Page 78 of A Cornish Love Story
‘About the house.’ I pushed my shoulders back which, according to a podcast I’d listened to, would make me sound more confident. ‘I want to stay in it.’
‘You can, love, until I’m ready to sell.’
I huffed out a breath. ‘I’d really like to stay in it for the next year. That’ll give me a deadline I can work towards, for getting my own place. I feel like a short-term tenant, waiting for you to boot me out, so I’d like to stay there and pay you rent, make it official. I need it to be my home, and right now it isn’t.’
My words were met with silence, and I winced, pushing off the wall when an old lady glared at me from the window of her house.
‘Mum?’ I said eventually.
‘I didn’t realize you felt like that.’ I heard her exhale, long and slow. ‘I had never … of course you can stay. I’d like to sell up eventually, but I wouldn’t kick you out. I only mentioned it because I thought you wanted your own place anyway: you don’t want to live in our tatty old terrace for ever. I’m sorry, love. It’s yours, andthere’s no need to pay rent. Use the money to save up for somewhere new, wherever you want to go.’
I gazed at the deep blue of the water in the bay and the seagulls circling, the golden sand and the owner of the ice-cream hut raising his lime green awning, getting ready for another busy day. I’d been so desperate to leave Alperwick, but I was beginning to wonder why I’d ever wanted to. ‘Thanks, Mum. That means a lot. I’m … going to make some changes, if that’s OK?’
‘You haven’t done that already? You’re still in the back bedroom?’ She sounded incredulous. ‘Take the front room, get yourself a new mattress, put a desk under the window. Christ, Georgie. I’ll put some money in your account.’
‘No, Mum, you don’t—’
‘I have to go or we’ll miss our boat. Love you lots, G. Have fun.’ She hung up and I was left staring at my phone, delighted, but also angry with myself for not speaking to her sooner. My mind whirred with all the possibilities; how it would feel to wake up to sunlight coming in through the bay window, the slice of sea visible above the rooftops. Or maybe I’d stay in the back bedroom and turn the master into an office. I couldn’t stretch to mermaid wallpaper or tinted Smart glass, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t make more affordable changes. I could do it, even without Ethan’s expertise to guide me.
‘I don’t want to write your book with you,’ I said an hour later, while I diligently folded up Spence’s handwritten letters and slid them into thick, creamenvelopes. Despite how things had gone with Mum, my confidence had wavered as soon as I’d seen Spence, because she was acting like nothing had happened; like she hadn’t executed a plan that had left me trapped in her old house with Ethan, and still didn’t realize the emotional upheaval it had caused. But my irritation had been steadily growing in the face of her breezy attitude, so as I sealed envelope fifteen I blurted it out.
‘What do you mean?’ Spence signed her name with a flourish at the bottom of another letter.
‘I mean that I don’t want to resurrect Amelie and Connor with you.’
She looked up, shocked. ‘But it’s all we’ve talked about. What about all the preparation we’ve put in – your jaunt to the open house?’
‘Jaunt?’ I shook my head. ‘We need to get it out in the open that myjaunthad nothing to do with Amelie and Connor. You wanted to see what would happen if I was locked in there with Ethan, and I … had my own reasons.’
‘Which I’m still none the wiser about.’
‘Good.’ I went back to folding and sliding and sticking.
Spence laughed. ‘You don’t want to write a new Cornish Sands book with me, then?’
I swallowed. Those two words did something to me: my adoration of her series had created some kind of Pavlovian response. ‘I’m going to write something of my own,’ I said, my voice only wavering slightly. ‘Something that’s entirely my idea.’
Spence didn’t say anything for a long time, and eventually I looked over at her, sitting in her armchair, her portable leather writing desk perched across the armrests. ‘You’re certainly good enough, Georgie,’ she said.
I scoffed. ‘How do you know that?’
‘You think I wanted any old journalist to be my PA? That I didn’t read your articles, do my research first? Your editor published your short story about the mermaid.’
‘I wrote that when I was eighteen.’
‘Yes, but all your pieces have energy, a narrative, even if it’s only an account of the Alperwick Flower Festival. A writer can spot another talented writer a mile off, and you’ve got it.’ She tapped her fountain pen against the leather surface. ‘You really don’t want to help me with Amelie and Connor?’
I thought of all the letters I’d written under the guise of her star-crossed lovers. ‘I’ve spent enough time with other people’s characters. I need to focus on my own.’
She nodded, though her eyes were bright with something that wasn’t mischief, and she looked her age, suddenly; frail and small. I wavered, but I knew I had to do this.
‘I’m so touched by your offer, Spence, and I’ll still be your PA if you want me. I’ll help you bring Connor and Amelie the happy ending they deserve in any way I can – research and emails; whatever other support you need – but I don’t want to write it with you. It’s time I wrote something that is wholly mine.’
Spence took out another piece of notepaper, lying it precisely on the board in front of her, and I held my breath. She looked up at me, her lips twitching in that familiar way. ‘That, Georgie, is a perfect solution. Because I can’t do without you, you know. I pretend I can, but I rely on you.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘No you don’t. You have Denise.’
‘Denise can’t fold a letter like you can: she has fat fingers.’
