Page 54 of A Cornish Love Story
At that moment, everything I thought I knew about where we both stood in our tentative, topsy-turvy reunion in this sumptuous prison dissolved into dust.
Dear Connor,
Why am I still calling you Connor? There’s no chance you’re going to find my letters now. You’re not here to go snooping while I’m in the bathroom and find them under a cuddly turtle. It’s how I started writing to you, and it’s an important part of the ritual now, as if, by referring to us as Connor and Amelie, we’ll have the same sort of epic romance they had. But it didn’t work out for them, either.
If I was writing books, they would always have happy endings, however bitter I felt about my own life. You owe it to the readers, don’t you, if you’re a romance author? S. E. Artemis should have thought about that when she was finishingThe Whispers of the Sands.
I’ve followed you on Instagram, but you won’t recognize me from my username or photos – I’m not much more human on there than a bot. You would laugh, roll your eyes at how long it took me, my finger hovering over the ‘follow’ button like I was about to launch a nuclear attack instead of connect with my ex. There are lots of photos of you with beautiful women, and short, bland captions. You are the classically filtered version of yourself, but your hair is still my favourite disaster zone of all time.
But where are the life updates? I don’t know if you’re qualified and following your dreams of being an architect. I almost tracked down Orwell, decidingthat a few minutes in his company would be worth it to get some intel, but he’s left Alperwick. Kira doesn’t know where he’s gone, but she’s going to ask Freddy.
I’m still freelance, but theNorth Cornwall Starare putting me on retainer, so I’ll have a steady income at least. I’ve started writing short stories again, and I’ve even finished a couple. They’re not good enough to share with anyone, though I would have let you read them, because I always loved you reading my stuff.
Mum’s not doing so well, and it’s hard, sometimes, trying to keep her spirits up. I’m trying to get her outside as much as possible, to go for walks on the beach or to the local café. Things would be so much easier if I had you to talk to, but is that just an excuse? Maybe I need to finally let you go.
I hope you’re well, Ethan, that you’re thriving and happy.
I love you and I miss you
Yours always, Georgie xx
Chapter Twenty-One
June 2012
‘Which part have you got to?’ I rested my head on Ethan’s shoulder and he lifted the notebook up high so I couldn’t see where he was. ‘Have you reached the bit where—’
‘Shush.’ He angled his head away from me so he could keep reading.
I had the urge to tickle him, but I also wanted to know what he thought of my new story. It was about two people who had met in an abandoned house, clashing because one group was drinking there, the other searching for ghosts. I suffered through two more silent minutes, then he laughed – one of those laughs that was a surprise, like I’d delighted him with one of my jokes. After that I left him to it, rearranging thingspointlessly on my already immaculate desk, until he closed the notebook.
‘It’s really good, George,’ he said. ‘It’s funny and romantic and spooky all at once. I know exactly who Alfie and Selina are, and I cared about them. Also, the haunting?’ He laughed again. ‘Those ghost hunters were looking for something profound, some hidden secret or tragedy connected to the family who’d lived there centuries ago, and all they found was the last owner’s awful chihuahua.’
‘Marjory the chihuahua had a lot of character.’ I couldn’t hide my smile. ‘She didn’t want to be dead.’
‘Biting ankles for all eternity,’ Ethan said wistfully. I joined him on the bed, and he tucked my hair behind my ear and planted a sweet kiss on my lips. ‘You, Georgie Monroe, are amazing. I can’t wait to celebrate your first book being published.’
My heart skipped at the implication that we would still be together when that happened. ‘In a house that you’ve built,’ I added. ‘We can toast each other with champagne, look out at the sea view from the glass-fronted reception room.’
‘We’re going to be one of those smug couples that are really pleased with themselves, aren’t we?’ He kissed me again.
‘It sounds perfect,’ I murmured. We sat up against my pillows, and Ethan put his arm around me. ‘Hey,’ I said, after a moment, ‘imagine if you renovated S. E. Artemis’s old house.’
‘What?’ He turned to me with a laugh. ‘How wouldI ever get the chance to do that? It’ll be years before I’m qualified, and whoever owns it now is bound to do something with it, either bring it up to scratch or sell it on.’
‘But justimagine.’ I wasn’t ready to let go of the daydream. ‘Imagine if you could buy it – or get commissioned to redo it, or whatever. What would you do?’ I dragged my notebook over, turned to a fresh page, and held it out to him, along with my pen.
‘George,’ he said in mild protest, but he took them.
‘What, Ethan?’ I wanted to spend time on his dream, when he’d been so supportive of mine.
‘Well, the main thing would be making the most of where it is, give all the rooms uninterrupted views of the landscape. So, larger windows, skylights maybe – a huge lounge that looks out over the bay. The room we usually sit in?’
I nodded.
‘I would knock that through, so it took up the whole right side of the house.’
I went to protest, but he put a finger on my lips. ‘I’d keep the fireplace,’ he assured me. ‘It would be the focal point of the room, open all the way around, so you could divide the space into zones.’ He frowned down at the notebook. ‘It would be a hugejob, but I don’t have any real cluehowbig yet. I’ve got so much to learn, but right now—’
