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Her last words to me when we broke up were “Who is going to look after you now?” and I had told her that not looking after me would free her to spread her wings and grow, perhaps help her rediscover her comedy.
Now, standing naked in the little kitchenette, skin still hot from the shower, hair dripping, it occurs to me that not being ‘taken care of’ has also allowed me to grow. Doing this building project on my limited savings has forced me to discover my own skills.
Something knocks on the door, probably a loose branch from earlier. I rub the towel along the back of my neck.
The knocking gets louder and more insistent.
“Who is it?”
“The ghost of Christmas past. Who do you think?”
Elodie LeFevre.
“What do you want?”
“Can you open the door, please? It’s raining.”
One day, a man is going to write an encyclopaedia that explains this woman’s behaviour. I take the towel off my head and wrap it around my hips and go to open the door.
She stands under the heavy downpour, hunched over something held against her chest.
“Can you let me in?”
I step aside and she almost falls inside, rainwater puddling on the floor.
There are more towels in the cupboard. I pull a dark-grey bath sheet off the shelf and hand it to Elodie. Then I cross my arms and watch patiently while she struggles to dry herself and push her hair out of her face. One hand is still holding the plastic folder she’d been hugging to herself earlier.
“Thank you,” she says handing me the towel, but I don’t take it, so she has to put it on the back of a chair. “Sorry I made a mess of your floor.”
“Elodie?”
She looks up.
“Why are you here?” I ask calmly because I really don’t want to dislike her. But her presence here is messing with my head.
“To show you this.” She pulls the folder open and flips until she finds a folded page.
The letterhead has Morris and Sweeny Property Developers embossed across the entire top in red and black.
My mood darkens. Should have guessed she was taking advice from them.
She hands me the letter. It’s a long two-sided proposal for the sale of Labri Catch, the LeFevre house next door.
I give it back to her, not showing how much this worries me. My holiday project relies on this being a quiet and exclusive haven. Tim Morris talked about blocks of holiday flats and children’s paddling pools. It would completely ruin the neighbourhood.
“You are selling?”
“No, of course not. They have been harassing my grandfather trying to convince him to sell. This was part of the information they left behind.”
“Okay. But it’s none of my business.”
“Look here.” Elodie holds the letter up and traces a short paragraph with her finger.
The land on the south-western face of Catcher Hill is commonly owned by the four leaseholders and as such, anyone may use any part of it. We propose to buy the rights of passage from all four leaseholders to fence off the land.
I read the words again. Land law is a complex field but when George Du Montfort sent me the new lease and relevant island bylaws, there was nothing about common ownership.
The kettle comes to the boil and clicks.
