‘And the sequel is meant to be in the works too,’ a guy said excitedly. ‘Ocean Far. You find out all about the captain’s younger brother. I wonder if we can pre-order it here? The owner is friends with Kathleen …’
‘I think I’m needed,’ said Josie. She took a bite of her baguette and sighed. ‘Of course, all this business is wonderful, but does anyone miss when Fox Bay was just alittlequieter?’
By the time Ivy flipped the sign fromOpentoClosedthat evening, her brain felt like sludge. Like any spark of creativity she might have once nourished had been snuffed out by the endless, incessant questions.
Do you have the book? The one with the green cover? Or maybe blue? I saw it on TikTok.
Do you have anything about war but not sad?
Which Kathleen Lee should I get if I don’t like misunderstandings? Or romance? Or dogs?
Ivy’s feet hurt from standing; her cheeks hurt from polite smiling; her throat hurt from forced small talk. Josie had left early for a yoga session and never returned, probably struck with a sudden desire to hike or paint. Trip had vanished that afternoon and his sister still hadn’t emerged from her room. Ivy didn’t mind. Alone was good.
She drove home breathing deeply, without even the crackly old car radio for company, imploring inspiration to strike. She could squeeze in half an hour of sketching and brainstorming after dinner – if she could only think of something to draw. Atthe moment her mind was a whirl of receipts and queries and orders.
She parked outside their block and climbed the flight of stairs to their flat, fantasising about an evening to herself. Maybe Mum might have taken Liv to something after school – neither of them could resist an activity. But when she unlocked her front door and stepped into the kitchen, the noise hit her: the familiar hum and clutter of chairs scraping, something bubbling on the stove, and her little sister holding forth at full volume.
‘Ivy!’ Liv squealed, launching herself across the kitchen. ‘You’re late! We waitedfor ever! We have NEWS!’
‘Hi,’ Ivy said, caught in a tight, pasta-sauce-smeared hug. She picked a piece of onion out of Liv’s hair. ‘Smells amazing. Also, ow.’ She prised Liv off gently. ‘Sit down, okay?’
Her mum, sliding garlic bread on to a plate, gave her a worried look. ‘You seem exhausted, love. I can’t believe Josie is working you this hard.’
‘It’s not Josie,’ said Ivy wearily, slumping into her usual chair. ‘It’s life.’
‘Yeah, she’s always like that now,’ Liv said cheerfully. ‘It’s all part of her art school persona. Grumpy with everyone.’
‘It is not!’ cried Ivy indignantly. ‘And I’m not!’
Ivy’s mum bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s true, Livvie,’ she said. ‘Poor Ivy is just a bit tired.’
‘But this will cheer her up,’ Liv said, doing a drumroll on the Formica table. ‘Wait till she hears what we’re planning! Wait till you hear, Ivy!’
‘Brace yourself,’ her mum said, piling spaghetti into a bowl for her. ‘And eat up, love. You need some energy.’
‘Go on then,’ said Ivy, picking up her fork. ‘Tell me all about it.’
‘Fox Bay Primary is putting on awinter spectacular!’ Liv jiggled in her seat. ‘Like a real show, with tickets and lights and everything! We’re raising money for the library!’
‘Ah,’ said Ivy. ‘Is this one of Mr H’s wild plans, by any chance?’ The primary school headmaster was notorious for impenetrable, confusing and frankly disastrous events to aid the community in some form or another. They were almost always a shambles, but the people of Fox Bay always showed up dutifully anyway.
Her mum laughed. ‘You guessed it. Only, I have a good feeling about this one.’
‘Mr Hargreaves says it’s not going to be a normal nativity. And it won’t be weird like last year where Baby Jesus turned into a Christmas pudding. It’s going to be all about Cornwall! Like, history, folklore, pasties, smugglers – everything!’
Ivy smiled at her little sister. Liv had inherited their mum’s enthusiasm for a project, although thankfully she was far more practical. ‘You’re fundraising for the library with smugglers? In December?’
‘Yes!’ Liv looked absolutely thrilled. ‘Mr H let us brainstorm and then everyone’s ideas are going in. He promised. It’s genius – he says so.’
‘But the end of term is in, like, three weeks,’ Ivy pointed out gently.
‘He says that’sampletime,’ Liv told her. ‘What does ample mean?’
‘It means enough, and he’s wrong. I always thought Mr Hargreaves was delusional,’ said Ivy, digging into her pasta with her fork. ‘And now I know it.’
‘Ithink it sounds inspired. The library is desperate for funds. Andso manytourists will be here,’ her mum said, filling Ivy’s water glass as she sat at the table. ‘It’s the perfect time to draw a crowd. Mr H is cannier than he looks.’
‘If you say so,’ Ivy said. ‘It sounds chaotic.’ She added absently, twirling spaghetti, ‘They’ll need all the help they can get.’
