‘Ah, yes,’ Tom said. ‘I’ve got one more snippet of info. Which you may or may not want to hear.’
He grimaced slightly.
‘Louise?’ Cara said.
‘The very same.’
‘So tell.’
‘She’s sacked Claire as her agent. It came as a bit of a shock. Anyway, she’s gone off to New York apparently.’
‘A perfect end to a perfect evening, I’d say,’ Cara said, smiling, doing her best to keep ‘smug-satisfied’ from her voice but knowing she’d failed miserably.
‘Me too.’
As the party had wrapped itself noisily around her, Cara had glanced across the room and seen Tom and Claire talking earnestly. She’d wondered then what it might have been about but guessed now what it might have been.
She’d turned her attention to the slightly surreal scene being acted out in her own sitting room, with everyone having made an effort to dress, well, in an arty fashion so they stood out, but not in an ostentatious way. Well, apart from Rosie, but she was never going to change, and thank goodness for that. Cara had heard her giggling earlier as she said a very noisy, kissy-kissy, goodnight to Luke on the doorstep. Cara had said he could stop the night too if Rosie wanted him to, but she’d held up her hands in mock-horror and said she didn’t do sex on the first date, but if the offer was still open tomorrow she’d take Cara up on it.
‘So Claire’s swapped Louise for Janey?’ Cara said. She knew writers had agents, but she’d had no idea artists did too.
‘She has,’ Tom said. ‘It’s a myth that artists starve in their garrets waiting for recognition! They have to get out there and sell themselves these days, or pay a fee for someone to do it for them.’
‘You might have starved in yours,’ Cara said, pointing to the ceiling where Tom’s room was overhead, ‘had I not taken pity on you and left food parcels!’
‘And very delicious it all was, too,’ Tom said. ‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach and all that.’ He leaned in to kiss Cara, very noisily, on the cheek.
‘No other way?’ Cara quipped.
‘Might be,’ Tom said with a grin. With his free hand he tapped his heart. ‘And I laid that on the line, didn’t I, when I did that painting of you? Seth Jago did, too, when he painted Emma. A man – or a woman for that matter – can paint with emotion, but he can’t always paint emotion … there’s a difference.’
‘Explain,’ Cara said. There was still an awful lot for her to learn about art. And about Tom.
‘Like I said down at the exhibition, it was love at first sight for me. Okay, I’ll be honest here because it came with a bit of lust and desire thrown in – I’m a man for heaven’s sake!’
‘I’ve noticed. The man bit,’ Cara said, snuggling in further. Soon they would have to move from this position. Soon they would need to talk about the elephant in the room, which was where they would sleep tonight – together or separately. Should she be the one to suggest he join her in her room? Or would Tom make the first move? Or would they just sort of gravitate upstairs, arms wrapped round one another, reluctant to pull apart and go wherever their feet and their hearts took them? Being a Rosie must be so much easier in this sort of situation, but that was why their friendship had lasted and was as good as it was, because they were such different people and respected one another for it.
‘And I noticed,’ Tom said, ‘how very womanly you looked that night, how very desirable. And yet how vulnerable. I’m still noticing.’
Is that what Tom had seen? Someone desirable? She glanced back at him.
‘Noticing? Noticing what?’
That I want you to make love to me, and I want to make love to you right back?
‘That you’re not vulnerable any more. Am I right?’
‘Not like I was then, no,’ Cara said. ‘So much has happened this summer and it’s not quite over yet.’
Cara could list it all: getting back her ring, and her paintings, Rosie giving her a computer and paying for her to have a website made, Mae with her first broken romance and now a new one, and the new chapter in their mother/daughter relationship. All those things had been gifted her in a way. The only thing she’d been pro-active with was setting up Cove End as a B&B … and now possibly a small bistro restaurant with Mae’s input. But to say all that would be self-indulgent at that moment.
‘It’s been a pretty good summer for me, too,’ Tom said. ‘And not just the readies now in my bank account, and the commissions that have come in on the back of the private view. I expect there’ll be more of those over the next two days. Claire wants me to put on an exhibition in London by Christmas … always a good time of year to sell paintings, Christmas. Talking of Christmas … do you have plans?’
Tom had lowered his voice possibly because, like Cara, he’d noticed it had gone very quiet upstairs – no more bathroom noises, no doors shutting, no chatting.
‘Christmas?’ Cara said. Now there was a question she hadn’t been expecting.
‘Yep. Christmas. You know, that time of year for trees and tinsel and presents and carols and goodwill to all men and women. The time for turkey and sausage rolls, Buck’s Fizz, and Morecombe and Wise on the telly. Know it?’
Tom reached around Cara with his free arm, placing it across her waist and pulling her closer to him.
‘I know it,’ Cara laughed.
The last couple of Christmases hadn’t exactly been joyous occasions for her and Mae although she’d done her best to make a special time of it and Rosie had gone overboard with piles of presents all beautifully wrapped.
‘Good,’ Tom said. ‘Save the date!’
‘The date?’
Tom was deliberately talking in riddles and she was deliberately pretending she didn’t understand what he was driving at, although she did … he was expecting her to read between the lines and know that he wanted to still be in her life at Christmas. And possibly to let him know that was what she wanted too.
Cara was beginning to feel slightly drunk on happiness – happiness and hope for the future, a future with Tom – because that’s exactly where she wanted him to be.
‘No one had a more memorable birthday, did they, than the chap whose birthday was the twenty-fifth of December.’
‘Jesus,’ Cara giggled.
‘Him as well.’
‘You?’ Cara spluttered, surprised that while she felt she’d known Tom forever, there really was so much basic stuff she didn’t know. ‘Your birthday is the twenty-fifth of December?’
‘The very day, although I have to say the world makes rather more of His birthday than it does of mine. But I take birthday kisses in advance should there be any going.’
‘Well, in that case,’ Cara said, turning in his arms to offer up her lips, practically drowning in the glow that spread over her as their mouths connected. One thing she did know about Tom was that he was a very, very good kisser.
‘It’s a long time ‘til Christmas,’ Cara said when they eventually pulled apart. ‘There are months and months to go yet. But I think I know how we can fill the time.’
‘You do?’
‘Definitely.’
Cara began to extricate herself from Tom’s arms, and stood up.
She held out her hand to him. Tom took it and stood up too. Slowly they walked towards the door and Cara reached out to turn off the lights. But progress was slow, after more kissing that was getting more passionate by the moment, and Cara was in no doubt now that she was taking the right step.
‘If anyone’s peeping over the banister watching this,’ Tom whispered, ‘they’d be saying, “Get a room already!” Your place or mine?’ he quipped.
‘Neither. The other dormer bedroom is free, the bed made up, the hospitality tray ready and waiting for the morning. I’ve a fancy to see sunrise from that room. I never have.’
‘Never?’
‘No. I think I must have been waiting for the right moment.’
‘And the right moment is now? With me?’
‘Oh yes. Most definitely with you …’
Acknowledgements
When Margaret and Chris Mason go on holiday they generously give me the run of their magnificent home and garden in which to lose myself and dream – there’s no greater gift for a writer.
Again, Charlotte and the team at HarperCollins have expertly guided me from pitch to publication – thank you one and all.
Emails to the two Js – Jennie and Jan – must run into thousands now after nine novels. Girls, you lift my spirits and inspire me on a daily basis – what stars you are.
Thursday afternoons – tea and tiffin, twelve writers sharing their work, their hopes, their dreams. I’m humbled to be one of your number, Brixham Writers – you rock!
My family – Roger, James, Elisabeth, Sarah, Alex, and Emily – listen patiently as I witter on sometimes about characters and plots, scenes and cliff-hangers, and all without too much eye-rolling. Thanks, guys – I love you all so very much.
If you loved The Little B&B at Cove End then turn the page for an exclusive extract from Summer at 23 The Strand…
Chapter One
Early May
Martha
‘I’ll just check your details.’ The clerk behind the desk in the tourist office on the seafront spoke without looking up. Martha, peering out from under the rim of her black straw hat, held her breath. Would the woman detect a lie? A false address? Not a fictitious name as such but not the one the world knew her by? ‘So, that’s Martha Langford? Eighteen Staplethorpe Avenue, Brighton? Right? From one seaside resort to another, eh?’
‘Yes to all that,’ Martha said.
‘Well, you’ll just love it here in Hollacombe, I’m sure. A proper little home from home is how our guests describe Number 23. Here’s the key. You’ll find your chalet is about five hundred yards to your left as you leave this office. One double bedroom, one sitting room with sofabed cum galley kitchen, one loo with basin and shower. All breakages to be paid for. No barbecues on the wooden deck, I’m afraid, because the chalets are wooden. Fire risk, and all that. To be vacated a fortnight from today by 10 a.m. to give the cleaner time to turn it all around before the next occupants. The key with the luggage-label tag on it to be posted through the letterbox here if we’re closed. Any problems—’
‘I’ll sort them,’ Martha interrupted. The last thing she needed was to have to come back here and, possibly, have someone else turn up at Number 23 The Strand to sort out whatever problem she might have. Just standing here, listening to the clerk reciting what she must have recited hundreds of times before, was giving her goose bumps. The sooner she got out of here the better.
‘Of course, this could be the last season this particular chalet is let because it’s up for sale,’ the clerk said as though Martha hadn’t spoken. ‘It’s owned by the local authority at present, as are a couple of others and they need to cut costs, so they’re up for sale too. The others are privately owned by locals who keep them for their own use at weekends and in the school holidays, although some do rent them out to holidaymakers. There’s not been a lot of interest in Number 23 so far but it’s early in the season. Any questions?’ The clerk cocked her head to one side questioningly.
‘Can’t think of any,’ Martha said, perhaps a bit too sharply, which is what happens when one’s nerves are on end. She didn’t want to be rude but she had to go.
Well, Martha thought, as she closed the door of the chalet behind her, what a lovely surprise. She’d glanced at the photos on the website when she’d booked, of course, but she hadn’t studied it in much detail. It was bigger than she’d been expecting – more ski chalet than beach hut, perhaps a bit boutique hotel – and just as the lady in the tourist office had said, a little home from home. And so very clean. A nest. Martha felt the welcome of it wrap around her, warm her. The boarded walls were painted a soft shade of yellow, like vanilla custard, with a frieze of stencilled scallop shells in deep turquoise where the walls met the ceiling. Pretty, cotton curtains with blue and yellow sailboats hung at the windows in the double bedroom and living room. The cream, linen-covered sofabed was piled with large and squashy cushions in various shades of yellow and blue, and two small but matching armchairs had biscuit-coloured fleece throws draped over the arms, for colder days perhaps. The duvet on the double bed, covered in a turquoise, jacquard-style pattern, was thick and sumptuous, and the pillows large, plump and inviting.
‘All very Eastern Seaboard,’ Martha said out loud. ‘I love it.’
Some of the tension she’d been carrying with her was beginning to seep away. Yes, she’d made the right decision coming here. It was as though this chalet had been waiting for her. She patted the duvet, her hand almost disappearing in its sumptuousness.
‘And I could lie down on you right now,’ she laughed, surprising herself with that laugh because she hadn’t laughed for weeks now. But she couldn’t flop down on it just yet. Martha drew her breath in and then let it all out again slowly, her shoulders dropping as she physically relaxed. Yes, it felt good here. It would give her space and time to rethink what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. But first, she just had to do something with her hair.
Martha had never done a home hair dye before. Ever since she’d been eleven years old and at stage school, her naturally blonde hair had always been professionally cut and coloured. And, of course, for filming she’d often worn wigs. It felt strange, but empowering, to be choosing a new hair colour without others calling the shots. So she’d chosen red; a sort of rosehip red with a bit of gloss to it to cover her natural blonde. The basin in the bijou bathroom – small but perfectly appointed the brochure had said, and so it was – looked as though a murder had been committed as Martha rinsed her hair one last time. Now to dry it. And then cut it. She pulled her hair high over her head and, with eyes closed, chopped straight across. When she opened her eyes again she had about eighteen inches of ponytail in her hand. Shaking her head to loosen her hair, she braved the mirror.
Not bad. Not bad at all. Next came the coloured contact lenses. Martha’s eyes were the palest blue, bordering on turquoise, but she reckoned a redhead might have green eyes. So in went the onyx contacts.
‘I hardly recognise myself,’ Martha said, in a Scottish accent, light years away from her true Home Counties way of speaking. But that was the advantage of being an actress. She could become anyone from anywhere. And she had. Many, many, times. From stage work to period TV dramas, through a six-month stint on a ‘soap’, to Hollywood. But there was a downside – over the years so many other people had pulled her strings, as it were. So many that she felt she had almost lost the essence of who she was inside. Almost.
Her agent, Ralph Newcombe, had been furious when she’d decided to turn her back on it all.
‘You cannot be serious!’ he’d raged at her in his office that smelled of whisky and cigarettes, making Martha gag. Or rather making Serena Ross, as she was known to the world, gag. ‘You are making me look an utter fool pulling out of this! I’ve worked my backside off getting you, not the lead role admittedly, but a not insignificant role in a Tom Marchant film. Bets were on that you’d get Best Supporting Actress at the Oscars. And you pull this stunt! I’ll be surprised if you ever work again!’
That night, Martha had gone back to the flat the film company had provided and cried and cried and cried. No need for glycerine on her bottom lashes to bring on the tears. And then she’d called Tom and told him she wouldn’t be coming back to the set. She’d been flattered by his attention, even though she’d known he was married with two small children – as did the rest of the world. Sitting close to him on breaks, sharing a burger or a salad, a frisson of excitement had fizzed through her. His invite to dinner after the day’s filming had been tempting. So she’d gone. Just dinner, he’d said. And it had been. Although if she were honest with herself it wouldn’t have taken much for their feelings to run over – perhaps not this time they had dinner, but definitely the next. Tom had felt it too.
‘Taxi time,’ he’d said, leaning across the table to give her hand a squeeze. ‘The danger hour approacheth. Two people from out of town with hours to fill till morning.’
Tom had even called the taxi for her, walked with her to the door – just a little behind her with a hand in the small of her back. And that’s when she’d been startled by a barrage of camera flashes and saw in rapid fast-forward how it would be if she were to enter a full-blown affair with Tom. She – and he – would be hounded.
Martha, not liking herself very much at that moment for what she’d been on the cusp of, had turned to Tom then.
‘The danger hour is too dangerous for me,’ she’d said. ‘I’m not in the habit of breaking up marriages, despite the magic…’
‘…between us,’ Tom had finished for her.
Martha didn’t think Tom was a serial adulterer, although she was under no illusion that she’d been the first to tempt him. For the two weeks they’d been thrown together, working on Breaking Ice, he’d showered her with gifts, in time-honoured Hollywood style – bespoke perfume and a designer handbag, Italian silk scarves and an amethyst pendant on a fine gold chain. She’d worn that pendant on her first – and last – dinner date with Tom. But she’d known in an instant, the camera flashes almost blinding her, that she hadn’t been in love with him – merely in lust, feelings heightened and enhanced by the place and the setting and the fabulous clothes. There could be many Toms in the future if she stayed here among the beautiful people with money to spend and lavish lifestyles. Was that what she wanted?
And that was when she’d made her decision to end her contract on Breaking Ice and go home, back to the UK. And then… what?
Well, she had a fortnight to work out where her life was going, and a town she didn’t know to explore. In front of her, there was the curve of a bay the colour of faded denim, flat as the proverbial pancake at that moment, and the sun was shining. First she’d need to find a supermarket of sorts to buy food, and maybe a bottle of wine, although she knew it was dangerous – very dangerous – to drink alone. Martha placed her four-inch heels in the cupboard in the bedroom, slid her feet into flip-flops, took a deep breath, and went out.
The Little B & B at Cove End Page 26