“Fair point. Anyhow. If you need anything, love, just shout – and by that I mean pop over to my cottage, or use the walkies. Though the best phone signal in the village is here, and you can even get on the internet because Jake has worked some kind of voodoo.”
“It’s called a dongle, Connie.”
“Wash your mouth out with soap, Jacob Hennessy – I’m old enough to be your mother! Anyhow, I’m away for now. Come and find me in the morning, Ella – I’ll be at the café from about 7 if you’re an early riser.”
She gives me a hug before I can dodge her, and she’s so short my chin clears the top of her head. It’s like being cuddled by a teddy bear.
Once she’s gone, flouncing away in a cloud of blonde curls, Jake shakes his head fondly, and turns back to me.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “Or have they completely freaked you out?”
“Both, I think…this place isn’t quite normal, is it?”
“Nah. But normal is over-rated, don’t you think? Anyway, like I said, your bag’s in your room, and I also have some gifts for you.”
“Gifts? Who from?”
“Pretty much everyone. Come on, I’ll show you up. We can do a proper check-in later. Just give me a minute to shout Miranda through from the back.”
Ah. Miranda will undoubtedly be his wife, and she will be an exquisite creation of high cheekbones and creamy skin and casual-yet-effortlessly elegant clothes draping perfectly from her prima ballerina’s frame.
As she emerges from a door behind the bar, I see that yet again my imaginings are way off target. Miranda is at most five foot tall, with a plump face and shaggy black hair – she’s also wearing a T-shirt that says ‘I’m not fat, I’m pregnant’. A quick glance at her build and her wide-legged stance tells me that she is indeed pregnant, despite looking barely old enough to be working in a pub. An irrational thought crosses my mind, and I wonder if she’s been taking her pre-natal supplements – occupational hazard I suppose, and also none of my business.
“Hiya,” she says brightly, giving me a wave from behind the bar. “Nice to meet you, Ella. Welcome to the madhouse. Want me to watch the bar for a bit, boss?”
Jake nods, and gestures for me to follow him. He leads us down a long crooked corridor, through a door marked ‘guests only’, and up a set of steep and equally crooked stairs. Every single one of them seems to creak – it’s not the kind of place you’d ever be able to sneak out of surreptitiously.
At the end of yet another corridor, Jake uses an old-fashioned key with a wooden fob in the shape of a star to open the door, and stands back to let me enter. I walk through, and find the most wonderful room I’ve ever seen, especially compared to my recent round of chain motels.
It’s large, presumably the family room as there is a small single bed as well as a double, and the whole of it is painted in delicate shades of pastel. Pale green walls are complemented by dark green curtains, and the bed is draped in a candy-striped duvet.
The furniture is mismatched and quirky, but somehow it all works – a chestnut dressing table bearing a vast vase full of sunflowers, a large mahogany wardrobe, an old-fashioned writing desk complete with fountain pen, ink and blotter. The bedstead is brass, and the pillows are topped with fluffy cushions in peach and pale pink. The pretty colours contrast to the antique feel of the place, balancing each other out, and beneath my feet is a thick shagpile carpet that I just know will feel wonderful once I finally get my trainers off.
There’s an equally well-presented en-suite with a stand-alone claw-foot bathtub, and a shower that I expect to spend at least an hour in.
The real star of the show, though, is the view – through an authentic sash window and all the way down to the beach. I stand and stare at it for a few moments, watching the sun setting so gloriously that it’s hard to tear my eyes away.
“Wow,” I murmur, forgetting I’m not alone.
“I know,” Jake replies, standing next to me. “Such a show-off, isn’t it? I never get tired of seeing that. That’s what makes this the best room in the house. I’m originally from the Midlands, then London, and seeing that every night…well, it reminds me why I left. I warn you, it’s addictive.”
“I’m sure it is,” I reply, moving away before I become rooted to the spot. I feel embarrassed by how emotional the sight of the bay is making me – seeing my imaginary happy place made real, and close enough to touch.
I see my suitcase stashed beneath the bed, and next to it is a dog bowl containing a few pouches of food, a bottle of canine shampoo, and some old towels.
“That’s from George,” he explains. “I think it’s for the dog, not you. The Betties sent over some shortbread; Trevor’s passed in a pamphlet about the history of Starshine Cove – which I warn you he wrote himself – and Archie and the girls provided the flowers. In the wardrobe you’ll also find some dog blankets, and a bottle of wine…that’s from me.”
I feel my lower lip tremble slightly, and manage only to mutter my thanks. It’s too much. Too much beauty, too much kindness, too much of everything I’ve felt starved of for the last few years.
Jake seems to understand, and quickly retreats. He pauses in the doorway, and says: “Look, you might want to just crash out for the night. Totally understand if you do. But it usually gets quiet downstairs at about nine. If you feel like it, come and join me for a drink. I can fill you in on the Starshine experience, or I can just stay quiet and fill your glass whenever you need it.”
I look up, grateful and scared and exhausted all at once, and nod.
ChapterSix
I have done many things in my life, but I have never washed a dog. I have visions of fighting with him, getting soaked, getting bitten, getting humiliated by my inability to wrangle a 10-kilo lump of fur.
In the end, though, it is all rather sweet. I run the bath, not too deep and not too hot, and I perch on the edge of the tub for a few moments with him, letting him sniff and settle. I talk soothingly to him, telling him what a handsome boy he’s going to be, and then slowly lower him into the water.
