Chapter 2 #2
I suppose this is what I fear most. That people won’t be staring at me because I’m that Isla Quinn. No, this will be far worse; they will be staring at me because I’m that girl. The one who wasn’t brave enough to come back.
There’s a part of me that wants to stand on the harbour wall and scream, It wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t come back. You wouldn’t have recognised me if I did.
If there’s one thing Hollywood teaches you, has taught me in particular, is that you don’t stand and shout about anything.
So I don’t. I nod, I guess in agreement with Frankie’s judgements of my neglect of Sea Salt Bay and its residents.
‘Anything else I should know?’ I ask, forcing the conversation, refusing to scurry away, even though every part of me is telling me to run back to Salt Cottage, lock the door, and never venture outside again.
Bill’s gaze softens as he watches the expressions I can’t stop from stamping themselves across my face. ‘Kit doesn’t talk about you, love. Won’t,’ Frankie says bluntly. ‘At all. Ever.’
There’s a distinct churning in my stomach again. Too many ghosts, not enough vinegar.
Before I can turn away, slope off, away from people who know that I never came back, that I let my grandmother down, Frankie speaks again, his tone lighter. ‘So what are you going to do with Salt Cottage, then? Maggie’s place.’
I blink at him. The thought’s been on my mind since I got the letter, rattling the doors I keep locked. I force a shrug.
‘Not sure yet. Figured I’d clean the place up a bit, maybe get it ready to sell. She left it to me for a reason, I guess. But…’
‘Sell it?’ Bill raises an eyebrow.
‘Something like that,’ I mutter.
Frankie snorts. ‘Waste, that is. Maggie’d haunt your ass all the way to Soho.’
‘She probably already is.’ I glance towards the gentle hill that slopes up away from the harbour to where Salt Cottage sits. ‘I can’t live in it. It’s too full of her. And me, I guess. A version of me I’m not even sure I recognise anymore.’
They go quiet at that – not uncomfortable, just respectful in that strange way British men get when emotions start leaking through the cracks.
‘Well,’ Bill says at last, shaking a battered piece of cod in the fryer, ‘do what you need to do. Just don’t let some London developer turn it into another sodding yoga retreat.
’ He clutches his hand to his chest and gasps loudly – he’s a regular thespian is Bill, and it’s comforting that it hasn’t changed.
‘Oh, bloody hell, don’t let them make it like Tregarrow.
We don’t need more hippies floating around and people in witches’ cloaks waving crystals. ’
I snort a laugh that is the most alien sound I’ve made in around three years. Apart, of course, from when I’ve been an alien on screen. Because well, Hollywood, baby.
‘No promises.’ I force a smile. ‘But if they offer good money and have an essential oils business, I’ll think of you.’
With my fried-fish bap, extra vinegar, extra ketchup, I sit on the harbour wall.
The smell of salt and fish is strong but not unpleasant.
Familiar. Seaweed and brine were the scents of my summers.
My childhood. My innocence. I let my booted feet dangle over the ledge, grateful that no one else comes to talk to me.
Later, taking the long way up the hill, I’m breathless enough to know thin doesn’t mean fit. And that’s when it happens. I glance back towards the harbour. Just a glance.
And there he is.
Kit Harding. Sleeves rolled up, loading crates onto a boat like a Greek statue in fisherman’s boots.
My old best friend, who became so much more and then nothing at all.
The air inside of me pops. Bubbles of expectancy, like the dance of a fine champagne. My knees go traitorously soft.
From this distance, he looks older. Broader.
Bearded. I’m too far away to see if the dark waves I used to love are greying now.
Has the loss of his wife left a stamp on the man he once was?
My fingers twitch. Muscle memory. Salt, and skin, and the steady weight of him.
It looks like the years have only made him more solid, more rooted in this place, while I’ve been drifting like sea foam on the tide.
A girl runs up to him – dark hair in plaits, bright yellow raincoat with a matching hat.
Maisie. He stops what he’s doing immediately, bends down to her level, listens intently to whatever she’s saying.
Even from this distance, I see his smile.
It transforms his face, and for a second, I see the boy I left behind.
He doesn’t see me.
I want to stop and wave.
I want to turn around, edge up into his space and say, ‘Hi. So you got married…’
But I don’t. I pause for a second, watching his strong arms swing the crates.
Back at the cottage, I close the door behind me and slide down until my back hits the floorboards. My hands shake, trembling like I’ve seen him for the first time all over again. There’s sand in the cuffs of my jeans and shame in the pit of my stomach.
‘You left, remember?’ I whisper into the quiet.
My eighteenth birthday. Kit’s old truck parked at the lighthouse.
His fingers in my hair, that look in his eyes.
I’d already finished my first year at drama school, scouted playing Ophelia in a heavy-handed production that makes me cringe now.
At the end of July, Kit and I had travelled to London for my meeting with Marcus Vale.
Vale, a big-shot Hollywood producer, painted me a vision with lights and awards, crimson carpets that I didn’t know would be stained with blood and the loss of my innocence.
The meeting went well.
Life-changing.
Kit and I held hands on the train all the way home, my head against his shoulder, the crook of his neck the only place I’d ever felt home.
But the air had been cooler. The brightness of the future sterile against the weighty warmth of our sand-dusted path.
As the train pulled into Truro he’d kissed the top of my head, my breath catching in my throat as he’d whispered, ‘You’re going to go far, Isla Quinn. ’
And all I’d heard was a goodbye. He wasn’t going to come with me.
Now?
Now, the town still stands. Kit’s still here. Married. Widowed. A father. Maggie is gone.
Kit has a beard, and nothing in the universe has ever looked more right.
Standing, shaking off my pity party for one, I step to the mantel and pick up the solicitor’s letter again.
I pour another tea and glance at my phone. Three missed calls from my agent. A text blinks up: Call me. We need to lock in some appearances. Isla, you can’t drop a career-detonating bomb and then disappear.
Can’t I?
Who says?
How am I supposed to make ‘appearances’ now that my name has exploded along with the outing of Marcus Vale as a sex predator? The press are circling like vultures, waiting to see if I’ll show up in full meltdown or play the ice queen in couture.
The trouble is, I don’t know which version of me I can go on acting. I turn my phone back over, screen hidden.
Denial.
For now.