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‘Highly unlikely,’ he concludes distractedly. ‘Unless you want to do tradesies? I give you the house and you leave me the barge.’
‘That’s not happening,’ I assure, crossing my arms over my chest as my face begins to heat.
The cheek, offering me the ruin while he gets the cool place!
‘Why not?’ he insists. ‘It’s not like you’re going to move to Cornwall. Let me buy you out and we can go our own separate, independent ways.’
That’s just the point. I don’t want to go anywhere. And this shop of which I’m a 50 per cent sharer is already, and surprisingly, doing very well. Why would I want to give it up?
‘Is having me as a partner really so bad?’ I ask.
He looks at me with those dark, soulful eyes. ‘It’s a bloody disaster.’
‘Why?’
‘There yeh go again, askin’ questions that you don’t want answers to. I’m not your type, Emmie. Accept it and move on.’
‘Not my type? What exactly are you on?’ I bite off. ‘I’m not interested in you in the least! I’m getting engaged in eleven days! Eleven days! I’m going to be married to a headmaster – a man of means and culture. And he’s as solid as a rock.’
‘So solid he couldn’t keep you out of harm’s way!’ he bites back. ‘You’re just kidding yourself, Emmie. He’s no good for you.’
‘What do you know what’s good for me?’ I hurl in his direction before turning on my heels.
I stomp down the steel plank and, fuming, make my way up the hill leading back into Starry Cove. Here, I turn into the first café I find and plop myself on the hard cushion-less benches for a shot of caffeine.
That arse! I can’t believe he’s everywhere and has his fingers in every pie. Maybe that’s why my grandmother can’t stand him. I’m sure Nano’s left him something else that she’s not too happy about, either. I wonder what it is. And I wonder why Jago was important enough to Nano to inherit any of his assets. It’s not like he was his son or anything, right?
As the sound of loud music batters the insides of my ears, I look around me. Rather than the cosy café I was told it used to be, hipsters are standing around the GloLite bar or perched on chrome stools, hanging on to their lattes as if they’re the latest accessory. Abstract paintings of eyes, ears and mouths literally run across the four walls, interrupted only by the door to the kitchen. And nowhere is there any sign of Christmas. It could be any day of the year.
Upon closer inspection, I realise I’m actually the oldest person in this place, which is more appropriate for my students. They have newer and stronger eardrums.
What a shame. At one point this place must have been cosy and quaint, but the modernisation has stripped it of its original authenticity and feel. And if their business goal here is to make the customer drink their coffee and shoot off in a hurry just to get off the hard seats, they’ve got it spot on, because I’m the only one actually sitting with a book in my lap. What a naïve choice.
As I sip and read, I think about how nice it would be if I could just sit in peace and quiet, maybe exchange a few words with someone at the next table, pat someone’s dog on the head or smile at someone’s child whose mouth is slathered with chocolate. Or perhaps it would be nice simply to look out of the window and see water rather than the shops opposite.
And that’s when a brainstorm hits me. Perhaps I won’t be selling the barge, after all. I could start my own business. But what kind of business? you may ask. What is the one thing that I’d be good at – one thing that I know very well? Why, books, of course! I could open a library-cum-bookstore. With a café. I could bring in all of my old books and also serve refreshments.
People could come in, sit and read. Have a hot drink. I could call it Books on the Barge! Yes! I can already see it. I’d need a steady income to afford to set it up and I wouldn’t even need a nautical licence, seeing as it would be moored. I’d have to look into that. Maybe talk to a few people down at the town hall. I’m sure I can manage to get all the necessary paperwork. Congratulations to me! I’ve just come up with the idea of the century (well, of the day, really) and think it might just work, if I can get Jago Moon on, or rather,offboard, if you’ll pardon the pun. All this, however, would entail one thing. I’d have to move to Cornwall lock, stock and barrel.
I can already imagine Stephen. He’s much too attached to his desk at Boynton Academy, London, and his mother. Still, if he had a choice between all that and me, could I depend on him choosing me? Are we strong enough?
Personally, I have no ties in London except to Maisie and although she doesn’t approve of my living in Starry Cove indefinitely, she’s still my one safe port. My grandmother, on the other hand, can’t wait to get rid of me.
‘Why was Jago Moon Nano’s partner at the Bend or Bump?’ I ask when I get back to Heatherton Hall. ‘He says he and Nano were friends.Goodfriends.’
My grandmother looks up from her book – a collection of poems by Emily Dickinson.
‘I thought I told you not to talk to Jago Moon.’
‘Pretty difficult not to in a town of ninety-nine souls.’
‘When are you going to stop asking questions and go back to London?’
‘Why are you in such a hurry for me to leave Starry Cove, Grandmother? If you don’t want me in the house, I can always go back to that beautiful, beautiful inn where they always have a kind word for me.’
She turns to spear me with those icy eyes of hers.
‘If you’re determined to stay, I’d rather you remained under my roof where I can keep an eye on you.’
‘I’m touched by your affection, Grandmother.’
‘Good Lord, Emily! You have your grandfather’s inheritance. What more do you want? Why don’t you sell everything and go back to where you came from?’
Why, she asks. She just doesn’t get it. I want a family. An inconvenient, annoying, binding blood tie with someone who has my same origins. I want to recognise my eyes in someone else’s face. I want someone to feel bound to me instinctively. To stick with me no matter what. Just like families do. But she doesn’t understand. And she never will. Because to her I’m a nuisance. An afterthought that she’d actually forgotten about.
‘I only asked you to come to Cornwall because my solicitors had informed me that you were inheriting. They found you, not I. Nor did I care to.’
What else do I need to hear? That I’m a mistake she’d gladly be rid of? That my mother should have, indeed, had that abortion? Because they all knew they’d never love me, no matter how cute I was as a kid, or how decent I am as an adult. They just didn’t want me – none of them ever did and still don’t. Without a word, I whirl round and leave the room before she can see the tears burning my eyes.
