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You know that thing where you’ve no idea what someone’s talking about? As the solicitor’s words float past me I gaze at Sophie, who’s effortlessly managed to nail looking cool and in control. Even though it’s barely nine and she’s bouncing Maisie on her knee, there’s not a crinkle in her perfectly pressed pale blue chinos, or the hint of that humungous hangover she’s penciled in for. Sophie’s the only person I know who could juggle a baby and a fistful of carrot sticks and still keep her top pristine white. I stare past her through the small paned window to the cottages clustering along the harbour’s edge. As the morning sun sparks off the water I blink away the shadow of a headache, curse those tricksy cocktail cups, and force myself to concentrate. ‘Sorry?’
Behind the desk, George Trenowden lets out a sigh. We only managed to wave at each other last night, but in the office, he’s way bigger than he looked across the gallery. This big blond bear of a guy apparently handles so much business for Sophie they’re on bestie terms. Even though Trenowden, Trenowden and Trenowden have been managing the tenanted flat since it was left to me all those years ago, the only other time I came to their office, the Trenowden I saw was a generation older and in Penzance. Although I’d say wrenching our hands off with his hand shake when we arrived came across as more painful than friendly. Despite my fingers still being in recovery, I’m crossing them tightly, hoping he was out on the deck when I lost my netting last night.
Even worse, what if he’s looking across the desk, and doing that thing where he can’t help seeing last night’s mermaid outfit superimposed on top of the flowery cotton dress I put on earlier, mistakenly thinking it was spring? This is why fancy dress should be banned. And why I make sure I move often enough to leave the embarrassing stuff behind. With any luck, in a minute he’ll say something I can understand.
‘The flat your grandmother left you, which is finally vacant? The reason you’re here?’ He cocks a pale eyebrow at me, checking I’m back in the room. ‘I understand Laura chose to pass it on to you rather than her grandsons.’
I shrug, fix my gaze on the toe of my suede ankle boot and spot what looks a lot like a soggy rice crispie cluster. Hurrah to Sophie’s kid’s and their overflowing cereal bowls, although organic and soaked in almond milk doesn’t help me here. As for the shoes, I know mine will be the only feet in St Aidan not in flip flops or baseball boots, but I had heels welded to my feet when I was fourteen so I’d look less dumpy. Even if St Aidan is a heel wearer’s minefield of granite steps and sand piles, for the short time I’m here I’ll work with them. And where do I put a piece of stray breakfast in a solicitor’s office? As I pick it off and close my hand around it, I’m wishing I’d kept my I’d rather be shoe shopping sleep shirt on, if only to express how much I’d rather be anywhere else than here.
It sounds ridiculous to say that me and my late grandmother weren’t related, but that’s how it is in my head. Mostly I know Laura from her neat pointy handwriting on parcels that arrived on every significant day throughout my childhood. She must have been one of those people who are great at buying presents because the contents were usually spot on. But the excitement was mostly eclipsed by how tetchy they made my otherwise happy mum. When Laura died and the flat unexpectedly came to me, I was too busy partying to take much notice. The rent covered the maintenance, the solicitors handled everything, and up until now I’ve managed to pretty much dodge the reality of being a property owner. As for the rest of Laura’s family details, I’m deliberately in the dark. For my whole life, I’ve made it my business to know as little about the Marlows as I can.
‘I’m not sure about her other grandchildren, she wasn’t my actual …’ I tail off, then as Sophie sends me a smile, I try again. ‘Apart from when I was small I never really knew her.’
My biological dad chose to jump the channel rather than be with my mum and me, but as the old saying goes, I didn’t miss what I never had. My mum was the best. With the two of us in our little cottage there really wasn’t space for a dad. And that’s why my extended mermaid family have always been so important to me. Then when I was five my mum fell in love with a man called Harry who was worth the trouble, so Harry’s the one I count as my real father. When someone has your back every moment while you’re growing up and beyond, that top trumps absent DNA a thousand times. Which is probably why I feel like a fraud sitting here now, claiming something that doesn’t feel as if it should be mine.
George clears his throat and smiles at me. ‘By the way, no ill effects after yesterday, I hope, Clementine?’
I smile back, cringing inside, hoping I don’t have the foggiest what he’s talking about. ‘Ill effects?’
His face cracks into a grin. ‘St Aidan Sirens’ Charter, rule sixty-seven, stealing tails is strictly forbidden.’
Shit. So, he is looking at me and seeing a mermaid. And he must have seen my ‘worst moment’ too. I grit my teeth, but before I can mumble a reply, Sophie jumps in.
‘No sea life was harmed during the launch party. You know how stringent our wildlife and nature policies are, you drafted the damn things. Shall we move on now?’
‘Sure.’ George sounds reluctant. ‘They were fabulous costumes though. I’ll pass that on to Charlie Hobson too. He’ll be very relieved to hear you survived and won’t be suing.’
Oh my days. I could have done without a name check for my grumpy accidental tail stealer. I can’t blame George for letting his mind wander off his legal job first thing on a Thursday morning, but someone needs to get this man back on task before I expire with embarrassment. ‘Weren’t we talking about matriarchy?’ Maybe I was listening after all.
‘Right. Thanks for the reminder, Clementine. Passing property down the female line is well documented, but the point in your case is, whatever her son’s actions, Laura didn’t want you to be short changed. Looking through the papers, it’s obvious she wanted the best for you. And she was also wise enough to let the flat on a long tenancy, so you only took possession and had the deeds transferred into your name when you were mature enough to handle it.’ He sends a glance Sophie’s way to check she’s approving. Although, if she wasn’t, realistically she’d have butted in by now and shut him up. ‘So now the tenant has finally moved out, I assume you’re here to pick up the keys before we finalise the legal side?’
Sophie’s nodding enthusiastically enough for both of us.
Although I’ve known about this for the best part of fifteen years, it’s as if I’m staring the enormity of it in the face for the first time. And being called Clementine is so rare it actually makes me feel like he’s talking to someone else rather than me. Not that I mean to behave like a spoiled, ungrateful bitch, but there’s something holding me back. I frown and drag in a breath. ‘I wasn’t ready for a key. Not quite today.’ Although realistically, if not a key, what was I expecting? ‘Actually, I’m not sure I want the flat at all. Now it comes to it, I don’t even want to go there.’
George’s forehead furrows as he takes in the level of my reluctance. But then he smiles the kind of smile that stretches all the way through to his voice. ‘Don’t worry, knowing the background I completely understand. If you’d rather sell, the market’s strong. We could arrange for the contents to be cleared, and handle the sale for you?’
Better and better. ‘Okay …’ I’d got my head round spending a couple of weeks in blustery old Cornwall, but this way I can head straight back to Paris and ease my itchy feet.
George picks up a picture from the desk and starts to rub some invisible dust off. ‘The flat’s a little tired, or as the agents say, “ripe for restoration”. But with those open vistas across the bay, no doubt buyers will be queueing up.’
‘It has sea views?’ The mention of restoration had Sophie quivering, but her last lurch of excitement is so large she almost launches Maisie over the desk. ‘Where is it exactly?’ She whips round and fixes me with the same ‘ravenous wolf’ look that took her cosmetics from her kitchen table to John Lewis best-sellers in under ten years.
I give a clueless shrug. ‘Somewhere between the harbour and the sea front. The last time I was there I probably wasn’t tall enough to see out of the window.’ I went there as a child, before Laura moved to be closer to her son. I can picture a velvet chair the colour of a flamingo. A musical box. Serious amounts of cake and icing. Then my mum pulling me across the cobbled quayside, hurrying us back up to our cottage up the hill.
George puts down the photo and looks up. ‘It’s a top floor flat in Seaspray Cottage, the rambling pile at the far end of the quay.’
Sophie lets out a shriek. ‘Not the place with peeling paint and the long ocean facing balcony?’
‘That’s the one.’ He nods.
She rounds on him. ‘Shit a brick, George, if you’d told me that I wouldn’t have let Clemmie mess around for weeks. I’d have had her on the next plane home.’
He’s laughing at her now. ‘However much you bully me, I can’t tell you all my secrets.’
She sniffs. ‘You never actually tell me any.’ Then she turns to me. ‘Are you bat-shit crazy, Clemmie? Of course, we’ll take the damn keys. You’re looking, not committing, okay?’
The reminder of commitment sets my alarm bells jangling. ‘What about repairs? And common areas? And meter readings?’ If I sound absurd and random it’s because these are my mum’s questions not mine. In the depths of my bag there’s a crumpled reality-check list she wrote out for me before she left for South America. If I’d intended to use it, I’d have read it more carefully.
George blows out his cheeks. ‘The Residents’ Committee handles most things. They’ve been a bit fierce with their rules over the years. But let’s deal with the detail down the line.’
Sophie catches my appalled groan. ‘Sweat the boring stuff later, Clems. Only when you have to. Do you have the keys?’ Then her hand shoots out across the desk, George’s drawer opens and the keys drop into her palm before I’ve stopped choking. She jingles them at George as she shoves Maisie and I towards the door. ‘Expect us back in half an hour.’
‘Lovely to have you in the office, Clementine.’ Before you can say ‘soggy cereal’, George has my hand and its contents in the kind of power press that could crush molecules.
Whatever the theories on disappearing dark matter, when I get my palm back it’s entirely crispie free. Maybe George won’t be quite so pleased when Maisie’s breakfast resurfaces on his designer suit.
He calls after us. ‘Make sure you work your magic, Sophie Potato. St Aidan could definitely do with another mermaid.’
As Sophie propels me past the empty desk in reception, I let out a shocked squawk. ‘Did he just call you Sophie Potato?’ That was her name from when we were kids, because she refused to eat anything other than Smash. It went nicely with Nellie Melon and Victoria Plum.
She lets out a laugh. ‘First rule of great business, keep your enemies close and your solicitor closer. He can be quite playful once he lets himself go, those childhood names of ours are a great way to get him to loosen up. When he hears you’re Clemmie Orangina, there won’t be any more of this Clementine shit. Have you noticed how much he sounds like he’s got a poker rammed up his butt when he gives you your full title?’ There’s no room for a reply, because she’s spotted a cardboard sign that’s propped on the desk where the receptionist should be sitting. She snatches it up. ‘Yay, Trenowden, Trenowden and Trenowden have a short-term vacancy for a front of house assistant. Their usual treasure Janet is off because her daughter’s had twins. How auspicious is that? Talk about good timing and heaven sent all rolled into one.’
I’m picking up my jaw off the floor as she rams the sign into her changing bag. ‘Tell me you’re not stealing their sign?’
Her grin is inscrutable. ‘Borrowing’s a better word. Winning for Beginners, watch and learn. No point leaving the job ad lying around when the perfect applicant is already in the building.’
As I screw up my face, I’m squeaking. ‘You’ve got four children, a factory, and a marketing team. How do you have time to do extra hours?’ Sophie has always been big on moonlighting, and huge on ambition. But even for a high achieving workaholic, adding this job in is ridiculous.
She lets out a laugh. ‘Not me, silly, this one’s got your name all over it. It’ll be a perfect fit while you refurbish the flat. Let’s face it, you’re going to need to earn something to pay for paint. And seeing as it’s temporary, you won’t feel trapped.’
Considering George just gave me the perfect get out for the flat, she’s jumping ahead to a place I don’t intend to go. ‘Who said anything about decorating?’ Apart from anything else, the biggest area I’ve painted in my entire life is my nails. And although I like a colour change every day I have trouble with them if they get too long.
‘Not meaning to be ageist, but the flat’s bound to be old-person magnolia. A quick lick of warm white and the occasional feature wall will add thousands to the sale price. You have to do it.’ The determined set of her jaw tells me it’s pointless to object. ‘More importantly, think of all the hot guys who come to see George. Once you’re behind that desk, we’ll find you a keeper before you can say, “Power of Attorney”.’
I thought I made it clear last night. ‘Don’t confuse me with Nell here, I’m not the one who’s heartbroken, lonely and on the lookout. I’m single because I love my freedom. I just spent three months not hooking up with ten million Parisians, I don’t see anyone from tiny, dull St Aidan changing my mindset.’
She lets out a sigh. ‘Globe trotting’s great when you’re twenty. But perpetual motion isn’t the answer to inner happiness and harmony when you’re the wrong side of thirty.’
I have to tell her. ‘Quite apart from the Hygge shit, you sound as “stay at home and boring” as my mum.’ She used to love me travelling because it’s what she wanted to do but never did. But since I passed the big three zero she comes out with Sophie’s mantra so often she sounds like she’s on repeat.
‘That would be your amazing mum who’s so un-adventurous she’s currently spending six months on a Peruvian mountain top?’ Her triumphant nod as she pushes through the exit door says she thinks she’s won this round.
‘They’re visiting hillside villages not climbing peaks.’ She and Harry have gone to spend six months working on an out-reach health education programme.
‘You know what I mean.’ Sophie grins over her shoulder at me. ‘And right on cue to prove my point about George’s handsome client base, look who’s coming.’
‘Oh shit.’ My headache was easing, but a full-frontal view of Charlie Hobson speeding towards us across the cobbles has my brain hammering against my skull again. When I party in Paris I can’t find people afterwards even if I want to. Here in St Aidan, it’s not even nine and the guy I’d hoped never to see again is right under my nose.
Sophie jumps in. ‘Hello, Charlie, how are you this morning?’
He wiggles his eyebrows at Maisie but by the time he looks up again he’s frowning at his phone. ‘Running late, but thanks for the party last night.’ As he pops his head round to where I’m skulking behind the changing bag he still hasn’t cracked a smile. That far-away, empty look in his eyes has to come from too many dodgy deals. ‘No tail today? Did someone do a better job of stealing it than me … or did you decide Friday was a good day to be a human?’
I can’t believe what he’s handed me here. ‘Actually, it’s Thursday.’ I pause for the words to sink in. ‘In which case you’re probably a day early for your appointment.’
He pulls a face. ‘Thanks for reminding me.’ He flashes a glance at Sophie. ‘Any confusion, blame the cocktails. Next time you serve dynamite in a tea pot maybe you should warn the guests.’
Sophie rises above that and narrows her eyes at me. ‘There you go, girl, you’re a natural.’ She turns her focus onto Charlie. ‘Put a word in for Clemmie with George, she’s first in the queue to be his new receptionist, just what he needs to put his customers at ease.’
I purse my lips and stay silent. The only way to deal with Sophie in her ‘conquer the world’ mood is to go with her. Then clear up the wreckage afterwards.
‘I will – even if she does make me mix my days up.’ He sighs, then as he swings through the door to his appointment his face finally creases into a grimace rather than a smile. ‘Although any day’s a great day for a deal.’
I groan and wait for the door to close. ‘Did he really say that? And there goes proof that looks and personality don’t always go together.’ Although Maisie seems smitten. And when he finally managed that sardonic wince he did have those creases in his cheeks that make your knees give way. And teeth. Beautiful, not-quite-perfect incisors. ‘Imagine if you had to face that every morning, you’d be so queasy breakfast would be impossible.’ And damn for letting that slip out.
Sophie raises an eyebrow. ‘Queasy? What kind of queasy?’
I push my hand on my stomach to stall the churning and swallow hard. ‘No, you’re right, it would take more than the thought of ugly buildings to put me off my pain au chocolat.’ I think I got away with that. Swooning at alpha males is what we take the piss out of, not what we do. Like everyone else on the harbour, I’ll blame the cocktails.
Sophie’s frown is rivalling Charlie’s. ‘According to Nate, the Hobson signature move is to buy up rows of cottages one by one, then bulldoze them and shoe horn super-expensive flats into the plots. No doubt about it, he’s here to price out the locals and destroy our village.’
‘Trouble on legs then.’ Although I suspect I knew that already.
She nods. ‘The man’s a wrecker. He does exactly the same with large detached villas.’
‘Everything we don’t want here.’ I’m surprised how fighty and defensive I feel considering how happy I usually am to wave goodbye to the place.
Sophie’s nostrils are flaring. ‘He’s hell bent on buying up St Aidan one brick at a time. Although obviously, we aren’t going to let him.’ She gives me a significant stare. ‘We could do with keeping close tabs on him, if you fancy building on your acquaintance. However crass he sounds he’s not short on smoulder.’
Sometimes I think she’s deaf. ‘Absolutely not.’ It comes out so loud, I have to back pedal. ‘Thanks all the same. Now how about seeing this flat?’ And who’d have thought I’d be rushing her into this?
3 (#uada80eec-a092-58c0-b151-4d07c112936f)
At Seaspray Cottage
Thunderstorms and Surprise Rainbows
Thursday
‘So what do you think, Clemmie? Can you remember any of it?’
Sophie and I are standing outside Seaspray Cottage with our backs to the turning tide as we take in the peeling render, the slender bay windows, and a slate roof that’s shining like hammered silver against the cornflower sky. The paintwork is weathered to the colour of the beach and the letters on the name board are so faded the only way we know we’re in the right place is the balcony above that looks so precarious it could be held up by invisible hooks to the sky. As we make our way towards the front door the slant of the steps makes me stagger.
‘When George said “past its sell by date”, that was an understatement. It’s shot to frigg, end of story. Time to walk away?’ I wasn’t expecting to be proved right quite this soon.
Sophie sounds thoughtful. ‘A lot of people think patina is characterful. In any case, the cottage is bound to get all the weather because it’s placed to get the views in three directions.’
I’m scrunching up my face as I wrack my brain. ‘I don’t remember it being at a dead end.’ Somehow the cottage is marooned beyond the quayside where the road runs out into a small path across the dunes that cuts through to the sea front. With every wind gust the sand’s blowing up the beach, over the low boundary wall, and drifting into the garden that extends back beyond the sides of the cottage. Although it’s small in scale, with its three storeys and repeating windows, it’s larger than it looks at first.
Sophie’s suppressing a smile. ‘As it’s so close to the sea I’m guessing the name is more real than romantic.’
Worse and worse. ‘You mean the water actually blasts against the windows?’ Not that I was enthusiastic to begin with, but imagining cold brine hammering on the glass on stormy days is making my shivers seismic.
She laughs. ‘Don’t worry, it’s only Seaspray Cottage, not Splash House or Tidal Wave Towers.’ Shifting Maisie in her arms, Sophie fishes in her bag for the keys. ‘Now we’ve come this far we might as well go in and see the dereliction inside.’
Instead of the anticipated struggle with a rust encrusted lock, the key turns easily, and the door swings open without a creak. Then as we step into a pale buff hallway filled with splashes of sunlight the familiarity is so jarring my feet stop moving before I’ve stepped off the neat coir door mat.
‘The smell’s just the same. How strange is that?’
Sophie wrinkles her nose and somehow manages not to crash into my back. ‘Fresh salty air … and the beeswax on those ancient floor boards?’
My words come slowly, as if I’m dragging them from very far away. ‘With a hint of rosemary and thyme … because that’s what grew in the herb patch at the side of the cottage. They used to mix the leaves into the polish.’ There isn’t time to wonder how I know that because I’m darting forwards again. ‘And there’s the staircase, at the end of the hall.’ Even though I can’t see past the first flight of steps, I already know. ‘On the way to the top floor it winds so tightly the steps run out to nothing at the edge. And there are creaky bits on the landing where the boards groan.’ Like timbers on an old ship. Wasn’t that what Laura used to say?
Sophie’s giving me a searching look. ‘The paintwork’s better in here too. Are we going for a look?’
My diffident shrug is misleading. The weird thing is, I couldn’t stay away now even if I wanted to. I’m trying to play down that there’s an invisible force drawing me upwards. ‘We might as well. Before we do the sensible thing and leave.’ My fingers are already stroking the silky smoothness of the bannister rail.
I wind my way up two floors so fast that by the time Sophie arrives, panting from carrying Maisie, I’m already at the landing window that opens onto the balcony, staring across the expanse of sand to where the sea is glinting way down the beach.
‘I’m ignoring that stupendous view for now. Here you go … flat six.’ Sophie waves another key, and one click later the door on the left of the window is ajar.
I hold my breath as I tiptoe in. Then as I look around at a room crammed with cosy sofas and tables and shelves full of books I let out a gasp. ‘Oh my, the same furniture’s still here, it’s like I’ve flipped back thirty years.’ Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t to step into a time warp. Although up until this moment, just like with the thyme, and the creaky stairs, I’d mostly forgotten. And obviously now I’m seeing it as an adult, I’m appreciating the whole arty Bohemian patchwork of the room that I never saw as a child. ‘It’s still got the same cosy warmth, but I never realised it was quite this pretty or perfect.’
Sophie’s patting a threadbare silk cushion, and fingering the corner of a stripy crocheted throw. ‘Somehow I assumed it would be empty. We were wrong about the magnolia too.’
I’m blinking at the paint colours. There’s raspberry and peacock and emerald and purple and orange and turquoise, although they’re so worn and faded they merge like a water colour painting. ‘It’s like someone’s tried every sample pot in the range.’ Although that’s wrong, because every clash works perfectly. I push through a scuffed turquoise door into a tiny hall and on into the next room, where the paint I can see in the gaps between an entire wall of pictures is shades of cerise.
Sophie follows me, nodding. ‘Antique pink for the bedroom, you can’t argue with that. And a high painted brass bedstead covered in silk quilts, how comfy does that look?’
I’m with her on that but I don’t reply because I’ve already moved on to the bathroom. I let out a cry when I see the freestanding bath, then smile at the high cistern hanging on the wall above the loo. ‘I had to climb up on a stool to pull that chain, and then run like the wind because the flush sounds like thunder. And those claws on the bath feet used to give me goosebumps.’ We pass another smaller greener box room, and go back through to the living room.
Sophie’s shaking her head in awe at the mismatched rugs. ‘This makes me want to ditch neutral and be more adventurous with colour.’ Her farmhouse is a mix of understated taste and expensive perfection, all in tones of white. Understandably, it took her and Nate years of effort and shit loads of cash to achieve. It probably only looks so beautiful and effortless and calming and uncluttered because every last knob, cushion and curtain tie has had the arse designed off it. ‘So what haven’t we seen yet?’
My hand’s already on the door knob at the other end of the living room. ‘I think this must be the kitchen.’ Then, as I go in and take in the shelves filled with bowls and bright coloured plates and mugs and dishes, and the rows of hanging saucepans over the range cooker, it hits me. ‘I know what’s missing here today. Laura loved to cook, so the flat was always filled with the smell of fresh baking.’
Sophie shifts Maisie onto her other hip, and leans across the windowsill to peep through one of the round topped windows. ‘Amazing, you can see all the way to the houses at the end of St Aidan bay from here.’ She turns to the rectangular table, squeezed in the centre. ‘And look at those mismatched chairs and those fabulous patterned tiles by the sink.’
I can’t help grinning. ‘George mentioned it was worn out, but you have to love the petrol blue paint, and the hotch potch of cupboards, and the way that apple green dresser is properly distressed from years of use.’ It’s also groaning under the weight of a thousand recipe books. I run my hand over the work surface between the pottery sink and the cooker and shake my head as the memories come rushing back. ‘This was where I used to sit when I helped Laura make butterfly buns in flowery paper cases.’ Although mainly I was interested in licking out the mixing bowl. It’s funny, although it’s decades since I thought about that, I can imagine the vanilla sweetness of the buttercream and the crunch of the hundreds-and-thousands sprinkles as if it was yesterday.
‘Probably the last time you went into a kitchen, was it?’ Sophie gives me a gentle dig with her elbow. ‘Until you stuck those macaroons together yesterday?’ The mermaids never pass up an opportunity to point out how shit I am at cooking, although I get that from my mum. She’s so bad Harry’s in charge at home, and before Harry we relied on stab and zap and pitying neighbours. Even so, when it comes to eating, mum and I are equally enthusiastic. You only have to look at my Insta pics to know that. #gateauxofinstagram. The last four months I’ve made it my business to visit and test out most of the patisseries in Paris. I let out a sigh as I think of those fabulous glazed fruit tarts and my favourite mille-feuille custard pastry stacks, topped with the prettiest feathered icing.
I wander back through for a last look at the living room. As I perch on the edge of a velvet chair and stare out through the double doors that open to the outside from the living room, Sophie sinks down on a sofa bursting with cushions, and drops Maisie onto her knee.
‘Tempted to go out on the balcony?’
‘No chance.’ I peer at the gaps between the sun-bleached planks. ‘I’d rather sky dive, at least that way I’d be falling with a parachute.’ I let out another sigh, because I hadn’t expected to care about some rotten wood, let alone be disappointed at not getting to stand out there and feel the wind whipping through my hair.
Sophie sends me one of those searching glances of hers that pierce right through you. ‘So has coming here made you change your mind about rushing into selling?’
