Page 21 of A Cornish Love Story
‘Great. Then you can dance around in your perfect house and roll about on the huge bed.’ I tried to move past him, and he put his hand on my arm.
‘Don’t you want to at least have a conversation?’
I turned my head. He was so close, bent slightly so he was on my level, his brown eyes – which seemed to change shade depending on whether he was happy or upset or annoyed – fixed on me.
‘There’s nothing to say,’ I whispered. ‘I need to go.’
‘I want you to stay.’
‘Tough.’ I leaned in a millimetre, and my hip brushed his thigh. ‘I don’t want to be here any more.’ My gaze drifted to the hollow at his throat. He’d opened a couple of shirt buttons, and the knot of his tie was tight, as if he’d yanked it. I looked up, and our eyes met. I wondered if he was holding his breath too. I parted my lips, awareness tingling through me, making me lightheaded.
‘Wait for me,’ he said firmly, breaking the spell, then he was striding out of the room and down the stairs, and as I tried to regain my composure I heard a cacophony of cheery, champagne-oiled goodbyes. ‘We’ll be in touch,’ and ‘Perfect house, darling,’ and ‘I want to know when it’s on the market.’ I wondered which voice belonged to the brunette, which one of those people were actually considering buying it. It was a prime, luxury property, it would go for several million at least, and then it wouldn’t be Ethan’s any more, and it wouldn’t be Spence’s, and it certainly wouldn’t be mine … though it had never been mine.
I turned in a circle, trying to memorize everything. I had photographs, and I would probably be able to close my eyes and picture these rooms for years to come: I could be convincing about it for Spence’s new book. I zipped up my rucksack and strode to the doorway.
‘I’m taking Cassie back to the station, Ethan.’ Sarah’s voice echoed, as if she was standing at the bottom of the staircase, the double-height foyer projecting her voice upwards. ‘I can come back and get you afterwards, so you have a little longer here.’
‘I can’t leave yet anyway,’ he said, and I peeked round the doorway and saw the top of his head. He was halfway up the stairs. ‘We need to clear up the kitchen, all the glasses and crockery.’
Sarah laughed. ‘The catering company is in charge of all that. We should gather up any full bottles, because we’ve paid for them, but leave the rest. I’ll be back in thirty minutes, give you some alone time with the house.’
‘You don’t need to do that. I’ll get a taxi to the station.’
‘Are you still heading back to Bristol tonight? We should follow up with everyone in the morning, remind them that this place won’t be available for long.’
‘Great.’ Ethan’s voice was flat, and I leaned my forehead against the wall. This was the first day he’d been able to show Sterenlenn off, and it could belong to someone else in hours. That must always have been the endgame, but I knew he would hate letting it go.And it felt like I was losing it, too: like I’d been given a chance to have more time here, and I’d squandered it by being angry and unfocused.
‘OK then,’ Sarah called. ‘See you later, big bro. You did great, by the way.’
‘It was only a speech.’
‘And you nailed it. Don’t forget, this is the start of all the good things. Now, make sure you take some time.’ Her tone softened. ‘I know how much this place means to you.’
There were some muffled thumps, then footsteps and the sound of keys jingling, and I heard the quiet, expensive clunk of the front door sliding home. I knew I was imagining it, but the house seemed to let out a breath.
‘Georgie?’ Ethan called up the stairs. ‘We’re alone.’
‘Right.’ My voice was raspy. ‘I’m still leaving.’
‘Of course.’ I heard his slow, measured footsteps as he climbed the stairs again. ‘I wouldn’t keep you here against your will.’
‘Shame,’ I whispered, even though I was still – mostly – intent on leaving. I needed to loosen the tension coiling inside me, and realized that, like Sarah had done for him, Ethan was giving me a little more time in the house before it was gone for good.
When he appeared on the landing, looking knackered and deliciously dishevelled, a small smile was lighting his eyes, and it felt like, for the first time that day, he had let his mask slip – just a bit. I couldn’t help but smile back.
Dear Connor,
Things are not great in the house right now, and as much as I’m trying not to resent being here, sometimes I think I might bubble over with frustration. How have I let it come to this? We all make decisions, and – even if itseemedlike I had no choice – I am responsible for everything I’ve done, every place I’ve ended up, how much I’ve let other people sway me.
I know you understand, because the few times we fought, that was what it was about. How much of what you’re doing isyourdecision? How often do you invite other people to dictate what you do with your life?
Yesterday, I saw a woman who lives on the other side of the village, who gave up the job she loved to look after her husband when he got cancer. She’d worked hard as a librarian, spent years dedicated to spreading the joy of books, and had eventually got her dream job managing a little independent bookshop in Porthleven, right by the harbour. Then, when her husband got ill, she gave it up to look after him. His treatment was brutal, and she supported him through all of it, and thankfully he recovered. But what did he do after that? He told her he was in love with someone else, and he left her.
It’s a shocking story, which is the only reason I got to hear about it, but it makes you think, doesn’t it? You have to look after yourself as much as youlook after others; hold onto what’s important to you too, because otherwise you’ll lose everything that matters.
This story, at least, has a perfect ending. The woman sold the house she’d shared with her husband, went back andboughtthe independent bookshop and the flat above it. She owned and ran the shop, and six months later she fell in love with a customer – they bonded over their passion for Thomas Hardy novels. While I was there she showed me an anthology of short stories written by local authors, and honestly, the whole thing felt like a lesson: one of those events that doesn’t seem real because it’s basically someone holding up a huge, allegorical mirror and exposing all your tender bits.
What matters to you, now? Are your plans the same as they were when we were together, or have your priorities changed now you’re older? I would give anything to go for a coffee with you, to find out how you are. Sometimes, when I’m lying awake at night, I imagine you’re next to me. I imagine your hands tracing pathways on my skin, and I close my eyes tight, but I can never fully lose myself to it. I have never been as completely myself as I was with you, and I’m scared I won’t find that again.
