Rita tried to disguise her grin as the teacher spotted her in the mirror, swung round and ushered her to sit on one of two balance balls by the reception desk.
Once the sweaty ladies had left, the woman approached Rita in a waft of delicious grapefruit-scented perfume. Betty had been spot on with the woman’s description, for she was in head-to-toe lilac Lycra, her bleach-blonde hair scraped into a high ponytail. Her lips were like plump cushions and her eyebrows so sharp they could slice through ham. Her perfectly fake-tanned body was firm and toned.
‘Jesus, babe, you look knackered. Fancy a cuppa?’
Rita found herself nodding at the instant friendliness of the woman, who returned swiftly with two pink mugs of builders’ tea. She pulled up another balance ball and perched next to her.
‘So, this is me. Jilly Cooper. Not as talented or as loaded as the great Dame, God rest her gloriously filthy soul, but probably just as raucous. So, I take it you’re interested in having a little go at one of my torture sessions?’
Rita smiled. ‘Rita Jory, I live up at Seahaven Farm and I’m not sure yet. Was just being nosy, to be honest.’
‘Oh, Rita, that’s right, it was your al fella that went over the cliff in a sports car.’
Rita recoiled in horror, then took a breath. ‘Mrs Munroe’s been in, I’m guessing.’
Jilly took a sip of tea. ‘Her daughter.’
Rita nodded knowingly.
‘Good and bad, this gossip lark, for me, anyway. Spreads the word of the new business at least, but I’m not one for airing my dirty laundry in public and there’s been plenty of that in the past.’ Jilly’s laugh was a humorous cackle. She stood up and put her mug on the reception desk. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss and totally with you on the grief bit. My old man, stupid, useless bastard, only went and offed himself, didn’t he?’
Rita shifted more uncomfortably on the ball. ‘As in…’
‘They found him hanging in his cell.’
Rita’s eyes widened. ‘Shit, Jilly. I’m…’
‘Don’t say sorry.’ She waved her manicured hand. ‘He made his bed. Or didn’t, as usual. Lazy sod. Got put inside and left me with a half-finished extension and some really scary-looking men knocking at my door asking if I knew whereitwas hidden. Anyway.’ Jilly sniffed. ‘I didn’t, or I’d be in the Costa del Caribbean rather than the Costa del Cornwall by now. So…’ she wiped her brow with her pink sweatband, ‘health is where it’s at now. Wellness, babe. Bodies. Only good energy allowed.’
Rita smiled. ‘Well, you’re a fabulous advert for this place; you look amazing.’
‘Thanks, Reets! Those jabs, you know, the ones half the planet seem to be on. Well, turns out they’re a miracle. Three stone, I’ve done. I can see my knees again.’ Jilly jiggled her arms. ‘Still got the bingo wings, mind you. But I’m on a mission. Pilates saved me, I swear. Something about all that breathing and stretching… it sort of pulls your soul back into place.’
‘Seahaven Bay has a habit of doing that, anyway.’ Rita stood up and smiled.
‘Don’t you be telling everyone that, girl; I’ve got a business to run.’ Jilly grinned. ‘And sorry I didn’t even ask how you’re doing. Like ’em or not, we loved them once.’
‘I miss him, you know.’ Rita sniffed. ‘He was a pain in the arse sometimes, my Archie, but he was my pain in the arse.’
‘Tough, innit? But I’m not done. We may be widows but looks at us, girl. Still hot to trot. I’m after a man with huge wealth and no emotional baggage. Or, failing that, one with a huge cock and a Louis Vuitton luggage set.’
Rita laughed aloud.
‘Laughing suits you, girl.’ Jilly winked.
The music changed to Madonna. Jilly drained her tea.
‘Come on. Hop on one of the machines; I’ll show you how it works.’
THREE
Seahaven Farm was a traditional farmhouse, standing proud against the rolling landscape of the rugged north coast of Cornwall. Its huge arched wooden front door had been pushed open by generations of families and time. Weathered grey stone walls were softened by a vibrant passionflower, planted by Archie for their tenth anniversary, its inquisitive tendrils having since crept their way right across the façade. Beyond the circular courtyard, there were low stone outbuildings: the former tack room now an animal food store, and the stables – not used since their daughter Sennen became a teenager and got bored of mucking out – had become Archie’s work room. A vegetable patch, once Rita’s pride and joy, had also gone slightly to the worms and the greenhouse needed at least one glass panel replacing. Trees in the fertile-soiled orchard needed pruning and further on from the high-grassed pen where her beloved goats grazed like eccentric lawnmowers was the now-uninhabited High Meadow. It was, however, the huge, empty, former cow barn that remained the family’s elephant in the room.
Back from her harbour visit, Rita stood at the edge of the overgrown orchard, cradling a cup of tea, and surveying the place. A light breeze whispered through the blossoming fruit trees. Birdschattered their delight at the warm early spring evening. To the west, the sky showed off its glory in hues of oranges, reds and pinks.
Gazing way beyond the perimeter of the crumbling grey stone wall, she tuned in to the slow, rhythmic sigh of waves against the cliffs below. A direct contrast to her thoughts of late, which often swirled around her head like a whirling dervish.
It was funny, Rita thought, how nothing else had changed. That the world still spun. The cockerel still crowed, and the chickens still clucked. The goats, amusing, stubborn creatures that they were, still knocked their feed buckets over at precisely 7 a.m.
