KAT FRENCH
A Summer Scandal

Copyright

Published by AVON

A division of HarperCollins Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © Kat French 2018

Cover photographs © Shutterstock

Cover design © www.emma-rogers.com

Kat French 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: 9780008236786

Ebook Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 9780008236793

Version 2018-04-04

Dedication

For my mum.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Letter

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading…

About the Author

By the Same Author:

About the Publisher

My dearest Violet,

I’m not entirely sure if I’m doing the right thing, but in order to honour Monica’s memory, I’m going to do it regardless and leave the choices and decisions up to you.

Now – I’m dead, darling. No point beating around that particular bush; I must be, or you wouldn’t be reading this letter. I know I should have dealt with this sooner, but I’m afraid I wasn’t brave enough – Pandora’s box, and all that. Should have talked to your mother perhaps, but the right time never really presented itself. Or maybe I never looked for it. She’s too much like me for her own good, my Della; I don’t think she’d want this.

Are you ready? Here comes the formal bit.

Violet Monica Spencer, I hereby bequeath to you the property known as number 6 Swallow Beach Lido, and the Birdcage Pier, also at Swallow Beach.

I don’t know what you should do with the pier. Renovating it might not be an option; might be better to set fire to the damn thing and let it go out in a blaze of glory. Seriously my love, there may or may not be value in it. Do as you wish. The flat will have value I’m sure, although I expect it’ll need a lick of paint after all these years.

Tell your mother I’m sorry. I lied only by omission, but it was still a deception to let her think I’d sold up and cut our ties with Swallow Beach. Truth told, I don’t think her memories of the place are happy ones, mine neither, and I didn’t want to burden her. So it comes down to you. I have no sentimental attachment, so if you can sell up and make some money, do so without thinking twice. It pleases me to think that some good might come of it, and I’m sure your grandmother would feel similarly.

Bonne chance, child.

Grandpa Henry xxx

CHAPTER ONE

Violet stared at the spikily handwritten letter from her recently deceased beloved Grandpa Henry, unsure what it all meant. She’d heard of Swallow Beach, of course, from a couple of old photographs and the very occasional reminiscence when her mother had had a glass or two of wine, but as far as she knew it was part of her family’s history, not present.

She glanced up towards the house, aware her mother was up there in the kitchen right now reading her own letter from Henry, probably explaining all of this to her too. He’d lived in the Victorian villa next door for as long as Violet could remember; her family’s connection to Swallow Beach lay in the past, a lifetime ago. Another read through of the letter did little to shed any light, so Violet sighed and let herself out of her workshop at the end of her mum’s garden and made her way up to the house in search of answers.

‘Mum?’

There was no sign of her mum in the kitchen, nor on further exploration in the living room, dining room or study. Frowning, Violet called out again, running her hand over the familiar curve of the smooth mahogany handrail as she headed upstairs.

‘I’m up here.’

Violet tracked her mother’s voice to the small, twisting attic stairs.

‘In the attic?’ she called, even though there was no need because the sound of something being dragged overhead made it clear. ‘What are you doing up there?’

Like most people, her parents used their small eaves room for storage. Childhood toys that were too precious for Violet to part with, suitcases that only saw the light of day a couple of times each year, shelves full of dusty school projects and old CDs. And sitting in the middle of it all on the bare board floor, Della, Violet’s mum, pulling old photograph albums and yellowed paperwork out of a large, blue-and-white-striped cardboard storage box.

‘I’m guessing this has something to do with Grandpa Henry’s letter?’

‘Silly old goat,’ her mum muttered without looking up. ‘I can’t believe he never told me he hadn’t sold the place.’

Violet dropped down on her haunches and touched her mum’s shoulder. ‘Mum? What are you looking for?’

Her mother looked up at last, her blue eyes red-rimmed from crying.

‘What’s the matter?’ Violet said, startled. Her mum wasn’t a crier; she’d only cried once since Grandpa Henry died and she’d loved him beyond words. ‘Was it the letters that upset you?’

‘I’m not upset,’ Della said. ‘These—’ she jabbed her finger towards her eyes ‘are tears of bloody anger. How dare he land this on you?’

Violet tucked her chin-length, blue-tipped hair behind her ears, trying to read between the lines and work out what was really going on.

‘What are you looking for?’

Her mother didn’t answer, just pulled an unfamiliar black leather album from the box and blew the dust from the cover. She didn’t open it straight away, just held it in her lap and sighed heavily. ‘This belonged to Monica. My mother.’

Della so rarely spoke of her mother that Violet was stumped for what to say.

‘She loved that bloody pier.’

Again, Violet was lost. What was all this about a pier? Henry’s letter was the first she’d ever heard about any pier, yet it seemed to be central to both her inheritance and her mother’s current distress.

‘I don’t understand, Mum,’ Violet said. ‘What’s this all about?’

Della tapped her fingers slowly on the cover of the photograph album. ‘This. I thought it was all long gone, but it seems I was wrong.’

Violet slid onto her bum beside her mother and crossed her legs like a child sitting on the carpet for a story at the end of the school day. ‘Shall I look?’

Her mum shook her head. ‘Not yet.’ She didn’t look at Violet. ‘He shouldn’t have let things go on like this. If he’d told me, I could have sorted it out, but now he’s gone and saddled you with it.’

From what Violet could see, the album hadn’t seen the light of day in many, many years. It had been put to the very bottom of the box; some might say it had been hidden away.

‘She was a free spirit. That’s what everyone always used to say about my mother.’

Violet sat quietly, waiting for Della to go on.

‘An artist. A performer. A dancer.’

This was all news to Violet. Monica Spencer was an enigma; never spoken of fondly, no photographs on the hallway wall amongst the various family shots. So many questions filled her head … A dancer? A performer? An artist? Violet herself was an artist, of sorts. Was that where her artistic bent came from? It certainly wasn’t from her pragmatic mother or her accountant dad. Even her lovely grandpa had never revealed much about his long-deceased wife; it was as if everyone felt it best to pretend Monica Spencer had never existed at all. Until now.

Violet tried to piece together the scant pieces of the puzzle she had, to at least make up the edges, to form a frame to build the picture from. She knew that her grandfather Henry had never remarried, and her mother Delilah, Della for short, was his only child. Monica, his wife, had died when Della was just a child, and afterwards he’d moved them both here to Shrewsbury to start again somewhere new. Or nearly new; Henry and Monica had grown up and met here, and moved to Swallow Beach just after they’d married. And that was it. All she knew.

‘Mum, can I see?’

Violet reached out and touched the album, and Della swallowed hard. ‘I haven’t opened this in over ten years.’

‘Are you sure you want to now?’

‘No,’ Della said. ‘But I don’t think I’ve got any choice. Come on, let’s go downstairs. We’re both going to need a brandy to get through this.’

‘It’s not even lunchtime.’

‘Trust me. You won’t care what time it is.’

As Della got to her feet, a photograph slid from the album to the floor. Violet bent to retrieve it, and then stood bone still, staring at it.

‘Oh my God.’ She lifted her eyes to meet her mother’s troubled gaze. ‘Why did no one tell me?’

Della’s ash-blonde bob was shot through with silver, catching the light as she tucked it behind her ears, a resigned look on her pale face. The woman staring up at them had wild black curls and laughing grey eyes. She was crabbing in a rock pool, a slight, blonde child wrapped around her leg.

‘It was taken at Swallow Beach,’ Della said, gazing at it. ‘I was about four, five at most. It’s underneath the pier, you can just about make out the ironwork there in the background.’

Violet scoured the image, hungry for more. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from her grandmother.

‘She’s …’ She shook her head, rocked. ‘She’s the image of me, Mum.’

It was almost an understatement. Monica Spencer was probably the closest thing to a doppelganger Violet was ever going to get.

Della looked from the picture to her daughter, and then silently took the image and slid it back between the leaves of the album.

‘I told you we were going to need a drink.’

Violet frowned as she followed her usually unflappable mum down through the house. Grandpa Henry had mentioned his reluctance to open Pandora’s box, but she had a creeping feeling that that was exactly what they were about to do.

Two hours and two large brandies later, Violet had several more pieces of the puzzle to arrange. Poring over the album at the kitchen table with her mum, she’d learned more about her own heritage that afternoon than in the twenty-five years leading up to it. She’d seen all that the album had to offer: her grandparents’ black and white wedding picture, them cradling their newborn baby girl, again with their shiny new car in the late sixties. Life events recorded and annotated with dates and names, but the images that touched Violet the most were the unposed ones, the natural, captured snapshots of Monica laughing up into the lens, or ballerina-like balancing along the beach wall, or with her hair tied back by a scarlet chiffon scarf as she painted at an easel.

From the pictures and her mother’s memories, Violet learned that her grandparents had honeymooned in Swallow Beach, drawn down south by the bright lights of Brighton and the pretty coastline to explore. Grandpa Henry had been a well-to-do businessman back in his younger days, and he’d been powerless to resist his beautiful, wilful new wife when she’d fallen in love with both the town and its struggling little Victorian pier. Even as they’d watched the For Sale sign being hung onto the closed ornate metal gates, he’d known he was going to buy it for her, that their future as husband and wife lay in Swallow Beach.

It was an idea filled with hope and a plan filled with optimism, and for a while it seemed that they’d been as happy as clams in their beautiful new seafront apartment. Making a success of the pier had become Monica’s obsession, and then tragically, when Della was just eight years old, the story twisted when the pier became the scene of Monica’s untimely death. The newspaper cutting reported that she’d fallen from the pier at midnight on her fortieth birthday, her body washed up on the dawn tide. Della had needed to leave the kitchen by the back door for a breath of air at that point of recounting the story, flapping her hand at Violet to stay where she was.

Alone in the kitchen, Violet held the picture of her grandmother in her hands and stared into her oh-so-familiar eyes, trying to see more than was there, to understand this woman with who she shared so much. And not just physically. Violet might not paint particularly well, but all of the things she’d ever truly excelled at had been art of some form. She’d dabbled with various mediums over the years, but she always ended up back at her sewing machine under one guise or another. Piecing together intricate quilts, making up clothes from vintage dress patterns – and for the last couple of years she’d been working to build up her own business from the converted old brick-built stable at the end of her parents’ long garden.

She laid the photograph down as her mum came back in, sniffing, a balled-up tissue in her hand.

‘Sorry, love. Got me there. Unexpected.’

Sitting back at the table, Della placed an envelope down. Violet recognised it as the same pale blue stationery as her own letter from Grandpa Henry. Della shook it until a set of keys fell out onto the waxed pine table.

‘These were in my envelope to pass onto you.’

Violet made no move to pick them up, just looked at them, and as she studied them she could almost feel fate trying to give her hand a subtle shove towards them.

‘So this pier,’ she said. ‘Is it open to the public?’

Della laughed softly. ‘It used to be.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t even know if it’s still standing, Violet. I haven’t been back there in almost forty years. It’s probably crumbled into the sea by now.’

Even though Violet had only known of the pier at Swallow Beach for a few hours, the idea of it no longer being there filled her with dismay. She wanted to see it, to walk beneath it and find those rock pools, to hopefully walk the length of it and try to connect with the woman who’d fallen in love with it all those years ago.

‘That apartment.’ Della shook her head, talking softly to herself more than Violet. ‘I can’t believe he never sold it.’

‘He didn’t need the money to come home?’

Della shook her head. ‘Dad’s business paid well back then. Besides, the house next door belonged to his mum, my gran. We moved in with her when we came back after …’ She paused, struggling to say it out loud even after so many years. ‘And then we stayed here after we lost my gran a few years later.’

There wasn’t a picture of the Swallow Beach seafront mansion block in the album, but from the way her mum described it Violet was desperate to go and lay eyes on it for herself. Three storeys, graceful picture bay windows, sweeping staircases. It was an impossibly romantic story, and it sliced straight through Violet’s soft heart and ignited her thirst for adventure. Perhaps that was a gift from her grandmother too; adventure certainly wasn’t a trait displayed by either of her parents. Her mum didn’t go anywhere without making at least three lists first, and her father had a special book in his study drawer for plans. Not to mention the fact that they’d shared the surname Spencer even before they married; it was a standing joke that her mum had chosen her dad mostly because she wouldn’t need to change her maiden name on her passport.

Violet pulled the jumble of keys slowly towards her. ‘Why have I never heard about any of this before, Mum?’

‘Your grandpa didn’t like to talk about it,’ Della said. The stiff set of her jaw suggested that Henry wasn’t the only one who preferred to leave Monica’s memory in the past.

‘But why?’ Violet knew she was pushing too hard, but it just didn’t make any sense. Her grandparents had clearly been very in love, and obviously Monica’s death must have profoundly affected both Henry and his young daughter, but it was as if they’d tried to wipe her from their memories rather than celebrate her existence.

Della sighed. ‘I was eight years old, Vi. My mum left the apartment after dinner and never came home.’ A tear ran down her cheek. ‘It was a huge scandal at the time, things like that don’t happen in Swallow Beach.’

Violet stared at her mum. ‘What happened to her?’

Della raised her eyes to the kitchen ceiling, concentrating on the light as if she needed something to fixate on.

‘She was found on the beach by an early morning walker, someone out looking for treasure washed up on the dawn tide.’ Her face was drawn, remembering. ‘They didn’t expect to find a body washed up amongst the shells and loose change.’

Violet drew in a sharp breath. ‘Do you think she …?’

It was a few seconds before Della met her daughter’s anxious gaze. ‘I don’t know, love. All I know is that we left Swallow Beach within days and Dad never spoke her name again.’

Reaching across the table, Violet squeezed her mum’s hand. She’d never seen her look so troubled; the morning’s revelations had taken a heavy toll. Gathering the letters and keys together, she tucked them back inside the envelope and closed the album.

‘Let’s not think about it any more right now,’ she said, setting them aside. They were all so desperately sad about Henry’s death; this extra layer of murk and mystery suddenly felt like too much to handle right at that moment. ‘It’s waited all of these years. A few more days won’t hurt.’

But even as Violet said it, her fingers lingered on the worn leather edge of the photograph album, desperate to know more about Monica Spencer, the grandmother she was the living image of.

CHAPTER TWO

‘Will you marry me?’

Violet stared at Simon, on his knees in the local Indian restaurant that evening. To say his proposal had come as a surprise was an understatement; she couldn’t have imagined that anything could top the shock of that morning’s revelations. She hadn’t even had time to fill Simon in on all of that yet; her letter from her grandpa lay in her handbag at her feet. She’d planned to show him over dinner, but she’d barely had time to order a glass of wine in the Taj Star before Simon pulled a diamond solitaire from his jacket pocket and dropped down on bended knee.

It came as something of a shock; they’d been together for over a year now but marriage was something they’d never even spoken about, and in truth not something that she’d contemplated. She’d just turned twenty-five; too young in her own head for a ring on her finger or a new surname to wrap her head around or a husband to sleep with each night.

It wasn’t that Simon wasn’t husband material; he was perfectly nice and ticked most, if not all, of the boyfriend boxes. Dependable? Tick. Kind? Tick. Humorous? Almost a tick; it wasn’t that Simon didn’t have sense of humour, it was more that he was so logical that irreverent humour either went over his head or left him cold. He’d opt for Panorama over The Inbetweeners, a fact that fun-loving Violet had found out early on; subsequently she’d chosen not to spend many cosy nights in front of the box with him. If they went to the movies it was either his choice or hers; the only movie they’d ever been equally enthusiastic about seeing was 300, albeit for wildly different reasons. Simon was a history buff, and Vi had a thing for Gerard Butler. They had other things in common, of course, and her parents loved what Simon represented in Vi’s life: a safe pair of hands. He was an all-round decent man, unlikely to bring heartache to Vi’s door, not the type to eye up the girls at work or run up secret bills playing late-night poker. Violet sometimes thought he was more like her parents than she was.

‘Violet?’

Simon’s voice wavered a little, probably because he had a dodgy knee and the people at the next table were gagging to know what she was going to say. She smiled, stretched her mouth wide and laughed lightly. Her shoulders lifted around her ears, stressed, because she knew that really there was only one possible word she should say next and she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to say it. But she didn’t want to say no either, at least not in front of other people. Even the waiters had paused, tikka masalas balanced on their forearms as they watched proceedings.

Because of all of those things, she reached down and plucked the pretty ring from its red velvet box, looking at it as if overcome.

‘Simon, I …’ She paused, as did every single person in the Taj Star. Simon looked pained; there was no other word for the expression on his face. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, pushing a smile out for his benefit. ‘Yes, Simon. I’ll marry you.’

It was only the beginning of the actual sentence in her head. What she really wanted to say was, ‘I don’t know, Simon. I’ll marry you one day, probably, maybe, in about ten years’ time – if we’re still a couple, which I’m not at all sure we will be because I don’t know if you’re the love of my life or not.’

She didn’t say all of that though; it wasn’t as much of a crowd-pleaser really, was it?

Taking Simon’s ring from the box, Violet slipped it onto her third finger and tried not to feel as if she wanted to slide it straight off again and hand it back.

Pulling into her parents’ driveway, Simon looked across at the illuminated front windows.

‘Shall I come inside and we can tell them together?’

Vi looked at her watch, glad they’d lingered for coffee at the restaurant because she could legitimately say it was too late in the evening.

‘Let’s leave it for tonight,’ she said. ‘They’ll be tired now.’

‘But they’ll notice your ring,’ he frowned.

Violet splayed her hand, and then slipped the ring from her finger. ‘There. Nothing to see.’

For a moment, they sat in loaded silence. Had he picked up on the fact that her heart wasn’t one hundred percent on board with the idea of getting married? Should she have cried with joy? She was actually feeling quite tearful, but more because she’d had the most overwhelming day of her life than because she was cock-a-hoop at the prospect of marrying Simon.

‘I’ll come over in the morning then,’ he said, watching as she put the ring back inside its box. ‘Ten thirty on the nose.’

Violet nodded, pushing the ring into her handbag beside her grandpa’s letter. Her plan to share her news with Simon over dinner had fallen by the wayside after his proposal; there was no tangible way to explain her sudden reluctance to tell her new fiancé about Swallow Beach. Leaning in to kiss him quickly with her hand already opening the passenger door to get away, she smiled, small and tight.

‘Night,’ she said. ‘See you tomorrow.’

She glanced over at her grandpa’s house next door as she delved in her bag for her keys, forlorn at the dark, empty house. Henry had been a cornerstone of her life forever; a safe corner of the world to escape to. And he was gone now, yet still somehow there offering her a safe haven, a different door to walk through than the one everyone expected her to take. Perhaps he saw Monica in her eyes or somewhere in her smile, knew the wanderlust that made her bones restless in a way no one else could.

‘Thank you, Grandpa,’ she whispered, then stepped inside without looking back.

She’d been wrong about her parents still being up. They’d left the lights on for her, calling down goodnight when she let herself in and locked the front door.

Still too wired to go to bed, she headed into the kitchen and made herself a coffee, laying her grandpa’s letter and Simon’s ring on the table in front of her. Left, and right. A more orderly person (her mum, her dad, Simon) might have switched them over – Simon’s ring on the left, ready to go on her wedding finger. Violet, however, felt them more appropriately arranged as they were: Simon on the safe and conservative right, her grandpa’s letter on the avant-garde, unpredictable left. Looking from one to the other, there was no denying which made her heart beat faster. Opening the ring box, the diamond winked up at her under the kitchen spotlights. Opening the letter, her grandpa’s spindly black writing lay stark against the pale blue paper.

Simon or Swallow Beach. Swallow Beach or Simon.

Could she have both? Did she want either? It had been a day of huge revelations and unexpected twists, and now Violet found herself at the end of it with choices to make and decisions to take. Sipping her coffee, she sighed and wished she’d opted for a brandy instead.

Simon’s here, love. He’s brought champagne!

Violet looked down at her vibrating phone as the message buzzed through from her mum at the house. It was ten thirty exactly. Laying down the box of scarlet feathers she’d just unpacked, she reached for her phone, her heart lead-heavy in her chest.

Ask him to come down, please Mum?

She pressed send, knowing that it wasn’t the response Simon would be expecting. He’d probably expected that she’d be there to welcome him on the doorstep, all jiggly with prenuptial excitement and raring to share their news.

Staring at the phone, she half expected her mum to send a second message telling her to get up to the house because Simon had something he wanted to announce. Please don’t, Simon. Relief prickled her skin when he emerged from the back door a couple of minutes later and started to pick his way down the long garden path. She watched him, wondering what the right words were to break someone’s heart gently. It’s not you, it’s me? She wouldn’t insult him with pat lines or stock phrases.

‘Violet?’

He opened the door and stuck his head into her workshop. It wasn’t a place he ventured often by choice. Violet’s workshop was a riot of colour and organised chaos; it didn’t sit well with his everything-in-its-place, neat-as-a-new-pin mentality.

‘Come in,’ she said, sliding down from her stool at the bench to hastily clear a pile of material off the battered velvet armchair she’d up-cycled from a neighbour’s garden sale. ‘Sit down.’

Simon looked back towards the door, uncertain, as if he didn’t understand why they weren’t leaving the workshop to go up to the house to break their happy news right away.

‘Please, just come in and sit down?’

Frowning, he did as she asked. ‘This isn’t quite what I had in mind for this morning,’ he said, looking uncomfortable as he pulled a peacock-blue reel of cotton from under his backside and laid it on the side table Violet had decoupaged with jungle animals; glossy leopards and jewel-bright parrots.

‘I know,’ she said, quiet and serious.

His eyes moved to her left hand, to her bare wedding finger.

‘There’s something I need to show you,’ she said, reaching for her grandpa’s letter. ‘It’s this. My mum gave it to me yesterday morning.’

He frowned at the letter as she held it out. ‘What is it?’

She didn’t answer, just swallowed and nodded for him to take a look. She watched as he sighed, resigned, pulled out the folded letter and began to read. He read it through once, then turned it over to read it from the beginning again.

‘You’re going to have to fill in the blanks for me here,’ he said, laying the letter down beside the cotton reel on the table, looking as nonplussed as she’d felt when she read the letter for the first time. Violet nodded, unsure where to start. She wasn’t surprised he was confused; she still felt that way herself twenty-four hours on.

‘It seems that my gran, Monica, owned a Victorian pier on the south coast. Grandpa never sold it on after she died, and now he’s left it to me.’

Simon shook his head, as if he didn’t want the information to lodge itself in there permanently.

‘Okay.’ He drew the word out in a way that said: You’ll have to tell me more, I’m not sure where this is going yet.

‘And there’s an apartment with it too.’

He nodded slowly. ‘So, you’ve inherited an old pier and a flat in a place we’ve never heard of down on the south coast.’

‘Yes,’ Violet said. ‘Mum thought it had all been sold off years ago. It’s come as a real shock to her.’

‘I can imagine.’ He looked at his shoes. ‘Is this why we’re not up in the house drinking champagne? I brought some, your mum put it in the fridge.’

Violet flinched, wishing her parents hadn’t needed to be involved. ‘Yes, I guess it is. I was going to tell you about it last night, but you kind of took me by surprise when you …’ her eyes moved to the small red velvet box on the window ledge ‘when you proposed.’

‘I have to say, you didn’t seem quite as thrilled as I’d expected.’

He couldn’t have handed her a clearer cue. Violet felt her heart start to rush, panicky now the moment was here.

‘It was a shock,’ she said, trying to be diplomatic. ‘Marriage is a big step …’

‘One everyone takes,’ he said, reasonable.

‘Not everyone,’ she frowned. ‘But that’s not it. I just feel … Simon, I’m so sorry, but I don’t think I’m ready for marriage yet.’

His brows dropped into a V. ‘But you … you said yes. You definitely said yes. I was down on one knee, and you said you’d marry me. That’s not the kind of thing I could have got wrong, Violet. The waiter shook my hand.’

He didn’t pause for breath as the implications of Violet’s words sank in.

‘I know I did. I said yes, because I didn’t want to say no in front of everyone.’

‘So you said yes out of pity?’

He looked offended now. ‘No! No … it wasn’t pity, honestly. I’m not saying I never want to get married, Simon, just not yet. I don’t feel …’ She trailed off, because the words in her head were too stark to say out loud. I don’t feel sure you’re the man I want to marry.

‘You don’t feel what? Like you love me enough?’

His uncharacteristic bluntness surprised her, and her faltering response probably made him wish he hadn’t asked.

‘I don’t know. I’m sorry Simon, but I honestly don’t know. All I know is that my heart didn’t jump for joy when you asked me, and it should have.’

His brows were so low now they had merged into one dark line across his creased forehead.

‘This isn’t Wuthering Heights, Violet,’ he said, almost patronising. ‘We’re normal people living normal lives.’

She looked down at her lime-green-and-navy-polka-dot polished toes. He couldn’t have said anything less inspiring if he’d tried.

‘I’m going to Swallow Beach.’

Simon breathed in and out, slow and steady. ‘Of course. You’ll need to go to make arrangements to sell it.’

Violet shook her head. ‘No, that’s not what I’m going to do.’ Her forthright words surprised herself; up until that point she hadn’t been sure what she wanted. But hearing Simon pretty much tell her what to do crystallised it for her. ‘I’m going to go and stay there for a while.’

‘What?’ His eyebrows shot up. ‘When? For how long?’

She paused. ‘I don’t know. Soon. Next week, maybe.’

He looked at the wooden rafters, thinking. ‘I’m due seven days’ annual leave. I’ll take you. We can have a holiday. Shame to use my leave so early in the year, mind.’

There was a look of something dangerously close to piety on his face, as if he was bestowing a favour.

‘No, I wasn’t talking about a holiday,’ Violet said, soft but firm. ‘I’m going to go and live there for a while.’

Simon made the mistake of scoffing. ‘You’re being slightly ridiculous now, Violet. How do you expect to do that on your own?’

Irritation sharpened her tongue. ‘Don’t you think that’s rude, Simon? To suggest that I’m incapable?’

‘I wasn’t …’ He looked flustered. ‘Is it so wrong to want to get married and settle down? I thought we were on the same page here, Violet. Singing from the same hymn sheet. Your mum and dad are going to be so disappointed.’

‘They don’t even know,’ Violet said.

He shrugged, looking awkward.

‘You didn’t say anything, did you?’

‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘But what on earth else would I have bought champagne for? I did say she should dust off the best glasses.’

‘God.’ Violet pushed her fringe out of her eyes. She didn’t want to disappoint her parents; she was already worrying about telling them she wanted to go to Swallow Beach. Now she had to tell them that not only was she going to up sticks, but she was turning down Simon’s proposal too. They were going to think she was off her rocker.

‘You’re confused,’ Simon said, getting up out of the chair and coming to stand in front of her, his hands on her shoulders. ‘My timing was off, Violet. If I’d known about your letter I’d have held off to give you a chance to sort it out. One thing at a time, and all that.’

She looked up into his conventionally handsome face, knowing that he didn’t mean to make her feel incapable. He freely admitted that he enjoyed taking care of her, that he liked to think that she needed him as her solid rock. And God knows that’s what he was; there wasn’t a more reliable pair of hands in the land. That was the problem, really; Violet had spent her life being sheltered, she wanted to step out on her own. She hadn’t realised how much until Simon proposed; it was as if she was going to move from one gilded cage to another.

Shaking her head, she drew in a deep breath.

‘I’m not confused. I’m going to move to Swallow Beach for the summer.’

He stared at her. ‘And then you’ll come home and marry me?’

‘I don’t think I will, Simon.’

If she thought she’d been direct enough, she was wrong.

‘I know what this is.’ He gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze. ‘Fear. It’s okay to feel a bit scared of change, Violet. I’m like that too.’

‘I’m not scared,’ she said, more determined now. ‘I don’t know how to say this any more clearly without hurting you, Simon. I’m moving to Swallow Beach, and I don’t want to go there as your fiancée. I need to feel free.’

Violet couldn’t have known it, but she’d never been more like her grandmother than in that very moment.

‘I’ll wait for you,’ he said, a look of indulgence on his face. ‘You’ll come back, and I’ll be here waiting for you.’

‘Simon, please don’t,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you to put your life on hold. I’m so sorry, but all of this has really made me think, and I’ve realised that I’m not being fair to you. I think I’m stringing you along. I don’t think we have what it takes for forever.’

He set his jaw. ‘I’ll be here waiting when you come home.’ His eyes flickered with dismay. ‘Please Violet. Don’t tell me not to.’

She picked up the ring box. ‘You should take this. I can’t even promise that I’ll come back.’

He sighed and shook his head. ‘It’s a good job I know you better than you know yourself,’ he said, at last. ‘You’ll come back. I know it. You go, and I’ll be your safety net.’ He kissed the tip of her nose. ‘I’m going to leave that champagne on ice in your parents’ fridge, and leave that ring in your hands. By autumn, it’ll be on your finger.’

Short of having a bloody-minded argument, there was nothing Violet could do; he had her backed into a corner, and because Violet wasn’t given to arguments, she didn’t push. She’d told him the truth; she was going to Swallow Beach and she didn’t feel as if she wanted to marry him, now or in the future. The fact that he wasn’t prepared to accept it wasn’t her fault. He thought she needed a safety net. She knew the opposite to be true. She wanted to step out and walk the tightrope without a safety net, ready to be a roaring success or go down spectacularly.

‘No way, Violet. Absolutely no way.’

Della stared at her daughter, and Violet stared right back. She’d fully expected to meet opposition from her parents, and they hadn’t disappointed her. Her father was resolute that it was a terrible idea, and her mother was hopping mad. In fact, she’d go as far as to say her mother was more furious than she’d ever seen her.

‘Mum, I really don’t want to fall out,’ Vi said. ‘But please try to understand, I really need to do this.’

‘No. No, you don’t really need to do this. You need to marry the perfectly decent man who proposed to you last night, and forget any fanciful ideas of moving to Swallow Beach. Simon has a house two miles from here. You can live there. I’m sure he’ll let you go wild with redecorating, and you can still come home for Sunday lunch.’

Vi sat down at the kitchen table, the scene of so many family dinners, discussions and the occasional argument. Violet’s adventurous, rebellious streak had often placed her at odds with her placid parents, and every now and then they’d clashed over late nights, unsuitable-length dresses and even more unsuitable boyfriends.

They’d thanked their lucky stars when she’d brought Simon home, even if her dress sense hadn’t exactly calmed down. She’d settled into her own style over the years, an eclectic mix of wartime vintage and sixties boho, all carried off with a slash of red lipstick and a collection of hair accessories to rival Claire’s Accessories.

She was her own best advert; she adjusted all of her vintage buys to fit her curves perfectly, and made many of the hair accessories herself from feathers and jewels left over from her latest commission. Her business was starting to gather a reputation; she was making a name for herself in the costume world as someone whose eye for detail and carefully honed skills created wonderfully intricate showgirl outfits and feather headdresses. Boned silk corsets, sequinned hot-pants, feather and rhinestone bras. She was carving her own niche, and one day she hoped – no, she planned – to supply costumes to the legendary Moulin Rouge. It was the Holy Grail; one day she’d walk under that famous, glittering red windmill and see her costumes up there on that famous old Parisian stage.

Right now though, she had more immediate concerns. She needed her parents to accept that she was going to spend the summer in Swallow Beach; her every instinct told her that it was the right thing to do. She could work from there as easily as from here; there was bound to be space in her grandparents’ apartment for her to set up a temporary sewing room. Was it fanciful? Maybe. Was it sudden? Yes. But she was going to do it nonetheless, and she’d really like to do it with her parents’ blessing.

‘I don’t want to redecorate Simon’s house, Mum.’ His house was a minimal temple of neutral shades; the last thing he’d want would be Violet’s jewelled hues and eye for colour un-minimalising his home.

‘Fine. Buy a new home. That’s exciting, Violet! Buy a house, a big Victorian one you can do up. You’d love that, right?’

Vi shrugged. Who wouldn’t?

‘In fact, move in next door! It’s perfect. We won’t sell Grandpa’s house, you can move in there with Simon instead. Go wild with the decorating.’

Violet’s father looked at his wife, clearly alarmed. The proceeds from Henry’s house was their retirement plan; he loved his daughter and of course he’d love it if she wanted to stay so close, but his spreadsheet would be buggered, as would his grand plan to take Della on a walking tour of the Scottish Highlands. He’d have to keep working, there was nothing else for it.

‘Mum, it’s a lovely thought and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it, but no. Next door would remind me too much of Grandpa Henry. Besides, Simon loves his house, he wouldn’t want to leave it.’

Out of the corner of her eye, Violet saw her dad sag with relief and shot him a small smile. She knew how much he was relying on the sale of next door; she wouldn’t dream of taking up her mum’s offer. Della knew too, really; she was just clutching at any straw going because the idea of Violet going to Swallow Beach filled her with trepidation. Bad things happened to people at Swallow Beach. That bloody pier! Why had her father hung onto the past? God knew their memories of the place weren’t good ones.

‘Look Mum,’ Violet said, keeping her voice light. ‘Why don’t you come with me for a few days, have a look what state everything is in? It might not even be possible to stay if it’s as bad as you think.’

Della had implied that both the pier and the apartment were sure to have gone to rack and ruin, and if that was the case then Violet was going to need to revise her plans. She watched as her mother’s expression changed from obstinate to fearful, alarmed when Della sank into the nearest chair with her head in her hands.

‘I can’t go back there,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so sorry Violet. I just can’t. Please don’t ask it of me.’

Why had her grandpa hung onto the place? He mustn’t have felt the same feelings of fear and hatred as her mum, or surely he’d have sold it on, severed his connections. Della had been only a child when they’d left, her perception of the events would have been very different to Henry’s, of course. And to Monica’s. Violet felt torn, conflicted; the last thing she wanted to do was upset her lovely mum, but the pull towards Swallow Beach was, out of nowhere, overwhelmingly powerful.

‘I need to do this, Mum.’ She knelt beside Della and laid her head against her mother’s knee. ‘I promise I’ll be careful, and you’re probably right that it’s a fool’s mission, but I still need to go and see it for myself. I’m twenty-five, Mum, and I know you think I’ve lost my mind not to accept Simon’s proposal, but I can’t help how my heart feels. Or doesn’t feel.’

‘He’s deferred it,’ her father chipped in. ‘He’s going to wait for you until you come back. A lot on at work anyway, he said.’

Violet wasn’t sure if her dad’s comments were meant to be supportive to her or helpful to her mum. The latter, presumably, because the idea of someone deferring their proposal due to the pressures of stock-taking season was about as unromantic as it got. Rhett Butler, it wasn’t. She’d watched Gone with the Wind countless times, mostly for the fabulous boned and feathered costumes, but also for the sweeping, epic – if somewhat unconventional – romance. It might not be a typical love story, but Violet kind of liked it all the more for that because she wasn’t a typical kind of girl. She had spiky edges and a taste for adventure; Swallow Beach was calling, and she had no choice but to answer.

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