I’m pleased I read up on this. ‘It’s all in the welcome pack you sent?’
‘Well done for doing the homework, Betsy.’ She stops for a moment. ‘You can turn Pumpkin straight out into the field when you get to the cottage. It’s so lucky we chose a place with land and an outbuilding that will double as a stable.’
It’s that adjoining patch of ground that is the lifesaver here for Pumpkin and me, along with my sister’s heading off to be with Tate for five months while he sorts out the expansion of his company’s New York office.
The cottage I’m heading to is Scarlett and Tate’s refuge, an old boathouse that was lovingly restored, piece by beautiful piece. It’s so precious I’ve never known them to let people stay without them being there themselves; Scarlett wouldn’t be doing this for me now if I wasn’t desperate, so I won’t be letting her down. I’m determined to tiptoe in, and when I leave in October it’ll be as if I’d never been there.
I’m walking while we talk, and suddenly I get the first glimpse of the long slate roof nestling into the side of the next cove and my tummy churns with excitement. ‘We’re almost there, Scarlie. I’m so grateful. Anything you want me to do just say?—’
She’s straight back on topic. ‘The builder’s just finished an outdoor shower area. If you could see your way to giving that a test run? ASAP!’
‘Of course.’
‘No need for a swimsuit, Tate’s sited it so it’s totally private. With a town full of hot surfers, you’re going to have a fun-packed summer!’
As if I’d be disrespectful enough to go naked in someone else’s brand-new shower. And despite being renown for my long trail of exes, thanks to one awful experience I’ve avoided men altogether for the last couple of years. As I’ve not ever shared that with Scarlett, who doesn’t seem to have noticed, it’s a relief to keep up the pretence and hide behind the jokes.
Scarlett carries on. ‘Oops, looks like we’re boarding. I’d better go.’
‘Love you, Scarlie, travel safe, talk soon.’
Whenever I’ve visited here before, I’ve always been struck by the sense of calm you get when a place has been designed to perfection. As we turn up off the beach and take the grassy path towards the low stone building with its ash-grey window frames, that feeling engulfs me again. There’s not a chip of gravel out of place, and the timber gate to the field is perfectly balanced as it swings open.
‘Just the kind of short, rough grass that will keep your waistline under control, Pumpkin.’ The fence looks as secure as Scarlett promised, with the cottage sitting half in, half out of the field, but I have a quick check around myself because you can’t be too careful with a pony. Then I unclip Pumpkin’s lead rope, give him a tap on his rump to signal he’s free to go, and smile as he canters off, kicking his heels. A few minutes later, when he’s grazing quietly, I climb the stile into the hillside cottage garden, and pull out the key Scarlett sent me.
Scarlett knows I’m a scatter brain, and thinks she can overcome that with her forward planning. Obviously I’ll try my hardest not to mess up, but I haven’t locked my room for six years so I know I’m going to have to up my game here.
I push the door open and step into a long kitchen/living space that could have come straight off the pages ofElle Decoration. I ease my bag off my shoulders, marvelling at how such a sleek kitchen can smell of baking even when there’s no one here to cook in it. Then, as I wander over to a square window that overlooks the field to check on Pumpkin again, I have two surprises. Not only is the window open, but there’s a tray of pastries on the windowsill.
This is Scarlett and her attention to detail. As if it wasn’t enough that she’s letting me stay here, she’s also had one of the friend-slash-helpers she mentioned earlier drop in with a baked-goods welcome gift. When I take a swirly bun and sink my teeth into it it’s warm, delicious, and has some kind of delectable toffee pecan thing going on. In fact, it’s so moreish it reminds me how ravenous I am, and I eat three more straight off. I’m heading back for a fifth when I notice the trail of flakes I’ve dropped across the floor, so I leave the rest to have outside with coffee later.
My next stop is the bathroom, which is off the lobby that leads to the bedroom, and described by Scarlett as ‘compact and entirely unsuitable for claustrophobics’. I’m grateful to have a bathroom at all, and since it’s just me I won’t have to close the door. I take three goes to watch the soft-close loo seat shutting, then I’m out again.
As I leave, I notice the recessed shelf above the wash basin is stacked with an array of products that definitely weren’t here on my last visit. It’s completely out of character for Scarlett, who likes everything tidied away, but I take down a bottle of L’Occitane almond oil shower gel, pop open the top and breathe in the scent. I have to say the Aldi version I have in the car falls a long way shorter than the comparison articles claim.
I’m putting the bottle back on the shelf when my phone pings with a message from Scarlett.
How is the new drench? Is the thermostatic mixer working?
Another ping.
There’s ten minutes before we take off. Please, please, PLEASE try it then I can tick it off my list.
This level of persistence is why she’s come so far in life. But it’s warm outside, I’m wearing so many layers that my clothes are sticking to me after the walk, and it’s not like I have any other pressing commitments. And if I’m doing this for Scarlett, I can borrow her pricey shower gel.
I grab a towel from the bathroom cupboard, remember the need for speed, and throw off my clothes as I cross the kitchen. By the time I arrive on the raised terrace, and reach for the shower control, I’m stripped down to a T-shirt and some briefs. A second later a waterfall of warm water is cascading over my face and I’m luxuriating as a froth of gorgeous-smelling L’Occitane bubbles washes over me. Taking in the slatted wood side screens and the rectangular bronze shower heads, I add outdoor showers to my mental list of topics to write about over the next few weeks. Buoyed up with excitement, I give a second generous squirt of shower gel. I’m reaching to turn the temperature up a notch, when I hear a cry behind me.
‘Hey! This isnota public shower!’
So much for Scarlett’s privacy claims! Although… unless the person shouting has come across the field like I did, they’ll have had to get through a locked gate to reach the courtyard on the garden side of the house. When I whip round to see who’s speaking, I take in tousled dark brown curls and board shorts that are clinging in all the wrong places. Worse still, he’s leaning against Scarlett’s wall and swinging a towel over his shoulder like he owns the place.
I give a cough. ‘Back at you. If you’re looking to wash the salt off your Havaianas, you could try the Surf Shack, a short stroll along the beach?’
He’s laughing quietly to himself. ‘Nice try! Why not dry off, leave quietly, and we’ll say no more about it?’
What can I say to someone who’s completely wrong but won’t admit it, all while wearing a soaking T-shirt that’s now entirely transparent and pants that have disappeared right up my bum?
I forget the rest, and launch in. ‘Whoever youthinkyou are, I’m afraid this place is mine for the next few months. That’s even my horse in the field.’ That should be more than enough proof for anyone. ‘So I suggest you admit you’ve made the mistake of a lifetime, and get the hell out of here. Like, now!’
