Page 75 of Meet me at the Seaside Cottages

‘Three . . . but they were sold as one lot. Paid the down-payment in cash.’ Dwight can’t help puffing up his chest and Essie really wishes he wouldn’t.

‘Did you, now?’ says Tris. He sticks his bottom lip out. ‘Clever old you.’

Dwight beams at this approval from the Big Lads up from the city.

‘So what are you going to do, flip them?’ says Trumpet. ‘This place is cute, man. Golf, lots to shoot, plenty of fish. Plenty of out-of-towners are always looking for second homes.’

Dwight looks at Essie, puzzled.

She shrugs back. ‘The thing is,’ she says, ‘your accounts are a mess. You know that’s true.’

He nods.

‘I just don’t want you to lose it all. I’ve seen it happen.’

‘You need to talk to me,’ says Tris.

Essie looks up, surprised. She just wanted him to get some advice, and for everyone to tell him to stop spending his budget without a spreadsheet, but Tris seems serious, even as Dwight shows him photos on his phone.

‘You could get round that codicil, form a shell, flip those places for a fortune,’ says Tris. ‘We could totally help with that.’

Essie is amazed. The super-secret fund that she never gets to work for or have a say in . . . they’re going to let Dwight walk right in! It’s a boys’ club.

Dwight looks completely bamboozled as Tris pulls him aside.

‘What’s going on?’ Essie asks Connor.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I thought your fund was high net worth only. Dwight hasn’t got a pot to piss in, just three falling-down buildings.’

Connor glances up. ‘I think Tris wants to get into more property; he was talking about expanding.’

‘Oh, no way,’ says Essie. ‘We don’t want him living up here.’

‘What do you care?’ says Connor. ‘You’re coming back, aren’t you?’

Essie shrugs. ‘It’s just – it’s not fair,’ she says. ‘I can’t even get a job, and he gets taken seriously immediately.’

‘Ach, it’s just money,’ Connor says simply.

‘I know,’ says Essie. ‘I’m just saying. Did you even mention me possibly getting a job with you?’

Connor looks at the floor.

‘No,’ says Essie. ‘I thought not.’

‘It’s not personal!’

Al is clearing his throat in front of them. They are all lined up on the side of the fells. The mist has risen, dissipating into little puddles of smoke at the bottom of the valleys. The browns and greens of the hillsides are glowing; there are shades of purple onthe higher slopes. Essie finds she is looking around with some pride, and takes a deep breath of the fresh air.

The ghillie is giving them lots of safety instructions, mostly about making sure there is something behind the deer – a hard stop – and to go for the chest, not the tiny head, and never to shoot in motion. Everyone has a licence, including Dwight, who probably has holsters at home, Essie thinks drily. She’s not shooting, of course.

‘Reds, fallows and sikas,’ the ghillie was saying. ‘Nothing moving, and make sure you look at me for the go.’

The proud wolfhound by his side, sniffing, reminds Essie of the pups, and she finds herself being for once resentful for being away from the puppies. Normally she loved hanging out with Connor and feeling one of the gang, doing posh grown-up things. But she isn’t sure if she wants to do this, even though Al is obviously pleased she’s there.

She looks out over the early morning fields which run to the cliffs overlooking the very top of the country, and out to the islands beyond. White birds are shearing up and down the edge, eyeing up the fish and the fields, happy in the bounty. The faint burr of a tractor sounds, but in the great expanse of land it could be coming from almost anywhere. The air is cold, but still, for once; the land is in a dip from the cliff edge and they are sheltered. It is a cold day, but beautiful beyond imagining; so clear, she can see the little puddle-hopping aeroplane her friend Morag runs, taking off again from their tiny runway, en route to delivering post and vegetables and happy tourists and reunited family, and the occasional transiting farm animal. White vapour trails across the light sky and Essie feels a lightness in her, looking down into the little town, where, back in Seagate, Wee Jim is stripping window frames with a blowtorch, a tool that makes him possibly too cheerful, if no more talkative. It is, undeniably,a lovely morning, and despite Connor still being avoidant on the job front, she is feeling more optimistic than she has done in quite a while.

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