by Karen King
Chapter Two
Sunlight streaming through her window woke Hattie up the next morning. And it sounded as though the seagulls were having a party on the roof. She sat up for a moment, hugging her knees, thinking how drastically her life had changed in the past few days. On Monday, she’d had a home and a job, now, five days later, she had neither. She shook her head. She wasn’t thinking about that now – this was a chance for her to sort out her life, and she was going to grab it with both hands.
Throwing back the sheet she ran over to the window and looked out, just as she used to do when she was a child on holiday here, eager to see the shimmering ribbon of sea over the rooftops. The cottage was just a few minutes’ walk from the picturesque harbour, and when she was younger she had often opened the window and inhaled the sea air, with her mother anxiously warning her not to lean out. She wasn’t going to do that now, not until she was dressed, anyway, so contented herself with kneeling down, so only her head was visible, and peering at the sparkling turquoise ocean just a stone’s throw away. She couldn’t wait to walk along the beach and have a paddle. She almost felt as though she was on holiday! I’m going to take a few days to relax and have a good look around, she decided, then I’ll start tidying up the house. She and her father had agreed to put the cottage on the market as soon as they could, so she would probably only be here for the summer, but at least it gave her some time to sort out the shambles that her life had become.
First, though, she needed a cup of milky coffee to wake her up. She’d put a box of three-in-one sachets in her right saddlebag, in case there were no supplies in the house. Carefully negotiating the first set of narrow stairs to stop off at the bathroom to go to the loo and splash some water on her face, she cautiously descended the other staircase to the kitchen.
‘Who is it? Who is it?’ Buddy screeched as she walked in.
‘Morning, Buddy. It’s me, Hattie!’ she called. She filled up the electric kettle, glad that the old stove kettle she remembered, with the high-pitched whistle that let you know when the water had boiled, had been replaced. The almost-new silver kettle and matching microwave looked a bit out of place in the dated kitchen, but she was grateful for them. She took a clean mug out of the cupboard, then froze as she heard the back door open and someone stride in, whistling cheerfully. Horrified, she spun around and stared at the sun-tanned stranger, dressed in low slung grey surfer shorts that skimmed his hips, his long fair hair tied back in a ponytail revealing a tiny silver cross earring dangling from his right ear, a large tattoo on each upper arm, his body taut and toned. Then his hazel eyes widened as they flitted to her naked body. Shit! She’d forgot she was starkers! They both stared at each other, dumbstruck for a second, then Buddy’s screech of ‘Bloody Hell!’ brought Hattie to her senses.
Two quick steps and she’d whisked the checked tablecloth off the table and quickly wrapped it around herself. She glared at the man. ‘Who the hell are you? And how dare you walk in like this!’
‘More to the point, who are you?’ the man demanded. ‘I’m Marcus, from next door. I’m here to feed Buddy. I’ve been looking after him.’
Damn! She remembered thinking yesterday that Buddy looked well fed and cared for, so a neighbour must be popping in to feed him. Why the hell hadn’t she pulled her dressing gown on this morning? Because it was still in her saddlebag and she was half asleep and hadn’t expected someone to walk into her kitchen this early in the morning, that’s why. It was barely eight o’clock!
‘I’m Hattie, Albert’s niece. He left this cottage to me and my dad in his will.’ She held the tablecloth tighter around herself, the plastic feeling sticky and uncomfortable against her skin. ‘I came down last night. I’m staying here until the cottage is sold.’
A look of disdain crossed Marcus’s suntanned face and his hazel eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you were coming down next weekend. You obviously couldn’t wait to claim your inheritance. Shame you didn’t see fit to visit your uncle when he was alive and lonely.’
Ouch! Well he had obviously got her earmarked as a gold-digger who didn’t give a damn about her uncle. She opened her mouth to explain, but then anger set in. How dare he judge her when he didn’t even know her?
‘You don’t know a thing about me, so keep your high-handed moralistic opinions to yourself!’ She lifted her chin defiantly, then, clasping the tablecloth tightly with one hand to ensure it didn’t slip down, she held out the other. ‘And I’ll have the key to my cottage back, thank you. I don’t want strangers walking in on me any time they like. Thank you for looking after Buddy,’ she added stiffly. ‘But I’ll take care of him now.’
Marcus’s eyes flashed sparks of anger and his mouth was set in a grim line, but he put his hand in the pocket of his shorts and pulled out a key. ‘Be my guest.’ He threw the key down on the table, then turned, revealing a large eagle tattoo with wings outspread across his back, and walked out.
‘Bugger off, then,’ Buddy screeched loudly as Marcus slammed the door behind him.
Hattie giggled at the parrot’s outburst; she couldn’t have put it better herself! What a horrible man! He might look hot with his lean, sun-kissed body and surfer-boy hair, but he didn’t appeal to her one little bit. He was so up himself and bad-mannered, he hadn’t even apologised for walking in on her. Just her luck that he lived next door. Well, she intended to avoid him as much as she could. She hoped the neighbour on the other side of her wasn’t so unpleasant.
Well done, Marcus, you not only walked in on the poor woman naked, but you also didn’t even stop to check that she knew how to look after Buddy properly. Parrots aren’t as easy to care for as most people think, and Buddy had been pining since poor old Albert died. It was only seeing Marcus’s familiar face first thing in the morning and last thing at night that seemed to cheer him up. He needed to be let out to exercise his wings, too . . . would – what was her name? – Hattie even think of that? And if she did, would she think to close the windows to make sure Buddy didn’t fly out? And would she be able to get the parrot back in the cage again? Buddy could be pretty stubborn. Like his owner.
It’s not my problem anymore.
He’d promised Albert when he was taken into hospital that he would look after Buddy, and he’d kept that promise even after Albert had died. At first, he’d taken Buddy back to Curlew Cottage with him, thinking it would be best not to leave him on his own, but Mr Tibbs, his tomcat, had taken an instant dislike to the parrot, spending his time either staring into the cage or climbing onto it, and poor Buddy had got really agitated and stressed so, after a couple of weeks, Marcus had taken Buddy back home again and since then had popped in to see him every morning and evening. Buddy was happier back in Fisherman’s Rest, but he missed Albert. Marcus did too. He’d befriended the old man when he’d moved next door, into Curlew Cottage, seven years ago, and although Albert had been independent right up until the day he’d caught the flu which had turned into the pneumonia that had killed him, he’d been happy to accept the meals that Marcus had brought around for him. Marcus had even bought Albert an electric kettle and microwave one Christmas a couple of years ago, so he could warm the meals up. He’d admired the old man very much and spent many an hour in the evening after work sharing a dram of whisky with him and listening to Albert’s seafaring tales.
You shouldn’t have been so rude to his niece, he told himself. Your cottage was inherited too, from your grandparents. Yes, but he’d loved and looked after his grandparents, and the cottage had been left to him, his mother and his sister. He had bought them both out – okay, at a discounted price, but even so it hadn’t been a complete gift. This Hattie hadn’t been down to see Albert once in all the time Marcus had lived next door. She was obviously a spoilt townie, eager to put the cottage on the market and get her share of cash so she could buy a bigger house, faster car, or whatever she wanted to spend the money on. As for her dad, don’t get me started on him. Owen Rowland had flown over for the funeral, spent a couple of hours in the
cottage, and flown back the same day. Marcus had returned from work just as Owen had been leaving, so hadn’t even had time to tell him that he was looking after Albert’s parrot for him. Fat lot he seemed to care about his brother.
Albert, however, had been proud of his younger brother, often telling Marcus what a go-getter Owen was, how he had his own business over in France. A five-star B&B. There were twenty years between them so they weren’t close, Albert had said, but they kept in touch. Sometimes, when he and Albert were chatting over a whisky in the winter evenings after Marcus had finished his shift at work, the old man had talked about his niece Hattie, showed Marcus photos of her – a blonde, vivacious-looking child – related how she used to come down on holiday until her parents split up. Marcus could see that he missed them all and had tried to persuade him to get in touch with them, but all Albert said was that ‘folks have their lives to live’. And now he’d left them the cottage. There had been no one else to leave it to, of course, but Marcus resented – on Albert’s behalf – the fact that his family hadn’t eased the loneliness of his later years, but then couldn’t wait to come down and sell his home.
Even so, he had walked in on Hattie unannounced and . . . the image of her sensual naked body flashed across his mind: full breasts, tiny waist, a cute stars and crescent moon tattoo on the top of her right arm and looong legs. Tousled white-blond hair cut into a shaggy bob and those summer-blue eyes flashing with anger as she tore a strip off him, looking ridiculously cute wrapped in that red, checked, plastic tablecloth. Not to mention the enchanting slight lilt to her voice – he’d certainly noticed a lot in those couple of minutes that they had stared at each other! He was impressed that she hadn’t screamed or blushed but had held her ground. She seemed like a tough cookie. He should have apologised for walking in on her like that, and he would if he bumped into her again. Apart from that, he wasn’t wasting any more time thinking about a spoilt little townie, even if she was gorgeous. He was going surfing, as he did every morning, then he intended to do some painting – he had a commission to finish – and then he was working tonight. It suited him to be chef for the evening shift, it left him with the days free to surf and paint, whilst Shanise was happy to do the lunchtime meals as then she had the evenings free with her partner and children.
He changed into his wetsuit, leaving the top half to dangle from his waist until he got to the beach, picked up his surfboard, a bag with his rash vest, wetsuit boots, surf gloves and a towel, and set off down the hill. An hour or so riding the waves was all he needed to regain his equilibrium.
Chapter Three
An hour later, showered and changed into denim shorts and a black vest top, Hattie took her camera bag which held her Nikon D810 and her tripod camera equipment out of her top box and slung the camera around her neck,. Then she moved her motorbike around to the back yard and parked it by the side of the shed before heading off down to the harbour, hoping she would find a café open and be able to grab some breakfast. She probably should have headed uphill for the corner shop instead, and stocked up on a few supplies, but she was ridiculously eager to see the beach and take some photographs. Photography was a hobby of hers, bringing her in a small, part-time income, and was one of the ways she chilled out. She specialised in ‘people photography’ and loved to capture people in spontaneous, relaxed moments, especially action shots. It wasn’t ten o’clock, so she doubted if the beach would be very busy this early on a Saturday morning, but she thought she might catch a few fishing boats, and early bird tourists, and then she could head to Medden Beach where the local surfers went to ride the waves.
To her surprise, there were a few families strolling along the harbour front, and to her relief, the café was open. Hattie headed straight for it and ordered a cup of coffee and two slices of toast off the pleasant lady serving, then sat down at a table facing the harbour, where she could see a couple of boats bobbing about in the distance.
‘Here you are, dear. Down for a holiday, are you?’ The waitress came over with Hattie’s breakfast and placed it down on the table in front of her.
‘I’m living here temporarily,’ Hattie replied. ‘I didn’t expect it to be so busy this early in the morning.’
‘It’s half-term week; some of the families came down last night, wanting to make the most of the week off.’ The waitress flashed her a smile. ‘Enjoy.’ Then she went to serve the next customer.
Hattie sat nibbling her toast, gazing out at the harbour, reliving the events of the last week. Firstly Brian, her landlord, had called around on Tuesday evening to give her notice to leave as he needed the flat for his daughter. Then yesterday, George, her boss, had come into work looking grim, called a meeting and told them all that unfortunately the Bridgnorth branch of Milton and Banner Insurance was closing that day and everyone was being made redundant – bar himself, who would be moving to manage another office. Hattie had been shocked and panicked. Okay, she didn’t look on Milton and Banner as her forever job, but she worked with a lovely crowd and she needed the wage. Now, she was jobless and homeless. How could her life change so drastically so suddenly?
Trying to keep positive, she had reminded herself that she had her share of the money from Uncle Albert’s cottage, when it was sold, and also her redundancy money when it came through. She’d been working for Milton and Banner for five years so the redundancy money was enough to tide her over for a few months whilst she tried to turn her passion for photography into a full-time business. And she could live in Uncle Albert’s cottage until it was sold, which would save her rent money. She’d phoned her dad to check that he didn’t object and he’d agreed, asking her if she could tidy the cottage up a bit while she was there and also reminding her that the house would be harder to sell with a ‘tenant’ so she had to tell the estate agent that she was just ‘looking after it’ and it would definitely be sold vacant. Great, thanks for being concerned that I’ve lost my job and my house, Dad, she’d thought as she’d ended the call. She’d texted her mother who was on a Caribbean cruise with her stepfather, to let her know her change of address and circumstances, but hadn’t received a reply yet. Not that she expected one. Both her parents were so wrapped up in their own lives with new partners and families, they didn’t have time for their eldest child, the only one they shared together. Well, she was twenty-eight, which was plenty old enough to take care of herself, and it wasn’t as if she was penniless, was it? She knew that if she was really in need, both her parents would help her out like a shot.
George had let them all go after telling them the redundancy news, so they’d congregated in the coffee bar around the corner, all commiserating with one another, cheering each other up, promising to keep in touch. Hattie had phoned Brian to tell him she would be moving out that day, then had headed home, phoned Mali, who had immediately come over after school to cheer her up and help her pack, then Hattie had set off for Cornwall.
Last night, she had wondered if she’d done the right thing, but now, sitting here looking out at the boats bobbing about on the endless blue sea, she was sure she had. A summer in Cornwall, tidying up the cottage ready to sell and setting up her photography business, was just what she needed. It was a shame about her hostile neighbour – especially when he was so undeniably easy on the eye – but she would avoid him as much as she could. This was a new chapter in her life, and she was going to seize it with both hands.
When she’d finished her breakfast and taken a few shots of the harbour, Hattie decided to take a stroll to Medden Beach, hoping there would still be some surfers there so she could get some photos of them in action. She wanted to update her Facebook business page to attract more customers, and knew that photos of surfers, the beach and quaint seaside towns were very appealing. She was in luck, there were half a dozen surfers already riding the waves. One of them, a tall man, clad in a black wetsuit, caught her eye. He was standing, knees bent, poised to ride a huge wave that was crashing towards him. She watched as he expertly rode right over the wall
of white foam, held her breath as his surfboard disappeared underneath him, then let it out again as somehow he landed right on top of it, steadied it and got ready for the next wave. He was good, she thought in admiration. She managed to get some brilliant action shots of him. Surfing looked exhilarating and she wondered whether to have a go herself. There was a notice on the nearby beach hut offering surfing lessons, as well as wetsuits and surfboards for hire. Not today, but maybe in a week or two, she decided. She was a good swimmer and loved doing physical activities.
She picked up the camera again as the surfer in the black suit came walking out of the sea, a white surfboard with a blue tip tucked under his arm. Something about him looked a bit familiar but it wasn’t until he turned and glared at her that she realised who it was. Marcus.
‘Did I give you permission to photograph me?’ he demanded.
Jeez, what is this guy’s problem? ‘I was just taking some shots of the beach and the surfers,’ she said. ‘It’s not a crime. This is a public place.’
‘And I am a private person. I don’t want photos of me surfing on your Facebook page.’
He really is an arse, isn’t he? ‘I’m a photographer, I’m always taking photos,’ she informed him. Well she was, even if it had only been a hobby up until now. ‘But don’t worry. I don’t want a photo of you anyway and certainly wouldn’t dream of putting it on my Facebook page.’ She selected the photos she had taken of him on her camera and deleted them all. ‘There, deleted. Want to check?’ She held out her camera.
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ he said stiffly.
‘Nice of you. And you can be sure I won’t be taking any more photos of you.’ She walked off, dangling her sandals from her fingers, inwardly seething. Why did she have to have this obnoxious man for her neighbour?