No mistake. You are the named beneficiary. The shop and all its contents are legally yours.
Fern still couldn’t quite believe it. ‘Bloody hell, why me? A shop full of junk to clear out and a dilapidated building to sell.’
It was absurd. Completely and utterly ridiculous. But there was no avoiding it. She needed to go to Puffin Island, sift through whatever mess this mysterious great-aunt had left behind and offload the place as quickly as possible. Then she could get back to real life– the one that didn’t involve dusty antiques or crumbling shopfronts.
Her phone buzzed.
It was Ella.
Ella had been her friend since the very first day of primary school, when they both had freckles across their noses, knee-high white socks and rucksacks that were far too big for their small shoulders. They’d been placed in the same class, two nervous five-year-olds sitting side by side, eyeing each other cautiously until disaster struck.
During break time, Ella had struggled to open her juice box, her small fingers fumbling with the straw. In a moment of unfortunate determination, she squeezed too hard, sending a stream of orange juice straight down the front of Fern’s pristine uniform. There had been a split second of horror, Ella’s eyes widening, Fern’s mouth dropping open, before Fern, instead of bursting into tears, had simply grinned. And in a moment of pure five-year-old logic, she had deliberatelysqueezed her own juice box right back at Ella.
By the time the teacher arrived to break up the ‘juice war’, the two girls were howling with laughter, their uniforms sticky, their friendship cemented.
From that day on, they were inseparable. They went through primary and high school side by side, surviving disastrous haircuts, impossible maths exams and terrible dates, and now, by some stroke of fate– or perhaps the sheer strength of their long-standing friendship– they worked at the same music magazine and lived in the same London apartment block, just a few doors apart.
Ella was the holy trinity of Fern’s social life, part agony aunt, the sharer of her cocktails, and the voice of reason she occasionally ignored.
Ella
You’re coming tonight, right?
Fern swiped open the message just as a second one came through.
Ella
You cannot bail on me! LUST THEORY are in town!
Ah. That explained the urgency. Every time the band rolled through London, Fern and Ella were front and centre. It was tradition. Drinks, music, a little too much fun and, more often than not, an over-friendly liaison for Fern with Jax Devlin, the band’s lead singer.
Jax was everything a rock star should be– leather jackets, wild curls and a voice that could melt anyone within a fifty-mile radius. Charisma dripped off him like expensive aftershave, and he knew exactly how to use it. He was trouble. Glorious, thrilling, predictable trouble.
Fern’s gaze flicked between Ella’s texts and the letter clutched in her other hand.
The sensible thing, the easy thing, would be to go out, drink overpriced cocktails and wake up tomorrow with a headache and the scent of Jax’s aftershave lingering on her skin.
Instead, she typed a reply.
Fern
Something’s come up this weekend. I’m taking annual leave for a week. There’s been an unexpected death in my family. I’ll update you soon. Sorry!
She hit send before she could change her mind then sent her boss an email. She knew he would understand, and if anything urgent came up she could work remotely.
After the email was sent, Fern checked the train app, noting that the earliest departure from London to Northumberland was at eight a.m. She would need to change trains at Newcastle at 11.15a.m., before boarding a connecting service to Alnwick at 11.45a.m. From there, a final local train to Sea’s End would depart at 12.30p.m., arriving just before 1.15p.m.
The journey would take just over five hours, not including the time it would take to cross the causeway to Puffin Island, assuming the tide was on her side.
Walking into her bedroom, she pulled out a suitcase from under her bed, unzipped it and opened her wardrobe doors. ‘What does one even pack for an island full of antiques?’ shemused, half to herself, half to the void. Definitely not the leather jacket she wore to gigs or the towering heels she’d perfected the art of running in. With a sigh, she packed the usual necessities then tossed in some jeans, a couple of sweaters and– grudgingly– a pair of practical boots. Her laptop followed, because there was no way she was abandoning work completely, even if it meant writing from the middle of nowhere.
She hesitated as she reached for her notebook, the one where she scribbled unfinished thoughts about the state of the music industry, half-written reviews and, occasionally, lyrics she would never admit to writing. Tucking it into the side pocket, she zipped up the case and exhaled. Tomorrow, she’d be on her way to Puffin Island, a place she’d never been, to deal with an inheritance she’d never wanted, left by a woman she’d never known.
Whatever she found there, she was certain of one thing: it wouldn’t change a thing. She’d sell the shop, wrap up any loose ends and be back in London before anyone even noticed she was gone.
She was packed and she was ready. Or as ready as she could ever be.
ChapterTwo
