“Know what you’re looking for?” he asks as we get out and stroll up side by side. “I’ve fitted the kitchen appliances and bathroom fittings, so it’s only the furniture for the main room you need to pick out. Brian has it all.” Tony puts all his weight behind a green sliding timber door and pulls it back. I see his biceps and I have to look down immediately, pretending to attend to a broken nail.
Brian welcomes me with a big bear hug. He’s slim and is wearing beige paint-splattered overalls and a baseball cap. The smell of woodchip is appealing to me and his warehouse has some fantastic pieces. Strolling around his workshop, intrigued by his craftsmanship, I choose a heavy, round beech table and chairs. Then we head into his showroom, where I choose a brown two-seater leather sofa.
“On to the office with us, nearly there,” Tony says after we say thank you to Brian. We drive for a few minutes, and just before we hit the main street, Tony signals left and we pull in.
“Off the main street?” I observe rather than ask.
“Yeah, that’s the beauty of it: a stone’s throw from the main street, and there’s parking,” he tells me. And he’s right. Again. The old post office is a fantastic location. Literally two minutes’ walk from outside the town, and its character has been wonderfully preserved.
As we walk he falls into step beside me. “This is it.” He opens the glass front door with his jingling bunch of keys and we go inside. A really neat job has been done. There is real brick wall throughout inside. It’s a small space, but there is a neatly made desk in the corner where the hatch of a post office might once have been. White shelving hangs from every available wall, and in the centre there is a custom-built table. I can see it’s going to be a perfect office space to sell relocations.
“Oh, it’s brilliant, Tony, Lar will be delighted. It’s a big step for him, I just hope it works out.” I run my hands over the marble-topped table.
“Are you kidding me? A relocation business is a no-brainer.” He pulls at a stray yellow wire sticking out of a wall.
“Have you seen much of the world?” It’s my turn to play question time now, but when I turn to ask him I catch him checking the time on his watch. He pushes his bottom lip out and rubs his stubble.
“Good question. Enough for now. When I retire I want to see more, and I’m planning on retiring at sixty. I bet you want to see upstairs?”
Am I imagining it or does he seems to be rushing me now? Nodding, I follow him to the back of the shop, where there is a small winding wooden staircase with a black steel bannister. Slightly treacherous. Holding the bannister, I go up, making a mental note never to navigate these stairs tipsy. At the top is a glass door. Tony rummages around again on his set of keys, the largest I have ever seen, and eventually finds a small one. He turns it in the lock and the door opens. He leans back on the steel stairwell and I go ahead of him.
As soon as I step in, I adore the space. Totally love it. I get a smell of something new and fresh and free. It’s so warm and I look up to see oceans of warm light streaming in through the huge skylight and bouncing off the canary-yellow walls. The empty living space is much larger than I had imagined and I can see it’s almost habitable. Dark wooden floors are laid and wires stick out from plug sockets. It has a good-sized kitchen adjoining, all dark-grey sleek presses and modern American-style fridge-freezer. All new fixtures and fittings. Claire’s kitchen would be pea green with envy. Basically, apart from personal touches I could add, like soft furnishings to go with my newly acquired table and sofa, it’s finished. Strolling across the living room into the spacious master bedroom and en suite, I start to get jitters in my tummy. The little box room is just off the living space, and I realise this apartment is perfect for myself and Susan. When I enter the master bedroom, I am enthralled by the huge bay window that overlooks the ocean. This could be our new home.
“You have done an amazing job.” I turn to Tony and see his head almost touches the roof up here.
“It’s a great apartment, loads of space up here,” he says, and I can tell he’s pleased with my compliment. Stuffing his hands deeper into his jeans pockets, he takes it all in. Admires his own work, if you will.
“I absolutely love it.” I walk through the space again, trailing my fingers lightly along the walls as I go.
“Hope those hands are clean, Mrs Downey.” He grins at me.
“Oops, sorry, Tony!” I step away from the wall and find myself stumbling into him. It’s a much flirtier move than I could ever have planned.
Time sort of stands still until he says, “Only messing. Sure, it’s your place now, right?” He dangles the big bunch of keys in front of me again. I look out at the ocean, still leaning on him. His big boots seems rooted to the spot.
“I really hope so.” I almost whisper the words, and I bob my head from side to side as though I’m thinking about his suggestion, surmising, my head bumping off his shoulder as I go. I’m acutely aware I’m flirting with him, even though it was not premeditated.
Then I realise I’m probably taking up his entire day, so I stand up straight and, faking a stretch, hold my arms high above my head and interlink my fingers. I give a fake yawn. Then I once again tell him what a super job he has done and I snap a few pictures on my iPhone before we make our way back down the winding stairwell. I wonder, will it be me and my Susan or Yvonne Connolly sleeping up there and sitting behind that desk next month?
At the back of the office is a derelict-looking green area. Tony has gone out ahead of me, and when I join him outside he’s moved down to the end of the huge long field that the office is built on. Manoeuvring my way over the rough ground in my kitten heels, I guess Tony has all but abandoned me. At the end of the field he stands beside what look like two totally run-down cottages partially joined together. He catches me staring at them before he says, “Come here. My plan is to knock the small one down and use the materials for that to fix up the bigger one. Keep the costs way down.” His fingers beckon me to stand beside him.
“You own them?” I’m surprised, and I wobble as I try to regroup.
“I do.” He picks up a loose brick and throws it onto a pile of others.
“What are you going to do with them?” I ask.
“Well, I know what I want to do with them, but I don’t know yet if I can make it happen, Courtney Downey, do I? You have many questions. I like to see that; I love that. Sweet or sour?” he asks as he crunches his big workman’s boots over a pile of cement while slapping dirt from his hands.
“It’s hard but, if pushed to the edge of a cliff, I’d say sour. When did you buy them?” I ask.
“Me too . . . Oh years ago.” He picks up various other bricks and stones and separates them into piles. Birds sing and the sun beats down on us. What I wouldn’t give to be in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.
“And they are still sitting there?” I put my hand on the bigger cottage. Both have a unique character I can’t quite explain. The suns hits one of the broken window and bounces off it. Pebble-dashed in white, they look lonely.
“Sometimes you just have to hold out for when the time is right. It’s been a long wait . . . I’m waiting on some financial backing, if you will.” I sense he is embarrassed he’s said too much, so I change the subject. Perhaps there is an emotional attachment to the cottages. An ex, maybe?
“The town-hall woman, Marina, I think her name was, wasn’t it? She definitely seemed to think the business relocation idea will be a gold mine, and she was incredibly enthusiastic about this location you have; in fact, she referred to it as ‘prime’. So you might be sitting on a little business gold mine here too,” I say.
“For a second when you said about the late-night licence, I thought she was going to have an issue,” he replies.
“I know! Me too!” I say, relieved she didn’t.
“Well, in fairness to her, she’s brilliant: great woman, great company, and she wants the best for the community, not like that battleaxe Mrs Halpin, who wants to stop the whole of Cornw
all expanding at all. That’s why I had to get you over today, while she’s in with her hip. She hates me.” He’s picked up a stick now and is bashing both soles of his boots to remove the dry mud.
“You can’t hear the traffic from the road here, just the chirping birds, and it’s so peaceful,” I say when he drops the stick. We both stop in our tracks and just listen. It’s a proper summer’s day. The light wind blows my hair, which has escaped from the constraints of my bobble, and it’s like we are standing in a different world.
“It’s funny. I come here almost every day, and for some reason today I can see how perfect this place really is.” He inhales deeply.
“It’s stunning,” I say, and I mean it.
“Yeah. Obviously I’ve loved this spot for ever, so when Lar told me about looking for a property for the new office, I knew the old post office would be perfect. There is something about this piece of land . . . You see, it’s always been my dream to—”
My phone rings out. Claire’s name flashes up at me. The picture I’ve added to her icon when she calls me is, ironically, her dressed as a very flamboyant Elton John for a fancy-dress party she attended with Martin last year. As I recall now, she had found the party a bit boring and had gone home early, leaving Martin behind.
“Excuse me a minute, I really need to take this,” I say hurriedly as I walk away from Tony, towards the dusty jeep. “Hi, how are you?” I breathe down the line.
“Hey, can you talk?” she asks me.
“Of course I can, I’ve been waiting for you to call me. Go on,” I implore.
“Just got the blood work back . . .” She stops.
“And?” I clench the fist of my left hand.
She sniffs, but it’s a calm sniff. “Well, seems I’m okay, Courtney. God only knows how . . . I do have to go in for an internal and she wants to do a smear, but Martin didn’t spread any other sexually transmitted disease to me. And both our HIV tests were negative.” She snorts out a nervous guffaw.
“Oh, thank God for that!” I lean against Tony’s jeep. A copy of Cosmopolitan on the back seat, a pair of red strappy wedges and various donuts for hair buns catch my eye.
“So, what is happening with Martin?” I ask.
“Oh, Courtney, I just can’t be married to him any more, I don’t think . . . My heart is totally broken. I thought we were for life, I really did.” I can hear the utter sorrow in my wonderful friend’s voice.
“Look, don’t make any rash decisions today or tomorrow . . . I’ll see you Friday night and we can talk it all out. I have to hear what he’s had to say for himself, Claire.”
“Yeah, okay. I can’t think straight. I’ve cried so much my eyes have an actual infection! Even my own tears are turning on me! On my order he’s gone to stay with his perfect mum, who, by the way, told me she always suspected that he was seeing men behind my back. Why, Courtney? Why did he lie to me for so many years?” Her breath goes against the words and she sobs quietly now.
I search for anything to say that might ease her pain. “I wish I knew, I really do, but the only thing I do know is that Martin did love you . . . Yes, he led a life that was full of deception, but I know he loved you.”
“I just feel like a complete and utter fool. Like everyone has been laughing at me behind my back. I feel like a mug. I go between complete anger, hating his guts, and then I drag the old photo albums out and torture myself looking at all the good times we had, and there were many.” She blows her nose loudly now. Tony moves towards me now, looking at his watch.
“Claire, I’m sorry, but I gotta go here,” I tell her.
“Sure. Look, I didn’t want to keep you, I know you are busy, but I knew you’d be anxious to hear, so that’s why I called.” She sniffs again.
“Of course!” I stare at the supermodel on the cover of Cosmopolitan.
“I’ll tell you everything on Friday. Will I book O’Hara’s in the back section for eight?” Her voice is so desperately sad that I just want to be beside her, hugging her close.
Tony is nearly on top of me now. “Yeah, eight on Friday is perfect,” I say.
“Gotta go,” Tony whispers.
“Text you later,” I say.
“Love you.”
“Love you too,” I say as Tony stands right beside me now and gets back into the jeep. I push my phone into my pocket and hop back into the front seat.
“It’s getting late. We’d better get you to the hotel. You must be tired and starving,” he says. His tone is suddenly less friendly: cooler almost, more professional. He checks his watch again before running his hands through his hair. For a split second I wonder what it might be like to drag my hands through that hair. To lose myself in those lips. To run my hands over his bare chest and scrape my nails down his back. It’s been literally years since I’ve had any type of fantasy about a man. Honestly, I was beginning to think I had become one of those asexual women. I clear my throat.
“Would it be possible to get a look at the tourist office, if it’s near? I think it’s the top of Street-An-Pol.” I chance my arm.
He looks at his watch again. “Sorry, I’m under pressure now, I’ve to get to my other job . . . I’ve a thing on later. I can spin you past the tourist office, but I’d have to let you make your own way to the hotel.” Clipped, short, businesslike. No warmth in that voice any more. Was I imagining there was earlier?
“No, look, it’s fine, just drop me to the Carbis Bay hotel, if you’re sure you have time. I only wanted to get some updated brochures, but I can order them online,” I say, knowing I have all evening to myself and I can stroll down to the tourist office on my own. There is suddenly unease between us, and I have to shake my silly schoolgirl head and cop on to my situation. What am I like? Tony is a busy man with a life; I only met him a few hours ago, for crying out loud. Hormones. PMT must be hailing a cab and coming my way! What was I expecting? For him to ask me out to dinner? Big eejit that I am. Anyway, he’s obviously got a girlfriend. Unless I’ve got him very, very wrong, I can’t see manly Tony Becker being a fan of Cosmo and high heels. Shaking my head, I gather myself. I’ll do all I need to do after I’ve eaten: he’s right, I am ravenous, and I can’t wait to call Susan and see how she is getting on. Music fills the silence between us once again on the journey out to the hotel, and when he pulls up this time he doesn’t turn off the engine.
“See ya now,” is all he says.
“See ya, Tony,” I say as I get out. I click the boot open, drag out my suitcase and slam it shut.
Tony quickly drives away, dust rising in his wake.
7
I can’t quite explain the smell of St Ives. It’s like the sea meets lavender meets coconut oil. It’s amazing. Unique. I wish Claire was here with me.
The Carbis Bay spa hotel and estate is stunning. It’s situated on the golden sands of Carbis Bay beach and I see a wedding is taking place on it. A groom and his groomsmen hold a beautiful blushing bride across their outstretched arms and the sound of the bride’s rapturous laughter floats up to me. All I can recall of my wedding day is that I was ovulating. I hadn’t ovulated at all the three months before, so I’d dragged poor David away from our guests twice that day to have sex. I say poor David, but hey, he seemed happy enough. Best day of his life he used to say, repeatedly. I gave him a false sense of what was to come.
Dragging my small case up the cobbled steps of the hotel, I struggle with the pain now in my feet. Eventually kitten heels turn on you too. Purrfect they are not. Entering via the glass-house conservatory to reception, I can see right through to the Sands restaurant. Some smoked salmon and thinly spread cream cheese drowning in freshly squeezed lemon on thick, nutty brown bread with a bottle of cold white wine is calling my name. If hunger still pushes, a portion of skinny fries. But first I have to get into my room, call Susan, take a lukewarm shower and get out of these crumpled clothes.
The friendly receptionist issues my room card and tells me the floor number and breakfast times. I trudge to the lif
t, which carries me up to my floor, and to my immense relief I gain entry to my room immediately. David had a habit for years of putting our room key card in the back of his mobile-phone cover, which only served to wipe the card every time. Delighted to see I have a fantastic sea view, I open the window out as far as it will go. Thinking that I must remember to thank Tony for booking such a wonderful room, I let out a huge deep breath.
“That was a rollercoaster of emotions,” I say out loud to myself. Even though the sun has long dipped below the horizon, it’s still a wonderfully warm evening. Feeling very alive and alert despite such a long day, I can’t help but wish Susan was here with me too to see this place. Don’t tell me she wouldn’t fall in love with it. Down below, couples stroll hand in hand on the beach and around the grounds of the hotel. The wedding party is in full swing. Guys drink from beer bottles, dicky bows now hanging loose and ties long gone. What a wonderful venue to be married in, I think, flopping onto the soft, pristine, white bedcovers. Happily kicking off the kitten heels, I rub my sore feet and bruised thigh. I pull out the phone from the back pocket of my trousers and before I can speed dial Susan, saved in my phone as Darling Daughter, I see I have a new text message. Sliding it open, the words jump at me and I can hardly believe what I am reading. I read it again, but my eyes fill up with tears. My breath comes fast and heavy and the tears plop out and roll down my face. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so upset in my entire life. I heave for breath, and then I re-read it again.
Mom, hi. I want to write to you so that you have to listen to me and not interrupt me. I need you to appreciate my wants and feelings. Mom, I want to live with Dad and Mar-nee for the summer holidays. I have talked to them both and they want me here too. I love you, of course I do – but I do not want to go to Cornwall for the summer. I want to work in Mar-nee’s shop and learn the trade. She thinks I will make a great beautician. You know I am not academic and this is what I want. Also, as you know, I turn sixteen on Saturday, I know you don’t have any plans for me so Dad and Mar-nee are taking me to see the Titanic quarters in Belfast. It’s really hard for Mar-nee to get a Saturday off so I hope you won’t try and say no to our trip.
The Importance of Being Me Page 10