New Beginnings at Rose Cottage

by Erin Green

  How many people have stood here over the years and dreamt of spending their remaining days looking out across this stretch of water? Thousands, I should imagine. And how many have been brave enough to take a step towards making their dream a reality?

  Well, there’s no chance of that for us. I’m purely being nosy whilst I’m here. Seeing how the other half live, so to speak. Though given the way my stomach is lurching at the prospect of telling a few white lies, I won’t be doing this again.

  I breathe in the dream moment as a memory, before turning and heading for my three o’clock appointment. I’ll take any literature they offer. I’ll ask a load of questions and throw in some ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’, like they do on those property programme on the TV. Those couples rarely purchase the viewed properties, so what am I worried about?

  How difficult can it be?

  As I continue the steady climb, pretending it might become my daily walk, I look up and see a taxi approaching. The woman in the back is staring absently through the window, a look of deep sadness etched upon her face. I wonder if others have ever viewed me in such a manner. All at once, I recognise the woman. It’s Emma. Simultaneously, she awakens from her thoughts and notices me.

  Our eyes meet for the briefest of seconds.

  Sadness.

  The emotion overwhelms me.

  Then she’s gone.

  I swiftly turn, watching the taxi grow smaller and smaller as it weaves its way down the hill.

  Where is Emma going?

  ‘Hello,’ says a female voice beside me. ‘Is it Ms Elton?’

  I turn to see a young woman with blonde highlights and red-painted lips staring enquiringly at me, hand outstretched. Her company badge identifies her as Ms West of Next Move: Sell, Rent or Buy.

  ‘Yes . . . Ruth, please,’ I stammer, shooting one final look over my shoulder at the taxi.

  ‘Perfect timing . . . Shall we?’ Ms West doesn’t wait for an answer but strides towards the nearest residence. I follow, lingering two steps behind and wondering whether I should phone Emma. I watch the estate agent’s nimble fingers produce keys and swiftly gain entrance, talking as she does.

  I’m torn.

  I must focus, take an interest and ask as many questions as I can.

  I’ll phone Emma as soon as I’ve finished viewing the apartment.

  Benjamina

  ‘Hi!’ I call, bursting happily through the doors of the ice cream parlour. I’m halfway across the tiled floor when I realise that my warm greeting has been met by a gloomy face. ‘What’s up, Luca? Have you had a power cut and all the stock’s melted?’

  My joke falls flat. Much like a power cut in an ice cream parlour on the hottest day of the year.

  Instantly I feel an inner panic.

  ‘Luca?’

  He slowly shakes his head, his lips rolling together as if wanting to form words, his hands twisting a tea towel into a rope. To watch a grown man be lost for words takes me by surprise. He looks really upset.

  ‘Luca . . . what’s happened?’

  He throws down his twisted tea towel and steps from behind the counter, beckoning me towards the nearest table.

  ‘She came in when I was cleaning and went up to the apartment,’ he says, sinking on to a chair. I sit opposite.

  ‘Who? Emma?’

  He nods. ‘Liz didn’t ask, she didn’t say a word; she simply followed Emma up the stairs. I should have stopped her, I should have known he’d pull a stunt like this sooner or later. When they came back downstairs, Emma was shouting about ten thousand pounds and signing paperwork. She was distraught . . . totally shocked. Then Liz kicked her out. I should have done something, but I just couldn’t think straight.’

  I watch as he covers his face, distraught.

  What the hell am I to say now?

  ‘I should have helped her and now she’s gone! She’s gone, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Luca, who is Liz?’ I say slowly.

  He removes his hands and looks at me.

  ‘She’s Martin’s wife.’

  My mouth is agape; I haven’t a clue what to say. I reach for my mobile and look at the screen. There’s no message from Emma.

  ‘Where’s Martin now?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s forever playing with fire and messing about behind Liz’s back, but I honestly didn’t think he’d try it with Emma.’ He slumps in his chair, deflated.

  I’m in shock. I don’t know what to do. Should I dash back to the cottage? Call Ruth? Or perhaps I should hunt down Martin.

  ‘From the moment she walked in here, I thought she was lovely, and now he’s ruined everything.’ Luca gives a deep sigh. ‘Typical Martin, always chasing his tail simply to please the bank manager. He doesn’t care a jot about anyone but himself.’

  ‘Does Emma know how you feel about her?’

  ‘Nah, I only really saw her when she delivered the samples . . . I never got the chance to get to know her better. And how can I continue working here now knowing how my boss has treated her?’

  I stand up. I need to do something. I can’t sit and wait for a tear-stained Emma to find me.

  ‘Look, Luca, I think she’s been blinded by his charm and the chance of starting afresh thanks to her tasting talents, but honestly, if she realised how you felt, I know she’d be flattered.’

  I see a spark in his eyes; at least he’s listening.

  ‘I can let you have her mobile number if you want it. Give it a day or so, but seriously, think about telling her. It might not be too late for you and her.’

  I grab a paper napkin from the dispenser and begin searching through my contacts for Emma’s number, relieved that I’ve started carrying my mobile since the horse-riding emergency. I’ll write it down for Luca, then I’ll attempt to call Emma myself.

  Emma

  I sit on the station platform and wait, my ticket home in my hand. I’d done the usual, bought a coffee and attempted to snack on a soggy tortilla wrap promising the delights of the orient. I binned it, opting for crisps instead.

  I shouldn’t have gone to Berry Head. I should have made him drive straight to Paignton station, but oh no . . . soppy old me had to take one last look, enjoy one last moment of a lingering memory of good times. And now look what I’ve done.

  I have no doubt that Ruth recognised me as we drove past. Her features went from relaxed to wide-eyed and staring in the shortest of seconds.

  Why oh why didn’t I simply come straight to the station?

  The quick walk around Berry Head was hardly the same in the middle of the day, with screaming children demanding ice cream and parents hushing them in irritation. There was no moonlight walk, no tender kiss, not even a reminder of the time we shared staring out to sea. Lord knows what I was thinking. It was all an act; Martin must be laughing his socks off. It’s one thing to fall for the smooth talk, the warm embrace, but to actually . . . do it on a dusty wooden floor after a few throwaway comments about our future makes my skin crawl.

  I switch on my mobile. Seven missed calls: Ruth and Benni. Great, so now they both know.

  I gulp down a wave of guilt. They’ve been so kind, so caring and friendly these past ten days, and now this. They’ll think I’ve walked out on them too. They won’t understand what a prat I’ve made of myself; I didn’t share half of it with them. They’ll think I didn’t trust them.

  What a bloody mess!

  And now I’m to return home, tail between my legs, ten grand lighter and weighed down by the prospect of a business venture with a sodding crook some two hundred miles away.

  What a fool!

  I watch travellers hauling suitcases from train carriages. Whether they’re coming home or arriving for a holiday, I hope they find a better outcome than I did. I correct myself, instantly. I hope they’re not taken in as a mug, a desperate, lonely mug seeking new begi
nnings.

  My internal monologue has gone too far. Angry tears spill over my lashes and down my face. I hastily wipe my hand across each cheek for fear that the world will see my distress. Though on second thoughts, who cares nowadays – no one ever stops when they see a stranger cry in public.

  To think I trusted him. Trusted him with my money. With my future. With my . . .

  I stop. The final thought snags in my mind; I hadn’t got as far as admitting it to myself, let alone him.

  With my heart.

  Bastard.

  I go with the flow of emotion, turning to hide my sorrow and wait for it to subside.

  I’ll be home in a few hours, washed, changed and unpacked, and then I’ll put the wheels in motion. I’ll phone Ruth and Benni, explain the reason for my sudden departure. Though no doubt Ruth has already spoken to Benni, given the number of missed calls.

  Then I’ll . . .

  I pause. What is it I want to do?

  I’ll sit down and write a list of options, before methodically working through the feasibility of each one. I’ll be like Benni. Benni, who has never had secure employment. Young Benni with her gung-ho attitude towards life and the bravery to face whatever comes at her.

  If she can survive, why can’t I? I’ll ignore the fear and do what I need to do . . . who knows, I might even find the answer I’m looking for.

  Just like Benni.

  My renewed vigour dries my tears.

  Suddenly a wealth of feasible ideas pop into my mind. I grab my phone and begin making my list.

  Apply to every restaurant and hotel back home regardless of whether they are advertising or not.

  Start up a cookery-for-beginners course.

  Write a cookbook based on unique tastes.

  A change of career????

  I type the final line and sit back.

  Am I too old to change career?

  Who am I kidding? I’m useless at anything and everything else. I can’t do office work, sales or marketing . . . I haven’t the qualifications to teach, nurse or even work in social care. I can’t do anything other than cook. And taste.

  My line of vision suddenly fills with my train drawing in to the platform. I slip my phone into my pocket, bundle up my belongings and drag my suitcase towards the nearest carriage.

  I want to go home, and that can’t happen quickly enough.

  A kindly man helps me to lift my case into the carriage and on to the storage rack. Gratefully I sit in the seat opposite, babysitting my luggage, convinced that a stranger will steal my belongings and round off my holiday on a further bum note.

  Funny how I trust no one now that one person has deceived me.

  Ruth

  Benni stares at me dolefully as I sit, phone to my ear, listening to Emma’s mobile ring out.

  ‘I’ll keep trying all night if I have to,’ I say across the dining-room table.

  Benni sighs. This isn’t how she expected to spend tonight, cooped up alongside me when she could be out dancing with Ziggy and his mates.

  ‘What if she’s done something stupid?’ she asks, as I kill the connection and immediately begin to redial.

  ‘Don’t say that!’ I retort, not wanting to think the worst.

  ‘You never know. She was thrilled at the prospect of a new life, a new venture and maybe a new partner. In a matter of hours it looks like she’s lost the lot.’

  Her words linger in the space between us. I don’t want to think about such things, so I ignore her concerns. Though deep down I know that if Emma doesn’t answer soon, we might need to venture along that line of thought.

  I try twice more without success, then place my phone on the table and stare at it.

  We think mobile phones are life-savers. We rely on them for connection and communication, and yet in reality, if no one answers them, they’re bloody useless. Overpriced bits of plastic and electronics that give us a sense of self and purpose by supposedly keeping us in touch with the world, unless someone chooses not to pick up. Or can’t.

  ‘Ruth . . . I’m frightened.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Who do we call if—’

  ‘Stop it. She’s not in that frame of mind.’

  ‘How do you know? You said her face in the back of the taxi looked lifeless.’

  I gulp. I wish I’d kept that little detail to myself.

  ‘Well, not quite . . .’

  ‘You said—’ continues Benni.

  ‘I know what I said. Maybe it wasn’t her . . . maybe it was someone looking like her whose face was lifeless.’

  ‘Who are you trying to kid? What’re the chances of there being a near-identical woman in the same area on the same day that she does a dash for it after being stung by a greedy bastard?’

  I stare at her. For one so young, Benni is very perceptive.

  ‘I can’t sit here doing nothing,’ she says. ‘We’re wasting time.’

  ‘Look, if all else fails, we’ll call the local police and ask them to contact Rugeley police as a matter of urgency. How does that sound?’

  ‘OK, so what time are we calling them?’ asks Benni, turning to view the dining-room clock.

  ‘Benni – don’t!’

  ‘No, we have to be realistic, Ruth. What’s the time?’

  I glance at the clock: 8.30.

  ‘You last saw her at what time?’

  ‘Three o’clock.’

  ‘That’s five and a half hours ago – plenty of time for her to get home, settle and answer her phone, even if she ran out of juice on the journey. Agreed?’

  I sigh. She’s got a point.

  ‘Let’s wait till ten o’clock,’ she says.

  I give a tiny nod.

  ‘You keep phoning for a bit and then I’ll take over. I need to find something to do,’ says Benni, disappearing into the kitchen. ‘I can’t sit and wait for bad news.’

  I know she’s taking the sensible approach, but I really don’t fancy calling the police and causing an unnecessary drama. Surely Emma’s had enough for one day.

  On the other hand, I’d hate to think . . .

  Emma

  ‘What?’ I snap.

  I know I should be grateful, but right now, all I want to do is sleep. My bedroom clock tells me it’s 9.50.

  ‘Emma?’ comes Benni’s tinny voice; even through the distorted connection of the mobile I can hear her concern.

  ‘Yes, sorry, Benni . . . I needed . . . I just had to get away.’

  ‘We get it, don’t worry. We were worried because you ­weren’t picking up, but now that you have . . . Can we give you a call in the morning to make sure you’re OK?’

  Instantly, I feel guilty. I arrived home to an empty house and was relieved that Rob wasn’t here to quiz me. I knew Ruth and Benni would be in a panic, and yet I ignored their calls for hours.

  ‘I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to wait until tomorrow for me to explain.’

  ‘You don’t need to explain. We understand. We wanted to know that you were home safe and that you were OK, that’s all.’

  I’m touched by her kindness.

  Her voice lifts with a giggle. ‘This will make you smile, if nothing else – guess who made chocolate truffles while we were waiting for you to answer your mobile?’

  ‘That’s brilliant. I hope you enjoyed it. Benni . . . can you apologise to Ruth too. I should have picked up earlier. Sorry if I’ve worried you both. I’m home, I’m safe and . . . thank you.’

  ‘That’s fine. Get some sleep and we’ll buzz you tomorrow. Is there anything you want us to do in the meantime?’

  I pause. ‘If you happen to see a certain man, a purveyor of ice cream, you might wish to tell him that I’ll be in touch. If he thinks this is the last he’s seen of me, he is quite wrong!’

  ‘Sure will,
and, Emma . . . you may hear from another gent associated with said ice cream purveyor. Be kind if he calls.’

  ‘Who? Luca?’

  ‘The very man . . . Now go and get a good night’s sleep and we’ll speak to you first thing tomorrow. Goodnight, Emma.’

  ‘Goodnight, Benni, and thank you again.’

  ‘Our pleasure.’ With that Benni ends the call.

  I sit clutching my phone for a few minutes until the heaviness lifts from my heart. Speaking to Benni was exactly what I needed; simply knowing that other people care enough to make sure that I am home safe and well brings tears to my eyes.

  Wow, how is it that some people will take advantage of you at the first opportunity while others prove themselves to be loyal friends within only a few days?

  Ruth

  ‘How does she sound?’ I ask as soon as Benni hangs up.

  ‘Not good.’ Benni pulls a sad face before continuing. ‘But hey, at least we know she’s OK. She’s home. If she needs anything I hope she’ll call us, regardless of the time. I’d prefer to be up talking to her all night than for her to . . . well, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  I stand up from the dining table, where I pitched camp when we began phoning several hours ago. Benni’s been active making chocolate truffles, as a means of distracting herself. I stretch my tired legs and my aching back, which seems to have creased into the shape of the hard-backed chair.

  ‘Now what?’ asks Benni, watching my every move.

  I shrug.

  ‘A double gin or even a triple over at the Queen’s Arms?’ she suggests. ‘There’s no point us waiting here – we can answer Emma’s call wherever we are.’

  ‘Sounds good to me. Come on, let’s go before I change my mind.’

  Benni jumps up as only a youngster can after ten o’clock at night.

  ‘And you can tell me how your day has been,’ I say. ‘Because I’ve made a huge decision . . . well, huge for me anyway.’

  Within seconds, Benni is slamming the cottage door shut as we dash over the road for our well-earned drinks.

  The Queen’s Arms is buzzing with customers. Marla is busy behind the bar and we manage to grab a corner table away from the blaring TV.

  ‘Here, read this,’ I say, handing Benni a brown stamped addressed envelope once we’ve settled with our drinks.