I open my laptop and spend the next few hours decadently lounging on my pillows, with Radio One Sunday morning bangers bouncing off the ceiling while I write the copy for the pieces for each of the relaxing weekend paint jobs, and eat chocolates.
By the time I send them off to Fenna, I’m pushing my word count record for a morning, and I’m seriously wondering what is going on with Scarlett. I don’t want to butt in at a sensitive time for her and Tate, but if I message to tell her I’ve found somewhere to move to, that leaves the way clear for her to come back if she wants.
After all her generosity with the cottage, telling her I’ve already moved out seems too abrupt, so I ease in.
Scarlett, hope you’re okay??? There’s a place coming up by the harbour I can go to if you need me to move out quickly. Sending huge hugs xx
I take another truffle and start to think about a bath and a walk with Pumpkin, but before I’ve even scrunched up my sweet paper, my ‘I’m a believer’ ringtone is echoing across the studio.
I accept the call, and Scarlett’s straight in.
‘Please don’t move anywhere else, Betty! Tate and I have had a huge bust-up. He’s moved out of the apartment. I’m staying on as planned, but I’ve talked to my lawyer in Manchester, and it’s vital you don’t leave the cottage.’
‘You’ve already taken legal advice?’My jaw is sagging at how fast things have moved.
‘It’s over. There’s no point hanging around.’ She sounds strangely detached. ‘Tate and I spent the whole of Friday night ripping each other to pieces, and I spoke to Kiera, the hot-shot barrister, yesterday.’
The name rings a lot of bells. ‘Kiera who lost her shit in Revolución de Cuba on your hen do?’ She was also the main mover on the choice of the milky silk bridesmaids’ dresses.
Scarlett sighs. ‘That’s the one. She says it’s imperative I don’t allow Tate’s representatives to take possession of the St Aidan property, so I’m counting on you to stay exactly where you are. Every single night if you can.’
My heart is sinking, for all the reasons, but I can’t add to Scarlett’s load. My problems are so insignificant compared to hers, and I have to support her.
Her voice breaks. ‘It’s hell on earth here, and very surreal. The one thing keeping me going is knowing you’re there to keep the cottage safe for me.’
‘It’s that bad already?’
‘Separation is a war zone. A second of weakness, and I’ll pay for it ten times over later.’ She sniffs. ‘And bear in mind, if Tate starts playing dirty, Miles will be trying to force you out too. You’re going to need to keep your wits about you, but I’m confident you’ll win.’
After that, there’s only one thing I can say.
‘No worries, Scarlett, I’ve got this.’
Then she rings off and leaves me sitting on the edge of the bed, staring past the wrought iron balustrade of the balcony and out to where the sea is shimmering all the way to the horizon.
The truth is, I haven’t got this at all. I have no idea how the hell I’m going to handle any of it. I mean, the studio has taken my savings, but that’s only money. If it was uncomfortable to coexist with Miles before, after my early hours grope it was already going to be a nightmare. Add in Scarlett’s fears, and who knows what might happen?
I’m so deep in my despair I miss the first knock on the shop door. By the time the second comes, I’ve had time to pull on a sloppy T-shirt and get halfway down the stairs but then the door opens, and a voice calls in.
‘Betsy Bets? I’ve been looking for you all morning!’
‘Miles!’ I leap down the last three steps, tugging my T-shirt down to cover my shorts. ‘How did you know where to find me?’
He smiles. ‘My old mate Malcolm from the Yellow Canary told me you were here.’
I’m blinking. ‘You actually know Malcolm?’
He nods. ‘Before he moved in with his girlfriend up at Periwinkle Cottage he had a bungalow three doors along from my mum, down by B&Q.’
I can’t hide my surprise. ‘Since when have you had a mother in St Aidan?’
He shrugs. ‘She’s lived here for years. She was the one who found Tate and Scarlett their cottage.’ He runs his fingers through his hair. ‘Enough about her. Tell me what you’re doing with this place?’
He has no idea how ironic that question is. I can’t tell him the real reason, and as it’s all changed anyway, I’m going to have to wing it. I seize on the first thing I see in the empty expanse of the ground floor where we’re standing, which is the revolving rack.
‘I thought I’d have a postcard shop.’ I’m making it up as I go along. ‘I’m going to make them from the photos of the lines I write in the sand.’ I’m still going. ‘The extra income will help with the freelancing.’
That’s complete rubbish. Added on to my Net Loft lease, it would be a fast way to run my savings to nothing, but he doesn’t need to know that.
