‘I can’t thank you enough,’ I say to Arabella as we stand in the sun-drenched rose gardens of Lord and Lady Stockley’s manor house, sipping chilled champagne from cut-glass crystal flutes.
The statue was unveiled a short while ago – I had to do a speech and everything – and tonight there will be a dinner to celebrate.
‘This was all you, dear,’ she replies, giving me one of her meaningful looks.
‘That’s not true, but I appreciate you saying so.’
She’s dressed up for the occasion, a navy gown with a black shawl and pearls draped around her neck, her long hair rolled up into its usual topknot. Her look reminds me of when we first met at the art gallery in St Ives two and a half years ago. That meeting changed my life.
Her eyes return to the statue. The Lord Stockley of past times is wearing a tweed coat and is leaning against a rake with his back to the house, looking out across the gardens. He was a keen horticulturalist in his day.
‘Have you any ideas about approaching town councils or charities about a public art commission? It’s been a while since I’ve fundraised, but I’m game if you are,’ Arabella says.
She knows that I’d still like to become a member of theRoyal Society of Sculptors. We’ve grown quite close – she’s the person I most like to talk to about art and sculpture.
‘I’ll give it some thought,’ I reply, squeezing her arm affectionately.
‘Do,’ she says. ‘You’re on a roll now. Don’t let the momentum go to waste.’
It’s late by the time I’ve driven Arabella home to St Ives and carried on to St Agnes. I have guests staying, so as usual I park my car up on the hill outside Dan and Amy’s house. It’s even more of a pain getting it from here now that I have three more properties to manage – I hate pulling up on the road outside my house to pick up all my cleaning supplies. Most cars can get by, but wider vehicles struggle, and after Chas’s heart attack last summer, not to mention an incident a few years ago when a stray firework set the gorse alight behind the Drifty and parked cars caused access troubles, I’m always on edge in case an emergency vehicle comes.
But Dan and Amy’s road is nice and quiet. They live close to Finn’s grandparents and I’ve bumped into them a few times, once when I had rare winter guests staying. On that occasion, Trudy was falling over herself to tell me about how well Finn and Brit Easton’s songwriting sessions were going.
Finn and I actually did manage to stick to our no-contact agreement when he left last summer, but he broke the rules when he signed his publishing deal with a major record label – the deal that would later enable him to write with Brit.
‘I can’t not share this with you,’ he texted, attaching a press release.
I was blown away for him and I wrote back to tell him so.
I later heard from Dan that he’d been paid a big chunk of money so he could focus on writing. A publishing deal like that would get him into rooms with all the right people.
The only timeI’vebeen the one to instigate contact was at Christmas when I sent him a funny meme and ‘Thinking of you x’.
He sent me a funny one back, along with a simple text that said, ‘Happy Christmas x’.
It was such a glib exchange. I hoped that he’d read between the lines to see how much I was thinking about him, as it felt wrong to leave it like that.
I did, though. My willpower has been monumental over the past twelve months. I have been determined not to break.
I glance down Finn’s grandparents’ street out of habit and do a double take at the sight of a dark grey SEAT Leon parked outside their house.
My stomach turns over.
Is he home?
And if so, why hasn’t he told me?
I come to a stop and stare down the road at the house. Lights glow dimly in the windows, but it’s eleven thirty – I can’t go knocking at this hour. Even if it was the middle of the day, I’d hesitate. If Finn wanted to see me, he’d reach out. But why wouldn’t he want to see me?
Maybe he’s just flown in. I try to convince myself that this must be the case, but I still feel shaky as I walk the rest of the way home. I suppose it’s possible that he called into Seaglass earlier. I’d normally be working on a Friday, but I was at Lord and Lady Stockley’s statue unveiling and dinner party.
An idea comes to me as I’m heading up the stairs to my bedroom. Getting out my phone, I tap out a text, using similar phrasing to the one Finn used for me when he told me about Brit.
‘Couldn’t not share this with you…’
I attach a picture that Arabella took of me standing next to the Lord Stockley sculpture and then sit for a minute, staring nervously at my phone.
My heart flips as three dots appear.
