'Any good?'
Tilly whipped the curtain back. 'Love this one, too.'
Maisie whooped. 'Tell you what. How about both for twenty? Sounds about right to me.'
'Oh, my God! Really? Thank you. That's so kind of you.'
'Nah. You have to have them.'
'Rightio, well, I'll just have a look around if you don't mind. I've just moved into a house, and to say it's needing some love is an understatement.'
'Ahh, thought as much. Boat Shed is it?'
Tilly frowned. 'It is.'
Maisie flicked her hand. 'I work in Darlings out the back doing the baskets. Gossip goes around on Darling. I was out the back there the first day you came in. I should have recognised you.'
'Nice to meet you.'
'Have a look around. Have you seen that lamp in the window? That's from the same place as the dresses. I put it in there earlier. There's also some lovely broderie anglaise bedcushions down the end there, and if you could do with a parasol for that decking of yours, there's a gorgeous one and an old Bentwood chair.'
'Goodness. You should do this for a living.'
'My nan used to say that! How funny. Nah, I'm studying at night school so that I can go to uni to be a vet. Can't be doing with faffing about in boutiques for the rest of my life.'
After a really good old mooch around the shop and a lot of nattering, Tilly stood at the counter as Maisie performed her duties. My word, did Tilly charity-shop-score. She'd found all sorts of lovely things for both herself and the cottage. On a roll, Tils, on a roll.
Maisie totted it all up on a little notepad, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration. The two dresses for twenty. The wicker lamp, broderie anglaise cushions, with scalloped edges that Tilly had fallen for instantly and could already see plumped up in the Boat Shed. A stack of heavy vintage linen napkins with somebody's faded embroidered initials in the corner, a white heart-shaped serving platter she'd unearthed from the back of a shelf of crockery, a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses from the window display, a designer candle in a printed tin, that Tilly had sniffed and very nearly wept over, all fig and sea salt, the kind of candle that cost the earth and which was, apparently, two pounds fifty.
Maisie underlined her total twice. 'Okie-dokie. I've knocked a bit off the candle 'cause it's been lit and the napkins can be a freebie; they've been hanging about since Easter. Brenda has been moaning that we need to do a refresh.'
Looking at the small mountain of loveliness on the counter, Tilly thought about the person who had dropped two hundred pounds on a single dress and presumably without blinking had not only not taken the tag off but had donated it to a charity shop.
Maisie wrapped Tilly's goodies as if they were in a boutique where dresses cost more than a week's shopping. Tissue paper, a nice bag from a fancy store, a smile. Taking the bag, Tilly had one last mooch round the shop as she resolved to come back once a week for the rest of her natural life.
It was just a cosy, happy, friendly sort of place without any attitude from snotty assistants and zero stress. Somewhere, a radio played, Darling fog drifted up off the sea outside the window, and all felt right in the world. Through the window, the bay curved round, the other little shopfronts’ awnings rustled in the breeze, huge tubs of flowers were plonked here and there, and the masts of a few small boats clinked away. Tilly adored all of it. The quiet, gentle pace, old school feel, quaintness, Blighty showing off its silverware. A sleepy, hidden-away place that had never heard of a hotel bar, a cruise ship, or a man called Lennixx. Not only had it not heard of any of it, nope, nor did it want to.
Our Tils was feeling all the feels for a small shop tucked into a parade on a curve of sea. She'd gone in to solve the problem of what on earth to wear to a not-a-date she still wasn't entirely sure was a not-a-date, and she was walking out with two dresses, a lamp, a candle that smelled like a clifftop, a heart-shaped platter and a head full of plans for the Boat Shed. Lovely, glorious, full-of-potential plans. When had she last had plans that weren't somebody else's gig in somebody else's city? She couldn't rightly remember, and she didn't much want to. All she knew was that on Darling, it was as if a little glimmer had lit underneath her, urging her onwards and upwards to better things.
Maisie beamed. 'There you are. That’s what I call a successful haul and all sustainable, too. How about that then?'
Tapping her card, Tilly rooted around in her bag for some cash and dropped it into the little lifeboat box by the till. ‘Yes, I scored. Thank you so much.’
'See you soon. I hope you enjoy that little lot. You can tag us on Insta in the dress. Brenda would love that.'
'I'll be back. Try and keep me away.'
As, laden down with bags, she stepped out to the soft tinkle of the bell, a wicker lamp under her arm and a to-die-for candle into the pearly Darling afternoon, all was right in Tilly Bloomwood’s world. Oh, what delights a little bit of retail therapy and a chat could do. Who needs self-care rituals when pottering along by the sea and chatting in a shop is on offer? Setting off along the parade towards the tram with fog coming in gentle puffs off the water and seagulls wheeling overhead, Tilly smiled. A funny little plonk arrived somewhere between her chest and her stomach. A feeling she was beginning, cautiously, to recognise as something rather a lot like happiness. Who would have thought?
39
Showtime. It was oyster night, and Tilly was there for it or at least on her way there if she didn’t decide to do a runner and leg it back from whence she came. Strolling along, despite her nerves, she felt a teeny bit full of herself because guess what? Our Tils had scrubbed up nicely. She’d washed and pressed the dress, lovely espadrilles were on her feet, the laces tied just so, her hair was washed, curled and really looking rather fabulous and she was spritzed with lovely bought-on-her-travels perfume. A very interesting fact of all things Tilly had occurred. She was feeling that good that she didn’t need much glow-y stuff on her cheeks because her mood had dropped its very own shimmer-y bling.
On approach to the building, she side-eyed. Unsure what she’d been expecting, what was in front of her eyes wasn’t it. She’d assumed the pub would be like any other old pub on the coast. But because, of course, Darling did it better. The Darling Arms was utterly glorious with the entirety of its front tiled in aqua subway tiles in just the right shade of Darling blue. Old coach lights graced either side of the door, huge old hooks showcased hanging baskets dripping with trailing blue and white and a navy-blue doormat inscribed with ‘Darling’welcomed. Standing outside for a moment, Tilly looked up at a gorgeous old pub sign hanging outside, a little porch to the front, chimneys on top and very old leadlight windows in neat lines. To the right, the sea glittered with diamonds of light, and to the left, in the beer garden, a beautiful pitched-roof hexagonal canvas marquee dripped with fairy lights. Unsure where to go or what to do, Tilly’s earlier bravado waned. The marquee was absolutely heaving with people, as was the pub, she didn’t really know a soul, and suddenly she felt very alone. What was she even doing there?
Deciding to go through the pub first and get her bearings, Tilly stepped in to see little groups of people everywhere; a group of seniors at the bar, couples sitting at tables, an old dog by a fireplace, ships' anchors on the walls and everyone else with someone else. Just like the years of following Lennixx, waiting, Tilly again felt alone. Unsure whether to get a drink or what to do, she pretended she knew exactly where she was going, held her head high and walked in the direction of the beer garden. Stepping down tiny narrow steps, past a sign leading to the beer garden and a small block-paved covered area, she felt her stomach swoop as she spied the goings-on in the marquee. It too was bustling with people in groups, and she couldn’t see Otto for love nor money. Now what?
Forcing herself not to hotfoot it out of there as fast as she could, Tilly stood for a second and observed. Trestle tables ran the whole length of a small stepped terrace area. Adjacent tables wore pretty linen tablecloths and were packed end to end with people. Strings of little lights criss-crossed overhead, hurricane lanterns flickered along a far wall and on the opposite side, crate upon crate of oysters sat banked up on ice. Behind the oysters, staff in thick striped butcher’s aprons and white polo shirts were shucking at a long counter, huge old oyster baskets were piled with lemons, and a queue snaked away to the right.
