Little Kiosk By The Sea (25 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

ELLIE

The day before her birthday, Ellie was at home alone, Harriet having dragged Frank off to Torquay to do some last-minute shopping for the party.

Ellie had printed out Amy’s manuscript again, this time complete with her own finishing chapters added and was out on the terrace giving it a read-through. She had an hour and a bit before BB came for coffee and wanted to check the chapters she’d added flowed seamlessly from Amy’s, before showering and changing into more respectable clothes.

The clanging of the house bell jolted her out of the story. BB already? Had she been so engrossed in the story that the time had just disappeared? She glanced at her watch. No, BB wasn’t due for another half an hour. If it was someone trying to sell something, she’d give them short shrift, that was for sure.

‘Miss Lewis?’

She eyed the man standing in front of her suspiciously as she nodded, aware that he was taking in every detail of her frayed cut-off jeans and the ancient camisole vest she’d flung on that morning. Dressed to receive visitors she was not. ‘You are?’

‘Nick Walters. We spoke on the phone about Cassandra James.’

‘Oh!’ This man’s voice over the phone hadn’t prepared her for how deliciously sexy he was in the flesh. ‘Oh!’

‘Lost for words? And you a writer. Tut-tut.’

A sense of humour to go with those sexy looks.

‘You could have phoned to say you were coming,’ she said.

‘Yeah, I’m sorry about that,’ Nick said. ‘Last-minute change of plan.’

Ellie opened the door wider. ‘You’d better come in.’

She led the way out to the terrace. ‘You can wait out here while I go and change into something … something else.’

‘Don’t change on my account. Looks fine from where I am,’ Nick said, laughing.

‘Five minutes. Sit. Admire the view.’

Ellie raced upstairs. She’d intended to wear one of her old office outfits when she met Nick Walters for the first time. Business-like and professional. Instead he’d found her looking more like a beach bum. No time for a shower but at least she could put on something less provocative.

She grabbed a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved pink shirt out of the wardrobe. Some lipgloss, a quick comb of her hair and she was ready to fight for her rights to the last Cassandra James book.

Nick Walters wasn’t admiring the view when she went back out to the terrace. He was busy reading the manuscript she’d left lying on the table. He looked up as she appeared.

‘You write the last two chapters?’

‘Yes.’ No way was she going to ask if he approved of them.

‘They’re good.’

‘Thanks.’

Nick put the typewritten sheets back on the table. ‘Do you have an agent?’

‘You told me not to talk to agents or publishers, so I haven’t. Yet.’

‘Good. In that case, meet your new agent. We’ll discuss the details over dinner tomorrow.’

‘Sorry can’t do that,’ Ellie said, keeping a straight face with difficulty while relishing a chance to tease him. ‘I’m busy tomorrow evening.’

Before Nick could say anything, the noise of the bell vibrated throughout the house.

‘That’ll be my friend,’ Ellie said. ‘I’ll just let him in.’

Walking back out to the terrace with BB, she said, ‘Nick Walters meet BB, a recently discovered American cousin many times removed.’

To BB she said, ‘Nick has just offered to be my literary agent. Isn’t that great?’

‘Congratulations.’

‘She’s turned down my dinner invite for tomorrow though, so I might take the offer back,’ Nick said. ‘Says she’s busy.’

‘It’s true,’ Ellie protested. ‘Tell him, BB.’

‘She sure is busy tomorrow night,’ BB said. ‘If you ask her nicely, she’ll maybe let you tag along.’

Nick looked at Ellie.

‘If you’d like to come to a birthday party here tomorrow night you’d be welcome. I’m sure we’d find a moment or two to discuss things.’

‘Thanks. I’ll look forward to it,’ Nick said, picking up the manuscript from the table. ‘I’ll take this and read it properly. Bring it back tomorrow with my suggestions.’

‘I wanted to edit it some more before I showed it to you,’ Ellie protested. ‘It wouldn’t need any suggestions from you then.’

‘Rule No.1: Authors listen to what their agent has to say, inwardly digest it, and then argue their case. After which the agent may change their mind but, mainly, the author bows to their superior knowledge. Okay?’

‘Are you going to be a bossy agent?’

‘Of course. Now, what time tomorrow night?’

‘About 7.30,’ Ellie said.

‘I’ll see you then. Nice to meet you, BB. I’ll find my own way out. Ciao.’

‘Ciao,’ Ellie muttered.

‘Think you’ve got yourself one sassy agent there, Ellie,’ BB said, laughing at the expression on Ellie’s face.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

HARRIET ET AL.

Harriet sighed with satisfaction looking out over the garden. Although sadly the roses had finished and the summer flamboyance of colourful plants had died back somewhat, it was still looking good. Frank had placed the half dozen tall torch candles they’d bought yesterday around and she’d hung candles in jars from various branches. Already lit, they were starting to cast a shadowy, magical ambience over the garden. Later, the full moon would add its own special silver light to the atmosphere.

The terrace too had candles as well as the solar-powered lights they’d placed in the wall over summer. Fixed to the brick side wall at the end of the terrace was a banner. ‘Happy 30th Birthday Ellie’. The birthday cake with its thirty candles was in the old-fashioned larder. Extra bottles of champagne were in the fridge ready for a toast.

Frank was already busy, hovering over the BBQ like a master chef, feeding people. The trestle table alongside was full of pork soaked in a spicy marinade, lamb kebabs, sausages and chicken legs still waiting to be cooked. Jacket potatoes cooked in the Aga were wrapped in foil keeping warm at the back of the BBQ.

‘Looking good. Just like the old days,’ Sabine said, appearing at Harriet’s side. ‘I see Johnnie and Carla are here with Rachel.’

‘You made your peace with her yet?’

Sabine nodded. ‘Funny how time has the effect of mellowing things, isn’t it?’

‘You happy with Rachel stepping into your shoes to help with Carla while you’re away?’

‘Johnnie’s happy so I can accept that.’

‘Where’s Owen?’ Harriet asked, looking around.

‘Getting some food and talking to BB. Apparently we sail on the 18th and there are lots of things to organise.’

‘I’ll miss you,’ Harriet said. ‘When do you reckon you’ll be back?’

‘If Owen gets his way, next March. Just in time for the summer.’

‘You’ll be able to see a lot of the world in that time.’

‘I’m going to miss all this,’ Sabine said, waving her hand in the direction of the garden and river. ‘I’ve never been away for longer than a fortnight.’

‘Owen will make sure you don’t get too homesick,’ Harriet said. ‘There’s always Skype too.’

Sabine nodded.

‘Frank wants to sell up Cirencester, retire and move here permanently,’ Harriet said. ‘So I’ll definitely be here when you get back.’

‘Ellie too?’

‘Yes. Unless a certain Nick Walters entices her away to live in London.’ Harriet looked over at the corner of the garden where Ellie was laughing at something Nick had said. ‘I have a feeling that she may have finally met “the one” for her.’

‘I’ve left her a present in the kitchen. Shame I didn’t know about him.’

Harriet glanced at her curiously.

‘You’ll see. Right. I’m going to go and get some of that delicious-looking food Frank is cooking.’

An hour later, after Ellie had cut her birthday cake accompanied by a loud champagne-fuelled rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’, Harriet made her way to the corner of the garden near the house, where Frank had recently placed a bench. By day it had one of the best views up river. By night, the lights along the river banks and on the river itself were mesmerising.

Sabine, carrying two glasses and a champagne bottle, joined her a few moments later.

‘Is it an “I want to be alone” moment? Or can I join you?’

Harriet patted the seat next to her. ‘Sit. I was just gathering myself together for the last hour or so,’ Harriet said. ‘Don’t seem to have the stamina to party the night away these days.’

‘Me neither.’ Sabine poured two glasses of champagne. ‘This will help though.’

As they sipped their drinks, Ellie appeared. ‘Mum. You have to come and see what Sabine has given me. It’s wonderful.’ She turned to Sabine.

‘Thank you so much. It’s a picture I’ll always treasure. ‘

Harriet stood up. ‘Sabine has painted you a picture? Lucky girl. Where is it?’

‘In the kitchen. And it’s infinitely more than a picture,’ Ellie said.

Looking at the painting two minutes later, Harriet had to agree. It was an artistic masterpiece of their life in Dartmouth.

Sabine had painted a modern genre picture of the Royal Avenue Gardens in all its summer glory. A band playing in the bandstand, couples dancing, children playing and people standing around watching. Recognisable people.

‘Look, this is me standing under the archway watching everybody. There’s you, Mum, dancing with Dad. There’s Johnnie and Carla in her pushchair. BB is with them. I think that’s Aunt Amy sitting on the bench eating an ice cream. See that couple there,’ Ellie pointed to a couple Sabine had placed to the back and slightly to the left in the painting. ‘That’s Rachel and Oscar. Oh this is so brilliant.’

‘There are other local people in there too that you’ll get to know now you’re living here,’ Sabine said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t know about Nick in time to paint him in.’

‘That is a shame,’ Ellie agreed. ‘Otherwise it represents all the people that are important in my life. I must go show Dad and everyone.’ Holding the picture carefully, she was gone.

‘You’re so talented,’ Harriet said. ‘That painting is something else. Somehow you’ve captured the essence of all our pasts and combined it with promise for the future.’

‘Thank you,’ Sabine said. ‘Have to say I’m rather proud of it.’ She hesitated before continuing. ‘When we get back from our travels, Owen thinks I should concentrate on my painting. Not work the kiosk for him.’

‘You should so do that, Beeny,’ Sabine said. ‘You have such talent.’

‘Think I’ve left it a bit late in life to take the art world by storm though,’ Sabine said.

‘Nonsense.’

‘That’s what Owen says. Oh and by the way, you were right. He threw out my idea of being “friends with benefits” straight away when I mentioned it. Said he wanted marriage or nothing. Then he proposed again.’

‘And?’

Sabine smiled. ‘This time I said yes.’

EPILOGUE

It had been a good summer in the end. The weather had been kind with more sun than rain. Tourists had come in their droves. Locals had endured the daytime crowds and traffic before coming out in the evenings to saunter along the quay, enjoying their town when it was quieter.

Whilst fortunes hadn’t been made, the holidaymakers had spent enough of their hard-earned cash in the town and the townspeople could relax knowing there was enough money in the bank to tide them over winter.

Best of all, there was good news about the kiosk. The week after half term, when workmen arrived to dismantle the summer-weary kiosk, people stood around smiling and watching the symbol of summer being un-ceremoniously loaded onto a lorry, safe in the knowledge that next summer it would be back.

In the end there had been no need for a public meeting or a petition, the council had simply announced a change of heart. The little kiosk by the sea was safe.

Turn the page for an exclusive extract from Jennifer Bohnet’s irresistibly charming story,
A French Pirouette!

Chapter One

Suzette

Suzette Shelby, the world-famous French ballerina, was soaking her feet in the bathroom of her Paris apartment. Something she did routinely even when she was ‘resting’. Ruefully she lifted her feet out of the water and studied them.

Misshapen old lady’s feet with bunions and callouses stuck on the end of her thirty-eight-year-old legs. Legs that were still shapely with the taut muscled calves and thighs of a dancer. Picking up the soft-as-down large white towel she’d hung over the heated rail, she carefully wrapped her feet in it and gently began to pat them dry. The warmth cocooned her feet. Bliss.

The ballet company’s official chiropodist was always stressing about her feet these days but, aside from emergencies, she refused to let anybody touch them. Removal of the calluses would only give her blisters. The bunions she’d deal with later, when she retired.

Retired. A scary word that had entered her vocabulary in recent months and was threatening to take over her life. It would have to happen soon, she knew, but what was she to do afterwards? She was lucky to have lasted at the top for so long. Many dancers were finished by their early thirties. Usually by then the injuries had mounted up and the RICE – rest, ice, compression, elevation – recovery times were lengthening.

Towelling her feet dry, Suzette grimaced. RICE. Such a funny expression for something that was as much a part of a dancer’s life as barre work, while rice the food, with all its carbohydrates, was forbidden in her low-carb diet. It was a constant battle to keep fit and strong enough to dance but stay fat-free and trim.

The last three weeks had been a mixture of low-key exercises and RICE after that last sprain in Covent Garden. But now it was time to get back on the treadmill again: hours of gruelling dance practice, long rehearsals and the need to network and help publicise the next show. The first of the publicity stints was starting with this afternoon’s recording of a chat show at a TV studio.

Appearing on chat shows was not something that she did routinely, but Malik had assured her that a) these days keeping her name in front of her audience was essential and b) she might even enjoy it. Could even lead to other things when she retired. There was that word again. Retired.

She’d hoped that Malik would be back in Paris to escort her to the studios or at least meet her afterwards, but he was still down in Monaco. After tying things up there for the spring season he’d decided to stay on for a break. He’d asked her to join him but Suzette had said no, preferring to stay up here in town and get her ankle in tip-top condition before going down there to perform in a few weeks’ time.