Long distance calls and pressing matters
Tuesday
Who knew there was so much to find out about sea nymphs? I spent the rest of Monday on the sun lounger and was so absorbed by sprites and water kelpies I emptied two cans of Garnier Ambre Solaire dry mist without even noticing. At this rate I may spend more on sun products than I earn from selling pieces, but as I wrote in one of my lines in the sand yesterday,Every long road has a beginning. Scarlett would argue that’s not strictly true, but I’m embracing the sentiment not the facts.
When Pumpkin and I head out for this morning’s walk I take my writing stick again. With the width of the bay stretching out beside us as we amble towards St Aidan, I’m running things past him. ‘I’ll write something for you first.’
I work my bum off to make sure Pumpkin wants for nothing, but whether you’re a pony or a person, happiness is all about the small things. ‘How aboutI heart carrots?’ He has to wait a few minutes until I draw a bunch of the things too. ‘And I could doThis is my lucky day. If you walk across the bottom of the writing, I’ll take a photo of horseshoe prints in the sand going past it.’
It takes four attempts to master, but we persevere and the results are fab.
As Pumpkin falls back into step beside me again, I can’t help smiling. ‘After so long getting that right, my next phrase has to beNever give up.’
There’s something all-embracing and positive about writing in the sand. The noise of the waves pounding further along the beach gives it a power all its own, and for someone like me, who finds commitment hard, it’s deliciously impermanent. There’s always the thought that in no time the sea will rush in to obliterate what you’ve written, so you can put yourself out there, and push yourself to be even more daring.
With that in mind, I move on to aKick ass, aGet off your butt, anI am, I can, I will, and as an afterthought I add inDream BIG!By the time I’ve snapped all those, my stomach is aching for breakfast, so I’m more than thankful when we get to the harbourside.
As I pass Seaspray Cottage at the end of the beach, I see The Little Cornish Kitchen sign by the low wall to the beach and look up to see Scarlett’s friend Clemmie is on the balcony with a toddler in her arms. She points down and waves at Pumpkin, and I wave back with extra warmth because even though we’re all different shades of auburn, it’s still rare to find four redheads together. Then Ihead to the bakery up the hill where they are happy to serve me while I stand with Pumpkin at the door.
The carrier in my hand is fully loaded as we make our way back along the beach, and I’m still talking to Pumpkin. ‘The weight of this lot, my next message in the sand should be,Never visit a cake shop when you’re hungry.’
Pumpkin’s look tells me he’d rather press on and get back to his field.
I give his side a nudge with my thigh. ‘You were bred to be sturdy,you’rethe one who should be carrying the cakes here, not me.’
He ignores that, but as we turn towards Boathouse Cottage I’m feeling so upbeat that I take my phone out. Before I know it I’m surfing my can-do wave and tapping out an email to the editor of my favourite magazine.
Morning, Fenna, writing from the beach with a pocket full of shells and the waves breaking over my toes. Staying in a gorgeous Cornish cottage with views of the ocean, all the way to October. If you’d like me to send you and the readers a first-hand taste of Cornwall, you know where I am.
Waving from St Aidan, with the wind in my hair, Betty xxx
I add my mobile number and the full Boathouse Cottage address for authenticity, and that’s it.
When I read it back, it sounds a lot more like something Scarlett would send than me, but it’s too late– it’s gone.
I turn Pumpkin out in the field and fill up his water bucket. When I get back inside and put the kettle on for coffee, the first surprise is that it’s already midday. The second surprise is that Miles is in the house rather than out somewhere, and the third is what he’s doing.
‘You’reironing?’Without a shirt on!Don’t you just hate it when unpleasant guys strip off and they’re disgustingly tanned, toned and attractive under their clothes?
He looks up at me. ‘You’ll find the board and iron in the end cupboard in the mud room when you need them. If you’d like me to leave them out for you, I’m only doing a couple of T-shirts.’
Though stunned by the half-naked man in the kitchen, I was still able to wonder why would anyone iron those?
I threw on three different sheer cotton dresses earlier, nipped a belt around my waist, and topped it with a cropped sweater that’s falling off one shoulder. Far from needing a press, the whole outfit worksbecause ofthe creases.
I point at my crumpled skirt. ‘Do I look as if I iron?’ I take in Miles’s bemused stare. ‘Thanks for asking, I’ll get the iron out myself if I need it.’ I already know I won’t!
I sound a lot more chilled than I feel. As for Miles, I’d be happier if he weren’t around at all, because I get a weird adrenalin rush every time I have to even look at the hollows in his cheeks or the stubble shadow on his face. Add in the flashes of muscled torso, and my whole body is thrumming.
With what I’m trying to put behind me, I’m shocked that I’m actually reacting to a man. I can only think it’s my subconscious kicking in to let me run the hell away from those pecs and that gently etched six pack and the arrogant prat they’re attached to who is parading them like nothing’s going on.
I know I’m a libertarian, but for the sake of my pounding heart, maybe we should be making some house rules on exposure. I mean, how would he feel if he came in to find me ironing in a bralette?
I give a cough. ‘For the record, isn’t ironing semi-nude a health and safety issue?’
He laughs. ‘I’ll be careful not to burn myself.’
‘Even so…’ I open my mouth to argue this, but as my phone rings all I can think is, if this is New York calling they must have got up before they went to bed.
