Snowflakes Over Holly Cove: The most heartwarming festive romance of 2018

by Lucy Coleman

  ‘Great. I love the idea – sounds exciting.’

  My mother died four weeks ago today and it’s my first day back. Interviewing loved-up couples gushing over their wonderful relationships is about as surreal to me at this moment as the fact that I can’t pick up the phone and talk to Mum. Still, not bad, Tia, you managed to sound enthused. That’s quite an achievement, especially since you have just waved goodbye to thirty and obviously have no idea at all how to keep a long-term relationship alive. I ease my shoulders back and down, forcing my body not to sag and I seem to have convinced Clarissa I’m up to the task.

  ‘Well done, you. The sign of a true professional is someone who can roll with the punches and remain standing afterwards. I thought, given the circumstances, a little stay away from the madness of London might aid your concentration. The details are in here.’

  I can’t trust myself to utter another word, so I plaster on the widest smile I can muster and grab the folder she thrusts in my direction. Already her attention is elsewhere and she doesn’t even look up as I turn and run.

  Clearly, Clarissa has never lost a close loved one. Come to think of it, does Clarissa actually have any close loved ones? All she ever talks about is work, but although she doesn’t wear a wedding ring I suppose that it’s not inconceivable she has a partner. Or is it? It’s hard to think of a sentence in which the words Clarissa and emotion would sit well together. For cool, read icy. For efficient, read microchip processor. It’s an incredible skill, obviously, but there has to be something more, something that touches the soul. The only people she appears to make time for are from the publishing world too, because it’s all about being seen with the right people and making contacts. She does spend quite a lot of time accompanying Oliver Sinclair to drinks parties, but then he is her boss and I suppose she is a little different around him. But whether that’s a softer side creeping in, or the result of her well-practised social skills, who can tell?

  I’m being a little unkind and I know it. What did I expect? The world goes on and whether I like it or not I have to earn a salary to pay the bills. Despite the fact that, at the moment, every morning it’s a struggle to drag myself out of bed and face the new day ahead. Life will never be the same again and now, as someone very kindly pointed out to me at the funeral, I’m an orphan. I remember recoiling, wondering how on earth anyone could ever think that was an appropriate thing to mention. The word was like a bullet through my heart, but I had to agree it was true. My father died many years ago, but for some stupidly naive reason, I thought Mum would go on forever.

  The one inevitable thing in life is death. And I’ve just been reminded of that. What made it even harder is that I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye. She died in her sleep; a heart-attack they said and a peaceful way to go. But even after seeing her coffin disappear behind those curtains, I still can’t take it in. OK, so I’m grieving and it’s pretty obvious I’m having trouble moving on from the denial and isolation phase. Maybe that’s because I’m not sure I can handle the anger phase.

  It’s as if I’m living in a bad dream and when I wake up everything will be back to normal. Time to face up to reality, Tia, this is no dream and you have to snap out of it. Your career-hungry peers are snapping at your heels and shadowing Clarissa is a privilege you must never take for granted. That hunger to continue climbing the ladder and be the one sitting in the editor’s chair will return. When it does you need to be prepared to do battle again and fight off your opponents, sorry – colleagues. Allow yourself this one assignment to ease yourself back in and prove you can come out triumphant. Don’t just do a good job, do a brilliant job and make everyone realise you’re more than ready for the next step.

  Jeez, am I really giving myself a pep talk here? Or am I scared that none of it means anything to me anymore? That’s nonsense, I tell myself. And Clarissa’s one of the best, so you are lucky to be able to chase the dream. Stop moaning, Tia, it’s not your style and get on with it.

  *

  Jumping on the Tube I spot a seat and virtually dive across the space with gritted teeth and firm determination. I look up and smile apologetically at the two guys who narrowly missed getting there ahead of me. Both spin on their heels trying hard not to show even a hint of a scowl, but in all honesty, I don’t care. Life isn’t fair, I’ve discovered, and it’s time for me to toughen up.

  I fold back the cover of the folder and begin rifling through the papers. I barely glance at the information sheets giving the backgrounds of the couples I will be interviewing via Skype. Ah, here it is – a six-week rental agreement for Beach View Cottage, Holly Cove, near Caswell Bay. The map indicates that it’s situated in a part of South Wales known as the Gower coast, an area I’ve never visited before. Suddenly I find myself wondering if the rumours that Clarissa doesn’t actually have a heart are exaggerated. When it comes to the mention of business expenses her eyes usually narrow and her hands stiffen, as if preparing for battle. And she questions everything, every single little thing.

  As I look at the photo of a rather charming cottage, which appears to be sitting on the edge of an area of dense woodland, it’s suddenly all rather appealing. Initially, my reaction had been that I’d simply stay at home in my very comfortable, loft-style apartment and who would know?

  As I glance around the packed carriage while my brain processes the pros and cons, the Tube train speeds towards the outskirts of London. It’s spring and yet I spend all my time surrounded by a landscape of buildings and advertising boards. Only the rare glimpse of anything that is even a vague reminder that nature is waking up, brightens my working day. Wouldn’t it be nice to breathe in that sea air and get away from the bustle of the city?

  My heart tells me that it’s rather like running away from the harsh realities of life, but my head is firm. Just do it, Tia. I know there’s a catch and the fact that Clarissa is taking her time to reveal all is a little worrying. But I find myself imagining those long beach walks; the tranquillity is enticing. Maybe it’s not such a weird idea after all, and fate has decided I deserve a break – in more ways than one.

  Yeah, well, maybe if I wasn’t a journalist I might be tempted to believe that. I know I’m not being banished, as such, but I also know that it’s highly unlikely Clarissa is sending me away simply for the good of my health. Maybe this is a test and I have to prove to her that I haven’t lost my edge and even the worst of life’s trials can’t keep me down for long. The photo is so enticing and I swear I can already smell that bracing sea breeze. Holly Cove here I come, but how on earth I’m going to throw myself into mince pie and mistletoe mood, I have no idea.

  3

  A Change is as Good as a Rest

  ‘Is it far from the station?’

  I hand the taxi driver a piece of paper bearing the address of the cottage, then yank open the door to begin throwing in my bags. Clearly, he feels I’m a capable woman who isn’t in need of any assistance whatsoever, and I don’t know whether to be flattered, or mildly annoyed. For all he knows I’m a tourist, a visitor to the area and, besides, this is my first encounter with one of the locals. At the very least, not offering to help me isn’t very welcoming but it’s also rather rude. As I push in the last bag and clamber inside, he turns his head my way.

  ‘It’s about seven miles. Do you need any help?’

  Using the back of my hand, I brush the beads of sweat off my forehead as I collapse back into the seat.

  ‘No, I’m fine thank you. I’m stronger than I look.’

  He nods, unaware I was being sarcastic. Admittedly, I’m five-foot-six-inches, with an athletic build but, by the look of it, he could probably lift all my luggage using just one of his, no doubt extremely hairy, muscular arms. He has no excuse whatsoever for being so ungentlemanly, though.

  In truth, I don’t play the “I need help” card because I’m a natural doer. I can’t sit back and let people take over. I suppose that working in such a competitive environment compounded that and, coupled with my obvio
us inability to find a man I won’t tire of in less than a week, I’m used to fending for myself. But at the moment, I’m running on empty and feeling drained. If there was anyone I could reach out to I probably would, but my inner circle of one is no longer. Everyone else is merely a distant relative – which now, sadly, includes my uptight brother and his family – a work colleague, or a casual acquaintance. I don’t let people get close. Maybe that’s why Clarissa employed me. I hate to admit that there are moments when I fear I’m becoming a younger version of her. Am I still single because I’m happily married to my work, or because fate has already decided that it’s going to be the only constant in my life?

  ‘You like peace and quiet, then?’

  The taxi driver’s voice breaks my chain of thought. What?

  ‘I work in London, so quiet is appealing.’

  ‘Well, no shortage of that in Holly Cove.’

  His tone reflects a mix of irony and humour.

  ‘It’s secluded, then?’

  He laughs, which comes out more like a snort. Did he just check me out in the rear-view mirror?

  ‘You could say that.’

  Glancing out of the window, it’s clear that Caswell Bay isn’t quite the large seaside town I’d envisaged. It looks very sedate, with a couple of cafes and kiosks around a small promenade adjoining the beach. But the scene beyond is breathtakingly beautiful.

  ‘Population of two hundred and eighty-nine according to the last census,’ he informs me with what sounds like a sense of pride. ‘Most of the people who work around here are locals born and bred. Then we have the seasonal visitors and the monied folk. Those who can afford to have more than one home and can write a cheque for a million-pound property without blinking an eye. Born in London, were you?’

  He’s very inquisitive considering his rather unfriendly attitude.

  My mind jumps back in time to the little village where Mum was born. It was home until I was twelve, when the company Dad worked for relocated to London. A huge upheaval at the time, it actually turned out to be an exciting adventure. I wonder now what Mum felt, having to leave behind her friends and family; turning her back on the place where she was born.

  ‘No, but it’s home now.’

  ‘Well, no one will be bothering you out here.’

  That seems to amuse him in some rather bizarre way.

  We descend a steep hill and the scenery changes quite dramatically as we pass through a heavily-wooded area. Here and there I catch tantalising glimpses of a succession of rather grand houses, set way back from the road as the land rises up and disappears from view. As the car slows to take a left turn I see a stark white signpost bearing just the one name, Holly Cove. Less than five minutes later we pull up alongside a very charming property that is every bit as picturesque as the photo. However, my eyes are immediately drawn towards the view, which stretches out in front of me. The cottage nestles, quite literally, alongside an outcrop of rock on the edge of a small, sandy cove.

  ‘It was originally a holiday cottage built for the owner of a coal mine in the valleys,’ the driver informs me. ‘That’s thirteen pounds, Miss.’ He makes no attempt to exit the cab and I thrust fifteen pounds at him through the grille.

  ‘Can I have a receipt, please?’

  Swinging open the door I literally shove the mound of bags out onto the ground and straighten up to approach the driver’s window.

  ‘Very generous of you, thanks,’ he mutters, before I have time to object to the lack of change. I grab the piece of paper from his hand and immediately the engine kicks into life.

  ‘Enjoy your stay, Miss.’

  I’m left standing, open-mouthed and feeling more than a little annoyed, as the last thing he deserved was a tip.

  As I look around it’s obvious there is nothing here; nothing at all except an achingly beautiful cottage. The stout holly and pine trees feel like they are stationed in the garden; on guard like towering sentinels. As I walk back up the lane a little to peer in through the fence at the rear of the property, there’s only a tiny strip of grass and a few small shrubs poking up like sticks in the ground. Beyond that it’s mainly holly, pine and fir trees and because the land rises quite steeply, the forest seems to go on forever. But somewhere in between is the road we travelled along and now I can fully appreciate the views those million-pound houses must enjoy.

  Towards the front of the cottage there is a picket fence that was once painted white. The salt-laden wind and rain have peeled away most of the paint giving it a worn, shabby chic look that isn’t entirely unattractive. It’s a large area that has been sympathetically landscaped. It dips away, meeting the beach where there’s a swathe of shingle. At the far end of the beach there are two substantial-looking wooden huts, sitting almost side by side. Admittedly they do add to the overall ambience of the otherwise deserted cove, but the overwhelming thought is that this isn’t just peaceful, it’s completely isolated.

  Come on, Tia, I encourage myself, grabbing as many bags as I can and making my way along the worn flagstone path to the front door. This is just an assignment with perks. I suspect Clarissa has calculated the cost of installing me here will be well worth it. I’m far less likely to dwell on recent events if I’m away from my home environment, where everything is a reminder of my loss.

  However, when I finally manage to open the front door and step inside I wasn’t expecting such a large, open-plan space. I turn around to face the window on my left and stare straight ahead. The view is totally unobstructed showing the sea below a pale blue-ribboned sky, the waves virtually twinkle as if they have been showered with silver glitter.

  ‘With a view like that it’s going to be very hard to focus on work!’

  The sound of my own voice is rather startling, but I can’t drag my eyes away from the perfect vista which is truly mesmerising. Framed, either side, by dipping boughs from an assortment of wispy young holly and pine trees which line the gentle drop down to the cove; an artist could not have painted better. Well, it might be isolated, but it’s a little slice of heaven and I deserve it.

  ‘Time to unpack,’ I throw out the words just to break the silence. Seriously, even in the wee hours at home there is always that distant hum of intermittent traffic; albeit made worse by the fact that it’s mostly lorries, loud motorbikes and the occasional ambulance thundering by outside my window. But here, inside the thick walls of a stone cottage, the silence feels heavy, so much so that it almost hurts my ears.

  I reach out to open the window and after a hefty shove manage to swing it wide open. As I take a deep breath, letting the cool breeze waft over my face, my nose is filled with the sharp tang of the sea. There’s a soft swish from the waves washing up on the shore. An overlying cacophony of intermittent birdsong is heartening to hear. Noise I can cope with, silence – well, that might require a little adjustment, I suspect.

  The sitting room is spacious as the wall in the original hallway has been taken out. However, it doesn’t feel odd stepping straight into such a large room, as it adds to the charm. The stripped pine floorboards have a whitewash finish and colourful chenille rugs in hues of plum and lavender warm the room. Generously-proportioned sofas sporting silver-grey linen covers show that the owner went for comfort as well as style, so it works very well. All the walls are natural stone, painted white, which makes the space feel light and airy.

  I assume that it isn’t crammed full of belongings because it’s a rental, but there’s enough here to make it feel lived-in. A large collection of books lines the wall to the left-hand side of a door leading through into the rest of the cottage. A pair of French doors in the centre of the back wall lead out onto the rear garden and the wilderness beyond. Obviously, it was once a stone wall with a window and you could argue that there’s little point in having doors to such a tiny outside area. But, rather cleverly, the additional light is another reason why this cottage has a contemporary feel – whoever did the work here loved this place. A lot of money and attention to detail has
been lavished upon it, and it shows.

  Pushing open the internal door, I’m surprised to find myself standing in an even bigger, open-plan space. This kitchen/dining room is on a par with those you see in country home magazines. The units are pale grey Shaker style, with oak worktops and the matching dressers display an array of beautiful, old blue and white china.

  There are three windows in total, two at the front of the room facing the sea and one to the rear. A door in the centre of the back wall opens into a surprisingly spacious and pristine bathroom; it’s obvious that the extension takes up the bulk of the garden. The remaining space forms the small patio area to the rear of the sitting room.

  The dining table is old pine. The dents and dings reflect a lifetime of wear and tear and an assortment of white-painted, shabby chic chairs complement it perfectly. To my right is another door and swinging it open I find a narrow staircase that is rather dark, even the white walls unable to combat the shadows. I flick the light switch on the wall and recessed twinkly lights immediately brighten the space.

  Climbing the stairs, it feels cosy, in a warm wrapping-itself-around-you-like-a-hug, way. I’ve never experienced such an immediate and overwhelming sense of well-being in a house before. I stop to admire some of the photographs displayed on the side walls. They are all photos of the sea, taken at different times of the day and night, ranging from a perfectly calm sea in the height of summer, to the raging white fury whipped up by a winter storm. They look like professional photographs, rather than just snaps. Whoever owns this cottage is very lucky indeed and if it was mine I’d be loath to rent it out at any time of the year.

  Upstairs, all three bedrooms lead off from the single landing, which runs the entire length of this one-room deep, rectangular cottage. Two of the rooms are a really good size, each accommodating a double bed, a small seating area and built-in wardrobes. The third bedroom is smaller and is home to a stylish day bed and an office area with some expensive-looking computer equipment. Pure white walls and pale blue and white striped bedding lend an air of simplicity to the upstairs rooms. Each room benefits from a slightly different angle looking out across the cove, but the view still dominates everything. I decide to settle myself into the bedroom above the dining area below, which is the middle one of the three.