Page 73 of Meet me at the Seaside Cottages

Almost despite himself, Lowell smiles.

‘Next thing I know . . . six of the buggers, driving me crazy, playing me up half the night...’

He looks at her. ‘You’re funny,’ he says. They’re still holding hands, they both realise at the same instant, and Janey is so enjoying – cannot help it – the heel of his large rough hand in hers. Rough from gardening, she supposes. It is a reassuring hand: huge, not sweaty. The top has black hair on it, but not too much, and she finds herself wondering about his chest again. She lets his hand drop.

Dog and girl start to walk around the garden, Verity’s fingers knotted in Felicity’s white-grey fur.

‘She used to do that when she could barely walk,’ says Lowell, unable to tear his eyes away.

‘Did you never let her ride her?’

‘Don’t,’ says Lowell. ‘For years you couldn’t turn your back without her trying to climb on. Felicity never minded. I think she would have carried her if she could.’

He steps forward and opens the chicken wire gate where the pups are in the run. There is an instant commotion: Felicity looks round, then Verity follows her lead. The puppies have found them, tumbling, bouncing in the green spring grass. Verity lets out a squeal, then, oddly, does exactly what her father did: she lies down flat, spreadeagled on the grass; happily relinquishing and giving herself up to being pawed over, sniffed. Smokey nips at her buttons, and Argyll and Bute start a tug of war over her shoelaces. It is clear from Felicity’s wagging tail and Verity’s heaving ribs that she is laughing.

Lowell stands still.

‘Go,’ says Janey, softly. ‘Go and talk to her. I think you’ll be fine now.’

He starts.

‘Of course,’ he says. Then he turns, looking her up and down. ‘You’re a remarkable woman, Janey Munroe.’

‘Yeah, yeah, whatevs,’ she says, brushing it off like a joke. Inside, it pings, lights her up like a fairground bulb. ‘I’ll send Essie over next week,’ she promises, and then she watches: the tall burly man, the thin pale girl, who has jumped up as soon as he got there, brushing the little yipping dogs off her. He starts talking. Janey can see every word they say. She turns away. This is private; she turns and leaves.

She doesn’t see his eyes following her as she goes.

29

‘Now,’ Al is saying. ‘On to gralloching. Gralloching is the hygienic removal of the internal organs of the animal . . . ’

It is a chilly early Sunday morning but the mist is rising, which is unfortunate as it means conditions will be clear enough to carry on with the shooting, Essie thinks to herself. Everyone else is in ridiculous Barbours and wellies. She’s in a black puffa she last wore in secondary school, with what her mother calls her ‘torn’ face to match it. She doesn’t have to go on the deer stalk, she knows. But if she doesn’t, she won’t see Connor at all, and that is driving her crazy.

*

When she’d met Connor at the tiny airstrip yesterday afternoon, she’d been so excited: he was as handsome as ever. If his stupid friends hadn’t been there, Essie would have run towards him. Instead she’d just grinned.

‘It’s me!’ he’d announced after he’d kissed her. ‘Your money-obsessed Big City Boyfriend. Have you discarded me for a sensitive woodsman who’s taught you the true meaning of Christmas yet?’

‘It’s April,’ Essie had pointed out, rather guiltily quashing any thoughts of Dwight. Because nothing had happened at all, she reminded herself. Absolutely nothing. She had spent the evening trying to explain fire regulations to him, that was all.

‘Oh, yeah,’ said Connor.

‘But apart from that, you are more or less exactly right.’

Tris and Trumpet came up, hefting their identical bags, guffawing. They looked like overgrown kids on a school trip. Connor immediately stood back with them. He was, Essie thought, still bound to his school gang.Bros before Hoswas the most ridiculous thing in the whole of the world.

Anyway. He was there and that was what mattered. And oh, my goodness, they had the hotel to look forward to. They were staying at Harcourt House, a local hotel so posh that Essie had never met any of the guests, who came in and out without seeming to leave a trace in the village. It had once been a family home – the daughter, Serena, was about her age, Essie knew, and she’d had a huge eighteenth birthday party there, with fireworks, long parades of cars queuing up through the driveway, the house dramatically lit, and not a single Carso child invited. The entire year group, including Shelby, Essie remembers, had gone down to the sea wall – it had been midsummer so not even dark until well after eleven – and eaten fish and chips and passed round vodka-Bru. Even among natural enemies there was solidarity in the face of an implacable enemy, i.e. a fabulous party stuffed full of handsome posh boys, to which not only were they not invited, but nobody had ever considered inviting them for a millisecond.

‘Well, we know Felix and Serena,’ said Tris when Essie commented. ‘From school, you know.’

‘I did not know. Did you go to Serena’s eighteenth?’

‘I assumed you’d know them,’ he said. ‘This is basically a village.’

‘It’s a town!’ said Essie, then realised she sounded exactly like her mum. But then of course that family had moved away a long time ago; Felix had gone into rehab, she’d heard.Now it is a smart hotel where you pretend you’re going to spend a weekend at a friend’s country home.

Now she thought about it, it really was a bit naff. Triss was wearing plus fours, for God’s sake. Everyone’s wellingtons were bright polished green. She was wearing her mum’s, which have flowers on them. Triss had already noted them and scoffed.

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