by Katie Ginger
About the Author
KATIE GINGER lives by the sea in the south-east of England, and apart from holidays to very hot places where you can sit by a pool and drink cocktails as big as your head, she wouldn’t really want to be anywhere else. Spring Tides at Swallowtail Bay is her fourth novel. She is also the author of Snowflakes at Mistletoe Cottage and the Seafront series – The Little Theatre on the Seafront, shortlisted for the Katie Fforde Debut Novel of the Year award, and Summer Season on the Seafront.
When she’s not writing, Katie spends her time drinking gin, or with her husband, trying to keep alive her two children: Ellie, who believes everything in life should be performed like a musical number from a West End show; and Sam, who is basically a monkey with a boy’s face. And there’s also their adorable King Charles spaniel, Wotsit (yes, he is named after the crisps!)
For more about Katie, you can visit her website: www.keginger.com, find her on Facebook: www.facebook.com/KatieGAuthor, or follow her on Twitter: @KatieGAuthor.
Readers LOVE Katie Ginger
‘This book is every sort of wonderful, with gorgeous characters, a stunning town and a friendship that turns into a romance you’re not going to want to miss out on’ *****
‘Does jumping up and down, cuddling my Kindle and grinning from ear to ear count as a review?! … Katie writes with such warmth and humour and I could feel every word’ *****
‘Loved it!’ *****
‘A fantastic chick-lit page turner’ *****
‘Sweet, heart-warming, and very enjoyable. This book is like a warm chocolate chip cookie, you feel better for eating it, get a bite of exciting chocolate now and again all while just enjoying the experience. Love the book!’ *****
‘The perfect book to enjoy in a few days of quiet downtime’ *****
‘Absolutely loved this book. Couldn’t put it down. Wonderful uplifting storyline. Can’t wait to see what’s next from this author!’ *****
‘The Little Theatre On The Seafront has to be one of my top ten books of 2018. I loved everything about the book … I can’t wait to see what Katie Ginger comes up with next and I know that it will be another cracking read … a very well deserved 5* out of 5*’ *****
‘Faultlessly enjoyable’ *****
Also by Katie Ginger
The Little Theatre on the Seafront
Summer Season on the Seafront
Snowflakes at Mistletoe Cottage
Summer Strawberries at Swallowtail Bay
Spring Tides at Swallowtail Bay
KATIE GINGER
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020
Copyright © Katie Ginger 2020
Katie Ginger asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © March 2020 ISBN: 9780008380533
Version: 2020-03-07
To my wonderful husband, Phil,
and our amazing children, Ellie and Sam.
I love you all millions.
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Readers LOVE Katie Ginger
Also by Katie Ginger
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Author Letter
Dear Reader …
Keep Reading …
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
‘Urgh! Arrgh!’ Stella raised her hands in front of her face trying to deflect the water spraying out from under the sink. With a splutter she reached forward to grab the stopcock, her T-shirt bearing the brunt of the assault, and water pooled in her bra. ‘Yuck. How do I turn the water off, Frank?’ Frank, her King Charles spaniel cocked his head. Stella’s lungs squeezed together in panic, forcing the air out, but she gulped some back in with a deep breath. Grabbing the stopcock with both hands she tugged hard but still it wouldn’t budge. Frank lapped at the water flooding over the kitchen floor. ‘Don’t do that, you horrible dog. Go on, shoo.’
With a resigned harrumph, Stella sat back on her haunches. No amount of mental determination could turn the rusted thing and, as she moved away from the soggy cupboard, water splashed over her trainers. Stella stood and put her hands on her hips while she surveyed the huge wet patch on her top. ‘Fabulous. I look like I’ve been in some sort of wet T-shirt competition at a 1950s holiday camp.’ A soggy strand of hair fell onto her face. It was only then Stella realised how wet she truly was. It wasn’t just her top that had been deluged; literally everything was damp, even down to her underwear. As well as being in her bra, where the water had hit her jeans, she now looked like she’d wet herself. Things were not going well for the start of her new life.
The little town of Swallowtail Bay – her new home – was supposed to be a dream come true, but so far, on her very first day, she’d smashed a vase in her new shop, found that her new bedroom absolutely honked and came with a germ-infested bed, and now the kitchen had a leaky pipe.
When she’d said goodbye to her beloved city of Oxford early that morning, her eyes had filled with tears. Though leaving a tiny rented flat with black mould on the kitchen walls and a strange cheesy smell whenever she opened the airing cupboard door wasn’t a hardship, she’d lived her whole life there and it was home. But the idea of a new start, leaving Isaac well and truly behind, had lifted her spirits. And if that hadn’t done the trick, the view that met her when she drove towards the tiny seaside town had. The sea appeared on the horizon, its pale blue hue merging with the clear cloudless sky above and it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.
Even though she was soaked through, a smile spread over her face as she remembe
red seeing it. She’d followed the long road dotted here and there with sweet little churches, to the shingled beach and a row of white beach huts interspersed with small fishing boats. On the green, purple crocuses burst into life and little clumps of daffodils raised their trumpety heads to the sky.
Spring was the perfect season to make a fresh start. It was so hopeful and bright and happy, but since stepping over the threshold of her new home, things hadn’t gone exactly to plan. Standing in her hideous retro kitchen with cold wet toes was not how she’d imagined her new life would begin. But Stella Harris wasn’t a sulker. She never had been and mustering some of her old self, the tiny bit that remained after her heart had been battered and bruised, she decided she had no intention of starting now.
When she summoned back the feeling of anticipation that had brightened her journey early that morning, butterflies once again danced in her stomach. As soon as the offer had been accepted she’d started packing and yesterday contracts had been exchanged and the sale completed. She’d waited for this day for months and a few little problems were not going to spoil it now.
Gently pushing Frank back towards the doorway she searched the cupboards and found a plastic bowl to catch the water dripping down from the stopcock but the jet shooting out sideways was worrying. The bottom of the cupboard was soggy and springy and Stella pulled her phone from her pocket. A quick search of the internet listed a number of different plumbers but, unsure who to choose, she called the first one on the list. No answer. Stella quickly tried the second.
‘’Ello?’ said a harsh male voice.
‘Oh, hi. Is that Jim the plumber?’
‘Who are you?’
Rude, thought Stella, but she carried on regardless. ‘My name’s Stella and I’ve just moved into Admiral’s Corner. I’ve found a bit of a leak and I need some help to stop it.’
‘Can’t do anything until tomorrow at the earliest.’
Still rude, she thought again but maybe he was in the middle of something: fixing a pipe for a little old lady or stopping some kind of emergency. ‘Oh. It’s just that there’s water spraying out everywhere and well, I—’ The phone went dead. Stella took it away from her ear and stared at it. ‘Well I hope the rest of Swallowtail Bay’s residents aren’t like that, Frank.’ Frank simply stared at her with big soppy brown eyes. Muttering a few choice swear words, she dialled plumber number three.
‘Sutton Plumbing.’
That sounded much more professional. Stella tried to keep her voice calm and steady, but knowing that water was still flooding out all over the kitchen floor, a note of panic began to creep in as she went through it all again.
‘Admiral’s Corner? You mean Herbert’s old place?’ plumber number three asked and Stella scratched her temple. It seemed everyone knew everyone else in this tiny town. She hoped people hadn’t been talking about her already.
‘Yes, I tried turning the stopcock but it won’t budge and I didn’t want to force it. Can you come, or do you know if there’s another way I can turn the water off?’
‘Not without having a look. There might be a tap with your water tank. Do you know where that is?’
For some reason Stella looked around as if that might help her but of course, she had no idea where the water tank was. She’d only been in the flat once before, on her one and only visit. The shop and holiday lets had been somewhat of an impulse buy and she was really beginning to regret it. ‘Sorry, I don’t. I literally got the keys from the estate agent this morning.’ She felt a stinging at the back of her eyes again but refused to let the tears get any further. She pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath.
‘I’m just finishing a job but I can be over in about twenty minutes. If you can’t turn the water off, grab some towels and wrap them around the leak until I get there, okay?’
‘Okay. Thank you so much.’ At least something was beginning to go right. And it was a good idea; she didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of it before.
Stella rang off and found some towels. Telling herself to stop being a wimp because, let’s face it, she was already about as wet as she could be, she wrapped the towels around the leak. Then finding a mop and bucket she began to clean up the floor, chasing Frank away whenever he came near. Once it was done, she left the kitchen of her new one-bedroom flat and walked back down the hall into the shop. At least with the shop and flat being together she didn’t have a long commute to work. In Oxford she’d had to sit on the bus for nearly forty-five minutes because although she could drive, there was nowhere to park near her work. It hadn’t been exactly fun. She always seemed to end up near the people who ate smelly food for breakfast or had halitosis. One time, someone had actually eaten a tuna sandwich for breakfast and then proceeded to clean their teeth. Even flossing. No, commuting she definitely wouldn’t miss.
In the shop, the air was musty and white sheets covered the fittings. Paintings were piled in the corner, and a large comfy-looking wingback chair was stacked high with cardboard boxes. The remnants of the vase she’d knocked over that morning sat in a pile in a black bin bag. It wasn’t a great loss. The glaze had been somewhat vomit-coloured and she couldn’t imagine it would sell. The place needed a good clean too and Stella would have to sort through and decide what stock to keep and what to bin. The weird stone statue of a woman kissing a fish would definitely have to go.
Rocking onto her soggy toes, Stella couldn’t wait to get started. When her eyes rested on the till, she pictured herself sat behind it serving customers, helping them decide what they wanted and then wrapping it up in brown paper, fastened with twine. Possibly with cute little logo stickers if she ever got round to designing them. She could even keep the tatty upholstered wingback chair for Frank and he could sit beside her every day. The customers would love him. He was already making himself at home, sniffing his way around the room.
Stella’s mind whirled with a mixture of joy, dread, fear and elation. It still didn’t feel real. This was her shop. Her shop! And she could sell whatever she wanted. After a life in high-street retail she didn’t have to try and sell store cards or ask customers if they’d like to save ten per cent by signing up to the catalogue. There’d be no more standing by the open door in the depths of winter, freezing her bits off, welcoming customers with fake cheer. She could sit behind the counter reading a book and greet them with a smile and a genuine, ‘Hi, let me know if you need any help,’ then let them browse unhindered. And as far as the holiday lets were concerned, how hard could that be?
Despite everything that had happened earlier, a little squeal of delight escaped from her mouth. Large old-fashioned dressers lined the back wall, sticky and damp with dust but piled high with hand-painted teapots, cups and small china saucers. Everywhere her eyes fell there were more delights, and a few horrors. Why Herbert, the previous owner, had decided to sell strange tiny sculptures of old men’s scrunched-up faces she had no idea. And that assortment of rather buxom papier-mâché figurines had clearly been purchased in a moment of madness. Still, nothing could quell her excitement. She’d been waiting for this moment for so long. It had been the focus for all her hopes and dreams since her life had changed so suddenly the evening Isaac came home from work and announced he wanted a divorce.
It had been a bog-standard boring Tuesday. A Tuesday! Who asked for a divorce on a Tuesday? It had always seemed to Stella that divorces were a Monday or Friday thing. Tuesdays were for two-for-one pizza deals, not for life-changing decisions that she hadn’t even been consulted about. After she’d thrown things at him and he’d hidden behind the sofa, apologetic but determined, she packed a bag and sought refuge at her sister Abby’s house.
A searing pain shot into Stella’s heart, thinking back on those first agonising hours, and when he’d gone and started a new relationship immediately after their split, she’d hated him more than she ever thought she could hate anyone. Until then, she’d used words like hate to describe how she felt about celery or reality TV, but never before had
she been filled with such vitriol. It had soon faded to be replaced by hurt and a feeling of rejection, of not being good enough. Of being a failure.
‘Well, Frank,’ Stella said to the tubby dog who had found a quiet corner to settle in, ‘I’m not wasting any more time, I’ve got too much to do.’ She set about cleaning while she waited for the plumber to arrive. Having lived so much of her life with Isaac it still felt strange to be doing such big things on her own but there was also something wonderful, in that her new start was entirely her own. Her adventure. Pushing down the shadowy pain that lingered whenever she thought of him, she pressed on. About twenty minutes later, though with the water still hissing in the background it felt a lot longer, a car pulled up on the double yellow lines outside the shop. A very short, very, very round man climbed out of the car and grabbed a big bag of tools from the passenger seat. Stella went to meet him at the door.
‘’Ello love, I’m Derek.’
‘Hello, Derek. I’m Stella.’ She held out her hand for him to shake and he took it in his grimy, pudgy one. Derek’s eyes flew down to her wet white T-shirt and back up again. Feeling a flush rise up her neck, Stella crossed her arms over her chest to hide her bra. She hadn’t thought to change and wished now she hadn’t got so het up. If she’d remained calm she’d have thought to nip out to the car and grab another top before he arrived. Diverting Derek’s attention she said, ‘It’s this way.’
‘I’m reckoning,’ said Derek, wobbling along behind, ‘it must have happened in the last week – we had snow last week. Loads of it. They said we’d only get a couple of centimetres and we got masses. You wouldn’t think it now though, would you, with the lovely sun outside. I bet it’s burst because of that. It must have frozen and then, bam.’ He dropped his bag onto the kitchen counter as he said it for dramatic effect. Derek then edged past her and crouched down to look in the cupboard. Crouching seemed to be quite a difficult affair and Stella wondered, yet again, if she’d made the right choice. Maybe she should have had a proper look online and checked some ratings before phoning someone or she could have nipped next door to the lovely-looking café and asked in there, but it was too late now. Frustratingly, her nervousness was making her second-guess herself.