By the time I have a full set of photos, give Edie a hug, and wander back up the lane, the Saturday market in the barnyard is in full swing, and as I go past the entrance the smell from the coffee van draws me in.
I’m standing sipping my Americano, when an arm flops around my shoulder.
‘Would you like a chocolate muffin?’ It’s Clemmie, and she pulls me towards her stall in the stable. ‘I’ve almost sold out. How’s your head this afternoon?’
‘You know about my hangover?’ Of course she does. ‘Don’t tell me– your cousin works the bar at Jaggers? Or your mum peels potatoes in the chippy?’
She raises one eyebrow. ‘Beth’s dad, Malcolm, was at the Hungry Shark quiz night when Miles got the call to pick you up. Sounds like you pushed happy hour to the max!’
The second I hear Miles’s name, my early morning trip to the bathroom comes rushing back like a rockfall. What the hell was I thinking? The truth is… I wasn’t. It was the middle of the night, I was off my face and half asleep. But excuses won’t help me. Keeping calm and carrying on is total bullshit. If I can’t even bear to think of Miles as an abstract idea, I can’t possibly be in the same cottage as him, let alone put myself in a place where I may lock eyes with him across the kitchen. It’s only now when I come to imagine the horror of the situation that it sinks in: I need to avoid seeing Miles ever again. There’s no time for hanging about on this; I need to act fast, and I need to act now!
I drag in a breath, pull every last scrap of my courage together, and go for broke. ‘Actually, Clemmie, the place we were talking about yesterday…’
Clemmie carries on. ‘The Net Loft studio?’
‘I’ll take it.’
There, now I’ve said it, there’s no going back, but I could be pulling myself out of the biggest hole of my life.
Clemmie’s eyes light up. ‘I can’t wait to tell Plum and Nell. We knew you’d be perfect the first day we saw you. Well done for being brave!’
I’m opening and closing my mouth in shock at what I’ve said.
She’s carrying on seamlessly. ‘Let’s make this as easy as we can. Malcolm’s only next door, he’ll be able to run off a copy of the lease for you to take away.’ She’s looking at my face, reading my expression. ‘Or if you’d rather sign it now, that’s not a problem either.’
So much has changed. When we talked about the Net Loft yesterday, me moving there was the kind of pie-in-the-sky fantasy that might happen to someone else, but I was ninety-nine per cent certain that would never be me. Twenty-four hours on, I’ve embarrassed myself so completely, this is the only sensible option I have, and I’m frankly lucky it’s there at all.
It’s not only me messing up big time by grabbing Miles. Scarlett’s situation has changed too. If the unthinkable happens and she splits from Tate, she may well run for home. With their main house in Manchester properly let for their entire stay in New York, Boathouse Cottage would be the natural place for her to come back to. So the studio at the Net Loft is the proverbial port in the storms that are powering in from all directions. The sooner I clinch the deal, the better.
My mouth is dry. ‘I’ll sign straight away.’ My mind is racing, and as I add up the figures there’s really nothing left to lose here. ‘If I transfer you three months’ rent and the deposit, when could I have the key?’
If I pull this off, I never have to see Miles again.
If Clemmie’s surprised by my sea-change she doesn’t react. ‘We’ll have to run this past Malcolm, but it could be pretty quick.’ She gives me a nudge. ‘Just think, no more arguments over fruit or tussles for the bathroom.’
I die silently, replaying that last phrase in my head. I clutch at my throat where my heart is pounding. ‘Okay, let’s do this before I start hyperventilating.’
And two minutes later, as we speed across the gravel towards Malcolm’s cottage next door, I’m ready to sign away my life.
JUNE
25
The Net Loft, St Aidan
Sweet dreams and ulterior motives
Sunday
When I wake up in the Net Loft early on Sunday morning, for the first few minutes I lie listening to the calls of the seagulls as they swoop across the quayside and the ring of the rigging on the boats that are lined up across the harbour. After that I look up through the roof light directly above the pillows and watch the peach pink of the dawn sky as it turns through pale aqua to deeper blue. I lie on my back, stretch out my arms and legs, and for the first time in three weeks I starfish across a bed.
When I first left my shoebox-sized room at the sanctuary, I doubted I’d ever get used to the lofty ceilings and wide open spaces of Boathouse Cottage. I was surprised how easily their expanses began to feel normal and now I’ve come to the studio, it’s another jump again.
After Malcolm gave me the keys and my welcome tour yesterday, I waited until dusk then made a dash along the beach to rub Pumpkin’s ears and check his water, and as Miles was out, I grabbed a few bits to bring back. Despite my full rucksack, it still feels like me and a postcard rack rattling around in a warehouse. And however sparse Boathouse Cottage felt when I arrived, this is a new level of empty.
On the upside I have my bathroom and the luxury of being able to visit exactly when I want rather than planning my loo stops for days ahead. I jump out of bed, bound downstairs, and perch on the toilet seat in my skimpy vest, with my see-through pyjama micro shorts around my knees without bothering to shut the door. It’s only when I reach for the paper that it hits me that I’m looking straight across the studio and out across the harbour beyond that.
I scream, kick the door closed, finish and flush the gloriously loud flush. Then I wash my hands, nip into the kitchen to get a can of Coke, an almond and blueberry breakfast bar, and the box of Malteser truffles I bought yesterday to celebrate having a home of my own. Once my arms are full, I jump back up the stairs two at a time and vow this will be the last time I’ll be flashing my bum at the harbourside car park, which is already full of people.
