The Hideaway, St Aidan
Bumpy roads and rocky mornings
Wednesday
Ten girls at The Hideaway for a day? WhenI’d intended to be winding down not up! Not that I’m panicking when I rush off to Penzance to buy art supplies, it’s more that I’m investing in a bit of forward planning. Back in the day Milla would fold paper for England – it might be too much to hope she’d be thrilled to do it again, but if they’re feeling crafty, I could warm to a few origami seagulls strung across my wall.
I’m just edging my Mini past the hotel and along the lane on the way home, thinking that if paper birds were the extent of my accessorising, I could live with that too, when a figure leaps out in front of the car, waving their arms.
I mutter to Shadow as I wind down the window. ‘I’d recognise those snow-white sleeves anywhere.’ Then I arrange a suitably bright smile for the man himself. ‘Kit, how can I help? If there’s a woman in labour, I’m happy to take off my T-shirt.’What the hell made me say that?
He runs his hands through his hair, which is more dishevelled than usual. ‘I’m afraid it’s way worse than unplanned childbirth – my ten o’clock appointment has gone AWOL.’
I glance at my watch, thinking he’s being overdramatic. ‘As it’s almost eleven they could be a no-show?’
‘People pay so much upfront, they always arrive. These two checked in at reception andthendisappeared.’ The groan he lets out is very unlike him. ‘Isoneed this to go well, they’re influencers, with a massive following…’
‘High stakes then. You can’t afford to lose these two in the dunes.’
He frowns at me through the window. ‘Can I put my number on your phone, then you can ring me if you see them?’
I pass him my mobile. ‘Any distinguishing features?’ I’m not sure if the butterflies in my chest are due to the hollows under his cheekbones, or the novelty of someone giving me their deets, which hasn’t happened in a hundred years.
‘Man and a woman, in their thirties, impossibly cool – that’s as much as I know.’
It could be worse, at least they’re not fanny flutters I’m getting. ‘And very much in love, no doubt.’ I look at him over my sunnies and try not to sound cynical. ‘I’ll be in touch the moment there’s a sighting.’ But as I take back my phone, I’m not holding out any hope.
By the time I’ve wound up the window he’s running back towards the hotel and I carry on to my parking area, which is as windswept as usual, but otherwise empty. As I drag my shopping bags across the sand hills, Shadow is tugging ahead on his lead and I’m regretting buying so many heavy baking ingredients. Hands in the air, I admit I’m more worried about Saturday than I’m letting on – but if all else fails, M&M cookies will be my fall-back position.
As for our mum coming to help, she’s as overstretched as any of us – obviously not including my leisure-rich self in that sweeping statement. She’s been a single mum for almost my whole life because our dad left when I was so young I barely remember him. I have a picture in my head of Sophie sitting on his knee in the armchair by the fire in the tiny fisherman’s cottage up on the cliff where we lived at the time; they were both blonde and Sophie liked to press her temple next to his to compare their hair colour. Mum was blonde too, but she never did it with her.
It must have been hard for Mum, on her own with two small girls. But she was fiercely independent and worked as many jobs as she needed to make sure we never went without, and she’s never really stopped since. Eventually she did up the cottage, sold it at a profit and stumbled on a way to marry her artistic side with her business savvy. Since then she’s done up a handful of properties up and down the coast, but because she’s so driven, she’s more likely to be up to her ears in building rubble than out enjoying herself.
Between us, I think our dad walking out put her off relationships. Even though she scrubs up great once she takes off her overalls, much to Nell’s frustration with her singles club agenda, Mum’s more likely to be out hunting the perfect colour of Annie Sloan chalk paint than chasing down a perfect guy. She decided thirty years ago that men were a waste of time and space, and no one since has given her reason to change that opinion. When it comes to dating, she insists that she has an open mind – but we all know she hasn’t. Even though she doesn’t go on dates, I’ll still be lucky to pin her down for next weekend.
As Shadow and I make our way towards the little gate in the picket fence I juggle the bags to let us through. ‘Every time we come back it feels more like home, don’t you think?’ Shadow wags in agreement, although to be fair he’s the kind of dog who wags at most things I say, and pulls towards the back veranda entrance that faces the lane. Just before we go in, I take a look along the dune tops and the reed clumps moving in the breeze. ‘No lost couples on this horizon.’
As the bags thud down on the kitchen floor, I’m pondering if I should text Kit to say Ihaven’tseen anyone, or is that an unconscious ploy to get my number intohisphone? Then Shadow’s bark at the front window puts an end to my agonising.
I shout through. ‘Come on, Shadow, the sea isn’tthatmuch nearer than it was when we went out. I’ll show you as soon as I’ve put things away.’ As his barks get more frantic, I abandon my bags of flour and sugar, but when I join him by the doors and look beyond the front deck railings I’m apologising. ‘Sorry, mate, you’re right again! I wonder if these are Kit’s lost clients?’
They certainly look beautiful enough to be.Andthey’re holding hands. I try not to let either of those things make me cross, because I can do without prickles on the back of my neck. Even if they’ve booked into the High Tides, they still look like they’re trying too hard for a blowy day in St Aidan.
The guy’s in an undeniably gorgeous vintage Burberry mac, and as he holds out his hand to greet me, his smile is warm (tick one) and he hasn’t got a hipster beard (tick two). ‘We’re Victor and Amery, what a wonderful place you have here.’ (Tick three, and that unexpected compliment confirms I’m going to do everything in my power to help them.)
The woman pulls her choppy blonde hair into a knot on top of her head, but it immediately escapes and blows across her face. ‘We thought there was no one home. I hope you don’t mind, we’ve been taking a few selfies by your fence.’ I hope her lovely foundation and perfect pink lippy are driving-rain-proof, because that’s what’s on the forecast for later when they should be lolling on the sand with Kit capturing their happy moments.
The guy joins in. ‘The boarding on your hut is so weathered and authentic, we had to come and inspect it up close.’
I shrug and glance at the peeling paint. ‘You don’t get any more genuine than this.’ Being praised for The Hideaway’s shabbiness is a whole new thing for me. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking – do you have an appointment at the hotel?’
They exchange glances, then the guy begins. ‘We do, but it’s a bit shiny for us there. We headed straight over here for a breath of fresh air and a burst of reality.’
The woman picks up the theme. ‘Neat isn’t really our thing.’ She takes a breath. ‘We run the V&A Vintage & Awesome social pages, so we’re all about old and battered.’
I can’t hold it in. ‘I love your cowboy boots.’ I’ve drooled over the same style myself on eBay. This pair are well worn and the hem of her swishy flowery cotton dress is billowing around them.
She pulls her bleached denim blazer close around her body. ‘Genuine Russell and Bromley Rockafellas.’ As she looks down at the scuffed suede and coils of studded straps she gives a shiver so big I have to ask.
