Chapter 1 #2
I sank into the passenger seat. ‘That’s easier said than done.’
Caleb indicated right and swung out onto the main road, fringed on either side by sparse trees. ‘Just have a think about it. I’m sure your Mr Hanson could use some of his art contacts to get your foot in the door somewhere.’
Mr Hanson had assured me I possessed real talent, but I worried he’d only bought one of my chalk landscapes of Port Starr because he felt a little sorry for me too.
This feeling was compounded when Matilda, one of the other receptionists, bought my A5 textile of a little girl feeding pigeons in Leicester Square.
I squinted at my brother out of the corner of my eye.
He looked like a big, friendly fisherman in his cream cable-knit sweater.
Caleb drove slower along the cobbled high street.
Shop awnings fluttered and there was the odd hardy tourist in fleece and walking boots, browsing the assorted glow of shop windows.
It was in complete contrast to London, with its perpetual buzz and noise.
Everything in Port Starr carried an air of sleepiness and lethargy when it was out of season.
I turned to Caleb. He was being far quieter than usual.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Aye. Why?’ he replied a little too quickly.
‘I don’t know. You aren’t as animated as normal.’
‘That’s funny, seeing as I’m a cartoonist.’
I shot Caleb a glance as he indicated right and negotiated the incline towards Mum and Dad’s place.
I noticed that Mum had replanted the two conifers into red square tubs flanking the front door.
It was a home of pale greystone and sloping roof, with a double chimney breast and modest patches of front and back garden.
If you took a stroll down the slope of grass to the snaking dry-stone wall, you could catch a tantalising glimpse of Port Starr’s ribbon of sand.
On a clear day, if you positioned yourself in the right spot on the cliffs, you could see cormorants rising and falling with the navy-blue North Sea shimmering between Scotland and Norway.
We clambered out of the car. While my brother fetched my things, I surveyed Mum and Dad’s home. It only seemed like yesterday that Nick and I had bounded up to that white, frosted front door, to tell them we were engaged. Anger bolted through me at the memory.
Nick Turner was a freelance photographer who came to Port Starr two years ago to capture some of the glorious wildlife that populated our coastline.
What I didn’t know was this big, fair-haired, charismatic and brown-eyed eager squash player was also the biggest womaniser this side of the Highlands.
He charmed me into bed; he charmed me into marriage; we returned to his beloved Holborn in West London just over a year ago and then, within the space of six months, I discovered he was bedding one of his doe-eyed college students.
My world folded in on itself. I’d given up my life in Port Starr, left friends and family, to be a part of his, hundreds of miles away, and what was my reward?
A broken heart and a brief marriage strewn with deception and lies.
I’d decided there and then that there was no way I could return to Port Starr, not after Mum and Dad had invited the whole community to our local beach wedding.
It was alarming to think this was the first time I had been back home in over a year. Still, I knew I had to return sometime, and spending two weeks with my family, taking brisk walks along the coastline and sketching new impressions of the wild scenery, was the best way to do it.
Caleb was peering at me and clutching my belongings. ‘Are you okay?’
I snapped back to reality. ‘Yes. Thanks.’
Pictures of Nick and me on our wedding day drifted into my mind again: my long vanilla column dress flapping in the gentle June breeze.
I had a single white orchid tucked behind my ear and my hair was streaming loose down my back.
Gulls were reeling overhead and Nick was beaming at the throng of guests as he sported a loose white shirt and dark trousers.
The sea was tickling our bare feet as we squelched and giggled on the wet sand.
I knew I should have stuck with crushing on the Scarlet Highwayman. At least I wouldn’t have had my heart stomped on by a dead guy from hundreds of years ago. I bit back another pang of hurt.
Caleb jiggled my luggage as he frowned at me lurking in the doorway. ‘Come on, you. Stop dawdling.’
I followed Caleb in and was pounced on by my mum, Eve, as she came bounding up to me, all silver-blonde bob and French manicure.
She seized my face in her cool hands, her concerned expression searching mine.
‘Oh, God. You’ve not been eating properly, have you, darling?
’ She took a step back and appraised me.
‘You’re definitely thinner than the last time I saw you. ’
Caleb snorted. ‘Mum, you visited her in London just two weeks ago. I don’t think she’s become a shadow of her former self since then.’
Mum tugged at her navy-blue cardigan and made a disapproving noise at my brother.
My dad, Oliver, emerged from further down the hallway, putting an end to the chat about my imaginary weight loss.
He gathered me up into his arms. ‘Hello, you.’
Mum flapped one hand and ushered us all into the sitting room. ‘I’ve made a roast chicken for dinner. It won’t be too much longer.’
The three of them observed me as I tugged off my bright-pink coat and thrust it over the arm of their leather sofa. There was an uncomfortable silence. ‘Everything okay?’ I asked, surveying their faces. ‘You all seem a bit quiet.’
A chorus of stilted voices tried to assure me otherwise. I wasn’t convinced.
‘And how are things with the cottages?’ I asked, after casting about for a question they might answer.
The cottages were our holiday business in Port Starr and had been part of our family for almost forty years.
We owned six sweet little greystone properties up on the clifftop which overlooked the harbour, and I could recall all the happy times I spent there during the school holidays.
Caleb and I would fly our kites from the courtyard, watching them swing and dive; the cottage cleaners would hang out the laundry on good weather days, and the billowing sheets and bedding would dance like ballerinas on the line.
At Christmas time, the holiday cottages would wear their layers of frost or a dusting of snow like sumptuous gowns.
They were formerly homes for some of the local fishermen, and they sat like grand old maids, surveying the creaking boats and frothing waves. That was until my dad had purchased them and turned them into holiday accommodation.
Dad stole a glance at Mum, who’d reappeared from the kitchen. ‘You’ve just got here.’ He squirmed. ‘I’d rather hear about you.’
I remained standing in the centre of my parents’ sitting room, ‘Okay. What’s going on? You’re all acting weird.’
Mum pulled a face at Dad. ‘I told you she would notice something was up. Our daughter is far from stupid.’
Dad’s brows furrowed. ‘Have you said something, Caleb?’
My brother rolled his eyes. ‘’Course I haven’t! You told me to leave it up to you guys.’
Mum gestured for me to take a seat, so I sank down on the sofa beside my shamefaced brother.
Mum and Dad were in the two armchairs opposite us.
Dad was adorned in a brown checked shirt, V-neck jumper and chocolate cords.
With his thick silver hair side parted like that, he looked like he’d just stepped off the golf course.
‘Right. Come on,’ I urged, worry beginning to gnaw at me. ‘What is it?’
Mum cleared her throat. ‘We’d wanted to wait until Katie was here, but…’
Katie was my sister-in-law.
Mum sighed. ‘Remember how your dad and I have often spoken about taking a round-the-world trip? Well, we’ve decided to go for it.’
‘That’s great, Mum,’ I enthused. ‘You both deserve to enjoy yourselves.’
Dad shifted in his chair. ‘But that’s not all.’ He straightened his back. ‘Your mother and I have been talking about this for a while, and we’ve decided to sell the cottages.’
His words hung in the air while I tried to digest them. ‘What?’
Dad opened his mouth to speak again, but I interrupted. ‘You can’t be serious,’ I blurted. ‘What the hell has brought this on?’