Page 80 of A Cornish Love Story
‘You are?’
‘Of course.’ She sounded slightly disgruntled, as if she hadn’t ignored the pitch emails I’d sent her over the last decade. ‘You’ll find my contact details on the back of the latest edition.’ She gave me a brusque nod and stepped past me, her kindness quota exhausted.
‘Bye, Grace,’ I called, picking up my bag. She was a fierce gatekeeper, so my article must have impressed her. I walked home with a spring in my step, and when I got in, all I wanted to do was open my laptop, where the ideas for my own novel had sprawled into a document over twenty pages long.
That was the other thing that felt entirely new: the sense I had that, if I committed time and energy tomy writing, then it had the potential tobecome something. I had put it off for so long, giving myself a catalogue of plausible excuses, but it had always been about fear – the very real possibility of failure – and I was starting to appreciate that nothing terrible would happen if I tried and it didn’t work out. I could just try again.
Now I opened my laptop with a flourish instead of a sense of dread, desperate to spend time with my messy ideas and my half-formed characters, chip away at the sprawl and make it more coherent. I thought about my heroine and hero while I strode across the beach or along the cliff path, when I was sealing and posting Spence’s correspondence, or helping her with research for Amelie and Connor’s return. I was energised by the thought that I could create something too, and that it might, one day, be as cherished as the Cornish Sands series, or as Sterenlenn would be by its new owners.
I hadn’t sought out news about the fate of the house, how quickly it had been snapped up, because those searches would inevitably lead me to Ethan. But, knowing that Sarah and Spence had been behind the Sparks anomalies, I didn’t think there would be any problems with the sale. In fact, I expected to hear about removal vans and new arrivals on the village grapevine any day, Barry Mulligan starting off the ripple from his I-spy position on the hill.
I was busy living my new Georgie Monroe life, and while it had felt like I was trying on an uncomfortabledress to start with, as the weeks passed it felt more like it was meant for me, as if this was what I should have been doing all along. I wasliving, in the house and at the paper, working on my own projects, helping Spence, but keeping boundaries between us. I was no longer taking the path of least resistance, and it felt as exhilarating as climbing the steepest part of the cliffs, up to where you got the best views of the bay and village. I had started doing that, too: enjoying all that Cornwall had to offer outside my front door.
I was standing there one afternoon, a couple of days from August, my chest heaving from the walk and Alperwick busy with holidaying families, when I realized I had done all the plotting and procrastinating I could. I had two articles to write for theStarthe following day, and then on Saturday I would open a new document, typeChapter Oneand begin writing my own book. I raised my arms to the sky, the fresh, clear breeze caressing me, and closed my eyes. Sterenlenn was perched on the cliffs on the opposite side of the bay, and I offered it a silent thank you, and tried not to think about the phone number on a scrap of paper tucked inside my notebook.
When I opened my eyes, it looked like there were people standing in the manicured gardens of the beautiful house. From where I was, they were no bigger than tiny smudges, and they could have been anyone – gardeners trimming the lawn, prospective buyers, a group of teenagers more adventurous than we’d everbeen who had scaled the six-foot wall. They wouldn’t make it inside now, but the thought of a new generation of friends being drawn to the house made me smile as I started for home, the late afternoon sun heating the back of my neck.
I pushed open my front door, tugged my walking boots off and put them neatly under the coat hooks where a number of jackets now hung, neat and uncrumpled, ready for me to use in a variety of different weathers. I was standing there admiring them, feeling like I might actually be an adult now, when I noticed something gleaming out of the corner of my eye. There was a white envelope on the doormat; I must have kicked it out of the way when I came in.
I picked it up and turned it over, and my brain stuttered. There was my address, in a neat, straight script, but not my name. The letter was addressed toAmelie Rosevar, and our lovely postman Alf had covered the rest of the envelope in his biro scrawl:This you? Been round the houses a bit but it’s the right addy! I’ll pick it up and return to sender if not!
But I didn’t want him to return it to the sender, because my heart rate was already speeding up and, even though I’d got home sweaty and parched from my walk, a shower and a glass of water were suddenly low on my priority list. I went into the living room, sat on the sofa and slid my fingernail under the flap of the envelope, opening the letter that was addressed to my favourite Cornish Sands heroine, the one I had masqueraded as in my secret letters to Ethan. I tookout the sheet of notepaper, unfolded it and laid it on my lap, smoothing my palm over it to flatten it down.
My pulse pounding in my ears and a lump in my throat, I started reading.
Dear Amelie,
I miss you, that’s the first thing. I know I already posted my number through your letterbox, and I amcertainthat was your house, because I spent time in it when we were together – though part of me hopes I’ve got it wrong, that I’ve misremembered it after all this time, and you never got it. Whatever the reason, sending this letter to the same place is the biggest example of hope over experience, but I had to do something.
I could have emailed you at theStar,I could have worked out which of my bot-type Instagram followers is you and sent you a DM (why don’t you have a proper account? You live in such a beautiful place, and you have a lot to say, and if I could have opened the app and seen a photo of you, it would have made all this easier. Or would it have been harder? I don’t know any more). But I didn’t think DMs or emails to your work address would cut it, so here I am trying to write you something that will, at the very least, make sense.
I know why you left. You saw the messages between me and Sarah, and I can understand why you felt like I’d betrayed you. I promise I didn’t know that she’d delayed the final update of Sparks – that she was even able to control it manually. She says it wasn’t her idea to lock the house down, but she won’t tell me who asked herto do it. I think I have a good idea, but it’s not something I’m going to pursue on my own.
This is what I want to say to you George. (I can’t keep calling you Amelie.)
One, I miss you. I know I’ve already said that, but I really want toemphasizeit. There. I don’t think I ever stopped missing you, not after I was forced up to Scotland that summer, not during university or anytime afterwards. I have always had a voice in my head that whispers, ‘What would Georgie think of this?’ I told you about the panel of investors? That was all true; thinking about you naked, using you to calm me down. We haven’t been together, but you’ve never been far from my thoughts. Now, though, as the house sale goes through (Sparks is working seamlessly, would you believe?) and Sterenlenn is getting a future, it’s harder than ever to carry on without you. Our night brought us together again, so then I had to start over, at day one without you, and it’s worse than I imagined it would be.
Two, I never meant to hurt you. Not then, when Sarah was in trouble, and not now. I didn’t know we were supposed to end up stuck there together. It could easily not have happened, if you’d left before the end of the event, when other guests were still there. I’m guessing Sarah had a plan B if you did, but she didn’t have to put it into action. Perhaps she knew you’d be reluctantto leave, or guessed – correctly – that I’d want you to stay after everyone else had gone. But I’m sorry for not waking you the moment the house was unlocked. You looked peaceful, sleeping next to me, and I selfishly wanted you to myself for a bit longer.
Three, I don’t want this to be it. Everyone says that your first love, especially if you’re a teenager, is intense and unrealistic, that it’s all hormones and heightened emotions, that it’s not meant to last. I don’t agree. I didn’t before that Friday night, and I’m even less convinced now. What do you think? The fact that you’ve not been in touch should tell me something, but the truth is: I am not over you, George.
Four, We have a buyer for Sterenlenn, so I’m coming back to Alperwick sometime in the next couple of weeks. I’ve got new projects and ideas, but nothing is pinned down, and I’m still focused on a perfect corner of the north Cornwall coast. I would love to see you. You have my number, and if you’d like to meet, call or text me, and I’ll let you know what date I’m coming.
Five, if I don’t see you again, then know that I meant it – what I said in the house. You are everything. Regardless of what happens next – if this really is it for us – I want you to know that.
I love you, Georgie Monroe.
Ethan xx
Chapter Thirty-Four
Now
Iwas still sitting there, with tears running down my cheeks, when my phone started ringing from the hallway. I wiped my face as I went to get it, and saw that it was Spence. My mind was on Ethan’s number, waiting for me in my notebook upstairs, but like he’d said about DMs in his letter, would a phone call be enough right now? It was a two-and-a-half hour drive to Bristol, and if I left now, I could be there before eight. Should I call and ask for his address? Could I—? My phone stopped ringing then started up again immediately. I answered it, only part of my mind on the conversation.
‘Hello?’
‘Georgie, I – are you crying?’
