‘Estate agents?’ It’s so glossy the reflection is too dazzling for me to see the picture. ‘So you’re opening a shop?’ Not that I’m a property expert, but Bradley’s dark blue livery has been round the area so long I recognise it immediately. Although when I get past the glare the picture looks more like a hotel.
Her eyes are wide and her voice has dropped to a whisper. ‘Our favourite house in the world ever has come on the market.’
I bat away one of Maisie’s flying grapes, not getting what Sophie’s talking about. ‘Keep going.’
She’s quivering. ‘You remember the castle on the cliff road we used to fantasise about living in when we were kids?’ This is how inclusive she was back then. She even used to dream on our behalf.
I’m staring at her. ‘I always wanted to live in my home-made wigwam on the dunes. Or in one of those beach huts at the far end of the bay.’ Probably so I wouldn’t have to walk back to our cottage up the hill after a day on the beach. ‘Didn’t I?’ A lot of the time she claims she knows what was in my head back then better than I do myself.
She sends me a disgusted sideways eye roll. ‘Youcan’thave forgotten Siren House. We used to look up at it from our favourite spot on the beach and plan how we’d all move in there together when we grew up … because it had ten bedrooms and Prince Charming castellations?’
As I flick through the photos the views from the beach below are evocative enough to jog even my sluggish memory. Despite the dilapidation, its towers are the closest St Aidan ever got to Disney. ‘It looks pretty run down.’ Even to a beginner like me that much is obvious.
Her body is tense with excitement. ‘That’s a plus though. We couldneverafford it if it was in good condition.’
I let out a wail. ‘You’re not seriously thinking of buying it? What about Hawthorne Farm?’ I can’t begin to imagine the cash they’ve poured in or the sheer human effort it’s taken to transform this place from the tumble-down barns they bought to the designer luxury we’re sitting in.
‘Siren House is theoneplace we’d move for.’ Her voice goes all dreamy when she says the name. ‘Nate’s always loved it too.’
As she picks up the brochure, even though the polished stone is warm under my bare feet I can’t hold in a shiver of surprise. So long as you overlook the splodges where Marco’s run over Maisie’s mango slices and broccoli florets, what’s here makes the homes inCountry Livingmagazine look ordinary. It couldn’t be more different from the higgeldy piggeldy fisherman’s cottages we grew up in. The bedrooms there were so tiny if we stood in the middle and stretched out our arms we could touch the walls. And I’m not talking teenage arms. That was when we were seven. And those walls were mostly made out of planks of wood. Our parents did those places up with fledgling DIY skills and very little else. Not that I think about it much, but when you see how differently we’ve ended up it’s startling to remember we began in the same place.
Sophie pulls a face. ‘It’s probably way out of our league, auctions can be tricky.’ Her voice is husky, but she sends me a grin. ‘But they’re having an open viewing so we might as well go. You and Plum can come with us too.’
‘Why would I look around a castle?’ I’ve sailed past thirty and so far I’ve avoided even signing a lease.
‘Because you can? For old time’s sake? Because eight eyes are better than four?’ Her grin broadens. ‘Jeez, this isSirenHouse we’re talking about.Oneof us mermaids belongs there.’
Everything she’s got here, and she’s still not satisfied. Whereas until Laura’s flat came along, what I own would have fitted in the boot of Tilly’s toy car. And most of that was nail varnish. I know I was reluctant at first, but with every day that passes, despite the pictures I’m coming across, I love Laura’s little flat more and more. It’s almost as if as I remember all the lovely things we did together, I’m getting wrapped up in her love all over again.
I push the serviette mountain towards Sophie. ‘Here, try one of these.’ If anything can shut her up when she’s talking bollocks, it’s chocolate. ‘Give them honest marks, please. Out of ten.’ When it comes to cocoa-orientated vocabulary, Marco’s got X-ray hearing. Any discussion’s going to be limited.
As she disappears behind her tissue from the noises it’s hard to believe she’s doing anything other than blowing her nose. When she emerges, she’s smacking her lips, and sniffing. But in terms of marking, judging by her digits in the air, she’s not impressed.
I can’t help my grumble. ‘I know I asked for a true ranking, but two out of ten’s a bit harsh.’ I was counting on for four at least. It took me ages to measure the damned things into millimetre-perfect equal squares because I know what a perfectionist she is.
She’s laughing and shaking her head. ‘I haven’t given points yet. You’re squawking about my double thumbs up.’ She wipes away the evidence from the corners of her mouth then digs in for another napkin. ‘The judge needs another taste. This far I’d say “delectable”.’
I’m laughing. ‘Better than rhubarb then?’
Marco’s blue and dayglow yellow chequered police car has come to a halt by my abandoned cowboy boots and he’s glaring at me through the rear window. ‘Electable … that’s mummy’s other word for yummy.’
I can’t keep my grin in. ‘That’s great news for me then.’
He lets out a howl of protest. ‘But I can smellcho-o-c-o-la-a-ate.’
As his yell pierces my brain, I can’t think why I’ve been agonising over jelly, crumble or jam themes and missing the obvious.
As I clamp my hands over my ears and beam at Sophie over the top of his car roof, my head is banging but he’s forced an idea into my brain. ‘Stuff rhubarb. For now, anyway. I’m not ruling it out forever. For the next theme we’ll do “what Marco said”.’
If these brownies are hitting the spot, that only leaves two more recipes to conquer. I’m already thinking of chocolate fudge pudding and orange chocolate roulade on the recipe cards. I know that could have come straight out of Waitrose shopper’s head. But my mouth is watering so much I don’t care.
Sophie’s voice is thick as she talks through her cake. ‘Yay! I’ll go with that. Little Cornish Kitchen, Love for Laura’s Chocolate here we come.’ She drops her napkin low enough to flash me a grin. ‘So long as you remember to turn up at Siren House at two tomorrow, we’re all good.’
Which is great. But we can’t always do what Sophie says, because it wouldn’t be good for her. So, while she’s wiping Maisie’s latest mango explosion off her powder blue Converse I slip a piece of brownie into Marco and Tilly’s car boots. Carefully wrapped in serviettes obviously. And send a plea to any passing unicorns to make Sophie come to her senses before tomorrow.
18
The open viewing at Siren House
