Nell’s flapping her hands in front of her face. She’s an accountant, and she can’t hide that there are pound signs flashing through her head. ‘Stone the crows! You’ll triple your money at least! That’s better than a key to an outside carsey!’
I’m not sure I’d agree. ‘A place in town?’ I should be delighted. In fact I can’t understand why I’m not. Then I look down at Shadow, curled up on my foot, and think about the way we run along our bit of the beach together. How gloriously empty it is. The way the grasses bend on the dunes. How he’s gaining his confidence a little more each day. There is one thing I can concede. ‘It’s true, when the wind blows straight off the sea, the living room lampshade spins – but I’m just not sure town is where I want to be.’
George is nodding. ‘There’s no pressure. Mr Byron simply perceives that your land is worth much more to him than to you, and in view of that he’s willing to be extra generous. What happens next is entirely up to you.’
Nell reaches for my hand across the table, and her squeeze is reassuring. ‘We can have a look at what’s out there. Your mum can help too. See if there’s anything that catches your eye.’
‘Absolutely.’ I’m bullshitting. All I can see in my head is acres of Teletubby grass stretching right along the dunes, because if I give in here, the other huts will no doubt fall like dominoes, too. And most annoying of all – I’m also sounding like bloody Kit.
Nell’s leaning across the desk. ‘I’ve lost count of how many years I’ve been trying to get your mum out on a date with the director of Hansons and Hansons estate agents. This could be our big chance.’
This is St Aidan. Nothing is straightforward, everything is multi-layered, and there are ulterior motives around every corner. But as a native I should know that.
‘Great!’ I say. It isn’t at all. ‘We’ll get onto it after the weekend. But first things first – we’ve got Milla’s pampering day to organise.’
And with the complication that’s just been thrown into my path, being over-run by teenagers intent on making the beach hut into something it isn’t should be the least of my worries.
10
The Hideaway, St Aidan
Colour swatches and quick changes
Saturday
It’s funny what you dread. I’ve been quaking inside for an entire week, and now Milla and the girls are all here, wafting in and out, so far it’s going without any major hitches. The best thing is that as they arrived this morning, the sun burst from behind a fluffy white cloud and warmed the beach and gave us a taste of the endless summer we hope will soon be here.
It’s also funny what you forget. I was totally unprepared for them storming through into the living room, all stripping off, and five minutes later appearing in entirely different clothes from the ones they arrived in.
I frown at Milla as they file back out into the sun, some of them still doing up their buttons. ‘What just happened there?’
Milla looks at the sky and takes a breath. ‘We all like each other’s clothes better than our own and swapping for a day saves us having to buy new stuff.’
I’m staring at their feet. ‘You even changed shoes?’
Milla grins. ‘We do that at school too. You must have done it when you were our age?’
I laugh. ‘I was too much of a beanpole to swap jeans. But now I think about it, I was in love with Fiona Cameron’s velvet frock coat, and she’d happily wear my beaten-up biker jacket.’
Sara gives Milla a nudge. ‘Any sign of Tyler or the crew next door?’
Milla pulls a face. ‘Ty’s younger sister said they’re on afternoon shift this weekend, so they won’t arrive forhoursyet. Let’s concentrate on Aunty Florence’s beach hut make-over.’
Thanks to the gardeners only starting work at High Tides at two, we spend a very relaxed and homely morning, with everyone spreading through the hut and out onto the decks. Sure, they dip in and out of activities, but even Sophie on a critical day wouldn’t find fault with their focus and productivity.
By the time Clemmie arrives with picnic hampers of sandwiches and sausage rolls for lunch there are paper bluebirds hanging on a bunch of driftwood twigs gathered from the beach, propped up in a reclaimed clam basket filled with stones, with their more colourful relatives strung in loops across the central wall. Several girls have impressive new hair styles, nails have been buffed and polished in a rainbow of colours, enough chocolate brownies have been made to feed everyone for elevenses, and still leave enough for a big stack by the steps to the veranda, nestled on a tray under a large glass dome.
Obviously these are for personal consumption, but such is the dedication of our women-of-the-future that they leave nothing to chance. So there’s also a price ticket and a pile of serviettes under a stone and a Bonne Maman jam jar, for any passing person who’s brave enough to part with their cash in return for the stickiest cakes this side of Southampton.
Once all the empty sandwich bags have been collected up and tidied into my recycling bin, Shadow has a shampoo, blow dry and groom, which Ithinkhe enjoys, in spite of the side-eye. And then they set to work filling in score sheets for all of Sophie’s products. Shamed by all the activity I slide into the kitchen and make a double batch of M&M cookies, joined by two of Milla’s friends for moral support and washing up. It’s such fun we actually make another batch of brownies too.
I can’t remember exactly when I stopped baking, but it must have been around the time Dillon changed to his job as a specialist loss adjuster. He and his colleagues had so many expense-account meals in ever more upmarket venues that nothing made by a normal person cooking in a humble flat kitchen stood the remotest chance of getting a second glance, let alone getting eaten. The moment he got that promotion, food had to be as obscure and rarefied as Heston Blumenthal’s or forget it. It was quite a transformation; the night we met under a bush in the St Aidan pleasure gardens, he was happy to eat chips and curry sauce out of a polystyrene tray.
I remember his new-style mates all being round at ours before some sporting event where they were heading for a hospitality box. I was dipping into the fridge, grabbing a quick snack, and not wanting to be selfish I inadvertently offered round my New York cheesecake. Wrong! If I’d asked them to eat a cow pat from Nell’s parents’ farm they couldn’t have looked more dismissive.
Talking of men with more money than manners, that leads me on nicely to the offer to buy the hut. Despite it looking like a cracking opportunity for someone who – let’s face it – is living in a house with a roof that looks like it may lift off in the next big gust, I’m less delighted than people think I should be.
If anything I’m angry that Ivy went to all this trouble to keep the hut out of the wrong hands, only to find the local magnate is trying to buy me off. It’s like someone – i.e. Dave Byron – thinks money will open any door. But it’s not going to open mine! Not if I can help it.
