That gives no time to mess up.
Make that an hour.
Ping.
We may have expired by then. But carry on anyway and if necessary our estates will settle on our behalf.
He’s so up himself. It’s going to take at least three M&M cookies to psych myself up for this. It’s lucky I still have the recipe in the drawer from the other day, scribbled on the back of an envelope, just like Mum used to do. And this time I’ll try to get them lighter and fatter.
Ping.
Thanks, Floss x
It’s going to take more thanx’s to get round me. For the record. Just saying. And I really don’t want him calling me Floss. After what happened this week, he’s nowhere near my friend category.
11
The Hideaway, St Aidan
Chelsea buns and other tight corners
Saturday
When Mum arrives at four o clock, I’m stacking the last of Kit’s scones on a cooling tray in the little kitchen.
She breezes in and swoops me into a hug. ‘Baking? Ivy will be so happy to hear you’re using the kitchen.’
She’s petite and blonde, like Sophie on speed, with a few more wrinkles and a lot less pale turquoise in her wardrobe. I’m assuming that like Nell and Plum earlier, she’s only popping in briefly, because she’s wearing her second-best painting overalls.
I’m frowning down at my scones. ‘They’re still not as fat as I’d like, but at least they’re golden this time.’ A lot less like rocks too.
‘They smell delish.’ Mum closes her eyes and breathes in the scent, then she snaps her eyes open again. ‘I hope you’re not upsetting yourself over that message you got the other day!’
‘What’s this?’
She pushes her fringe back off her forehead. ‘Your offer from the hotel of course! It’s scandalous, the whole of St Aidan is up in arms!’
There’s no point asking how they know. Information here whistles down the wind faster than you can say ‘pinot noir’.
My mum frowns. ‘Ivy was clear, it’s yours to sell if you wish. But if a saleiswhat you want, hold out for more and drive up the price!’
Wheeler-dealer isn’t my style, but I need a clear reply to feed back to the village. ‘I’ve already said no. I’ll be staying where I am, and keeping the hotel at arm’s length, along with everyone in there too.’
There’s no point offering my mum a scone, as she’s super strict about not eating between meals. But as she moves out into the living room she nods. ‘Nice bird strings, Flossie! Wall-to-wall white is overrated, those dashes of colour make the place feel much more “you”.’
‘I’ve hardly done enough decorating to have my own style, Mum, but you’re right.’ I let my grin go. ‘How can a few scraps of coloured paper make a place feel like home?’
She rubs her nose. ‘I never felt the flats you and Dillon shared reflected you at all.’
I laugh. ‘That’s because they didn’t. Dillon wouldn’t have let paper birds within a mile of any place of his.’
Twee and whimsical were his pet hates – his idea of accessories was vintage Land Rover bonnets, random engine parts and large fossils. Dillon was also hooked on what he called his ‘sand palette’. My one stand was to slip in a snowy White Company duvet cover, but that was buried under a mountain of baked-earth-coloured quilts and throws.
Looking back I feel like I spent the last ten years living in the kind of landscape the Dakar Rally crosses. That was another macho event on all of their bucket lists, although, between us, the extreme endurance and desire to rough it were all a bluff. I doubt they’d have lasted a day on the dunes here, let alone a fortnight driving across deserts, living like nomads.
Mum’s moved to look out across the front deck to the sea. ‘You were quirky though – back in the day.’
I stop to consider. ‘When we first got together it was because Dillon liked how skinny I was.’ He always went for thin women, which definitely isn’t how I am now, but I can’t help noticing the wistful tone in Mum's voice. ‘Do you miss him?’
