‘Exactly! Which is why,’ her mum said, ‘I volunteeredyouto help, love.’
Ivy paused, fork halfway to her mouth. ‘You what now?’
‘You’re head of props and set design!’ her mum said brightly, like she thought Ivy would be delighted. ‘We told the show committee how talented you are, didn’t we, Liv? They signed you up right away.’
Liv nodded, her mouth full of spaghetti. ‘Mum told them you’re anartisticgenius.’
‘Mum,’ Ivy said, slowly, putting down her fork, ‘you do know I’m working full-time through the holidays, right? And working on my art project. My incredibly important, thirty-per-cent-of-my-mark project.’
‘Well, yes, but you’ve got your evenings. And it’s not like you’redoinganything with your art right now.’
Ivy winced. ‘Thanks.’
‘You know what I mean. It’s a good cause. And I think you might enjoy it. You were always amazing at making sets and things when you were little. You used to put on plays all the time.’ Her mum rested her chin in her hands and looked at her daughter. ‘I’m worried about you, love.’
‘Oh not you too,’ said Ivy. ‘I’ve already had the lecture from Josie about how I’m young and I should be out having adventures or running away to Marrakesh or something.’
‘Well, she’s not wrong,’ her mum said. ‘Maybe not the running-away part, thanks very much, Josie – but all the same … You’re up at the crack of dawn for work and then you come home and stare at your sketchbook for hours but never seem to draw anything and then you go to bed early. And then you get up and do it all again. Not much of a holiday for you, is it? I think you seem …’ She hesitated.
‘What?’ said Ivy defensively. ‘Go on, what do I seem?’
‘You seem lonely.’ Her mum sighed. ‘I think doing the props for this show would be fun, if you let it be.’ She nudged her daughter. ‘Fun, remember that? Before you got so serious?’
Ivy stared at her spaghetti. ‘You really signed me up already?’
‘Head of props,’ Liv echoed proudly. Her face was practically fluorescent-orange with tomato sauce now. ‘You’re going to make a giant castle out of papier-mâché. And probably a fishing boat. And some fish.’ She waved her hand. ‘Mr Hargreaves says it’s a work in progress. He’s got Mr Patterson to do the script. He’s the new top primary English teacher and he’s studied avant-garde theatre.’
‘Great,’ Ivy said flatly. ‘So this winter if I’m not making papier-mâché while kids perform avant-garde theatre I’ll be surrounded by tourists at the shop with Josie badgering me to learn Russian poetry and flee the country. Plus, a guy who thinks yoga is a personality.’
‘Who is the guy?’ her mum asked, bewildered by Ivy’s litany.
‘Oh, never mind,’ Ivy said. ‘Some new paying guest of Josie’s. His sister’s here for a holiday and for some reason she brought along her irritating brother – they’re posh Americans who want a quaint British winter. Little do they know they’ve moved into the world’s most chaotic Airbnb. What a holiday.’
‘That’s the spirit, love. The first meeting is next week.’
Liv beamed. ‘It’s going to beamazing.’
Ivy sighed, stirring sauce through her spaghetti. She was meant to be having an artistic breakthrough, not painting sets for a school show, doing endless shifts in the shop and housekeeping for a cheerful American boy called Trip.
Who, for some reason, she kept picturing in his yoga gear.
Over the next few days, Ivy began to wonder if Trip had cloned himself. It was the only logical explanation. Because he waseverywhere.
No matter how early and how quietly Ivy had crept into the shop, there he was. At the counter before she’d even switched the kettle on, raving about the ‘best croissant I’ve had since I was in Paris’ (Fin’s almond ones, obviously). Then again at the Co-op, comparing oat milks and chatting away to Sarah, the bemused but charmed shelf-stacker about whether pea protein was actually more sustainable. Later that week, Ivy noticed him outside the Mariner’s Arms, helping Simi unload casks of beer.
‘Thanks,’ Simi had said, wiping her hands on her jeans. ‘Whoever you are, you’re a lifesaver. I wasn’t sure I’d manage that on my own.’
‘No problem,’ Trip had said. And with a cheerful boy scout’s salute, he’d headed off.Probably to adjust his circadian rhythms or something, Ivy had thought bitterly, watching him go.
On Monday, a cold, misty morning, she sought refuge in the Driftwood Café, where she found Skye, Fox Bay’s coolestinhabitant, freshly back from London for the holidays, chattering away to Trip like an old friend as she frothed milk.
‘I can’t believe you were at Coachella this year,’ she was saying, as Ivy waited to order her double espresso. ‘I was there too. It was so cool.’
‘Itwascool,’ Trip said happily. ‘There should be more festivals like that, only smaller and at more accessible price points. You know, I can totally imagine a festivalhere, on the beach.’
Skye’s eyes widened. ‘Now that would be awesome …’
Ivy exited swiftly, without ordering. She really didn’t need the coffee and any more of Trip’s seemingly boundless good spirits and big plans. On the way to the shop, she ran into Old Bill, Fox Bay’s unofficial mayor and teller of tall tales.
