‘Number 15, Cliff Road,’ she answers, checking the details once again on her phone.
‘Thought so.’ He grunts and makes a right turn.
They have travelled down on the train. Neither she nor her husband, Tim, owns a car. There’s never been much need in London, though the buggy can be a faff on the Tube. But they’ve always opted for public transport. It suits their wallet and their green credentials. Most of the time.
‘How long you staying?’ asks the driver in his bluff, laconic tone.
‘A week,’ supplies Tim as he points at something out of the window. He is a teacher and so they must restrict breaks to the school holidays. It is one of the reasons they’ve never been away, the cost being so prohibitive during the summer months.
‘You’ll just miss the bank holiday fireworks on the Saturday night then,’ says the driver. ‘The world and his wife will be down for the last weekend in August,’ he adds wearily.
Lottie can’t decide if this is a good or a bad thing. This taxi driver isn’t the most hospitable of chauffeurs, his tone somehow disapproving even though the cab fare is rising at an extortionately fast rate. He’d seemed to sneer when they appeared at the station with all their kiddo paraphernalia. She and Tim had packing down to a fine art when they were students, travelling with their few belongings strapped to their backs. But things are different now they have a child.
As the car winds its way down towards the bottom of the town, she catches sight of the water shimmering like silver. The sun is high in a cloudless blue sky and pretty boats are arranged in the harbour, reminiscent of Josh’s bath toys. The houses cling to the cliffside in shades of grey, blue and pink, alongside flowering bushes and shrubs the colour of sugared almonds.
Counting the numbers as the car slows to a crawl, Lottie holds her breath. The photos on the holiday rental website had looked charming. They are staying in part of an old period property that must have been split into separate apartments at some point over the years. It overlooks the bay, with stunning views of the harbour through a large picture window in the lounge. Casting another glance at the rental listing, she notes that the owner’s instructions advise them to approach from the rear where they can access the house via the back garden, which is stepped into the hillside.
When they come to an abrupt halt, Tim pays the taxi driver while Lottie tries not to look at the eye-watering amount. She busies herself unstrapping Josh from the car seat, wondering ifthe driver is going to help them unload their luggage from the boot. Apparently not. Instead, he remains seated, scratching his tanned, hairy forearms and peering out through the windscreen.
‘Looks like you’ve got some company,’ he calls through to the back of the car.
Lottie catches the jeering note in his voice and looks up in the direction of the houses. They are tall white multi-storey buildings, built in the Georgian style. Their faces are weathered with salt and wind yet most are recently painted and well maintained. But then her attention is caught by the house further along. Its facade is covered with ugly scaffolding and orange tarpaulin, the sign for a local building firm attached halfway up, like a flag.
The taxi driver shakes his head and pulls away without another word while Tim, Lottie and a wriggling Josh are left by the roadside with all their kit and caboodle. Lottie takes a few steps along the pavement. The sound of drilling and the high-pitched screech of a stone-cutting machine can be heard, breaking the spell of the holiday brochure magic.
How close, she wonders with a rising sense of panic. How close is their holiday let to this building site? She looks again for the numbers. Some are attached to the side of the house, others are nailed to the garden gate.
‘Mama, wait for me,’ she hears her son call behind her as she lopes forward in haste.
She comes to a stop outside a gate marked with the number fifteen. It opens onto a flight of stone steps dotted with earthenware pots of geraniums, leading downwards. A blue door can be seen tucked in next to a neatly appointed decking area and garden. It is perfect. Her fingers itch to unlatch the gate, hurry down and locate the key safe. To explore their home for the next week, where she knows she will find seagrass carpets and elegant white furniture alongside a modern kitchen and bathroom.
But to the right, just next door, a full-blown renovation project is in progress. A cloud of dust rises into the air as a coupleof builders shout and curse to each other. The garden, separated from theirs only by a few paving stones now that the original fence has been demolished, resembles a merchant’s yard. Planks of wood are propped up against the far wall. Piles of bricks are stacked seemingly at random. The perpetual whine of power tools is like a desperate child, unable to be soothed.
As Tim and Josh catch up with her, Lottie hears her husband groan softly while her toddler gives out an audible gasp of excitement.
‘Look, Bob the Builder. Me wanna go see Dizzy,’ he says, pointing to the concrete mixer which churns away continuously.
Lottie turns to look at Tim, flashing meaning from her eyes. He returns her gaze with a resigned droop of his shoulders.
‘Not now, eh mate?’ he says to Josh. ‘It’s not safe. Bob’s very busy doing lots of jobs.’
Lottie swears under her breath, feels her teeth gritting involuntarily.
‘What wrong, Mama?’ asks Josh, sensing his mother’s mood.
‘Nothing, sweet pea. It’s just very hot and I’m a bit tired from the long journey.’
Both of these things are true. She can feel the sun beating down on them and not a single hat or slick of SPF between them. The air is thick and muggy too. Where is the fresh coastal breeze she was hoping for? Instead, she feels a trickle of sweat running down her spine, licks her parched lips and senses a layer of dust already settling on her skin. She looks to the builders who are strolling around in shorts and jeans, their bronzed arms covered in elaborate tattoos. One is leaning against a wall, snatching a pull on his vape.
But then an older man comes forward. He seems to have an air of authority as he answers his phone, shouting into it hoarsely.
‘Right, you lot,’ he says once the call is ended. ‘Site visit. Client and architect, on their way. Shift yourselves.’
Lottie turns to Tim with a look of challenge on her face.
‘Let’s just get inside, shall we?’ he says. ‘Start to unpack.’
He leads them off down the steps, trailing the buggy and a large rucksack like some kind of sherpa. Lottie scoops Josh into her arms, partly to avoid him tripping down the steps but also because she instinctively wants to protect him. Everything suddenly feels full of menace; the scorching sun, the ear-splitting noise, the sharp edges. Even the hard stares that she has detected from one or two of the builders. And she follows on behind.
