He leans forward and points along the harbourside. ‘George at Trenowden, Trenowden and Trenowden solicitors has drawn up a contract you’d sign, and you’d pay two months’ rent upfront. After that, you could be in as quick as you like.’
‘A contract?’ It comes out as a strangled squeak.
As it’s always just been me, I’ve always tried to keep my needs minimal. The times we signed for shared houses at uni, I was carried along with the group. If this is down to me on my own, it’s so much more stressful. If I’d had the same ambitions as some of my other friends, I’d have aimed higher years ago and had a more luxurious life to show for it.The reason I’m footloose and totally without ties is because I’ve always avoided responsibility like the plague, with work and with housing. I might have been uncomfortable, but at least I’ve been my own person and kept my integrity.
The more money you have, the more you buy and the more money you need. It’s the classic consumer spiral that I’ve always refused to buy into. It would be a complete mistake to go back on my principles now.
Malcolm shrugs. ‘It’s quite straightforward. Everyone else has signed without any problem.’
However annoying Miles is, the thought of putting my signature on a formal document is taking every bit of breath out of my lungs. I fan my face to get some air, aware of a river of sweat running down my spine inside my crop top, my dress and my two overlapping cardigans.
If it’s a choice between acting like a fifty-year-old, or arguing over where we keep the cornflakes, I’ll stick with the aggravation because once I sign my life away there’s no going back.
‘Actually…’ I’m backing out of the door and out onto the cobbles. ‘I was probably right the first time.’
Malcolm’s face has fallen. ‘It’s standard stuff, nothing untoward.’
‘I’m just not that kind of a person.’ I catch my foot in a pile of fishing nets, stumble, and my flower bunches skid across the pavement. I struggle back to my feet again. ‘Thanks all the same. But it’s not for me.’
And then I pick up what’s left of my bruised zinnias, and hurry off towards the beach.
18
Boathouse Cottage, St Aidan
Crash mats and slim pickings
Monday
My walk back to the cottage is more of a half-run. I should be jubilant for dodging the Net Loft bullet, but there’s a tiny voice in my head that’s telling me I might be disappointed I walked away.
I give Pumpkin a wave as I slip in through the gate and head for the French window which I usually leave off the latch, but when I get there, it’s locked. I jump the style and headto the door that leads through to the kitchen and is always open when there’s someone in, but that’s locked too. It’s only as I dig in the pocket of my shorts for my door key that it hits me: I did a last-minute change before I rushed out to Zofia’s this morning, and I’ve come out without it.
I’ve gone two entire weeks without getting locked out or losing my key. I’d meant to hide an emergency key in Pumpkin’s outhouse, and I’m kicking myself for not. I put down my carriers, pull out my phone, and cringe at the thought of asking Zofia to bring the spare. Then I remember she’s gone to Plymouth.
I head through the gate and out on to the lane. Miles’s car in the parking area means he’s off on foot, but if he knew I’d come out without a key he’d have a field day. I’d rather sit on the grass for a few hours with Pumpkin than have Miles rip into me for my immature behaviour.
I scan the windows along the lane and when I have no luck there, I go back through to the garden and check each opening meticulously. I’m about to give up and sit on the sun lounger, but as I climb the steps to the terrace, the height lets me see a crack at the bottom of a higher window towards the end of the house, which must open into the bedroom.
If I shove the outdoor table along, and put one of the benches on the tabletop, I might just be able to slide in through the window. I take two seconds to consider if it’s too great an invasion of Miles’s privacy to land in his bedroom, then I go for it anyway.
Scarlett having hewn oak outdoor furniture rather than Argos plastic means the job takes fifteen minutes rather than two. I wrench my stomach lifting the bench up into place but at least when I spring up onto the table my furniture stack is solid. I get onto the bench, reach across to the window ledge, and give a silent hurrah when the frame slips upwards far enough for me to climb through.
I throw my bag in ahead of me. Take a second to think head first or feet first, see a mental picture of myself in a neck brace, and opt for feet.
My thighs are in all the way to my bottom before I realise it’s going to be a squeeze. By the time my bum’s slipped over the inner sill, I’m committed. Then, thanks mostly to my shiny satin shorts, gravity takes over and I drop downwards. There’s a terrible moment when my boobs are so compressed by the frame I hear the fabric of my bra rip. Then something gives, and I’m arching down through the air, and landing in a heap of splayed knees on Scarlett’s hand-knotted bedside rug.
I’m checking all my limbs have come in with me, reminding myself this is a legitimate chance to take in the details of Miles’s bedroom when I hear a cough. My blood runs cold and when I slowly raise my head the face I’m looking up into is Miles’s.
‘What the hell happened here, Betty Eliza? I’d have come to the door if you’d knocked.’
It’s so like Miles to turn this on to me.
‘Since when do we lock the door when we’re home?’ One of the reasons Scarlett loves it here is because people can go out and leave their doors and windows wide open, and come back to find things exactly as they left them. It’s so refreshing to be able to trust people, and have neighbours who look out for you. Not that there’s much here to take, due to the empty look. Then my heart misses a beat. Of course Miles would lock the door if he was with someone and didn’t want me walking in on them.
I start to back track. ‘It’s completely understandable to lock the door if you were… entertaining people.’ The immediate stab in my chest is engulfed by a wave of relief for whatever scene I just avoided parachuting into here.
I pull my eyes into focus and see he’s naked except for a pair of jeans, which have the fly unbuttoned far enough to see there’s nothing underneath.
