Page 6 of A Cornish Love Story
I narrowed mine. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Thetime, Georgie.’ She tapped her bony wrist where a watch would be if she still wore one.
‘Fine. I’m going.’ It felt like the hardest thing to turn away and trudge down her front path, with its bright marigolds and sweet williams, hot pink poppy anemones dancing in the breeze. The afternoon sun shone mercilessly, a little too intense for June. It felt like a storm was brewing.
‘Spine straight!’ Spence called, and I jerked upright, then cursed myself for being her obedient little marionette. She had come into my life when I was lost and lonely, with nobody to talk to besides an overworked editor and a best friend in London who was navigating being a new mum. I was just Spence’s employee, I told myself for the millionth time, and she was offering me an opportunity I couldn’t turn down. It was one night: one uncomfortable, awkward evening – a few hours at most – and then it would be done. I could close the door on the feelings still lingering from that part of my life, and move onto the next, hopefully brighter one.
Alperwick village hugged the Cornish coastline, the houses clustered low in the valley, getting sparser the further you got from the sea, a mishmash of town houses, terraces and bungalows. The mid-terrace I had lived in with Mum, which I now had to myself, was one road back from the beachfront, tiny but so close to the white sandy expanse and aquamarine water of Alperwick Bay that I never felt hemmed in.
Spence’s bungalow was a little way up the hill, set back from the wide road and with breathtaking views of the sea over the rooftops. She had a front and back garden, space around her slice of land, but it was nothing like what she’d once owned. Her old house, now Sterenlenn, was on the top of the hill, at the south end of the village. It looked down on Alperwick and the coastline from its clifftop perch, as if it was a castle.
The main through road rose steeply on either side of the village, and was especially winding at the southern end. Minutes into my walk I was breathing heavily, and could feel the sweat slipping down my spine and between my boobs, already slightly uncomfortable in the bra I’d chosen.
I hadn’t known about Ethan when I’d picked my outfit that morning, and I congratulated myself on not having rushed back home to reconsider my options. I’d chosen one of my favourite sundresses, rich blue with sprays of yellow flowers that clustered more tightly towards the hem. It had tiny buttons down thefront and finished at the knee, and I had worn it to cover stories in the past, so it felt appropriate. It also matched my naturally blonde hair and blue eyes, and now all those things felt like an added defence, a flimsy wall of confidence that would help me make it through this.
But, halfway there, my bare shins brushing the sprays of tufted vetch and oxeye daisies along the verge, I knew I was going to turn up a hot, sweaty mess. The straps of my rucksack, heavy with my notebook and camera inside, were digging into my shoulders, and I chided myself for leaving my twelve-year-old Polo at home, because I had decided it was too short a journey to drive. My rucksack was a tatty thing that had followed me around for the last decade, worn patches in the tan suede like points on a map, the zip on the front pocket broken, so I could only put tissues in there and often ended up losing them.
I had forgotten my spare camera battery, and hoped that I could take enough photos for Wynn and Spence before I ran out of charge. It wasn’t going to be the most groundbreaking article, unless the house caught fire or someone kicked up a fuss about the building practices, but then Ethan was a master at tidying away problems. He’d done it when we were together, and … there it was, a faint flare of bitterness. Honestly, I was relieved. I needed to stay as far away from him as possible, and thinking bad thoughts was preferable to remembering his tenderness; how he was mostly self-contained but had always been tactile with me;how safe he’d made me feel. I swallowed and tripped on absolutely nothing, then jumped when a voice bellowed ‘Georgie!’
I spun to find Barry Mulligan standing in his front garden, the handle of his lawnmower resting against his paunch.
‘Hey, Barry.’ His bungalow was one of the closest properties to Sterenlenn, and he’d been the main source of news about the Big Housewhile the changes were happening. ‘How are you?’
‘Off to cover the event for the paper?’ he asked, ignoring my question. ‘Caterers’ trucks coming in and out all day today, so it should be a good spread.’
‘Right.’ Barry couldn’t see Sterenlenn’s gates from his garden because the hill was too steep, but he had a telescope set up on a tripod in his roof conversion. Supposedly it was for spotting dolphins during the day and constellations at night, but none of the locals believed that. ‘Anything else?’ I asked, hating myself for fishing. Would Ethan come with the caterers? Would he have a sleek Audi or Porsche with a personalized numberplate? I thought of the images I’d seen on Instagram, of him with various tousle-haired women, one after the other, often against European, city-break backdrops. His captions were always annoyingly brief and superficial, but the photos told me enough about how much he’d changed.
‘A couple of Range Rovers with blacked-out windows.’ Barry scratched his scalp through his thick brown hair. ‘All a bit over-the-top, if you ask me.’
‘Not surprising though, is it? Have you seen the photos in that magazine? It’s getting national coverage.’
‘I’d like a proper gander,’ Barry said dreamily, and I almost offered to swap places with him. Then I thought about Spence’s reaction if I failed to get inside, and the idea drifted away like an outgoing tide.
‘I’ll be sure to take lots of photos.’ I patted my rucksack strap. ‘And if I can manage it, I’ll bring you a doggy bag of tiny exotic canapés.’
This seemed to delight Barry, and he gave me a cheery goodbye and started up his lawnmower again.
I heaved myself further up the hill, flapping the collar of my dress as if that would allow some air to circulate beneath it. The sky had a yellowy tinge, the humidity too high for late June, the wind sluggish rather than crisp. There were two boys playing with a football in one of the gardens, kicking it up high with wild abandon, oblivious to their position close to the road, where a wayward kick could land on a car or passer-by.
Panic was a whirlpool in my chest, and I paused, wondering if my heaving lungs were due to lack of fitness or anxiety. I slipped my rucksack off one shoulder and unzipped it, reaching into the interior pocket and feeling for the black velvet bag. Inside was my silver mermaid, and even without taking it out I could picture the flow of her long hair, carved to give her buoyant waves, her scales turquoise glass and mother-of-pearl. It was a gift I’d received after writing a piece about the legend of the Alperwick Mermaidfor the paper, a reminder that what I produced could really make a difference to people, however small. I squeezed it, then zipped up the rucksack and hauled it back on my shoulder, my breath calmer.
I kept going, thinking of my list of actions, and it wasn’t long before I was cresting the hill and could see the smart, redbrick wall that surrounded the property, with cream pointing between the bricks, everything elegant but understated. Then there were the sage green gates, tall and curved and, right now, flung open. Someone was standing in front of the opening. He had dark, close-cropped hair and was dressed like a nightclub bouncer. Did he have anearpiece?
‘Nothing about this is normal,’ I reminded myself, as a silver Mercedes slowed, then stopped in front of me. The bouncer leaned down to the driver’s window and there was a short conversation that I couldn’t hear, then the car drove smoothly through the gateway. I surreptitiously ran my palms down the back of my dress, expecting a barked ‘name?’ or immediate, ‘You can’t come in.’ Instead, the bouncer gave me a warm smile, which was somehow even more disconcerting.
‘Hello, darlin’,’ he said in an East London accent. ‘You here for the open house?’
‘Yes.’ I tried for firm but ended up forceful. ‘I’m a reporter for theNorth Cornwall Star, covering the event tonight.’ I didn’t have any kind of pass, which felt like a rookie error, but the bouncer’s smile didn’t falter.
‘You’re a few minutes early, but Ethan and Sarah are in there already.’
My next breath got stuck halfway up my windpipe and I coughed, bending over slightly. ‘Sorry,’ I said, when I had gulped in enough air. ‘That hill is steeper than it looks.’
‘One of ’em will get you a glass of water, I’m sure.’
‘Right.’ I nodded. ‘Sarah?’ It was a common name. He didn’t necessarily meanthatSarah, Ethan’s younger sister, who had taken up so much of his time when we’d been together. It reminded me how little I knew about him now, and I had to resist the urge to tell this smiling man that I’d made a mistake, that I’d turned up at the wrong open house, then flee back down the hill.
‘Like some kind of double act, honestly.’ He shook his head fondly. ‘Don’t tell them I said that, though. I’m supposed to be professional.’
