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an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2017

Copyright © Mary Jayne Baker 2017

Cover illustration © Shutterstock.com

Cover design © Books Covered 2017

Mary Jayne Baker asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of 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, down-loaded, 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008258313

Ebook Edition © June 2017 ISBN: 9780008258306

Version: 2017-06-15

Robert Fletcher, this one’s for you. To Crazy Golf, Cheeky Vimtoes and the carefree seaside days of our youth. Cheers.

Table of Contents

Cover

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

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Acknowledgements

Also by Mary Jayne Baker

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

The day I turned 28, I bought a lighthouse and met the love of my life.

I mean, as you do. Get up, have boiled egg, meet love of life, buy lighthouse. We’ve all been there, right?

Of course I didn’t know, when I was right in the fog of it, that I was meeting the love of my life. I didn’t know I was less than an hour from buying my very own lighthouse either. Sometimes these things just jump out at you with a tummy-flopping, life-changing “boo!”.

Cragport’s Victorian lighthouse stuck up out of the chalk cliff that jutted into the North Sea’s foam-crusted swill, rotting itself quietly into the ground just as it had for years. A red-and-white-swirled job like a fairground helter-skelter, half bleached by slashes of seagull guano. It was about 90ft high and indecently phallic, arched windows long denuded of glass at intervals all the way up and a round knob crowning the lantern room on top.

Once upon a time, this beacon-that-was had beamed Cragport’s fishermen safely home. But its light had gone out for good decades ago, and these days all locals saw was an eyesore – if they noticed it at all. Cracked and graffiti-covered, the one-time colossus was just another broken thing in a town full of them.

I passed it every morning walking Monty. Barely noticed it, like everyone else. It was just furniture for a background, marked daily as Monty’s property through the medium of a sly little wee up the side.

That day a man was there, nailing a notice to the half-rotten wooden door at a little distance from us. I put Monty on his lead before he decided both man and lighthouse belonged to him and it was damp trouser time.

“Morning.” The man turned to flash us a bright smile that had no place on any self-respecting person’s face at that time on a damp Saturday. It was like he wasn’t even hungover. Surreal.

“Morning.” I nodded to him as we passed, but something in his smile made me stop.

I hadn’t seen him around Cragport before, though he had the town’s own Yorkshire twang. Squinting at him in the sun’s white glare, I could just about make him out: tall, broad, with longish hair and a rash of stubble, dressed in jeans and a padded jacket to keep out the chill nor’wester.

And he was gorgeous, really bloody gorgeous. I mean, if you went for that chiselled, rough-hewn look. He wasn’t my type, but still, it was hard not to stare. You didn’t see many bodies like that around town, not since Jess had dragged me off to see The Dreamboys last year.

“What’s it say?” I asked him, pointing to the notice. I had to raise my voice a little so he could hear me over the yammerings of an increasingly toothsome clifftop wind. “They’re not pulling the old thing down, are they?”

“They can’t.” He tapped in the last nail and turned to face me. “Listed building.”

“Oh. Good.” I wasn’t quite sure why I said that. Something about the derelict lighthouse disappearing from my skyline rankled. “So what’s the notice for? Is it for sale?”

“Yep.” His face broke into a broad grin. “Why, you want to buy it?”

“A lighthouse?” I laughed and gestured down at my scruffy stonewash jeans and too-big hoodie-with-fashionable-bleach-stain combo, my hungover dog-walking costume of choice. “Don’t let this well-heeled exterior fool you, mate. I don’t start the day with a swim in a Scrooge McDuck money bin, you may be surprised to learn.”

“You don’t need to. Here.” He beckoned me to his side and I skimmed the laminated notice fixed to the door.

LIGHTHOUSE FOR SALE

£1

First offer gets it – NO TIMEWASTERS

Call 01947 482704 to enquire

“A quid?” I said to the man with a puzzled frown. “Oh, and it’s Bobbie, by the way.”

I was hoping he’d tell me his name in return so I could stop thinking of him as “the man”.

“I know,” he said, bending to stash his hammer in a small toolbox on the ground.

I cocked a quizzical eyebrow. “You know what?”

“I know you’re Bobbie.”

Er… what? Unless the extra year I’d added to my age that morning had just shoved me arse-first into a full-on senior moment, I was pretty certain I’d never seen this bloke before in my life. Monty was tugging at his lead, keen to claim the rest of his walk, but I ignored him.

My stomach gave a sudden lurch. Could there have been some drunken hook-up I’d forgotten about? If so it’d have to have been a bloody long time ago: it was getting on for nine months since I’d last seen any action in that department. I mean, yes, it was only six months since the big break-up – but that was a whole other story.

The man straightened to face me. Now the blinding sun had disappeared behind a cloud, I could see him more clearly.

The deep green eyes were flecked silver, lightly sparkling as he squinted into the wind. And there was something in his face, a crinkle round the eyes … as if he was enjoying a private joke at someone else’s expense. He reached up to push away the rusty brown hair that was whipping round his forehead.

That face… it did seem familiar. A half-remembered smile…

“Ross?” I said, blinking.

He grinned. “Knew you’d get there eventually.”

“Oh my God!” Impulsively I threw my arms round him, a wave of pleasure sweeping through me. So it was Ross Mason: the boy in the band. What was he doing back here?

I couldn’t believe I hadn’t recognised him – but then he’d beefed up a lot since sixth form. I released him from the hug and drank in the well-built frame, trying to match it up with the beanpole of a lad who’d sat next to me in English. Not that Ross hadn’t always been good-looking in a cheeky, boyish way, but I never thought he’d grow up to be… well, buff was the only word for it.

And… there had been a hook-up, hadn’t there? My first kiss. School disco, Year 9, slow dancing to Angels by Robbie Williams. We’d managed a fair amount of experimental tongue action and some hormone-fuelled top-half groping by the time Mr Madison dived in to separate us, then spent the next two weeks avoiding each other in embarrassment.

He’d still had his braces in back then. Long time ago that it was, I could remember running a tentative tongue-tip over the ridge, tasting them; that same moist, metal flavour you get in your mouth before a rainstorm, made erotic through the thrill of inexperience.

I wondered if he remembered.

“Er – phew. Thanks,” he said when I’d let him go, looking a double dose of windswept from the weather and the unexpected hug.

I turned my face to one side to let the biting wind cool my suddenly overheated cheeks. Had that been a bit much, after ten years? Maybe should’ve gone with a polite handshake…

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “Didn’t mean to launch myself at you. It’s been a long time, that’s all.”

“Don’t apologise. Not every day attractive women throw themselves into my arms, I wasn’t about to start complaining.” He nodded down at Monty. “Your friend doesn’t look impressed though.”

Monty had fixed him with a resentful doggy glare. He was still pulling at his lead, demanding to know why we couldn’t ditch this joker and get off down the beach.

“Yeah, he’s a possessive little bugger,” I said with a smile.

“What do you call the lad?”

“Montgomery. But it’s just Monty to his friends.”

“Oh.” He reached down to tickle Monty’s ears. “Hi, Montgomery.”

“So when did you get back?” I asked.

“Few months ago. I guess my mum told you about me and Claire splitting up a while back. Once we’d put our old flat in Sheffield on the market, it felt like a good time to make a clean break of it back in the old hometown.”

I fumbled in my grey matter, trying to remember what Molly Mason had said about Ross’s life post-school in our various bus-stop chats. Proud mums always sent me into nodding auto-pilot. Claire… that was the girlfriend, wasn’t it? They’d lived together for years.

“Yeah, she did mention something. I’m sorry, Ross.”

I could sympathise: it didn’t seem so very long ago I’d been marking CDs and crying into a pile of unpaired socks myself. A not-so-clean break with the emphasis very much on the broken.

Ross shrugged. “Well, it’s been 18 months now. Onwards and upwards, eh? Can’t force these things if they aren’t meant to be.”

“Won’t dispute that.” I summoned a grin and gestured across the bay with a broad sweep of my arm. “Anyway, allow me to officially welcome you home to Drizzle-on-Sea. Still the finest selection of mucky postcards and adult-themed novelty rock this side of Bridlington.”

He laughed, showing perfect straight, white teeth to prove the childhood braces had done their work. “Cheers love, good to be back in the land of the Kiss-Me-Quick-Shag-Me-Slow hat. So how about you, you get married?”

“No, still muddling along on my own.” For some reason I found my cheeks heating again, despite the bracing air. Monty picked that moment to let rip with an accusing bark, which didn’t help.

“Just the Westie with the Oedipus complex, is it?” Ross leaned down again to ruffle Monty between the ears. The little chap submitted to the caress with a resentful aloofness that clearly said he could take it or leave it.

“Yep, just us two and our Jess. We’re living in Grandad’s old cottage at the top of town.”

“You still writing? Back in school we all thought we’d see your name in lights one day. Or at least in embossed gold print on an airport paperback.”

I smiled at the image. Somehow Roberta Hannigan didn’t sound like the right sort of name to be emblazoned across pulp fiction. It might just about work for the tweed-clad girls’ school headmistress in an Enid Blyton book.

“Bits and pieces.” With a wince of guilt I remembered the neglected first draft of a novel sitting in the drawer at home and hastily changed the subject. “You still play?”

He flushed. “When I get a chance. Surprised you remember.”

“Well, you were pretty good.” I turned to scan the notice again. “So why the bargain bucket price, is the place haunted?”

“Dunno,” he said, sounding relieved the conversation had moved on. “All I know is old Charlie wants rid, soon as he can. Says he can’t be arsed fixing it up at his age and since he’s not allowed to knock it down he just wants someone to take it off his hands. Put a stop to those letters from the council about it making the horizon look untidy and scaring off tourists.”

“Oh.” I subjected the notice to a puzzled stare. Ross’s great uncle had always been eccentric, but a £1 lighthouse sale was a new level of bizarre. Even in its current state, the thing must be worth a fair bit.

“So? You going to go for it?” Ross asked.

“What would I do with a lighthouse?” I said with a laugh.

Monty’s tugs were urgent now. I crouched down next to him to administer an apologetic stroke. “Ok, Monts, let’s get you to the beach for your run.” I stood and threw Ross a parting smile. “See you around, yeah?”

“Hope so.” He bent down to give Monty a goodbye pat. “Bye, pup. Look after her.”

“Oh, and Bobbie!” he called as I walked away.

“What?” I said, turning around.

He flashed me another smile, crinkling those merry eyes. “Happy birthday, love.”

***

My stream of consciousness as I wandered aimlessly along the beach’s blanched pebbles, Monty splashing happily in the baby waves, ran something like this:

He remembered my birthday!

The lighthouse… who the hell sells a lighthouse for a quid? Charlie Mason must’ve gone off his melon.

I mean, he remembered, after ten years. How cute is that?

God, a lighthouse for a quid… it’ll get snapped up by the first pillock who sees it, won’t it? Probably turn it into a crack den or something.

Wonder if he remembers when we snogged that time. Heh, bet he doesn’t know I got grounded for a week when Mr Madison grassed me up to Mum.

I hope whoever buys it does something good with it. It’d be great as a restaurant. Bit short on floor space maybe, but… oooh, or how about a bookshop? A bookshop in a lighthouse, a gimmick like that could really pull in customers. Or… art gallery?

Hang on. Did he say I was attractive before?

I wonder how much it costs to do up a lighthouse. More than I could ever afford, probably. Still, with a bank loan…

It probably doesn’t mean anything, that he remembered. Sweet though. Wish I could remember when his was. He’s older than me, isn’t he? Autumn baby, start of the school year some time…

I bet it’d be a piece of piss to get investors, if you wanted to renovate a lighthouse for a business venture. Guaranteed success, surely. It’s a bloody lighthouse.

October, that’s it. His birthday’s in October.

Oh my God! I’m totally going to buy a lighthouse!

The next minute I was tearing up the uneven steps cut into the crag. I could see Ross there still, sitting cross-legged against the little outhouse that joined the main building and looking dreamily out to sea.

Monty was at my heels, adding some drama to proceedings by barking his lungs out like the Westie of the bloody Baskervilles. He obviously thought I was treating him to his favourite game of Runny-Chasey-Barky-Catch.

“Ross!” I panted as I reached him, clutching my stomach. The burst of exercise had given me a stitch.

He looked round in surprise, tearing his gaze from the fishing trawler he’d been following.

“Hi again. That was a short walk.”

“Yeah, just wanted… God, I’m out of shape.” I stopped for a minute while I caught my breath. “Just wanted to ask you to… tell… your uncle… I’ll take it.”

Chapter 2

It was early evening when I met up with Jess at the Fishgutter’s Arms for a birthday drink. By the time we got there, the dark little pub was heaving.

“Sorry I can’t stay out late, sis,” Jess said as we made our way to a table with a glass of white wine (me) and an orange juice (her). A junior doctor, her Saturday nights were often swallowed up by erratic shifts at the local infirmary.

“That’s ok, not really in the mood for a big one.” I sat down, Jess plonking herself opposite. “I’ll just have a couple then curl up in my PJs with a book and the dog, I think.”

“God, sounds like heaven. Wish I could join you. The only birthday treat I’ve got to look forward to is a night babysitting drunks in A&E.” She cocked her head like a budgie with Tinkerbell hair, listening to the soft indie-style music playing in the background. “Tell you what, this is a bit better than the usual live acts they have on.”

“Yeah, not bad, is it? Improvement on the glam rock covers they normally inflict on us on a Saturday night.”

“So you do anything nice for our birthday then?” she asked.

Bought a lighthouse.

“Not really, just took Monty Dog out…”

Bought a lighthouse.

“…popped round Mum’s for a cuppa, picked up our presents from her…”

Bought a lighthouse bought a lighthouse bought a lighthouse.

I groaned. “Jessie, I need to tell you something.”

“Oh God. What this time?”

I let my head sink on to my folded arms. “Mmmf mmf mmfmmf,” I muffled through a mouthful of sleeve.

“Sorry?”

I lifted my head and fortified myself with another swallow of wine. “Bought a lighthouse.”

“Oh. Right,” she said, looking puzzled. “Bit of tat for Mum’s mantelpiece?”

“No, love, not an ornament. An actual lighthouse. Charlie Mason’s lighthouse. He was selling it for a quid.”

Jess’s eyes widened. “For a quid? Not finally cracked, has he?”

“Don’t think so. Ross told me he’d just got sick of the council badgering him about doing it up.”

“Ross Mason? Not seen him since school. Is he visiting?”

“No, he’s moved back. I bumped into him this morning.”

She shook her head, a bewildered look spreading across her features as what I’d told her sank in. “Yeah. So my sister bought a lighthouse. Welcome to another day in my world.”

“It was a quid, Jess. What else was I going to do?”

“Well, not buy a lighthouse is the thought that springs immediately to mind.” She shook her head again. “You daft cow. You know, you could get three Freddos for that and still have change.”

“I’m on a diet.” I tilted my head as another song started. It was a more upbeat number this time, a bit Kaiser Chiefs-influenced. “You’re right, this is good stuff. Who’s playing?”

I glanced over at the singer, seated on a stool providing his own guitar accompaniment, then jerked my face away before he saw me.

“Oh my God!” I hissed at Jess, reaching across the table to grip her arm. “It’s only him!”

“Him? Who him? Him who?”

“Ross. That’s him on guitar. Look.”

She examined the singer whispering into his microphone, eyes tight closed as the music carried him away.

“Bloody hell, it is as well.” She blinked. “Hey, he’s changed a bit.”

“Yeah, looks good, doesn’t he?”

Jess narrowed her eyes. “Oi. Did you buy his uncle’s lighthouse just because he fluttered his pretty-boy eyelashes at you?”

“Oh right, because I’m that shallow. Yeah, the whole thing was an elaborate chat-up effort actually. I was like ‘Is that a lighthouse on your coastline or are you just pleased to see me?’ and he was like ‘Yeah, you can polish my lamp up any time, darling’ –”

“All right, no need to take the piss. So what’re you planning on doing with this lighthouse then? Please say selling it on.”

I shrugged. “Dunno yet. Thought I’d look into how much it’d cost to do up. I mean, yeah, if it’s going to be more than I can afford I’ll sell it on; can’t go wrong on something that cost a quid, can you? But it’d be nice to do something with it, sort of a fun little project. It’s a shame it’s been left to get into that state.”

“Well, be careful, that’s all. Try not to bankrupt us with your ‘fun little project’.” Jess glanced over my shoulder and groaned. “Oh God. Did you put your pulling pants on tonight?”

“No, why?”

“Because we’re about to get chatted up.” She jerked her head behind me and I looked round to see two beefy, ruddy-faced blokes in rugby shirts making their way to our table.

“Ugh, not again. Really hoped we could just have a nice, quiet night.”

“Bagsy your turn to wingman,” Jess said quickly.

“Oh, right. Forcing me to wingman on my own birthday.”

“It’s my birthday too.”

I sighed. “Go on then.”

I plastered on a fixed smile as the two men reached our table.

“Evening, ladies. Looking good tonight,” said the dark-haired talkie one. In any group of lads on the pull, there had to be a talkie one: the one designated charming enough by the others to open negotiations.

Jess threw me a sideways look to let me know this one was mine. Excellent. Just what I wanted to do on my birthday, be lumbered with the bloody talkie one.

“Hi,” said the other lad, the quieter, better-looking one with the light curls. “Er, just thought we’d say hello.”

“That was very friendly of you,” Jess said with a flirty head-toss. She was good at all that stuff.

“You know, you two girls could be sisters,” Talkie said, looking at me as he cracked out his smoothie routine. Obviously no one had pointed out to him that line only worked for mother/daughter chat-ups.

“We are sisters.”

“Oh,” he said, on the back foot for a moment. “Well, you know… you look like you could be.”

“We’re twins actually,” Jess said to Shy Boy.

“Are you?” He sent a puzzled frown from Jess’s blonde pixie cut to my long, highlighted brunette job. “Sure you’re not winding us up? You don’t look that alike to me.”

“Yeah, we’re the other kind,” Jess said. “Although if they ever remade The Shining I reckon we could be a shoo-in. You two want to join us?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Shy Boy said with a grin, pulling up a seat next to her. I groaned internally as his chatty friend took the chair next to me and not very subtly shuffled it closer.

“What do they call you guys then?” I asked.

“Oliver,” Talkie said. “This is Gareth. We were out on a rugby team social but the other lads abandoned us to go to the sports bar up the road.”

Christ, not rugby players…

“What about you?” Gareth asked, not taking his eyes off Jess.

“Jess.” She nodded to me. “And Bobbie. It’s our birthday, you know.”

“Well it is now we’ve turned up,” Oliver said, grinning.

I made an effort to smile at him. “That line ever work for you?”

“I’ll let you know later.”

Ah, a joke, sort of. Maybe this talkie one wasn’t so bad. Maybe my birthday wouldn’t be a total write-off after all…

***

I was wrong. Long after Jess had dragged her pull to the dancefloor for a snog, I was leaning on the bar with another wine, forced to listen to Oliver’s limitless supply of yawnarific stories about his job as a mobile phone salesman. I’d noticed the nickname “ET” on the back of his rugby shirt earlier and assumed it was because his eyes were a bit googly. Turned out that like his alien namesake, the man was literally obsessed with phones.

“…yeah, so if you come on down the shop I can sort you out an upgrade, mates’ rates. Latest Samsung, all the extras –”

“You’re all right, mate. Got a phone.”

“What is it?”

“Dunno.” I yanked it out of my pocket and pushed it over the bar to him. “Phone.”

He tried not to curl his lip too obviously. “Oh. The 4680. This is well out of date.”

“Well it works, which is as much as I ever expect of it.”

“Nah, you need the 4880 with the Go Anywhere tariff…”

Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God. Was this it, the best Cragport could do for me? Was this my bloody life now: heading for 30 with no prospects for either shags or relationships but this tedious neckless wonder of a phone salesman?

“Hiya, Bobbie. Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

Ross. Thank God.

He’d finished his set and was standing at my elbow waiting to get served, his guitar case propped against the bar. I shot him a smile of gratitude for giving me an excuse to turn away from Oliver and his interminable tariff talk for five minutes.

“Hi Ross. Loved your stuff tonight. You write some of those?”

“Yeah, plus threw a couple of covers in. They like a bit of cheese at the weekend.”

“Do you do a lot of these pub gigs?”

“Couple a month. The extra cash comes in handy.”

Oliver glared at him. “Rude. Can’t you see you’re interrupting? Bloody musicians, think they can just waltz up to any girl in the place.”

I shot Ross a sideways look, a wide-eyed look of please-save-me, hoping he’d get it.

“Right you are, sorry mate. Didn’t mean to be bad-mannered, just wanted to say hi to an old schoolfriend,” Ross said to Oliver, smiling apologetically. He slapped me heartily on the back. “Anyway, nice to run into you, Bobbie. Oh, and really pleased to hear your chlamydia’s clearing up, by the way.”

“Er… yeah, thanks, Ross. Doctor said the antibiotics should see it off in well under a month.”

Oliver was looking from me to Ross nervously, trying to work out if we were taking the piss. I kept my face firmly fixed, Ross doing his best deadpan at my side.

“Um… suppose it’s about time I went to find the rest of the team,” Oliver said eventually, obviously deciding it wasn’t worth sticking around to find out if it was a joke. “See you, Bobbie. Don’t forget to come down the shop for that upgrade, yeah?” He pushed his stool back and hurried to the exit.

I turned to smile at Ross. “Thanks.”

“Glad I could help. Sorry I didn’t have a more dignified excuse for you, was on the spot a bit there.”

“That’s ok. What worries me is how you found out I had chlamydia.” I grinned at the expression on his face. “Joke.”

“Thank Christ for that. So can I get you a birthday drink?”

“Yeah, go on. White wine please.” I patted the recently vacated barstool next to me. “And then you can come sit down, Ross Mason. I want to talk to you.”

“Hey, Bobbie.” Jess was tapping me on the shoulder. She was hand in hand with Oliver’s mate Gareth, who was grinning all over his face. “I’m going to get off so I can change for my shift, Gareth’s walking me home. You coming?” She nodded to Ross. “Hiya, Ross. Nice to see you again.”

“Hi Jess, been a while,” Ross said, leaning across to kiss her cheek. “Happy birthday.”

I glanced at Ross. “Actually, sis, I’ll stay for a bit. Me and Ross are overdue a catch-up.”

I tried to ignore Jess’s suggestive grin. “Oh yeah? Well, enjoy the rest of our birthday then. I’ll see you later.” She gave a very slight wink. “Probably,” she added under her breath.

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