Little Kiosk By The Sea (9 page)

Johnnie stood up and quickly introduced Rachel before saying, ‘Found anywhere to live yet?’

BB shook his head. ‘Been through the papers again today. No luck. Wouldn’t be a problem if I wanted to stay the other side of the river for the summer, but here it’s proving impossible to find anything – even a room rather than an apartment.’

‘I’ve a spare room,’ Rachel said quietly. ‘It has an en suite bathroom, but you’d have to share the kitchen and the sitting room with me.’

Both BB and Johnnie looked at her.

‘Really?’ BB said. ‘I have a feeling you’re about to turn into my Fairy Godmother.’

Rachel laughed. ‘You haven’t seen the room yet and for all you know I might be the stuff nightmares are made off. The landlady from hell.’

‘I doubt that. When can I came and see the room?’ BB said.

‘How about coming for a drink this evening? About 7.30? Give me time to sort things. I haven’t been in the house long and I’ve been using that room as a general dumping ground.’

‘Great. Where are you?’

‘Clarence Hill. You know it?’

As BB nodded and Rachel told him the number, Johnnie found himself thinking, that’s one of the older houses not far from me.

‘See you this evening then.’ And BB was gone.

‘Well that was unexpected,’ Rachel said, drinking her coffee. ‘Thanks for suggesting coming here and introducing me to BB.’

‘He’s just a new acquaintance my sister introduced me to,’ Johnnie said awkwardly. ‘I don’t really know anything about him – he could be a serial killer or anything. Although he seems nice enough,’ he added quickly.

Rachel smiled. ‘Oh, Johnnie, I’m sure he’s not going to murder me in my bed. If he does, I’ll come back and haunt you for introducing us. He’s just an ordinary guy looking for somewhere to stay. Reminds me of my son, although I think he’s a bit older.’

She pushed her empty coffee cup and saucer away. ‘I don’t know you either – but I’m fairly certain you’re okay.’ She laughed at the expression on his face.

‘You have a son?’ Johnnie said.

Rachel nodded. ‘Yes, he lives in France with his family. He’s a great sailor too,’ she added. ‘He’d love your boat –
Annie
, isn’t she called? It’s been years since I’ve set foot on a wooden boat. They tended to be all fibreglass where we lived.’ She glanced at Johnnie, hesitating, totally unsure whether she should say what she was about to.

‘If you ever need a crew, remember me, won’t you?’

‘Usually sail singlehanded,’ Johnnie said, not mentioning that he preferred it that way since Annie had died. Couldn’t imagine anyone taking her place on the boat. ‘The boat’s named after my late wife.’

But then, to his own surprise, he heard himself adding, ‘Actually, I’ve got to go across to France sometime soon. Not keen on doing the channel single-handed, so I usually get one of the pros from the agency I work for to come with me, but if you’d be interested?’

‘You serious?’ Rachel said. When he nodded she said, ‘I’d love to. I don’t know the north coast of France at all. Just give me twenty-four hours notice and I’ll be there, cap’n.’ She gave him a salute before holding out her hand for him to shake.

‘Right, I’d better get going. Prepare things for my prospective lodger. Thanks for the coffee.’

Johnnie watched her walk out of the restaurant wondering why on earth he hadn’t kept his mouth shut. As he’d shaken her hand, he’d clocked the wedding ring. Hell, he hadn’t even thought to ask if there was a husband on the scene when she mentioned her son. He could only pray there wasn’t – or at least not one who would object to his wife sailing away with another man for a few days. But surely she’d have mentioned a husband if she had one? Especially when she offered BB a room. Oh well, he’d find out on his next trip to France. He’d find out whether she was a real sailor then too.

Rachel might profess to love sailing and tie a good knot, but would she be any good as crew? So long as she could steer a course and winch a sail or two up, everything should be fine. Wouldn’t it?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

RACHEL

Walking home, Rachel wondered about Johnnie’s wife. How had she died? How long ago? Had she been a local girl? He definitely didn’t want to talk about her, that was for sure. He’d left the sentence about the boat’s name hanging in the air without any other explanation.

Rachel stroked her wedding ring with her thumb, making it slide around her finger. She’d registered Johnnie looking at her wedding ring. A year since her world had fallen apart, but still she couldn’t bring herself to take the ring off. Johnnie hadn’t asked about her husband but then, she hadn’t volunteered the information either.

Johnnie had probably assumed she was divorced as most people did before she told them she was a widow. Maybe he didn’t have any intention of asking her to crew for him. Maybe he was just being polite to her face and would forget the conversation. He hadn’t asked about any commitments that might stop her going to France with him.

Not that there were any these days. She was as free as a bird. No-one to worry about, which was one of the reasons she hoped BB would like the room. There would have to be ground rules, of course, but it would be good to have somebody else in the cottage, somebody to maybe share a glass or two of wine out on the terrace of an evening. Having someone to house-sit the cottage if she did crew for Johnnie on this trip to France would be a welcome bonus.

The spare room wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. Just a couple of boxes she hadn’t unpacked yet – she wasn’t even sure what was in them if she was honest. They could go in the basement for now. Open the window, a quick vacuum and dust, make the bed, clean the en suite, find some towels and another bath mat and she was done. Quite like old times when the villa had been full of friends and she’d won the accolade of ‘Hostess with the Mostest’.

Would it suit BB though? Maybe he was looking for something more upmarket, something more along the lines of his room at The Royal. Oh well, if he didn’t like it at least she’d sorted the spare room.

BB, when he arrived promptly at 7.30, was carrying a bunch of flowers which he handed to her with a smile.

‘Thank you. I’ll just put them in water,’ Rachel said. ‘Then I’ll show you the room.’

Leading the way upstairs, she said, ‘I have to warn you it’s not a very big room.’

‘It’s perfect,’ BB said, taking it in with a glance. ‘It’s got everything I need. Can I move in tomorrow?’

Rachel laughed. ‘We haven’t discussed rent yet. Or how long you’d like to stay. And there will be a few ground rules.’ She looked at him anxiously. ‘You’re not a smoker, are you? If you are, then I’m afraid it’s not on anyway.’

‘No, not a smoker and I have to return to the States in September, so from now until then?’

‘Let’s go and have a glass of wine and discuss the terms and conditions then,’ Rachel said.

Sitting on her small terrace sharing a bottle of rosé, Rachel laid down the ground rules as she thought of them.

‘I’ll give you a key so you’ll be free to come and go as you like. I’m happy to provide toast and coffee for breakfast but any other food you want, you’ll have to buy. I’ll clear a shelf in the fridge for you. I have to warn you, I can’t stand a messy kitchen so make sure you clear up after yourself.’

‘I’m not a bad cook but I’ll probably eat out most days,’ BB said. ‘Talking of food. If you haven’t eaten, will you join me for dinner tonight? Celebrate our deal?’

‘Thank you,’ Rachel said. ‘You’re certainly starting off on the right foot. First flowers and now dinner. I’ll just get a cardigan.’

BB was looking at a photo of Rachel and a younger man in a silver frame on the mantelpiece of the sitting room when she came back downstairs.

‘My son,’ Rachel said. ‘Taken a couple of years ago. You may get to meet Hugo. He and his wife are hoping to come for a visit later in the year.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ELLIE

Ellie had placed her laptop on the table in front of the window in her old bedroom and was rapidly turning the space around it into her office. So far she’d refrained from sending her CV out to prospective employers, deciding instead to freelance for a bit. See if she could earn enough money to survive that way.

Thanks to Estelle, she’d been commissioned to write three features with more promised in the next few weeks. She’d also been busy pitching some story ideas to a couple of magazines where she had her own contacts, quickly realising freelancing was a numbers game – the more ideas you pitched, the more the chance of being commissioned.

She’d not yet started the hunt for a new flat either, mainly because both Mum and Dad, together and separately, had urged her to stay for as long as she liked – and had refused to take any rent, which was a big bonus until her finances were in better shape. Her redundancy money was already gathering a little bit of interest in the bank and there was still money in her current account – thanks again to Mum and Dad who were also feeding her. They’d insisted she accepted the status quo while she got back on her feet.

It was funny living back home again though. Dad was away on business a couple of days a week and Mum seemed to be living in a world of her own at the moment. To say she was preoccupied was putting it mildly. Once or twice Ellie had caught her looking at her with a funny expression on her face. When she’d asked, ‘What?’ her mother had shaken her head, smiled at her and said, ‘Sorry, love. I was miles away.’

At least both parents had stopped tiptoeing around the subject of Rod. Her dad had been forthright in his dismissal of him. ‘Never took to him if I’m honest, love. You deserve someone much, much nicer,’ and he’d patted her gently on the back as he hugged her.

Mum, when Ellie had tearfully muttered she was worried about never meeting ‘the one and never having children’, had hugged her tightly and said ‘You will. The right one always comes along in the end.’

Ellie had sniffed and prayed that she was right. It was three months now since Rod had cast her adrift and moved to Manchester with her replacement. Three months in which she’d been determined to get her life back on the track she wanted – never to put it on hold again for anyone. She still had the occasional teary moments, usually in bed around midnight when unsolvable problems went round and round in her head.

Thankfully, there had been fewer nightmares and midnight crises lately. But she had to face facts. She was thirty in September. The clock was ticking. She’d always expected to be married by now. All her old friends – except for Tamsyn who from sixth form days had always vowed she’d never tie herself down to one man – were married and most had one if not more children. Although on the downside, there was poor Liz currently facing single motherhood after her sleaze of a husband had gone off with their Spanish au pair. At least she didn’t have to cope with that.

Switching on her laptop, Ellie picked up a pile of papers on her desk and began to flick through them as she waited for it to boot up. She’d been amazed to discover these tattered pages of a novel she’d started about ten years ago at the back of her wardrobe yesterday – she’d thought she’d thrown all her old notebooks and jottings away when she’d left home.

Now, giving the manuscript a quick read through prior to finally throwing it away, she found herself intrigued by the words she’d written so long ago. She remembered how inspired she’d been when the idea for the novel had first occurred to her.

Thoughtfully she sat back. Ever since she could hold a crayon, she’d drawn and written stories, as a teenager she’d dreamt of being a bestselling novelist. Everybody knew novelists struggled unless they hit the big time bigger than big. Being a writer meant a life on the breadline with no job security, no regular wage, no pension in the dim and distant future. Something both Harriet and Frank had urged her to think about when choosing a career.

Becoming a journalist had seemed the sensible option for a career involving writing. For the last eight years she’d enjoyed writing up news and features – she’d even won a prestigious ‘Young Journalist of the Year’ award in the early days soon after she’d left journalism school.

Redundancy had changed things though. Proved that there was no such thing as job security these days. So why not take the opportunity and become a novelist – or at least give it a try. To be truthful, she hadn’t thought about writing fiction for years but now the idea had popped into her brain, it refused to go away.

If she treated the freelance writing of articles as her ‘proper’ 9–5 job, she’d have money coming in and she could write her fiction in the evenings. Maybe even go on a Creative Writing course to get her into the mind-set of writing fiction.

Resolutely Ellie pulled her laptop towards her, opened a new file and titled it ‘Novel’. She’d make a start by editing and typing in the twenty thousand words or so she’d written all those years ago and seeing if there was potential there. If not, she’d think of another idea.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

HARRIET

Harriet poured herself a welcome G&T before wandering into the sitting room and looking around. God she was tired and stiff after two days of cleaning, doing mountains of washing and ironing and re-organising the house, but it looked so much better. More like it had looked in Amy’s day. Wooden surfaces were polished, curtains freshly washed and ironed hung at all the gleaming windows downstairs – the upstairs curtains would have to wait until for her next visit.

She’d bravely pressed the ignition button for the gas-fired Aga Thursday evening when she’d arrived, praying it would work. Thankfully it had and the kitchen was now nice and toasty with the warmth drifting through to the rest of the house. Fanciful she knew, but she’d swear she could sense Amy’s pleased presence all around her.

The small sitting room was cheerful, warmed by a log fire with wood she’d unearthed in the garden shed. Two silver candleholders stood alone on the mantelpiece, the family photos banished to a drawer in the study until she showed them to Ellie. The only room she hadn’t touched downstairs was Amy’s study.

She’d only been in there once this visit and that was to pick up a book for reading in bed. A quick look in the roll-top desk had convinced her it was full of really private stuff – letters and papers Amy wouldn’t have wanted a stranger rifling through. Not that she was a stranger, of course, but even so.