The Cliff House: A beautiful and addictive story of loss and longing

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‘I hope it’s cooked as you like it,’ Max said, as he lifted a whole steak onto my plate.

‘Thank you. Yes.’

Max began to vigorously cut into his steak. ‘I must say, it’s lovely to have you with us, Tamsyn. A real treat to have a proper local as our guest. Especially such a lovely one.’

Then he smiled at me and I smiled back because it was possibly the nicest thing he could have said.

Eleanor reached for her champagne glass and drained it.

‘Be careful not to drink too much in this heat, darling,’ he said to her.

Eleanor ignored him and took a mouthful of steak. She grimaced. ‘Christ, I can’t eat this,’ she opened her mouth and pulled out the piece of meat which she put on the side of her plate. ‘It’s tougher than leather.’

‘Why don’t you have half of mine,’ Max said coolly as he took a sip of wine. ‘It’s incredibly tender.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

I momentarily considered asking if I could take it home to give to my grandad, but decided against it. Eleanor rapidly tapped her perfectly painted fingernail against the table as if punching out Morse code, then she reached for the carton beside her plate. She opened the lid to reveal cigarettes inside which were unlike any I’d ever seen before. Each one a different colour with a filter of shiny gold foil. She selected a red one and lit it.

Eleanor drew on her cigarette then turned to look at me before leaning forward and jabbing my shoulder a couple of times.

‘If you sat up straight and pushed your shoulders back you’d look much more elegant at the table.’

This drew a sharp glance from Edie. ‘For God’s sake,’ she muttered.

‘Don’t be silly. I’m helping, that’s all.’ She smiled at me. ‘You don’t mind do you, Tamsyn?’

I shook my head. I didn’t mind at all. In fact, I was grateful to Eleanor. Yes, her manner was a little brusque, but I was happy to have her point out the things I did wrong. I glanced at Edie who was looking fixedly out to sea, then sat up in my seat, straightening my back and pushing out my shoulders, aware of my chest rising.

Eleanor smiled and sipped her drink. ‘You see, Edie? Now your friend doesn’t look completely like le Bossu de Notre Dame.’

Max cleared his throat. ‘So, Edith, tell me.’ He pressed his serviette to his mouth then placed it carefully on the table. ‘While I’m finishing this magnus opus of mine and your mother is enjoying our little piece of Cornish heaven, how are you planning to use your time while we’re here?’

‘Well, Max.’ She drew out his name and leant towards him. ‘How about I shut myself in my room all day to avoid my family like you do and enjoy a triple vodka for breakfast like she does. That sound okay?’

I inhaled sharply and glanced at Edie in horror. If I used that tone with my mother I’d be sent upstairs before I’d finished my sentence, but Eleanor Davenport merely ignored her so I could only assume she hadn’t heard properly.

Edie stood then picked up a couple of plates and left the table.

It turned out Eleanor Davenport had heard her daughter. ‘Tell me, Tamsyn,’ she said. ‘Do you speak to your mother like that?’

I had no idea what to say. ‘I, well, I—’

‘Of course she does, Ellie.’ Max grinned at me again. ‘She’s a teenage girl. That’s how they speak to their mothers. You wouldn’t want a wallflower for a daughter, now would you?’

Eleanor stared at Max over the rim of her glass. ‘And you’d know all about teenage girls, wouldn’t you?’

There was a jagged edge to Eleanor’s comment and I watched Max’s eyes narrow with anger for the briefest of moments.

Eleanor turned to address me. ‘Tamsyn, do forgive me.’ She stood, stumbling as she did, then steadying herself on the table. ‘I’ve a headache. Max was right about wine in the sunshine. I need to go indoors.’

Max and I watched her retreat back to the house. Without Eleanor or Edie an awkwardness crept over us and I wondered if I should also excuse myself and try to find Edie. I glanced at Max and forced a smile.

‘I’m sure Edith will be back soon.’ He reached across the table to the bowl. His fingers lightly traced the fruit and then settled on a large red apple. He placed it on a small plate to the side of him, then took the knife he’d used for his steak and ran it through the folds of his serviette, leaving a greasy brown mark on the white. He carefully sliced the apple into quarters, then held each piece in turn, made two cuts to remove a triangle of core, and one lengthways to divide each piece in two.

He placed his knife down and held the plate out towards me.

‘Have some,’ he said. ‘They’re delicious. Bought from the farm shop yesterday. Sweetest apples I’ve ever tasted.’

I hesitated but he nodded so I reached for a slice and bit into it.

Max looked at me expectantly. ‘Well?’

He was right. The apple was the sweetest and juiciest I’d ever tried. I smiled at him and took another.

‘What’s your book about?’ I asked as I broke the second slice of apple in two and put half in my mouth.

‘I never talk about my novels until they’re finished. I’m convinced that if I do, I won’t ever finish them. Superstitious nonsense, I know.’

‘You must really like writing.’

This made him laugh though I had no idea why. ‘Hemingway said there’s nothing to writing, all you do is sit at a typewriter and bleed. It’s an obsession. If it wasn’t, we wouldn’t do it. But then again, I know I’m lucky to earn so much money doing something I love and not have to tread the hamster wheel for peanuts in an office somewhere. Plus,’ he said, taking another piece of apple and gesturing at me with it, ‘writers have fictional worlds to escape to, which I’m certain stops us all going completely batty.’

I knew exactly what he meant.

‘Here’s a pearl of wisdom for you. In life always remember you’re the author of your own story.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t let life be something that happens to you. Write it yourself.’

It was the type of thing my dad would probably have said to me. Edie was lucky to have her father still. To have him alive and eating apples, not drowned and buried in a coffin in the ground.

Max patted the table then stood. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Enough of that nonsense. My book calls.’

‘Thank you for supper,’ I said, pleased I’d remembered it was supper not tea.