Chapter 8 #2
‘Talking about Dot, she says the visitor asked directions to the cottage,’ he continues, waggling his brows in a way that literally invites a punch to the face, ‘but the taxi went to Nina’s first. Probably needed caffeine to survive the rural horror.’
Nina’s. Where Maisie is supposed to be until I finish up.
I don’t realise I’ve dropped the rag until Jude says, ‘Where are you going?’
‘Café,’ I call over my shoulder, already halfway up the dock. ‘Need to check on Maisie.’
‘Right,’ Jude calls after me. ‘That’s definitely the only reason!’
Nina’s café is busy, but that’s not unusual on the weekend.
There’s always some weekenders down to air their holiday homes, until the weather turns and we don’t see them again until May.
Through the window, I can see most tables occupied, including the coveted window seat that Nina reserves for her favourites.
Today it holds three people – Isla, who looks like she’s changed the jumper from when I saw her this morning, but is still wearing at least three; a dark-haired woman with a sharp bob and even sharper cheekbones, gesturing emphatically; and Maisie, perched on the edge of her chair like she’s watching a particularly engrossing movie.
I push open the door, the bell jingling cheerfully in contrast to my mood. I stop myself from making a scene and storming over to drag my daughter away, and pause at the counter, where I can hear without being immediately noticed.
‘—absolute vultures,’ the woman is saying, her London accent cutting through the café’s gentle murmur.
‘The press conference was a disaster. Richard spent the whole time trying to control the narrative while Marcus’s people fed lines to every reporter in the room.
And all people could talk about, Isla, was the fact you weren’t there.
That you weren’t being honest, guilty by omission. ’
‘I honestly don’t care anymore, Piper,’ Isla says, her voice so low it’s like it’s been washed out to sea.
‘Let them say what they want. It doesn’t make any difference what the truth is, people will think what they think.
’ There’s a rawness to Isla’s tone that I hate, but I hate my reaction to it even more.
That old protective instinct rises inside me before I can tamp it down.
I’ve spent years teaching myself not to care about Isla Quinn’s problems, yet here I am, blood running hot at the thought of people hurting her.
‘You should care,’ the sharp edges woman – Piper, I’m assuming here – replies sharply. ‘This is your career we’re talking about.’
Isla shrugs, fingers wrapped around a mug she doesn’t seem to be drinking from. ‘Maybe I don’t want that career anymore.’
That catches me off guard. The Isla I knew would have crawled through broken glass to be an actress with the level of success that allowed her to stand on red carpets and shine like a blinding star. It was everything to her. She left us all behind for it. Even her grandmother.
To hear her dismiss it now feels like watching someone tear up a winning lottery ticket.
‘Don’t say that.’ Piper leans forward. ‘Not after everything you’ve fought for.
It’s not even just about you anymore, is it?
It’s about the industry and what it’s like.
When you went public you said it’s because you didn’t want any more women coming here and selling more than her soul for a chance of fame. ’
I can see Isla’s profile, the hollowness in her cheeks. Her collarbone juts out beneath her sweater in a way that wasn’t there when she left Sea Salt Bay. My mouth is ash. Whatever Hollywood’s given her, it’s taken more.
‘And now I’m a pariah because I’ve said something that everyone else wants to keep a secret. Even Reid…’ I shouldn’t care. I really shouldn’t. But I still stand there listening with all the attentiveness of Dot and her bingo numbers on a Tuesday night at the village hall.
‘He’s already been spotted with Sophia Reeves. The photographers were definitely tipped off,’ Piper says with such venom that even Maisie’s eyes widen.
Nina approaches their table with a plate of biscuits. ‘On the house,’ she says, setting them down. ‘Sea Salt Bay speciality – lavender shortbread. Old recipe from my gran.’
‘Thank you,’ Isla says, but doesn’t reach for one.
Nina sits down, joining their conversation. ‘So how long are you staying in Sea Salt Bay? Just until this press thing blows over? Sorry, I know I might seem nosey, but it’s a small town, and you’re pretty big news.’
Isla looks out the window towards the harbour. ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure I have anywhere else to go right now.’ She bites her lip, making it pulse before she releases her grip. ‘But I don’t think I can stay here either.’ Her gaze is out on the sea, searching for something.
‘Well, you’re always welcome here,’ Nina says warmly. ‘Actually, you might be interested in the lighthouse fundraiser we’re doing.’
‘Lighthouse?’ Piper asks, immediately alert.
‘The old lighthouse at the point,’ Nina explains.
‘Part of the Maritime Festival – we’re raising money to restore it.
It’s the oldest working lighthouse in Cornwall.
’ She pauses. ‘Well, it was. Until a storm last spring damaged the foundation. The cliff’s giving way beneath it.
The lighthouse is still standing, but it’s unstable.
We need to shore up the base before we lose it completely. ’
Isla nods and I can see her swallowing hard. ‘I know it.’ Her tone is almost tortured.
Maisie bounces in her seat. ‘My dad’s on the committee! He says the lighthouse is imp-or-tant to the his-tor-i-cal in-teg-ri-ty of Sea Salt Bay.’ She pronounces each syllable carefully, clearly quoting.
‘A lighthouse restoration project,’ Piper says, calculation clear in her voice. ‘Local heritage, maritime history, community support – it’s perfect.’
Isla shakes her head. ‘Piper, I’m not using some local fundraiser as a PR stunt. No. This place is where I grew up. I’m not tarnishing it with what’s happened to me.’
‘It’s not a stunt if you actually care about it,’ Piper argues. ‘And it would be good for you to have a project. Something meaningful. Until you come back to civilisation. You can’t spend all day every day festering under a blanket.’
Isla’s cheeks pink. ‘I don’t think—’
I’ve heard enough. I step forward, making my presence known. ‘Maisie. Time to go.’
All four heads turn. Nina smiles. Maisie looks guilty. Piper narrows her eyes, assessment written all over her face. But Isla dips her head, studiously studying the tabletop.
‘Dad, I was just—’
‘It’s fine,’ I cut her off, then nod to Nina. ‘Thanks for keeping an eye on her.’
‘Always a pleasure,’ Nina says, looking between me and Isla with poorly concealed interest.
Piper stands, extending a hand. ‘You must be Maisie’s dad? She’s super cute. I’m Piper Chen, Isla’s PA.’ Her grip is surprisingly strong. Brutal, actually. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’
‘I doubt that,’ I say, ignoring the way Maisie is looking up at me with disappointment.
‘Oh, but I have,’ Piper says. Her smile is literally blinding me. ‘Though apparently she failed to mention you look like you could be in one of her films.’
I choose to ignore whatever that means. ‘Maisie, get your things.’
‘Kit,’ Isla says softly. My name in her mouth still sounds wrong. Too familiar. Too right.
I finally look at her directly. ‘Isla.’
A beat of silence stretches between us.
‘The lighthouse thing,’ she begins, then falters. ‘I wasn’t going to—’
‘Do whatever you want,’ I say, more sharply than intended. ‘You always do.’
Her expression shutters, that actress mask sliding back into place. ‘Right.’
‘Right.’
Maisie slides off her chair, gathering her backpack. ‘Bye, Nina. Bye, Miss Chen. Bye, Isla. Thank you for the hot chocolate.’
‘Maisie!’ I snap, and steer her towards the door, feeling the weight of three sets of eyes on my back – and ignoring the particular burn of one pair.
I last until after dinner. After Maisie is in bed with a chapter of her book read. After I’ve fixed the dripping tap in the bathroom and paid the electric bill and done all the mundane things that make up a life.
Only then do I find myself walking down the lane towards Salt Cottage, telling myself I’m going to make it clear that Sea Salt Bay doesn’t have room for Isla Quinn anymore.
The lights are on, warm yellow rectangles against the dark. I hesitate at the gate, then push it open, scraping it open against the path, and approach the door. I can hear faint music from inside – something classical and scratched that Maggie would have played on her old turntable.
I knock. No, that’s not true. I hammer on the door.
The door opens, and there she is. Hair damp and smelling of shampoo, wearing a sweatshirt for a university I know for a fact she didn’t attend. Must be her boyfriend’s then. No makeup. No Hollywood. Just Isla.
And I wish my breath didn’t catch in my throat at the sight of her.
Her eyes widen slightly when she sees me. ‘Kit?’
‘Maisie told me you weren’t feeling well,’ I say, not what I was supposed to say, although I did get the health update from Maisie over her fish finger tea.
‘Oh, so now you want to talk?’ Her arms cross over her chest, defensive.
‘I wasn’t—’ I stop, not sure what I’d been about to say. Then I glance up at the ceiling.
‘Bloody hell?’
She glances over her shoulder. ‘Don’t judge. It’s my inheritance.’
Despite myself, the corner of my mouth twitches. ‘It looks like the ceiling is about to come down.’
She rubs at the back of her neck, sending waves of vanilla and salt in my direction.
‘I think some roof tiles must have slipped.’ She shakes her head, and I wonder for a moment if she’s thinking about Maggie.
About how long these four walls stood empty once Maggie went to the old people’s place in the town across.
How fucking sad it is that every step we take in this life only ever takes to us one final destination.
‘Want me to take care of it?’