the skirt though. And the jacket. Oh, and those tops here…” Millie rolled her eyes. But a quick glance back at the mirror confirmed an increase in self-confidence. She looked OK: for her.
“I love that painting,” Millie mused as she waited patiently for the shop assistant to scan and fold all her items. It was one of those shops where they delicately fold each garment, wrap it in tissue paper and slide it intricately into a pretty striped bag (as opposed to her usual choice of clothes store where it was bundled aggressively into a ball and practically chucked at you).
“Hmm? Oh, yeah, it’s alright innit’?” Amy agreed half-heartedly, barely looking up from her Instagram.
“It’s pretty isn’t it?” the sales assistant agreed, smiling at her.
“Yeah, it’s by Lauren Shilton, isn’t it?” Millie asked, easing her credit card out of the tight slot in her purse.
“Yeah…how do you know that?” the sales assistant paused, looking bemused.
“Oh, Millie is an art geek,” Amy said, waving her hand. Millie rolled her eyes.
“I’m just a fan of her stuff. Since moving down to Cornwall, I’ve seen a lot of it around.”
“Ah, I see. That’s because she lives around here,” the sales assistant replied, gently tearing the card receipt off the machine and handing it, along with the card, back to her. “Well, I’m sure Lauren would be very pleased to know that,” she smiled. “Thank you for shopping with us, enjoy the rest of your day.”