About the Author

RACHEL LOUISE DOVE is a mum of two from Yorkshire. She has always loved writing and has had previous success as a self-published author. Rachel is the winner of the Mills & Boon & Prima Magazine Flirty Fiction competition and won The Writers Bureau Writer of the Year Award in 2016. She is a qualified adult education tutor specialising in child development and autism. In 2018 she founded the Rachel Dove Bursary, giving one working-class writer each year a fully funded place on the Romantic Novelists’ Association New Writers’ Scheme.

Also by Rachel Dove

The Chic Boutique on Baker Street

The Flower Shop on Foxley Street

The Long Walk Back

The Wedding Shop on Wexley Street

The Fire House on Honeysuckle Street

The Second Chance Hotel
RACHEL DOVE

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Rachel Dove

Rachel Dove asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © May 2020 ISBN: 9780008375812

Version: 2020-04-20

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Also by Rachel Dove

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Acknowledgements

Want more?

Author letter

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

To all the fellow women out there, PCOS warriors

&

to everyone who makes the world a better place, one kind act at a time and never, ever give up

To You

If I was writing this letter under better circumstances, I could have written a much better opening. I’m sitting here on my bunk trying to think of what to say. I don’t even know what to call you. I know we have to be careful. If I could, I would say your name over and over for the rest of my life. How lucky people who see you every day are, for they get to say it willy-nilly.

For you, nothing seems appropriate, or enough, so I decided that You will have to do. My You. My one and only You.

I have the shell you pressed into my hand that night, and I haven’t stopped looking at it. It smells of you, of home, and it makes me feel like my recurring nightmare was just that, and that my real life is still there, at Shady Pines with you.

How long do we have left, till the letters have to stop? I fear the day, yet I know it must come. You must live your life, and I should at least try to start mine. Even with the huge You-shaped hole in my soul. Don’t tell me, not till you have to. While you’re free, let’s pretend, just you and Me.

G

Chapter 1

April Statham sat as close to the steering wheel as she could get, nudging herself and her clapped-out brown Ford Escort along the road, turning slowly into the entrance to the chalet park. Unfortunately, a few seconds earlier, a horse rider had passed, and now his steed was going to the toilet in the middle of the road, leaving a huge steaming pile of horse plop right in the entranceway. April wasn’t really one to believe in signs, but this was kind of hard to miss.

‘Er …’ She wound her window down. ‘Excuse me?’ The horse, and the rider, a thin man whose long features mirrored that of his thoroughbred, dipped their heads to look at her. ‘Could you possibly move your horse? I need to pass.’

The horse snorted loudly. Or was it the rider? Both parties looked equally nonplussed, but the man nodded once and the horse trotted away, leaving his … offerings. April turned the car into the lane, avoiding the pile, and headed for the large wooden hut marked ‘Reception’.

‘Bloody great pile of steaming poo in the entrance, great advert for the place,’ she muttered under her breath, her eyes flicking down to her petrol gauge, which was pointed straight at zero. Past zero, truth be told. She could feel the change in the engine, the car chugging along on petrol fumes. She pulled into the space marked ‘Management’ in between the reception hut and a small chalet. She yanked up the handbrake and turned the key in the ignition to off. She could swear that her car breathed a sigh of relief as the engine cut out. They had made it, her and her little car, all the way from Yorkshire to the tip of the Cornish coast. She sat back in her seat, her limbs and back stiff and wizened, as though she had been tied in a knot somewhere along the A38 and had driven bunched up like a pretzel ever since.

She was just easing the knots out of her neck when a sharp tap on her window made her jump. A woman stood there, her face pinched up tight, her dark hair tied into curling rollers on her head. She was wearing a pink dressing gown and dark green wellies, and looked more than a little crazy, even at 8 a.m. on a Monday morning. April wound her window down wearily, plastering a patient smile on her face.

‘Are you lost?’ the woman said pointedly, looking from inside the car to the boxes and suitcases strapped to a roof rack that April had nabbed from a Freecycle site. Her suitcases came from there too, with her not wanting to take the monogrammed luggage set she had been given as a wedding present. His and hers. She’d left it next to Duncan’s in the detached garage. Camped out in her late mother’s house. They’d looked so pathetic sitting there together, never to be used again, as they once were on honeymoon, and on their exotic holidays and horrifying business trips he’d dragged her along on.

‘No,’ said April. Yes, I am a bit. I think I’ve made a big mistake. ‘I’m not lost.’

The woman looked again at the worldly belongings strapped to the roof and sighed, a small unsympathetic sigh that made April feel about an inch tall.

‘Well—’ the woman raised her eyebrows again ‘—you look lost. Can I call someone for you? We’re expecting the hotshot new owner at some point today.’

‘I’m the new owner,’ April tried, her voice a faint whisper. ‘I own this place.’

The woman, having caught the gist now, looked at her with wide eyes.

‘You?’ She leaned into the car window, her head floating there like a balloon. ‘You—’ punctuated by a jab of the finger in her direction ‘—actually bought this place?’

April nodded slowly. The woman began to laugh.

‘Pull the other one, love, it’s got bells on.’ She guffawed, her face looming in April’s window like an animal in a safari park now. A camel sprang to mind. Something that could spit at you from ten paces if it saw fit. Yanking her head back out, the woman tapped twice on the top of April’s car and carried on her way, disappearing as quickly as she had appeared.

April was suddenly alone again, wondering what the hell she had gotten herself into. Hotshot new owner? What had the camel … er … the woman heard? April didn’t want to ruffle any feathers here before she had even unpacked so much as a solitary toilet roll. Why did she think April was a hotshot? Oh God. She’d said ‘we’. ‘We have been waiting for the new owner.’ Who were ‘we’? The woman had obviously found her lacking, and once more, April’s eyes turned to her phone, sitting there innocently in her handbag. It looked so normal, but April felt as though the damn thing was a ticking time bomb waiting to explode on her frazzled brain with an influx of messages. Posts on social media of ‘you okay, hon?’ People commenting on her life, strangers and people who didn’t know her well at all. Not the real her, and nothing like the post-divorce her. Emails from old acquaintances. Purchase reminders for occasions she didn’t need to be reminded of at all. Ever. It would all be in there, lurking.

It had been bad enough already, without her sudden departure from everything and everyone. Divorce was a great vehicle for gossip, her mum had told her. Boy, was she right, as ever. April had turned all her notifications off. If she didn’t need to use the damn thing to navigate, she would probably have pitched it into the nearest and deepest river she could find.

Soon, news of her escape would spread around her hometown, and the gossip would start again. She couldn’t have kids, you know. Tried for years, they did. Broke them apart. Still, his new girlfriend seems lovely. Child-bearing hips, that one. Shame about April, though. She never did quite fit in. They chatted on social media as if they were in the hairdresser’s or in the Post Office queue. What was it that Gran used to tell me? Oh yeah. Loose lips sink ships. No wonder I feel like a crap second-hand dinghy with a Hello Kitty plaster holding in my deflated soul.

They’d be feasting soon, beaks sharply stuck in everyone else’s business. Just like the buzzards to return to a carcass in the hope they’d missed a piece of flesh, a strip of soft underbelly to rip from the bones of her failed life. She had failed as a wife, as a—

April stopped that train of thought by grabbing her phone and jabbing the off button hard, till the screen powered down. She didn’t need her map app now, so why would she leave it on to tick away like a telltale heart? She felt instantly better. She was gone, out of their reach. She’d rather thought that being ‘off grid’ would make her feel a tad edgy or a bit hippyish, but instead, she just felt relief. Bone-deep relief. Un-contactable. Freeeeeee! Relief that she wouldn’t have to endure their pitying stares and sympathetic nods, complete with the ‘little rub’. People thought that rubbing your arm or your shoulder was comforting, but it was just a bit too condescending for April. She hated it more than anything. She felt like a simpleton half the time after they had descended on her. What a joy life could be After Duncan. AD. Life after husband.

Zipping up her oversized handbag, she looked once more out of the window at the corner of the world she would now call home. It looked a little like how she felt: neglected, empty, peeling at the corners. Muted against the blue of the sky above. She pulled herself out of the car, her bones popping and cracking as her body unfurled itself. She could feel the shale beneath her feet, her black and white sneakers crunching as she looked around her. The Shady Pines Chalet Park was perched on a beautiful strip of land near Lizard Point, Kynance Cove a short distance away. From the park, April knew from memory that there was a direct walkway to the beach area, for the use of her guests. It had been there for many years and was one of the biggest selling points to her, the thought of waking up and having her toes in the water to start her day right.

Stretching her legs, she walked slowly to the reception hut, brand-new keys in hand. She’d picked them up from a key safe at the estate agent’s that morning, and now here she was, about to start her new life. Taking a gulp of the sharp sea air deep into her lungs, she unlocked the door. The key slotted into the metal housing like a glove. There was a slight resistance, salt in the old locks making the mechanisms stick, but then she felt it turn, and the lock click open. It was times like this, right now, that April felt like she had done something right, for once. She’d done this; she was here. It was all hers, a new life for the taking. If she hadn’t sworn off social media, she would have snapped a photo of the moment for Instagram with a witty hashtag like #divorcerules or #suckonthatduncanyouutterwan—

Maybe not. Not like she threw herself a divorce party, was it? She’d spent half the day crying, the rest feeling completely out of her depth. She obviously wasn’t feeling #blessed quite yet, but she could fake it for now. This was her new life; it was time to get cracking. Pushing open the door, she took a step forward … and hit the deck with a very loud and dusty bang.

‘Ouch! Broken boobs!’ April shouted, or tried to shout. Since her face was smushed into the now broken wooden door, it came out as a muffled humming sound. Prising her lips off the peeling paint, she pushed herself up on her arms and inspected the damage. The whole door had collapsed, the hinges still attached to the door beneath her. Standing, she inspected the wooden frames and saw that the wood was old, brittle to the touch. It crumbled to dust and fell through her fingers.

‘Great,’ she grumbled under her breath. ‘Better find a carpenter pretty sharpish, before the rest of my life turns into the bottom of a rabbit hutch.’ She heaved up the door, resting it on her face at one point to get a better handle on the heavy wood. Placing it to one side of the room with a loud bang, she looked at the dust on her plain black T-shirt and old blue jeans and sighed. She brushed herself down, gingerly around the already bruising chest area.

‘Well,’ she said to the room, looking around. ‘Cheers for the excellent welcome, new home. Be careful, or I will use the last of my money to have a wood chipper party, right here.’ She pointed her finger to the centre of the floor and braced herself, but the ceiling didn’t fall in. Phew.

The reception hut was deceptively large, a square room with a desk off to the left-hand side, complete with a counter in the same faded white-painted wood as the rest of the place. Off to the right, against the wall, were rows of shelving, all empty and filled with dust. The floor was the same white wood, giving the whole room a cube-like effect, and making April feel a bit hemmed in for a second.

There were windows behind the desk on the left, and on the back wall opposite the door was a large set of glass-panelled doors, leading out to a grassed area out of the back. The chalet park ran on the green grass like a horseshoe, twenty blue-and-white trimmed identical chalets, all with their own porches and back patio areas for dining out and sunbathing. Where the ends of the horseshoe met, on the left was the sign indicating the park, with a rack that must have once been used for bicycles alongside it. It was metal and had been painted cream at one point, with pretty shell details around the lettering. Currently, it looked a little worse for wear, the paint peeling and rust-coloured. There was a lone rubber tyre and a dented shopping basket using the facilities, and the sign was tilted to one side, looking as though it was hanging on with the one rusty protruding nail that was still attached. To the right of this was the reception, and on the other side of this, her chalet. It matched the others and looked just as dilapidated. Through the dusty doors, she could see the blue sky and the grass expanse beneath, leading off to the track to the beach. The beach where her mother had taken her, that first night here all that time ago.

It had nearly been dark, the sun setting slowly on their first long day in Cornwall. April had been tired. She remembered how cloudy her head had felt, how she’d moaned when her mother wanted them to see the sunset together.

‘When are we going home?’ She could hear her little voice now, remembered how her mother ignored her at first. Her back to her, facing the fading sun, head tilted up like a flower head. Her mother’s fists clenched when she asked again, her voice whinier, higher. It sounded at odds to the crashing of the waves, the laugh-like call of the birds ahead.

The clenched fists were only there a second, but April thought of her father and shrank back. Her mother turned, but her face was kind.

‘April, come here, petal.’ April went to her mother, and she turned them back to face the chalet park. Other families were in the chalets, or out on their patios. Playing cards, having a glass of wine. Laughing as the kids played. They passed them on the way to the shore, and the happy noises of life filtered down to the beach.

Hands on her daughter’s shoulders behind her, her mother spoke. Her voice sounded different. Louder, somehow.

‘You hear that?’ she asked, gentler now.

‘The sea?’

‘The people, April. You hear the people up there?’

April looked past the dunes, where the lights from the park could be seen. She could hear the sounds of people talking, laughing, kids screeching with joy as they played and ran about.

‘Yes,’ she said, her mouth curving into a smile.

‘That’s what life is supposed to be like, April. I want you to look around you, my girl, soak it in. I want this for you, all of this. We’re not going home, April. It’s just going to be me and you from now on, and we’ll be just fine.’ Her mother squeezed her shoulders, a loving gesture that warmed April through as the words washed over her like the waves behind her. ‘This is our second chance hotel, sweetheart. New life starts right here.’

***

April’s feet were moving, heading for the glass doors, key in hand, before she even registered the urge overtaking her body. This was what had been keeping her going, thinking of seeing that beach. Feeling the wind whip her shoulder-length brunette hair around her face, walking barefoot along the sand. She loved the beach, and always had – she thought back to the long summers she had enjoyed growing up. Crabbing off the docks, swimming in the clear blue waters, curling up with a fire and a hot chocolate on a dark night. After that summer at Shady Pines, the two of them had visited every beach they could find. She envied the child she had been, all innocent and full of hope. What did she have now? Besides wood rot, of course?

This, that’s what.

As she pushed on the doors, they resisted at first, stuck fast with dirt and grime, but then she gave them a shove and she was outside, half running across the grass as she shoved her keys into her bra and picked up the pace. Walking out of those doors felt like stepping out onto the moon’s surface. The grass led to a path cut out of the rocks and wild tufts, the thick carpet of green blades giving way to sandy dunes the closer she got. She kicked her shoes off, not giving a toss where they landed, and once her bare feet hit the wet sandy beach, she whooped with delight.

‘I’m here, Shady Pines!’ she yelled, her jean bottoms getting flicked with the sand she was casting off in her run to the sea. ‘I’m really here!’

The sharp shock of the cold water took her breath away momentarily, and she squealed to herself. After a few gentle steps, she felt her whole body sigh with the pleasure of the sensations. This was her favourite place, by the sea. She loved it, had always loved it, and once more she found herself marvelling at the journey she had just undertaken. A year ago, she would have laughed in the face of anyone who told her the story. It would have seemed so unbelievable, so daring. Like a lifestyle piece in the magazines she used to read, once upon a time. Before they seemed to mock her, show her what she was missing. When your life didn’t follow the usual expected path, where did that leave a modern woman? The knackers yard? Spinsterhood? She wasn’t ready to start knitting a straitjacket just yet, thank you very much. She still felt twenty-one most days.

Not today though. Today she felt about eight years old, holding her mother’s hand while she paddled in the sea, tiny toes wrinkling in the water. She felt brilliant. Right now, standing there in the sea, her old life miles away and out of reach, she felt amazing. This was day one of her new life. Peeling paint and broken doors be damned. Duncan seemed like a bad dream right now. Hoping the feeling would last once reality set in, she smiled to herself, turning to walk further along the shoreline, to leave her footprints in the sand, and make her own mark.

Chapter 2

Cillian O’Leary followed the sticky blobs of raspberry jam as they led a trail from the worn lino of the kitchen to the scuffed wooden floor of the lounge. He was spraying and wiping away the globules as he went, moving from the floor to the doorframe, where red seeded fingerprints were stuck to the white-painted wood. A cartoon pig was jumping into a puddle on the television in the corner, and a pair of bush baby green eyes followed the movements on screen.

‘Orla,’ he said softly, causing her brown wispy head to turn into his direction. ‘Daddy can make your toast, poppet. I told you, I’m here to look after you.’ His daughter regarded him as she often did these days, with a blank, open expression that made his heart break. He looked at the slice of toast, half eaten on the plate, buttered better than any girl her age should be able to achieve.

Orla’s eyes were already back on the screen, watching the pink, animated animals live their perfect, happy lives. What a crock we teach our children growing up. White picket fence, smiling parents, happy children, perfect homes. Baddies wear black, and the good guys wear white and always win, no matter what. White hat or black hat. Right or wrong. Good or bad. In Cillian’s world, the grey areas had overlapped, encircling him in a storm that he couldn’t see through, let alone get out of. Except, he did get out of it. They just needed that next step now, that little lifeline. Something to break them out of this rut and get them moving again.

He put the dirty cloth straight into the washing machine and flicked on the kettle, flicking it off a second later once he realised that the coffee jar was empty. He didn’t get paid till Friday, and he was staring down the barrel of a full five days with the tenner and change he had in his wallet. Thank God he had diesel at least for his van. He could still take Orla to school nursery and pick her up after. At least there she would get snacks of fresh fruit, and a hot lunch. By the weekend, he would have money to feed and clothe her, at least until Monday rolled around again.

He only got paid from the agency, and with the benefits taking time to transfer to him, he was struggling more than he ever had without the sole care of a child to consider. The sting of having to ask for help wasn’t nice either. He’d always been lucky enough to be in work before, well and able to provide for himself. Once more, he thought of Tina and silently cursed her for not being there. Judging by her social media update, she was doing just fine. Back in her old job, picking up her old pre-family life. Erasing it completely for the most part. Hard to believe they’d lived in the same place, but were strangers now. Bully for you, Tina. Hope you are enjoying yourself there, without a care in the world.

Of course, that was always the problem. She never wanted the whole domestic life, not really. She’d told him enough times. The problem with people was, they heard what they wanted to hear sometimes, no matter what’s actually said. It was up to him now, to move on too. Once the pit of what felt like battery acid stopped swirling in his stomach. He needed to let go, but the anger was all he had to fuel him right now. That, and sodding Peppa Pig.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he fumbled for it, desperate to answer it before it rang off. They often rang on withheld numbers from the employment agencies he was registered with, which wasn’t exactly helpful if you needed to call them back. Not that he could, given his lack of phone credit. The money he had left was in case of emergencies only, for ringing the school, the social workers.

‘Hello?’

***

Thirty minutes later, and he was pulling his van up outside Martha’s place. A light sheen of sweat sticking his clothing to his back, he squirmed in his seat and looked around at the park. He could see no signs of life, and other than the tatty car with all its baggage, nothing looked any different. Walking around the other side to the reception hut, he saw the broken door that Martha had called him about. Inspecting the hinges, he felt relieved that there was no sign of forced entry. The lock was intact, not smashed off. No tool marks. Whoever had come through the doors had a key.

Grateful that Orla was at nursery, he stepped over the threshold, noticing that the patio doors at the back were wide open. Other than the door, there wasn’t any damage. The place was empty, and he shook his head. The old manager really had stripped the place. Whoever was taking over had their work cut out. He was just heading back out of the door to inspect the car when he spotted movement out of the patio doors. He backed up against the wall and shimmied along as quickly and quietly as he could, listening for the footsteps getting closer and closer. There were no voices, no communication. Was it just one person? They didn’t seem to be in a rush.

He looked around him on the dusty floor for some sort of weapon, but other than dust bunnies and junk mail piles, he was out of luck. Someone was coming in, right now. He pushed himself flat against the wall, his whole body coiled behind the patio doors. The footsteps got closer and louder, and then a leg came through the door. WHAM!

Cillian wasted no time at all, springing on the intruder in a flying frog-like leap, just as a mature woman wearing a murderous expression and what looked like a butcher’s apron came running through the front doors whooping at the top of her lungs with a large cricket bat clasped in her raised arms.

‘Martha, run!’ Cillian shouted at the bat brandisher, his leap descending till he collided with the shape, knocking them both to the ground and hearing the person beneath him grunt loudly in pain. Martha ran all right, but not to the door. She sprinted over to the counter nearby, and bringing the wooden bat down hard on the surface, she screamed, ‘Eat dirt, pussbag! I’ve called the rozzers!’

‘Get off!’ a voice screamed, and Cillian and Martha both whirled around, looking for the source.

‘It’s me, down here! Can you get off me? Your knee is jammed in my ribs!’ A female voice. A rather startled female voice.

Cillian looked down and saw an irate brunette staring back up at him. A brunette with huge brown eyes, that were now glaring at him in shock. She was blinking rapidly, and he was just admiring how long her lashes were, when he realised she was trying with all her might to shove him off her.

‘Oh sh— sorry!’ He scrabbled to his feet, or tried to, but they were a tangle of clothes and limbs, and it took a second or two to get separated from each other. He caught a flash of pale midriff as her top rode up, and he shook away the distraction from his thoughts. Dark lashes, hot body. Nice one, Cill, first sniff of a woman in months and you slam her to the floor like a prop forward. Finally managing to stand, he held out his hand to her. Lying there on the floor, her hair windswept and clothes thick with dust, Cillian thought her the cutest burglar he had ever seen. She eyed him, but finally pursed her lips and put her hand in his.

‘We thought you were an intruder,’ he said by way of explanation, his Irish tones fuelling the echoes in the room. It also amplified her indignant huff back at him.

‘So you thought you’d crush me to death?’ The woman was rubbing her ribcage, and Cillian felt a pang of guilt. Maybe he had overreacted, but Martha had been so sure that there was trouble.

‘Who are you, anyway?’ Martha asked the woman now, bat still firmly gripped in her charcoal-streaked hands. The two women locked eyes, sizing each other up. Cillian watched them both, waiting for the first strike to come. It would kick off in three, two—

‘Hello, I’m sorry I startled you earlier.’ It seemed the cute burglar had other ideas. ‘I’m April Statham.’ She held out a hand out, but it was to Cillian. He went to shake it, tactfully brushing off the spider web that was hanging from her fingertips. She blushed, and Cillian felt a faint bloom of warmth in his chest. She met his eyes before she spoke again. ‘I’m the new owner.’

Yes! a little voice inside his head said. Cillian opened his mouth to welcome her, maybe even ask her what the plans for the place were, but Martha was in like Flynn with her questioning.

‘Yooouuuu?’ She dragged the word out as her voice got higher and higher. By the end, dogs were heard barking outside. ‘You bought this place? Just you?’ April nodded patiently, looking from one to the other with a tight expression plastered across her features. ‘With what, brass buttons?’

‘I don’t really think that this is any of your business to be honest, but—’

‘Well, whose business is it then? As a resident, I have rights, I’ll have you know! It’s not right, picking on a vulnerable woman alone!’ Cillian and April both looked at her, not a drop of sweat dripping from her brow, her clothing and hair still immaculate, apron streaked with what Cillian could now see was paint, in different shades of pinks and reds. She looked a little like Leatherface, still swinging the hefty bat in her hands. In comparison, looking at dusty, dishevelled April and her rather haunted expression, Cillian was pretty sure it wasn’t going to end well.

‘Resident?’ April echoed, looking bewildered. ‘Resident of what?’

Cillian heard the gulp of air Martha took in, and he intervened before she got back into full flow.

‘Er yes, a resident. The old manager had an arrangement with Martha. She lives here year-round, rents chalet 1, across the way.’ He pointed in the vague area of Martha’s chalet, not trusting the women enough to take his eyes off them. ‘I thought you would have known that.’

April sighed heavily. ‘No, I didn’t, but it’s not the first time I’ve been duped. So do you have a rent book?’

Martha’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits. ‘Yes, of course I have, and I pay in advance. Will that be a problem?’

April brushed her hair back from her face, and Cillian noticed that she had a spider crawling down her elbow. He leaned in a little, brushing it off with his arm. April jolted at the side of him, but didn’t move. She was still looking at Martha.

‘That’s fine,’ she said eventually. ‘I can sort out the paperwork and everything once I’m settled in.’ Looking around her at the derelict office, which didn’t have a scrap of paper, let alone a phone or a computer, her words tailed off. ‘It might er … take me a minute.’

Martha made a high-pitched ‘huh’ sound in her throat.

‘Thank you for coming, Cillian, I do appreciate it. Miss Statham? It is miss, isn’t it?’

April thought for a moment, before nodding. Cillian found himself releasing the breath he was holding captive in his lungs. He thought for a second his face had been injured in the kerfuffle, but then he realised he was grinning. He dropped his face back down into neutral before anyone noticed.

‘Miss Statham, I shall be ready with my rent book whenever you want to call on me.’ She went to leave, but paused as she eyed the broken front door. ‘If you are truly the owner, I would recommend hiring young Cillian here. He worked here before the old manager Tim ground the place down. He knows his way around.’ She looked around her, and Cillian noticed the way her whole body sagged as though defeated somehow. ‘It would be something to see this place nice again.’ She was nearly out of the room, when she turned. ‘Don’t forget, Cillian, this isn’t just any live-in position. You deserve to be paid well too. I shall be checking, Miss Statham.’ Giving Cillian a sideways look, she left. The two of them were left alone and Cillian felt obliged to fill the silence.

‘I’m sorry about the misunderstanding, I really am. Martha called, told me that there was an intruder.’ Nothing. April was still staring at the space that Martha had just left. ‘Are you okay?’

She turned to him, and he could see she was there, but her mind was very much elsewhere. He pulled one of his last remaining business cards out of his back pocket.

‘I am looking for work as it goes, so if you do need anything, let me know.’

She looked at the card, then back at him.

‘You really worked here before? As what?’

‘Bit of everything really. I moved here from Ireland a few years back, picked up some local work. I’m qualified in most things. Here I just did maintenance, bit of renovations here and there, heavy lifting, that sort of thing. The chalet park was a quiet place; the reception used to house the onsite shop, selling the bits the clients wanted, dealing with bookings, check-ins, you know. There used to be a games room too, but over time Tim got lazy, and the owners not being around to check on it, it just got … tired I suppose. When I asked, the money was never there for anything more than a patch-up. When are you reopening?’

One look at his prospective new boss, and Cillian knew she didn’t have a clue. The woman hadn’t even unpacked, let alone launched a revamp.

‘Err … I don’t know, soon, I know that! I need this summer to go well. I’m sort of banking on it.’

March already, Cillian thought to himself. It would take a hell of a lot of work to get this place up and running. Long days, most nights even. Great for money, if it was there, but what about Orla? He could barely work as it was, begging favours from people to get a couple of extra hours of pay, and for what? To live in a shitty flat, barely surviving?

‘I do have a few hours to spare …’ he began, hoping it would be enough, and that he could pull off the juggling single dad act just a bit longer. ‘If you can pay.’

‘When can you start?’ She cut him off, gripping the card in her hands so tight Cillian could see her fingertips turning white. ‘I have a bit of a tight budget, but I can pay you.’ He could feel his heartbeat in his ears. Was this it? Could he actually have a job, one he genuinely liked? He was suddenly very glad indeed that he had answered Martha’s call that morning. He looked across to her chalet, and Martha’s words pinged into his head. April was still talking about hourly rates, and long hours. He cut her off.

‘Which chalet would be mine then?’ he asked, as nonchalantly as possible. It looked like this poor lass was well out of her depth, but needs must, and he and Orla needed this. Besides, it wasn’t like he wouldn’t do the work. He loved being busy. ‘I don’t mind, as long as I have a room for my daughter.’

April was looking at him in a state of confusion now. He could see her as he flicked his head around the park, trying to be calm, cool and collected.

‘Chalet? Daughter?’ She was lost, and he knew it. He walked to her and held out his hand. ‘I’ll take the one next to yours, if you don’t mind. Out of the way a bit there, handy for the equipment shed.’ Another blank, worried look. ‘You didn’t know we have an equipment shed, did you?’ She shook her head at him slowly, and he laughed gently. ‘No problem, I can start today, and you have me till half two. Tomorrow, I can do more. Sound good? We can sort rates and rent out later.’ He pushed his hand out a smidge closer, but she didn’t take it.

‘Cillian,’ she said, an odd look crossing her features. ‘I think I’ve made a big mistake, coming here. I don’t really know what I’m doing.’

Her voice cracked a little, and his heart went out to her. What was she doing here, all on her own? By the look of her car, she had driven here with her whole life packed up. What was she escaping from? His hand twitched with the effort of not reaching out to touch her shoulder. He didn’t want her to freak out completely – he had just body-slammed her after all. She might not be quite ready for a cuddle yet. Not that he would have tried.

‘Don’t fret too much yet. It’s a lot of work, but most things are when they’re really worth it. Let’s just take it a day at a time. That sound good? You got a kettle in those boxes?’ He pointed behind her at the car, and April nodded sheepishly. He grinned in response. ‘First things first then, let’s get the kettle on, eh?’

For the first time that day, Cillian saw April smile. She was quite cute when she did that, little dimples appearing in her pale cheeks. The sun split through the bank of clouds, lighting the grass around them outside emerald-green. The green tint came through the windows, lighting the reception area up and highlighting her curvy body. The whole thing looked like a photo shoot, and he looked away before she caught him gawping. He didn’t have the time for any of that. There was only one lady in his life, and this was all for her. All the hassle, the stress, and worry. Looking around him now though, he couldn’t help but think that maybe Mondays weren’t so bad after all. He couldn’t wait to tell Orla all about it.

Chapter 3

‘Well, that’s that then.’

Martha Rodgers swirled the remnants of tea around her teacup, muttering to herself as she half leaned out of the kitchen window. ‘We’ve had it. No hope.’

Martha’s chalet was at the opposite end of the horseshoe of chalets that formed the backbone of the place. It was directly opposite the reception hut, so she had been camped out there most mornings of late, breaking her fast closely with fresh tea, hot buttered toast and jam … and a little light spying. Things were changing, and Martha wasn’t one for change. Especially not now, when everything was just settling down again. The old owners had been good, sure, but they weren’t exactly hands-on. It seemed like the longer they left between visits, the less they cared to return. The live-in manager Tim had always been a touch lax in his duties, and Martha had seen a marked decline in both the standards and the customers coming to holiday there.

Eventually, the tide had turned a little too much, and the owners had sold up and got rid of the manager. Martha had tried to find out who had bought the place, but the estate agents and solicitors were both depressingly tight-lipped about the whole thing. She’d expected to have to fight to stay there, but with no one to oversee, she was just … forgotten about. Her rent was paid till the end of the year, but after that, who knew what?

All she’d known before her foray into being a rather brutal batter was that it was a cash buyer, and no plans for the park or the land had been announced. She’d hated that. It had robbed her of sleep and peaceful thoughts ever since. The unknown worried her. She’d finally settled somewhere again, since her Charlie had passed, but now she felt powerless, at the whim of others. She had felt like this once before, many years ago now, but the heartache and the feeling of being trapped had never left her. She felt it just as acutely, and the pain was just as fresh. Not this time. She could feel herself bristle at the very thought. No one would ever tell her what to do again.

Bat safety stashed away in its hiding place, Martha carried a cup of Irish’d-up tea and her toast plate through to the second bedroom in the chalet, the one she used as her work room. After the morning she’d had, she felt rather out of sorts, unsure about her future and what the hell she was going to do with the new owner. Truth was, she could have probably bought the place herself, but who’d want to take that on? This April woman had obviously read too many ‘I changed my life forever’ pieces in the women’s magazines and lost her marbles. It was probably a midlife crisis, given her worried and rather sweaty demeanour.

Some people had more bloody money than sense. She should have just bought herself a potter’s wheel and saved herself a boatload of stress and expense. Martha had rather hoped someone with a bit of get up and go would have taken it on, seen the history and simplicity of the place for what it was. What it meant then, and now. If a place could talk … She would love to be able to have that conversation. Either way, the park wouldn’t do well under Miss Statham.

Her car was barely in one piece, let alone her! What would they do now, with her at the helm? Martha couldn’t bear it if the park got worse. The season was opening soon, and things were looking grim. For the first time in her life, she was glad her parents had passed on. That they didn’t have to bear witness to the park’s shabby state, as she did. It would have broken their hearts, given that their summers and family time were intrinsically linked to this patch of beautiful Cornish coastline. Lizard Point was home to them. It was family, and love, and enjoying the holidays that they had saved so hard all year for.

Chapter 4

April stretched her arms wide, sleep slowly leaving her body as her brain whirred and clicked back into life. She smiled to herself as she felt the sun on her face, heard the birds singing to each other in the trees. Bliss, she thought to herself, turning over to feel …

Bang. She hit the deck, having rolled off the sofa in the sitting room of her chalet. The WORST chalet out of them all, bar none. Tim’s old bachelor pad. She’d only spoken to Tim on the phone, but if she had the previous manager in front of her right now, she’d have more than a few choice words to share with him. It looked like a cross between a meth lab and the bottom of a budgie birdcage. It was rank, and when she had opened the bedroom door late the night before, exhausted after a long and frantic first day, she had gagged and promptly closed it again. If she’d had the energy, she would have boarded the door up for good, or petrol-bombed the lot.

She’d brought all her bags and boxes in from the car, and they all sat around her now. She’d have slept in one of the other chalet, had she not felt the need to protect her meagre life possessions. Standing up in the Jungle Book themed short shorts and tank top she had managed to grab out of one of the suitcases last night, she flicked on the kettle, washing up one of the two mugs from yesterday. Cillian had been true to his word, helping her sort the reception hut out and cleaning it up as best they could. He’d been quiet but chirpier than earlier, and she had been grateful for the help, as awkward as it was.

The whole place looked unloved, but April could see the potential deep down, just as she did when she’d read that listing online. It was such a beautiful spot, perfect for family holidays, and her new life. She’d dreamed of living by the coast since she was a girl, and now here she was, where she had first felt safe as a child. Fair enough, she was single, hormonal, flat broke, hiding from all her friends and family, and currently living on a couch, but still. Chin hairs and stocky hips aside, she was the new owner of the Shady Pines, and she was going to make it work or bloody well die trying.

Which was all good talk: I am woman hear me roar! The problem was, before she could actually put her war paint on and get to work on her dream new life, she had to deal with her old one. Which meant turning her phone back on and dealing with the fallout of her moonlight flit. At thirty-five, she knew that she should be feeling rather more adult than she was currently feeling, but that was half the point of her leaving in the first place. People seemed to think her lack of fertility and loss of husband meant that she was a barren, useless husk that would be found crying and sweating in a muumuu in IKEA because she had no significant other to lug the stuff home and put it together. Her friends were all treating her differently.

Angela, one of her old work colleagues, had unfriended her on social media before sharing her baby news, then re-added her once the hubbub had died down. Did she think April was too stupid to scroll down? Did she not realise that her pregnant bump and resulting tiny human would give it away? In all honesty, being ignored or pandered to when she didn’t need or want it just made her feel like a failure, a child even. It made her awkward around children.

The last time she was accosted in a coffee shop back home by an old friend and their new baby, she had felt so on show, she had ended up gabbling and patting the baby on the top of the head, as though she was a French bulldog or something. The mother and father were decidedly unimpressed, leaving April to run to the nearest shop door, mortified at her own actions, and crying at their reactions. Didn’t they realise that avoiding the issue was just giving it oxygen to breathe instead?

The truth was, April had never been overly bothered about having children. Not till the moment she was told that she couldn’t have them. When she was in her twenties and pictured her future, she always imagined herself by the beach, living her life, happy. Meeting Duncan at work was something she’d never expected, and so the picture had changed. When the children didn’t come, the picture fell apart altogether. Now she was here, by herself, and whether she felt the need to defend her life choices or not, she would have to. Single, childless women of a certain age were treated as anomalies back in her old social circle, and she was glad to be away from it.

Picking herself up off the floor, she headed to the bathroom. It wasn’t too bad in here after her earlier scrub fest. All the chalets were in good condition; they just needed a bit of a makeover, a deep clean that would make Kim and Aggie get a sweat on, and some home comforts. The skip that was Tim’s chalet was one of the worst things about the place, and given that it was her home, she could put up with it. There was of course the odd collapsing door and rotten window frame, but Cillian seemed to be on the ball with everything, so she was trying to keep her panic levels low key. Martha, the resident she had seemingly inherited along with the park and a pile of problems, was obviously not impressed with her being the new owner. At one point, April thought that Martha might actually nobble her with the bat, but she had been decidedly quiet that afternoon.

She’d been surprised to find herself agreeing to Cillian’s live-in position. She hadn’t envisaged many people in the beginning, and now she had a grumpy octogenarian with a violent streak and a family living next to her. The thought of Cillian’s daughter coming to live here made April feel a little odd. She couldn’t imagine having a kid around, although she knew she was being stupidly naive. Holiday parks meant families, grandchildren, school trips. There was no avoiding seeing the tiny human portion of the population, no matter how she tried. Who could? They were everywhere, like flies around manure or bees around honey. The fact that she compared children to insects flying around a turd wasn’t lost on her, and she was glad she was alone and couldn’t blurt it out to anyone.

Why did the fact she couldn’t have children make her this way? Some days, she wanted to scream at all the pregnant women moaning about their aches and pains. She often saw fraught parents shouting at a crying child on the street back home, or in the supermarket, the mother looking hollow-eyed and miserable, the child crying and shuddering with emotion. Didn’t they realise how good they had it? Would she have been that person?

She knew it wasn’t like that, not really. She got that motherhood was hard – hell, her own mother had shown her real strength, just by being out there, trying to live her life. She had been in her mother’s shoes, packing up her life and driving to Shady Pines for a new start. She’d felt the connection so keenly at times that it felt like her mother was actually sitting in the car with her, listening to CDs and crying at the sad songs. How her mother had found the strength to go on, to raise her child and still keep smiling, she’d never know. It made her love and miss her all the more, so much her heart hurt. She wished she could talk to her now, tell her how grateful she was. Thanks, Mum, for making me at least half as brave as you.

Thinking about growing a new life inside her body left her nothing but cold now. She would never know that joy, so she shut herself away from it. Some days, it was easy. Days like today, dreading the arrival of a small person who had done nothing wrong, it wasn’t so simple to understand. She really didn’t want to pat another child on the head like a cocker spaniel any time soon. How old was his daughter anyway, and what about the mother? What did she think about moving to a chalet here again, and her husband working for a tearful woman who couldn’t hang a front door? The whole thing had her stomach in knots. It made her think of Duncan, and a day some months back, when she’d felt just as anxious.

***

‘God, I’m so depressed,’ April murmured to herself, kicking a frilly grey scatter cushion off the bed with enough force that it propelled across the huge white and grey room, hitting Duncan’s trouser press that sat to one side of the large bay window. From the walk-in shower in the en suite, a voice called out.

‘You say something, honey?’ His deep rich voice echoed against the tiled walls, the water still running as he showered for work.

‘No, nothing,’ she lied, lying back against the plush sheets. ‘Just falling apart quietly over here.’ She said it so he wouldn’t hear, of course. He was already in work mode, his suit laid out on the dresser, the jaunty cherry-coloured cufflinks she’d bought him for their wedding anniversary sat on top.

Her phone beeped at the other side of the room, where it sat on charge. The sound set her teeth on edge. She’d had the foresight to book the day off, but she hadn’t told Duncan why. She couldn’t tell him; she felt embarrassed. More than that, she just knew he wouldn’t understand either.

‘So, what are you up to today?’ he asked, finally turning off the power shower and walking into the bedroom with a fluffy white towel around his tight little waist. Duncan was … well … buff, for lack of a better word. She couldn’t help but think about the day they’d met, and how taken she’d been by him. He’d been seated at her table for a business meeting, and it wasn’t the only deal he clinched that day. That night, they’d had their first date, and the rest was history.

‘Not much,’ she muttered. ‘I might go to the gym.’ Spend half my life there anyway, trying to stay clear of the chub rub the fancy dresses always cause. Sweatpants were created by the god of comfort. Sometimes, a couture gown leaves me feeling like I’ve spent a night on the rack in the Red Room. Chance would be a fine thing these days. Baby making was more about the quantity, not the quality.

‘You should,’ he said, coming to sit on the bed and reaching under the sheet to pinch her midriff. ‘You could do with a bit of toning up, less air in the old tyre!’ April shrank away from him, and he laughed. ‘Oh come on, I’m only kidding. The gym would be good though, get you out of the house. I do worry about you, rattling around here all day when you’re not “working”.’ He air-quoted ‘working’ with raised hands, and April said nothing. She loved her job at the hotel, and it had been a lifeline to her over the years. It wasn’t up to Duncan’s swanky job, but she didn’t envy him that either. There was more to life than sharp suits and flash cars. She supposed it was why they worked. She felt safe with him, and he felt secure that she was with him for him, and not the trappings

Why they had worked, a tiny little voice that sounded suspiciously like hers whispered in her head. Had worked. Lately, she wasn’t quite so sure. Everything that once appealed to her angered her now. His ability to shrug things off. Lose himself in work, and statistics of conception techniques. Not sexy. Her phone pinged again, and Duncan stood up off the bed and fetched it for her.

‘Here, maybe it’s one of the girls.’

She smiled weakly, but didn’t take it from him. His smile dimmed, just for a second, and he dropped it onto the bed next to her. ‘I’d better go, early conference call from London.’

He leaned over her, taking her face between his hands and looking at her earnestly.

‘April, you will get through this. I promise. Get outside today, please. You need any money?’

She scowled at him, and he pretended to jump in fright.

‘Okay, okay, I was only asking. Have a good day.’ He brushed his lips against hers, the tiniest scrap of a kiss.

‘Love you,’ she told him.

‘I know,’ he said, tapping the end of her nose once with his index finger. ‘Best be off.’

He left her lying in their huge plush bed, staring at her phone. With a resigned sigh, she picked it up, looking through her notifications. The usual discount emails from the online clothing shops she used in favour of braving the harsh strip lighting and stick-thin shop assistants, trying on gorgeous clothes that made her look like sausage meat the second she donned them. Another email offered her a penis enlargement for only $2000, and the next one told her that she had won £18 million from a distant cousin, an African prince no less. Perhaps she could afford the penis enlargement then. A good day.

Then came the social media notifications, and she skimmed through them as quickly as possible. Nothing much really, but Hayley from work had posted, tagging her, and she clicked on it by accident. A photo popped up, with a caption.

‘Lottie’s first day at big school! Thanks so much April Statham for the gorgeous book bag! Can’t believe my baby is so grown up!’ It was followed by an alarming number of emojis and hashtags, crying faces, a school icon and a little girl emoji. Hashtags like #thanksauntieApril #biggirlnow #dontcry #mybaby and the one she always dreaded: #blessed.

#blessed was April’s arch nemesis. She hated it. She used to use it herself, back in the day. She’d even set up an Instagram account to document her new married life with Duncan. Pictures of sunsets and fancy cocktails from Duncan’s work trips, her tagging along and reading half the airport bookshop’s paperbacks by the pool while he worked in the day. Now she barely went online, let alone posted anything. What would she post today? Social media was full of little children and young adults, all beaming in uniform, nervous smiles to the camera as their parents stood them against front doors and in front of houses and fireplaces around the country.

How on earth could she tell Duncan she just couldn’t face the day? He would coo and make all the right noises, but she knew he didn’t get it. Not really. The fact was that her front door was empty of tiny humans, and she just couldn’t bear it today. She pulled the cover over herself, turned off her phone, and went back to sleep. The one thing she consoled herself with, as she drifted off, was that she had Duncan, and they were in this together. Had she known the truth, the tears might just have fallen that bit faster.

When Duncan had first suggested having a baby, she’d known it wouldn’t be easy. Duncan was so upbeat, so utterly convinced that having enough money to throw at a problem was the answer. It wasn’t though, and every failed attempt and test result turned to a wedge between them. While April researched, and obsessed, and worked out secretly at the gym, Duncan worked. He got busier and more distracted. Secretive even. The elephant in the room was the missing baby, and the fact that Duncan longed for it so much. Every day, April disappointed him more. Rejection chokes out intimacy, and right now, April could barely breathe.

Chapter 5

It was well past lunchtime when April’s stomach started to growl so loudly she could hear it over the portable radio. She straightened up, her vest top and denim shorts splattered with paint, and admired her handiwork. She was systematically painting the outside of the chalets to brighten them up, and had decided to paint each one a different colour. She wanted them to look like beach huts, all jaunty colours and themed chalets. At present they looked rather like the remnants of a concentration camp, instead of somewhere that people would love to holiday at.

April knew that in this business, word of mouth and repeat custom were paramount, and made all the difference. She had sunk every penny she had into this place, and the pitiful amount she had left in her personal bank account needed to last long enough to cover the repairs and get the place up and running. She needed to live cheap and make the most of the money in her new business account. She needed this place to be what it once was, what she remembered as a girl, and not only that, it had to be better. It had to work, because otherwise she would … well, she didn’t even want to think about that. After everything she had been through, she refused to go home with her tail between her legs. She had no home anymore. This patch of Cornish land was her hill, and if she had to die on it, so be it.

Placing the lid on the paint pot she was using, this one being a gorgeous mint-green colour, she took her brushes and went to head home. A voice called out to her. Martha.

‘You shouldn’t just rinse those brushes you know. It’s best if you get them cleaned properly. That cheap outdoor paint tends to dry into horrible little globules on the budget brushes.’

April looked down at her brushes, then walked over to Martha. She was sitting outside the front of her chalet, in an egg-shaped chair. A sketch board and a few pencils sat next to a pitcher of lemonade on a side table next to her.

‘What would you recommend, Martha?’ April held out her brushes and Martha reached for them. Turning to her side, she lifted a small bin and unceremoniously dumped the brushes straight into it, slapping her hands together for effect.

‘That,’ she said bluntly, tossing her head towards the bin behind her. ‘Buy new brushes and get better paint. That chalet you started looks like a huge ball of snot. Lemonade?’

April took a deep breath, winded by the sheer number of putdowns that Martha had expelled with pure finesse, and found herself nodding yes. Martha kissed her teeth and stood up, rubbing at her knee.

‘I’ll get a glass. The pitcher in the fridge is colder.’

April’s sneaker-clad feet stood just outside the threshold, toes a half inch away from entering the chalet. Martha glanced back and rolled her eyes, making the little half moon glasses sitting on the end of her nose lift and drop back down.

‘I suppose technically it’s your property, so do come in.’

April checked the bottom of her feet for any stray paint flecks before walking in.

‘Wow,’ was all she could say. It was as if she had stepped into another world. The inside of the chalet was unrecognisable from the others on the park. Here, art hung on every available wall space, on the cushion covers, even the rug was a rug hook version of ‘The Scream’, and it spanned the hallway area, making the whole place colourful. April’s eyes were on stalks. She just couldn’t take it all in fast enough. ‘Did you do all this?’

Even Martha smiled now.

‘I did, for the most part. Cillian is a dab hand with a hammer, he helped when he could.’

April was still scanning the room, trying and failing to be polite and not look around the place like she was an eager burglar.

‘Well, it’s beautiful,’ she breathed eventually. Her gaze fell on a photo frame near a large flat-screen television that sat on a whitewashed wood dresser. A wedding photo, black and white, of a young man in a suit, and a tall determined-looking woman in white at the side of him. Martha saw her looking, but neither spoke a word.

Martha pulled a large glass pitcher out of her fridge, pouring two glasses out and filling them with ice.

‘It’s homemade, but I don’t like it too sweet,’ she warned as she passed April a glass. April lifted the glass to her lips and waited for a tangy taste on her tongue, but it was beautiful. She hadn’t realised how thirsty she was. She’d drained half the glass without even trying. Martha held out the jug and refilled her glass. Pointing to the outside chair, she started to walk back outside.

‘I have a recliner, in the corner. Just pull it out.’

April did as she was asked, and soon the pair were sitting like old friends, looking out at the park, drinking their lemonade. They were sitting like old friends, of course, but that was where the similarity ended. Martha was sitting rather dourly, looking at April as though she was looking for a label.

‘Something wrong, Martha?’ April asked.

‘Why did you come here?’ Martha countered at the speed of light. ‘Why did you buy this place?’

‘It’s an investment opportunity,’ she trotted out, as she had to ninety-nine per cent of the people back home. ‘I wanted a challenge, a change of pace.’ Martha snorted, and April’s eyes widened.

‘Did you get that from one of those daytime programmes? It sounds like a script.’

It is a script, April agreed silently. That’s exactly what it is. It hides my pain.

‘Nothing of the sort,’ she said nonchalantly. ‘I’ve worked in hospitality for a long time, and it was time for something new to sink my teeth into.’ That part was true, at least.

‘Oh?’ Marta replied. ‘What jobs have you done?’

This is feeling more and more like a job interview by the second. I own her home, and yet I feel like I haven’t earned the right to be here yet. Why do I feel out of place everywhere I go?

‘I worked in a hotel chain for many years.’

‘Worked in one? As what, the manager?’ Martha opened her sketchpad, angling it away from April, and started working on it with a pencil. Her eyes never left April’s.

‘Well … no but I did work in many different roles there. I learned a lot.’ She was mumbling into her neck now like a naughty schoolgirl who’d been dragged in front of the headmaster.

‘No?’ Martha asked, an incredulous note in her tone. ‘Never managed anything, have you? Chin up when you’re speaking, dear.’ April raised her chin, and Martha gave her an approving look. One that you would get from your nan when you remembered your P’s and Q’s.

April opened her mouth to plead her case, but then she realised she didn’t have the experience on paper, so there was no point in lying to herself, or anyone else for that matter.

‘I have the paperwork and insurance I need, and once the guests start coming, it will be fine.’ She didn’t know whether she actually believed that herself, or whether she was just telling Martha what she thought she wanted to hear. ‘And I have Cillian now. He has the knowledge and background of the place. I’m sure we can get organised soon enough.’

Martha said nothing, just sat staring out at the chalet park. April looked across at the half-painted hut. In the sunlight, half-wet, it did have a certain bogey-like tinge to it. Hopefully once it was dry properly it would settle a little lighter. The tin had declared the colour to be Green Tea. Maybe the cheaper paints were a bad idea. The truth was though, her car had barely made it to the DIY store and back, and she had nearly fainted at the price of the higher end paint pots. Laughable really, since her old home was all designer wallpaper and Farrow & Ball paint. How the other half live, eh.

‘This place used to be glorious,’ Martha said, half to herself, half to April. ‘The chalets were all painted fresh every year, and at the end of the season, the owners would throw a huge beach BBQ and party, to round the year off. All the locals would attend – it was a big highlight here, ending the summer off properly. Those parties were such fun, everyone together.’

April watched Martha’s face light up as she talked about the old days here, and she found herself even more determined to bring the place back to its former glory, to get those days back, to build a sense of community here, just like she felt in the rest of Cornwall. How she’d felt when she’d come here with her mother.

‘It ended not long after the last party I went to. The owners decided to take a step back. They got Tim in, and that was that. The next year, the party just didn’t happen. Of course, I was married by then.’ April saw her expression change, a flash of pain evident on her face. Maybe Martha needed this place to work just as much as she did.

‘Is that why you moved here?’ The words fell out of her mouth before she could stop them, but Martha didn’t flinch.

‘When my Charlie died, I was left in a big old house, full of memories and draughts, and cobwebs in corners I just couldn’t reach anymore. I was gathering dust myself I think. It just made sense.’ She tapped her hand on the wooden doorframe next to her affectionately, as you would a faithful hound. ‘I work better here, always have. I started renting the chalet as a workspace at first, but then gradually, there was so much of my stuff gravitating over here that it didn’t make sense to keep the other place. What did you run from?’ Her blue eyes focused on April like a hawk would on a field mouse.

‘Husband.’

‘Still?’

‘No. All finalised.’

Martha nodded. ‘Anyone else back home?’

April thought of her mother, who’d travelled with her in the boot with her worldly belongings. She had friends, sure, but even those had drifted of late. Without her job, her world had gotten a lot smaller back in Yorkshire in those last few weeks.

‘No, not now. My mum passed a few months ago.’

It felt as if Martha patted her hand, just once, the lightest touch. By the time she had looked to check, Martha was back scribbling in her sketchpad.

‘Do you have anyone?’ April asked, with a genuine longing to know the answer. Martha looked at her over the top of her glasses.

‘I have friends, but no, not really. Not since Charlie. It seems like we are on our own, eh?’

It was a throwaway comment from Martha, but it felt like a javelin to the heart to April. She felt as though it was embedded in her chest, leaving her wholly unable to speak, or to protest that she wasn’t alone. Not like Martha anyway. Martha was bitter, April wasn’t. Not yet. There was still time for her to change her life. Martha seemed perfectly happy living in her bubble.

‘For now perhaps, but I’ll be busy soon enough.’

Martha pursed her lips. ‘Well, that depends on what you turn this place into I suppose. I for one will be watching with interest.’

She was still scribbling away, her pencil making long sweeping lines. Other than the sound of the sea, it was all they could hear as they sat regarding each other.

‘I’d better get back to it I suppose,’ April said after a time, feeling more and more awkward by the moment. It felt like Martha had dismissed her like a schoolmarm. Martha gave her a curt nod, and she was almost out of earshot when Martha spoke again.

‘About Cillian? He’s a good man. Heart of gold. Fiercely loyal. Look after him.’

Look after him? An odd thing to say.

‘Er, I will. I’ll make sure he’s paid the going rate, minus a bit for rent of course.’

Martha snorted with laughter. It took a few seconds for April to realise it was laughter, and not a stray biscuit crumb down the wrong hole.

‘You’ll see, love. We here at Lizard Point are a close-knit bunch, but secrets hide in plain sight like ornaments on a hearth.’ She lowered her sketchpad a little as April stared at her open-mouthed. ‘Look after him, that’s all I’m saying. He’s had a rough time lately.’

April found herself nodding along, wondering what secrets hung on the hearths of the people she’d met so far. What did she mean?

A van pulled into the chalet park, and April’s worries fell out of her head. Her first delivery was here for the chalet shop, the basics, with more stuff coming later. She was going to get this place up and running, and keep her head down. As she smiled a greeting at the affable delivery driver, she was aware of how her guts churned at the thought of home, and what she had left behind. Maybe she shouldn’t have left at all. Maybe this was the biggest mistake of the whole tragedy that seemed to be her life. She padded over to the office, to let the man deliver the boxes, and pushed the terror she felt down into the depths of her mind. She would focus on what she could change, not what she couldn’t. After today, she would have a neighbour, and a helper, and she was determined to make the very best of both.

***

‘She’s so annoying! I mean it, Paddy – it’s not going to work! I was better off in the crummy flat.’

Paddy rolled his eyes back in his head as he lifted his pint glass to his pouting lips. Cillian started to speak again, but Paddy held an index finger up to pause him, and kept drinking. Once half of the glass of amber liquid had been drunk, he reluctantly placed the glass back on the table and wiped the froth from his moustache.

‘Really? Old Shady Pines that bad? Surely she can’t be any worse than Tim. You put up with him long enough.’

‘She doesn’t have a clue.’

It was true, she didn’t. He’d felt bad about going along with Martha’s plan of him living in, but when they’d gone into the reception hut and discussed her plans, he’d realised just how skittish she was. How much she needed things to work out. Which meant pressure on him, to come through for her. What was she doing here? He couldn’t help but feel like he had to help her now. The thing was, he couldn’t get attached. He was already thinking about what she was doing now. What she would look like when he rolled up to live next door. He needed to keep her at arm’s length. Focus on how bad a boss she was at the moment, all fingers and thumbs. His head was in a quandary, so being annoyed by her seemed to be easier. In his head anyway. The male brain was a wonderful thing. Who said all we think about are boobies and football?

‘Tim didn’t.’ Paddy’s raised brows said it all, but he said more anyway. Typical Paddy and his Dr Phil obsession. ‘The man was a charlatan, and a lazy eejit to boot. This woman sounds like she’s just out of her depth. Sound familiar?’ The brows went again. ‘We’ve all been there, mate. Shit happens, and we have to make a life.’

‘She’s not from round here.’

‘Neither are you. Neither was Tim. What is this, the Mexican border?’

‘She’s a woman though.’

Paddy guffawed at that one.

‘Oh no, a bloody woman! You should have said! Aren’t you raising a future woman, single-handed? Come on, Cillian. You’re not sexist. What’s really the problem?’

Cillian huffed, straightening up in his seat, ready to give his friend what for, and list all the numerous reasons he had for not liking the new owner. Except, now Paddy had dismissed his concerns, he didn’t actually know why he wouldn’t like her. Maybe it was because she had up and bought a great big whack off chalet park single-handed, with seemingly no experience or help. Who did that? Cillian just couldn’t understand it. Was she some sort of trust fund kid, spending her parents’ money on some frivolous whim? She didn’t look it, and her wheels weren’t exactly posh. What was she doing here? This question just went around and around in his head, and all signs pointed to her not sticking around. All the more reason to focus on the negative and shut off his heart. Which, annoyingly, seemed to be beating that bit faster around her.

Paddy was watching him with a tiny little smirk on his face, and Cillian glared at him.

‘All right, fair enough now. So she’s not a total horror, but still, I ask you. Who just turns up in Cornwall with a car full of stuff, and nothing else?’

Paddy’s eyes glinted with suppressed mirth. ‘Er … you … me, half the bloody pub. People change their lives all the time. We did.’

Paddy was Irish too, but contrary to popular belief, they didn’t know each other from Ireland. Paddy had moved here after his first marriage ended, and he needed a fresh start. He worked on the fishing boats, and years later, he was still here.

‘I know, but I still don’t like it. What if she just ups and leaves, and the place turns to shit again?’

Paddy stood up, taking both their pint pots and heading to the bar for a refill. ‘Mate, it was shit before Tim left. She has to open properly first, and keep it booked up. You at least have the season to save some cash up for you and the little one.’

While Paddy went to get the drinks, Cillian sat and thought about what Paddy had said. It was true, he was there for the next few months anyway, provided the wages kept coming. They were out of the grotty flat, into a chalet that needed work but was still far better. They had heat, and food, and he could finally begin putting some money aside. If he could save enough for rent and a deposit, they could finally move into a little house somewhere. Orla deserved a home, and she had never really experienced one before. Not like other kids had at least, and even then not for long. He picked up the beer mat in front of him, distractedly pulling at it, lost in thought. His phone rang in his pocket, and when he saw the screen his heart sank. Not today.

‘Where the hell is my daughter?’ an angry voice screamed out the second he hit the green button. He turned the volume down on his handset and lifted it to his ear. ‘I got a letter from the Child Benefit people today. You’re trying to take the money!’

‘Well, good afternoon to you. It’s not your money, it’s for the benefit of the child. As in Orla, not the landlord of the Lamb and Flag. Our daughter is fine, thank you. She’s got an extra afternoon session today.’

Orla was going to full-time nursery in September, but because of the unsettled year she had endured, her anxiety was sky-high. The teachers were helping her as much as possible, including giving her extra time there in school to get her used to the huge change that was coming her way. Ideally, he shouldn’t be moving at this time in her life, but they needed to get out of where they were, and fast. Orla needed her own room. She deserved to have a space that was just hers. She deserved a proper bed of her own, not a second-hand one shared with her dad. Shady Pines was the way out, and he had seized it with both muscular arms. He knew Tina wouldn’t be happy, but it was Orla’s money. She needed it far more than her feckless mother.

‘What does she need extra time for?’

Cillian didn’t answer her. If she didn’t know about her own daughter by now, that was on her.

‘For Orla’s benefit, that’s why. So she feels settled when she goes full-time. I did tell you, Tina. She starts in September. Did you want something, other than to yell?’

There was a pause on the line, and across the pub, Paddy raised his brows, questioning who was on the phone. Cillian mouthed Tina at him, and Paddy’s face turned dark. He made a motion at Cillian with his hands, pretending to end the call on his own imaginary mobile phone. Bev behind the bar looked on, giving Cillian a little smile as she caught his eye. Cillian nodded at Paddy, knowing he was right.

The truth was, he was never sure just how fast things were going to get nasty, so he needed to keep the peace. He hadn’t told her that they were moving yet, and he didn’t want anything to stop that. Now the social workers were backing off, he didn’t want them getting involved again. He wasn’t the problem, and the move would be so good for them both. The social workers had agreed too, given his past employment there and Orla knowing the place a little. He needed to be there, the whole thing a done deal, before he even thought about telling Tina.

He headed outside, away from ear-ridden walls. The smoking shelter was empty. He sat on one of the painted wooden benches, getting a waft of old cigarette smoke and ash, and the smell of the flowers that were in planters dotted around the garden area.

‘I did actually. I wondered if I could see her.’

Cillian didn’t say anything himself this time. He felt like his tongue had been glued to the roof of his mouth.

‘NO,’ a voice said, stern. ‘Not a chance.’

He’d hit the red button and was on his feet and back through the doors of the pub before he even recognised that the voice belonged to him. His legs felt like jelly, and the rage and sheer shock was fizzing through his whole body. Just the sound of her voice did that to him. He couldn’t imagine facing her in real life any time soon, but it was coming. He just knew it.

Paddy was sitting with his pint in his hand, Cillian’s on the table, sitting on a new beer mat. Paddy took one look at him and turned to Bev.

‘Bev, we will need that packet of pork scratchings after all, and lend us the phone, will ya?’

Bev nodded, taking the cordless phone off the hook on the wall and bringing it over with two big bags of pork scratchings. Her gaze lingered on Cillian, but to be honest, the Duracell bunny could have been standing in front of him, and he wouldn’t have known. Paddy took the phone from her, shooing her away and handing Cillian the phone.

‘Mate, I love you, but you’re being a prize berk now, and enough’s enough. Ring the damn number already. Get this sorted before it gets worse.’

Cillian thought of Orla, a little scrap of life, huddled between her old bed and the bedroom wall, reading in the near pitch black because she couldn’t reach the light switch. His chest clenched, and he took the handset from his friend. He was right, as usual. It was time. Cillian needed to protect his daughter, and he needed to make it happen now. He needed to tell people. When the brown stuff hit the fan, and hit it would, he would need them. Even the confusing Yorkshire woman who had unknowingly handed him a paddle to get him out of the creek.

Paddy smiled when Cillian started to dial a number from a piece of paper in his wallet, and he patted his friend on the back of his hand.

‘Proud of you, mate, you’re doing the right thing.’

Cillian smiled back, and made all the right noises, but as he waited for the call to connect, he knew the only thing he felt was crushing disappointment, and the weight of the world on his tired and aching shoulders. He felt like he was betraying Tina once more, but it was down to her. The pressure and isolation of motherhood had turned her to drink, and away from him and their small daughter. When she’d left Orla alone, that had been the final straw.

He’d thought so at the time. Till now. Now, he was going to use the law to protect a daughter from her mother and protect their family from going under altogether. He was finally going to listen to those around him. He just hoped that Orla would understand when she was older. If he lost her anyway, that would kill him.

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