‘It’s included in the rent. If you’re anything like me, wine is definitely a necessity. Especially on a Saturday.’ This time Molly’s laugh was more cheerful.
‘Absolutely,’ Jemma had replied. ‘I look forward to meeting you, Molly. And to seeing Oak View Cottage. It sounds idyllic and it looks gorgeous in the photos.’
Molly cleared her throat and her serious tone was back. ‘I’ll see you on Saturday June 1st, around four p.m. depending on traffic. Call me if there’s anything you need to know between now and then. Have a safe journey. Bye for now.’
Jemma had been both surprised and pleased that Molly had not reacted when Jemma had given her full name, especially as Clarice’s friend had no doubt told Molly who she was. Recently, more often than not, people squealed with delight when they heard her name, and said something along the lines of, ‘Oh. Are you the author of ‘The Fitzglover Legacy’ books and TV series?’ A few people tutted disparagingly. But Molly hadn’t reacted at all. Perhaps Clarice had informed her friend, who in turn had passed it on to Molly, that Jemma was trying to escape all the attention her books and the TV series had brought. Or perhapsMolly simply wasn’t interested. Historical romance novels, and TV adaptations of them, weren’t everyone’s cup of tea, after all.
Molly hadn’t commented on it when she had emailed Jemma the booking confirmation letter either, together with a map of the village, and Jemma was relieved that Betancourt Bay might indeed be the perfect escape she had been hoping for.
The map was helpful, not only because it showed Jemma how to get to the cottage from the motorway but also because it had arrows drawn on it pointing to Oak View Cottage, The Royal Oak pub, Betancourt Bay Café, Lookout Steps leading down to the beach, and the roads from the motorway, and to Folkestone.
But what really piqued Jemma’s interest was the stately home called Betancourt that sat on the clifftop between the cottages and the sea. From the image on the map, it looked like a smaller version of the fictional home of the Fitzglover family in Jemma’s books. She would love to look inside. Would that be possible?
Forgetting both Oak View cottage, and the book she should be writing, Jemma had spent most of that day trawling the internet for information regarding Betancourt, and had found there was rather a lot.
She was delighted to discover that Betancourt Bay was named for the Betancourts and that the family still resided in their ancestral home. They had lost their title centuries before, thanks to the last Baron Betancourt having picked the wrong side, and been fortunate that he had only lost his title and most of his land and not his home, nor his head.
Over the years since, they had lost much of their wealth and power, although they still retained considerable amounts of both, from what Jemma read, because in addition to the stately home, they also owned a thriving auction house in London, the offices of which were in a rather grand former home in the heart of Mayfair, selling fine arts and antiques, along with books, wine, and jewellery.
Someone in the village – if not everyone – must know the Betancourts well enough to be able to ask if Jemma could have a private tour, and Jemma was determined to find out who that might be, because achieving that would be a highlight of this trip. Maybe Molly knew them? That would be simply perfect.
But this was not a holiday, or research for her new book, and she had to remind herself that the whole point of spending a month away from home was to finish writing her book, and submit it to Clarice well within her extended deadline of the end of June.
After one final glance around her home office, Jemma closed the door and made her way along the hall to the front door. Although this trip was for work, she couldn’t help but feel excited. She hadn’t had a holiday for years and even if she spent all her time working on her book, and didn’t get the opportunity to visit Betancourt itself, she could still enjoy the change of scene the village would give her.
‘A change is as good as a rest,’ Esme had often said.
And Jemma could certainly do with a rest.
Once this book was written she would treat herself to a real holiday. Maybe somewhere exotic. Definitely somewhere hot. It seemed as if it had done nothing but rain since the end of February. March was particularly wet, although the sun shone a little over Easter. April showers were more like April downpours, and May came in and went out like a lion, with gales, chilly days, and no sun to be seen. The first of June had started off with grey skies and unseasonal temperatures, but the sun had come out just after lunch. And Jemma was desperately in need of some sunshine.
She could afford to take a break even though her flat was on the market and she needed to look for her new home. The property market wasn’t great right now and her flat might take a while to sell. She’d have plenty of time to find somewhere new.
The only problem was, she wasn’t sure where or what she wanted that new home to be. She had lived on the outskirts of the village of Chislehurst with her gran but couldn’t afford to buy there even with the money Esme had left her, and a mortgage. She had bought her flat in Orpington simply because it was a place she knew well, and property was more affordable there. Now she had enough money to live almost anywhere she wanted. She could even live abroad. Although she loved the UK far too much to do that. She had no family left, and only a few friends, so she had no ties to speak of.
Her mum had died when Jemma was born; her dad had followed shortly after. Her dad’s mum, Esme Granger, the only grandparent and family member Jemma knew, had brought her up. Jemma’s paternal grandfather, Esme’s husband, had died in the same car accident that had taken her dad, when she was a baby. Her mum had been an orphan, so Jemma never knew her maternal grandparents, and had no wish to find them. She had no aunts or uncles as far as she knew. Her gran had been everything to her and although Jemma had tried to make friends, some people found her situation odd; others just found Jemma odd.
She had to admit, she was a little out of the ordinary. Her fiery and often wildly curly, red hair, mass of freckles, and startling green eyes, made her stand out from the crowd. Her shyness and timidity were the opposite of what everyone expected when they met her. Her stutter during her youth had not helped. And neither had the glasses she had worn to correct an astigmatism in one eye. When she said at the age of nine that she wanted to be a writer, even she wasn’t surprised everyone had laughed at her.
‘Ignore them all,’ her gran had said. ‘Different isn’t bad, my darling. Different is special. Who wants to blend in with the crowd when you can stand out and make them all wish they were you?’
Jemma wanted to be like everyone else, and she was quite sure not a single person wished they were her, but Esme made her feel that her difference was what made her special and all the bullying, name-calling, and isolation only made her stronger and more determined to achieve her dreams despite what she saw as the odds stacked against her. With Esme by her side, Jemma could do anything. She conquered her stutter and, with her gran’s encouragement, she began to write down all the stories that danced in her head.
Life got harder when her gran passed away, and doubt created chinks in Jemma’s armour, but the photo on her desk was a beacon of hope and a constant reminder of her dreams. Dreams her gran had been confident Jemma would one day make a reality. Which she had.
But being a writer was a solitary and sometimes lonely occupation, especially as Jemma had always been an introvert and making friends had never been something she had been particularly good at.
Even so, it seemed Esme had been right all along. Now people did wish they were the famous author, Jemma Granger. She still had her fiery red hair, but now it was styled to perfection and her mass of freckles were barely visible beneath the expertly applied make up. Laser eye surgery had corrected her eyesight and removed her need for glasses, making her green eyes even more startling. She was still shy, and her stomach churned whenever she had to speak in public, do a book signing, or an interview, but she put on the imaginary armour she had created as a young girl and went into battle regardless.
Now she was a little more capable of making friends, although she still had no one she could call a best friend. Clarice, her editor, was the closest to that. Along with Jemma’s upstairs neighbour, Joanne.
But for someone who wrote romance novels for a living, albeit historical romance, her love life left a lot to be desired. She had been on a few dates over the years, and even had a boyfriend for a short time, but writing had always been – and still was – the only constant love of her life now that her gran was long gone. Jemma hardly ever met anyone she wanted to date; possibly because she rarely went out. She had considered online dating, but hadn’t got around to signing up. It was always something she would do another day. The days drifted into months and then years and she still hadn’t done anything to improve her romantic prospects. Perhaps half the problem was that she was certain no living man would match up to the men she wrote about in her books. Her head and her heart were locked in the past and she had little time to think about the present, as far as romance was concerned. Or the future. Perhaps, once this book was done, she would give it some serious thought. Along with a holiday in warmer climes. Although finding a new home should be her first priority.
For now though, what she needed to concentrate on was writing this book, and to that end, she locked the front door to her flat, after making a last-minute decision to grab an umbrella from the coat rack in her hall. It might be ‘flaming’ June, but as her gran had often said, it was always wise to be prepared.
The shared hall beyond her door was relatively large, and the wheels of her suitcases clicked against the tiled floor as she dragged each case to the main front door of the two-storey house in which her flat and her upstairs neighbour’s flat, were situated. She heaved each case outside, and tossed all three into the boot of her recently purchased new car. She then placed her laptop bag and handbag on the passenger seat, hurried around to the driver’s door and climbed in, eager now to be on her way. She clicked her seatbelt in place, took a deep breath, and pressed the ignition start button.
‘Oak View Cottage, here I come,’ she said. ‘And this is going to be an adventure.’
She gunned the accelerator, pulled out of the two-car driveway, and headed off in the direction of Betancourt Bay and the idyllic cottage that was to be her summer hideaway.
