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‘What todowith it? Sell it, Emmie. Sell it all and come home!’
‘But that’s the thing. I don’t feel like I’m away from home, Stephen. Starry Cove… it’s growing on me. There’s a business for me to run. A cottage to live in. And then there’s the boat. I was wondering where you stand on all that?’
‘What do you mean, where do I stand?’
‘I mean, what do you think about living here? You could always apply to a school in Truro…’
Silence, and then: ‘Emmie, Emmie, Emmie… what am I going to do with you? You can’t keep living your life putting everything in question. You live in London. You’re an English teacher. We’re getting married.’
‘But why don’t you come down here and see for yourself how lovely it is here?’ I suggest.
Perhaps wemaybe able to sort things out between us. Perhaps all I need is to be able to believe in him again. Inus. See him as he used to be when we were happier. Or, perhaps I need something more than he’s giving me. I’m always on trial with him and it’s making me miserable.
‘Emmie, we don’t have that kind of time. We have obligations here in London. And as far as your business partner is concerned, get him to buy you out.’
That’s a good one. I can’t even get my own fiancé to move elsewhere with me and he wants me to sort out other people?
‘It’s not all that easy, Stephen. I can’t just go up to him and tell him what to do.’
‘Of course you can. Some people need to be spoken to in a certain manner, you know.’
I suppress a sigh. Some people do, indeed.
The next day, Martin (or as I’ve dubbed him, Doc Martin) is back to check on the lady of the manor. I keep out of her way, God forbid, but Martin and I have fallen into the habit of sharing a cup of coffee and a biscuit or two afterwards as he fills me in on her condition and gives me advice on how to avoid throttling her.
‘You’re a trooper, the way you’re handling all this,’ Martin says, holding a porcelain cup up to me in a form of salute.
I laugh. ‘She just takes getting used to, I guess.’
‘True. Mary’s like that. She doesn’t leave anyone any space to breathe. And speaking of, would you like to come out to dinner with me tonight?’
‘Dinner?’ I repeat. An evening away from the harpy? ‘I’d love to, but… I don’t know if I can.’
‘I’m sure Calvin can cope for the evening. And if there’s an emergency, the doctor is always on call,’ he says with a kind smile.
‘True,’ I agree. ‘Dinner it is, then. Thank you, Martin.’
‘Tonight, then. I’ll pick you up.’
*
‘This is nice,’ Martin says as we dig into our steaks. We’re at Persephone’s Inn, a lovely pub with a jetty, but as it’s freezing cold, we’re sitting inside at a table by the open fire.
Christmas is in every corner, from the stockings hanging from the mantelpiece to the mistletoe under the main entrance, to Michael Bublé’s old Christmas album playing in the background.
‘Yes, I love fires,’ I muse. ‘I’ve never had one in my home.’
‘And now your grandmother has at least ten of them,’ he chuckles. ‘Strange, life, isn’t it?’
‘This is so nice, Martin, thank you. I feel like I’ve known you forever, you know?’
‘Me, too,’ he chimes as I shove a succulent bite in my mouth.
‘Oh my God, this is amazing! Who’s the chef? Jesus?’
Martin laughs, his huge blue eyes twinkling and wrinkling at the corners. He’s actually quite good-looking, Martin. In a way, he and Jago have something in common, beneath their extreme behaviours – Martin being the proper village doctor who cares and Jago the village badass who doesn’t.
‘Don’t let the vicar hear your blasphemy,’ he warns me.
