‘OK, thank you.’
Belle pointed to the basket. ‘There’s plenty in there for the pair of you, when your husband wakes up.’ Belle continued. ‘Lovebirds and the fresh Cornish sea air, enough to knock anyone out.’ Sabrina noticed the woman’s cheeks redden slightly. ‘I really am so sorry if I disturbed you.’
At the mention of lovebirds Sabrina felt herself dying inside. ‘Not at all. Right, well it’s lovely to meet you, Belle and, umm, thanks for all this. I didn’t realise breakfast was included.’
‘Oh, it’s not, but I knew that you had arrived late and there’s no fresh stuff in the welcome pack.’
‘I appreciate it… We appreciate it.’
Belle gently squeezed Sabrina’s arm and smiled warmly.
‘My number is on the back of the welcome pack label, so please do message me if you need anything.Anythingat all. Oh, I don’t think we have your name. Just your husband’s.’
Sabrina took a deep breath.
Jilly‘Erm. Jilly. My name’s Jilly.’
Back inside, Sabrina filled and flicked on the kettle. Then, noticing the sun streaming through the many windows, she opened the back door to let some fresh air through the old cottage. She switched on the television and listened to the south-west weather presenter stating that after a chilly start to September, it was at last going to be a beautiful day, with highs of nineteen degrees and a light westerly wind. She made herself a cup of instant coffee, slathered real butter and honey on to a thick slice of white bread, then sat at the weathered pine kitchen table and realised what she had just done without thought. Not only had she lied through her teeth, but she was also ready to uncharacteristically shove into her mouth a huge portion of carbohydrates and fat.
Her usual morning routine, in the luxury Bloomsbury apartment she had shared with Dominic Best, her wayward fiancé for the past two years, was to grab an Espresso from their all-singing, all-dancing coffee machine. Eat a small bowl of porridge with half a banana and chai seeds. Then dash out of the door to work.
She’d had a big storyline going on the past few months so had been in the TV studio five days a week, usually from eight in the morning, sometimes not getting home until after seven at night. Not ideal with a wedding to plan, and very draining as she’d had to channel her inner villain every day, but she had managed. Just like she’d managed all her life, growing up as a sister to a brother with a brain injury, a depressed mother and a workaholic father. She would be hungry by mid-morning so would have one of those yoghurts that were so small they would be lucky to feed a grasshopper. Lunch would be some kind of salad grabbed from the studio catering van and either a no-carb dinner or just a few vodka and slimline tonics. She put her hand to her now rumbling stomach and began to eat hungrily.
Maintaining a size ten at five-foot-seven wasn’t easy. And now that she was only a year and a bit away from the big four-oh, she felt like she had to be on a permanent diet. But the feeling of slipping on a hired Alexander McQueen frock to walk down the red carpet at the Soap Awards and being featured on every woman’s magazine cover the next day had been worth it, for her. For the most part.
It had never been easy for her, especially living with newspaper editor Dominic Best, who despite being slightly overweight himself and ten years older than her, felt it was his ‘job’ to keep her trim. So even if he found the smallest squidge of a muffin top, he would squeeze it and say something like, ‘Ignore this pathetic, woke “let’s all pretend we’re happy being fat and embrace each other” business. Hollywood still wants bread sticks, not baguettes, and that’s a fact.”
Thinking on it now, Sabrina wondered why on earth she hadn’t dumped him the first time he had dared to squidge. But the game of love had already commenced– and pretty swiftly, at that. The pawns had been played. The blindness had set in. The charismatic Dominic Best overrode all her sense or sensibility with his intelligence, wit, chat and charm. She’d also loved the fact that he edited one of the top newspapers in the country. His status turned her on. He was as famous as she was in his own right. Probably more so. They were, in fact, quite the power couple.
But it turned out it wasn’t just Hollywood that was fickle. A twenty-one-year-old French stick going by the name of Francois Bardot had served him champagne in a corporate box during an international rugby match at the Stade de France. Her errant fiancé had generously given the young waitress two tips. Just the one in Euros though,merci beaucoup!
But what he hadn’t bargained for, during this sordid pre-marital bonk, was the girl dramatically travelling over from Paris on their wedding day. And during the speak now or forever hold your peace bit, daring to spill her guts and naively confess her undying love for him. Thank God they had turned down theHeya Magazineoffer for their nuptials, settling– oh, how ironically– for a day of calm and privacy with close friends and family instead.
Her wedding day had been like one of the Hollywood movies that Sabrina had forever aspired to star in, playing out right in front of her eyes. But this time she was the star clown, for it had been far more ofmeet pukethan ameet cute, and a scene that not even with the most enthusiastic of begs for forgiveness from her cheating fiancé, could ever be turned it into a happy ending.
But despite the man’s pathetic pleas of woe, Sabrina Swift was not for turning. Mademoiselle Baddy could forever hold Monsieur Pest’s penis and they could both fuck off down the Seine without a paddle as far as she was concerned.
Taking another glug of strong coffee, Sabrina groaned. Just thinking about her long-awaited wedding day made her feel slightly sick. The gleeful look from Dom’s grown-up daughter, Mercedes; the glance of sadness from her father, who she knew wanted to sayI told you so, but never ever would. Her disabled brother, Simon shouting “Cunt” and throwing a shoe at the French stick and just missing her head. The ever-faithful Dee and her husband Stu, scooping her up in her tailor-made mauve Vivienne Westwood-inspired gown and driving her straight back to their place in Chigwell. Where they allowed her to rant and sob and drink vodka until she fell asleep, then carried her to the spare room still in her wedding dress. And where she had awoken to Thea, eight, and Phoebe, twelve, asleep either side of her. Oh, how Sabrina loved those girls. And how they loved their Auntie Rini back.
‘Wanker!’ she said aloud, turning off the television and shoving in another huge bite of the soft white bread and tasty heather-infused honey. She ate it smacking her mouth wide open on purpose because she could. And because she wanted to.
Taking another glug of her coffee, Sabrina sat back in the old, spindled pine chair and took in her surroundings. Yes, the holiday cottage may be basic, but it was charming and homely. Rustic, some might say. Huge grey flagstones lined the kitchen/living area, at one end of which a deep brick fireplace encased a log burner. A deep sheepskin rug lay in front of the fire, just asking for a dog or cat to contentedly lie there snoozing. The thick stone walls were painted white inside and out. Every window boasted old-fashioned shutters in a duck-egg blue.
Facing the fireplace was a slouchy, faded red two-seater sofa with three plain white cushions sporting a tiny butterfly motif in each corner. The hand-carved pine table with four chairs sat in the kitchen area, where units with wooden worktops housed an electric aga and a deep Belfast sink. A small fridge freezer stood alongside a small yellow dustbin. On the hand-carved wooden mantlepiece above the fireplace, a dragonfly-embossed vase was home to freshly picked wildflowers. And above it hung a beautiful painting of a rainbow over a sparkling estuary with a ferry boat making its merry way to shore. She could make out the artist’s name,Glanna, in swirly paint at the base of the picture.
Feeling a sudden urge to explore her surroundings– and, more importantly, seek out some more signal hot spots– Sabrina drained her cup, put her phone in her jeans pocket and made her way from the kitchen down the short hall, the walls of which were covered in gorgeous coastal inspired prints. Most of them, she noticed, included dolphins. To the back of the bungalow, passing her now messy bedroom on the left and the functional bathroom on the right, was the open stable door, also painted duck-egg blue.
On stepping through it and at last taking in her surroundings, she gasped loudly. It was as if she had walked through the wardrobe into the magical world of Narnia!
So full of her own sorrow at the front door earlier she hadn’t even heard the crash of waves, the sound of gulls or even imagined the beauty that had been surrounding her. For stretching out in front of her, wasn’t a back garden, more like a heaven on earth. The few images that Dominic had shared with her when booking the place had been undoubtedly stunning, but it was a more breath-taking vista than she could ever have imagined.
In the distance to the right and down a hill, she noticed a fort-like, granite-built farmhouse with a high-ceilinged glass extension and outbuildings. In front of her, luscious green fields rolled down towards a cliff’s edge, the drop of which must have been at least thirty metres. And beyond, the autumn sunshine touched the huge expanse of blue-green water, causing millions of shimmering sparkles to skim across its surface. Throngs of seabirds were soaking up the rays and bobbing on the tiny bumps of waves forming as they splashed on the rocks. Sabrina felt surrounded by Mother Nature at her beautiful best. Even the distant horizon was currently free of any boats. It was so quiet up here that literally all she could hear was the heavenly sound of birds singing, rustling leaves and the distant motion of the sea. She tilted her head to the sky. This was all she needed to give her the clarity and confirmation that her decision to get out of noisy, smelly London had been the right one. To realise that this placewasthe perfect escape. That this placewasparadise. And that this place was to be her home for the next couple of weeks.
Forgetting her hair was styledà labird’s nest and that she was wearing yesterday’s knickers and no bra, Sabrina began wandering towards the cliff top. It brought back a happy memory of playing Catherine Earnshaw in a theatre production of Wuthering Heights.
It wasn’t until she was nearing the edge that she was jolted from her mindfulness by the sound of a series of texts all coming through in one go. She was reaching for her phone when she was startled by a sudden creak from a branch of a tree swaying and rustling in the light morning breeze. As she drew closer to the edge of the old oak’s impressive roots, she could make out a wooden cross with an engraved plaque in the dappled shade. A bunch of sweet peas sat in a metal jug in front of it, moving gently with the light coastal breeze.
She walked towards the makeshift grave and, putting her hand to her chest, read aloud: ‘Lizzie & Sweet P, a girl and her horse, together forever.’
