I stand up, put my hands on my hips, and drag myself to my full five foot four plus stacked heels. ‘Are you talking down to me here? Because if you are …’ I’m about to tell him where to get off when he stands up. And suddenly he’s towering above me. Worse, as he gets to his feet there’s a rush of air and the smell of his body spray hits my nose head on.
‘You were saying?’ He’s staring at me expectantly.
Damn. Nowallthe words have gone and I’m left mumbling. ‘It’s not important.’
He’s still waiting. ‘Well, if you’re sure you’ve nothing to add there and no more questions, thanks for the brownie. I’d better be on my way.’
Questions? Did he actually offer to answer those? From the blur of his feet, I’m getting the impression he’s running away. As fast as his Timberland deck shoes will carry him.
As I watch him hurrying across the harbourside, I suspect it’s every bit as bad as we suspected. Or worse. Which means I’m definitely looking after ‘the enemy’s’ cat. And accepting cosy cake making tips from a guy who probably shouldn’t be anywhere near my flat. Let alone have the run of my kitchen.
As I slump back down into my swivel chair I’m looking at four yummy tarts with perfectly arranged berries, all begging me to eat them. And I’m not hungry at all.
16
In the garden at Seaspray Cottage
Manicures and navigation techniques
Sunday
The one good side of a weekend in hiding is that it finally drives me round to the back of Seaspray Cottage. Before this I’ve only glimpsed the garden from the round topped windows on the half landings on the stairs or from the walled herb patch at the harbour side of the house. But late on Sunday afternoon after I’ve unstuck every last meringue crumb from the sofa cushions from last night’s Pavlova party, and put out all the bowls and glasses ready for another round this evening, I’ve got five minutes to spare.
It took me ages to get going this morning. Instead of my usual routine of going out on to the balcony to be whipped round the face by a brusque breeze off the bay and coming inside completely awake three minutes later, I had to stick my head under the cold tap, but the tingle just wasn’t the same. When the time comes for my late afternoon break, when I would usually sit barefoot on the decking in the sun, rest my feet on the balcony rail and watch the people down by the sea while I sort out my nail polish, I’m missing it even more.
By five I’m gasping for some fresh sea air, so before I think about starting to chop fruit and whip cream, I grab a can of Red Bull and a bottle of Rimmel 60 Seconds, slip down stairs and creep out onto the front step. First I check the shimmer of the sun on the water – glistening – and the colour of the sea – mottled turquoise with patches of dappled navy blue. Then I check there’s no one – namely Joe Marlow – coming along the dunes. Once I’m sure the literal coast is clear, I dart around the side of the house, and make my way along the worn herringbone brick path with sand drifting across the cracks. Once I’m through the creaky picket gate that leads to the back of the house I can let my guard down. The grass is soft under my feet and as I make my way across a broad lawn towards a row of fruit trees decked with blossom, the garden is achingly familiar.
It’s funny. After almost three weeks here my memory triggers are all food related. As I look at the line of fruit trees now, superimposed on it there’s a garden table and chairs, a flowery table cloth fluttering in the breeze, and a pie. Lemon meringue pie. With Laura’s home-made pastry, draped over one of those wiggly flan rings, and shiny yellow tangy glazed filling, and the kind of meringue that’s soft and toasts in the oven. It used to be my favourite. How much I loved the toffee taste of the soft meringue is only coming back to me as I stand here. Once, I even tried to use the shiny silver flan ring as a crown but it dug in my head. And the flowery table cloth is on the pie photo on one of the recipe cards. I know enough about cooking now to appreciate lemon meringue pie takes a lot of making. But one day, I promise myself I’ll be able to do it.
I find a splash of sun under one of the trees, spread out a tartan rug, and pop open my can. Kicking off my sandals, I flash a quick coat of Chic in Chelsea varnish onto my finger and toe nails. Then I lie back looking up at the patches of blue sky between the emerging apple green leaves while I wait for it to dry.
The tide is coming in, and I’m listening to the rush of the sea on the beach beyond the house as I sort out my plan for the coming week in my head. Pavlova evenings are good because I’m making the meringues myself. But I still want to pay Sophie and Plum back for the time they’re putting in to help me on the nights. Plum’s happy for me to do some afternoons at the gallery, and Sophie’s asked if I’ll go with her and Maisie to Sensory Babies. Nell on the other hand doesn’t want anything. She’s just ecstatic to have something bright and new to liven up her singles’ calendar.
My phone beeps. It’s a Facebook message from her:
Yay! Another two Cupids from last night. xx
I’m not sure if that’s good news or not, but I type an upbeat reply:
Woohoo, pairing off at this rate you’ll be running out of members. x
Even if that might be good down the line for local wedding shop Brides by the Sea, this might not be the best short-term outcome for me and my renovation fund. She’s straight back with her reply:
You’ll have to move onto candlelit dinners for two. Lol xx
Even if I’m loving the image of a table for two laid on the balcony, me cooking an entire meal for anyone is laughable. I’m chuckling so hard at the idea I almost miss the click of the gate. I roll onto my side just in time to see Diesel’s grey paws and Charlie’s flip flops and boarding shorts coming into view.
‘Catching up on your zeds after last night?’ He’s smiling over the top of the large box he’s carrying. ‘We spotted you out here on the way up the stairs.’
I might as well break it gently. ‘Actually, I’m painting my nails ready for tonight, so mind you don’t smudge my toes, Diesel.’ I push myself up to sitting. ‘Thanks to you making me a local legend, the entire class of ninety-five or whenever it was want to taste my Eton mess. I’m going to be having meringue parties for weeks to come.’ There’s no harm making him think his big mouth is to blame for the latest round of disruption.
He glances at my feet. ‘Nice colour. Do your fingers and toes always match, then?’ He’s unnervingly interested in all the girlie stuff.
‘It’s Chic in Chelsea, I chose brown to go with tonight’s hazelnut meringues. And, no, I couldn’t leave the house if my toes and hands weren’t the same.’ I’m haphazard in many ways, but not this. Not that I’m actually going out, but he’ll know what I mean. And somehow he’s neatly avoided my firing line too. I’d meant to give him hell the minute I saw him.
He drops to his knees and slides the box onto the grass. ‘I came to explain … about the flats.’
Even if he has the grace to look guilty, I’m not letting him off this one. ‘What is there to say? Bay Holdings owns the entire place apart from my teensy corner.’ And I need to suck that up. ‘But it would have been more civilised if you’d volunteered that information rather than having to have it prised out of you with thumb screws.’ As I look around I can almost hear the rumble of the waiting bulldozers, but I’m not going to be hypocritical. ‘I might not necessarily be here to see it, but I hate to think of this lovely garden being obliterated by blocks of new flats. I can’t think anything Bay Holdings would do here would be an asset to St Aidan.’ A gust of wind whips through the branches over our head, making the blossom fall like confetti.
