Copyright

HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in ebook format by HarperImpulse 2018

Copyright © Jane Linfoot 2018

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018.

Cover illustration © Shutterstock.com

Jane Linfoot 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: 9780008260682

Ebook Edition © 2018 ISBN: 9780008260675

Version: 2018-09-24

Praise for Jane Linfoot

‘Just like the perfect wedding cake, Cupcakes and Confetti is beautifully crafted and wrapped in romance’

Heidi Swain, bestselling author of The Cherry Tree Cafe

‘A pure delight … fabulous, fun and unforgettable’

Debbie Johnson, bestselling author of Summer at the Comfort Food Café

‘Simply stunning’

A Spoonful of Happy Endings

‘Gorgeous book with characters full of heart, and an impassioned story to make you smile’

Reviewed the Book

‘This author packs a punch’

My Little Book Blog

‘Loved this book. The main characters are vividly drawn … the writing is fast and feisty’

Contemporary Romance Reviews

‘With every book I read I fall more in love’

Booky Ramblings

‘Jane Linfoot has got out the mixing bowl and whipped up a truly gorgeous story … A deliciously scrumptious treat’

Rebecca Pugh, bestselling author of Return to Bluebell Hill

Dedication

To M, Anna, Indi, Richard and Eric,

Max and Caroline, and Phil xx

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Jane Linfoot

Dedication

Epigraph

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

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Clemmie and Laura’s Recipes from The Little Cornish Kitchen

Acknowledgements

Also by Jane Linfoot

About the Author

About the Publisher

Epigraph

“You know, Adelie penguins, they spend their whole lives looking for that one other penguin and when they meet them, they know. And they spend the rest of their lives together.”

Josie Geller, Never Been Kissed.

1

The Deck Gallery, St Aidan, Cornwall

Siren song and crashing waves

Wednesday

‘Would you like some mini macaroons to go with your complementary samples?’

The biscuits on the platter I’m holding out to guests are shades of sea blue and lavender, and I’m down to my last few. As I was the one who spent the afternoon in my brilliant friend Sophie’s farmhouse kitchen, sandwiching soft buttercream filling into so many hundreds of them I lost count, I already know how delicious they are. They’re a perfect complement to the products we’re here to celebrate, and so light I bet you could easily eat a dozen and still feel you’d like more. Although Sophie, whose event this is, stopped me before I tested that theory to the max. At times, she was watching me so closely she might as well have done the job herself. But with my serious lack of cooking skills I can hardly blame her. It’s not my fault, I just haven’t ever had a kitchen of my own to practise in. It’s no secret. If I come within a yard of a Magimix it’s more likely to result in a blitzkrieg than a bake off.

As Sophie glides in behind me she hisses in my ear. ‘You’re doing a fab job, Clemmie, almost onto the fun bit now, I owe you for this.’ Hopefully she means we’re almost at the part where it becomes party rather than work.

‘You’re not joking there.’ I laugh and take my chance to down another raspberry vodka in a pretty flowery tea cup and snaffle a macaroon to soak it up. Then I brush the crumbs off my boob shelf. If you’d told me when I flew in from Paris yesterday that within twenty-four hours, I’d be out in public dressed as a mermaid I might have got straight back on the plane. But the more cocktails I have the less I care about the public humiliation. Three hours into the event I’ve almost forgotten I look like I’ve got a tail rather than legs.

Sophie turns up the volume again as she moves in on the next guests. ‘The macaroons are home-made to echo the natural simplicity of the Sophie May skin care range.’

It’s not just sales talk. With ingredients like chamomile and seaweed the products really are every bit as amazing as they sound. Her main seller is a hot wash cleanser that makes you feel like you’ve been for a full facial. It’s such a revelation it took her company from nowhere into department stores across the country in a matter of months.

Did I mention her amazing husband, Nate? He’s the one who handles the sales and marketing, and is currently schmoozing the VIPs on the gallery’s outdoor deck. Nate’s been in charge of this evening’s invitations too. Even though he’s managed to ask most people in Cornwall as well as ‘everyone who mattered’ from the rest of the world, he’s been slightly less amazing at the detail. Sophie had factored in at least an hour to clear the professional guests before the locals arrive. But the journo from Time Out is still taking pictures of the macaroon towers as the entire team from Iron Maiden Cleaners clatter in from the High Street. Despite being from London he’s picking his jaw up off the bleached wood floor at the sight of six dry cleaning assistants in their short, bondage-style uniforms. Right now, it’s starting to look less like a tasteful promotion of gorgeous new packaging designs, and more like a free-for-all in a dominatrix bar.

Sophie assesses the damage and waves in a girl with a teapot in each hand. ‘Top up for our guest in the flak jacket, please.’

Not many women could carry off a pastel jump suit, especially one the same colour as their cosmetics boxes. But in the palest mint blue, with her choppy blonde layers and clear complexion, Sophie’s a walking, talking, breathing embodiment of her range. There isn’t a whisper of the sooty eyed fourteen-year-old Goth she once was. Add in her four children, aged from ten to tiny, and her life really does look like she plucked it from the Boden catalogue. Of all our childhood friend group, she’s the one who reached for the stars and grabbed them all. And doing that took a lot more straight talking and butt kicking than her wholesome glow suggests. But so long as she holds off ordering people around until the press leave, she’s pretty much cracked it here.

As we turn to the next guests, I’m taking the biggest steps my cinched-in mermaid skirt will allow, and beaming over my remaining macaroons. ‘Sophie May is all about nurturing and wellbeing … treating yourself … becoming the freshest version of you.’

I may only have arrived back in my hometown St Aidan yesterday, but my lines are already polished. And the best part is, they’re all true. If these products hadn’t been phenomenal I’d never have agreed to dress up in character. Let’s face it, I get enough jokes about my long Ariel coloured hair as it is.

Bigging up the ocean connection was Sophie’s daughter Milla’s idea. She’s always loved that our little group of friends used to call ourselves ‘the mermaids’ when we were kids. Milla became an honorary junior mer-member when she was born ten years ago. As we’re all here to help with the launch, and Sophie still had our light-as-air aqua silk bridesmaid’s dresses in her wardrobe, the rest was easy. Add in a few yards of tulle and fish netting nipped in in all the right places. Throw in shells, strings of pearls, a rock-pool full of dried starfish (assuming that’s how you measure them), some glitter stick and a few strands of the all-important seaweed, and the end result is Plum, Nell and I wandering around looking like we’ve crawled up from the beach and got lost on the way to the ‘Under the Sea’ Disney party.

The next pair of guests are heading towards the door, but they have their Burberry bags open ready as they spot more goodies. As these are the ladies from Marie Claire and Vogue, they have near-goddess status. Sophie loads them up with swag, then passes them a flowery cup and saucer each. ‘One last cocktail before you go? Peach, champagne and elderflower, or raspberry vodka with rosemary and grenadine?’ She waves in the tea pot girl.

Ms Vogue smiles as she sips her drink and rearranges her windblown bob. ‘It’s a whistle stop visit; I’m afraid we’ve mostly been outside enjoying the sea views and talking to your delightful husband.’ No surprise there. Even though he’d never look at another woman, Nate is particularly swoon-worthy and super attentive in all the right places.

Ms Marie Claire waves immaculate pale brown nails at the ragged layers of my skirt – or should that be my tail? ‘The mermaids are a lovely touch. But there’s one last question we have to ask before we go.’ Her voice drops to a whisper and she leans so close her Black Opium cloud makes my head spin. ‘Is it true that your algae scrub treatment is used by Kim Kardash—?’

Apart from the pink glow to her cheeks, Sophie has been unruffled by her high-powered guests. But she’s dipped behind them now, and she’s making desperate throat-cutting signs.

I’m not the best at thinking on my feet, but Sophie’s agonised stare has me jumping in so fast I cut Ms Marie Claire off in mid name-drop. ‘We’re absolutely not at liberty to say.’ No idea where that came from. But I’m pretty damned impressed with my speed.

Ms Marie Claire’s eyes are popping. ‘You’ve signed her confidentiality clause?’ She claps her hands together triumphantly. ‘Don’t say anything more, that’s everything we need to know. We’ll be in touch next week about a feature.’

Sophie’s nodding frantically now, gesturing me to carry on.

I’m racking my brains trying to remember what’s upmarket London-speak for ‘great’. Or anything English would do. All I can think of is chouette, which is French for ‘owl’, but means ‘cool’. ‘Lovely … sick … fabulous … jolly brill …’ As the words flood out, I’m getting throat cutting signs from Sophie again.

By the time my rush has subsided, Ms Marie Claire has downed her drink, taken a sea life ‘selfie’, and as they hurry off to catch their train, I’m already up on Instagram.

I shake my head at Sophie. ‘Shit. They were decisive. What was all that about?’

Sophie gives a guilty squirm. ‘We don’t actually supply Kim. I just couldn’t bring myself to throw away the chance of so much national exposure.’ Her face breaks into a grin as Plum and Nell swish across to join us. ‘Fab team effort here, we’ve just nailed Vouge and Marie Claire. And as it’s so long since we’ve had all you mer-girls together in one place, I need a picture myself.’

When I say Sophie and I go way back, I’m not exaggerating. I mean all the way to our mums meeting up at the ‘Mums and Bumps’ group when they were pregnant. Plum and Nell were very late to the party because we only met them at Tumble Tots. Our whole childhood we danced, played, went to the beach, fought, had picnics and grew up together running wild over long lazy summers. Some of us have gone away and come back again. But somehow we’re all still here for each other, and still the firmest of friends.

Sophie slides out her phone. ‘At least you won’t be on Insta in a bikini top made from scallop shells, which was what Plum originally planned.’

Plum was born ‘Victoria’, but that was never going to work on a round, rosy-cheeked toddler, so to us she’s always been Plum. She pushes back her dark silky hair and squints down her slashed silk neckline to her non-existent cleavage and lets out a groan. ‘Shells were my only hope of making my mer-boobs look bigger.’

Sadly, as fast as she shed her chub I gained it. These days Plum is Topshop skinny but I’m Bravissimo all the way. While some of us struggle to zip up our large size 14s, her skimpy size 8s billow in the wind. But even if she looks every inch the hungry artist, in reality she’s anything but. The gallery we’re in now was a disused chandlery until Plum got her hands on it soon after leaving art college. She stripped it out to use as a studio, and over the years has turned it into a thriving business selling pieces for other artists as well as herself. Although, obviously, it doesn’t quite have the multi-million turnover of Sophie May.

After a swift glance round the lofty white room and the six-foot-high seascapes, Plum turns back to me. ‘A quick warning now the local crowd’s arriving. Word on the street is you’re back to move into a penthouse, Clemmie.’ There’s a mischievous glint in her eye. ‘Most people’s money is on the snazzy new apartments at Rock Quay.’

If you want to keep your life private, don’t come to St Aidan. Although I’ve timed my trip to catch Sophie’s launch party, my main reason for returning is because the sitting tenant’s moved out of the flat I inherited by default years ago. But even if I’d got my hands on a mansion, I’d still have no intention of sticking around.

I can’t help my grin at how wrong the St Aidan grapevine is. ‘It’s more of an ancient attic from what I remember. And believe me, I won’t be here for long.’

Plum winds a strand of hair around her fingers. ‘Bangkok still buzzing? Or is it Stockholm? Or was that Prague?’

I can’t blame her for not keeping up. ‘It’s actually Paris and it’s great, thanks – for now.’ There’s no point saying any more. Plum, Sophie and Nell are so in love with St Aidan’s jumble of pastel coloured cottages clinging to the hillside, they couldn’t exist anywhere else. They’re all as settled as I am rootless. They can’t imagine living without the echo of the waves rushing up the beach, and the familiar clink of the rigging on the boats bobbing in the harbour. If I explained non-stop for a month, they’d never get that for me St Aidan isn’t enough. That after half a day away from Paris, I’m aching for the broad boulevards and big elegant buildings and the round-the-clock roar of the traffic. They don’t get that the world beyond here is huge. And they totally miss that when Paris dulls I’ll move on and feel the thrill all over again somewhere new. Even though my jobs are what they call ‘shit’ ones, and my career trajectory is non-existent, at least they allow me to move. To be free.

Nell comes in for the last macaroon. ‘So what are you doing this time?’ She’s a hot shot accountant, who admits the lure of her job is the salary not the excitement. So, she’s always up for hearing my more outlandish work stories.

I start to take a deep breath but stop halfway. In the five years since Sophie’s wedding, my dress must have shrunk in the wardrobe. A lot. ‘At the moment, I run errands for Maude, who teaches at the Sorbonne. I open her jars of fish soup. Buy her artichokes from the market. Top up her Post-it note supplies. Check she hasn’t got lettuce stuck in her teeth when she leaves the flat. Stuff like that. She’s addicted to tea and needs Liptons on the hour. And a Porn Star Martini on the dot of five.’ I worked my way round the world doing bar work, but lately I’ve progressed to personal assistant positions. And this one sounds a lot more awful than it is. There’s time to dash out between brews. I get Friday afternoons off when Maude goes to her masseuse. Best of all, the job comes with a room and a view. When I stand on tiptoe and wrench my neck I can see the Eiffel Tower from my window. You’ve no idea how magical it is to look out at that shadow of crisscross of pencil lines in the day, the trace of pin prick lights in the dark.

‘Even better, I’ve got a few weeks paid leave while she’s away on a research trip, which is why I’ve made my dash to Cornwall now.’ I’m beaming because this is the first holiday pay I’ve ever got my hands on. The circle of faces is much less impressed than I’d anticipated. I don’t quite get why, but I’m staring at a mix of puzzlement and despair.

When Nell breaks the silence, she’s sounding bright and the subject change is jarring. ‘Well, the good news here is our St Aidan’s Singles scene is buzzing, so it’s great you’ll be around for that. We’re doing Strictly Single Tea Dances at the Harbourside Hotel, Scare Yourself Shitless Ghost Walks, Under the Table Gin Tasting at the Hungry Shark, and our Whale Watching Weekend boat trips around the bay are always brilliant.’ That’s the other thing about Nell. Since her break-up a couple of years ago she’s thrown herself into the Singles’ Club.

How things change when you’re gone. ‘There are whales in the bay?’

Nell’s brow furrows. ‘Not exactly. But the trips are proving better than Loctite as far as couples go.’ The only problem is, she’s so immersed in organising everyone else, so far she’s failed to grab a man for herself. She lets out a low laugh. ‘Leave it to me, we’ll give you a reason to stay in St Aidan, Clemmie.’

What was I saying? My appalled gasp is so huge and unchecked, this time I almost do split my dress. ‘Hold it there. Count me out of any couply activities. I’m a hundred per cent NOT here to hook up.’ The life I live is just for me and I don’t need complications. The few guys I went out with at college were all more effort than fun. Which doesn’t mean I don’t have loads of friends, a lot of whom are guys. In fact, as more people are arriving, I’m bobbing up and down non-stop waving at people over Sophie’s shoulder.

Nell’s not going to be put off. ‘Fine, skip the singles’ events. But there are some really nice, genuine guys in our group. It can’t hurt to introduce you … to one or two?’

If I thought dressing up as a mermaid was bad this is worse. I put up my hand. The one thing I’ve learned in Paris is if you want respect, good service, and halfway decent artichokes, there’s no point coming over all nice and friendly. It’s the ‘don’t mess with me’ ‘mean bitch’ expressions that get the un-burned baguettes. I scrunch my face into my best French scowl. ‘No activities, no introductions, is that clear?’ I don’t wait for a reply. Apart from anything else, I’m bursting for a pee. Not that I’d planned to use the loos tonight given how thoroughly we did up the tail ties. But those mismatched tea cups hold more than you’d think. ‘And now I’m off to the Ladies’.’ As I grin at Nell to show her there’s no bad feeling so long as she’s got the message, I notice her mermaid shell crown is completely skew whiff. Looks like I’m not the only one who’s over done the fruit cup. I turn around, throw my foot forward to stride purposefully away, hit my tail tie, then begin to topple.

‘Whoops, steady there!’ Sophie and Plum catch one arm each and gently ease me upwards until I find my balance point.

Plum’s scratching at the seaweed dangling from her pearl head band. ‘Maybe next time we do this, we need elastic rope around our ankles?’ For an artist, she’s very analytical.

I can’t believe what I’m hearing as I set off again. ‘There’s going to be a next time?’

When I reach the loo, it turns out my fears about finding my pants are completely right. Put it this way – real mermaids are damned lucky they can pee in the sea. I have so much tulle and fish net to untangle before I can go, and I don’t put half enough effort into getting it back into the right place again. As I shuffle back into the gallery my tail’s as saggy as if I’ve collided with one of those heaps of abandoned nets down by the harbour. I feel more like a Strictly dancer who got caught in a wind tunnel than a silver-tailed siren as I press myself against the rough white-washed wall as a group of guys pass, all waving their tea cups in appreciation of Plum and Nell’s costumes.

Despite my firm stand, as I arrive back, Nell’s providing me with a running commentary of everyone in trousers I don’t already know. ‘That was Blue Watch, arriving from the fire station. And I’m sorry but the total hottie in the suit by the Cleanse and Polish stand is someone I don’t know.’ She sends Sophie a querying glance.

Sophie scans the crowd. ‘Hot and then some. I think he’s something to do with some property consortium.’

‘And?’ Nell’s waiting expectantly. ‘The least you can do for a jawline like that is check the guest list.’

Plum and Sophie both start peering at their phones, but Plum’s first to look up.

‘Got him. At a guess that’s Charlie Hobson, he’s down here as “local developer”.’

Nell’s got a gleam in her eye. ‘I may have to Google him on behalf of the singles’ group. Whale Watching would pass a whole lot quicker with that kind of dark charisma in the bows.’

‘Dark being the important word there.’ However much he looks like he strode straight off the pages of GQ magazine, as expressions go, objectionable doesn’t begin to cover it. If I was at sea with that particular long face I’d have to jump ship.

Sophie shakes her head at me. ‘And the big blond man by the door is George Trenowden, our legal whizz. He’s single but as he’s your solicitor too, I take it you won’t throw a wobbly if I introduce you once the crowds thin out.’

I ignore the jibe because it will be useful to meet him after years of only communicating by letter. ‘Great, I’m seeing him about the flat first thing tomorrow.’ Although I couldn’t feel less enthusiastic about that.

Sophie laughs. ‘No need to look so worried, he gave up eating mermaids years ago.’ Her brow wrinkles. ‘Do you want me to come with you to hold your hand?’

I can’t think of anything better, but I didn’t like to ask. ‘Aren’t you busy?’

She whips out her phone again. ‘Let’s check the family spreadsheet. Milla’s at school, my mum’s taking Marco and Matilde, so that only leaves Maisie.’ Her face breaks into a grin. ‘It says here that tomorrow morning is officially booked out for hangover recovery. So, Maisie and I are all yours.’

‘In that case I’ll celebrate with more macaroons.’ I’d hate to see any go to waste after all the effort I put in. And I’ll risk another cocktail too. I point myself towards the drinks station. ‘Anyone like anything bringing over?’

Nell perks up. ‘If you strike up a convo with the lush Mr Hobson you could tow him back with you. We always need more men at events.’

I pull a face. ‘As if.’

Sophie checks her phone. ‘Don’t spoil your appetite, the bakery is bringing in food soon.’ She’s forgetting, when it comes to me and eating there’s no such thing as too full.

As if to cue the start of the party, the Serenity Spa music that’s been wafting around us cuts out, and after a beat of silence the Sugababes start belting out ‘Push the Button’. As I dance my way through the crowd, I’m careful to stay well away from any suited shoulders. But I’m only halfway to the edge of the room when there’s a shout: ‘Pies are ready!’ The next thing I know the crush of bodies is enough to lift me off my feet. By the time I’ve grappled my way to the refreshment table I’m breathless. I grab a handful of macaroons from what’s left of the tower, then close my eyes to savour the moment. As the sweet almond deliciousness melts onto my tongue a low voice rumbling in my ear brings me crashing back to reality.

‘Do pasties always cause a stampede in St Aidan?’

As I open my eyes a glimpse of a grey jacket cuff has me spitting out my buttercream. ‘Only the hot ones.’ I’m silently cursing because I’ve landed next to the one guy I meant to avoid. Up close his eye lashes and his scowl are both blacker than they were from a distance. If I’m swallowing hard at the sight of his slightly loosened tie knot and the open top button of his shirt it has to be because I don’t come across many guys dressed for the board room. In the bars where I serve drinks if you meet a James Bond lookalikey he’ll probably be in fancy dress. To judge from Charlie’s glower, either he hates product launches, or he’s rocking the male equivalent of the resting bitch face. But there’s something so raw about the moody shadows under his cheekbones that for a second my heart squishes.

‘I suppose canapés haven’t reached Cornwall yet? Personally, I’d rather stick with these.’ He couldn’t sound more bored but as he waves a macaroon at me his frown deepens. ‘Did you know you have a starfish stuck in your hair?’

When someone really doesn’t get the irony, you have to take the piss. Especially when you’re kicking yourself for being ridiculous enough to let the word ‘sexy’ flash through your head when the man in question really isn’t at all. ‘That’s where I store my starfish until I’m hungry. It’s what mermaids do when they come ashore.’ I know I’m getting way too far into character, but he’s the one who’s missing the joke here.

He gives a bemused stare as he wolfs down his macaroon then holds out his hand. ‘Well, great to meet you, and your surviving starfish. I’m Charlie Hobson, I work for Bay Holdings.’ His heartfelt sigh suggests there’s nothing ‘great’ about this for him.

Unlike Nell, I’m not falling over to introduce myself to random strangers, especially not ones who are faking their enthusiasm, so I dodge his hand. I’m not that impressed by corporate credentials either. But on behalf of local mermaids, I reckon I should be pushing this. ‘So which “bay” would that be?’

‘All the bays.’ As he takes his hand back and picks up a leather zip folder from the table there’s finally a glint of interest in his eyes. ‘Wherever there’s development potential we’ll maximise it. We’re working our way around the coastline.’ He makes it sound chillingly methodical. Scary news for locals and sea creatures then.

Nell’s giving me a double thumbs up as she threads her way through the crowd towards us. From her excited bounce, she can’t have any idea how dull Charlie Hobson is.

I grab a stack of macaroons and a tea pot, fill some tea cups, and manage to loop my fingers through three handles. ‘Great, well enjoy the rest of the party, Charlie, is it?’ I’m saying this ironically too, because it’s obvious he wouldn’t know a good time if it hit him on his perfectly chiselled designer-stubbled chin. ‘And good luck with whichever bays you decide to plunder.’ It’s a bit heavy on the well wishes, but as a parting shot it’s got a nice ring. I’m aiming for a tail swing and a grand exit without spilling the cocktails. But as I swish around, there’s a tug on my thigh, like a rope tightening. ‘What the …?’

A deep growl echoes my cry. ‘… hell are you doing?’ Mr Hobson is holding his zip folder at arm’s length, and the further he lifts it up, the more my netting lifts too.

I let out a hiss. ‘Your man bag’s caught on my netting.’

No idea how Nell does it, but in two bounds she covers the length of the room. ‘Just give it a pull, Charlie, that should set her free.’ She’s skipped the intros and gone straight to ordering him around. ‘Go on then.’

‘Or we could …’ I’m squeaking, still hanging on to my biscuits and cups. ‘Is it too much to ask to unravel it gently?’

Nell shakes her head. ‘Leave it to us, we’ve got this. One two three, go …’

As Charlie wrenches at the folder the yank he gives is big enough to pull a lifeboat ashore. My cocktails fly out of their cups as I lurch, let out a yelp, then my entire tail pulls free. It sails through the air, skittles a tea cup and demolishes the remains of the macaroon tower as it thumps onto the table. I stand open mouthed as the macaroons explode off the walls and skid across the floor.

‘Jeez.’ Charlie Hobson’s personal gloom cloud has turned thunderous.

‘Sacré starfish.’ Even though I’m staring down at the skimpy skirt of my bridesmaid’s dress, without my tail I feel strangely undressed.

Plum’s already here, tutting and whisking the net up off the table. ‘This wouldn’t have happened if we’d used elastic.’

Then Sophie gives the tail a shake. And a few moments later, they’ve wrapped it around me, and twisted the fastenings back into place. ‘There you go. Good as new.’

Nell’s bobbing about picking up macaroons, oblivious of the developer disapproval. ‘And I thought you said you weren’t going to hook up with anyone? Now, Clemmie, are you finally going to introduce us all?’

From what I’ve seen so far I’d advise running a mile from Mr Hobson, not getting to know him better. But I know when I’m beaten so I grit my teeth and get on with it. ‘Charlie, this is the one and only Sophie May whose event this is, Plum owns the gallery, and Nell is St Aidan’s most prolific event organiser.’ Hopefully that covers it.

Nell’s straight in there. ‘Lovely to meet you at last, Charlie. Can we offer you some product samples?’

I smile at Sophie to cover up Nell’s blatant manoeuvre. ‘Mr Hobson’s big on coasts, if you’ve got any unspoiled coves I’m sure he’ll be happy to take those off your hands. Cosmetics not so much.’ I make it sound jokey for Sophie’s benefit, but I flash Charlie a dead eye so he knows it’s not.

Nell ignores me, senses Charlie’s hesitation and goes in for the kill. ‘You could always take some for your wife … or your girlfriend? That’s what the other men have been doing.’

Charlie puts up his hand. ‘No, I’m good, thanks.’ If Nell pushes far enough to ask if his mother might like some instead, I suspect he might implode.

Nell raises an eyebrow, digs down into her tail nets, and pulls out a leaflet. ‘In which case you may like to take this?’

Someone’s got to wind this up, and I suspect it’s going to be me. ‘You’ll have to excuse Nell, she’s a bit of an evangelist. When it comes to the Singles’ Club, she’s St Aidan’s fairy godmother, feel free to ignore her.’

Charlie looks like he can’t wait to escape. ‘I’m definitely not searching for a partner. But if you insist, some cleanser for my mum? Or a few more macaroons?’ Of three hundred guests, he’s the only person to take the swag and make out he’s the one doing us a favour. And still look miserable about it.

‘Our pleasure.’ Despite the knock back, Nell looks triumphant as she hands him his goodies.

He holds up his bag. ‘Thanks, it’s been great to meet you all, but I have a dinner meeting to get to.’ He’s wheeling out the fake ‘great’ again. The flicker of a smile on his lips is probably because he’s ecstatic to leave, but even that doesn’t reach his eyes. He turns to me. ‘Can I offer you a lift home – seeing as I defrocked you?’

There’s no harm in telling it like it is. ‘Thanks, but I don’t actually have a home. In any case, I’d probably rather swim.’ I’m clinging onto my mer-persona but being completely true to my human self here as I give him a goodbye wave.

Nell watches his back all the way to the door, then turns to me. ‘You two have a lot in common.’ She narrows her eyes. ‘Both defiantly single, both macaroon obsessed …’

He also has the biggest scowl this side of John O’ Groats. Which is only one of the hundred reasons I have to close this down. ‘That’s where it ends, okay? Shut up now, clam face.’

And that’s my first evening in St Aidan. Which is exactly why I can’t wait to leave.

2

In Trenowden, Trenowden and Trenowden Solicitors’ office

Peeling paint and sticky breakfasts

Thursday

‘Your grandmother was a great believer in matriarchal lineage.’

You know that thing where you’ve no idea what someone’s talking about? As the solicitor’s words float past me I gaze at Sophie, who’s effortlessly managed to nail looking cool and in control. Even though it’s barely nine and she’s bouncing Maisie on her knee, there’s not a crinkle in her perfectly pressed pale blue chinos, or the hint of that humungous hangover she’s penciled in for. Sophie’s the only person I know who could juggle a baby and a fistful of carrot sticks and still keep her top pristine white. I stare past her through the small paned window to the cottages clustering along the harbour’s edge. As the morning sun sparks off the water I blink away the shadow of a headache, curse those tricksy cocktail cups, and force myself to concentrate. ‘Sorry?’

Behind the desk, George Trenowden lets out a sigh. We only managed to wave at each other last night, but in the office, he’s way bigger than he looked across the gallery. This big blond bear of a guy apparently handles so much business for Sophie they’re on bestie terms. Even though Trenowden, Trenowden and Trenowden have been managing the tenanted flat since it was left to me all those years ago, the only other time I came to their office, the Trenowden I saw was a generation older and in Penzance. Although I’d say wrenching our hands off with his hand shake when we arrived came across as more painful than friendly. Despite my fingers still being in recovery, I’m crossing them tightly, hoping he was out on the deck when I lost my netting last night.

Even worse, what if he’s looking across the desk, and doing that thing where he can’t help seeing last night’s mermaid outfit superimposed on top of the flowery cotton dress I put on earlier, mistakenly thinking it was spring? This is why fancy dress should be banned. And why I make sure I move often enough to leave the embarrassing stuff behind. With any luck, in a minute he’ll say something I can understand.

‘The flat your grandmother left you, which is finally vacant? The reason you’re here?’ He cocks a pale eyebrow at me, checking I’m back in the room. ‘I understand Laura chose to pass it on to you rather than her grandsons.’

I shrug, fix my gaze on the toe of my suede ankle boot and spot what looks a lot like a soggy rice crispie cluster. Hurrah to Sophie’s kid’s and their overflowing cereal bowls, although organic and soaked in almond milk doesn’t help me here. As for the shoes, I know mine will be the only feet in St Aidan not in flip flops or baseball boots, but I had heels welded to my feet when I was fourteen so I’d look less dumpy. Even if St Aidan is a heel wearer’s minefield of granite steps and sand piles, for the short time I’m here I’ll work with them. And where do I put a piece of stray breakfast in a solicitor’s office? As I pick it off and close my hand around it, I’m wishing I’d kept my I’d rather be shoe shopping sleep shirt on, if only to express how much I’d rather be anywhere else than here.

It sounds ridiculous to say that me and my late grandmother weren’t related, but that’s how it is in my head. Mostly I know Laura from her neat pointy handwriting on parcels that arrived on every significant day throughout my childhood. She must have been one of those people who are great at buying presents because the contents were usually spot on. But the excitement was mostly eclipsed by how tetchy they made my otherwise happy mum. When Laura died and the flat unexpectedly came to me, I was too busy partying to take much notice. The rent covered the maintenance, the solicitors handled everything, and up until now I’ve managed to pretty much dodge the reality of being a property owner. As for the rest of Laura’s family details, I’m deliberately in the dark. For my whole life, I’ve made it my business to know as little about the Marlows as I can.

‘I’m not sure about her other grandchildren, she wasn’t my actual …’ I tail off, then as Sophie sends me a smile, I try again. ‘Apart from when I was small I never really knew her.’

My biological dad chose to jump the channel rather than be with my mum and me, but as the old saying goes, I didn’t miss what I never had. My mum was the best. With the two of us in our little cottage there really wasn’t space for a dad. And that’s why my extended mermaid family have always been so important to me. Then when I was five my mum fell in love with a man called Harry who was worth the trouble, so Harry’s the one I count as my real father. When someone has your back every moment while you’re growing up and beyond, that top trumps absent DNA a thousand times. Which is probably why I feel like a fraud sitting here now, claiming something that doesn’t feel as if it should be mine.

George clears his throat and smiles at me. ‘By the way, no ill effects after yesterday, I hope, Clementine?’

I smile back, cringing inside, hoping I don’t have the foggiest what he’s talking about. ‘Ill effects?’

His face cracks into a grin. ‘St Aidan Sirens’ Charter, rule sixty-seven, stealing tails is strictly forbidden.’

Shit. So, he is looking at me and seeing a mermaid. And he must have seen my ‘worst moment’ too. I grit my teeth, but before I can mumble a reply, Sophie jumps in.

‘No sea life was harmed during the launch party. You know how stringent our wildlife and nature policies are, you drafted the damn things. Shall we move on now?’

‘Sure.’ George sounds reluctant. ‘They were fabulous costumes though. I’ll pass that on to Charlie Hobson too. He’ll be very relieved to hear you survived and won’t be suing.’

Oh my days. I could have done without a name check for my grumpy accidental tail stealer. I can’t blame George for letting his mind wander off his legal job first thing on a Thursday morning, but someone needs to get this man back on task before I expire with embarrassment. ‘Weren’t we talking about matriarchy?’ Maybe I was listening after all.

‘Right. Thanks for the reminder, Clementine. Passing property down the female line is well documented, but the point in your case is, whatever her son’s actions, Laura didn’t want you to be short changed. Looking through the papers, it’s obvious she wanted the best for you. And she was also wise enough to let the flat on a long tenancy, so you only took possession and had the deeds transferred into your name when you were mature enough to handle it.’ He sends a glance Sophie’s way to check she’s approving. Although, if she wasn’t, realistically she’d have butted in by now and shut him up. ‘So now the tenant has finally moved out, I assume you’re here to pick up the keys before we finalise the legal side?’

Sophie’s nodding enthusiastically enough for both of us.

Although I’ve known about this for the best part of fifteen years, it’s as if I’m staring the enormity of it in the face for the first time. And being called Clementine is so rare it actually makes me feel like he’s talking to someone else rather than me. Not that I mean to behave like a spoiled, ungrateful bitch, but there’s something holding me back. I frown and drag in a breath. ‘I wasn’t ready for a key. Not quite today.’ Although realistically, if not a key, what was I expecting? ‘Actually, I’m not sure I want the flat at all. Now it comes to it, I don’t even want to go there.’

George’s forehead furrows as he takes in the level of my reluctance. But then he smiles the kind of smile that stretches all the way through to his voice. ‘Don’t worry, knowing the background I completely understand. If you’d rather sell, the market’s strong. We could arrange for the contents to be cleared, and handle the sale for you?’

Better and better. ‘Okay …’ I’d got my head round spending a couple of weeks in blustery old Cornwall, but this way I can head straight back to Paris and ease my itchy feet.

George picks up a picture from the desk and starts to rub some invisible dust off. ‘The flat’s a little tired, or as the agents say, “ripe for restoration”. But with those open vistas across the bay, no doubt buyers will be queueing up.’

‘It has sea views?’ The mention of restoration had Sophie quivering, but her last lurch of excitement is so large she almost launches Maisie over the desk. ‘Where is it exactly?’ She whips round and fixes me with the same ‘ravenous wolf’ look that took her cosmetics from her kitchen table to John Lewis best-sellers in under ten years.

I give a clueless shrug. ‘Somewhere between the harbour and the sea front. The last time I was there I probably wasn’t tall enough to see out of the window.’ I went there as a child, before Laura moved to be closer to her son. I can picture a velvet chair the colour of a flamingo. A musical box. Serious amounts of cake and icing. Then my mum pulling me across the cobbled quayside, hurrying us back up to our cottage up the hill.

George puts down the photo and looks up. ‘It’s a top floor flat in Seaspray Cottage, the rambling pile at the far end of the quay.’

Sophie lets out a shriek. ‘Not the place with peeling paint and the long ocean facing balcony?’

‘That’s the one.’ He nods.

She rounds on him. ‘Shit a brick, George, if you’d told me that I wouldn’t have let Clemmie mess around for weeks. I’d have had her on the next plane home.’

He’s laughing at her now. ‘However much you bully me, I can’t tell you all my secrets.’

She sniffs. ‘You never actually tell me any.’ Then she turns to me. ‘Are you bat-shit crazy, Clemmie? Of course, we’ll take the damn keys. You’re looking, not committing, okay?’

The reminder of commitment sets my alarm bells jangling. ‘What about repairs? And common areas? And meter readings?’ If I sound absurd and random it’s because these are my mum’s questions not mine. In the depths of my bag there’s a crumpled reality-check list she wrote out for me before she left for South America. If I’d intended to use it, I’d have read it more carefully.

George blows out his cheeks. ‘The Residents’ Committee handles most things. They’ve been a bit fierce with their rules over the years. But let’s deal with the detail down the line.’

Sophie catches my appalled groan. ‘Sweat the boring stuff later, Clems. Only when you have to. Do you have the keys?’ Then her hand shoots out across the desk, George’s drawer opens and the keys drop into her palm before I’ve stopped choking. She jingles them at George as she shoves Maisie and I towards the door. ‘Expect us back in half an hour.’

‘Lovely to have you in the office, Clementine.’ Before you can say ‘soggy cereal’, George has my hand and its contents in the kind of power press that could crush molecules.

Whatever the theories on disappearing dark matter, when I get my palm back it’s entirely crispie free. Maybe George won’t be quite so pleased when Maisie’s breakfast resurfaces on his designer suit.

He calls after us. ‘Make sure you work your magic, Sophie Potato. St Aidan could definitely do with another mermaid.’

As Sophie propels me past the empty desk in reception, I let out a shocked squawk. ‘Did he just call you Sophie Potato?’ That was her name from when we were kids, because she refused to eat anything other than Smash. It went nicely with Nellie Melon and Victoria Plum.

She lets out a laugh. ‘First rule of great business, keep your enemies close and your solicitor closer. He can be quite playful once he lets himself go, those childhood names of ours are a great way to get him to loosen up. When he hears you’re Clemmie Orangina, there won’t be any more of this Clementine shit. Have you noticed how much he sounds like he’s got a poker rammed up his butt when he gives you your full title?’ There’s no room for a reply, because she’s spotted a cardboard sign that’s propped on the desk where the receptionist should be sitting. She snatches it up. ‘Yay, Trenowden, Trenowden and Trenowden have a short-term vacancy for a front of house assistant. Their usual treasure Janet is off because her daughter’s had twins. How auspicious is that? Talk about good timing and heaven sent all rolled into one.’

I’m picking up my jaw off the floor as she rams the sign into her changing bag. ‘Tell me you’re not stealing their sign?’

Her grin is inscrutable. ‘Borrowing’s a better word. Winning for Beginners, watch and learn. No point leaving the job ad lying around when the perfect applicant is already in the building.’

As I screw up my face, I’m squeaking. ‘You’ve got four children, a factory, and a marketing team. How do you have time to do extra hours?’ Sophie has always been big on moonlighting, and huge on ambition. But even for a high achieving workaholic, adding this job in is ridiculous.

She lets out a laugh. ‘Not me, silly, this one’s got your name all over it. It’ll be a perfect fit while you refurbish the flat. Let’s face it, you’re going to need to earn something to pay for paint. And seeing as it’s temporary, you won’t feel trapped.’

Considering George just gave me the perfect get out for the flat, she’s jumping ahead to a place I don’t intend to go. ‘Who said anything about decorating?’ Apart from anything else, the biggest area I’ve painted in my entire life is my nails. And although I like a colour change every day I have trouble with them if they get too long.

‘Not meaning to be ageist, but the flat’s bound to be old-person magnolia. A quick lick of warm white and the occasional feature wall will add thousands to the sale price. You have to do it.’ The determined set of her jaw tells me it’s pointless to object. ‘More importantly, think of all the hot guys who come to see George. Once you’re behind that desk, we’ll find you a keeper before you can say, “Power of Attorney”.’

I thought I made it clear last night. ‘Don’t confuse me with Nell here, I’m not the one who’s heartbroken, lonely and on the lookout. I’m single because I love my freedom. I just spent three months not hooking up with ten million Parisians, I don’t see anyone from tiny, dull St Aidan changing my mindset.’

She lets out a sigh. ‘Globe trotting’s great when you’re twenty. But perpetual motion isn’t the answer to inner happiness and harmony when you’re the wrong side of thirty.’

I have to tell her. ‘Quite apart from the Hygge shit, you sound as “stay at home and boring” as my mum.’ She used to love me travelling because it’s what she wanted to do but never did. But since I passed the big three zero she comes out with Sophie’s mantra so often she sounds like she’s on repeat.

‘That would be your amazing mum who’s so un-adventurous she’s currently spending six months on a Peruvian mountain top?’ Her triumphant nod as she pushes through the exit door says she thinks she’s won this round.

‘They’re visiting hillside villages not climbing peaks.’ She and Harry have gone to spend six months working on an out-reach health education programme.

‘You know what I mean.’ Sophie grins over her shoulder at me. ‘And right on cue to prove my point about George’s handsome client base, look who’s coming.’

‘Oh shit.’ My headache was easing, but a full-frontal view of Charlie Hobson speeding towards us across the cobbles has my brain hammering against my skull again. When I party in Paris I can’t find people afterwards even if I want to. Here in St Aidan, it’s not even nine and the guy I’d hoped never to see again is right under my nose.

Sophie jumps in. ‘Hello, Charlie, how are you this morning?’

He wiggles his eyebrows at Maisie but by the time he looks up again he’s frowning at his phone. ‘Running late, but thanks for the party last night.’ As he pops his head round to where I’m skulking behind the changing bag he still hasn’t cracked a smile. That far-away, empty look in his eyes has to come from too many dodgy deals. ‘No tail today? Did someone do a better job of stealing it than me … or did you decide Friday was a good day to be a human?’

I can’t believe what he’s handed me here. ‘Actually, it’s Thursday.’ I pause for the words to sink in. ‘In which case you’re probably a day early for your appointment.’

He pulls a face. ‘Thanks for reminding me.’ He flashes a glance at Sophie. ‘Any confusion, blame the cocktails. Next time you serve dynamite in a tea pot maybe you should warn the guests.’

Sophie rises above that and narrows her eyes at me. ‘There you go, girl, you’re a natural.’ She turns her focus onto Charlie. ‘Put a word in for Clemmie with George, she’s first in the queue to be his new receptionist, just what he needs to put his customers at ease.’

I purse my lips and stay silent. The only way to deal with Sophie in her ‘conquer the world’ mood is to go with her. Then clear up the wreckage afterwards.

‘I will – even if she does make me mix my days up.’ He sighs, then as he swings through the door to his appointment his face finally creases into a grimace rather than a smile. ‘Although any day’s a great day for a deal.’

I groan and wait for the door to close. ‘Did he really say that? And there goes proof that looks and personality don’t always go together.’ Although Maisie seems smitten. And when he finally managed that sardonic wince he did have those creases in his cheeks that make your knees give way. And teeth. Beautiful, not-quite-perfect incisors. ‘Imagine if you had to face that every morning, you’d be so queasy breakfast would be impossible.’ And damn for letting that slip out.

Sophie raises an eyebrow. ‘Queasy? What kind of queasy?’

I push my hand on my stomach to stall the churning and swallow hard. ‘No, you’re right, it would take more than the thought of ugly buildings to put me off my pain au chocolat.’ I think I got away with that. Swooning at alpha males is what we take the piss out of, not what we do. Like everyone else on the harbour, I’ll blame the cocktails.

Sophie’s frown is rivalling Charlie’s. ‘According to Nate, the Hobson signature move is to buy up rows of cottages one by one, then bulldoze them and shoe horn super-expensive flats into the plots. No doubt about it, he’s here to price out the locals and destroy our village.’

‘Trouble on legs then.’ Although I suspect I knew that already.

She nods. ‘The man’s a wrecker. He does exactly the same with large detached villas.’

‘Everything we don’t want here.’ I’m surprised how fighty and defensive I feel considering how happy I usually am to wave goodbye to the place.

Sophie’s nostrils are flaring. ‘He’s hell bent on buying up St Aidan one brick at a time. Although obviously, we aren’t going to let him.’ She gives me a significant stare. ‘We could do with keeping close tabs on him, if you fancy building on your acquaintance. However crass he sounds he’s not short on smoulder.’

Sometimes I think she’s deaf. ‘Absolutely not.’ It comes out so loud, I have to back pedal. ‘Thanks all the same. Now how about seeing this flat?’ And who’d have thought I’d be rushing her into this?

3

At Seaspray Cottage

Thunderstorms and Surprise Rainbows

Thursday

‘So what do you think, Clemmie? Can you remember any of it?’

Sophie and I are standing outside Seaspray Cottage with our backs to the turning tide as we take in the peeling render, the slender bay windows, and a slate roof that’s shining like hammered silver against the cornflower sky. The paintwork is weathered to the colour of the beach and the letters on the name board are so faded the only way we know we’re in the right place is the balcony above that looks so precarious it could be held up by invisible hooks to the sky. As we make our way towards the front door the slant of the steps makes me stagger.

‘When George said “past its sell by date”, that was an understatement. It’s shot to frigg, end of story. Time to walk away?’ I wasn’t expecting to be proved right quite this soon.

Sophie sounds thoughtful. ‘A lot of people think patina is characterful. In any case, the cottage is bound to get all the weather because it’s placed to get the views in three directions.’

I’m scrunching up my face as I wrack my brain. ‘I don’t remember it being at a dead end.’ Somehow the cottage is marooned beyond the quayside where the road runs out into a small path across the dunes that cuts through to the sea front. With every wind gust the sand’s blowing up the beach, over the low boundary wall, and drifting into the garden that extends back beyond the sides of the cottage. Although it’s small in scale, with its three storeys and repeating windows, it’s larger than it looks at first.

Sophie’s suppressing a smile. ‘As it’s so close to the sea I’m guessing the name is more real than romantic.’

Worse and worse. ‘You mean the water actually blasts against the windows?’ Not that I was enthusiastic to begin with, but imagining cold brine hammering on the glass on stormy days is making my shivers seismic.

She laughs. ‘Don’t worry, it’s only Seaspray Cottage, not Splash House or Tidal Wave Towers.’ Shifting Maisie in her arms, Sophie fishes in her bag for the keys. ‘Now we’ve come this far we might as well go in and see the dereliction inside.’

Instead of the anticipated struggle with a rust encrusted lock, the key turns easily, and the door swings open without a creak. Then as we step into a pale buff hallway filled with splashes of sunlight the familiarity is so jarring my feet stop moving before I’ve stepped off the neat coir door mat.

‘The smell’s just the same. How strange is that?’

Sophie wrinkles her nose and somehow manages not to crash into my back. ‘Fresh salty air … and the beeswax on those ancient floor boards?’

My words come slowly, as if I’m dragging them from very far away. ‘With a hint of rosemary and thyme … because that’s what grew in the herb patch at the side of the cottage. They used to mix the leaves into the polish.’ There isn’t time to wonder how I know that because I’m darting forwards again. ‘And there’s the staircase, at the end of the hall.’ Even though I can’t see past the first flight of steps, I already know. ‘On the way to the top floor it winds so tightly the steps run out to nothing at the edge. And there are creaky bits on the landing where the boards groan.’ Like timbers on an old ship. Wasn’t that what Laura used to say?

Sophie’s giving me a searching look. ‘The paintwork’s better in here too. Are we going for a look?’

My diffident shrug is misleading. The weird thing is, I couldn’t stay away now even if I wanted to. I’m trying to play down that there’s an invisible force drawing me upwards. ‘We might as well. Before we do the sensible thing and leave.’ My fingers are already stroking the silky smoothness of the bannister rail.

I wind my way up two floors so fast that by the time Sophie arrives, panting from carrying Maisie, I’m already at the landing window that opens onto the balcony, staring across the expanse of sand to where the sea is glinting way down the beach.

‘I’m ignoring that stupendous view for now. Here you go … flat six.’ Sophie waves another key, and one click later the door on the left of the window is ajar.

I hold my breath as I tiptoe in. Then as I look around at a room crammed with cosy sofas and tables and shelves full of books I let out a gasp. ‘Oh my, the same furniture’s still here, it’s like I’ve flipped back thirty years.’ Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t to step into a time warp. Although up until this moment, just like with the thyme, and the creaky stairs, I’d mostly forgotten. And obviously now I’m seeing it as an adult, I’m appreciating the whole arty Bohemian patchwork of the room that I never saw as a child. ‘It’s still got the same cosy warmth, but I never realised it was quite this pretty or perfect.’

Sophie’s patting a threadbare silk cushion, and fingering the corner of a stripy crocheted throw. ‘Somehow I assumed it would be empty. We were wrong about the magnolia too.’

I’m blinking at the paint colours. There’s raspberry and peacock and emerald and purple and orange and turquoise, although they’re so worn and faded they merge like a water colour painting. ‘It’s like someone’s tried every sample pot in the range.’ Although that’s wrong, because every clash works perfectly. I push through a scuffed turquoise door into a tiny hall and on into the next room, where the paint I can see in the gaps between an entire wall of pictures is shades of cerise.

Sophie follows me, nodding. ‘Antique pink for the bedroom, you can’t argue with that. And a high painted brass bedstead covered in silk quilts, how comfy does that look?’

I’m with her on that but I don’t reply because I’ve already moved on to the bathroom. I let out a cry when I see the freestanding bath, then smile at the high cistern hanging on the wall above the loo. ‘I had to climb up on a stool to pull that chain, and then run like the wind because the flush sounds like thunder. And those claws on the bath feet used to give me goosebumps.’ We pass another smaller greener box room, and go back through to the living room.

Sophie’s shaking her head in awe at the mismatched rugs. ‘This makes me want to ditch neutral and be more adventurous with colour.’ Her farmhouse is a mix of understated taste and expensive perfection, all in tones of white. Understandably, it took her and Nate years of effort and shit loads of cash to achieve. It probably only looks so beautiful and effortless and calming and uncluttered because every last knob, cushion and curtain tie has had the arse designed off it. ‘So what haven’t we seen yet?’

My hand’s already on the door knob at the other end of the living room. ‘I think this must be the kitchen.’ Then, as I go in and take in the shelves filled with bowls and bright coloured plates and mugs and dishes, and the rows of hanging saucepans over the range cooker, it hits me. ‘I know what’s missing here today. Laura loved to cook, so the flat was always filled with the smell of fresh baking.’

Sophie shifts Maisie onto her other hip, and leans across the windowsill to peep through one of the round topped windows. ‘Amazing, you can see all the way to the houses at the end of St Aidan bay from here.’ She turns to the rectangular table, squeezed in the centre. ‘And look at those mismatched chairs and those fabulous patterned tiles by the sink.’

I can’t help grinning. ‘George mentioned it was worn out, but you have to love the petrol blue paint, and the hotch potch of cupboards, and the way that apple green dresser is properly distressed from years of use.’ It’s also groaning under the weight of a thousand recipe books. I run my hand over the work surface between the pottery sink and the cooker and shake my head as the memories come rushing back. ‘This was where I used to sit when I helped Laura make butterfly buns in flowery paper cases.’ Although mainly I was interested in licking out the mixing bowl. It’s funny, although it’s decades since I thought about that, I can imagine the vanilla sweetness of the buttercream and the crunch of the hundreds-and-thousands sprinkles as if it was yesterday.

‘Probably the last time you went into a kitchen, was it?’ Sophie gives me a gentle dig with her elbow. ‘Until you stuck those macaroons together yesterday?’ The mermaids never pass up an opportunity to point out how shit I am at cooking, although I get that from my mum. She’s so bad Harry’s in charge at home, and before Harry we relied on stab and zap and pitying neighbours. Even so, when it comes to eating, mum and I are equally enthusiastic. You only have to look at my Insta pics to know that. #gateauxofinstagram. The last four months I’ve made it my business to visit and test out most of the patisseries in Paris. I let out a sigh as I think of those fabulous glazed fruit tarts and my favourite mille-feuille custard pastry stacks, topped with the prettiest feathered icing.

I wander back through for a last look at the living room. As I perch on the edge of a velvet chair and stare out through the double doors that open to the outside from the living room, Sophie sinks down on a sofa bursting with cushions, and drops Maisie onto her knee.

‘Tempted to go out on the balcony?’

‘No chance.’ I peer at the gaps between the sun-bleached planks. ‘I’d rather sky dive, at least that way I’d be falling with a parachute.’ I let out another sigh, because I hadn’t expected to care about some rotten wood, let alone be disappointed at not getting to stand out there and feel the wind whipping through my hair.

Sophie sends me one of those searching glances of hers that pierce right through you. ‘So has coming here made you change your mind about rushing into selling?’

I’m playing for time here, avoiding the issue. ‘Have you noticed how the sea changes colour? It was way greener as we came in.’ Now we’re done, I’m strangely loath to leave. The dreamy part of me would like to forget about going back to give George the keys and sit up here and watch the sea all day. But the firm and practical voice in my head is shouting at me very loudly, telling me to get the hell out of here and leave George to sort the sale.

Sophie frowns. ‘It’s strange. When we arrived, I expected to have to work my butt off doing the hard sell. In fact, I haven’t said a thing, yet there you are in your red flowery dress, looking like you’ve been here all your life.’

I owe it to Sophie to be honest. ‘Actually, now I’m here I don’t know what to think.’ I’ve tried to take an over view rather than zooming in on the small stuff, but now I’m closer I can’t help focusing on the parade of tiny wooden penguins marching along the shelf edge in front of the books. I don’t even feel my arm move, and my hand has landed on the blue painted box next to them.

Sophie leans to see. ‘Is that the musical box you told me about?’

My fingers are already twisting the winder on the back. ‘Remember those musical jewelry boxes with the spinning pop-up ballerinas in net tutus that Plum gave us all when we were kids?’

Sophie laughs. ‘The ones that played tunes from the Sound of Music? Mine was Climb Every Mountain, Nell had Doh a Deer, yours played My Favourite Things, and Plum had Edelweiss. Plum had to keep hers shut because she used to cry buckets every time she heard it.’ Sophie can recall the tiniest detail.

‘And this one is …’ I’m bluffing. Unlike Sophie, I haven’t got the foggiest what I’m going to hear. But I open the lid and the tune comes tinkling out.

She gets it on the third note. Somewhere Over the Rainbow? That fits in perfectly with all the colours somehow.’

Like everything else, now I’m hearing it, it couldn’t have been anything else. ‘And there’s one of those blurry Kodachrome colour photos that makes the world look so old.’ I overcome my reluctance to intrude, but as I pick the photo out of the box I see a blurry dark auburn woman cuddling a toddler with a mass of ginger curls and a blue dress with butterflies I recognise from the picture on my mum’s dressing table. ‘Oh my, that’s me. And I think that must be Laura.’ Laura’s face is so full of love as she looks down on me I’m swallowing back a lump in my throat.

Sophie’s hand lands on my arm and she squeezes. ‘Pictures of generations are lovely. It couldn’t be any more tender, could it?’

I sniff and rub my eye. ‘How could I ever have forgotten how comfy it was to be wrapped up on her knee?’ All that love from years ago, and it’s rushing back, warming my chest.

Sophie’s first sympathetic pat gives way to a triumphant shout. ‘And finally we get to find out where your red hair came from. But jeez, just think, if you’d had your way and had George send in the clearance people straight away, you’d never have found that.’

‘You’re right.’ I’m feeling confused.

She jumps up so fast poor Maisie shoots her arms out. ‘That settles it. You can’t walk away. Not until you’ve had a look through everything.’

I let out a long groan. ‘But the place is rammed.’ The picture is like a gem, but even with the promise of more treasure, the thought of so many rooms packed with someone else’s possessions is overwhelming.

She brushes away my protest. ‘If we all come to help, it won’t take long.’ She’s happily including Plum and Nell in her offer too. ‘This is way more fun than any Bumps and Babies or Singles’ stuff. And once you know exactly what bits of your history are here, then you can make an informed choice about what to keep. And then throw the rest away if you must.’ This is what Sophie’s like. When she gets that dynamic gleam in her eye, there’s no point blocking her. Even if she is pushing me towards the door. ‘We’ll see George now, and take it from there.’

‘Great,’ I say, as I linger on the stairs, meaning anything but. As for this particular bit of history, however heartwarming a picture of me with Laura is, there are other parts where I’d rather not be digging. For every lovely bit the blank parts I don’t know about are way scarier. If I’m feeling ambivalent, it’s because however astonishing the riot of colour and the amazing space is upstairs, it’s not a neutral place. It’s like a step into the unknown because there’s no knowing what will turn up. What’s certain is, if I choose to spend more time here I’ll need to be prepared to be brave. For someone who habitually runs away, I haven’t had much practice at manning up. And I’m not entirely sure I want to start.

Sophie is hanging back, examining the letters on the tenants’ post table. ‘There’s one here addressed to a Mr Hobson.’ There are times when I wish she was less thorough.

‘It won’t be the same one we know.’ My hand is on the door handle, and I’m already looking forward to the breeze off the sea battering my cheeks.

She wrinkles her nose. ‘As Nate was saying, Bay Holdings are getting everywhere.’

Which sounds like one more reason for me to get as far away as I can, as fast as I can.

4

In Laura’s flat at Seaspray Cottage

Bacon and salty dogs

Friday

A lot can happen in a short time when Sophie’s on the case. When we get back to the office, George advises leaving it a week or two before I make a final decision on the flat. One wise man, and the pressure’s off me. Then I spend Thursday afternoon doing a trial on the front desk at Trenowden, Trenowden etcetera. In fact, the name is misleading because it makes the office sound way more busy than it is. As soon as I’m on the other side of the desk I discover that in the St Aidan office there’s only George, me and whoever is in for appointments. By five thirty I’ve learned how to push enough buttons to work the phone system – three – and managed to convince George I’m not going to frighten his clients away. He offers me enough hours to keep me in takeaways and we agree to flexible temporary, with a day’s notice on either side. For someone as wary of commitment as me it’s a comfortable arrangement. Luxurious even.

I turn up and keep his chair warm for the whole of Friday morning, discover three hours’ commitment is do-able, then nip to the bakery to buy a BLT cob for lunch and wander along the quay to Seaspray Cottage. I’m planning a quiet afternoon of pottering, then the girls are popping in later, after work.

This time I manage not to fall up the steps on the way in and second time around it’s way less unnerving letting myself into the flat. I grab a plate from the kitchen and find my favourite velvet chair. Then because it’s so warm I unlock the window leading onto the balcony, and open the door a crack.

I’m basking in my sun spot, trying how it feels to be somewhere so huge with so much lovely stuff that’s entirely mine. For someone whose lived out of a backpack for the best part of fifteen years it’s an alien concept. And yet with the luminous light and the vibrant colours and the beautiful fabrics it’s a wonderful place to be. The kind you never want to leave. It’s a bit like the time we all went off to a high-end spa in Bath for Sophie’s hen weekend. The suite we booked into was so blissful we were pinching ourselves to make sure the downy four posters and palatial bathrooms were actually real. At the flat, while I’m tingling because there’s so much space, it’s also deliciously cosy and familiar. As I soak up the warmth and the place wraps itself around me, in my head I’m testing out how it would feel to stay here forever. Then I crash back to reality and the ton weight of responsibility that comes with it. The live-in rooms that come with my jobs are usually tiny, but the up side is that the bills and the leaky showers are someone else’s problem. When the most I’ve ever had to maintain is a suitcase, five rooms and a hall is a lot to get my head around. And that’s before I even get on to service charges. I’m mulling and agonising, munching on my sandwich stuffed with salt ’n’ shake crisps, having occasional panic spasms every time I think about meter readings, and watching the walkers down by the water’s edge when a sudden scrabbling outside makes me almost drop my baguette. By the time I’ve licked the mayo off my fingers there’s a big grey dog scratching at the door.

‘Where the heck have you come from?’

Short of being dropped from a helicopter, I can’t think of an answer to that, although it crosses my mind he’s living dangerously. There have to be less precarious places in St Aidan to stand. From under his grey floppy fringe he’s staring at me with the kind of brown soulful eyes that melt your heart in two seconds. Or maybe less.

‘Hey, mate, eyes off my lunch.’ However much I’m melting, I’m too hungry to share.

He bounds, barks, slobbers on the glass. Then he starts barking again, except this time in a crazy ‘won’t take no for an answer’ way.

I’m yelling over the din, shaking my head at his Bambi legs and scrabbling claws. ‘Watch out, the planks are rotten, please stop jumping or you’ll fall through.’ I put my plate on the side table, and as I wrench the door open he bounds straight past me. ‘Nooooooo.’ I let out a wail as he heads for my sandwich but I’m too late. His nose is practically at elbow height, the table might have been made for him. Two gulps later, the plate is empty and my sandwich is ancient history. Then he flops down in the doorway and rests his chin on his paws.

‘Hey, don’t go to sleep there, I’m really not up for a rescue dog.’ I’m staring down at him, working out my next step, when a pair of bare human feet come into view. ‘You might not want to walk there. Those boards could collapse at any moment.’ Feeling like I’m stuck on repeat, I follow the jeans upwards, and hit a soft checked shirt. Then as I come to a rough jaw and some very crinkly dark eyes, I let out a long sigh. ‘Charlie Hobson, what the …?’ Of all the guys on all the balconies, and this one had to turn up on mine. Or rather, Laura’s.

‘Clemmie, what a surprise. I hope Diesel isn’t making a nuisance of himself.’

I take a moment to let my galloping heart rate subside to normal. ‘Not too much but he’s just arrived. So far he’s only wolfed my lunch.’ I’m working hard at making my smile ironic when it hits me if gravity gets the better of him, he could disappear too. ‘Unless you’ve got a death wish maybe you’d better come in …’ He’s the last person I’d choose to invite into the living room, but it has to be a better option than scraping him up off the garden wall in pieces.

One hop, he’s over the dog and we’re standing on the same rug.

As the delicious scent of expensive body spray drifts up my nose, I take a big step backwards. ‘Now you’re both safe maybe you can clear up why you were risking your necks on my balcony?’ As soon as it’s out, I’m cursing the slip.

Charlie’s narrowing one eye. ‘Your balcony? We’re from the flat next door, the balcony’s shared. Do I take it from this you’re the mysterious absentee landlord?’ He shakes his head. ‘George is a dark horse. He could have told us we were going to be neighbours.’

I try not to baulk at the word and put on my best ‘office’ voice, which is still way lighter than his. ‘In a place as small as St Aidan, confidentiality is crucial.’ George gave me ‘the talk’ when he took me on, along with a complementary tube of super-glue to apply with my lip gloss. If this was anyone else, I’d let my smile go. Faced by Charlie’s humourless expression, I stay tight lipped. ‘Apparently, the tiniest piece of information in the wrong ear will be around the town faster than you can say “compromising situation”. And obviously, we can’t have that.’ It would have been useful for me not to be so much in the dark here too. At least then I might have avoided the heart attack I almost had when Charlie invaded my space.

Charlie pulls down the corners of his mouth. ‘If you’ve landed the job at George’s, we’re going to see a lot of each other, I’m in there seeing George most days.’

I try to look less disappointed than I feel at that news. And in line with company policy I don’t press him to find out why the heck he needs to spend so much time visiting his solicitor. ‘Just don’t expect me to talk to you at the office. With George’s list of banned topics, “Hello, can I offer you a coffee?” is the most I’m allowed to say.’ Which is probably damned useful given he’s not exactly easy to talk to.

Charlie’s eyes are boring into me again. ‘So you won’t be asking me how many sugars then?’ If there were the merest hint of a smile, it could be jokey. But there isn’t.

I don’t smile back. ‘Nope, that’s definitely off-limits.’

‘Two.’ He gives a sniff. ‘Just so you’re prepared. Keep that on file, please.’

I can’t ever remember not smiling for this long. Even the pharmacy queue is jollier than this when I’m waiting to pick up Maude’s arthritis medication, and that’s full of ill people. ‘Sweet tooth?’ Although I already know that from the way he hit the macaroons the other evening.

He pulls a face. ‘I’m anyone’s for a piece of cake.’ Then he lets out a sigh. ‘That’s why Diesel was confused before. We used to pop in here most days for tea with Jenny, your former tenant. Her rocky road slice was spectacular, that’s the reason Diesel was hell bent on battering the door down.’

‘You actually knew her?’ I’m intrigued, because thanks to George and his obsession with discretion, I haven’t even got as far as extracting her name from him. Although it’s hard to imagine anyone as tense and gaunt as Charlie ‘popping in’ for ‘cosy chats’.

‘Jenny was an author, but she was more an old friend of your grandmother’s than a tenant. She lived over near Rosehill, but she never stayed over, she just came here every day because the views helped her write. The arrangement suited them both. Jenny used the place until you grew up, and the peppercorn rent went towards any repair costs.’ Despite the sullen expression Charlie is as open as George is guarded.

The more he says, the more my mouth drops open. ‘Go on …’

‘The building wasn’t ever in the greatest shape.’ There’s a questioning frown playing around his forehead as he grinds to a halt. ‘But surely George will have told you all this?’

I give a sudden beam to cover up how much George hasn’t said. ‘Absolutely. But it’s always helpful to get another viewpoint. And she left because …?’

Charlie’s long sigh is presumably for the loss of his friend, not her cake. ‘She was getting on, the two flights of stairs became too much, and she moved south to be closer to one of her sons.’

He rubs his chin. ‘The balcony is perfectly safe by the way. It runs all along the front of the building, so both our flats open onto it. It was repaired before I moved in last year, it’s all in George’s files, the cost was shared between us. You do know about that?’ He’s giving me a searching stare. ‘Believe me, I wouldn’t forget a bill that big.’

‘Too damned right.’ I try to look the right amount of appalled. Which is hard when I don’t know if I’m reacting to a hundred pounds or a hundred thousand. ‘Remind me to go out there and party. Very hard. I need to get my money’s worth before I leave.’

He seems to give a jolt, but a breath later he’s back to reaching over for my empty BLT wrapper. ‘Did you say Diesel ate your sandwich? Give me a minute, I’ll make you another.’

All I have to say here is ‘No’ and I can wave him off along the balcony and out of my day. I know I should be jumping at the chance, if only to let my heart rate get back to normal. Even if he looks grave enough for a funeral plan brochure when he sways he’s still disarmingly close. Another step back, and I’ll topple onto the sofa. On the other hand, the growls coming from my empty stomach are loud enough to have come from Diesel.

However he doesn’t allow me to squeeze in even a two-letter word before he bashes on. ‘I don’t have bacon, but there’s thin sliced ham on the bone, homemade plum and sultana pickle, and some kind of crumbling cheddar matured in a slate cavern. There’s crusty cobs too, and salad. I could throw a ploughman’s picnic together for us.’

I try not to make too much noise as I suck back my drool. Then just as I’m gritting my teeth, resolving to say ‘No’ I catch a hint of a smile playing around his lips and my mouth is moving on its own. ‘Great. Sounds brill.’ And that’s that.

I hold my hands up and admit I’m a slave to my stomach. I also know he’s way too decorative, serious and sure of himself for me to ever hang out with. And I might be a teensy bit of a hypocrite too, accepting snacks from strangers I’d rather run a mile from in normal circumstances. But however off-hand he appears, Charlie Hobson has spilled a pile of proverbial beans, and I can’t help thinking there could be more he can tell me about my grandmother.

But by the time I’ve worked this lot out, Charlie’s long gone. And Diesel has relocated to the sofa with the best view down the beach.

5

In Laura’s flat at Seaspray Cottage

Real ale and home truths

Friday

‘So how about you, Clemmie, what’s your story?’

When Charlie arrives back he’s trundling a double-decker hammered metal trolley along the balcony on super-chunky industrial wheels. As I help him ease it through the living room doors I see it’s laden with everything he promised and more, plus hand glazed plates and mugs, and scarily spare cutlery that’s so on trend and triangular it’s hard to tell which are knives and which are forks. There’s also serviettes, fruit juices, and a cluster of chilled beer bottles, pebbled with condensation. It takes approximately ten seconds to load up our plates. Then as he sits down he drops in the question, and I immediately fill my mouth and the next half hour with so much eating that I can’t possibly answer.

I catch glimpses of him over the top of my crusty bread as I chew, and it flashes through my head that if he were on Tinder, every woman out there would swipe ‘Yes’. Including me. Which is way more ridiculous than it sounds, because I’d never go on Tinder. And who knows why the hell the ‘sexy’ word keeps flashing through my brain when there isn’t a suit anywhere in sight today.

‘Anyway, Clemmie,’ he says eventually, ‘are you going to tell me where you fit in at Seaspray Cottage? Or are you just going to swim off into the ocean and make me think eating a ploughman’s lunch on a patchwork sofa with a mermaid was all a dream?’

‘Me?’ I grab my fourth beer, wrench the top off and glug. ‘What’s this I’m drinking?’

He peers at the bottle. ‘They’re a mix. That one’s local brewery, Roaring Waves’ answer to a German Pils. But watch out, they have a tendency to make your legs disappear without warning.’ The low noise in his throat could almost be a laugh. ‘Although you’re probably used to that sensation.’

I almost drop my bottle. ‘Are you implying I get drunk a lot?’ He’s not getting away with that.

He shakes his head and blinks. ‘No, just meaning the way your legs and your mermaid’s tail are interchangeable.’ There’s that almost-smile playing around his lips. ‘For a mermaid settling on land, you couldn’t have found many flats closer to the sea than this one. I can’t understand why you wouldn’t want to stay.’

Even if he’s not laughing outwardly his tone is mocking. ‘Come on, I didn’t take the piss when you turned up with your high-end boys’ toy lunch wheelie.’ That has to be the most macho item ever, I’m betting he grabbed it from Groupon. That or he found it down the harbour and it’s meant for trundling fish around. ‘And while we’re on the subject of toys and size, please tell me you aren’t going to set up one of those monster Australian-style barbie’s on the balcony?’

He gives a sniff. ‘For someone uninvested, you’re coming over as very territorial.’

I screw up my face, and take another gulp of my drink. Considering I’m not a beer person, it’s going down very fast. ‘It all comes down to the “settling” thing. The word actually makes me shiver, that’s just how I’m wired. From the way I feel now, I’m guessing I’m destined to swim around the world forever.’

He pulls down the corners of his mouth as he gets up and strides towards the door. ‘How about cake to soak up the alcohol? I’ll see what I’ve got next door.’

I’m psyching myself up for a second feast on wheels, but when he comes back in he’s only carrying a plate. ‘No sweet trolley then?’

He gives a guilty shrug. ‘If there’s cake in the flat, I eat it. Two measly bits of chocolate brownie is all I could find. Sorry they’re so tiny.’

‘Small, but delicious.’ It must be the beer making me gush even though I’m trying to stick to understatement. The square I’m sinking my teeth into is dark, sticky and so delectably chocolatey it clogs my throat. And small is taking a man-sized view. I wave the remains of my pretty massive slice in the air as I struggle to talk through the cocoa haze. ‘It’s such a shame there’s no such thing as cake take-aways with home delivery. I’d always rather ring for gateaux than pizza.’

He narrows his eyes. ‘Gateaux in Cornwall? You’ll be lucky.’

‘Sorry, I’m mixing up my languages again.’ And coming across like an arse. ‘I just flew in from France.’ And now I’m sounding even worse.

His eyebrows lift. ‘Anywhere nice?’ At least he seems to be overlooking the pretentious prat part.

I try to play it down. ‘Only Paris.’

‘Quite a landlocked place for a mermaid.’ He sends me a sideways glance. ‘But, honestly, I can see why you’d rather be there than here.’

I smile at the recognition. ‘I make do with the rain instead of the sea. There’s nothing quite like wet city pavements shining with reflections from the street lights and the traffic. As soon as my job restarts I’ll be back there and loving it.’ I hesitate for a moment. ‘Gateaux and all.’

His frown is thoughtful. ‘In which case, maybe it’s a good time to mention – if ever you want to sell the flat, Diesel would love some extra space to expand into. Obviously, I’d be offering you a top price.’

As he hears his name Diesel’s tail thumps on the sofa cushions. It’s as if he’s adding his weight to what Charlie just said, while I’m struggling to believe what I just heard. I’m taking a breath, gathering my words to reply. If he was anyone else it would have to be ‘yes’ a thousand times over, for every reason. Let’s face it, before he turned up I’d just spent a full half-hour freaking out at the thought of an electricity bill so I’m not quite sure why my stomach feels like a popped balloon as I look out at the frill of the waves running up the beach. And then suddenly I get it.

‘So this explains it. You send your dog to eat my sandwich, so you can offer me lunch and muscle in on buying my flat?’ My voice is high with indignation. What’s more, I’m furious for allowing myself to eye him up when what he was really here for was to get his hands on Laura’s property.

He screws up his face. ‘Really, Clemmie, that’s not what happened.’

I let out a snort. ‘Fill me with beer then push through another of your deals? That’s low, even for lowlife like you.’

There’s a flash of pain in his eyes, then he takes a deep breath. ‘There was no pressure, I was simply trying to be helpful if that was what you wanted.’

‘Helpful my arse. That was pure opportunism.’ I’m not even sure it’s the right word. Worse still, I’ve got this sinking feeling I’m probably shooting myself in the foot here. But there’s something about the bare faced gall of the man that’s made me so angry. If he was the last punter in the world, at this moment I wouldn’t sell to him.

‘If you choose to see it that way, that’s your problem.’ He’s not even bothering to defend himself.

To reclaim some dignity, I go back to my best clipped office tones. ‘If there’s a sale, George will handle it, I’m sure you’ll be the first to know.’

He shakes his head. ‘We’ve already discussed how sharing George is.’ He just gives yet another sigh and carries on. ‘As I said before, the building needs work. We’ve got extensive roof repairs scheduled for autumn.’

I’m not sure why he’s telling me this now. ‘Great, I’ll cross my fingers it stays fine for you. Let’s hope you don’t get too much of that rain I was talking about earlier.’ I take another swig of beer. My excuse to myself for accepting lunch was to get information, and this far, apart from an offer to buy the flat which floored me, I’ve got approximately zilch. ‘Remind me who’s in the other flats?’

Charlie’s reply is fast and businesslike. ‘Two are let to short-term tenants, and two are let out through Airbnb to holiday makers.’

I’m frowning, tapping the bottle on my teeth, still not getting it. ‘All good. So, your point is?’

‘There’s not a lot left in your peppercorn rent pot after the balcony repairs. And the cost of the roof will be shared between all the flat owners.’ He’s drumming his fingers on the chair arm now. ‘So if you did plan to stay, I’m simply flagging up that you’ll need to find ten grand before the autumn.’

I gasp so hard I almost swallow the bottle as well as my next gulp of beer. ‘Ten grand?’ My bank account’s never seen that many noughts. As far as my finances go, I earn enough to get by, put a little aside, then I travel. Then I stop and work again. It’s called living in the moment, and this far, give or take a bit of juggling, it’s always worked out fine.

Charlie nods. ‘It’s not a huge amount, but you might need to dip into your capital.’ He’s talking like I’m loaded, and staring like I’m not keeping up. Which, to be fair, is right. ‘Capital, meaning your savings?’

The second he starts talking English again the penny drops. ‘Ah, those.’ Right now, I’ve probably got a couple of hundred to tide me over for when I move on from Paris. ‘Of course.’ It’s strangely levelling. One minute I’m struggling because I’ve got so many choices of what to do with the flat and I don’t know how to handle it. The next I’m fighting to keep it away from Charlie. Then I’m back to way worse – there is no choice, because the only option I can afford is to let it go. Except now I feel like I’ve had something huge taken away from me. Which I know is a ridiculous way to feel, when only a couple of days ago I wasn’t even going to bother to visit the place.

Charlie’s face gets the closest to a smile I’ve seen today. ‘My point is, you’ll have plenty of savings if a sale goes through. Subject to tax liability, obviously.’ Yet another downside to entertaining a ‘decorative developer’ in your living room. If he carries on like this, we’ll be onto mortgages in no time.

I’m about to put my hands over my ears when there’s a clatter out on the landing.

‘Clemmie, we’re early … we brought bubbly …’ As the door pushes open, there’s a hollow boom, and a cork shoots past my nose.

6

In Laura’s flat at Seaspray Cottage

Cotton wool and feisty talk

Friday

As Charlie dashes off along the balcony, insistent on going for ‘proper’ champagne glasses, it only takes one half-raised eyebrow from Nell before Diesel’s slinking down from the sofa and turning circles on a rug. Sophie settles Milla and Maisie into his place, then flops down beside them herself

I’m counting on my fingers as I snaffle one of Milla’s banana chips. ‘Aren’t you two short here, Soph?’

‘Nate’s taken Marco and Matilde.’ She sneaks a look at her phone. ‘Let’s see, they’ve got Water Polo, then they’re going on to Spanish for Smalls and taster Tinies’ Yoga.’ Seeing these two have barely hit nursery, her ‘what the heck’ expression is probably entirely justified. ‘So how’s it going here?’

Nell’s staring at me in awe. ‘Swimmingly, I’d say. You didn’t mess about, Clemmie.’

I pull a face. ‘It’s not what it looks like.’ Claiming ‘the dog ate my sandwich’ is too close to those lame excuses for lost homework. I try another tack. ‘Charlie happens to live next door, he dropped round with lunch and an offer to buy the flat.’

‘How lucky is that?’ Nell asks.

Sophie’s less impressed. ‘What the eff does he think he’s playing at?’ She looks like she’s about to explode.

I give a shrug. ‘You can ask him yourself, he’s here with his flutes as we speak.’ As I take the slender glasses from him and put them on the table I’m telling it like it is. ‘There can’t be many neighbours in St Aidan who will wheel in lunch and be happy to share their crystal, then try to buy your home before you’ve even had chance to move in.’ We might as well bring this into the open.

Sophie flashes him a disgusted glance then fixes him with one of those stares of hers that bore right through you. ‘So, are you going to explain yourself, Charlie?’

His gaze flicks over all of us. ‘Now might not be the best time. I’ll leave you to drink your fizz in peace. Things to do, places to be, and all that.’

‘I bet you bloody have.’ Sophie growls as he trundles the trolley towards the door and calls Diesel.

Plum peeps into the kitchen, then comes over to pour. ‘The flat’s as much of a gem as Sophie told us. Small, yet perfectly formed.’

Nell narrows her eyes as she passes round the fizz. ‘As said by the woman who has an entire chandlery to rattle around in. It couldn’t be more cosy, but five of us just arrived and you can barely tell we’re here.’ A grin spreads across her face between sips. ‘It would be fab for more intimate singles’ evenings.’ Since she’s taken charge of the club, Nell sees every venue, public or private, in terms of its party potential.

Plum sniffs. ‘Probably why Mr Hobnob Holdings can’t wait to get his hands on it. No doubt he’d want to rip the guts out of the place.’

‘Ewww.’ The thought of workmen with sledgehammers smashing Laura’s lovely coloured walls makes me wince. Although it might have been a less dramatic reaction if I’d had more food and less beer. That’s the trouble with lunchtime drinking. It makes me so thirsty my fizz barely touches the sides before it’s gone.

Sophie’s eyes flash. ‘It doesn’t have to be like that, Clemmie. You don’t have to accept.’

I sigh. ‘I damn well won’t sell to him, but I might have to sell to someone. He’s explained the situation. If I keep the flat I need to find a bomb to fund joint repairs.’

Nell cocks her head. ‘Exactly what size incendiary device are we talking here?’ The accountant in her always insists on the price down to the last penny.

I hesitate and lean forward for a refill. ‘Ten grand by September. Maybe more.’ That thought is enough for me to down my next glass too.

‘Shit.’ Plum lets out a whistle. ‘In that case you’re probably stuffed.’ It’s not mean, she’s simply taking a realistic view of my finances. She understands because she stretched to the limit and then some to get the gallery going.

Sophie shakes her head. ‘Not so fast. You and Plum might not be best friends with your bank managers, but Nell and I are better placed.’ Her multi-million turnover can blind her to what real life’s like for the rest of us.

Nell looks thoughtful. ‘We could tide you over?’

I blow in frustration. ‘It’s awesome of you to offer, but even if I wanted to keep the flat, I couldn’t accept. I’d have no hope of paying back a loan that big on what I earn.’

‘Can your mum help?’ Plum knows we’re on shaky ground here.

I pull a face. ‘When Mum and Harry laughingly call their trip the “Spend the Inheritance Tour” it’s not a joke. They’re volunteering, but it’s the kind you pay for.’ My mum was always sensitive about me getting this place, but at least it gave her the green light to enjoy her savings. They plan to spend the lot while they’re fit enough, see the countries she never got to because I came along. ‘This is the last place I’d ask them to change their plans for.’

Nell pulls a face. ‘Leave it with us. If there’s a way to keep you here, we’ll think of it.’

I’m biting my thumbnail as I agonise, because I don’t want to lead them on. ‘I probably do want to sell, because I can’t think how the hell things would work otherwise. But it would be nice to have a choice.’ I can’t remember being anywhere that made me feel so instantly secure and comfortable. I know I’ll always be a wanderer, but it would still be amazing to keep this place as a safe haven. Although that’s probably not a luxury my empty bank account will run to.

Sophie lets out a snort. ‘You can’t be backed into a corner by a man with a hostess trolley, even if he does have beautiful glasses.’ She holds her flute up to the light, then finishes the half-inch of fizz she accepted. ‘So are we going to make a move? I’m taking this lot home for supper, if you’re hungry?’

Nell grins. ‘Or even better, come with Plum and I on the Singles’ All the Sixes evening. That’s six bars in six hours.’

After so many bottles of real ale I can’t think of anything worse. ‘Since when did you want a boyfriend, Plum?’ We’ve always been the two who are entirely happy on our own.

She laughs. ‘Definitely not looking for one of those, but Nell’s pub crawls are too good to miss.’

As I stand up and stretch, my head feels like it’s filled with cotton wool. ‘I’d barely begun to look around when Diesel and Charlie arrived. Maybe I should stay here tonight.’ Note to self: getting pissed in the afternoon and ending up a prisoner in the attic is off-the-scale bad. But at least this way I avoid staggering down two flights of stairs when my legs feel like they belong to someone else, and I get out of a night out with the dreaded Singles’ Club. That’s a result all round. Although I have to admit my half-drunken self is feeling a sudden pang for what I’m about to give up here. ‘Make the most of it while I can, and all that?’

Nell frowns at me. ‘For one time only, we’ll let you off the singles’ event. So long as you have us all round for brunch tomorrow.’

Plum’s staring out of the doors to the balcony. ‘Good idea. I’m missing this view already and I haven’t left yet.’

Sophie’s on her feet. ‘I know exactly what you mean, Plum. It’s the kind of place that makes you want to come back again and again. Way too good for Charlie Hobnob.’ She’s scooping up Maisie from the sofa. ‘We’ll bring the food, Clemmie, be ready. Brainstorming begins at eleven sharp tomorrow. This is one fight I promise we’ll win.’

So, it’s official. We’re going into battle. That’s Sophie all over. But right now, all I can think of is making my way to the pink haven of the bedroom, and crawling under the quilt.

7

In the flat at Seaspray Cottage

Ice cubes and cold feet

Saturday

I’m standing on the balcony next morning, breathing in the sharp salty air, watching the figures along the water’s edge and the sand clouds whipping up the beach. It turns out ten minutes of having your face blown off is a great way to wake up even if it makes your hair go wild. I’m just about to go inside when a shout drifts up from the garden.

‘Hi, Clemmie, how was your first night at Seaspray Cottage?’

Peering down, I catch sight of a grey wagging tail, then Charlie comes into view, craning his neck to look up, blinking in the sunlight.

‘Great, thanks.’ I’m not telling him that once I’d slept off the beer and champagne, the waves crashing up the beach kept me awake until the tide went out again. Give me the lull of traffic and police sirens any night. ‘How did you know I stayed?’ As if me standing out here at the crack of dawn wasn’t enough of a clue.

If it was anyone other than Charlie, I’d swear he let out a chortle. ‘I reckon the whole of St Aidan hears when you pull that flush of yours. I’m assuming it was you in the bathroom in the night, not intruders?’

Shit. If the sea making it impossible to sleep wasn’t enough to put me off the flat, Charlie Hobson counting every time I visit the loo takes away all the enjoyment of my first night ever with my very own bathroom and spare bedroom. Although I’m determined not to let myself get used to it, a whole flat all to myself, not sharing a loo, with rooms to wander through is beyond awesome. ‘Off for your morning walk?’ Hopefully that’ll take us somewhere less cringeworthy than him knowing how often I pee.

That sounds like another half-laugh. ‘Diesel and I had our morning walk hours ago, this is our lunchtime one.’

Damn again. When did it get so late? ‘Jeez, I’d better go.’

He steps backwards and looks out along the quayside. ‘Nell and Sophie are on their way now. It looks like they’re carrying the entire morning’s output from the bakery.’

‘Thanks for the running commentary.’ As nosey neighbours go he’s scoring a straight ten here. My ‘against’ list is getting longer by the second.

‘You’re welcome, any time.’ He’s missing the irony again. ‘By the way, there’s no need for you to shiver out here doing your Bridget Jones impersonation. There are some silk dressing gowns hanging behind the door in your bathroom.’

I’m gobsmacked, but I ignore the urge to run. Instead I give my long cardi an extra tug downwards and face him out. ‘How the hell do you know that?’ Even if my pants were on show – which they’re absolutely not – I’ve no worries about minimalism or over-exposure because my granny knicker shorts almost reach up to my boobs.

He’s already backing off along the path towards the bay. ‘Laura’s tenant did a lot of tidying before she left, we saw the bath robes when Diesel and I were round for tea one day. Anyway, we must go.’ No doubt he’s rushing off before Sophie comes close enough to collar him. ‘Enjoy your lunch.’

I give the girls a wave, then dip inside. By the time they burst in from the landing I’ve had time to dive into yesterday’s dress, flick on enough eyeliner and mascara to make it look like I have actual eyes rather than slits, and use up the whole of my handbag perfume.

‘Shall we eat at the table in the kitchen?’ I rake my fingers through my hair and bundle it into a bun with a scrunchie, then do a double take because that’s not a sentence I’ve ever said before. One night staying in a flat that’s almost all mine and I’m already sounding like I shop at Waitrose.

‘Good idea, then Matilde can do her colouring while we chat.’ Sophie leads the way and pulls out the fuchsia chair for her. ‘Your favourite colour, how lucky is that Tilly?’ She pulls a face. ‘Four kids in, I’ve decided you can’t fight gender stereotyping. Tilly was screaming for pink as they brandished the forceps.’

As Tilly slips off her unicorn backpack, scrambles up and spreads out her felt tips, it hits me I must have done the same thing at the same table when I was Tilly’s size. As Plum slides in to draw her some butterflies to colour, Nell’s getting her apple juice and waffles, and I’m plumping her cushion, making her comfy. When I think of how much love we all have for Tilly, it reminds me of the look on Laura’s face on the photo in the musical box. She must have done a lot more with me than I realise when I was small. Love comes from so many different places, but having it in our lives makes us who we are. For a second I’m overwhelmed by the feeling, and it’s like an unexpected gift to be back here having a chance to revisit everything Laura gave me.

‘Coffee’s the priority.’ Nell throws a pack on the worktop, and fills the kettle. ‘Let’s hope you’ve got a pot here, Clemmie.’

Sophie’s unpacking the bags onto platters she’s found on the dresser. ‘We’ve also brought every kind of breakfast pastry the bakery makes.’

‘Yummy.’ I’m bobbing in and out of cupboards and scouring the shelves for plates and mugs. ‘It’s a bit of a lucky dip, but here you go, one cafetière.’ As I slide it along to Nell, I come across a cutlery pot next to a knife block, and pick out a handful of bone-handled knives and silver spoons.

‘It looks pretty well stocked.’ Sophie’s taking in the cupboards rammed with utensils.

I’m smiling because the collection of crockery is enormous, yet so random. ‘So long as you’re not expecting to find any two items the same, I reckon we could stay here for a month without needing to wash up.’

As Nell opens the packet the smell of ground coffee drifts into the air. ‘And any time you want matching sets, you can always plunder the flat next door. Charlie seemed exceptionally willing to share his designer kitchen collections.’

I’ll ignore that suggestion. ‘We had no need to borrow those flutes, there are shelves of glasses here.’

Nell wiggles her eyebrows. ‘No harm in accepting help and cementing neighbourly relations.’

‘Knock yourself out, Nell, but after yesterday, for the time I’m here, I’m going to be the kind of aloof neighbour who keeps my distance.’

Nell’s nostrils flare, which is a sure sign she’s pissed off. ‘You might want to think of the Singles’ Club here, not just yourself.’ She seems to be ignoring that he turned her down flat on that one.

I grin. ‘So you have got the hots for Hobson after all?’ Then knowing she’ll deny it on principle even though I’m teasing, I move on to explain. ‘First, he wants to get his hands on the flat, now he’s claiming he can hear every loo flush through the wall so blanking him is the only way to save mega-embarrassment.’ As a cover-all reason for why I’m avoiding him it’s almost worth the shudders of remembering he knows when I wee.

Nell sniffs. ‘You might want to keep him on side when you hear what we’ve hit on for your fund raising.’

Sophie frowns at Nell. ‘Best to talk about that with coffee.’ She stoops down to reach the bottom section of the dresser. ‘You really have got all the equipment here. Your very own picnic basket too, can we have a peep?’

‘Looks like a two-person set from the size. You might have something cute and matching after all.’ Nell was never this ‘couple’ obsessed before her break up. She’d shoot us down in flames if we suggested it, but the way she goes on, even if it’s subliminal, there has to be a gap in her life that needs filling.

As the wicker basket hits the table, my scalp tingles. ‘That’s not for picnics.’ As I undo the buckles a glimpse of blue gingham lining spins me back to when I was small. In my head, I’m standing on a stool so I can reach the work top better, searching through a pile of cards to find my favourites. And I know without looking what’s inside the basket. ‘It’s full of Laura’s recipes.’

As I swing the lid of the basket upwards it’s like opening a window onto the past. ‘She used to copy out the recipes she liked most.’ I’m flicking through a mass of colourful hand written cards, all with scribbled notes and sketches in the characteristically pointy writing, with cut out magazine pictures and photos pasted on too. ‘Oh my, that Pavlova on the flowery tablecloth … apple pie in a summer garden … the most delicious looking syrup tart. Maybe I came here more often than I remember.’ My mouth’s watering.

Nell’s laughing as she pulls out a card. ‘If you were making salmon en croute and soufléed spinach omelettes as a kid, how did you not end up on master chef?’

Sophie lets out a groan. ‘Strawberry and lemon sorbet with mint leaves looks gorgeous.’

Plum’s leaning over her shoulder. ‘And look at the colour of that raspberry one. This is making me so hungry.’

‘Sorbet?’ Nell jumps forwards with a cry. ‘Hold that thought, I’ve just had a lightbulb moment.’

I’m going to have to move this on before my hunger pangs get the better of me. ‘Forget about me holding anything other than a cup of coffee and a pastry. Can we please have some breakfast?’

‘Absolutely.’ Nell swings by with the coffee pot, then pulls up a sky-blue chair. ‘And Soph and I can talk you through you the finer points of our plan.’

‘What?’ I’m mainly interested in how authentic the filling is in the almond croissants. It takes two minutes of ecstasy as it melts on my tongue to discover. It’s amazing.

Sophie brushes a chunk of cinnamon whirl off her chin, and leans over to break Tilly’s second chocolate waffle into pieces. ‘We put our thinking caps on last night and came up with the perfect answer to your cash flow problems.’

‘Bank robbing?’ It’s the only solution I’ve thought of, and I had hours to wrack my brains while the sea kept me awake.

Sophie’s wearing the same rise above it expression she uses when the kids are being especially tiresome. ‘This flat of yours is perfect as a micro venue. And Nell has a database of people in her club all instantly contactable on Facebook. It’s a no-brainer – merge the two, and you’ve got your very own instant “pop up” event.’

‘Then hear the cash registers ring.’ Nell had to add that bit. ‘People are happy to pay for something exclusive. To be honest mostly they’ll be ecstatic to try something different.’

I take a custard slice, bite into it, chew. And I’m still not getting it. ‘Can you explain that again, please? In English this time.’

Nell leans forward. ‘I’ve messaged around my Singles’ Club inner inner-circle and they’re all up for an “evening” at yours.’ Who knows what her finger wiggle speech marks are hinting at there. ‘In fact, it’s so popular, there’s already a waiting list.’

Sitting with my jaw sagging open is such a waste of a good mouthful. ‘What on earth would they do here? Sit and knit?’

Plum jumps in excitedly. ‘That’s another great idea we missed when we brainstormed.’ So, they’ve definitely been discussing it in detail.

Sophie takes a breath and begins again. ‘All Nell’s friends are looking for is a couple of hours to relax and enjoy the views. It’s a spectacular setting, the quirky decor makes it totally unique. And with your flawless customer service skills, if you throw in something lovely to eat, you’re in a perfect position to give them a fab time they’ll be happy to pay for.’

I’ll concede she’s right about the flat, even if she is over playing the positivity to the point of sounding like a lifestyle manual. But they’re forgetting something. ‘I don’t host parties, I go to them. This is way beyond me.’

Sophie gives my arm a squeeze. ‘Why do you always undersell yourself? Don’t worry, you do whatever you feel happy with, and we’ll cover the rest.’

Which is lovely, but there’s one huge hurdle they seem to be overlooking. ‘So are you going to order in takeaways, or are you planning to use caterers?’

Nell’s tutting. ‘For maximum profit, cut out the middle man. If you provide the food, you make on every side.’

‘Me?’ I’m so horrified I let my custard slice drop onto my plate. ‘I’m a bar person, I serve liquid. Lemon slices are the only food I touch. And I don’t actually make anything edible, even for myself, because I don’t have the skills and that’s what chefs do.’ Let’s face it, in most of the bars I’ve worked in food was the last thing on anyone’s mind.

Sophie’s voice is soothing. ‘You follow cocktail recipes no problem. Simple snacks and nibbles are only one step on from that. We’ll do a trial night and see how it goes, okay?’

‘How about “NO”?’ Suddenly I’m not hungry any more, they’ve put me right off my breakfast. Which is a total waste, given the stack of pain au chocolats I’m staring at.

‘One crucial word from earlier …’ Nell’s eyes are sparkling. ‘SORBETS!’ She holds her breath for dramatic effect for long enough to finish her coffee. Then starts again. ‘Sorbets will be easy and effective. They’re fresh and very seasonal. Realistically they’re one step away from ice cubes, and you dish those out all night long without blinking.’

‘And you’ve got loads of pretty glasses and cups here to serve them in too.’ Plum’s nodding, as she shuffles through the handful of cards she’s plucked out. ‘They couldn’t be more simple. All you need is fruit, sugar, a food processor and a freezer.’

Which already sounds like a very long list to me.

Sophie beams. ‘Brilliant. It’s so lucky we found Laura’s basket. Before this the best we’d come up with was tapas or nachos, but all the recipes we Googled had the “extra effort” marker and way too many knives on the skill symbols.’

I’m secretly shuddering at the thought of any knives or effort.

‘That’s decided then.’ Nell’s clasping her hands together to stop herself from full blown cheering. ‘We’re all set for an original and delicious Early Summer Sorbet Evening. I’ll put the word out. Does Monday at eight work for you?’

I manage to hold in my scream. ‘Isn’t that rushing things a bit?’

‘Not if we’re talking ten grand by September.’ Nell’s never one to pull her punches. ‘I’ll give the whale watching a miss. That gives us all day tomorrow to sort the small stuff.’

Which from where I’m sitting sounds like no time at all.

‘Don’t look so anxious, we’ll all help.’ Sophie’s patting my hand, but frankly if she’d been this sympathetic earlier we wouldn’t be in this mess. ‘At least you’ve got the recipes here. You did say you wanted to leave your options open with the flat. This might let you do that.’

‘It’s fine, I’m not worried.’ It’s only a bit of a lie. I know we’re careering towards a complete car crash here. But the fastest way to prove this isn’t going to work is to let the disaster happen. Then we can walk away knowing we’ve all tried our best and failed. The sooner we get this nightmare over, the better. ‘Although …’

‘Yes?’ Nell cocks her head at me.

I’m fingering the recipe cards, looking at the familiar handwriting. It won’t happen again, so we’ve got one chance to credit her. ‘As we’re using all her recipes, could we call it Laura’s Sorbets?’

Plum’s eyes light up. ‘Making it personal is the perfect way to remember her. Laura’s Lovely Sorbets?’

I’m laughing. ‘Even better. I think she’d like that.’

‘Great.’ Sophie’s already on her feet. ‘What are we waiting for? We’ll pick up Milla from dancing, and then we’ll hit the shops and go to mine to practice.’

8

In Trenowden, Trenowden and Trenowden Solicitors’ office

Sorbet and melting ice caps

Monday morning

‘Morning, Clementine, good weekend?’ As he breezes past my desk to his office, George’s greeting sounds like he’s on autopilot.

‘Great thanks.’ Even if he was taking notice, I’d spare him the details.

As I staggered away from the market stall with Sophie on Saturday afternoon, under a fruit mountain so huge I could barely see the toes of my kitten heeled pumps I’d decided to go with the flow. By the time we reached Sophie’s kitchen, which is literally the size of a barn, I was relaxing into it. The minute we added in Laura’s name it stopped feeling like I was being press ganged, and I began to feel part of the mission. In spite of my huge reservations and doubts, I began to enjoy myself.

Sophie’s a whizz at multi-tasking. Somehow she managed to sort French plaits for Tilly, wade through a marketing report, pass Maisie her organic carrots and chickpeas, stop Marco from crashing his ride-on tractor through the bi-fold doors into the courtyard outside, and shout instructions at me and Milla too. After an afternoon of doing as I was told at her polished concrete work surfaces, I’d liquidised so much fruit and dipped in and out of her stable-size freezer so many times, I swear I’ll be making strawberry sorbet in my sleep forever more. But at least I’d nailed the technicalities and learned how to operate a hand blender without sending a tidal wave of fruit puree up the walls.

The up side of trialing recipes is we all got to taste the sorbets. Pause for a brief sorbet swoon there – the icy crystals hitting my tongue was like an electric shock to my brain. Out of nowhere I could remember sitting at my little table on the balcony, hulling strawberries, with Laura sitting on the planks beside me, her legs outstretched. Me holding her hand, as we hurried out to the ice cream kiosk to get wafers. Standing them up like sails in our sorbet balls. Then later I found the splashy blue and orange flowery fabric of the dress she’d been wearing that day in a patchwork cushion on the sofa. For someone who usually has trouble remembering much beyond last Tuesday, it was a revelation.

By Saturday tea time, we’d made our selection from the samples, bought more fruit for making the full amounts, and trundled it up the stairs at Seaspray Cottage. All without bumping into Charlie. Why did I ever think this was going to be hard?

Then on Sunday, Nell, Plum and I spent the afternoon at the flat, tweeking the sofas and side tables into party order, cleaning the loo, and sorting out the best cups and glasses to use, and still finished in time to go for a hot chocolate at the Surf Shack along the beach.

So now I’m tapping my heels under George’s reception desk, flicking through this morning’s appointments on my screen, willing lunchtime to arrive so Plum and I can get back and crack on with the sorbets.

‘How are you getting on with the flat? I hear you’ve moved in.’

Shucks. So much for autopilot. This time around George is full on warm and interested, with a disarming smile to match.

‘Yes, all fabulous, thanks for asking.’ My throat constricts in panic. I skip straight over the Airbnb people underneath who could have been bonking for England all night on Saturday. Does he know about the flat because he’s put himself down for the Laura’s Lovely Sorbets event? I might be softening to the idea of twenty strangers invading Laura’s living room in return for a discreet yet extortionate cash payment. But I’m damn sure I’m not up for my boss seeing me fall flat on my face when it goes all kinds of wrong, even if he does have kind crinkles at the corners of his eyes. ‘I’m not up to speed here because I’ve been away, but do you go to Nell’s singles’ events?’ Hopefully I make the crucial question sound super casual.

George’s smile fades in a second. ‘Hell, no.’

‘Jeez, I’m so pleased to hear that.’ And that gave too much away. This calls for some serious back pedalling. ‘Any particular reason? I’ve heard they’re excellent, even for people like us who are happy with their “alone” status.’

For a moment, he looks confused. ‘I do long hours here, then take work home.’ Now he’s found an answer he looks happier. ‘Socialising isn’t on my radar, probably how I’ve avoided getting pushed into it like everyone else has.’ Although it’s on his radar enough to know it exists.

‘Great, well I’d better get on.’ I need to wind this up, before I get into any more deep water. ‘This human works best on Monday mornings if coffee is added. Are you ready for one too?’

‘I thought you’d never ask.’ The grin that spreads across his face at the offer of a caffeine hit makes his previous one look arctic. ‘Only joking, why not let me make them?’

‘That’s what I’m here for.’ Obviously, I don’t want him at my sorbet evening, but all the same I can’t quite work out why Nell hasn’t snapped this one up for her singles’ group. With lines like that I’d say he has all the makings of a ‘keeper’.

Despite being a twenty-four seven workaholic, it turns out George is just as shit as me about the Monday thing. Four coffees on for each of us, with no visit from Charlie, we finally get to lunchtime, and I’m free to go and make sorbet. Ten hours from now the micro-venue theory will have been tested to destruction, and my life will be back on its old course again. All I have to do is hold my nerve and get through to midnight.

Two hours later, Plum and I are up to our elbows in pureed raspberries in Laura’s kitchen, looking out across the blue sparkling water of St Aidan Bay as we sieve the last double batch.

Plum counts them off on her fingers as she juggles the containers in the freezer, which is rammed. ‘Strawberry, pear and rosemary, lemon, lime and peppermint, water melon, orange and mango, cucumber and mint. There’s just about enough room to squeeze the raspberry in here too.’

‘As Sophie says, they’re gluten-free, dairy-free, suitable for vegetarians, pescetarians, vegans, celiacs and lactose intolerants.’ Now they’re almost done, I’m feeling dizzy, excited and so uptight I’m squeaking when I should be talking.

Plum laughs. ‘Sophie would say that. Better still, they’re bloody delicious, those recipes of Laura’s are on point.’

‘I can’t believe it was so easy. If this is cooking, bring it on.’ Even if I’m joking, I’m still stunned at what we’ve done. If Laura could see me now, somehow, I know she’d be happy.

Plum scrapes the last of the dark ruby mixture into a shallow dish. ‘I had a flick through the recipe basket earlier. Nothing’s too complicated to make, but everything in there looks seriously yummy.’

‘Which kind of reminds me …’ Edible being everyone else’s description of the man in question, not mine. ‘Do you think Nell’s interested in my neighbour?’ I can’t quite bring myself to say his name. When I think of him trying to wrestle the flat away from me I’m livid. But then I catch my stomach disintegrating when I think about the way he looked at me afterwards.

Plum wrinkles her nose and rubs her finger round the rim of the bowl. ‘Nell would never admit it. But she does get extra animated whenever he’s around.’

I’ve no idea why I wish she hadn’t said that. ‘I’d noticed too.’ It’s good to get this out in the open.

‘Then she always claims it’s on other people’s behalf.’ Plum rolls her eyes as she sucks raspberry mixture off her finger. ‘She loves it when she gets couples together at her events. But she always holds back herself.’

I let my lips curl into a smile. ‘Maybe we’ll have to give her a helping hand, one of these days.’

Plum grins. ‘A bloody great push more like.’

It’s funny how differently our lives have all panned out. When Sophie was brave enough to have Milla on her own not long after uni, none of us imagined ten years later she’d have Nate, her business and three more children. Plum and I were always the ones to prioritise life not relationships. Whereas Nell was the one who always had a boyfriend in tow, from the age of thirteen onwards. She settled down early and bought into the whole mortgage and the house on the estate with way more bedrooms than they needed, only to have it all crack up. Last year, quite abruptly, she and Guy decided they’d be better apart than together. He moved to Glasgow, and that was that. One weekend she was enjoying a married mini break in Bridport. The next she had her house on the market and was flinging herself into singles’ karaoke at the Hungry Shark.

Somehow the parade of wooden penguins has migrated from the living room shelf to the kitchen table. Okay, they didn’t move on their own, it was me. That’s another thing I’ve remembered. Laura used to move them around. I pick one up and rub its white painted stomach. ‘Nell definitely deserves a second chance to find her special penguin.’

Plum’s eyes light up at the reference. ‘Oh my, remember Drew Barrymore and Never Been Kissed? How many times did we watch that film when we were teenagers?’

I laugh. ‘Enough times to know the scenes off by heart. And for you and me to decide the bit about spending our lives looking for one penguin to stay with forever with was bollocks.’

She wrinkles her nose. ‘Josie Geller getting her penguin at the end was still one of the best movie snogs ever.’

‘Even though I’d hate to be tied down personally, it still gives me teenage goosebumps when I think about it.’ It’s great to be able to admit this to Plum and know she won’t ever try to hook me up with anyone. ‘So what’s the story with George? How come he isn’t press ganged into going to Nell’s events?’ I may as well ask now we’re here. Then we’ve covered everything.

She laughs. ‘George goes his own way; we all gave up on him years ago.’ She adds the empty bowl to the huge stack next to the sink and slides the last dish into the freezer. ‘So what’s next? Shall we clear away, then go for the booze?’

I turn on the tap. ‘Good idea. At least with washing up and Gin Fizz, I’m back in my comfort zone.’

Plum picks up a tea towel. ‘And there can’t be too many sinks in the world with a view straight out to sea. Which is a good thing, because looking at the number of dishes, we’re going to be here forever.’

It turns out that she’s right. By the time we get back from town it’s late afternoon. We’re on the landing letting ourselves into the flat, when the door across the way swings open.

‘Charlie, lovely to see you.’ I’m over compensating here. He’s the last person I want to meet when our bags are clinking with enough gin and soda for twenty, plus helpers.

‘Diesel and I thought you might like some tea?’

I’m kicking myself for staring at his bare feet and tanned ankles. ‘Errrr …’ My mouth gapes. As I try to work out the best excuse I let my eyes rise, and notice he’s carrying a loaded tray.

He’s too quick for me. ‘Great, it’s all ready, and we have brownies. Just showing there’s no hard feelings after yesterday. I’ll grab another mug for Plum.’

I pull a face at Plum as he disappears. ‘Because obviously the six shelves of mugs at ours won’t be enough.’ As for who’s the hard feelings are, he doesn’t say. I’m guessing if he was the one apologising, he’d come out and say it. In which case this is him saying he’s forgiven me for calling him an ‘opportunist’. Or was it an ‘arse’? I refuse to be forgiven for telling the truth, so those brownies had better be amazing, or it could all kick off again.

‘He probably wants all the mugs to match.’ She drops her voice to a hiss. ‘And while he’s around, it might be a good idea to come clean about tonight.’

I glance at my phone and my stomach leap frogs. ‘Shit, three hours from now they’ll be arriving.’ As I look through into the living room and imagine twenty guests filing in from the landing my squeak rises to a shriek. ‘How the hell will they all fit in? There’s nowhere near enough chairs for everyone, it’s going to be like playing Sardines.’

Plum sniffs. ‘Maybe Nell has over extended with the numbers, but with the singles’ the more they’re squashed the better they like it.’ She winks at me. ‘Close encounters and all that.’

‘Whatever floats their boats.’ I shudder at that thought, then hold the door open for Charlie as he wanders back across, with Diesel two steps behind. ‘Let’s have tea in the kitchen.’ I’m saying it so often it’s feeling like a habit. This way we avoid Diesel dropping chocolate crumbs on the rug, and I can take a look in the freezer while we’re there.

As Charlie pours the tea and offers the cakes round I whisk a brownie off the plate and sink my teeth into the dark sticky slab. After a few minutes of cocoa swoon, I screw up my courage to speak. ‘So I’m having a few people over this evening.’ I’d planned to sound brighter and more airy, but my throat is clogged with chocolate. As I point to the embarrassingly large cluster of Gordon’s bottles poking out of the carrier bags and amble across to the freezer, it strikes me I need to make it clear he’s not getting an invitation. ‘Gin and home-made sweets for some very, very, very close friends.’ Okay, I’m only bragging about the ‘home-made’ thing because I’m over the effing moon with what we’ve pulled off here. And hopefully he’ll get that the ‘close’ bit excludes pushy neighbours. As I open the freezer door a crack, I’m praying the jammed-in dishes don’t dislodge and come cascading out.

‘Sounds like a chilled kind of evening.’ Charlie’s giving Diesel a bone shaped biscuit from the tray. ‘By the way, I’m not being mean with the brownies, but chocolate’s bad for dogs.’

‘All the more for me then. Excuse me a sec, I’ll just check on the sorbets.’ That’s another sentence I’d never planned to say in my entire life ever. Feeling very like someone else’s mother – obviously not mine, as she doesn’t cook – I lift the cling film and peer into the raspberry mixture. ‘This looks a bit weird, I was expecting it to be solid.’ I’m already regretting my boast. As I stick my finger in and find it’s still as runny as when we put it in, I let out a scream. ‘Waaaaahhhh, it’s still liquid, this can’t be right?’ I turn to Plum.

Plum blinks at her phone. ‘How long’s it been in?’

It feels like hours. ‘It froze solid in half this time when we tried it out at Sophie’s.’

She comes and pokes at the others. ‘Shit, none of it’s anywhere near frozen.’ As she purses her lips her eyes are popping out. ‘There’s no way this is going to be ready for tonight.’

Charlie’s frowning over his tea mug. It’s hand thrown, with grey and blue and white in random stripes. Plum was right, they’re all a teensy bit different but essentially they do all match. In the most on-trend, guy-type of a way. Which kind of suggests he’d fit in very well with a proper ‘Waitrose’ woman. ‘Anything I can help with?’

I send him my most ironic beam. ‘Seriously, I doubt it. Not unless you can explain why an entire sodding freezer full of sodding sorbet is sloppy when it should be frozen?’

He looks like he’s holding back one of those cough-laughs of his. ‘I think you just answered your own question there.’

‘Well thanks a lot, that’s really helpful.’ As I look at his superior sneer something inside me snaps. I don’t even care that I’m shouting. ‘I’ve got no effing idea when the hell I’m doing here. All I know is in a couple of hours a whole load of people are going to descend on me expecting to eat sorbet, and this far all I’ve got to offer them is smoothies. So, unless you’ve got something useful to say, cut the jokes please.’

His lips are twitching. ‘Hang on, there’s no need for a full-scale melt down.’ His smirk’s gone now. ‘What I meant is, if you put a massive amount of food into a freezer it’ll take longer to freeze than a small amount, that’s all. It’s the laws of physics.’

Physics? ‘Still not helpful.’

‘But maybe I can help. I do have an industrial size freezer next door. That should chill your sorbets to perfection in no time.’

‘What?’ Now I am listening. Somehow it’s no surprise he’s got this kind of kit. A freezer like that could save me here, but before I get my hopes up I need to check that it’s not just more bullshit. ‘Just a minute. How did you get one of those up the stairs? Or even fit it into the flat?’

He’s back to looking super pleased with himself without actually smiling. ‘My flat’s a lot bigger than yours. And the builders craned the fridges in when they were doing the balcony work.’ He pauses for a second. ‘It’s got a fast freeze option.’

I feel like my fairy godmother’s flying over the area. ‘Really?’ This time I don’t bother hiding my enthusiasm.

‘It’s a shame you weren’t here, or we could have craned a new one in for you too.’

Oh my days. ‘I’m not sure I’ve actually got the room.’ The man is so out of touch. If I’m having to flog sorbets to pay for roof work, I’m damn sure I can’t afford super-sized fridges. What’s worse, when I look around for a space to put anything tall, the kitchen suddenly feels minute rather than cosy.

‘So …’ He’s staring at me expectantly. ‘What are we waiting for?’

Plum sends me a ‘WTF?’ grin as she slides some trays out from the gap beside the dresser. ‘Best not waste valuable chilling time.’

I know I secretly vowed never to set foot next door, or talk to the neighbour, let alone accept favours from him. But sometimes a situation is so desperate you can’t hold on to your principles. And this is one of those times.

9

In the flat next door

Fur balls and shaggy rugs

Monday afternoon

‘There you go. I can pretty much promise your sorbets will be ready by the time your friends get here.’ Charlie swings the giant freezer door closed. ‘Don’t forget to come for them in good time. They’ll need twenty minutes to soften up again before serving.’

When he implied his freezer was enormous he was seriously understating. As for his flat, it seems like the top floor of Seaspray Cottage has been divided into ‘minute’ and ‘effing enormous’. And no prizes for guessing which half he’s got. Or how the whole beautiful backdrop of perfection only makes him look ten times more magazine-ready than he does anyway.

The space I’m staring round at is humungous, and there’s so much wall to wall white and natural wool and hewn wood I’m guessing he’s used the same super-expensive decorators as Nate and Sophie. Although the flashes of stainless steel and hi-gloss in his kitchen area are a masculine variation. Instead of being flat like Laura’s, the ceilings rise up to follow the roof line, and the roof lights punched through them let the sun flood in and outline spectacular rectangles of blue sky. It’s all a bit stark and startling for me, but Diesel has flopped in the centre of a massive grey rug almost as shaggy as he is, so at least someone’s relaxed into it.

‘So now your sorbets are in safe hands, how about a tour?’ Charlie looking pleased with himself is probably justified, although how he does that without the ear to ear grin the rest of us would use is anyone’s guess.

I try to force my face into a less bemused expression. ‘You mean there’s more?’ The room we’re standing in has to be at least the size of a football pitch. I’ve no idea why Diesel needs exercise when he lives here. A walk from one side of the kitchen living room to the other probably equals more steps than I do in a week. I shiver as I imagine Charlie and his wrecking ball approach to restoration obliterating the flat next door too. Realistically, compared to this it might provide him with enough space for a tie store.

He’s poised to go. ‘There are bedrooms, en suites, and acres more living area. I thought you’d be interested to see the different aspects?’

I’m feeling speechless enough as it is. More of the same and I might not recover. As for the way his ripped jeans are pulling across his thighs, there’s no way I can see where he sleeps and keep my thoughts clean. I can’t afford distractions like that when I need to focus on tonight’s very important job.

‘We’re good, thanks.’ I catch Plum’s scowl as her Converse collides with my heel and adjust my answer. ‘Some other time maybe … perhaps when Nell’s here?’ Hopefully that’ll satisfy Plum. Realistically, if Mr H makes Nell glow, when she sees his flat she’ll illuminate. Or maybe even explode entirely. I know I almost have.

As Plum wanders forwards, it’s obvious she’s going to make the most of her visit by exploring to the max, no holding back. When she reaches the hewn wood island unit her eyebrows shoot upwards. ‘Wow, look at these.’ She’s so far away by now I need binoculars to see what she’s talking about.

Charlie shakes his head. ‘You spotted my clutter. Everything’s supposed to be in cupboards, but somehow I can’t bear to put those little guys in the drawer.’

Plum’s yelling down the room at me. ‘Penguins, Clemmie, in a little line. Just like some others we know. How funny is that?’

Not at all, I’d say. ‘Very Josie Geller.’ That’s as much as I’m giving her.

Charlie’s eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise. ‘Another Never Been Kissed fan?’

‘Shit.’

Plum recovers from the implications faster than I do. ‘You know that film too?’

He rolls his eyes to the roof window and a passing cloud. ‘Growing up with four sisters it goes with the territory. And let me guess, you can recite every line too?’

Worse and worse. Luckily, Plum’s under the spotlight for this one. ‘Too right.’

I know it. Any minute now we’ll be on to the final scene. Discussing that snog here would be beyond cringeworthy. I jump in. ‘So, remind me why the hell you want to buy the flat next door, when you’ve already got one this massive?’ As subject changes go, it’s a country mile away from anywhere I’d intended to go. But anything’s better than standing on Mr Hobson’s shag pile reliving Drew Barrymore getting her knickers pashed off to a Beach Boys soundtrack.

Charlie blinks, and curls up his toes as he considers. ‘I’m going to level with you here, Clemmie. Wanting to buy flat next door is less about the space, and more for the sake of completion. I’m very focused and hugely patient. However long I have to wait, I always get what I want in the end.’

I take it back. At least if we’d stuck to Josie Geller and tongues down throats I’d have understood. Whereas what he said there is developer-talk that makes no sense at all, served with a side order of bloody mindedness. And even if he is freezing my sorbets, I’m still determined when it comes to Laura’s flat he’s not going to get whatever completion he’s after.

He picks up my reticence and changes tack. ‘Actually I need a home entertainment space. That would be a great addition to any penthouse.’ If he knew how ‘Hugh Heffner’ he sounds, he might not say that.

As for Plum, she’s left us to it and gone off on a hike right past the kitchen and she’s already halfway across the dining area beyond. Much longer, she’ll be a dot on the horizon. ‘Hey, is that a cat?’ She’s always been the same, in situations like this she can be such an embarrassment. ‘Talk about adorable. Come and see his eyes, Clemmie, they’re completely China blue.’

Far from resenting the intrusion, Charlie’s lapping it up. ‘That’s Pancake, my mum’s Ragdoll, and she’s actually a girl. She’s staying for a couple of nights while my mum’s away.’

However frosty I feel towards Charlie right now, when it comes to a pale fawn fluff ball, my reservations go straight out the window. Despite my heels skidding across the polished boards, I run the length of the room. As I arrive panting next to Plum, my insides squish. ‘Wow, how cute are you?’ Obviously, I’m talking to the cat here. No question, Pancake’s adorable, especially when she looks up from the grey wool designer cushion she’s curled up on and allows us to scratch her head. ‘So how do she and Diesel get on?’

Charlie pulls a face as he sidles up to us. ‘They have their moments. So long as Pancake stays in her sun patch, Diesel leaves her alone. Lucky for me, she doesn’t move much.’ He sniffs. ‘Now you’ve got this far, why not let me show you the rest? Then you’ll understand how well the top floor would work as one space.’

I ignore Plum’s imploring look. ‘Sorry, we really do have loads to do.’ Drinking Darjeeling with a barefoot neighbour in my kitchen is bad enough. Being exposed to his bed linen and his waterfall bath taps is a bridge too far. Especially when he’s so blatant about coveting my bit. And that’s before we get to how hot he is. I set my sights on the distant door and start to march, and three steps later I hear Plum shuffling behind me, then the thump of Diesel’s tail on the rug as I storm past him.

Charlie’s calling after us as we spill out onto the landing. ‘Any time you’re ready for the sorbets help yourselves … the door’s always open. Feel free to use the ice maker too.’ One man and his industrial fridges. You have to laugh at guys and their gadgets, even when they are saving your proverbial bacon. It goes without saying I’d rather be using any other freezer in St Aidan.

As we reach the kitchen, Plum grins at me. ‘What a nice man, he’s left us the chocolate brownies.’

As I sink my teeth into my third slice, I can’t help feeling I’m being bought here. ‘Nice guy my bum. If he’d said about making this flat into a bloody gaming room earlier, I’d have taken the damn sorbets somewhere else.’

Plum laughs. ‘You know that’s bollocks, Clems.’

And the annoying thing is, she’s right.

10

In Laura’s flat. Laura’s Lovely Sorbets Evening

Soft scoops and quiz nights

Monday

Two hours later, it’s all hands on deck for the mermaids. The plan is for Nell to meet up with the Sorbet Singles at the Surf Shack, then bring them along the beach and up the stairs altogether. Sophie’s dashing in and out to the balcony, rearranging cushions, enthusing about the sunset, trying to be the first to see the group arriving. Because that’s how driven and ‘in charge’ she is. And Plum and I are sloshing gin into big jugs, prodding sorbet dishes, and running from window to window in between squeezing lemons and slicing limes. ‘Nice dress,’ Plum says, trying to distract me as she clinks ice cubes into glasses. ‘And I love the lippy.’

I’ve swapped my navy and white office spots for my favourite floaty flowers. And for my lips I’ve ignored the clash with my hair and picked my cranberry rose to complement the jewel colours of the flat. And it’s ‘matte all-day’, because something tells me this is going to be a very long night. But I’m so scared, I reckon I stopped breathing at least half an hour ago. ‘Cool dungarees,’ I croak back, checking the lines of waiting bowls and glasses on the table for the hundredth time, and shuffling the waiting baskets of mint leaf and fruit garnish. Even though she has more pairs of overalls than there are days of the year, Plum’s the only one who can tell the difference. Obviously, the nuances are in the rips and the paint stains. I pinch myself one final time to check that I’m not in the middle of a bad dream. ‘This really is happening, isn’t it?’

Plum comes over and pulls me into a hug so tight her dungaree buttons make imprints on my boobs. ‘Don’t worry, Laura’s sorbets are amazing. It’s all going to be fab.’

Then Sophie’s shouting from the living room. ‘They’re here! Go, go, go! Pop the soda and bring out the fizz!’

I know I’m the drinks person. But when I have the first tray loaded and pick it up the glasses are rattling so badly due to my shaking that Plum takes pity and wrestles it from me.

I’m patting her back as I follow her through into the living room. ‘Oh my gosh, we forgot music.’

She grins at me over her shoulder. ‘Chill, Clemmie. Put on your vintage French mix, say “Hi”, then as soon as everyone’s got drinks we’ll make a start on the sorbets.’

Which is how I end up waving an endless stream of strangers in through the door, blinking at the blur of names as they file past. Did I really hear Dakota? And marvelling at their chorus of ‘Wows’. All to the accompaniment of Charles Trenet singing ‘Boum!’.

‘Great tune.’ Nell’s waggling her eyebrows as she comes up the rear, translating as she squeezes in behind a hunk in a Hawaiian shirt. ‘When our hearts go “boum”, love wakes up. The way everyone’s hearts are banging after all those stairs, this could turn out to be a very amorous evening.’

I can’t take the credit. ‘It’s a total lucky fluke.’

‘No such thing.’ She lifts a Gin Fizz from Plum’s tray as she wedges herself in the only spare square millimetre between my favourite velvet chair and the patchwork sofa. ‘And here’s to a great evening.’

As a measure of how full the living room is, a game of Sardines would seem like a luxury. I wriggle my way back to the kitchen trying not to notice how many toes I step on along the way, then begin scooping sorbet into glasses. We’re serving three courses, the first in plain glasses, the next in a variety of pretty glass bowls, and the third in Laura’s colourful selection of tea cups. I’m concentrating so hard on getting my scoops even that somewhere between the tenth scoop of blurry red strawberry, and the fortieth scoop of ice green mint and cucumber I actually forget to worry. By the time I’ve added teaspoons and a sage sprig to all of them, I’m almost enjoying myself. The second I finish Sophie whisks them onto trays, and she’s off.

By the time I’ve collapsed against the work surface, and gulped down a glass of soda, she’s back again, with an encouraging smile.

‘You can tell by the silence how well the sorbet’s going down. I’ve opened the balcony doors to let the breeze in, but roped it off so people don’t wander out.’ She pulls down the corners of her mouth. ‘I know Charlie’s being a sweetheart with his ice-maker, but he won’t want singles gatecrashing his quiet evening in.’

I join her by the kitchen doorway and together we peep out at the guests. A woman with cropped blonde hair, a teensy waist and a yard of bare midriff snakes her arm around the Hawaiian-shirted shoulders of the guy I saw coming in. As she leans towards his sorbet spoon with her mouth wide open, I grin at Sophie.

‘I guess it very much depends who’s wandering into Charlie’s flat. If someone friendly like her walked in off his balcony I can’t see him grumbling.’

Plum laughs as she arrives with her own empty tray. ‘Jealous?’

‘Too right.’ I have to admit it. ‘I’d kill for a waist that small.’

Plum’s straight back at me with a teasing nudge. ‘I wasn’t talking about her.’

Sophie frowns. ‘She doesn’t look twenty, let alone twenty-five. Although I’m guessing Nell wouldn’t have let her come if she wasn’t. She’s very strict with her age criteria.’

Plum nods at the couple. ‘What did I say about close encounters? If things carry on there you’ll be in line for a “cupid” award on your first night.’

‘A what?’ It sounds horribly as if an assessment’s involved.

Sophie smiles. ‘Don’t look so nervous. Nell awards a “cupid” whenever a get-together ends up with a “get together”. It’s part prestige, part statistical. Apparently, it’s a great way of working out how effective events are.’

Since we were small, Nell’s always turned every activity into an opportunity for calculations. When we collected shells on the beach as three year olds, while the rest of us piled them in buckets and on sand castles, Nell was counting them. It’s strange how our personalities showed so strongly when we were young. By the time we were five Plum was drawing everything in sight and Sophie was organising anything that moved. There was a time when we were teenagers when we thought that she was so brilliant that we were holding her back. But then we worked out she needed us to boss about as much as we needed her to sort us out. Out of all of us, I’m the only one who never showed a talent for anything in particular. I might have travelled a long way in miles, but I’ve made very little progress with my life. Although I’d never admit it to the mermaids, it’s sad that I’ve never been good at anything.

Plum gives a sigh. ‘Nell actually has “Cupid” award league tables.’

‘Please tell me you’re joking?’ I groan, although realistically it needn’t bother me with my one-off evening.

Plum shakes her head. ‘Not at all. In fact, the regular events with the highest cupid scores are always the most popular. For obvious reasons.’

This time my groan’s for Nell. ‘The sooner we get her a new partner the better. Then she can give up being sad and singles obsessed and get on with her proper life.’

Plum wrinkles her nose. ‘There’s nothing sad about Nell from where I’m standing.’

Sophie turns on her. ‘Nor should there be, we’ve worked our butts off and delivered her a stunning event in next to no time.’

Nell’s got a triumphant shine to her eyes as she flattens herself against the bookcase and makes her way around the room edge towards us. ‘The sorbet’s going down a storm. And everyone’s blown away by how quirky and colourful the flat is.’ She waggles a sheaf of papers at Sophie. ‘Here, I brought you the quiz.’

Sophie jumps for the sheets, then dips into the kitchen for her bag. ‘Ooo, this is me, I’ve raided Tilly’s felt tip box for pens.’ She strides as far into the living room as she can, which is approximately one step. Then she claps her hands and puts on her ‘don’t mess with Mummy’ face. ‘Okay, quizzes coming round. Grab a partner, or work in twos, threes or fours. Anything goes, so long as everyone joins in.’

I’m mystified and horrified in equal measure. ‘What’s this?’ I know zilch about anything so party games are my pet hate, especially when participation’s non-negotiable. And Sophie’s sounding insistent.

Nell waves away my concern. ‘Don’t worry, you’re excused. Quizzes are a singles’ tradition. We even do them when we’re whale watching or out on walks. Collaboration’s excellent for pair bonding, and not everyone hates trivia as much as you.’

I’m glad she remembered. ‘How do you not run out of questions?’

It seems like a valid point, but she ignores it. ‘It’ll give us breathing space to circulate with more drinks and get the next round of sorbets ready.’ She has to be talking metaphorically about the space because truly, there isn’t any.

‘Okay, I’ll look after fizz and scooping.’

Which is exactly what I do, with as much washing up as I can manage in between. Sophie’s apologising for the endless stream of glasses she’s bringing in, but for someone like me who’s used to working a busy bar, that part’s a picnic. When I finally have a second to look at my phone, it’s already eleven, and the guests are sighing over cups filled with raspberry and mango ices.

As I make my way to the open door, dip under the silk scarf and slide out into the soft darkness of the balcony for a few seconds of quiet, there are so many compliments drifting past me I’m almost blushing: ‘… sooooo pretty, I could eat them all over again’ ‘… saving the best ’til last’ ‘… the icy mango is orgasmic …’

I know I’ve had so much help, but there’s a warm feeling spreading through my chest that’s due to much more than too many gins. It isn’t over yet, but for now I couldn’t be any happier. I can’t help a flutter of excitement when I think Nell, Plum and Sophie’s crazy ‘pop up’ idea might actually work.

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