A Cottage by the Sea

by Carole Matthews

  I hand her the lilies too.

  ‘Now you’re spoiling me,’ she says. ‘It’s a long time since anyone bought me flowers.’

  ‘Me too.’ We giggle at that.

  We carry our booty back to the cottage. I don’t think that Harry and Art even noticed that we’d gone. They’re both laughing heartily, clearly in storytelling mode, and I’m relieved to see that Harry’s bad mood has lifted. Ella and I roll our eyes at each other. She deposits the lilies and the cupcakes in the kitchen. When the cheese and olives are safely tucked away in the fridge, we tackle the cases. I lift mine and Ella takes Harry’s. Together we lug them upstairs.

  Thankfully, the narrow staircase to the first floor is short. There are three bedrooms up here, the main one with an en suite, and a nice bathroom shared between the two guest rooms. All of them have low ceilings as they’re set into the roof. Big Velux windows have been fitted into the eaves in the bedrooms, flooding the space with light. The tiny, original windows have been left in place, though you have to bend down to look through them for a tantalising glimpse of the sea. It will be lovely to lie back on those soft pillows and hear the soporific sound of the waves crashing on the rocks.

  Each room has been decorated in the same style, with the beds covered in plain white quilts, and coloured rag rugs on the sanded floorboards. It’s elegant in its simplicity.

  ‘Will you be comfortable enough in here?’ Ella asks, showing me into one of the rooms.

  I hug my friend. ‘Of course we will. Thank you again for asking us.’

  ‘I just wanted to see you,’ she says. ‘We don’t spend enough time together.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I don’t know where the years go,’ Ella says and her voice is tinged with sadness.

  ‘They just fly by.’

  ‘We haven’t changed much, have we?’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know.’

  Am I the same woman that I was ten years ago? Perhaps I am. But I hope not.

  ‘I’ll leave you to freshen up,’ Ella says. ‘I’ll get the kettle on. I’m sure you’d rather have a cuppa first instead of getting stuck into the booze. Plenty of time for that later.’

  ‘Tea would be wonderful.’

  ‘We can sample those fabulous cakes too. See you in a minute.’

  ‘Ella,’ I ask as she’s ducking to go through the door. ‘What does Cwtch mean?’

  ‘It’s like a cuddle. A loving embrace.’

  ‘Oh, how lovely.’

  She winks at me. When she’s gone, I lie down on the bed, spreading out my arms and legs in a star shape, and look up at the blue sky through the window, letting the rhythm of the sea soothe me.

  A cuddle. A loving embrace. I curl into a ball, wrap my arms around my chest and hold myself tightly. Just what I need right now.

  Chapter Five

  Ella and I sip our tea, watching Art and Harry from our armchairs by the fireplace in the kitchen. One bottle is already empty. Another is open and dwindling fast. I look away. I have to stop counting. That way madness lies. I should just loosen up and go with the flow. We’re on holiday. Everyone drinks more when they’re not at work, don’t they? Though I can’t, for the life of me, understand the reason for having to be completely drunk to enjoy oneself.

  ‘Great cakes, Grace,’ Ella says, massaging her tummy.

  ‘You have buttercream on your nose,’ I tell her.

  ‘I might leave it there and lick it off later,’ she laughs.

  Ella has arranged the lilies in a vase and their sweet scent hangs in the air. Art, an accomplished guitarist, is strumming away, singing Black Sabbath’s ‘Smoke on the Water’. Harry is slapping the table with his hand not quite in time with the song. It’s endearing and slightly annoying at the same time.

  ‘Does anyone mind if I go for a walk?’ I say brightly. The tight band round my heart is back and I need to get out and fill my lungs with fresh air.

  Harry waves his hand in acknowledgement. I don’t think Art has even heard, he’s so into his song.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Ella says. ‘It’s windy but warm out there. You shouldn’t need a cardigan.’

  The only downside of not holidaying in St Lucia or Thailand is that for a break in Britain in late June, you still need to pack for every possible weather combination. The boot of the car was stuffed full of gear for any eventuality – just in case.

  ‘I’ve brought half of my wardrobe with me. I’ll get one just in case.’

  At the back of the cottage, there’s a small terrace but, in essence, you’re straight out on to the rocks and then it’s just a short scramble down to the beach. When we reach the sand, I unlace and tug off my Converse high-tops while Ella kicks off her flip-flops. Together we walk along the deserted beach, hugging the edge of the water where the band of smooth stones and shingle gives way to soft, pink sand. We link arms and wander through the edge of the freezing surf, letting it tickle our toes.

  The breeze teases and tangles my curls, but I don’t care. If I could simply spend enough time here, I’m sure my troubles would just float away.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, ‘this is the life. No wonder you love it here so much.’

  ‘I do,’ Ella says. ‘I’m glad you do too.’ Then she’s quiet.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Art doesn’t.’

  She looks at me under her dark lashes and smiles ruefully.

  I think that Ella is the most naturally pretty of us all. Her hair is a spiky gamine crop, and only someone with a tiny, heart-shaped face could carry it off. I’m not exactly a strapping lass, but Ella’s a little, elfin thing who looks as if a puff of wind would blow her away. Though it’s a mistake to think that Ella is in any way a pushover. She’s got a steely core of determination that has seen her climb from penniless art student to respected artist in ten short years. She’s the type of artist who favours the bold, abstract school of art. Her paintings are generally large, almost like graffiti. She works with aerosol cans in vivid colours and splatters of silver paint. They’re quite angry creations, slashed with vivid lines and jagged objects. You won’t find any twee landscapes in Ella’s portfolio. But there are enough people who enjoy paying high prices for graffiti and angry lines that she now commands a healthy five-figure sum for each of her paintings.

  ‘We had a blazing row last night,’ she says.

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘I shouldn’t burden you with this, Grace. You look as if you’ve got enough troubles of your own. But who else can I tell?’ We walk along in silence until Ella is ready to speak. ‘He hates Cwtch Cottage. With a vengeance.’ A weary shrug of her shoulders. ‘I adore it here, but Art can’t stand it. You know what he’s like. This is all a bit too low-key, too rural for him. Art likes the high life. Anything rustic brings him out in a rash.’ She tries to make light of it. ‘Five-star hotels are more his thing.’

  ‘Harry too,’ I sympathise. ‘I can’t see it myself. Why would anyone prefer that above this? Cwtch Cottage is like a slice of heaven on earth. Give Art time. He may come to love it,’ I suggest. ‘Is this his first visit?’

  ‘Yes. You know that I’ve been trying to cajole him to come up here for years, but he always managed to wriggle out of it. It took all my powers of persuasion to get him to agree to spend this length of time at the cottage. If it was up to Art we’d have stayed one night and then would be on our way back again to the fumes and congestion of London. He says the air is too fresh here and it hurts his lungs to breathe.’

  ‘Poor lamb. He’s probably just one walking mass of toxins.’ We both laugh at that. ‘Well, you can only wait and see what happens. You’re not easily deterred either. I’m sure you’ll be able to grind him down eventually.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Despite the carefree laughter of a few seconds ago, her voice wobbles and her words are snatched away by the breeze. ‘Not this time.’ She stoops to pick up a shell and washes the sand from it in the sea, holding it up for me to admire. It’s creamy with whorls of raspber
ry pink, a minute universe of perfectly executed pattern. ‘There’s a lot of inspiration here. I could graduate from angry slashes.’

  ‘Angry slashes are very profitable.’

  She shrugs. ‘So they are, but maybe it’s time to move on. Try something new on the unsuspecting public. Not everything can stay the same.’

  I’m only too aware of that.

  Ella sighs. ‘Art wants me to sell up here, put the money into a place in Spain. Marbella or somewhere.’ We both wrinkle our noses. ‘He says that we could go there in the winter, escape the relentless British rain and snow. I can’t argue with that.’

  ‘I’m struggling to imagine you in Marbella.’

  ‘You know Art,’ she says. ‘Beneath that heavy-metal heart, he likes glitz and glamour. The things that go with it.’ She glances at me again. ‘But you’re right, Grace. I can’t picture myself there at all. I can think of nothing worse.’

  ‘You must do what you want to do. This place has been in your family for generations. I’ve been here only a short time and I can see why you love it. Can’t Art?’

  ‘No. Not at all.’ She scuffs her toes in the sand and I can just picture her doing that on visits to Cwtch Cottage as a child all those years ago. I bet it’s hardly changed since. ‘It makes you reconsider things when you lose both of your parents. Neither of them reached their seventies. That seems terribly cruel and so young, these days. What if I’ve got their genes? The Die Young gene?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘It makes you think, though. I’m thirty-two. I could be halfway through my life and I haven’t done hardly any of the things I want to do.’

  ‘Oh, Ella.’ I sling my arm round her shoulders and we touch our foreheads.

  ‘I want to settle down,’ she confides. ‘I love the studio I have in the garden at Art’s place, but the house belongs to Art, not me. It’s never really felt like my home.’

  Ella does have a small and very scruffy flat in Camden, which she’s rented out since she moved into Art’s fabulous place in Notting Hill. And, she’s right, she has a great studio space in a specially built wooden summer house. It’s lovely. She might struggle to give that up.

  ‘I’d like children, Grace,’ she confesses. ‘I want to get married, settle down. Have the life that my parents did. They adored each other to the end of their lives. One day, I’d like to think that I’ll come to the cottage for holidays with my own family and they’ll love it as much as I did. We were always so happy here. It’s such a simple place to be.’

  I met Ella’s parents only a handful of times over the years, but I remember them always holding hands and both grinning from ear to ear as they posed for pictures with her after her graduation ceremony. Both her mum and her dad were as tiny as Ella. Quiet, humble people who just got on with life without complaint. They’d run a haberdashery shop together and, as Ella said, they were so happy with each other until the day that her father died and her mother slipped into confusion. They pampered Ella, but didn’t spoil her. A fine line that they managed to tread well as they turned out a beautiful, considerate daughter.

  ‘Can you see Art wanting that?’

  At the moment I can’t, and my friend takes my silence as agreement. I think Art is far too rock’n’roll for the peace and quiet of Pembrokeshire.

  ‘I know that he’s unfaithful to me when he’s away.’ Ella lowers her eyes to the sand. ‘I don’t blame him. Not really. The temptation must be enormous. There are always groupies around happy to spend some time with anyone related to the group – even the manager.’ She raises an eyebrow at that.

  ‘In my twenties, I could put it to the back of my mind, turn a blind eye. What happens on tour, stays on tour and all that. But now it’s different. I want a man who wants to be with just me. I’d like someone who can be in one place and doesn’t hanker to always be on the move. I don’t want someone who’d rather be in a hotel in Budapest or Berlin with some female with no name that he’s picked up for the night. That’s not good, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  I have to agree with that. I don’t think I could handle it if Harry was cheating on me. He might have his faults, but that isn’t one of them. It makes me feel bad that I get on to him about his attachment to red wine and Twitter. What harm is that doing, really, in the scheme of things?

  ‘I want someone who adores only me as my dad adored Mum. They were so in love right to the end after more than forty years of marriage. His name was the last word that my mother spoke. Is that too much to want for myself?’ Her eyes fill up. ‘My body’s changing, Grace. I’m having urges. Starting to look at babies in prams. Will Art want that when he can have a different nubile nineteen-year-old every night instead?’

  ‘While you’ve got some time here together, you need to talk to him.’

  ‘That’s exactly what he’s avoiding. He knows that I want something deeper and he’s pushing against it all he can.’ Ella’s laugh is brittle. ‘What Art really wants is uncomplicated sex. Even after all this time, I’m not sure he’s convinced about the value of monogamous, lasting relationships.’

  At the far end of the beach, we huddle on a rock, our chins on our knees, and stare out to sea. The ever-changing ebb and flow of the waves is mesmerising.

  Ella’s eyes fill with tears as she turns to me and says, ‘Nothing stays the same, does it?’

  Chapter Six

  We scramble over some more rocks and carry on walking as far as we can along the next stretch of beach. Then the tide starts to roll in.

  ‘We should head back,’ Ella says. ‘It comes in faster than you might think. We don’t want to get cut off from the cottage.’

  I hadn’t even thought about that. So we set off, walking at a brisker pace. Ella links her arm through mine.

  ‘It’s been lovely to spend time together. We don’t do it enough.’

  ‘It’s not because we don’t want to,’ I say. ‘Life just gets in the way.’

  ‘Sometimes I feel as if we’ll be friends for ever,’ Ella says, ‘and sometimes we seem to be slipping away from each other.’

  ‘We’ll always be in touch,’ I assure her. ‘We’ve too much between us.’

  ‘But that’s not the same as being best friends, is it?’

  ‘I’m supposed to be the worry-pot,’ I remind her with a smile.

  ‘You’re right,’ she says. ‘Maybe I just need another of those excellent cakes.’

  But, despite discussing my friend’s fears, something in the back of my mind makes me wonder whether Ella might be right. As she said, nothing ever stays the same.

  The sun is sinking lower as it’s late afternoon when we return to the cottage. Harry has decanted himself from a kitchen chair into one of the armchairs, the second bottle is empty and the third is well on its way, but that’s about it. Art seems to be working through the musical back catalogue of popular seventies rockers, which is fine by me as he’s a talented musician, and Ella and I pull up chairs to listen. Eventually, we all join in, singing along – even Harry. There was a time when Art was up there on the stage rather than in the back room doing the paperwork or whatever it is that managers do. I don’t know quite what happened to thwart that ambition; perhaps he just wasn’t talented enough. Perhaps he simply didn’t get the breaks. I guess not everyone can be the next Kurt Cobain.

  Ella pours us both a glass of wine before this bottle is gone too. I sip the wine but it fails to hit the spot. The fact that Harry drinks so much now has taken the edge off my own enjoyment of alcohol. It no longer seems quite the benign aid to relaxation that it used to. There’s a malevolence behind its ability to shape-shift personalities. Let’s face it, very few people are better versions of themselves when they’re drunk.

  ‘Shall we get dinner going?’ Ella says. ‘Flick should be here before too long. Hopefully! She’d normally text and let us know. You just can’t do that here.’

  ‘I keep trying to get a signal,’ Harry pipes up.

  ‘There isn’t one,
’ Ella reminds him patiently.

  ‘Not ever?’

  ‘No,’ she laughs. ‘Just live with it, Harry. You can do the supermarket shopping in the week if you like. There’s a great signal at Tesco’s in Haverfordwest. Four bars!’

  My husband doesn’t look particularly impressed by this revelation. Harry might hate remoteness, but he hates supermarkets more.

  To deflect the conversation, I ask, ‘What’s on the menu?’

  ‘Thought I’d just throw some bits on the barbecue while it’s a warm evening and the wind has dropped now. We might not be able to do it every night. Art always likes to burn a few sausages. Makes him feel manly.’