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‘Hey, Ma!’
He was in a tight tank top, his arms butterscotch brown, his hair almost to his shoulders. Probably on his way out to a beach bar. He was a digital nomad, doing fiendishly clever things on his laptop from a country where he could wear flip-flops all day and swing in a hammock. It was what was known as a no-brainer.
‘Guess what I’ve just bought!’
‘You got it?’
She held up crossed fingers to the camera, then flipped it to show him the view.
‘This will be the view from your bedroom next time you come home.’
‘That’s so cool, Ma.’
‘It’s way smaller than your old one.’ It still worried her. They both knew he didn’t need his own space anymore, but as a mum it was counterintuitive to get rid of your child’s bedroom so she would keep that little third one for him. But she knew he wasn’t likely to come home permanently. All you could ask for at this stage in your child’s life was for them to be safe and well and happy, and Bill was all of those things. She’d worried about him not going to uni at first, but now she had to admit he had his life sorted. There was no point in structuring her life around his any longer. It was a weird feeling. Bittersweet. Freedom at a price.
‘I’ve still got my room at Dad’s, remember. As long as I’ve got somewhere to crash when I come and see you.’
‘You definitely have.’ She knew she’d go to pains to decorate it, even though he’d only be in it a couple of days in any given year. It was called being a mum. ‘All good with you?’
He gave her a thumbs-up. ‘Golden.’ That was the most she’d get. She probably didn’t want to know too much. She kissed her fingertips at him and gave him a wave. ‘See ya, Mum.’
He was gone. Off for a sundowner with some long-limbed girl with intricate tattoos, no doubt. Lucky boy.
She waded through the garden, scrambled over the wall at the bottom, then dropped down onto the path that ran behind. She headed west, away from the cottages, until she reached a small gap in the thick hedge. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d miss it, for there was nothing to indicate the magic that lay below.
She pushed her way through the gap and assessed the state of the steps. Over winter, anything could have happened, but to her expert eye it looked manageable. You needed to be surefooted and have no fear of heights to climb down, for the drop was sheer and the steps scarcely wide enough to hold a shoe. But she’d done it so many times she had the knack of planting her foot firmly in the middle, and not looking down.
As soon as she started her descent the wind began to pummel her, no longer the benign breeze she’d enjoyed in the garden. And when she got to the bottom, she saw the waves were wild – the tide was in, leaving only a narrow strip of beach. She stood, breathless from her climb, exhilarated by her surroundings. The dark slate of the cliffs, the pale wet sand, the steel-grey of the sea, topped with brilliant white foam. She was mesmerised by the swell of the waves and their capricious nature. If you thought you had their measure, you were a fool. You were never safe.
No one knew that better than she did.
In summer, the sea would be lazy and beguiling, the water jade and the beach a rosy pink, warmed by the sun. Then, this little cove would be a haven for anyone who ventured down here. You could hide here all day, unseen. Nikki remembered long, hot summers, lugging a rucksack full of cans of cider and ham rolls and suntan cream, battered Jackie Collins paperbacks and a portable CD player. It was the time and place she had felt happiest, for everything had seemed so simple then. She and her friends had sunbathed and swum and danced until the sun went down leaving a streak of burnt orange across the horizon. She remembered firm bronzed skin and freckles and salty hair; carefree laughter and no responsibility except being up in time for school or work the next morning.
And she shivered, remembering another time when this had been her refuge. Cold hands, white puffs of icy breath, a shared flask of fiery rum. Her hopes being raised and then dashed like the sea against the cliffs. A storm of emotions: joy and despair, passion and horrible, horrible unending doubt. Nikki, always so certain, had been crippled by her inability to know what was the right thing to do. And in the end, she had known the right thing to do was to walk away. But it had been too late.
With a swoosh, the waves came up to her, nibbling at her trainers. She danced away from them, then jumped onto the flat rock where they used to line up their cans and bottles – a makeshift bar. She held her arms out and let the wind batter her. She wasn’t going to dwell on the past. She had a successful business, a son who was making his own way in life and, now, the house she’d been waiting a lifetime for.
‘The world is my oyster!’ she shouted out loud. She hoped nobody was watching, as she must look like a mad woman, screaming like a banshee. But the world was her oyster, finally – and it was up to her to make pearls. As many as she could.
3
Just over two months later, on a bright, breezy May morning, Joel handed Nikki a set of keys and a welcoming wicker basket with scones, raspberry jam and clotted cream.
‘It’s probably the last thing you want,’ said Joel. ‘But I give them to all my clients. And then remind them it’s cream first in Devon, jam first in Cornwall.’
Speedwell was right on the border. The town itself was in Cornwall, but half a mile up the coast you stepped over into North Devon. So nowhere was the cream or jam debate more fierce.
Nikki tucked the scones in her bicycle basket. ‘I don’t mind which comes first,’ she said, grinning. ‘And thanks, Joel. I know how much you helped make this happen.’
‘And people say estate agents are the scum of the earth.’ Joel grinned and raised his hand. Nikki gave it a triumphant slap. There’d be a bottle of champagne on its way to him by way of thanks.
She pocketed the keys then rode hell for leather out of town on her e-bike and up the winding hill that followed the coast. As the cottages came into view, she felt a surge of excitement. The same excitement she used to feel as a teenager, filled with the anticipation of an afternoon of fun and laughter and music with her friends, wondering who would be there and what might happen. She pulled off the road and onto the gravel path in front of her lawn. Her lawn, her garden path, her front door.
The cottage stood out crisply against a pale blue sky, the sun softening the grey stone.
The breeze was a light skittering scented with brine and something herbaceous. Nikki paused for a moment, looking at the Sold sign, filled with pride that she’d had the courage to take this risk. She still couldn’t quite believe it was hers as she put the key in the lock and pushed the door open, holding her breath. What if she’d made a terrible mistake?
It was even more wonderful than she remembered. The sunlight reached into every corner, and rather than highlighting any flaws it seemed to soften them. As she walked through the rooms, she fancied she could feel the cottage sigh with relief. At last, she imagined it saying, here is the person who will cherish me. And she would. She was itching to get started – and she’d begin with the carpet she had longed to pull up the day she had been to view.
