Like I’d allow that to happen to Clemmie’s kitchen on my watch. As for the number, what the eff? ‘Now please … just piddle off and don’t come back.’
There’s an echo around the garden. ‘Piddle off! That’s a good one! Did you hear that, Mum?’ But Sophie doesn’t react because she’s stripped off and diving into a clean but identical top she’s pulled out of her changing bag.
All of which seems to leave more questions hanging than answered as Ross strides off around the front of the house.
5
In the garden at Seaspray Cottage
Pink hair and sudden changes of plan
Tuesday
Three days later, Diesel and I are back in the garden at Seaspray Cottage. He’s lying, nose in the air, sniffing the sea breeze as it ruffles the grass around him. Despite racking my brains for a better option, in the end a stall by the garden gate seemed the best way to bring in instant cash. So I’m sitting on a wall by the criss-cross brick terrace, one eye on my laptop, the other on the gingham-covered table I carried out to the beach path earlier today. But five hours on from putting out my tray bakes and a£1.50 eachsign, they’re still all there under the two glass domes.
As a familiar check shirt appears at the table, I sigh and confess. ‘You were right, Nell, I won’t get rich anytime soon selling cakes over the wall.’
‘I’ll have a dozen.’ She pulls a note out of her pocket and starts to fill some of the bags I’ve left under a smooth stone from the beach.
I sigh. ‘You’re my financial adviser, take them as a gift. At least that idea’s been tested to destruction now.’
She smiles. ‘It’s nothing to do with your baking. Between the harbourside donut stall and the Surf Shack isn’t the best location; lots of passing trade but all on their way to eat or full already.’ She tucks the bag of buns in the crook of her arm. ‘Anyway, I’m here to pick you up for this afternoon. Clemmie did tell you?’
‘Of course. It said on the schedule,Dog therapy at two with Nell.’I’ve already been thinking about it. ‘Maybe we could sit out here and talk to Diesel about his running off? Or would he prefer a massage?’
The corners of Nell’s mouth are curling. ‘Diesel’s the onegivingthe therapy, not getting it.’ She’s battling my bemused stare. ‘On Tuesdays I take him up to the community retirement home to say hi to the residents. So if you’re ready…’
I’m reading her expectant expression. ‘You want meandDiesel?’
‘I did promise I’d take you along. They love meeting new people, especially famous ones.’
In which case they’re going to be disappointed, but I close my laptop and check the time on my phone. ‘How long have I got?’
‘I have Diesel’s harness and jacket here. Is five minutes enough for you?’
Considering the state of my hair, five hours would be better. Plus however long it’s going to take to clear up the kitchen, which looks like an explosion in an icing sugar factory after my baking earlier. That’s the other good thing about film clips, you never have to show the mess out of shot. I might be a neat and tidy cook on screen, but off camera I’m a total disaster area. ‘A smudge of lippy and a cardi and I’ll be back.’ I’m thinking of the countertop full of boxes upstairs I was hoping to have sold that will now be going to waste. ‘Would they like some free millionaire’s shortbread? They’re best eaten while they’re fresh.’
Nell’s face lights up. ‘Turn up at Kittiwake Court with Dieselandbaking, you’ll be a popular woman.’
Quick changes and fast getaways are not my best thing. But half an hour later we’re outside a big Georgian villa out along the road to Comet Cove and I’m as ready as I can hope for. At least one of us looks awesome; as Nell presses the bell Diesel’s resplendent in his personalised yellow therapy-dog coat. And Nell’s looking pretty dapper in her matching handler’s waistcoat.
I shiver and wrap the cardi tightly around my polka-dot dress as a woman comes towards the door. ‘I wasn’t expecting nurses.’
Nell sniffs. ‘It’s a care home, carers go with the territory.’
‘Wouldn’t you just hate to be in a place like this?’ Her uniform makes it feel very medical and not in a good way. I’ve known hospitals were places to avoid since I broke my arm when I fell out of a top bunk at a sleepover party when I was seven. Not many people hate injections as much as me, so getting pregnant really wasn’t on my to-do list. Those eighteen weeks seemed to last for ever. With all the problems I had enough scans and blood tests to last me a lifetime. Even as we wait here now, that unmistakable mix of antiseptic smell and the taste of cold, bitter coffee out of wobbly plastic cups is as fresh in my mind as if it were yesterday. And it’s making my stomach disintegrate.
Nell laughs. ‘Actually, I’d love to live here. It’s owned and run by the village. I’ve got my name down already. It’s like a luxury hotel in there.’
As the door opens the scent that hits us is a mix of fresh linen and vanilla. There’s a washing machine where my tummy should be, but as I take in the biggest smile I’ve seen since I arrived in St Aidan, the fast spin cycle slows.
‘Hi, come in.’ As the woman pauses to drop a kiss on Diesel’s head, I catch a flash of fuchsia in the crown of her spiky bleached blonde hair and for once he doesn’t try to eat her. ‘I’m Nell’s Aunty Jen. How are you travelling, Cressida? Loving the lustre of your lip colour, do you mind if I ask what it is?’
‘Victoria Beckham’s Posh.’ It’s not the first thing I was expecting to talk about, but I was lucky enough to get some promo samples before I dropped into obscurity. And at least she’s overlooking my cheeks that must be a pale shade of green after the shock of her uniform.
As she leans in, the waft of Diorella that comes off her is a world away from sterilising fluid. ‘It’s a favourite pastime here. We women love looking in each other’s make-up bags.’
Nell winks and hisses behind her hand. ‘People aren’t here to end their days, they’re here to whoop it up.’
