She did know about making up beds, though, and she very much knew the feeling of absolutely missing going home to her own bed. As she’d pondered the idea and cleaned and rearranged the bedroom further, she realised a funny thing. When she’d been away, it wasn't five-star hotel sheets or hospital corners that had been her bed problem. It was that she’d missed her own cosy things. The sort of crumpled, slightly dishevelled, little bit worn bed that smelt of English washing powder, line drying in the sun or not as the case may be, home and love. There hadn’t been a lot of that in random five-star hotel rooms around the world. Hotel sheets were sanitised until the cows came home, put on beds by people who, let’s face it, would rather be doing something else and were always just that little bit tooperfect, so that sometimes you didn’t even want to get in. It was a home bed with comfy sheets that had been washed for years that Tilly had missed. The pillowcases in their own funny little way had helped with that, which is why she’d always found herself reaching for them and putting them on.
With the feeling of missing one’s own bed in mind, Tilly had mulled over the idea of bedding as she’d continued working on the shed. Sitting at the little table by the window with a blue pearly light coming off the water, a fresh pot of tea in front of her and a lot of questions she’d pondered for ages. Then she’d done what her dad had taught her to do when thinking about a failing business and its problem: write down what you had, estimate what it would cost and examine the gap between the two. With her chin in her hands, her laptop open and a notebook by her side, she did precisely that. The gap was telling her quite a lot. What she had was not much, but it was just enough if she played her cards right.
Her divorce money, the quiet little sum she'd kept well clear of Lennixx's eyes and ears for four years, was the one and only thing she'd carried out of her marriage that was worth a bean. Nearly all would go into Margery's bank account, leaving her with only a small amount to get by on. When you got down to the brass tacks of it, she had enough to get by for a few months and some to invest in an idea, but not a lot else.
Tapping her pen against the table, she nodded, mused and considered what the bedding idea as a business would actually need. Stock, the linen itself, even at seconds prices or, if possible, mates' rates from Inês, even by the kilo, would not be cheap. The shipping from the back of beyond in Portugal to a jetty on an island off the south coast of England most probably an arm and a leg. Then things like packaging, the legal stuff, labels and whatnot. A website and selling portal would be paramount, plus investment in social media and advertising. Looking around,Tilly knew there was one thing she wouldn't need: a place to take photos. The shed had little spots with amazing light and great backdrops almost everywhere. With its view in the equation too, the marketing side of it would sell itself.
Noting down everything she could think of and rough numbers, Tilly totted up and blinked. This was the bit her dad had calledthe flinch. The moment in every deal where the sums came up bigger than you'd thought, which was why, a few years in, most small businesses failed. That was the point when you knew whether to proceed if you had the stomach for it.Most people flinch, that's the whole game. Not being cleverer than the next fella.
The thing was, Tilly only just about had enough money, so it was ahugegamble. That was the truth of it, and no amount of looking at the gap was going to close it. What she had was a shed, a good eye for things, offcut seconds in Portugal that she’d fallen in love with, and her own two hands. There was another thing she’d overlooked, and that was the fact that her dad had instilled in her a love of small business and more; in her bones, she could feel when one would fail or do well.
Opening her laptop, Tilly started to draft an email. Another thing her dad had always rammed down her throat:strike while the iron’s hot.
22
Tilly had, as she’d worked on the shed, continued to muse more and more on the bedding idea. She’d googled all sorts, read stories about how some big names had started in the industry and had found mostly that there was nothing and no one offering the thing that had plopped into her head. After a huge deep dive in and out of the depths of the interwebs, she’d gleaned that nearly every bedding company offered fifty shades of white, with one company even using it as their name. To be frank, Tilly’d had a gutful of white sheets, and her idea was on the complete other end of the stick. Her idea saw thick slubs, deep shades of misty blues, berry-toned reds and lovely deep ginghams in all shades of the colour spectrum. She could see the bed in the shed layered with piles of thick, gorgeous linen and the exquisite Darling light filtering through the window.
After a lot more thinking, as she’d scraped moss off the deck and with no sign of the incoming storm, Tilly had decided to go out for a walk to explore a bit more of Darling. Putting her trainers on and with her brain full of the joys of sleeping in pure linen, she got going. Working out a route on her phone to avoid the oyster beds, mud or anything of its ilk, she vowed to keepher eyes peeled for signs and would use the fresh air to think through the business idea some more.
Setting off along the harbour road and along the track to the coastal path, it was a good day for a walk. Bright, not too chilly, a light wind coming off the water, and a freshness in the air the likes of which Fiji was not familiar with. Walking the full length of the headland section, out past the lighthouse point and back, she stood for a while at the spot where the path widened, and the view opened up in both directions. The mainland, low and green, looked back at her, the ferry crossed over below, and she could see the trams not far from the ferry coming in and out. Not a bad spot to sit and ponder how one was going to make money selling flawed linen sheets.
Starting to make her way back down, she said hello to a couple of people, stopped at a small kiosk next to a pub, bought a cup of tea and after checking her map, veered off down a narrow lane which, if she was correct, led to a public footpath that would cut through a small wood and deliver her via a stile not far from the Boat Shed. Sipping her tea on a footpath to the left of the lane, Tilly marvelled at the light coming through a canopy of trees and the fact that one day Darling could be blanketed in fog, the next suddenly throw up a blue-sky day with sunshine and all sorts. Strolling along, she stopped on the left-hand side beside an opening in the hedge where a homemade timber swing hung from a ginormous oak tree. Caught up in the gloriousness of the weather, the fresh air and the fact that she had now found herself living somewhere with pretty coastal lanes complete with picture-perfect swings, she hopped on.
Swinging back and forth, the wind whipped her hair; she pushed her legs in and out in order to get some momentum going and, quite frankly, loved it. With the horizon dipping up and down in front of her, Tilly squealed out a little whoop of pleasure. This was the life. Not for the first time since she’dboarded the plane back in Fiji, she was just so pleased to be back in England. With the wind whooshing through her hair, she beamed. Talk about going back to one's youth. Lost in a world of her own with her mind racing to when her dad had pushed her on a swing at the back of their garden, Tilly hummed away to herself. La la la.
Once the swing had nearly stopped, she decided, just as she had as a girl, to jump. However, girlfriend’s legs were not quite as young, supple or coherent. Nor were her eyes quite as sharp. They had failed to inform her about an exposed tree root going straight over the pathway. Going down fast as her foot struck the tree root, she stumbled, made herself right, hit another tree root with her left foot, toppled and thudded into a thick gorse hedge.
First of all, she didn't feel anything. All good. Apart from the highly embarrassing tumble, she'd survived the exit from the swing unscathed, so it seemed. That didn’t last long, and as if she’d been struck, pain all arrived at once. Both palms had more or less taken the full force of the bush, ditto her right cheek. She could feel spines just about everywhere. Sitting back on her heels, she looked down at her hands to see dozens of fine, pale yellow spines poking into her skin. Small beads of blood traced across both palms, fingers, and her right forearm had a series of deep scratches from wrist to elbow. Bleeding in thin parallel lines on her shins, her face felt hot on the right side.
Turning over and plonking herself down at the bottom of the tree, the swing continued to move back and forth, and as she tried to pick a spine out of her right palm with her left hand, the only thing that happened was a redistribution of the pain. With blood coming from the top of her right arm, Tilly tried to remember something she'd learnt on the first aid course on the cruise ship. Digging around in her bag, she found a cotton scarf, folded it into a pad and slapped it on the wound. Now what?
The effort of even thinking made her eyes water as Tilly reviewed the number of spines in just about every exposed part of her skin. Not sure what to do, she stayed where she was and looked up and down the lane. There were a few houses to the right, not too far from the ferry, but really, if she went that way, she might as well head back to the shed. Deciding to just sit for a minute, she did nothing except look up at the sky with wide eyes, wondering how one minute she’d been swinging away, the next facepalming a gorse bush. Once she'd caught her breath, she'd be fine. Then she'd work out a plan, get home, and get a bandage sorted.
Turning onto her side and raising her right arm to keep it elevated, she manoeuvred herself into a position so that with her other hand she could check her phone regarding how far it was to get back to the Shed. That, however, didn’t work because of too much pain in her left elbow. So gingerly lowering herself down until she was lying with her right hand elevated, her left cheek on the pathway, and her phone in front of her face, she tried to remain calm.
At that stage in the procedure, she heard a rustle, a low snuffling and then a very sweet, chocolate brown furry face appeared not too far away. Stopping when he saw her, Stanley went as still as a statue, as if trying to work out what was happening. As Tilly realised that most probably Stanley wouldn't be alone, she felt her whole face crumple. Stanley's owner had already witnessed her up to her knees in mud, and now here she was face-planting dirt and more or less covered in gorse spines.
'What in the world? I thought it was you! Are you lying on the side of the road on your phone? What the? I truly have seen it all now. What in the name of God are you doing?'
Tilly moved her chin up in the direction of the root but kept her head on the ground. 'Trying to see how far it is to get home.'
‘From down there?’
'I was on the swing. I jumped to get off and tripped over that root.'
'Who jumps on a swing like that in a deserted lane? That thing is a death trap waiting to happen. Just about anyadultknows that.'
The pain in Tilly's arm meant she was not in the mood for Otto and his grumpiness. She did like the view of his legs from down below, though. Other parts looked fairly attractive too. Swearing at him, she followed her very blue words with a hiss, 'Go. Away. Get your stupid old dog and your rude effing words and leave me alone.'
'Charming! Do not insult Stanley. Can you get up?'
Tilly again swore and told Otto to get lost. She was actually quite impressed by the way she shouted at him, considering the pain zipping up and down her whole being. Stuff him and his Alpha Male schtick. He might be gorgeous, but she’d had a gutful of his species. 'Get. Lost. Now.'
Otto manoeuvred Stanley out of the way, tied him to a tree and bobbed down and looked at the now blood-soaked scarf. 'Is it painful?'
'No, it's not at all painful. That's why I am currently lying in a lane, elevating it. As I said, leave me alone. I do not need you to rescue me, thank you very much. You are not playing the knight in shining armour role again. I am fine. Off you trot.'
Otto rolled his eyes. 'Okay, let's get you up.'
