Just like me, they looked straight past the weathered clapboard outside of the hut in dire need of paint and the wobbles on the rickety tin roof, and saved their gasps for the lovely outdoor decks, and the unexpectedly airy spaces inside.
When I first arrived and glimpsed the picket fence at the back, and the little gate with its very own postbox, I started to cry and carried on for the next few days. Mostly they were happy tears at what a wonderful place I’d stumbled on by accident, but it was also a reaction to the shock and eventual happy outcome of Clemmie’s ten-minute labour. Even someone not sensitive about babies would have found that traumatic.
It’s only since I’ve arrived that I’ve had time to ponder what exactly made me make that split-second decision to come back to the childhood home I’d been so happy to leave all those years ago, and it’s about a lot more than The Hideaway. I’m here because my instincts told me to run to somewhere safe. Somewhere with no complications or challenges. A place where I can pull the metaphorical quilt over my head and have no need to leave. And so far, it’s proving to be a perfect fit. But even in a seaside idyll that seems to be the answer to all my problems, where I’m already perfecting the art of becoming a hermit, there is an undercurrent of worry.
At eighteen it was a thrill to move to a city where there was no one I knew to judge me, and I adored the freedom, the excitement of being an anonymous stranger in a huge metropolis. Adored that there were wild new people to party with, a different club to go to every hour, that I could walk for a day, a week, a year, and still the streets wouldn’t run out.
It was only when things got tougher that I found comfort in more familiar things and surroundings that I wound my way back, to draw on the unconditional love and support of friends and family who’ve known me my whole life. Perhaps the reason I’ve really come back is to be close to the people with whom there’s no need to explain myself.
For someone who founded so much of my identity on the wonderful city I lived in, alongside the relief of finding sanctuary, it’s also terrifying to know my world is shrinking. Now I’m back in a place where it takes fifteen minutes tops to walk in at one end of town and out of the other, I’m frightened that I will shrink in proportion. Not that I’d done too much to be proud of in my life compared to Sophie, Clemmie and the gang. And not that I’d mention this to them –but now I’m back in this tiny place, what if I disappear altogether?
Clemmie and I shared our best and worst bits of her grass-verge birth by phone as she waited to be discharged from hospital. I’ve cooed over pictures of Bud holding baby Arnie back at home on Messenger and she’s sent me brownies too. I’ve kept the others happy posting photos of Shadow looking out from the rain-drenched windows on the WhatsApp group they named ‘Flossie May is back in town, woohoo!’. And according to Clemmie, Kit’s ‘thank you’ cake hamper was delivered to an address he gave in Dorset, so that’s drawn a line under that one too.
As far as beach huts go, this one is as battered as they come but bigger than I could ever have hoped, and thanks to its position up on the slope above the tide line, the views around St Aidan Bay are fabulous in the day and at night the lights fade into the distance in a wide starry arc. The wind might drive the raindrops along the window panes in horizontal lines when it blows off the surf, but the way the hut nestles in the dunes is why it’s called The Hideaway. There’s even somewhere to leave the car alongside the track that runs behind the sandhills, and a tiny cabin with an outside loo.
The inside is the same weathered white planks that were in the photos Mum had sent me, and Ivy had cleaned the place from top to bottom and even left basic furniture with a few extra bits. I’d put most things from the London flat into storage, and as I only brought with me what would fit in the car, the unpacking here was minimal. Sure, Dillon was older than me, but when it came to buying swanky sofas and designer pieces he was light-years ahead, which is why most things we had belonged to him. He and his mates vied over who could spend biggest, outdoing each other with their hard-edged masculine vibe. As in most areas of our life together, Dillon was in charge, and I was happy to let him get on with it. But because I’ve never been a homemaker, when it comes to making this place cosy, I haven’t the first clue where to begin.
During our first few days in St Aidan the non-stop rain turned the sea and the sky to a dark, gunmetal grey, and the bleached plank floors were covered with Shadow’s soggy paw prints, but at least the rain bought us some settling-in time.
And now the sun has come out, the sea has turned to shivery aquamarine and Sophie, Nell, Plum and Clemmie have come for tea. Now they’ve had their tour I’m hoping they’ll fill me in on the biggest surprise after Arnie’s arrival.
I carry on with my explanation. ‘The plot next door was still a sand dune when I looked at the beach hut on Google Maps.’
Nell pulls a face. ‘It’s total donkey-droppings that they update those satellite pictures every hour.’
Every expectant mum carries their bump differently, and Nell looks very much as she always did, with her tummy concealed between the sides of a padded waistcoat she’s borrowed from George.
Plum’s sitting on the steps that lead up to the front deck. She tosses her dark ponytail and fiddles with the strap on her paint-splattered dungarees. ‘Your new neighbour is the High Tides Serenity Spa Resort, Floss; it’s so exclusive it refuses to call itself anything as downmarket as luxury.’ The disparaging shake of her head she gives is unnervingly like Dillon’s. ‘They started building last year, and they’re opening as we speak.’
Plum is awesome, with her huge seascape paintings and the gallery she converted from a disused chandler’s store, but however close we once were, lately I tread more carefully around her. Even though Dillon and I parted as friends, it’s only natural she’d feel protective of her brother.
Sophie, who is leaning against the wooden side rail surrounding the deck in her usual head-to-toe pale aqua, joins in. ‘Those Italian Cypress trees might look out of place, but it’s certainly pulled this end of town up by its boot strings.’
Clemmie shoots a sideways grin from the director’s chair where she’s cradling a sleeping Arnie. ‘Those lawns look so neat I’m expecting La La and Po to come running over the hill.’
We’ve pulled a wooden armchair outside for Nell, and she stretches back against the cushions. ‘With the prices they’re charging we mermaids won’t be wallowing in their salt splashes any time soon!’ These four first called their friendship group ‘the mermaids’ as kids, and they’ve never given up using the name.
Clemmie turns to me. ‘How do you feel about it, Flossie?’
I’d hate them to know that as I’ve watched the builders add the finishing touches to some super-swanky beach huts at this end of the site, my heart has sunk further every day, so I make my voice bright. ‘Mine’s bound to look scruffy next to it, but there’s nothing I can do – so let’s move on to cake.’ As I carry the tea tray out there’s a chorus of cries. ‘Nice cups!’
I laugh and hand round the brownies they’ve brought. ‘The cupboards are full of them. There’s no saucers, plates, or dishes, so Mum’s friend Ivy must have drunk tea and nothing else.’ Then I add an afterthought. ‘With three gables and two covered verandas, I’m definitely not grumbling! People in St Aidan fight to get their hands on places half as pretty as this. I’m very lucky.’
‘Too right you are!’ Sophie’s retort is a second too quick.
Like most sisters, we fought fiercely as kids, but as adults we usually have each other’s backs. No one’s more kind and generous than Sophie, she also works like a demon, and we all know not to be fooled by those baby-blue chinos – when she’s set on something, she’s ruthless. But there has to be something I’m missing here.
‘Youhadturned this place down before Mum offered it to me?’ My heart drops as I take in the shake of Sophie’s head. ‘She didn’t tell you?’
She sniffs. ‘It’s fine, I’ve got a castle with steps down to the sea. This way it’s in the familyandwe get to have you living here full-time.’
‘I still wish you’d known about it.’
Sophie squeezes my hand. ‘It was only a shock because we thought you were so committed to the city. But a beach hut is very “you” – wonderfully airy and impermanent.’
I can see where she’s coming from; if she’s accusing me of seeing London as the unrivalled centre of the universe these last sixteen years, I’m guilty as charged. St Aidan’s never been in my top ten places to rock up, it’s more my desperate last resort when all else has failed.
But Sophie is the last person I’d share my problems with because she’d be straight in with the handouts, and I’d hate her to feel she had to help me. ‘Well, I’m here now, so let’s make the best of it!’
