Page 58 of Atticus Arnott's Great Adventure
‘I think it’s excellent,’ he said. ‘It must be wonderful to create something so beautiful.’
‘Your comment is kind,’ Britta replied. ‘But it’s not finished, and I seem to have lost my mojo.’
‘What do you mean?’ Atticus asked.
‘I haven’t painted for some time; the inspiration seems to have deserted me.’ Britta sighed.
‘Maybe you’re overthinking it?’
Britta gave a small laugh. ‘I think if I stare at the canvas anymore, I’ll end up throwing it in the sea.’
‘No, never do that. Perhaps you need to put it to one side for a while.’
Britta changed the subject. ‘Would you like a glass of lemonade? I made it this morning.’
‘Yes, I’d love some.’
She moved into the cottage, but Atticus hesitated tofollow.
‘Come through,’ Britta called out, ‘glasses are on the shelf.’ She waved a hand in the direction of a kitchen and then disappeared through a door to a cellar.
As Atticus looked around, he was amazed. Far from being a derelict wreck, as observed from the track side of the cottage, the interior was sophisticated. Modern elegance met coastal charm as natural light filtered through open windows. Spacious, with oversized sofas and armchairs, it was decorated in neutral shades of soft ivory, sandy beige, and muted blues. Cushions and throws added splashes of vibrant colour. The floor was polished marble, covered in pretty rugs, and carefully placed mirrors reflected light, adding to the sense of space. The focal point was a fireplace with a wood-burning stove, surrounded by custom-built shelving filled with books and decorative objects.
But it was the artwork on the walls that caught Atticus’s eye.
A vibrant sunset brightened one corner, while a morning mist over the shoreline gave an ethereal glow in another. A brightly coloured beach scene depicted swimmers and surfers catching waves, and tumultuous dark clouds hovered over a stormy sea on a canvas above the fire.
Atticus turned to see Britta as she reappeared. Barefoot and softly padding towards the kitchen, she held a bowl. Opening the door to a small fridge, she reached for a jug and, finding two glasses, added ice from the bowl and began to pour.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Atticus said. ‘You asked me to find glasses.’
‘It’s okay,’ Britta said, placing the fresh lemonade in his hand. ‘Welcome.’
Atticus sipped the drink and wasn’t surprised to find it tasted delicious. ‘You’re very talented,’ he said. ‘And you have a lovely home.’
‘It’s not how it looks from outside, eh?’
‘No, I have to admit that the exterior is deceiving.’
‘Most of these cottages have been in families for generations and are used in the summer months, then locked up all winter,’ Britta began to explain. ‘The exteriors are deliberately shabby. It puts intruders off.’
‘But the inside is wonderful,’ Atticus said, his eyes raking around the room.
‘Yes, there is a cellar of the same size, with a comfortable space, a bathroom, a larder, and storage.’
‘And upstairs?’
‘Two bedrooms and another bathroom.’
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘For a year,’ Britta said, ‘but it’s not mine. I rent it.’
‘I see. You’ve made it homely, and the owner must be delighted.’
‘He never visits.’ She shrugged. ‘He lives in Madrid, and his family isn’t interested in the property. They are wealthy, and this area isn’t upmarket enough for their taste. They have villas further south in La Manga and Marbella.’ Britta reached for the jug and refreshed his glass. ‘But I think the cottage is quite special.’
‘So do I,’ Atticus agreed. He wanted to tell Britta that he thought she was special too, but, instead, he followed her to the terrace.
