Edie Browne’s Cottage by the Sea
JANE LINFOOT

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2019

Copyright © Jane Linfoot 2019

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover Illustrations © Shutterstock.com

Jane Linfoot asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008356293

Ebook Edition © May 2019 ISBN: 9780008356286

Version: 2019-05-01

Praise for Jane Linfoot

‘Just like the perfect wedding cake, Cupcakes and Confetti is beautifully crafted and wrapped in romance’

Heidi Swain, Sunday Times bestseller

‘A pure delight … fabulous, fun and unforgettable’

Debbie Johnson, bestselling author of Summer at the Comfort Food Café

‘Simply stunning’

A Spoonful of Happy Endings

‘Gorgeous book with characters full of heart, and an impassioned story to make you smile’

Reviewed the Book

‘This author packs a punch’

My Little Book Blog

‘Loved this book. The main characters are vividly drawn … the writing is fast and feisty’

Contemporary Romance Reviews

‘With every book I read I fall more in love’

Booky Ramblings

‘Jane Linfoot has got out the mixing bowl and whipped up a truly gorgeous story … A deliciously scrumptious treat’

Rebecca Pugh

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Jane Linfoot

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

P.S.

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

For Val, with love

epic

ˈɛpɪk/

adjective

heroic or grand in scale or character

particularly impressive or remarkable

achievement

əˈtʃiːvm(ə)nt/

noun

a thing done successfully with effort, skill or courage

1

Day 1: October

Five miles east of Salisbury

Epic Achievement: The skydive.

‘C’mon, Edie, let’s do this.’

We’re bumping our way backwards along the fuselage floor and when I screw my head around there’s a gaping space where the door used to be. Then the backdraught hits and we’re sucked out of the plane.

What happens next is the most crazy thing that’s happened in my life so far. There’s no lurch of my stomach, no warning, but I’m hurtling downwards. The air rush is wrenching my cheeks off my face, and the blow is so hard I can’t breathe. I’m just screaming and falling. Falling and screaming. Somehow I remember to stick my arms and legs out. Then I’m freezing and screaming. And choking. And the flat patchwork of fields below are hurtling nearer and nearer. It’s going on forever. We have to stop soon, or we’ll definitely die.

Somehow we spin, and I catch sight of the camera guy a few metres below us who almost looks stationary. And bizarrely he’s waving at us. It’s that weird thing about waving. Without even thinking, I’m waving back. Then we’re twisting again, and I’m looking up across the sky at Bella. Her cheeks are distorted, her hair is plastered across her face and she’s waving madly too.

Then, just when it feels like it’s never going to stop, there’s a yank and the air rush stops. Everything slows down and my screams have stopped. Instead of falling we’re hanging, suspended on strings, and up above us a broad blue parachute is billowing across the sky. And I can hear Dan’s voice again.

‘That’s the ’chute out. Not long now. Would you like to do some twists and turns on the way down … or hold the parachute?’

He has to be joking me, make mine vanilla. ‘Straight down is fine … thanks all the same.’

It’s so relaxed, there’s even time to look around. Far below I can make out a tiny tractor ploughing a rectangle of field, cars zooming along a ribbon of road. There’s the cream rendered slab of the headquarters, and minutes to admire the logo in shades of blue, painted on the roof. There’s even time to see my shiny new Audi, its flinty metallic paint glinting, on its own at the far end of the car park where it won’t get bashed. A gleam of sunlight reflects off the driver’s window straight into my eyes – that has to be a good omen. Tash acing it as the supportive sister, perched on a straw bale at the edge of the gazebo in her pale blue mac, one arm around her children, Tiddlywink and Wilf, the other holding her phone up to the sky.

Then the ground is rushing towards us; it’s close enough to see individual blades of grass, a tree at a wonky angle.

And there’s Dan’s voice again, as his hand clamps my head onto his chest. ‘Okay, and we’re almost down, lift up your legs like we showed you.’

One massive bump later we’re lurching forwards as Dan lands for us. Then my feet hit the ground too and guys are running in for high fives as they hurry past to sort out the ropes and pick up the crumpled parachute. As I stagger I hear a whoop, and I whip round to catch Bella crashing back down to earth too. There’s a needle of pain under my ear as my neck cricks, but a second later it’s whooshed away as Dan unclips me.

‘Okay? So how was that?’ His smile is wide, and the video guy is hurrying over to catch my reaction.

‘C-c-c- cold.’ I’m back to juddering again, but I’m alive, and the whoosh of happiness bursting up in my chest is like a fountain. ‘And f-f-f-frigging a-a-a-amazing.’

And right now there’s a rush of thoughts stampeding through my head. How I’m so grateful to Dan I could throw my arms around him. That after this I can do anything. How cool it would have been if Colin Firth had been waiting on the ground. Or Marcus even. I strike that one out pretty damned fast. How awesome it is being alive. How I need to do it all over again.

Then Bella’s there and she sweeps me into a huge hug. And when we finally break apart Tash is standing on the grass, beaming, passing us a plastic flute each.

I take a gulp of fizz, then gasp. ‘I really can take this new job and make it my own. And in two weeks’ time I sign for my new flat, and there’s no need to worry. After this, every day’s going to be BRILLIANT!’

Because when you’ve survived a skydive, whatever comes next has to be easy, right?

2

Four months later …

You could say this all started the day of the skydive. Like a lot of people, I’m obsessed with beginnings. It’s as if we have this need to look back and identify the exact moment where things began, as if fixing an exact point in time could help any. But there again, if I hadn’t broken up with Marcus, I seriously doubt I’d have done that jump, so possibly it began earlier, with the split. But there again, if I hadn’t got my new job, things with Marcus would never have kicked off as they did. So maybe it began with that. But whatever went on before, right now I’m on a journey I didn’t choose to make and didn’t anticipate either. And the rest of my life will only begin again when I get back to where I started.

*

A hundred and twenty-nine days ago I had a stroke.

At the time no one else believed it either. The Tuesday after my skydive I was still giddy with adrenalin. But when I got into the Zinc Inc office in Bath where I work, my boss, Jake, had to carry my morning coffee and muffin fix to my desk because I had pins and needles in my right arm. By lunchtime I couldn’t feel my fingers enough to hold my apple turnover. When I told Jake I could see rainbow halos around his head he took me straight to A&E.

At first they thought I’d slept awkwardly, and sent me home. It took days for them to discover a clot had formed in a blood vessel in my neck, then moved to my brain where it was causing a blockage. The skydive I’d done a couple of days earlier wasn’t directly to blame. They can only think it happened when I wrenched my head around to wave to Bella. Or because I’d spent so long staring up at the sky before we set off. Or maybe when I fell over the champagne bucket.

I didn’t know then, but the brain has millions of tiny things whose name I can’t put my finger on now, all firing messages to different parts of your body. If the blood flow to an area of the brain stops, random bits of your body stop working too. And that’s what happened to me.

You’d think if science has come far enough to land rockets on Mars that doctors would know everything about how the human body works. But the brain is so complicated there is still a lot about it even doctors don’t understand.

There are some things I do know. I’m actually lucky because it could have been a lot worse. I’m walking and talking, and I couldn’t be any more thankful for that. The outlook for recovery is good – most young people who have strokes will return to the job they did before. And that’s the hope I’m hanging on to.

My stroke took things away from me. Right now I’m having trouble with words. I can’t read. My speaking lags way behind my thoughts, and a lot of words I knew before just aren’t there any more. My sensations are all messed up too. Some are heightened, but others have disappeared completely. And I did have a seizure at one point too, so – for now – I can’t drive.

The last four months I’ve grabbed every therapy and medication on offer; I’ve improved a lot, and now it’s over to me. My car’s in the garage at home. My boss, Jake, is paying me a tiny amount until I’m well enough to do my job again. So what I have to do is to find my way back to what I was, one day at a time. It might be slow, and I’ll need to be patient. But what I think is, if I can jump out of a plane I can pretty much do anything. So long as I put my mind to it, I’ll get there with this too. All I want is to go back to being the person I was before. And so now I’m going to Cornwall for a while – I can always remember the Cornwall bit – because it’s my best hope of getting my life back on track. Watch this space …

3

Day 133: Wednesday, 14th March

St Aidan, Cornwall

Epic Achievement: Finding Cornwall.

‘Periwinkle Cottage, first on the left down Saltings Lane – this is the one!’

I’m looking at a rambling stone cottage next to the lane, its shiny slate roof and chimneys etched against the sky, one windy field back from the cliff edge, but the latticed front porch we’ve pulled up at is just like it looked in the pictures Mum showed me. I’ve been repeating the address under my breath since we left Bath this morning and my woozy head feels like I’ve crossed continents not counties. It’s the furthest I’ve travelled in a while, but it was important to hold out and stay independent on this one. Thanks to Dad’s mate Hal, an Uber driver, I’ve dodged the embarrassment of being a thirty-something getting dropped off by my parents. For the first time in ages I almost feel like a fully fledged adult again.

As we drove into St Aidan along the seafront there was time to take in the long stretch of the bay and the strings of lights being blown around between the blue painted lamp posts. As the sea spray lashed across the taxi windscreen and I peeped out at the clusters of random cottages with their pink and white render clinging onto the hillside, the tiny butterfly flutters I’d had in my stomach all the way here turned to flapping. We passed the neat harbourside houses, the lines of boats bobbing along the quayside, the cockle sellers’ sheds shut up against the winter winds, then wound up the narrow cobbled roads, where emporiums full of surfboards and neon-coloured T-shirts rubbed shoulders with patisseries and cafés and even a gorgeous upmarket wedding shop. We passed houses with small paned windows and bright front doors, and with every corner the car swung around there was a new glimpse of sea between the rooftops. And then we came out onto the top of the hill to find fields edged with rough stone walls, and as we turned into the lane the narrow tarmac road became a rough track, and the first cottage on the left was the one. And now I’m actually here there’s an entire flock of seagull wings battering my chest.

As I jump out and wrestle the taxi door closed I can’t help notice that the bright Cornish sun my mum promised is missing. When I turn to gasp at the hugeness of the sea over the cliff edge beyond the next field, instead of being blue and sparkly the water is blacker than the wide, stormy sky. But for now I don’t give a damn that it’s nothing like the azure postcard views in my head – what matters is I’m here, I’ve done it! And, better still, for the first time since the day I jumped out of that plane, I’m feeling a wonderful lift of achievement. That has to be a good sign.

‘My bags will be fine here. Thanks for everything, Hal.’

I know he’s rushing off to his next job, so I clamber over the pile of abandoned paint pots and stepladders heaped in the porch, give the ship’s bell by the door a loud jangle, then step back to wait.

Ideally I’d like to get off the lane as soon as possible so no one sees how much crap I’ve brought with me, but also because I try to keep my mum’s bags on wheels under wraps at all times. When Marcus and I split he kept all the designer cases, probably because they were all his. Wacky neon luggage might be great at baggage collection for someone my parents’ age, but as far as style goes I’m dying here. Not that I’m one of those ‘must have every label’ people, but a woman has to have some standards.

Hal’s already back in the car and I’m still here next to my bag pile, so I give another tug on the bell rope and wave him off. By the time he’s pulling out onto the main road again I’m remembering Mum mentioning my aunt and her afternoon naps, and how I had to go straight on in if no one answered. So I turn the door knob, giving it a shove, then, when it doesn’t move, I try the bell again but this time I ring it much harder and longer and even louder. Hal said we made good time and my aunt might well have nipped out to get something tasty for tea. Knowing how chatting runs in the family, I could be here all day.

But I’m on a roll here. This is the new, brave, Cornish version of me – I’m not going to let anything as small as a locked door stand in my way. When my mum talked about the fabulous healing sea air in St Aidan she somehow missed out that it would blow my face off. I clamp my hands on my scalp to save the last of my messy up-do, step out into the wind and take in the long stone cottage. I run my gaze along the higgledy row of salt-spattered windows to check for a light shining into the late afternoon gloom, but there’s no flowers or plants on the windowsills and most of the blinds are down. My gaze stops at a narrow sash window where the central bars don’t quite line up. It’s a sure sign that the latch isn’t on, and as my fingers close on one of the stepladders on the porch the choice is clear. I can wait down here until I get blown out to sea – which will probably happen in the next few seconds, given the gale – or I can nip in through the window and have the kettle boiling in time for when the cakes arrive. The message was to let myself in, and that’s exactly what I’ll be doing. The only difference will be that I’ll be arriving through an upstairs window instead of the downstairs door. So long as I whip off my shoes the moment I’m through, my aunt won’t have anything to grumble about.

The window is at a half level so it’s not even that high, and the ladders are light and extendable. A few seconds later I’ve shimmied up to find it’s as I thought – the catch is off, and as I push on the bottom sash it trundles upwards. As I launch myself off the ladder and into the gap it leaves, what I’m thinking most is that I’ll have to tell my aunt to be more careful to lock her windows in future. But then something more important takes over.

You know those times when you pick up a pair of jeans in a shop and they look big enough, massive even. Then you get in the fitting room and try to pull them up, but somehow there’s a complete mismatch between the size they appear and the size they actually are and, no matter how much you wrench, they’ll only come up to your knees. That’s what happens with me and the window. As I dive for the hole it looks plenty big enough, but I plunge as far as my waist before sticking fast. There’s plenty of room above, so it’s my width that’s wedged. And right at the moment my ribcage sticks, something else not so good happens too – I look down the wall inside and realise the window’s way above the floor in a double height hall, so even if I did flip in like a seal as planned I’d be hurling myself into thin air rather than onto some wonderfully sturdy floorboards.

And just when I’m kicking my legs against the wall in a wild attempt to get free, thinking how things couldn’t possibly get any worse, there’s a shout from outside.

‘WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?’

It’s a guy and, unless my aunt arrived out of nowhere, he has to be talking to me. I freeze as I try to think of some words to explain but I’ve only got as far as a whimper when he starts again.

‘BREAKING AND ENTERING. SCARING THE ELDERLY. YOU’RE NOT GETTING AWAY WITH THIS!’

My aunt would be mortified to be called elderly, and she’s being so kind having me to stay, so I’m already bristling on her behalf. I manage to screw my head around and catch sight of some shoulders down below, bursting out of a beaten-up denim jacket, and yell down a reply. ‘What the hell’s it got to do with you?’

‘Ever heard of Neighbourhood Watch? Well, I’m from next door.’

I feel my chest implode, although it can’t have deflated too much as I’m still stuck. ‘Okay, Mr Nosey-Neighbour, thanks for the concern. I rang the bell but no one came, the front door was locked, so I’m letting myself in.’

The deep notes of his voice turn high with disbelief. ‘Digging yourself in deeper with every word. EVERYONE knows the front door’s round the back – this part of the house is shut up.’

And damn that I didn’t work that out for myself. ‘But I’m visiting my aunt.’ I meant it to be less of a wail.

‘Good luck to her with that if this is how you carry on.’ There’s a moment’s hesitation, then he goes in for the kill. ‘So which aunt would that be?’

‘I … I … I …’ I remembered the name of the cottage all the way. ‘I’ll know … as soon as she reminds me.’

‘Nice try.’ There’s a loud snort. ‘We’ll see about that once you’re on the ground – let’s have you down that ladder NOW, please.’

‘There’s nothing I’d love more …’ if only I wasn’t squeaking ‘… but I’m stuck.’

‘Now I’ve heard it all.’

There’s a scrape of the ladder on the wall, the creak of metal, then a sharp yank on my belt. Next thing, the gale is lashing my ears and my ribs are free, but now I’m being crushed between the ladder and what my bestie Bella would call a ‘hard, hot human’.

Strictly speaking, when a woman says a guy is ‘hot’ it’s shorthand for him having eleven key qualities; stuff like empathy and generosity count just as much as looks and muscle definition when it comes to heat. When I grab a quick glance behind me, all I’m taking in is some tousled brown hair, eyes that match and a seriously sexy voice, even if it is coming out with all the wrong words. Enough to say, from what’s accidentally pressing against my back, we can mark him down as fit and ripped enough for Bella. Between us, her ‘hot’ only has about three tick boxes – she’s never that fussed about integrity or a sense of humour.

As for me, I’m avoiding every kind of guy until I get back in touch with my fast comebacks and my ‘old’ self is as I used to be. In any case this one’s just seen my two worst assets – my bum and my luggage – so I’d be a lost cause even if he wasn’t out of my league.

So, for my next trick, all I have to do is to work out how to disentangle myself here and reach the ground without falling off the ladder and making even more of an arse of myself than I have already. Further down the track I can see a boy kicking the grass on the verge, hands rammed in the pockets of a blue puffer coat. A small dog skittering at his feet. And suddenly there’s another figure too, rushing forward, hand shading her eyes, peering up at me as she shrills, ‘Edie? Is that you?’

‘Aunty …?’ She doesn’t even look like she’s dressed and, worse still, there’s no sign of any bags of cake at all.

‘I’m Aunty Josephine – you remember me, don’t you?’ If you leave a gap where a word should be, someone will usually fill it in for you. As for remembering her, it’s only a couple of weeks since she visited us in Bath, so who knows what she’s implying with that. ‘What on earth are you doing up there, Edie? And why have you come with a window cleaner?’

‘He’s not a …’ The details are too confusing; I need to skip to the important bit. ‘When you didn’t answer the door, I thought I’d come in through the window.’

I stick my chin out and stare down at the crinkly bits at the edge of those dark chocolate eyes just below me. ‘Aunty JOSIE – is that the answer you were looking for? Maybe now you can stop banging on about breaking and entering?’

His hand on the ladder has wide knuckles and broad thumbs and, worst of all, it’s still there, making my insides fizz a little when it should be moving downwards. He’s staring at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Great, so now we’ve sorted that, what’s your status, exactly?’

I might not always remember what my mum’s sister is called, but I know the answer to this one. ‘I’m happily single and determined to stay that way, thank you. Why?’

‘That makes two of us then, but I’m not about to propose.’ There’s a twist to his lips. ‘All I meant was, are you a tourist or a local? You’ve got a hell of a lot of luggage if you’re only here for a weekend. Unless that’s your swag pile down there?’

It’s good he cleared that up then. No need for the ground to open up and swallow me at all. If he’s going to take a life history, I’d rather he did it when my butt wasn’t rammed against his chest.

‘Actually I’m here to … er … help with this place.’ Three hours of hanging onto the name and now it’s gone. ‘I’ll be here for a while.’

‘Wonderful, well, if you’re a long-stay prisoner remember there are barns further along and the delivery lorries are extra wide.’ He stops to let that sink in. ‘So best not park on the lane if your car is shiny or precious.’

‘Thanks for that.’ I’m not going to share that my car is both of those things, but that sadly it won’t be here to get in his way. ‘You might like to think about yellow lines for next season then?’ I’m proud of myself for remembering those enough to toss them in here. Apart from anything, it’s a dirt track. The paint would never stick.

He pulls a face. ‘Forget yellow, in summer this lane has virtual double reds. You’ve no idea how much time we waste towing trippers’ cars into the yard so they don’t get demolished out here.’ His eyes narrow again. ‘How about I help you into the house with those cases?’

I’d rather expire than accept his help after how aggressively he came on just before. ‘Thanks all the same, where I’m from women carry their own bags.’ And are red lines even a thing? That’s the trouble with mind blanks; they make it harder to sort the truth from bullshit. ‘Are we done here – can we get down now?’

He finally shifts, springs to the ground with one jump, gives a whistle, and the dog’s legs start to scrabble in the dirt. As I ease my own way down the ladder and step off the bottom rung into the mud I grin at the child, but all I get back is the barest flicker of an eyebrow. I’m ransacking the filing cabinets in my brain for the best way to say ‘goodbye and get lost’ to someone who accused me of robbing my relative. But he isn’t leaving at all. He’s off up the ladder again.

‘Excuse me, what the eff are you doing now?’

He gives a shrug as he heaves the sash back down. ‘Just closing the window so we don’t get any more random intruders making opportunist raids.’

I’m shaking my head. ‘It was NOT random. I was actually trying to put the kettle on.’

He’s down again and swinging the ladder back onto the ground. ‘You’ll need to lock that from inside. And next time you’re at the door and desperate for tea, I suggest you take a look around the back first.’ Patronising doesn’t begin to cover it. ‘If you’re here to stay, no doubt we’ll be seeing you.’

On balance, I’m thinking totally not. The words ‘over my dead body’ just popped into my head, and I’m liking the way that sounds. But my mouth is moving all by itself. Lately it has this Tourette’s tendency and, even though I try to stop it, I come out with the kind of things that are at best a surprise and at worst downright embarrassing, with no input on my part.

‘Love you, bye then.’ There you go! I swear that had nothing to do with me. It’s a catch phrase from a phone-in I used to listen to in the car driving between building sites. They used it to get the callers off the line. Totally indiscriminate, moderately cringey, but it was worth saying if only for the shock in his eyes as he turns to leave. But if it got rid of him I’ll take that as my first result! I’d rather not have an audience as I stagger off dragging Day-Glo bags as big as ponies.

4

Day 133: Wednesday, 14th March

Periwinkle Cottage

Epic Achievement: Finding the kettle.

‘This way, Edie.’

I’m following Aunty Josie as she pushes through a picket gate at the far end of the house, trundling my biggest case behind me. Round the back of the cottage there are weeds between the stone setts and the pale tangle of last year’s grass, but at least we’re sheltered from the worst of the wind. I pause to take in the pale grey stone of the cottage wrapping around a pretty courtyard, a walled garden beyond, small paned window frames crying out for paint. As we head past a painted conservatory to a door in the far corner, it’s easy to see that the ship’s bell is so far away from here I might as well have rung it out at sea. I follow her into the back porch, let go of my bags, then dip in for a hug.

‘Well, Aunty Josie, it’s great to be here at last.’ As I go in to rub my cheek against hers I wonder if she still smells of Nina Ricci.

L’Air du Temps. In pale lemon packages. With the prettiest frosted flying doves on the bottle tops. When we were kids Tash and I used to fight to sit at her dressing table. It was so exotic compared to our mum’s, and always rammed with fancy fragrances. That happens when your husband travels for work and heads for the shop in every airport he passes through, and never forgets a birthday or an anniversary. Unlike our dad, who rarely flies and doesn’t know what day it is, even though he’s great in other ways. Which was a good thing, because I can’t ever imagine Aunty Josie buying perfume for herself. As I squeeze her into a hug I can feel every rib through what I’d swear are striped pyjamas.

I smile at her. ‘It’s a lovely place you’ve got here.’ Or it could be, with some TLC, which is where I come in. I’m looking at the outbuildings beyond the garden wall. ‘Are they yours too?’

‘Yes, all ours. Or rather, all mine.’ She gives a sigh. ‘Harry had such big plans.’ His whole working life Harry dreamed of living by the sea. Him dying within weeks of them getting here was tragic. For both of them.

I pull her in for another hug. ‘You were lucky to find it.’ In this corner of the world where the coastline wiggles around the harbours and villages, everyone wants outbuildings and a view of the sea.

‘There’s so much to do, I’m holed up in one room.’ Which probably explains all those closed blinds and blank windows too.

‘Don’t worry.’ As I squeeze her arm I realise it’s a change to be the one doing the comforting. As I drag my bags and follow her inside, the sight of the kitchen makes my mouth drop open.

‘Let’s have some tea.’ As she fills the kettle she disappears against the riot of hydrangeas on the wallpaper. Only her feet, in first position in silver pumps, give away where she’s standing.

‘Someone liked flowers.’ It’s what’s known in the trade as migraine wallpaper.

She shakes her head. ‘The wallpaper was how we managed to buy it – most viewers didn’t get past the hall.’

‘I’ll get the milk.’ I’d make a grab for my tinted glasses but I don’t want to upset her, so I head for the soothing white of the fridge, hoping to find a sugar hit too. As I swing open the door I realise my double whammy mistake. Not only is there no milk; unless you go for colourless smoothies, nothing in there actually looks edible.

‘Will green tea be okay? It’s great for your yin and yang.’ The set of her mouth tells me this isn’t up for discussion. My mum does the same thing, but she’ll throw in a smile too. When I think about it, the joking around always came from Harry, but it’s a bit late to remember that now.

‘Have you gone low-fat?’

‘There’s a milkman. I’ll get him to call again now you’re here.’ She brushes an invisible crumb off her knee. ‘I’m actually eliminating this week.’

Which explains why the milkman lost the will to live. ‘That wrecks my plan to cheer us up with a fish supper.’

She pushes a steaming cup towards me. ‘I could take off the batter and you could have my chips.’

Chips. Of course. That’s what they’re called. So far I’ve reconnected with the words ‘chocolate’, ‘cake’ and ‘custard’ without difficulty. Now she’s reminded me, I’m feeling the gap where my stomach should be.

‘You’ve still got your car?’ Mum already checked. I know I’m here for the peace and quiet, but this would be a nightmare place to be stranded without one. If we zoom we could be down to the fish shop in no time.

‘It hasn’t been out for a while.’ The corners of her mouth dip even further. ‘But when we do get it started, you will do the driving?’

Shit. ‘Sorry, Aunty – Aunty …’

‘Josie.’

‘I’m not driving. That’s why I came in the Uber.’ Aunty Josie. I need to get that in my head. As for my licence, we’re all hoping I’ll get that back in a few months. Or maybe a bit longer. Which reminds me. ‘Does the man from down the lane bother you?’

Her nostrils flare. ‘It’s fine – the delivery drivers all know to leave the lane clear, I don’t often see him.’ Which is the best news yet.

Deliveries. The alarm bell clanging in my head is louder than the one outside. ‘When did you last go out?’ I watch her pull her top around her as she works it out.

‘I’ve been up to visit your mum every couple of months, you know that.’

‘But you do get dressed apart from that?’ She has to.

‘I never go without undies.’ She drags in a breath and sits up very straight. ‘Your mum and I both have a soft spot for Cath Kidston sleepwear. I expect you’re the same?’

‘You got navy and red stripes from Cath Kidston?’ Loungewear used to be my first choice, but lately pyjamas in the day make me feel too much like an invalid. And I might be confused, but I’m damn sure those stripes aren’t a colourway I ever saw in the Bath shop.

A flash of guilt crosses her face. ‘Actually these are Harry’s.’ Her hands are in the pockets and as she winds the jacket tight around her hips her nose goes up in defiance. ‘They’re warm. He had so many pairs I might as well get my wear out of them.’

‘Great.’ I’m sounding the kind of bright that goes with pretending that her wearing my dead uncle’s pyjamas is entirely expected and everyday normal. Considering it’s off-the-scale bonkers, I have to ask. ‘So, when did you last put your coat on and pop into St Aidan?’

‘It was the first meeting at Trenowden’s Solicitors, to deal with the will.’ She pauses and winds the wedding ring that’s loose on her finger. ‘George from there has been very good. Since then he’s brought things to me.’

‘But that has to be ages ago?’

‘Only a year and a bit.’ Her tone brightens. ‘You know what it’s like. Harry was the extrovert, I’m hardly going to go out on my own when I don’t know anyone.’

This is way worse than any of us thought.

She takes a sip of her tea. ‘Anyway, enough about me. You’re looking well.’

I don’t tell her how often I hear that, or how it makes me feel like a pretender every time. ‘I’ll show you my magic secret.’ I smile and whip out my make-up bag.

She comes in closer. ‘Laura Geller Balance-n-Brighten? How does that help with your brain?’

I can’t help laughing. ‘It’s not for my head, just for my cheeks.’ My make-up bag’s never been so full. When other parts let you down, how you look matters more. That’s another reason I’m welded to my pink and black dogtooth coat and my Audrey Hepburn slim tailored slacks.

‘You mean for contouring? I’ll have to try some of that.’ She gives a knowing nod. ‘I might not have bothered with proper clothes, but however bad I’ve felt, I’ve always put my face on.’

‘You didn’t run out of powder?’

She shakes her head. ‘You must have heard of Amazon Prime? It’s well worth the extra, they deliver all the way to the French windows in the day room.’

‘Is that where we’re going now?’ I dump my tea down the sink, then follow her into a space where the giant poppies and ferns furling between black bars on the wall make it feel like being locked in a cage in a hot-house.

She edges onto a cream linen sofa. ‘You’ll be used to lavish decor like this with your work?’

I didn’t ever work on the designs as such, but we never let our statement prints get out of control like they are here. How can I put it without being downright rude?

‘Our designs are … less in your face.’ Less likely to make you gasp for all the wrong reasons.

‘A crumbly cottage by the sea was Harry’s dream, not mine.’ Her frown drives the last of her lightness away. ‘I’d swap back to my Harpenden Tudor in a heartbeat if only I could.’

That was nineties mock, not fifteenth century Elizabethan, and Dad insisted the half-timbering was plastic. But the staircase scored a ten on the Cinderella scale, so as kids Tash and I were smitten. It also had a garden so large it could easily have swallowed up our entire cul-de-sac.

‘It could be worse.’ Ignoring the paper, the place looks sound enough.

‘Worse how?’ Her voice rises to a shriek. ‘It’s dreary and dirty, it’s practically being blown off the clifftop and the nearest John Lewis is counties away.’

‘I’m here now, I’ve got this.’ All I need to do is to make the place fit to sell. ‘We’ll have you back to happy Harpenden before you can say Henry the Eighth.’ I only hope I’m not talking bollocks. Me coming through on this is vital for both of us, then we can both move on. But the great thing is, it’s not like my real job where everything’s too hard. This is stuff I can do, and it’s going to be great to feel useful. I’m going to love it here, with the beach and the sea, and no one to judge what I can’t do. We’re a perfect match – Aunty Jo needs the help and someone to jolly her along. I need a place to stay, some company while I get better. Back to how I was.

‘It’s very good of you to come.’

She sounds so uncharacteristically grateful there’s a lump in my throat. My mum’s always been the sister with the less shiny life, and we’re used to being the shabby relations who get looked down on, not the ones who come to the rescue. We’ve never had to help fix things before, because Josie and Harry didn’t have disasters like the rest of us. But she can relax now; the cavalry has come to Cornwall. Give me a few months, I’ll make sure she’s okay again – or at least as okay as you can be when you’ve lost your life partner.

‘I’m happy to help.’ Even if I haven’t the first idea how I’m going to cope with the sludge in the fridge or how stubborn and snobby Aunty Thing can be at times, it’s buying me the time I need to get back to how I used to be, and turning her life around too. ‘You know me, I always like a …’ It’s the one word that always escapes me. I’m Zinc Inc Interiors’ some-kind-of manager for the south-east. How the hell do I not know it?

The worry lines in her brow deepen as she considers. ‘A quest?’

‘Quest. That’ll do. You’re my quest.’ I let out a short sigh because, like so many things in my life now, it’s not quite right. And it’s not completely wrong either. But for now it will have to do. ‘Shall we phone for a pizza?’

5

Day 134: Thursday, 15th March

At Periwinkle Cottage

Epic Achievement: Getting Aunty Josie back out into the world.

There’s always a fragment of every morning, as I gently slide into consciousness, when, for the first intake of breath, everything feels like it used to do. And then there’s this frantic scramble as my head catches up with my body and, seconds afterwards, I readjust and remember again. I’m Edie Browne. I’m thirty-two. And my life’s been turned on its head.

When it came to choosing a bedroom last night I went for the oversized rose and daisy garlands. Waking to giant sprigs was jarring, but the orange birds of paradise next door would have been worse, and it would have been worse again if the sun had been streaming in. As it is, when I realign with reality and look outside today, the sea and the sky are both stony, but it’s definitely light enough to be morning.

I still wear the watch Marcus gave me, not because I understand the pointers any more but because it was super expensive and he always used to notice if I didn’t have it on. But right now I’m wearing it for me, as my reminder. A promise to myself that I will find my way back to who I was, a talisman to help me find my path back to where I should be.

When I get down to the kitchen and peep into the day room Aunty Josie is already up, eyes tightly closed, the tartan of her PJ trousers knotted into some cross-legged position. The funny kind of humming moan I could hear all the way down the stairs and through the jungle-papered hallway is coming from her. If I’d been living here I’m not sure I could have lasted all that time with so many monkeys on the landing. They’ll be top of my schedule to go, as soon as she helps me write it. As I cough, her eyes snap open.

‘Edie, I’m just finishing my meditation – you might like to join in another day?’

‘Woah, I’m not that bendy!’ It’s the first excuse I come to. There are a lot of spaces in my head, but I’m completely certain yoga puts me to sleep. As for meditation, I’d probably have more laughs in a coma.

The pizza boxes from last night are out on the side, and I help myself to the last piece of my giant Hawaiian.

Aunty Josie’s wearing her ‘disgusted-of-St Aidan’ face as she pokes at her pizza box. ‘Help yourself to the rest of mine.’ Hers was the smallest, gluten-free with dairy-free cheese and no tomato, and she still only picked at a tiny bit. From the way I wolfed the side salad and both fudge cheesecake slices too, you’d never guess I can’t taste things. But I have to keep fuelled, and I’m always secretly hoping that next bite will be better.

‘So is it pizza for breakfast too?’

‘I’ve got some delicious juice here, or the milk arrived. There’s Oat So Simple if you’d rather?’ She gives a disapproving shudder.

‘That sounds way better.’ Her bean sludge is beyond disgusting. Porridge is beige too, but somehow that’s different.

‘I’ll show you how to make it.’ She rips open the packet, then slowly fills it up with milk. ‘Then we can watch Swan Lake while we have breakfast.’

Crap. ‘You don’t like Piers then?’ Breakfast telly has become a morning ritual for Mum and me, but now I think about it, Josie and Harry only like BBC. As for ballet, I’m not sure I can handle men in tights this early, even if they’re fit. Which reminds me, the guy from next door came down the road in his van just as the pizza delivery was blocking the lane last night. What are the chances? I accidentally let out another, ‘Love you, bye!’ as I scooted off with my stack of boxes, which I minded about less because I could swear I saw him jump.

‘I can’t get my head round news these days. The great thing about ballet is it gets the day off on the right foot.’ As Aunty takes the porridge bowl over to the microwave her unflinching expression tells me we’re waving goodbye to any hope of Good Morning Breakfast. ‘Push this button for three pings, Edie. Will you remember three for tomorrow?’

She’s making a big effort to be helpful so I want to say yes, but I have to stay honest. ‘I’ll try.’ Most probably I won’t.

It’s not that I’m a party pooper, and I’m not a quitter. But by the time I’m in front of the TV with my breakfast, what with ballet, stripes on the wallpaper, checks on the PJs and purple poppies, I give in. If I’ve eaten porridge wearing shades before I can’t remember. Maybe I did the time Marcus and I went to those huge mountains near India and had breakfast watching the sunrise. But if not, there’s a first time for everything. I jam my sunnies on my nose and settle back to watch the figures in gauzy net leaping across the screen.

‘You danced, didn’t you?’ It’s wedged in my head but the details have gone, and I’m half expecting her to tell me off for talking.

‘That was years ago.’ Aunty Thing’s abruptness softens. ‘And just once I was on the same stage as Margot Fonteyn.’

‘Awesome.’ I’m giving the air a mental punch for unearthing that.

‘Harry always made more of it than it was.’ If we’re talking stiff upper lips, Aunty Thing’s is made of steel, so I’m guessing her loud sniff has to be down to how much smoothie she’s still got to get through.

‘Do you watch Margot all day then?’ As fast as my heart’s sinking, my panic’s rising. Cosying up in front of Dad’s log-burner with Bridesmaids and Love Actually on repeat was fine, but I’m not up for all-day pas de deux.

She nods. ‘Dance is very therapeutic.’

‘We should go out.’ It’s easy to do, I know. The more you stay home, the more you want to. ‘There must be some classes. Can you look what’s on?’ I nod at the laptop even though I’m not that hopeful. As remote places go, St Aidan is at the end of the line. As the gale thrashes sand grains against the window, I’m wondering how I ever imagined I’d be sitting on the beach soaking up a winter sun patch.

‘Let’s see.’ She pulls her laptop onto her knee and scrolls through. ‘They do them at the Leisure Centre – there’s macramé, or basket-making?’

Surely that can’t be it? ‘Read them all out, please.’ I’m using the ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ tone I keep for stroppy builders because, to be fair, the most awkward contractor probably has nothing on Aunty Josie when it comes to heels being dug in. Due to my voice recognition software completely failing to understand my West Country twang, brushing up on reading’s what I’ll be concentrating on next. In between renovations, that is.

‘Fine.’ Aunty Jo lifts her eyebrows. ‘Woodworking, Car Maintenance, Kick Boxing and Learn Spanish while Making Tapas.’ She pulls a face. ‘The best ones seem to be run by the Singles Group, but we can’t go to those.’

‘They might be … er … friendly?’ We are both on our own, in case she’s forgotten. It’s one of my greatest reliefs that I split from Marcus a couple of months before I was ill, because he wasn’t the best with hospitals or looking after people. But in case anyone’s wondering – though I can’t speak for Aunty Jo – a partner’s the last thing I’d be looking for right now.

One sniff from her says that’s a no to the singles. ‘The ones at The Whole Earth Centre are better. Paint your Own Plant Pot, Molecular Gastronomy, How to Make Vegan Dumplings, Hydroponics for Beginners, Breast Painting, Handstand Masterclass, Play the Ukelele in an Hour …’

‘Breast what?’ I have to ask.

‘From the picture, it looks like you roll on the floor and paint with your boobs. I’m not sure mine are big enough.’

Even if mine are, I still shake my head. ‘Keep going.’

‘Sew Your Valentine a Pair of Boxers. Oh, no, sorry, that’s gone.’

‘Damn.’ I grin at her, but she doesn’t smile back.

‘Interior Design … Well, that’s wasted on you. Creative Writing’s not suitable for now. We’d be out of place at Wedding Flowers. Which only leaves Heart Surgeon for a Day, Zombie for an Evening or Goat Rearing.’

I let out a groan. ‘Who goes to these?’

‘Oh, but there’s a Practical page.’ She looks more closely. ‘Dry-Stone Walling or Plastering. With the buildings to finish, either of those might be useful?’

It’s great she’s so up for this, but with everything else going on, I’m not ready to drop rocks on my feet.

‘What about Cupcake Making?’ Cupcake’s another word I can always find. Thankfully. Or Cake Icing would do, so long as it’s the squishy sort.

‘Edie, I’m sugar-free. So we’re back to Macramé?’

I’m a stroke survivor, I could have died. I may not be able to tell the time, but I value every second. ‘Not things from string. Life’s too short.’

‘Calligraphy, then? Harry’s mum used to do that, she made wonderful Christmas cards.’

In my head it’s in the same box as string.

‘It says Modern so it must be for young people like you. It’s drop-in, which is good, so you only pay when you go. Tuesday afternoons at The Deck Gallery.’

‘Is that it?’ It’s vital to get Aunty Jo out again, and it’ll be great to sharpen up my writing. But I can’t believe I’ve come all this way to end up doing that.

‘You can still write?’ She knows because Mum talked to her about helping me with my letters.

‘A bit.’ It’s odd that writing’s easier than reading. Tash says they’re worked from different bits of my head, which is why it’s useful having a sister who’s a doctor. She also has a house, a husband and two kids and she’s older and cleverer. Seriously, she’s got all her shit together.

‘There you go then.’ Aunty Thing looks pleased. ‘It says Tasty Treats on offer too.’

Which finally tips it for me, even if it doesn’t for her.

6

Day 137: Sunday, 18th March

At Periwinkle Cottage

Epic Achievement: Cake on Sunday.

‘So, you can see the stables haven’t been used in a while.’ The bunch of keys Aunty Josie’s swinging is too big to fit in her pocket.

However much I’d intended to get straight down to work, it takes a few days to find my way around. I half expect to open the quirky cottage doors and find Red Riding Hood or Hansel and Gretel hiding behind them. It’s Sunday morning by the time I get out my clipboard and as we make our way towards the outbuildings I’m so intent on business, all that’s missing is my hard hat.

I thought the days might drag here, but since I arrived I’m yawning before it’s tea time. It’s hard to believe I used to be up at four and rarely went to bed before midnight. At least I’m finally getting my wear out of the navy pinstripe PJs Tash gave me as a ‘new job congratulations’ present, as a joke to celebrate my new-found ‘suit status’.

To be fair, up until I moved out of Marcus’s house, the pyjamas stayed firmly in their Net-a-Porter carrier bag because Marcus and I always slept naked. Out of bed he turned a blind eye to global warming and cranked up the heating so I rarely wore more than a teensy vest and shorts. But I could hardly go around like that when I boomeranged back to live with the oldies. Quite apart from the over-exposure, in a family of women, the thermostat is one of the only places where Dad takes control. After Marcus’s, Dad’s running temperature is arctic, and whoever invented those damned Smart meters that flash up how much you’re spending on gas every minute through the day wasn’t thinking of me and Mum.

Aunty Jo is making her way along the horseshoe of stable buildings which border the garden, opening every door and closing them just as fast. Apart from the stiff locks, it’s hard to believe it’s her first visit since she and Harry colour-coded all the keys the day before he died. On the fourth door, when I’ve still not seen anything, I barge my way past her, click on the light and kick into professional mode.

‘Nice switches.’ They’re funky and industrial, but best of all, there’s not a jungle beast in sight. Looking up at the old hewn timbers is spinning me back to the Zinc Inc sites. ‘The roofs are new and the floors feel level, so that’s a good start.’

‘They ran out of cash halfway. That was how we could afford it.’ Aunty Jo gives a sniff of disapproval.

‘They probably blew the budget next door on exotic wallpaper.’ I come to a halt by a newly installed wood-burning stove. ‘So what were they planning here?’

‘Holiday accommodation around the courtyard.’ She frowns. ‘It’s not my cup of tea at all. I like a room to have a dado.’

I already know that. Our house didn’t have those either, and she reminded us every visit. I peer into a tiny room and spot a drench shower head. ‘They haven’t got around to tiling, but at least the wet room fittings are in.’

She sniffs. ‘Very downmarket – my friends don’t look twice if there isn’t a Jacuzzi with steam jets.’

I peer out of a tiny window. ‘A lot of the groundwork has been done. What’s left is the finishing.’ That’s the time-consuming and expensive bit and, with eight units, it’s a good thing she’s not counting her pennies. On the plus side, there’s loads of space and it’s wonderfully airy, even if it is freezing.

‘So there could be dados, after all?’ As she hugs her jacket closer there’s no vestige of the upbeat jovial couple she and Harry once were. I know she’s grieving and sad, but I’ve been here days and I haven’t seen a hint of a twinkle. Though if she has any idea how much work it’s going to take to transform what’s here to luxury accommodation, I can understand why.

It’s my turn to pull a face. ‘We might give dados a miss but we can certainly get the place done.’ It’s time not cash that’s our priority; once I find a reliable builder who’s available, we’ll fly to the finish. ‘And look at that sea view.’ Across the field the clifftop edge is sharp against the grey of the water, which merges in turn with a smoky sky strewn with scudding grey clouds. And the water is the colour of iron, stormy with dashes of cream foam. The truth is, now I’m here scuffing my toes in the building dust, the twang in my chest is about way more than another cloudy day.

I went to Zinc Inc by accident, the summer I was seventeen. I’d fallen out of sixth from after a year of hard partying with an F in every subject, then went to a careers fair because someone told me they were giving away free T-shirts. I ended up at Jake’s mass interview with no idea what interior design even was. Apparently Jake wasn’t looking for raw natural talent with carpet swatches, he chose me because I had all the nervous kids in the group smiling within minutes, and then went on to talk the tea lady into serving us her private doughnut stash. He said a taste for cake and a friendly smile counted for a lot in the building industry, and he wasn’t wrong.

Back then the company mainly worked on upmarket jobs in London. But then loft living took off along with the property market, and every last home owner wanted to rip the guts out of their terraced house and design the arses off their open-plan living spaces. What I loved most was going to see the jobs on site and it turned out I had a natural eye for detail. If Tash’s superpowers are being a brainbox and making ill people well again, mine are noticing stuff and being able to persuade reluctant builders to do what I ask. Before long Jake was sending me out to jolly the tradesmen along on the smaller jobs.

As the business expanded I barely noticed I was taking on more. Then one day Jake came in and announced he was giving me a fancy title I can’t even remember now and a shedload of extra responsibility, which was amazing but is probably also why I never had time to go to bed. And why now I’m not getting up at stupid o’clock and rushing from site to site, angsting about schedules and quality control and progress meetings and one-off disasters and handover dates, I feel like I’ve lost every bit of who I am.

Aunty Jo’s voice cuts in. ‘I know the sea’s still grey, but there’s no need to look that gloomy, Edie.’

I swallow, resist pointing out that she’s in no position to talk about people looking miserable and let out a sigh for everything I’m not doing. It’s not just the status and the sense of satisfaction I miss. It’s the camaraderie, and the banter, and knowing there are a whole load of tradespeople working their butts off to do their best jobs for you. Most of all, it’s the human contact. However much they drove me to distraction on some sites, at the end of any working day I’d have spoken to more people than I could count.

‘There’s something indoors to cheer you up.’ Aunty Josie sounds even gruffer than usual.

‘Really?’ I rub the dust out of my eye and force myself to think of something that’s not Zinc Inc. Not that I’m ungrateful, but please may it not be yet another ballet DVD. I’ve managed to force her out for a walk every day, down the twisty streets to the shop above the harbour – to be fair, we have had earache from the wind – but other than that it’s been wall-to-wall tutus. I never thought I’d be begging to watch Cash in the Attic and reruns of Garden Rescue, or be desperate to sit and listen to my mum saying Charlie Dimmock has let herself go and could do better with her choice of sweatshirts. I’m not being mean, but if home had been nearer and the Uber less expensive, I’d have gone.

‘The Secret Garden colouring book arrived this morning. And some Faber Castell felt tips.’

‘Thank you.’ If she was less sharp I’d say how sweet it was too, but I don’t want to risk her jumping down my throat. Colouring is what I turn to when my head feels like it’s going to burst. Which is usually straight after I’ve been working at my puzzles, which are a lot less fun than they sound. Fitting the pieces together is supposed to help, but when it comes to those dimension things, I’ve totally lost it. At the moment, trying so hard and still ending up with a random pile of plastic bits literally blows my mind.

It’s also strangely soothing to colour when the ballet’s on. Mostly I do Hearts and Flowers. Now and again I use Bella’s I’m Sick of This Shit book. Mum went storming off when she saw that one. But it was actually great for me because it meant Bella totally gets where I am. It fits, because we’ve been besties since we met in junior school. Even when she was seven Bella had that same effortless Kate Moss fabulousness. In the least posh part of Bath where we lived, with her purple nails and her denim ra-ra skirts embroidered with sequin appliqué she stood out like some exotic flower. Back then her mum worked at Tammy Girl and provided Bella with a non-stop supply of strawberry lip gloss and lemon sherbets. Bella’s heart is so big, she gave the sweets away. Mostly to me. I still run best on sugar, even now.

Lately my tears have a mind of their own. They come gushing down my face and the first I know is when my shirt is soaking. Or my thick woolly scarf that I use to wrap up against the cold. Like it is now.

‘Oh, dear, crying won’t do, Edie – if anyone knows that it’s me.’ Aunty Jo is holding me at arm’s length, staring at me with an appalled scowl. ‘Come on, dry your eyes. I’ll show you the big barn where Harry was going to have his main workshop.’

Somehow I’m still holding a handful of her coat sleeve. ‘I was going to give you a hug. For the book?’

‘There’s no need – one click, that’s all it took.’ She’s pulled away.

‘It’s a nice coat.’ I’m not letting her off, if she won’t have a hug she can have a compliment. ‘It makes you look like Paddington. Or one of those men who save people from the sea.’

She pulls away, frowning. ‘Oh, dear, it’s my first ever anorak. Don’t lifeboat men wear red, not yellow?’

‘No …’ I know this one. ‘Fire engines are red, yellow shows up in the sea.’ And mostly Paddingtons are blue, but Tash had a yellow one so we could tell them apart and didn’t fight. Except she used to steal the wellingtons from mine because she liked the blue ones better than the red ones. She also stole the massive middle chocolate from inside the big doors on my advent calendar one year too. It’s lucky for me I can still remember that, because I never let her forget it either.

‘The yellow’s too much, isn’t it?’ Aunty Thing’s staring down at herself.

I’m kicking myself for making her doubt. So often I can’t find any words at all. Then the wrong ones have this awful habit of tumbling out before I can stop them. ‘It’s great – yellow’s big this year. And it’s got fur.’ I definitely know this one. ‘It’s a parka. That’s good too.’

‘You’re right there with your colours and your fashion.’

‘Too right.’ There’s no need to panic about the future. I could always try a Saturday job in H&M for a bit. Obviously I’d have to brush up on my cash skills and sort out my numbers first, but whatever.

I follow Aunty Josie beyond the stone-flagged courtyard towards a monumental stone building with huge wooden barn doors with a small door at the centre. As we push through into a vast space I’m pulling my sunnies down off my head.

‘Wow, looking at this you can see why people say barns are like cathedrals. I can see why Harry loved it.’ In spite of the grey day there’s light flooding from windows in the high roof and, with its massive hewn timbers, it’s as big as a village hall. So long as you overlook the monster piles of old planks dumped in random places across the floor, it’s a lot more finished than the stable spaces even though it’s not clear what its use is. I move across to a huge glazed doorway on the other side and take in the next group of buildings beyond a strip of grass. ‘Are they yours too?’

‘No, thankfully, only the field. Those buildings are let out – there’s a caravan factory and a few others.’ She’s about to turn back when she stops. ‘Who’s this?’ There’s a boy hugging himself back against the door frame, staring at us through the glass.

When I push up my shades to get a closer look, the blue jacket is familiar. ‘He was on the lane with a dog the day I came, remember?’ Kicking the mud, just like he is now. Before I can remind her that he hangs out with Mr Nosey-Neighbourhood-Watch she’s turned the key and pushed the door open.

‘Can I help you?’ Her tone is so stern he shrinks so far into his jacket his face almost disappears. ‘Aren’t you too little to be out on your own?’ If she meant to prod him, it’s worked.

‘Actually I’m not small, I’m six.’ As he stands up straighter he ages inch by inch. ‘Have you got any cake at your house?’

‘Cake?’

He’s wrinkling his nose. ‘I’m having some later, but I’m actually hungry now.’

I laugh at how direct he is. ‘Sorry, I ate the last piece for breakfast.’ I’ll pick up more when we finally brave the cold and go down to the harbour later.

His eyebrows shoot up. ‘You can’t have cake for breakfast.’

I find myself back-pedalling under his scorn. ‘It’s not every day. Well, hardly ever. Only because we ran out of oats.’

Aunty Josie clears her throat. ‘Actually we have got cake at the cottage.’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘But you’ll have to wipe your feet before you come in.’

‘You bought cake?’ I didn’t mean to shriek so loud. But what the heck happened to sugar-free? And where the hell’s she hiding it? I might have had some after lunch if I’d known, that’s all.

‘There’s no need to sound so shocked, Edie. It’s Sunday.’

‘So?’

‘It’s a ballerina thing. If you’re careful what you eat every other day of the week, you can eat whatever you like on Sunday.’

‘That’s what you do?’ Apart from it being a million years since she danced, I’m not sure if I’m gobsmacked at the deprivation or relieved she’s breaking out.

‘Of course. I wouldn’t have a figure like this if I didn’t.’

She’s half the width of my mum and me, but we just assumed she had different genes. ‘So what have you got?’

She gives a cough. ‘Carrot cake – it arrived this morning.’ Which explains how it’s escaped my cupboard raids. She turns to the boy. ‘If you’d like some, we’ll be in the cottage next door. You’d better ask your mum first. Or your dad. Or whoever’s looking after you.’ She gives a sniff. ‘Or not looking after you.’

‘That’s Barney.’ He’s already running.

She calls after him, ‘Come around the back. Tell Barney he can come too. We’ll make some tea.’ She turns to me. ‘That must be the window cleaner.’

I clamp my sunnies firmly back on my nose. ‘Barney? Really?’ If that’s the same guy from the lane he’s the last person I’d want to serve tea to. Unless it was green. ‘And, by the way, he doesn’t actually clean windows.’

‘Like you say, it’s good to get to know people.’

‘It is.’ Anyone other than him.

7

Day 137: Sunday, 18th March

At Periwinkle Cottage

Epic Achievement: Discovering a carrot patch in the vegetable rack.

I’m not sure if it’s the thought of guests or the excitement of an all-you-can-eat day, but as soon she’s delivered my new colouring book Aunty Thing rushes off and starts crashing around the kitchen. As she clatters the cups and plates onto a tray and gets out a gigantic teapot, she’s dancing around so fast her gold pumps are leaving light trails.

She waves at the next room, snaps out another order. ‘Get the cake, Edie, it’s in the vegetable rack.’

That’s not a place I’ve visited yet, but moments later I’m back in the kitchen sliding a square cake out of the box, eyes popping at the creamy topping and bright orange knobs of icing carrots sprouting green sugar leaves.

She’s tutting critically as she watches me unwrap it. ‘It’s an M&S carrot patch cake – the milkman picked it up for me from Penzance.’

‘It’s pretty fab.’ Even though I’m reeling from being bossed about, I have to hand it to her. In my other life with Marcus I might even have tucked the idea for that away in my mental recipe file and pulled it out later as a cute sweet to take round to his friends’ for a weekend barbie. My desserts were the sole trick I had to impress them with. Marcus’s mates in creative media – and he had a lot – took male bonding to a whole new level. The kind where, if they weren’t away on some kind of wacky adventure, they were incapable of making it through a weekend without meeting up on someone’s patio. Mostly they swilled back craft beers with odd names and incinerated choice lumps of cow from the craft burger shops while they tried to channel their younger selves. Even though they’d graduated from flats to houses, due to soaring Bristol property prices and the burst of the dot com bubble, no one had yet made it to the stage of owning a full-blown flower-filled garden. So we chewed on our chargrills in back yards, sitting on stacked-up railway sleepers listening to Wonderwall against backdrops of reclaimed brickwork.

At the time it felt like we’d be twenty-something all our life, and be doing that for ever. Then the inevitable happens, someone forgets to take their Pill, someone else thinks ‘Why not us?’ And, before you know it, baby bumps aren’t just trending, they’re exploding under every Nicole Farhi silk T-shirt. And whatever people say about not letting kids change their lives, they’re kidding themselves. I had an aunt’s-eye view when Tash had Tiddlywink and Wilf. It was like a hurricane upended their home and then came back through for seconds. Put it this way, once you shell out more on a Bugaboo Cameleon pushchair combo than a Vera Wang wedding dress – and there were plenty of both among Marcus’s friends – nothing’s ever the same again.

But, getting back to Aunty Jo’s carrot patch, even for a cake-face like me, it’s huge. I’m also impressed at how obliging the door-to-door people are around these parts. I’m counting the sprouting carrots in my head and I get all the way to eleven before I falter. It could be the sea air, or Aunty Jo making me count along with her when she does her before lunch Stay Young stretches. But that’s the most I’ve reached for a long time, so in my head I’m giving a silent cheer.

‘We could have tea in the conservatory? As we have company.’

‘Great plan,’ I say. It’s warm in the garden room, even on cloudy days, and this way we sidestep the visitors seeing we live in what looks like a rainforest theme park.

By the time the boy is kicking his way across the courtyard we’re settled onto basket chairs, marvelling at how the gunmetal paint on the window frames matches the shine of the distant sea. Aunty Jo pushes the door open, points at the mat and, after a frenzied foot wipe, the boy wanders over to where my pens are spread out on the low table next to me.

He’s giving my felt tips a hard stare. ‘Aren’t you too old for colouring in?’

I smile. ‘You think so?’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t like colouring. I go over the lines.’

I get that. ‘Same here.’

His hands are deep in his pockets. ‘Making up your own pictures is better for your imagination.’

Why didn’t I think about that? He could be right. ‘Anyway, I’m Edie Browne with an ‘e’, and this is Aunty—’

She’s straight in there, filling the gap. ‘Jo. Aunty Jo. Jo like ‘joker’, because I laugh a lot. Let’s see how that one works?’ From the look she gives me she knows I’m liable to forget.

I turn to the boy. ‘So do you have a name?’

‘Cam. Except at school I’m Cameron Michael Arnold, but that’s so long to write.’ He sounds despondent. ‘I’m really slow at writing.’

‘Me too.’ I’m not actually getting how Aunty Jo is any fun at all, but I can sympathise with the slow part. Even so, I bet if we had a race he’d win. If he’s here because he’s a sponge fan too we could have a lot in common. ‘But I’m fast at eating cake.’

His eyes pull back into focus. ‘Barney said to hurry, we’re going to see a customer.’

Aunty Joke’s tone hardens. ‘He will still have time for tea?’

‘Nope.’ Cam’s shaking his head.

‘That’s a shame.’ Not. I’m mentally punching the air with relief as I reach for the knife. ‘I’d better go fast then.’

His brow furrows. ‘What are those orange things?’

Do six-year-olds understand irony? ‘They’re icing carrots because it’s carrot cake. They’re meant to be funny.’

He wrinkles his nose. ‘I don’t like vegetables.’

That’s another thing we have in common. I prise off a carrot top and pass it to him. ‘Try one, they’re delish.’ Not that I could taste them myself, but if they’re M&S they have to be. As I watch him chew, his frown melts. ‘Good?’

‘Yep.’

Aunty Joke isn’t giving up on her teapot. ‘Well, you can always have tea another time. Next weekend, maybe?’

I slice through the buttercream. ‘One for now and one for later?’ I pass Cam the first chunk in kitchen roll, then wrap up the second.

Aunty Jo prompts me, ‘Don’t forget – do some for Barney too, he’s here now. I just hope he doesn’t look at how dirty our windows are.’

Damn. People like him don’t deserve cake. And I’m giving up on the window cleaner thing.

When Barney finally slides his shoulder up against the frame, he fills the doorway. Then my worst nightmare happens and his eyes lock with mine. I clutch at my stomach as it lurches into some kind of cartwheel, spectacularly fail to stop it as it slips into freefall and somehow lose my grip on the cake knife, which arcs through the air and clatters onto the tiles next to Barney’s feet.

He stoops to pick up the knife and as he stands up his lips twitch. ‘Hey there, butterfingers.’

I roll my eyes. ‘You again? So soon.’

Then, as his eyes slide down to the cake, they widen. ‘Nice carrots. Is that homemade?’

Why the hell would I even care he’s noticed? As for the pang of disappointment that I can’t claim the cake as mine, that’s bonkers too because he’s the last person I’d want to impress. That little pool of wide-eyed awe of his isn’t one I’d want to bask in. Honestly.

I feel my nose wrinkle. ‘I guess someone with a home made it.’ I have no ideas where that bollocks came from, but I have to come clean. ‘It wasn’t me.’

He looks half amused. ‘In that case I won’t say great cooking. Or make any mention of baking and entering.’

I’m groaning inwardly at that, but I don’t flinch. ‘And I won’t say thanks a lot for the compliments, although I might risk an “enjoy”.’ But that’s only for Cam’s sake, obviously. Okay, someone please tell my mouth it’s time to stop. ‘And in case you’re thinking of sending the special constables round to interrogate us, it isn’t stolen – the person who brings that white stuff in bottles brought it.’

His nostrils flare slightly. ‘Any cake is good cake as far as we’re concerned. Not that we’re desperate or anything.’

‘I’ll take your word on that.’ I swear that’s my last word too.

‘Ready, Cam?’ He cocks his head at the boy, then turns to Aunty Jo. ‘I hope it’s okay he gate-crashed your afternoon tea?’ He’s raising an eyebrow at Cam. ‘C’mon then, big man, fast as you can, we’re already late. What do you say?’

‘Thanks.’ Cam’s clutching his stack of cake parcels, dropping crumbs as he hurries out onto the stone-flagged path.

‘You will come again?’ There’s no time for Aunty Jo to say more because they’ve almost reached the lane.

So there’s ‘in a hurry’. And there’s ‘bad mannered’. And I know where my money is.

As she pulls the door closed behind them her voice has lightened. ‘He was nice.’

‘He was, I don’t see many kids that age.’

Her eyes narrow. ‘Not the child, I was talking about Barney.’

It takes me a while to pick myself up off the floor. ‘Nice, in what way?’ All that stubble and on-trend scuffed Timberlands still don’t make up for rushing off. Or accusing me of robbery. Even worse, now he’s gone my heart is pounding and my pulse is racing. I blame my faulty adrenalin circuits. The slightest excuse, they flood my body so I’m ready to run away. Which is great for survival and outsmarting the Neighbourhood Watch brigade, but leaves me feeling way more jumpy than I’d like.

‘Put it this way, if he’d asked me to dance thirty years ago I wouldn’t have said no.’ Her wicker chair creaks as she settles back into it.

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. ‘But you’re grieving.’ And she’s also my aunt who’s into ballet and wheat grass juice and rubs on Estée Lauder Youth Dew body lotion morning, noon and many times later on. Every day. How can a guy whose idea of a meet-the-client outfit is a ripped T-shirt and is hunky enough to have jumped off the pages of GQ magazine even register on her radar? He’s totally nothing like, you know … the one who looks like he wants to snog Margot’s face off every time he snatches her out of the air. Or smooth old Uncle Harry, come to that.

‘Don’t be so frumpy, Edie, I’ve lost my husband, not my eyes.’ It’s another one of those times when her snap is so sharp, arguing is pointless.

I fix my gaze on the ferns in the room beyond the door. ‘We really need to do something about this wallpaper.’ This is me, and I’m taking back control. A few minutes’ break from the riot of black and purple has been bliss. At home Dad repainted my bedroom and the pale grey walls and soft light filtering through the muslin nets worked wonders for clearing my head. We’ve got to make a start somewhere and Edie Browne, site manager, knows the cottage is the place.

‘You could be right. If we’re having regular visitors we don’t want to come across all dark and gloomy, do we?’

If Mr Awful-Neighbour got an upgrade to visitor status, even if it’s only in her head, we need to get this quest up and running. The sooner we do, the sooner I’ll be back to civilisation. And normality. And after today I could really do with some of that.

8

Day 139: Tuesday, 20th March

Calligraphy at The Deck Gallery

Epic Achievement: Remembering that word I keep forgetting. But mostly getting Aunty Jo down the hill.

‘Don’t worry, Aunty Jo, it’s only a bit of lettering – what can possibly go wrong?’

I’m power walking a reluctant Aunty Jo down the narrow winding streets of St Aidan, hoping I’m not about to answer my own rhetorical question. For starters, I can’t remember the name of the cottage let alone the postcode. Worse still, it’s going to be like the stroke department revisited, and everyone will be ancient.

It’s funny how my life has flipped; when I remember that most days I’d be toughing it out with contractors at site meetings it’s hard to align that person with the one who’s about to sit at a table with a load of dreary people doing loopy writing. Truly, if someone had told me I’d be going to an after-lunch Care in the Community class I wouldn’t have believed them either. But this is for Aunty Jo not me, so I’m happy to do it.

We’ve eaten a compromise lunch of pasta tubes made from split peas, which was way worse than it sounds, with lettuce leaves, followed by prunes. We stopped at the cash machine outside the Spar shop on the way down, where Aunty Jo barked prompts over my shoulder and I punched in my 1111 pin all by myself. I’ve now got a bundle of notes, so from here on I can pay with cash. As we push our way into the gallery there’s a wall of huge paintings of the sea that feel so real I can almost hear the crash of the waves on the canvas. Further down the space there’s a group of women around a large table, their laughter bouncing off the high white ceiling.

As their heads all turn I feel Aunty Jo go rigid. She’s growling through her teeth at me, ‘If we leave now, they might not notice?’

‘Hang on.’ She’s not getting out of it that easily.

The tug I give her is so hard that we speed down the gallery. Then, just before we reach the group, she locks her knees but I keep on going. My body’s miles ahead and my legs are running to catch up. As I make a grab for the table edge my thighs crash into it too and set the ink bottles rattling and send a pen rolling off onto the floor. I ignore the gasps around the table and pull out my best sparkly smile. ‘We’re here for the class?’

Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t someone my age in a daisy print jumpsuit bounding towards me around the table in duck-egg blue Converse.

‘Josie and Edie? And I’m Beth – we were hoping you’d come.’ Her bleached pixie haircut shows off the cute dents in her cheeks when she smiles. Better still, she’s almost as breathless as me. ‘It’s more of an informal workshop actually, we all work on different projects but we help each other along.’

I make a grab for my sunnies, then push them back up on my head again as I realise there’s nothing flashy or jarring about the light. It’s seeping in through a series of frosted slit windows and, instead of dazzling me, it’s washing the room with softness. It’s as if a lot of the places I’ve walked through in my mind the last few months have come to life again here. As the people sit back in what look like fabulously funky chairs for a backwater and let go of the pens and ink pots they’ve grabbed hold of, even if I can’t read what it says, I have to admit there’s some pretty cool work going on.

As Beth’s words sink in I whoosh around to Aunty Jo. ‘Projects! That’s what I was trying to think of – the one I can never get.’ It’s days ago now, but I can’t let it pass. Projects Manager. For the South-West. That’s my job at Zinc Inc.

Aunty Jo’s eyes are open very wide. ‘I see why you said getting out would be good, Edie.’

Beth pulls some spare chairs in our direction. ‘It’s not all hard work – we do a lot of chatting too. Drinks and snacks are on the side, come and help yourselves. Then settle in, and I’ll get you some practice sheets.’

I dangle a fruit tea sachet from my fingers in front of Aunty Jo. ‘This one for you?’ I recognise the strawberry and exotic flowers as the one she has at home when she’s not insisting on green. Which would be another good sign if we were looking for them.

Aunty Jo picks up a muffin. ‘Are these double chocolate?’

Beth nods. ‘And vegan too, homemade in the Little Cornish Kitchen just beyond the harbour. They’re great for creativity.’ She’s talking so fast she could be nervous blurting herself.

By the time I sit down with my mug of hot chocolate I’m definitely warming to community classes. ‘Can we pay?’

‘Or shall we fill in any forms?’ Aunty Jo’s slipping her coat onto the back of her chair so I take it we’re staying.

Beth hands us a blank sheet of paper. ‘Don’t worry about cash, your first time is free, so just jot your names and contact details on here. You’re at Periwinkle, aren’t you? The views are lovely from there. Loella and I are practically your neighbours – we’re in the cottages just along the road to Rosehill.’

‘Fabulous views,’ I agree. Neither of us has a clue where the hell she means, but whatever.

‘Best writing.’ Aunty Jo might have made a joke there. A moment of scribbling and my name and number are down there too, then she hands them back to Beth. Easy as that. No one even noticed the cheat.

Beth whisks the addresses away then hands us some paper with sets of lines on and a mug of pens and pencils. ‘I’ll show you some basic letter forms. It’s no big deal. Calligraphy is only handwriting but a bit more careful and well thought out.’

Although the little pots of ink, and brushes, and jars of water and scraps of different coloured paper scattered across the table look interesting, this isn’t the best place for me right now. I can still write, but it usually ends up all over the paper and looks like someone else did it – blindfold, using their wrong hand. Keeping anywhere near the lines is going to take a massive effort. But a few minutes later we’ve been shown how to hold our pens at the right angle, done a – very wavy in my case – row of little straight lines, then watched Beth tracing out the curves of an ‘a’, ‘b’, ‘c’ and ‘d’ a few times on our papers.

Now Aunty Jo and I are trying on our own I’m finding it hard to keep my mind on the job. I take one bite of muffin then do a stroke of a letter. A bit of staring at the very white ceiling. Another bite of muffin. In the time it takes me to do my first ‘a’, Aunty Jo has filled a sheet and is onto the next. She’s hitting this with the same high-impact energy she uses for her Keep Fit and Look Ten Years Younger routines in the mornings.

For me, my full attention is going to the sponge. It’s so dark and sticky – if I’m going to taste anything, it’ll be this. So far I’m not, but you can’t win them all. Not straight away. In between times, I feel like I’m back at junior school. I can’t say I’d ever have put myself at a calligraphy class, unless I was intending to write my own wedding invitations of course. In which case Bella and I would definitely have pulled in one of those lovely Pens and Prosecco Workshops for Brides at Paper Moon in Bristol, and we’d have spent an entire Saturday inhaling our bodyweight of delicious canapés and teensy macaroons. Which I might have dreamed of fleetingly, in passing, maybe one time. Well, maybe a bit more often than that if I’m being completely true to myself. But which definitely won’t be happening now, not since Marcus and I had our discussion, where we talked totally honestly and openly for the first time ever about where we saw ourselves going as a couple.

Don’t ask me how we got seven years into the rosy land of living together before we had that talk. However it happened, we can’t undo it now. And, due to complete fucking mismatch of expectations of the most epic proportions, we had a humungous and hugely fierce argument. Followed by a calm after the storm week of realisation, then a very tearful rethink, where I think I was supposed to back down, but for the first time in seven years, I didn’t. Which was the point we both knew we weren’t going to agree on some of the most important decisions in our lives. So we realigned our pathways to go in different directions. He kept the house, which was only fair because it was his to begin with. And I headed off, leaving years of heartfelt renovations behind, feeling this was all my fault for not getting things straight to begin with.

As she reaches for her next sheet, Aunty Jo looks up. ‘You always had lovely writing on the letters you sent us.’

When we were younger, probably because they didn’t have kids of their own, Harry and Aunty Jo never missed a birthday and my mum was a stickler for ‘thank you’s so we never lost the habit. Marcus always poked fun at my family’s obsession with gratitude. All our quirky ‘thank you’ cards propped behind the toaster and cluttering up the magnetic steel noticeboard drove him wild because they wrecked the minimalist lines of the kitchen. Mostly he saw thanking anyone for anything as sign of weakness.

I smile as I remember school. ‘My writing was neat.’ That bit was easy. Everything else was where I lost it. For me school was simply a chance to have fun with my friends, and my life only took off properly once I’d left. Put me in a room of people and I’m straight off making besties and having a ball, which is why it’s hard to adjust to how I am at the moment. The truth is, with my non-stop chatter on temporary go-slow, even my good friends find me strangely quiet. I don’t want to go out with them either, because it’s just too weird not being the noisy one. It’s fine, we’ll make up for lost time as soon as I’m back to my old self. But it’s strange to think this afternoon is the closest I’ve been to a social event in ages.

‘So, as a newbie, how are you finding St Aidan?’ A woman with a wide grin and a tumble of dark curls falling over the shoulders of her chunky cardigan is pulling up a chair next to me.

I focus on the flowers rioting across her dress, ignore the sweat prickle on the back of my neck and scramble around my brain to find a reply. Any will do, ideally nothing too insulting or unfiltered. ‘It’s … er … quiet.’ What else is there to say about an empty village where the sand blows in your eyes so hard you can’t see the sea, even when you’re not on the beach?

From her laugh she finds that funny. ‘You won’t say that in July. At least when it’s not busy we get to meet here.’

Beth chimes in. ‘Without us, Plum, the owner here, could go right through the winter and never see another human.’

‘So which one’s Plum?’

The dark girl nods at the distant staircase. ‘She’s upstairs painting her seascapes, she lets us put on craft workshops in winter to keep the place alive. I’m Loella, by the way.’

Beth’s smile is hopeful. ‘There are actually lots of other sessions you might like to dip into.’

‘Yes?’ They sound great for Aunty Jo.

Loella carries on. ‘I do patchwork, quilting and anything creative with fabric.’

I sense Aunty Jo sitting up in her funky chair, so I smile at her. ‘You enjoy sewing, don’t you?’

Aunty Jo sits up even straighter. ‘Actually, life drawing was always popular in Harpenden.’

‘WHAT?’ I’m picking my jaw up off the floor, desperate to move this onto anywhere that’s not here. ‘Or how about r-r-rings and things?’

Loella’s beaming and jumping to her feet. ‘We do have an occasional life class, when we can get a model. I’ll put you down for that, upcycled jewellery making when we do it, and quilting? I’ll email you with the times. You will still come to calligraphy?’

Aunty Jo’s flicking through her pile of sheets of perfect swirly letters, but she’s looking doubtful so I jump in before she can refuse. ‘Absolutely.’

Loella turns and nudges me. ‘And whatever you said before, what’s coming now is going to make you think again about St Aidan being quiet.’ She checks her watch. ‘Any second the kids will be back from school and all hell will break loose.’

Beth’s hurrying round with a tray and what looks like an urgent expression. ‘Hand over your ink pots everyone.’

There’s a whoosh of air all the way down the gallery as the door opens, then the hammering of feet and the kind of whooping you’d expect from those Americans who ride horses, do cattle drives and shout ‘yee haw!’ as they wave their ropey things around. There’s a blur of colour as more kids than I can count come stampeding down the gallery, waving their coats in the air. Then my stomach sinks because there’s a skittering daxi too. And, coming up the rear, with a couple of littlies hanging off each arm, there’s a horribly familiar faded denim jacket.

Aunty Jo gives me a very significant nod. ‘Not just a pretty face. Isn’t it nice to see a man who’s good with the small ones?’ Then she leans in and her voice drops to a whisper. ‘Have you seen how muddy their feet are? I do hope he keeps them away from us.’

‘Me too.’ Obviously I love Tash’s little ones, but other people’s kids in large numbers are on my ‘avoid at all costs’ list.

I should tell Aunty Jo off for objectifying too, but I’m not up to smart replies right now. Luckily a tug on my elbow saves me. ‘Cam …?’ I’m hoping I’ve got that right. It’s acceptable to forget adult names – kids, not so much.

His frown is accusing. ‘Why are you here, Edie Browne – you hate writing?’

I lift my arm off my paper so he can see my work and hope he’s remembered the ‘e’ on my name.

‘Three! Is that all you’ve done?’

I nod. That’s three ‘a’s, not three sheets. It’s as if I’m seven again, and I just zoomed straight to the bottom of the class.

‘All afternoon?’

‘Yes siree.’ It’s my voice, but the accent’s unexpectedly American.

‘That is worse than me.’

‘See, I told you. And high fives to that!’ I hold up my hand and he smacks his palm against mine before he rushes off.

Then Loella sweeps by with an armful of papers and flashes me a smile. ‘Cam’s already chatting to you? Well done for that – a lot of us have tried and failed there, so great work.’

It’s nothing, but for someone who took all afternoon to write three ‘a’s it’s the high point, so I’m going to grab it and enjoy.

‘And we’ll see you same time tomorrow for Fun with Fabric?’ I’m trying my best to return the wall-to-wall smile Loella’s sending me when hers suddenly fades. ‘You do want to come? I mean you would like to try sewing?’

Crap. If I’m bad at writing, needlework will be so much worse, because I could never do that before. ‘Errrr –’ This is not the moment to run out of words either.

‘You look less up for this than your aunt, that’s all?’

Damn. ‘W-w-whatever g-gave you that idea?’

Her face cracks into a smile again, but this time it’s rueful. ‘One, the faces you pulled when I mentioned it earlier, two, the way you looked like you wanted to make a run for the door most of the afternoon. Need I go on?’

I have to admit as I take in her hand-knitted cardi that wouldn’t look out of place on a catwalk, the stylish knitwear and the straight talking have both caught me off guard.

‘Two tiny things, you’ve totally misread.’ This time I make sure my smile is dazzling and I’m really over-compensating. ‘Don’t worry, w-we’ll be there. So much fun – how could we not?’

‘Don’t worry …’ It’s almost an echo and as she cocks her head her laugh is low and dirty. ‘Your secret’s safe with me, Edie Browne. See you tomorrow.’

Fuck, fuck, fuck. This time I don’t even try to hold back my groan.

She’s still there grinning at me. ‘And I’m so pleased you swear. You’re going to fit right in here, I just know.’

And that was calligraphy.

9

Day 141: Thursday, 22nd March

Back at The Deck Gallery

Epic Achievement: Getting a different view of St Aidan. (It’s all about the ‘boom’.)

Fun with Fabric? That has to be one of those oxymoron phrases that totally contradicts itself. As for how I still know about those when I can barely remember that my middle name’s Sara, that’s just another of those pesky anomalies I collide with every day. If I had my way there’d be a law against the words ‘fabric’ and ‘fun’ ever appearing in the same sentence. Just saying. So there’s no misunderstanding. Even if I can’t look at a pin without messing things up, this is for Aunty Jo – she’s like my mum, they could sew in their sleep.

Up until we reach the gallery, it’s like reliving the last time. Pasta, prunes, lettuce. Speeding Aunty Jo down the hill because, despite the promise of needles and scissors, she’s suddenly very reluctant. But today there is a difference because, even before we push through the tall plate-glass gallery doors, we can hear the whirr of sewing machines. As we make our way towards the work table we’re faced with an explosion of colourful fabric and then, one by one, the bowed heads look up and we’re faced with a sea of waves and smiles, and a chorus of ‘hi’s and ‘hello’s.

It takes Aunty Jo one blink to take it in, then she overcomes her shyness. ‘Cathedral window patchwork – how wonderful.’ A nanosecond later she hurls herself into a discussion about backing fabrics that’s so involved I can’t even understand it, let alone join in.

I spot Loella brandishing a hissing iron at one of the ironing boards beyond the fabric piles and give her a little wave. ‘Hey, this is every bit as mind-blowing as you promised.’ I flash her a smile huge enough to reinforce how super-happy I am to be here, but mostly to keep her off my case. Then I sidle into a seat, grab a spare pin cushion and make myself look extremely busy rearranging the pins. Then Aunty Jo comes and shows me how to draw around a template, and cut out squares for patchwork. But, even though I’m not joining in the chatter, I’m finding it hard to keep on task. It’s like calligraphy revisited – Aunty Jo is beaming from behind a huge heap of perfectly cut hexagons, and I’m still struggling to cut out my first square and kicking myself for scoring a total fail. I’m just wondering if swapping to a different pair of scissors might help when there’s a cough beside me.

I’m racing to get my excuses together for Loella. ‘Actually, I’m just checking out …’ When I pull my eyes into focus, what I’m actually checking out are some super-hard denim-clad thighs so I take a moment to get over the shock – and take in any details Bella might be asking about later. Then I flash upwards to a familiar stubbled jaw, and a mouth that’s not quite twisted into a grin. ‘Barney? W-what the h-hell are you doing here?’

He gives a shrug. ‘I popped in to drop some tools off for Beth, but if you can spare a minute, I could do with a hand outside.’

Going with Barney, or staying here. Two choices, both of them equally awful in their own way. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘C’mon Edie, I promise it won’t take long.’ That direct gaze is so dark it’s playing havoc with my insides.

Aunty Jo has somehow torn herself away from her discussion about stitch length. ‘Run along now, Edie. I’m sure Loella won’t mind.’

My wide eyes are pleading with Loella to insist I stay, but she just smiles. ‘If Barney needs you that’s good with me.’

‘Fine.’ It’s not at all. On balance, now it’s happening, I’d rather sew an entire quilt than go with Barney. If this is my punishment, I’m really regretting not trying harder with the cutting. By the time I’ve pushed back my chair he’s away. By the time I catch up with him he’s holding the door open and, as the chilly afternoon air hits my face, he’s thrusting an oilskin jacket into my hands.

‘Here, have my coat, we’re off to the harbour, not that I want to rush you, but you might need to hurry up if we’re going to make it back for the end of the class.’

‘But …’ What the hell happened to that minute this wasn’t going to take? It’s not like I can argue when I’m running to keep up. I’m getting glimpses of the bay in the gaps between the buildings as we cut down through a narrow cobbled alleyway, watching the long lines of the waves rolling in over the shine of the wet sand, seeing figures bending against the breeze, hearing the rush of water in the distance as the waves break on the beach. And for once the iron grey of the sea has lifted a shade and the water surface is silver, hammered like the dapple of fish scales. Then we come out onto the quayside, edged with its neat rows of cottages with pink and blue front doors, and the piles of lobster pots and rope coils, and the blue and red and black boats lined up along the jetties, their masts sharp against the sky.

By the time we leap down the wooden steps onto a very wobbly pontoon my chest feels like it’s going to burst from the exertion. ‘What are we h-here for?’

‘She’s rigged and ready, so I’d have thought that was obvious.’ He dips down into the low open boat we’re standing next to and hands me a padded waistcoat and pulls one on himself too. ‘That’s your buoyancy aid, slip it on over the waterproof and we’re good to go.’

‘Go WHERE?’ As if I’d know one end of a boat from another, let alone know the nuances and implications. If we’re talking water I have no objection to paddling, but if the water’s any deeper than my ankles I’m not a happy bunny. When I was with Marcus, whenever his family dabbled with boats on holiday, which was a lot, I always did a silent hooray, made my excuses and went off to read on the beach instead.

‘No need to panic – we’ll be out and back again in no time. I’ve done some repairs to the rudder in return for a favour. I’m just testing it holds before we deliver it back.’

‘Marvellous.’ I wedge my jaw shut to stop my teeth chattering. I know from work, it’s crucial to set clear boundaries at the outset. ‘And h-h-how do I fit in? If you think I’m going to swim to shore for help when the damn thing breaks into pieces, you can bloody think again.’

‘Definitely no swimming – I can sail her on my own – but it’s better with two people because there’s more weight.’ He’s already jumped down into the boat and he’s pulling on ropes.

‘So you’ve brought me along as ballast?’ Of all the insults, that has to be the biggest yet.

‘Not entirely, it was more a spur-of-the-moment thing. You looked like you were really struggling back there.’ He looks like he’s agonising. ‘I wanted to save you from a crap afternoon.’ His hand grasps mine and in one pull I’m in and sliding onto a tiny plank seat, clinging onto the boat side behind me as it lurches, trying to look like I do this every day. As the oilskin’s Velcro prickles my chin there’s no time to wish that Dayglo orange was more my colour because I’m too busy watching the dark shiny water going up and down as the boat rises on the swell, and holding onto my stomach which feels like it’s a washing machine working a full load. If I said I’d rather make a quilt, revise that upwards. I can’t count how many quilts I’d have sewn to avoid this. More importantly, if this is being saved, I hate to think what being dropped in it would be like.

Meanwhile Barney’s leaping around like bloody Superman doing a million things at once; undoing ropes, pushing us off from the side, hauling up the sail.

‘Boom!’

The yell makes me jump so much I almost end up in the harbour. But I’m catching on here, I’d hate to come across as clueless, so I join in too but make sure mine’s louder. ‘Boom! Back at you!’

From Barney’s bemused stare you’d think he was the beginner here. ‘Sorry, that means “Mind your head!” – that’s the boom there.’ He’s pointing at this long pole at the bottom of the sail. ‘Boom! is what we shout when it’s about to swing across the boat, so watch out.’

‘Shucks!’ I duck and narrowly miss getting my skull caved in as it skims past my ear and silently thank Christmas it didn’t bump my head. Then, as Barney squats down at the back, some kind of stick in one hand, still pulling on a rope in the other, there’s this awful creaking, but we start to move away from the jetty and out across the harbour.

‘Okay on the side there?’

‘Great.’ My fake I’m-totally-fine-thanks smile would be way more convincing if my lippy hadn’t all just blown out to sea. Even though I look like Mr Blobby I attempt a nonchalant lounging position, but when I lunge slowly backwards there’s nothing to lean on. I’m sure I had many clips in my messy up-do, but it feels like the wind wrenched them all away and tossed them into the water, so I push my scarf into my pocket so I don’t lose that too. ‘Are you sure it’s okay going out in this gale?’

He pulls down the corners of his mouth and does a little wiggle on the stick. ‘Probably only a force two.’

Which means absolutely zilch, but I’m pretty proud of the way I exclaim about it anyway. ‘A TWO! Jeez, well, that explains why it’s so rough and windy.’

‘It’s like a millpond, Edie. I wouldn’t have brought you out if it wasn’t.’ He’s frowning at me. ‘Maybe you’d like to let go of the side and hang onto the sheet instead? Get a feel for the wind?’

‘Great, you’ve brought a sheet – I’ll wrap myself up in it if it gets any colder.’

He purses his lips. ‘The sheet is this rope here, you could pull it and hold the sail in place?’

‘Hell no. Thanks all the same.’

If I didn’t know better I’d think he was trying to hold back his smile. ‘So maybe you can tell me how come you’re less in love with sewing than the rest of them?’

‘I got off to a bad start at school.’ To be honest it’s a relief to have something to take my mind off the heaving of the ship. ‘The first ever lesson, the textiles teacher caught me holding a pin in my mouth.’ That was practically the only useful thing my mum had ever taught me about needlework. ‘Apparently teenagers giving sudden whoops and ending up in A&E with pins jammed in their throats is a massive Health and Safety issue.’ I know that I’m blurting and over-sharing, but I can’t stop. My only excuse, I must be a nervous sailor. ‘To be honest I’d have thought sewing through your finger with a machine was way worse. That’s what Bianca Hill from the other group in our year did. But, whatever, the teacher had a hissy fit and things went downhill fast from there.’ A lot like things have in St Aidan, come to think of it.

‘Okay, we’re going to swing the sail around and change direction in a minute, so hang on tight and duck … one two three, BOOM!’

‘Jeez, what the HECK … BOOM! To you too!’ There’s so much splashing and heaving and groaning it feels like we have to end up upside down, pitched into the water. I’m digging my fingers in so hard to the boat side I get splinters under my fingernails, but at the end of it somehow we’re still afloat, even if we’re at a crazy angle.

‘Okay, now come and sit the other side of the boat, and this time try to lean back as far as you can to get your weight out over the water.’ As he watches me make my way across, inching forwards on all fours through the puddles, I no longer give any fucks. The will to look stylish disappeared somewhere in the harbour car park, and I left my last shred of pride back on the jetty. I get there eventually, but he can forget leaning out.

‘So much chopping and changing. It’s hardly relaxing is it?’

He’s rubbing his fist over his mouth. ‘So, how far downhill did your sewing go?’

‘By the time we got to making dresses for GCSE, mine was the size of one of those things that you put your bed quilt inside.’

‘What, a duvet cover?’

‘That’s the one. Then I put the zip in upside down, and somehow stitched the front to the back so, even though it was the size of a house, it was still impossible to climb into.’ It’s all true, and at least it’s a better excuse for why I was completely failing to cut out Loella’s patchwork pieces. I’d rather not explain that my fingers won’t do what I want them to at the moment.

‘I can see why you’re traumatised.’ He’s spluttering into his fist. ‘Okay, we’re turning again, ready, and BOOM!’

‘Surely not? BOOM!’ But we are, and the whole damned heaving and splashing thing starts again and, before I know it, I’m on my hands and knees, crawling back across the boat again. Once I get back onto my plank seat with both hands safely clamped on the boat sides, I squint at him. ‘And people do this why?’

He shrugs. ‘Because it’s fun.’

That word again. ‘Not in my book it’s not.’

‘I’ve had more laughs in the last half hour than I have for a long time.’ He’s tilting his head at me and being ridiculous, because he hasn’t even broken into a grin. ‘I’m not sure you know quite how funny you are, Edie Browne.’

I give that the eye roll it deserves. Funny was how I was before, what he’s finding amusing now are my blunders.

With his deck shoes and tousled hair, and the shadows under his cheekbones set against the flashes of the dark water, he could have been parachuted in from a Diesel advert.

He coughs. ‘I know we’re only going slowly, but listen to the swish of the water as the boat passes across it, feel the rush of the breeze. I mean, look back at the harbour and the shore.’

I only screw my head around because I know if I don’t he’ll go on about it. Looking back from out here in the bay, I’m getting the familiar postcard view of the town with the higgledy rows of cottages rising above the cluster of masts in the harbour, and the seafront railings that stretch around the bay.

‘So, doesn’t it give you a wonderful sense that you’re escaping?’

I nod at the stack of stone and stucco fronts, their pastel colours fading to monochrome in the greyness. ‘The calm swishing gets wrecked every time we almost get pitched into the effing sea.’ Aunty Jo’s cottage is nudging the skyline, and I’m trying not to notice how wildly it’s swaying up and down as the boat rocks. ‘My escape to solitude ends firmly at the beach, any further is too much like Desert Island Discs.’

There’s a choking noise from behind the sail. ‘You’ve picked the wrong place if you’re looking for peace.’

Someone else said that, but I’m not picking him up on it. I give him my serious stare. ‘And how can anyone relax when it sounds like the damn boat is about to split in two at any second?’

Somehow he looks totally at one with the thunder-grey clouds billowing behind him. ‘The creaking is the beauty of a timber hull. With a whole world of ocean stretched out beyond us, there’s such a wonderful feeling of freedom, that’s all.’

‘Probably more a feeling of totally bricking it.’

His teeth are closing on his lip. ‘Don’t worry, we’re on our way back in now. We’re going to drop the boat around the other side of the harbour. It’s your first time out, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it more next time.’

‘I seriously doubt it.’ It’s not like there will be another, I won’t fall for this twice. A thought flashes into my head. ‘You don’t make poor Cam do this, do you?’

He’s shaking his head. ‘For now Cam doesn’t do boats. Mostly I come out in the afternoons, which is why I thought you might be up for the occasional blast around?’

‘Not being rude—’

‘But you’re going to be anyway?’

‘I’d rather have my teeth pulled.’ All things considered. The heaving. My soaking feet and my soggy bum. The BOOMS! And that’s before we get to the company, and feeling seasick. ‘To express how much I enjoy that, you should know I once had a tooth out when I was eleven and I had to go all the way to Bristol to a special centre for nervous patients and be knocked out with Valium.’

He throws me a ‘what the eff?’ look then turns to the pontoon that’s racing towards us. ‘Well, that went well.’

As he stands up and unzips his life jacket I ignore the view up his sweatshirt. We’re bumping up against some other jetty now and he’s winding down the sail and bundling it into the bottom of the boat. And, just before he launches into his Superman routine again, he bends down and picks up this giant-size spanner. ‘Here, hang onto this for a second while I tie up.’

My arms sag under the weight, and there’s a lurch as he springs off the edge of the boat. I watch as he thuds onto the jetty and secures the boat with one deft twist of the rope.

He’s holding out his hand. ‘Okay, Edie, let’s get you back on dry land.’

I shuffle as far as I can on my bum, then, as I stagger to my feet, the huge spanner slides through my fingers and plummets downwards. There’s a second when I almost catch it somewhere around my knees, but it’s like a slippery fish sliding down the Dayglo fabric. A moment later it plunges through the narrow gap between the boat side and the jetty’s edge, and on into the soupy depths of the harbour.

‘Crap!’ My stomach is plunging faster than the spanner. And SHIT, ARSE and BOLLOCKS for not being able to rely on my grip any more.

‘Last time you were throwing knives at me, now it’s a wrench?’

I could kick seven bells out of the jetty side, but I’d rather jump into the harbour than have him know the truth. I grind my teeth, push my growl deep inside me. ‘I’m SO sorry.’

‘Don’t worry, these oversized tools make bids for freedom all the time. This is nothing – last week someone dropped a twelve grand outboard engine out in the bay. We’re in a fishing port, we’ll send in the deep-sea divers.’

‘Really?’ That sounds major.

‘Only joking – of course we won’t, we’ll hook it out at low tide.’ He glances at his watch. ‘Not that I want to rush you, but the class is almost over.’

As I clamber back onto the landing stage, I know I’m never going to live this down. As for where the time went, it definitely didn’t fly because I was enjoying myself.

And that was my afternoon at Patchwork.

10

Day 142: Friday, 23rd March

The day room at Periwinkle Cottage

Epic Achievement: Making a start.

‘Remind me why we have to do this now?’ Aunty Jo is tapping the toe of her least favourite rose gold pumps on the dust sheet we’ve thrown down on the flowery carpet.

This last week I’ve worked out the easiest way to deal with Aunty Jo is to ambush her. It’s our first day in ages without social events, so me leaping out of bed this morning, pulling on my boyfriend jeans and my weekend Hush C’est si bon sweatshirt, then starting to rip the wallpaper off the walls in the day room straight after breakfast is my way of leapfrogging any resistance.

It’s fine to roll out the reasons now it’s too late for her to stop me. ‘A decorator could take ages to come, and that’s when we find one, so I made a start.’ As boss of the job, I’ve decided – without consultation – it’s best to begin with the room where we spend most time, then work backwards through the house.

She’s still not convinced. ‘But I’ve never decorated before, not personally.’

The part where I pull her along on a wave of enthusiasm isn’t working. ‘We’ll do the easy bits, and call in the pro’s when we get stuck.’ Apart from anything else, it’s good for me to get back to practical tasks. Aunty Jo’s day room is only small and the ceilings are low so decorating it should be a great way to ease myself in and progress with ‘the quest’ at the same time.

When we were kids Tash and I used to scrap over helping Dad with the decorating. I was chief wallpaper paster, and a dab hand with a paint pot, so even if I didn’t run interior jobs I’d know what I’m doing. I slide my fish slice under a join in the design near the floor. As I ease the edge away there’s a wonderful ripping sound, and an entire panel of paper tears free from the wall. I bundle it up and grin.

Aunty Jo coughs and frowns down at a flake of paint on the floor. ‘It’s looking awfully messy, shall I get the vacuum?’

‘For now, why not rip off?’ However much she looks on the verge of a breakdown, this is my kind of fun and I can’t let her miss out. So I pass her a slice and a bin bag. As I dip a sponge in my bucket of suds and slosh soapy water onto the bits of paper still clinging to the wall I take pity on her.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll tidy later.’

She’s still hesitating, but now she’s staring at my legs. ‘Why not borrow some of Harry’s pyjamas? I’ve got lots of second-best ones.’

‘I’m probably okay, thanks all the same.’ Her wearing them is bad enough, but I can’t tell her that so I take a different tack. ‘How about some music?’ I always work better with some trashy pop to help me along. I’d sort it myself but my speaker is upstairs, and, even if I’m ripping her living room to pieces, I’m still very much a visitor when it comes to choosing music and TV.

She hugs her chest. ‘Would you like some Tchaikovsky? Or Vivaldi’s Four Seasons?’

‘Not if there’s anything else.’ We already had The Nutcracker right through our porridge and chia seeds. ‘How about music for cleaning?’

‘You mean Housework Songs?’ Aunty Jo’s brow furrows. ‘It’s not something I ever needed. In Harpenden I always had help.’

Of course she did – how did I not remember? ‘Loaded and spoiled with it’ was how my more robust mum put it, in her meaner, more frustrated moments. She taught French full-time and looked after a family of four, while Aunty Jo, who didn’t work and only had her and Harry at home, had at least two cleaning ladies, window cleaners, personal shoppers and an army of outdoor helpers at any one time.

‘Something similar, then?’ My fingers are tightly crossed under my slice. ‘A ‘hills are alive’ nun-in-the-mountains singalong would be good. Or Mamma Mia?’

‘Will this do?’ She fumbles in the sofa footstool and comes out with a CD case that she holds out to me.

And this is why I’m here and not at work. A few simple words for me to read, and any pretence of me being a normal, functioning human adult comes crashing down.

‘Sorry, that might as well be written in Chinese.’ I know a few of the letters on their own, but when they’re strung together in a line I have no chance. I take a deep breath. ‘Read me what it says, then I’ll tell you.’

‘I can’t bear anything too jolly.’

I take it that’s an excuse for what’s coming next, not the title. ‘So?’

‘The One Hundred Best Tearjerkers of All Time.’

I give way to a silent WTF? moment. ‘You’re sure?’

‘It flashed up on my laptop after I lost Harry, it seemed like a sign, so I bought it.’

That’s modern technology for you. I’m not even going to ask what the tracks are, with my wonky emotions I’m practically crying buckets already.

‘They’re miserable, but in a good way.’ She’s already holding the disc up to the light and blowing the dust off.

‘Watch out!’ I leap across the dust sheet to grab my shades from the coffee table before the flash hits my eyes. For the first time since I arrived there’s a break in the grey outside. Sun bouncing off things that shine is a whole other issue for me. Who knew one CD could throw up so many problems?

‘There you go, Everybody Hurts.’ She presses play then stands back to listen. ‘Aren’t those lyrics lovely? Then it’s Candle in the Wind and All by Myself.’ She’s not even reading, so she must know it off by heart. As for All by Myself, even Tash weeps at that one and she’s got a husband, a job, a house and two kids more than I have, so there’s no chance for me.

As if that wasn’t enough to make my heart sink to my elasticated ankle boots – which neatly sidestep all that tricky bow-tying that takes so long, in case you’re wondering why I’m not in Converse like everyone else my age – the stare she’s giving me is about as penetrating as a CT scan.

‘Which reminds me, I haven’t seen you practising your calligraphy.’

Why she’s jumped to that I don’t know, but I can’t say the same for her. ‘You’ve been doing enough for both of us.’ Her pile of sheets practically reaches the ceiling.

‘And your mum was asking about your reading too.’ Her stare powers up a notch.

Crap. I hadn’t expected she’d be on my case like this. To be honest, I’ve made so little progress so far, I’d decided to give it a rest for a while. I was hoping if I stopped worrying, when I came back to it in a few weeks’ time I might have made one of those huge accidental leaps of progress. I’m opening and closing my mouth to say that, but nothing’s coming out.

‘You’re going to have to put the time in.’ Three more power notches, and her eyes are like saucers. ‘I mean, it’s not going to happen by itself, is it?’ How did I ever have her down as a lightweight?

‘Well …’ I’m wondering how to explain that’s exactly what I’m planning, but I’m saved by a knock on the French window.

‘Barney! Again! So soon!’ My jump of surprise as I open the door and stand back to let him in sends my slice skittering across the floor, but I still get in first to stop Aunty Jo over-gushing. However much I wish he was anyone else, saying ‘hi’ to him is a damn sight easier than dodging awkward questions from Aunty Jo. I know I don’t have wet patches on my bum today, I’m not crawling through any upstairs windows, and I escaped the embarrassment of getting caught wearing Harry’s cast-offs, but I’m still kicking myself for rushing my eyeliner and skimping on the highlighter. ‘If you’re planning a two-minute trip round the bay that lasts all day, I’m probably too busy.’

‘Great to see you too, Edie.’ He picks the fish slice up and passes it back then he turns to Aunty Jo. ‘Sorry – am I missing something here? Are those Christmas reindeer on your pyjama jacket?’

Some of us would have shrunk in the spotlight, but Aunty Jo stands her ground. ‘They’re Harry’s, he had so many pairs I’m using up the festive ones for decorating.’

‘Go, Josie!’ There’s suddenly a sheepish hint to his expression. ‘You wouldn’t like an extra elf for ten minutes, would you? It’s years since I stripped paper, there’s nothing quite like the feeling of ripping it off the wall, is there?’

‘Absolutely right, Barney.’ She’s talking out of her Christmas tree-clad bottom here; she’s barely touched a piece of wallpaper yet. ‘Would you like a cup of tea while you’re here?’

I don’t believe what I’m hearing. As if things weren’t bad enough, Barney’s at my elbow and, without even picking up the spare cake slice, he’s already ripped off three huge lengths.

‘There we go.’ He isn’t even giving me the satisfaction of throwing his paper on the floor, he’s bundling it straight into the bin bag, dammit. ‘I’ll pass on the tea though, Josie. I can’t stay long.’

That’s the best news I’ve heard all morning.

He rips off two more strips whole, then he stoops to do the next one and ends up holding up a piece the size of a postage stamp. ‘Oops, my beginner’s luck ran out.’

I put my hands on my hips. ‘Too bad – looks like you’ve hit a superglued bit there, Barney. They’re way less fun.’

‘In that case I’d better leave it to you professionals.’ He gives a shrug and dips into the back pocket of his jeans ‘Before I forget, I came to give you your scarf. You left it in my sailing jacket.’

He’s pressed it into my hand and he’s reached the door before it sinks in. First, it’s been washed and beautifully ironed and folded. Second, and way more disturbing, the warmth currently seeping into my palm originated from his tush. As heat transfers go, that one’s too much.

‘Happy stripping, then.’ He pauses in the doorway. ‘And have a wonderful Christmas, Josie.’ Then he breaks into a run and, as he crosses the courtyard, for some inexplicable reason he’s punching the air.

I can’t decide whether to be annoyed he gave up so easily or ecstatic he’s left us to strip in peace. If I’m honest, I’m also struggling slightly with what happened when he whisked me away from Loella’s class. It’s not like I’m a pushover, I wouldn’t last two minutes in my job if I was. And I take a pride in taking responsibility for my own actions, and owning my decisions. More importantly, I’m definitely not a ‘Jane gets dragged through the jungle by Tarzan’ type of woman. Not even in my fantasies. Even in my wildest dreams I never imagined Marcus making me do something I didn’t want to, although I did occasionally fantasise about him helping around the house more. Or him not wanting clockwork sex every single morning. But, coming back to Barney – and even I have to concede the ‘but’ is a huge one – somehow, however it happened, whatever went wrong, I ended up bobbing around in the bay, even though it was not something I’d ever have signed up for, or willingly done.

However many circles I go around in, I haven’t quite resolved this satisfactorily in my head yet. At best, this was Barney asking for help he didn’t actually need at all, and taking advantage of my better nature, which I was completely aware of by the time I got down to the harbour. In which case, that still leaves me puzzling – why the hell did I get into that boat? I mean, at my age, I assumed I’d be past surprising myself, that’s all.

Except by the time I’ve peeled the next strip of paper, I’ve remembered. I never actually expected my new job, because I’ve always been a chancer not an achiever, so that was a surprise. Then I shocked myself when I stood my ground and broke up with Marcus. And shocked myself all over again when I walked away from that perfect life we had.

One thing’s for sure – when you’re picking bits of sticky paper off the wall there’s plenty of time to ponder. As we work our way around the walls we get claggier and claggier, but I’m still no nearer an answer. We’re onto the last wall when Aunty Jo pipes up from nowhere, ‘That’s the other good thing about the classes, you can get a lot of information from them.’

‘Really?’ I’m bracing myself for another very long monologue about quilting. After Fun with Fabric she talked about wadding for two hours straight, but that was a relief because it meant I could skip the details about my afternoon.

The breath she takes is worryingly deep. ‘Yesterday I found out Barney’s not a window cleaner at all – he actually makes shepherd’s huts along the road. That’s impressive, isn’t it?’

That’s definitely not what I was expecting. I look up at the ceiling, count to ten and get to seven. ‘Maybe it’s significant if you keep sheep, otherwise not so much.’ Given a choice, I’d have preferred sewing tips.

‘According to Loella, people your age buy the huts and do Airbnb in their back gardens.’

‘Good for them.’ Not even having a teensy terrace to my name, I wouldn’t know. I was a week away from signing for a lease on my own tiny flat when my stroke happened and I pulled out. At least this way I might be homeless on paper but I’m not worrying about covering rental payments when my salary’s all but disappeared.

‘Unlikely as it seems, if I ever did have a lawn, a shepherd’s hut would be the last thing I’d buy.’ I might as well get it out there. ‘As garden ornaments go, I suspect they’re a bit like designer tree houses – mega hyped, overpriced and underused.’ Even when I lived with Marcus I never had that much cash to spare because we mostly spent it on his place, on eating out at weekends and on far-flung holidays in obscure places. If I struggled to run to a Hush pineapple sweatshirt – which was reversible, so you actually got two for the price of one – I’m damn sure a caravan you can’t actually tow would never have made it to the top of my shopping list.

She’s still going. ‘Every hut is unique, handmade by Barney to individual measurements.’

‘Good luck to his customers.’ I’m scraping so hard I’m making dents in the plaster. We’re going to have to agree to differ on the sun shining out of that particular bottom, because I couldn’t give a flying fuck. He could be making caravans for that ‘rags to riches’ woman’s fairy godmother, but it doesn’t change the fact that he has no idea about social norms. I mean, who hangs around for a conversation up a ladder when they’re crushed against you to stop you falling off, then takes you off for a boat trip you don’t want, or invites themselves in and starts pulling your wallpaper off? I can only hope he’s more appropriate with his boundaries with his clients than he is with us.

Aunty Jo has stopped again. ‘Oh dear, visitor alert. With all this rubbish on the floor too.’ Even though the patch of wall she’s stripped is tiny, Aunty Jo and the dust sheet where she’s standing are both plastered in pieces of gluey paper.

‘Bloody Barney.’ Not again. As I brush the claggiest lump off her cheek I’m suddenly baking in my sweatshirt. I’m picking the biggest pieces of rainforest out of my hair, but not because I give any kind of a damn. Tugging up my jeans because, whoever’s here, I don’t want to be caught out with a muffin top twice in one day.

‘Who said anything about Barney?’ There are wrinkles in Aunty Jo’s forehead.

‘What?’ As I follow her gaze and see Loella hurrying across the courtyard I’m ignoring the fact my insides just deflated faster than one of those things that go ‘pop’. She’s got so many kids with her she looks like a school outing.

As I pull open the door Loella’s smiling over the crowd of tousled heads. ‘Wowsers, are you culling the zebras? Tigers by the sea were never going to work, were they?’ At least she’s overlooked the festive pyjamas. ‘We were dropping Cam off, so I thought I’d pop in. We forgot to say – there’s a book group you might like to join. And the Wild and Blooming Cottage Garden group are having a talk tonight. I could give you a lift down if you’d like to come?’

There’s that familiar feeling of steel hands closing around my stomach. How the hell am I going to explain my way out of this? Book group was one thing I always loved and really miss. Bella, Tash and I have belonged to the same one for years. Obviously I’m not going again until I progress far enough to avoid a pity party when I turn up. Let’s face it, if I was up to going I wouldn’t be here. Reasons not to go … Words … I’m flailing to get to grips with either, when Aunty Jo jumps in.

‘I’m so sorry, my concentration’s shot to pieces, so novels and book group are no-no. Just for now.’

I’m trying not to gasp at how easily she’s covering for me. Reading is the one thing she still does, her to-be-read pile is under the dust sheet and as high as the sofa and, even if she’s driven me to distraction all day wittering about mess, I want to hug her for this.

Loella’s reaching out and patting her arm. ‘Of course. I’m so sorry, Josie, I should have thought.’ Her smile is full of warmth. ‘But you will think about this evening? It won’t be late.’

If Loella bothered to take half a glance at the wreck of the lawn she’d get the picture. Outdoors equals mud, and dirt gives Aunty Jo a hissy fit, so I’m expecting to get a firm ‘no’, but I might as well give it a try. I turn to Aunty Jo. ‘Well, you’ve got a cottage and you’ve got a garden, so shall we try it?’

I know grow-your-own salad is huge now, but Marcus is the trend-freak, not me. I’d be totally out of my comfort zone here, yet again. But Aunty Jo is definitely brighter for getting out, so I’m up for persuading her.

She’s pulling a face. ‘I don’t know.’

Loella catches my eye, then leans in closer. ‘You’ve got quite a kingdom here, with your outbuildings too, Josie-pie.’

‘They’re next on the list …’ I peel a piece of wallpaper off my jeans ‘… after this.’ That’s on the list in my head, obviously. We haven’t got any further with the one on the clipboard. Realistically, seeing how far we’ve got after a whole day working here, and knowing how far the cottage rambles, and the size of the barns, I’m going to have to pull in some help fast. But with my ‘professional’ head on, I know it’ll be better to wait until we make more contacts. Which is another good reason to get out and mingle with the gardeners.

Loella’s straight back at me. ‘Great then, I’ll take that as a “yes”. I’ll pick you both up at seven sharp?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer. A moment later she’s marching off across the courtyard, followed by her band of children.

And I’m wondering what the hell I’ve let us both in for.

11

Day 142: Friday, 23rd March

At The Deck Gallery

Epic Achievement: Pretending to be a gardener, and not being found out.

If I didn’t know stripping walls was good for you before, I do now – my arms feel like they’ve had a full-body workout, and then some. Not that I’ve actually managed that many of those in my life. If I’m honest, I’m one of those classic fails who signs up for the gym in January then never goes. As I say to Bella, if it wasn’t for people like us, the cross trainers would be horribly overcrowded. But the good news from St Aidan is, we finally wave goodbye to the rainforest in the day room. I’m not the only one around here planning ambushes either. After a meticulous round of tidying up, Aunty Jo literally comes at me out of nowhere me with a pen and paper and an order to do some calligraphy practice. Luckily I get over my horror fast enough to persuade her there isn’t time to do that and get into my Audrey H slim tailored slacks and my little Gap cashmere polo neck. Obviously I will need to work on my writing. It’s just more auspicious when there’s less compulsion and, truly, my biceps have had enough exercise for one day.

For dinner we have grilled chicken and carrots, which suddenly come back on-limits when I explain that’s what Cheryl (formerly Cole) eats when she’s getting in shape for a tour. And I know this because Sadie the ‘do everything in the office’ person at Zinc Inc used to lend me her Closer magazine every Friday afternoon, then ask questions to check I’d read it from end to end. I just never imagined it was knowledge I’d ever get to use.

It was dusk when Loella pulled up in the lane, totally blocking it with her battered red off-roader. I can only assume she has some local artistic licence which allows that, or else shepherd’s hut man has seen the size of the thing and the scrapes down the sides, and on balance decided to shut the fuck up. I was worried Barney might hitch a lift too, in the hope of bagging more gullible Airbnb cottage garden owners, but luckily he didn’t. In any case, it was literally a couple of bounces around bends and then we were down at The Deck, blocking the mews there.

While Loella goes off to find somewhere to double park, I send Aunty Jo ahead of me through the door with a shove that’s considerably bigger than she is. ‘No need to get all fidgety, Aunty Jo, there are lots of people we know.’

As we make our way towards the chairs arranged in rows in front of a white pull-up screen and Beth dances over, I’m waving back at so many people I feel like I’ve been here way longer than a week.

‘Josie, you must meet my dad, Malcolm. I saved you seats next to him.’ As Beth turns to me she drops her voice. ‘We lost Mum five years ago, but it’s been so much tougher since he retired in the autumn.’

By the time I wriggle out of my jacket and into the chair beside them, they’re already deep in some discussion about perennial geraniums, whatever they are. When they finally pause I hiss into Aunty Jo’s ear, ‘How do you know so much about gardening?’

She gives a sniff. ‘I’ve heard about it from Harry over the years. I can definitely hold my own on alliums.’ She glances behind us to where there’s a guy arranging boxes of slides. ‘And you can’t beat a good magic lantern show.’

As Loella claps her hands at the front I have a brief moment of polka-dot dress envy, then everyone goes quiet. ‘So welcome everybody. Jeremy’s standing by at the projector with an hour’s worth of slides showing his take on last year’s Wild and Blooming Festival in St Aidan. Then afterwards we’ll move on to coffee, cake and chat.’ As everyone claps she slips to the back, switches off the lights and sits down.

As I settle into my seat my main worry is about what’s going to happen if I snore. With the promise of so many flower pictures, probably all the same, I’m already biting back a yawn. Realistically, my concentration isn’t great at the best of times. In the dark, after a hard day of paper stripping, I’m likely to stay awake approximately a nanosecond. Then Jeremy starts clicking his handset, there’s a flash of lights on the screen as he flips through his first few slides to find where to begin.

My stomach clenches and I clamp my eyes closed. Why the heck did I not think? I prod Aunty Jo as I get up and whisper, ‘The flashing isn’t good, I’d better go.’

‘Shall I come with you?’ She’s wrenching her gaze away from daisies blowing in a summer breeze.

‘You stay – I’ll see you at the end.’ I ease into the aisle and dip to avoid the light beam from the projector. The last thing I want to do is disturb everyone by causing a big on-screen shadow as I go, so I drop down and crawl between the chairs, returning all the perturbed looks with smiles and little waves, trying to look like I planned this all along.

On my hands and knees, trailing my jacket along the rough-hewn boards might not be the most dignified way to leave, and it makes a mockery of how long I spent getting my eyeliner perfect. But it’s better than staying and ending up like I did a couple of weeks after my stroke – coming round on my parents’ living room floor, looking up at my mum and dad’s terrified faces with my words extra blurry and wet pants. And all because the strobe lights on the Top of the Pops revisit to 1977 gave me a seizure.

Afterwards my mum was furious with my dad for making us watch it, but those two love their nostalgia. That was the year of Queen’s Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy and they always go all moony when that comes on. My mum once confessed to Tash and I about having Freddy Mercury posters on her bedroom wall, but obviously Dad thinks it’s all about him. Usually Tash and I end up fake vomming over the chair arm, which they hate, so at least me sliding off the cushions and hitting the floor jerking saved them from that.

Even though the fit only lasted seconds it was lucky Tash was there to take control. Luckier still that Dad hadn’t given in and let Mum take up the old laminate floor and put down carpet instead. She’d actually got as far as choosing one, but it’s a point of honour in their relationship that Dad resists every one of her forward pushes. Imagine if I’d made a massive wet patch in front of the sofa on her brand new Nordic loop. She’d have been beside herself.

As it was, the puddle ran all the way under the coffee table and out the other side, where it hit Tiddlywink’s foot. Apparently Tiddlywink didn’t move a muscle, she just stood rigid and watched it soaking into the blue velvet of her Little Mermaid slipper. That child is one cool cookie, nothing fazes her. By the time I came round and got back downstairs in some dry clothes, it was all mopped up, and we got in before the Friday night rush at A&E. But, needless to say, I don’t want to relive that. Especially not in front of the happy gardeners.

Plum is waiting for me by the door, her paint-spattered overalls looking a lot like her sea pictures. ‘Everything okay?’

I nod. ‘I don’t do flashing lights, I’ll go for a walk instead.’ I’d rather they didn’t know the details.

‘Right.’ Her eyes are full of concern, but she skips the awkward questions and sticks with the practical stuff. ‘You’re welcome to come and wait upstairs, I promise to find you a paint-free corner.’

‘Thanks, but I’ll grab some alone time.’ I make my smile extra bright.

Her whisper turns to a chortle. ‘Good luck with that – no one’s ever on their own for long in St Aidan.’

I step outside, still doing up my coat. As I pull my scarf tighter against a flurry of wind, the cobbles are washed with pale light from the shop windows. I stop by Crusty Cobs to count the strawberry tarts – four – and custard slices – three – and only hurry on when I start to shiver. When I get to the harbour the water is shiny black, and the rigging is clinking against the dark lines of masts as they bob against the sky. As I stride past the rows of tiny pastel-painted cottages fronting onto the quayside Aunty Jo’s tunes are on slow-mo in my head.

Whatever I’m doing, I always have a mental backing track playing. The day of the jump I had Titanium on repeat, when I was out on my building sites it was always something fast and bouncy. Blasting around the country with Marcus in his ever changing convertibles, Cold Play was where our musical tastes collided. For me that When I Ruled the World song was like Marcus’s signature tune and the backing track to our life together. Since I’ve been ill I can’t believe how much lippy I get though making damn sure my happy, super smiley outside shell hasn’t changed any. But, however hard I try on the inside, all I can get in my head are slow chords and heart-wrenching, minor keys. At times, even Aunty Jo’s ‘wring out your hanky’ songs feel too upbeat.

That’s another strange thing. Just as reading and writing and speaking are all powered by different parts of the brain, singing stems from yet another area. I might struggle to put two words together, but entire lines of lyrics pop up in my mind without me wanting them to be there at all. It’s happening as I slip along the dune path down to the beach. There’s a crescent moon in the sky, and the music playing in my ears slows to a Johnny Cash plod … full of broken thoughts … I cannot repair … I will let you down … I will make you hurt … It’s as if the working part of my brain automatically knows those are exactly the right lines. However much I put on a happy face to the outside world, really, really mournful music is the true expression of who I am and where my life is right now.

As I thread my way down to where the breakers are rushing up the beach in pale wavy lines my eyes are getting more used to the darkness. Around the bay the arc of pinprick lights follows the line of the coast, but their gentle twinkle against the mottled black of the sky isn’t a threat. When I slide my phone out of my pocket, it lights up and tells me what I already know – the little line of dots in the screen corner has gone. The signal and internet give out somewhere higher up the hill which means my phone genie, Siri, has gone all silent on me, not that she’s ever that cooperative. Not only that, but even if I needed to, I couldn’t ring Mum or Bella.

The realisation slides into focus as slowly as the music – for the first time in months I’m totally on my own. Out of reach. Away from the protection of the people who love me and who have been keeping me safe by never letting me out of their sight. It’s like I’ve accidentally wandered into a no man’s land away from where I should be. There’s a sensible voice in my head telling me I should go back to where I’m safe, where there are people at least. But at the same time I don’t want to rush.

As my foot catches on a stick of driftwood I stoop and pick it up. It’s straight and smooth like a bone and, without thinking, I head to where the beach is firmer and begin to scratch marks in the sand with the wooden point. It’s easier when there’s no one watching. When there’s no one there to see how badly I’m doing, my hand is somehow more free to move. I try one small line, then another crossing it. Then do the same again. And again. Then I try a row of those ‘s’s that always catch me out on paper because the pen won’t curl fast enough so, however hard I try, they end up twice the size of all the other letters.

Scratching with the end of a stick with the wind snatching at my hair, knowing that soon the crash and fall of the tide will thunder over the marks and suck away the traces of where I’ve been, it’s easier. My lips twist into a smile as I look along my wandering line of ‘s’s and ‘x’s and see a whole empty beach stretching into the distance, all waiting to be written on.

A cry in the darkness behind me makes me turn. There’s a big figure and a smaller one, their jackets flapping in the shadows, and another shout as the smaller one springs towards me.

‘Edie Browne! What are you writing?’ Only one person calls me that.

‘Nothing much.’ The wind snatches my words away.

He lets out a wail. ‘That’s way more than when you were writing on paper.’

‘It’s easier here.’ Anyone else, I’d be fed up at them finding me. Cam I don’t mind, although I can’t say the same for Barney.

‘What? On the beach, in the dark?’ He’s very judgmental for six. ‘We’re going for ice cream.’

‘Brill.’ Shouldn’t he be asleep by now?

‘At the Surf Shack.’ He points to a wooden building with swinging lights on its deck, further along the sand. ‘You could come too.’

That’s a bad idea, for a hundred reasons I can’t immediately put my stick on. I’m hesitating when Barney arrives.

‘Best coffee along the bay. They do a mean hot chocolate too.’

‘I’m not …’ Not getting my excuses together fast enough for starters.

‘Cam wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important to him.’

Even in the dark, with only the smallest shimmer of moonlight reflecting off the blackness of the sea, I can sense his disapproval. If he’s trying to make me feel hugely that I have to, it’s working. If I hadn’t been caught out before, I might have given in already. I slide out my phone, then slide it back in my pocket because it’s not telling me anything. Realistically, I reckon they’ve barely started their flower slides yet.

Barney’s insistent. ‘Five minutes. Then you can go back to whatever’s so pressing.’

He’s overstepping again. Totally ignoring that I’m on a private walk. If it wasn’t for Cam, I wouldn’t be considering this. But, to be fair, without Cam he wouldn’t be asking.

As we kick our way along the beach and up the broad wooden steps of the Surf Shack I’m hoping this won’t be another ‘boat in the bay’ fiasco. But I have to admit there’s something about Cam’s small scrap of a figure beside me, kicking sand in the half light, that makes my heart turn over. That’s what’s tugging me.

As we push through the door into what looks like a hut made from thousands of mismatched planks hammered together, we’re hit by a wall of warmth, and a broad smile from the guy behind the counter. Apart from a few salt-streaked surfers, we’re the only customers. Cam heads for a rough-hewn table, slides onto a metal chair, swings his feet and looks up expectantly.

I grab the chair that’s close to Cam and as far away from Barney as possible. It’s only when he slides into his seat and I get the full benefit of taut denim stretched across muscly thighs that it hits me. I’m so used to thinking of myself as out of the dating scene I forgot to worry that people could think I was here for entirely the wrong reason.

There’s not even time for me to have a good look at the piles of goodies under glass domes on the counter because the guy from behind the counter is already at the table. The glass he puts down in front of Cam is filled with scoops of colourful ice cream, and topped with wafers and a long spoon.

‘Wow, quick work.’ It’s one of my blurts.

‘Thanks.’ Cam’s eyes are huge, but as he picks up the long spoon, he still hasn’t smiled.

The waiter laughs. ‘Same order, same time every week. We like to be ready for our regulars.’ He turns to me. ‘So what can I get for you?’

‘A small coffee, please.’ Despite the cake stacks, sometimes it’s best to be minimal.

Barney turns to me. ‘Way too boring – this is chocolate central. Look at the chalkboard – you have to be wilder.’

As far as I’m concerned, the board he’s waving at might be taller than the waiter but it’s still just a load of squiggles. At least I remember enough about cafés to wing it. ‘A small coffee with chocolate then.’ There’s definitely a name for it, I just can’t nail what it is.

‘A mocha?’ The waiter beams. ‘One mochaccino, coming up.’ He turns to Barney.

‘Great choice – same here, but I’ll go large.’

It’s not just never being allowed to be on your own that’s off kilter here, it’s also coffee sizing. When the waiter comes back it turns out ‘small’ means enormous and ‘large’ is more like one of those boat things that crosses the channel with cars on. They’ve both got lumps of floating cream approximately the size of the Isle of Wight. Around the island the liquid is so thick and chocolatey I wish I was getting the full benefit. But at least it warms me, and the cream is fabulously thick and sticky as I suck it off my spoon.

Cam takes a bite of his wafer then gives me a hard stare. ‘But why didn’t you have ice cream?’

It’s easier being put on the spot by someone Cam’s size. ‘I was too icy already.’

‘Next time you have to have ice cream.’

If I was shivering before, that thought makes my insides go glacial. ‘We’ll see.’ By next Friday I hope to have come up with a plan that doesn’t involve crawling or gardeners or freezing my shit off on the beach. Or not being able to read the menu at whatever this place is called.

Barney watches Cam working his way down his ice cream, then turns to me. ‘Cam’s ice creams at the Surf Shack are a long-standing Friday night tradition.’

As if that explains anything. And then suddenly it all falls into place. Sadie from Zinc Inc had kids and an ex, and didn’t spare us the details. Single dads and mahoosive ‘daddy loves you more’ sweeteners? Compensatory ice creams don’t come any larger than the one Cam’s wading through now. The warning bells couldn’t be clanging any louder.

Knowing the tussles Sadie and her husband had, if this is a divorce, I need to keep my distance. Run for the hills, and now wouldn’t be a moment too soon. As if Sadie hadn’t drilled it into us single women, going within a country mile of a single dad is too near, especially if they’re using the kids to draw you in.

‘That’s great.’ In my head I’m already taking giant strides towards the door. ‘But you have to be careful with …’ I rack my brain, and for once it comes up trumps ‘… inducements … especially with children.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Barney’s rubbing his lip with his thumb, but by the way his eyes clash with mine he’s being deliberately bloody-minded.

‘Bribery’s never good. And it’s late too.’ Simply by being here, I’m condoning all of it.

Barney’s voice rises. ‘And it’s so wrong to have a blast on the beach and an ice cream to make ourselves feel better?’

I squeeze Cam’s shoulder as I get up and focus on the freckles on his nose, not how sad his eyes are. ‘Sorry Cam, I have to go now. I promised Aunty Jo.’ I hope he’ll understand. And it is the truth. If I’m not back at the gallery when the lights go on again, Aunty Jo will worry. Ring my mother. Send out the lifeboats. I dip in my pocket, pull out some cash and wedge it under the bottle full of fairy lights in the middle of the table.

Then I back towards the door and give them a wave. ‘Okay, see you soon. Love you, bye.’ This time I don’t mind I’ve blurted it, so long as it was for Cam. It’s only as I’m speeding down the steps outside that I remember I should have looked at the numbers on the note.

12

Day 145: Monday, 26th March

At Periwinkle Cottage

Epic Achievement: Finding Unicorn slices really exist.

If I thought a gardeners’ slideshow was bad there was worse to come. That’s the trouble with a deserted seaside town in winter; now people know we’re here they expect us to come to every event. Somehow we manage to dodge Saturday’s picnic and daffodil walk near St Austell with the gardeners’ club, because they’re all going in cars and, until one of us gets back behind the wheel, Aunty Jo and I don’t have our own transport. It’s one thing getting a lift into St Aidan, quite another committing to all day in someone else’s car. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Beth was pressing us to go to a Dance Till Your Feet Drop Off eighties disco. I couldn’t even fall back on the flashing lights excuse, because she said they don’t run to those. Much as I love retro tunes, dancing in the dark is what you do with besties, not strangers, but some lucky star must have been passing over because Aunty Jo did another of her surprise interventions and insisted our Saturday evening was already spoken for.

So instead we have a riveting night in, watching some ballerina version of You’ve Got Talent – according to Aunty Jo they hadn’t. And between times we carry on de-flowering the kitchen, and try out some paint samples that arrived in mini pots. I head her away from the fuchsia and daffodil palettes she’s hankering after, and insist we start with broken white.

Whenever Aunty Jo’s steered me towards writing practice – which is even more often than she mentions the good times back in happy Harpenden – I’ve headed her off. When I came down to porridge yesterday to find the fridge covered in Dayglo magnetic letters and numbers, she replied to my appalled, ‘What the eff have you clicked on now?’ with a sniffy, ‘I’m sure Cam might enjoy them, even if you don’t.’

She certainly doesn’t hold back with her buying finger. We’ve just had yet another mega delivery now, so I’m sitting next to a pile of paint buckets, rollers and brushes, and she’s unwrapping some oversized sticky labels.

‘So what are they for?’

‘Don’t you love it when things have two uses?’ She picks up a felt tip and starts to write, then leans across and slaps a beautifully written label on the back of the settee. ‘See, s-o-f-a – isn’t that great? I get to do my calligraphy, and you get to take in the words by osmosis.’

‘Osmosis – isn’t that what amoebas do?’ Wherever I dug that up from, I’m damn sure it’s not a flattering comparison.

Her beautifully pencilled eyebrows close together as she concentrates. ‘I have no idea, Edie, I’m just doing what your mum tells me.’

No surprise there then, even though that has to be a first. ‘What are you writing?’ It’s not as though I can read it.

‘Cushion, door, paint pot, microwave, kettle … ’ She sniffs and slaps a label on the table. ‘I’m going to need to order more of these if I’m going to put names on everything.’ Once she begins a task, she’s alarmingly thorough.

‘You do know I’m on a break?’ Emptying my head so it’ll fill up better when I begin again.

She pushes a label onto the cushion. ‘I wanted to train to be a teacher like your mum after I gave up dancing.’ She’s pursing her lips and ignoring my question. ‘Harry wasn’t keen, he always told me not to worry my pretty head about work.’

‘That’s a shame.’ Attitudes like that drive me wild on a regular basis, but that was Uncle Harry. Building sites aren’t the most forward-thinking places, but most men on them now acknowledge women aren’t purely for decoration. And if they don’t, they do after I’ve finished with them.

She shuffles. ‘It’s coming back to bite me now. Things would be so much easier if I’d taken more of an interest in the finances. Lovely George from the solicitors has been struggling with them for over a year now, I’m seeing him again this week.’

It’s the first I’ve heard about it not being straightforward. ‘You have got enough cash, though?’ She has to have, they always had pots of the stuff. Uncle Harry drove the kind of flash limos that wouldn’t even begin to fit on our drive. One time he blocked the entire close. But the work in the stable yard won’t come cheap if we want a decent finish.

Aunty Jo shakes herself back into the room. ‘We were really well off, I can’t not be fine, can I?’

The question’s so complicated I’ve got no idea if the right answer is ‘yes’ or ‘no’, so I force myself and take the label she’s holding out. ‘Can I help with that?’

‘d-o-o-r … so where does that go?’

‘On the French window?’ I’m grinning at her, deciding where on the glass to stick it, when I see a blue blur running across the courtyard. ‘Looks like we’ve got a visitor. It’s a good thing we bought those Unicorn slices.’ Once Aunty Jo accidentally pointed out that cute name, I was hardly going to leave them in the shop.

As I push open the door Cam runs in and throws down his school bag on the floor.

‘Hi Cam, have you had a good day? How about a drink?’

‘I hate school, but I’d like juice.’ He popped in a couple of times over the weekend, but he’s heading for the kitchen now as though he’s been here all his life.

‘Tea, Aunty Jo?’

‘Mango and passion fruit please – it’s the orange one, and you can take the label for the kettle when you go. You choose – it starts with a “k”.’

Just when it was all going so well. ‘Hmm …’ When it comes to letters I’m okay on a, b, c and x, y, z – it’s the ones in the middle that are troublesome.

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