Page 10 of Sun, Sea & Strawberry Shortcake
A few hundred yards further on, we turn off the main roadand start winding our way down to the little seaside village of Port Castleton.
‘Oh, it’s just as lovely as in the photographs,’ I sigh, aswe drive along the seafront with its cute promenade and pretty, ice-cream-colouredshops, cafés and restaurants overlooking the beach. Just visible beyond a rockyoutcrop at the far end of the sandy bay is the little harbour with boatsbobbing about on the water.
‘Our cottage is a few streets back from the main roadthrough,’ says Hudson, turning left at a fish and chip shop named Frying Nemo.
‘We need to check in to get the key,’ I remind him. ‘Oh, butlook! I’m sure that’s ours over there. Moonstone Cottage. The middle one in therow of whitewashed cottages? I love the way the front doors are all differentpastel colours. Pink, lilac – and ours is the blue one with the matching blueshutters at the windows? So cute!’
‘How about we unload the luggage now and I’ll drive along tothe office and get the key?’
‘Okay. Great. There’s a little bench in the garden below thewindow. I’ll sit and wait for you there.’
As we knew it would be, the door to the cottage is locked.But as Hudson prepares to drive off, I plonk myself down on the white benchbeneath the cottage window with a happy sigh and beam up at him. ‘Thank you.Don’t be long.’
‘Why? Do you have something in mind for me?’
I flash him a wicked look. ‘Wait and see. Ibelievethere’s a hot tub in the back garden.’
He grins. ‘Why that should interest me, I have no idea.’
I watch him with a heart full of love as he goes off,whistling, in the direction of the village centre. Then I turn my attention tomy surroundings. It’s so beautiful here.
The lane we’re in is lined with a mix of cottages and prettyVictorian villas, some converted into apartments. Opposite ours is a row offive terrace houses, painted in contrasting, jaunty pastel colours – blue, pink,lilac, pale lemon and green – each with their own little square of garden and alow red brick wall. To the left of the terrace houses is a large villa washedin deep pink with a weeping willow tree in the garden and a vibrant green hedgefronting the property.
There are signs saying no parking in the narrow lane, exceptto unload. But someone has ignored the warning and is parked there anyway, alittle way along the lane. I get up and wander to the gate. A man with darkhair and sunglasses is sitting in the car. Perhaps he’s waiting for someone tocome out of one of the terrace houses? I catch sight of the number plate.
NO51 FKR
I chuckle to myself. Who would buy a personalised platedeclaring themselves to be a nosy so-and-so? I guess it takes all sorts!
A sudden noise makes me turn my head. There it is again. A harsh,slamming sound. And it seems to be coming from inside the cottage.
Walking back up the path, I peer through the window and tomy surprise, I see a tall young woman mopping the floor of the kitchen. She’sperforming the task in an extremely vigorous manner and the sound I heard isthe handle of her mop as it clashes against anything that dares to be in herway. She looks up at that moment, pushing back the blonde hair escaping fromher ponytail, and her eyes widen when she sees me.
A moment later, the front door opens.
‘Hi. I’m your cleaner and I’ll be out of here in twominutes,’ she says, all in rush. ‘I just have to take out the rubbish.’
‘Oh. Okay.’ Smiling, I pick up my box containing the cookingessentials I’ve brought and follow her into the kitchen. She hauls the rubbishout of the bin so violently, her action rips a hole in the side of the bag, andthe bin almost topples over. I lay the box on the island and rush over to helpher. But the glare she gives me stops me in my tracks.
I smile to reassure her I’m not the enemy. ‘It’s okay. There’sno rush.’ She looks stressed. There’s a deep frown notch between her large greyeyes and she looks very pale. ‘Honestly, it’s okay. It all looks lovely. My...boyfriend’s just gone to get the key. But if you haven’t quite finished, wecould go for a little walk. There must be so much to explore here.’
She ignores me, glowering instead at the ties on the bag andtying them so tightly that one of them snaps off. She gives a little yelp offrustration and drags the bulging bag to the door, leaving a blackened bananaskin and a trail of gloopy egg shells on the floor from the hole torn in theside.
Glancing at her watch, she gives a little groan offrustration. ‘I should have been finished an hour ago.’ She quickly mops up themess, rushes back for her handbag and sweeps it off the island, and to myhorror, she manages to bring my ‘kitchen essentials’ box with it.
The box crashes to the floor, spilling the contents of thecontainers all over the freshly-mopped tiles, rice and pasta jumbled among thebits of smashed crockery.
In the shocked aftermath, we both stare at the mess.
‘I’ll get a brush,’ she says, but I put my hand on her armto stop her.
‘It’s okay. I’ll do it. You go.’
She hesitates, her face still stony. Then she bends andpicks up my special mug, which is lying on the floor, shattered into three. I’mexpecting her to apologise for breaking my lovely keepsake from Hudson.
She fits them together and reads the message at the bottom. ‘Isuppose it’s just a mug. I’ve got to go.’ She plonks the pieces on the island, grabsthe rubbish at the door and hurries off without another word.
I stand there after she’s gone, staring at the remnants ofmy mug. It’s silly, I know, but I feel really emotional at the thought ofthrowing it away. But there’s no way I can mend it, so with a pang of sadness,I pick up the pieces and drop them one by one into the empty bin. The thud asthey hit the bottom makes me wince, and it’s only then that I realise there’sno liner in there.
