“That’s the idea. No internet or Wi-Fi either.”
Claire laughed. “Does my family know they won’t be able to get hold of me?”
“There’s a landline. You’re not completely cut off. And the cafes in Tintagel have Wi-Fi so you can get your social media fix,” I said. I liked the fact we would be almost cut off. It gave both of us chance to decompress and be without the continual interruptions of work. Nick was holding the fort while I would be non-contactable for most of the next few days. He was tucked away at our parents in Ireland; one of the last texts I had received had been a selfie of him, Katie and the twins pulling ridiculous faces, three of the four covered with ice cream, the only clean one being Margot, somehow.
“This is it,” I said, taking a tight turn onto a narrow drive. Thirty seconds later and we had reached the stone cottage in the middle of green fields that my parents had bought twenty-five years ago.
It had been an old farm building, an extra four walls and a roof where probably the man who had tended the sheep could live. My father had spent summers fixing the place up so it was to my mother’s standards and it was where I’d learned that being clever wasn’t just about classrooms and tests: it was how you could fix a roof or build a wall too. Nick and I had thrived here, only the place now had needed another tending to, so yet again my mother would visit. New kitchen, new bathrooms, another new roof – it had all been completed a couple of weeks ago and was now a summer home for Nick’s kids and maybe mine in the future too.
“This is gorgeous,” Claire said, staring at the house with the ivy curving up the front. The sea was close by, just a narrow path down to the sandy beach where the waves wild around. The air tasted of the ocean and the sound of gulls replaced the dull noise of traffic that London sang with.
“I’m glad you like it. Let me show you inside.”
It was the first time I’d been since the house was renovated, so some parts were as new to me as they were to her. It was still cosy; a real fire in the lounge, stone floors covered with heavy rugs and a sofa you could lose yourself in. The kitchen had been extended and an Aga added, Velux windows letting more light into the extension and I noticed that my dad had a huge barbeque in the garden.
“This is amazing,” Claire said, coming back down the stairs. “I wasn’t sure which bedroom to use, so I’ve left my bag on the landing.”
“We can use whichever you want. Shall we go into the village? It’s a ten-minute walk if you’re up to it and then there are loads of cafes to grab a coffee.”
She nodded. “I think my invalid status is waning. My head is much better than yesterday. I just hope no one pays much attention to the bruises.”
The area around the stitches was now every shade of blue. It did look pretty fucking nasty and I’d only just gotten past wanted to maim the guy who had hurt her. “You’re in Tintagel. Everyone here works on a different plane of reality so the chances are no one will notice.”
We strode into town, keeping the pace slow because I was aware that she had concussion and probably shouldn’t be doing too much. But it had been a fairly long car journey and fresh air was probably what we both needed. Fresh sea air and the healing properties of a place that was, well, different.
“How many witchery shops?” Claire said as we passed another, this one selling different stones and crystal balls.
“Seven, I think. Or there might be more. This is where King Arthur was meant to have been conceived so the whole place is based on his legend and Cornish history. Maybe tomorrow we’ll walk around the ruins of the castle.”
“Or go down to the beach. Have you ever swum in the sea here?”
I laughed. “Only every summer until I was seventeen. I learned to surf here too.” Her smile broadened and as we passed a pub I gestured to the tables outside. “Time for some cider.”
She nodded. “Sounds good. Maybe some lunch too.”
We ordered food and sat in the sunshine, a man with a long beard and longer hair sitting nearby and playing on his guitar, singing folk songs that drew a few more people to take the remaining tables. The atmosphere was light and carefree, the sky clear with no sign of any storms.
“So, you learned to surf and spent your summers here. I can correctly assume from that you had no issue with capturing the attention of girls who were holidaying?”
I looked into my pint of cider and tried to find the grace to not look too proud. “There may have been a few.”
“Killian O’Hara. There would have been more than a few!” she said.
There had been, but none like her.
“I lost my virginity in the campsite behind this pub,” I said. “It was with a girl who was camping with her friends for a week. She was twenty.”
“How old were you?”
“Sixteen. But she thought I was older. I didn’t tell her otherwise. Didn’t want to make her feel bad.”
“That’s so noble of you. How did you meet her?”
“I was surfing and she’d been watching me on the beach.”
“Can you still surf?” she looked curiously at me.
“Yeah. I don’t get to do it often, so I’m a bit rusty. Will I get lucky if you see me coming out of the water in my wetsuit?”
