‘Have you lost your bloody mind?’ Hope screeches over the phone two minutes later. I had promised myself that I’d enjoy the moment, savour it and relish it on my own, but in the end I can’t resist telling her. I need to share this with someone, and who better than my beloved, judgemental, non-identical twin sister?
‘Think long and hard before you get yourself entangled with him again, Faith! And think back to what you went through.’
‘In fairness, I’ve only accepted a job offer. It’s good money.’
‘Please don’t kid yourself, sweetheart. You’re banking on things working out this time, but they might not. He already left you once. And if he’s done it once—’ She sighs loudly. ‘I just don’t want you to end up like me.’
Meaning divorced with two kids, a hectic job as a chef and only me, Auntie Fi, as her main babysitter. Because after her husband left her, I had practically taken his place as Hope’s partner, the one who picked up all the slack and took the child-minding shifts when she couldn’t. I can’t even begin to count the number of college exams or presentations I’ve prepared while bouncing Jowen or Verity – and sometimes both – on my knees. So with a failed marriage under her belt, who better than her to scare me off men for good? But this time, she’s got her work cut out for her.
‘He’ll only break your heart all over again – and this time it’ll be worse, because he’ll have lulled you into that false sense of security, and when you’re nice and cosy with the idea all over again, bam! He’ll dump you again.’
‘Jesus, Hope, you’re supposed to be rooting for me.’
My niece Verity screams in the background. Her brother Jowen simply loves to antagonise her as if they’d been married fifty years.
‘Jowen! Leave your sister alone or you’ll be dealing with me!’ Hope shouts, breaking my eardrum. ‘Oh, Faith, sweetheart, I am rooting for you – you know that! But I just don’t want to see you hurt again. Don’t you remember how you walked around like a zombie for months? It’s only recently that you’ve started properly functioning again, and I’m terrified—’
‘But I’m okay now,’ I argue. ‘You even said so yourself last week – that you were happy because I finally had it together again.’
‘Yes – without him! I don’t doubt he loved you, Faith, and you know what, maybe in his own way he still does. But you can’t deny that the two of you seem to have some sort of silent pact where your roles are well defined. He’s a dick and you forgive him. Are you sure you want to live like that for the rest of your life?’
‘Well, as you say, it’s only until he changes his mind,’ I quip darkly. ‘And in any case, I didn’t actually say yes to hooking up again.’
Hope snorts. ‘As if we don’t already know what you’re going to do. I really, really wish you’d think this over.’ The rest of it – It’s going to be me and your friends who peel you off the floor again – remains unsaid. And I silently thank her for not driving her point home too much.
I know she loves me, and that she’s worried I’ll go under and turn to the bottle again, just like our mother had. But this time it could be different. I have recognised the pain in his voice and I know that he’s finally matured. Because, unlike Hope, I believe in the ultimate good of people. People make mistakes. But that doesn’t mean that there’s no room for redemption. Can’t a bloke change for the better in the end? I think so.
And I’m going to do my best to be a bit less uptight. Lose the British stiff upper lip and all that. I am going to try to relax. And try new things that I’ve never had the courage to do before.
Another scream rips through the earpiece. ‘Jowen! Stop pulling your sister’s hair! Faith, I’ve got to go before they tear each other apart. But promise me one thing?’
‘What’s that?’
‘If you do get back with him again, do not have any children!’ she shouts and hangs up.
I smile to myself. Children. By a strange twist of fate, or stroke of luck, Gabe has finally understood how important it is for me to have that parent–child love in my life. To give that unconditional love that Hope and I had never had. With a little luck, maybe the dream of a family will, in time, come true after all.
*
As you can imagine, I don’t waste any time in grabbing Jawsy’s fishbowl and some of my essentials before driving up to the cliffs above Perrancombe. Nestled between two tiny hillocks covered in marram grass, the beach house seems to have been waiting for me all this time, and just the sight of it makes my heart sing.
I park in my favourite spot from where I used to glimpse the sea through the glass gap between the garage and the house. The architect who’d designed it, Tarquin Turner, had added that slight teaser, which was what had won me over at first glance. Gabe likes his privacy and his closed spaces and rarely leaves his recording studio which he’s cornily dubbed Tunes on the Dunes. But everywhere else, huge windows facing south let in all the light and warmth, even on a foul day.
I stop a moment to breathe in the familiar salt air that always cleared the cobwebs from my head. Only now, I’ve more than cobwebs. I’ve got a Tube-map-like mess of scars in my heart that need forgetting. Scars that will hopefully soon be healed.
With a trembling hand, I reach for my keys and make my way to the cedar gates as my heart begins to pound. Easy, I tell myself. Don’t get too carried away. Remember that, for now, it’s just a job.
As I turn the key in the triple lock, I can’t help but ask myself: What will I feel once I’m inside? Will there be anything left of us under all that garish stuff, or are all traces of me completely gone? Will I be able to recreate our home the way he’s asked, and make it as it was before Hurricane Vanessa hit?
As it turns out, these are all questions that might not be answered after all, as my attempt to open the door is met by the screeching sound of the alarm. After a brief moment, I punch in the old code, but of course it’s different now. Everything is different now. Perhaps I am expecting too much of Gabe. Hope is right in saying I should be cautious.
I cover my ears, wondering how long it will take the security team Gabe hired to get here, so I punch in his birthday. Nothing. And then, rolling my eyes, I try Vanessa’s (I know it because we were in the same classes at uni), just in case, but nothing can stop this screaming harpy (the alarm, not Vanessa). But I’m determined that this won’t ruin my start to the day.
I try everything from Gabe’s childhood pets to his song titles, but nothing is working. In the end, I’m relieved to see Mick and Dougie pull up in the jeep bearing the logo of Perrancombe’s security company.
‘Mornin’, Faith,’ Mick greets me as if he didn’t know about my moving out six months earlier. ‘Gabe thought you might have some problems getting in.’
I nod. ‘Yes, thank you, I—’
He punches in the code and passes me a Post-it Note. ‘Here’s the new code. Give us a call if you need anything. Anything at all. And welcome back!’
‘Thanks, Mick. Would you boys like to come in for a cuppa?’ I have missed my beloved fellow Perrancombians and am anxious to pick up the thread of my interrupted acquaintances and friendships.
‘Awh gee, thanks, Faith, but we’ve got to get back to the paper. Maybe next time.’
‘Okay,’ I concede while waving the Post-it Note in thanks at him and Dougie in the Jeep who isn’t missing a beat. In fact, there’s not much that escapes these two. I wonder if the fact that they also run the South Cornish Coastal Gazette has anything to do with that.
I stuff the code into the pocket of my dress and wave them off, smiling like an idiot. When you’re happy everything looks peachy pink.
I take a deep breath before plunging into the foyer and thus back into the past that had been so brutally interrupted. And then I cry out in absolute horror.
It’s worse than I’d feared. Granted, I had seen pictures of the place, but nothing compares to what surrounds me now.
In the space of six months, Vanessa has turned our beloved luxury beach house into a kind of circus tent meets African safari gone absolutely ballistic.
There is not one colour left unused, nor one single style that hasn’t been represented. You name it, it’s there – from gamboge to tomato red, passing through a gamut of sickly greens, and from the psychedelic Seventies to burlesque baroque.
Hurricane Vanessa Chatsbury, who thinks more is more, has outdone herself once and for all.
My former home is now literally a (yellow Bakelite) horse of a different colour. Its gorgeous off-white walls and oak shelving and staircases that had once been paired with a muted palette of creams and duck egg blue is now a garish nightmare.
It’s as if I’ve stepped through someone else’s door – Alice in Wonderland’s, by the looks of it, where everything is not only out of proportion, but has a nightmarish look to it. Any minute now I’ll find bottles with notes saying Eat Me or Drink Me. And have I mentioned the (empty) gilt birdcages?
Warily taking in my surroundings, I struggle to find any familiar corners between the polka-dot and striped male and female mannequins just inside the living room. Not to mention the leopard-skinned bull, diamanté horns and all, crouched opposite the entrance, ready to pounce on any visitors foolish enough to come through the doors. Gabe’s grand piano is covered in pictures of Vanessa and himself, which is painful enough, but to add insult to injury are the solid gold frames of every shape and size picturing them in various moments of their story.
Parking my luggage by the door, I set Jawsy down on the window ledge facing north and make my way through a maze of coloured glass accent tables that have trays on them with fake glass and ceramic food. Everything is tawdry and flamboyant and there is not one inch of furniture that is not covered in baubles or ominous objects that look like they are just waiting to pounce upon you. And nowhere, I say absolutely nowhere, is there a book in sight.
By the time I make it to the kitchen and spot the fur (yes, fur) carpeting, I am in a million pieces. Not only is there nothing left of my hard work, it now screams Vanessa Chatsbury Has Taken Your Entire Life in huge balloon letters which, incidentally, match the writing Hi, Gorgeous! in the mirror hanging via a gold chain from the ceiling above the kitchen sink, blocking the view of the sea. You get the idea.
To make things worse, where I’d bought stuff on the cheap to stay grounded and not bankrupt Gabe, Vanessa Chatsbury – true to her lineage – lives the life of an earl’s daughter by spending her rock star boyfriend’s money as if it was going out of style. And speaking of style, on what planet, and I mean on what planet can you find a bathroom that is strictly made of glass walls without the privacy switch?
I can understand a bathtub in your bedroom for that luxurious feel, but who really wants to share their most private moment with everyone else in the house? That was the first thing on my Get Rid Of list alongside the fur carpeting in the kitchen. And what of the guest bedroom, where everything from walls to floors to ceiling, chandeliers, doors, casings and furnishings are all, I mean all, blood red? Or the armchair that looks like an open mouth, with teeth and all, and its tongue-shaped cushion? It’s like Jack Torrance has gone haywire in here.
The need to feel Gabe’s presence sends me to the master bedroom. On the threshold, I stop and gawp at yet another slaughterhouse of red animal prints.
I open the, oh my, red and black leopard-print wardrobe in search of one of his T-shirts and hold it to me, but it smells like her. She is everywhere and it’s going to take me quite a while to get rid of her presence in our home.
My mobile rings again and I fish my phone out of the pocket of my dress. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Miss Hudson, owner of Hudson Home Designs?’
‘Hello – yes, speaking.’
Could it possibly be the Wickfords’ PA returning my many emails, letters and unanswered calls? On a Sunday? Probably not. I’ve been courting them for the past few years in the hope that they would feature me in their trade magazine, Arch-Design, or hire me as a consultant, or even simply acknowledge my existence as a designer.
‘The Faith Hudson, the interior designer who invented those house-shaped cushions – sorry, what are they called again?’
‘Home Hugs,’ I answer, my heart rate picking up. Dare I believe that this is finally what I have been waiting for? My big break in the field of interior design? All I know is that I’ve worked long and hard enough for it, slogging year after year in other companies, always the first one to punch in and the last one to leave, killing myself every day and determined to prove myself. And now, with a little luck, I might be finally getting closer to that goal. And I’d thought that this day couldn’t possibly get any better!
‘Sorry, to be clear – the designer who fell legs akimbo on top of the vice president of Arch-Design while receiving an award for said cushion?’
Bloody hell, will that incident never be forgotten?
‘Oh my God, that was hilarious!’ he screeches. ‘That photo of you squatting, with his head sticking out from between your thighs? It went viral in less than ten minutes. It was like a scene from The Benny Hill Show! Nice arse, by the way!’
I gasp and throw my mobile onto the kaleidoscopic carpet as if it was a loaded hand grenade, but I can still hear him laughing, so I dart forward and try to ring off, but my hands are now shaking so badly that I drop the phone and it takes me another few seconds to hang up on him.
Dear God, will it never be over? Years had gone by since that Young Cornish Interior Designers Awards night where I’d won first place, but completely lost my dignity, and still I get these random prank calls, probably from some old school ‘friends’ just looking for a laugh. Or maybe even Vanessa’s friends.
Granted, I had made an absolute fool of myself by slipping on the stage and pulling the bloke handing me the Perspex house-shaped award down along with me. I happened to end up on top, straddling his shoulders. And fate had it that I’d chosen a pencil skirt which split the second I landed on him. In front of hundreds of people armed with phones to share my mishap with the rest of the world. The humiliation was centuplicated by the fact that, to avoid showing panty lines through my skirt, I’d worn a thong.
That was the night I became the laughing stock of not only my ex-course-mates, but also my future employers in the world of interior design. The mocking titles on Instagram, just to name a couple, had read: Posterior Designer and Thong in Cheek.
Of course you’d be forgiven for thinking that things couldn’t go any worse from there, but you’d be wrong. Because the very next day someone had made a pillow with a screenshot of my already humiliated arse and actually launched it on the black market. Really, what kind of person would actually go to all that trouble just for a laugh at a complete stranger’s expense? Who would be so cruel? And who has that much time on their hands? It’s a wonder I didn’t become a hermit in those days. But I had a career to launch and simply couldn’t afford to hide away from the world and wallow in my shame.
At the end of the day, it had only been a small award for a small idea. The Home Hugs were born out of my habit of hugging cushions for comfort, especially when we were transitioning from one foster family to another. The cushion I had found in our very first foster home, where I had been relatively serene if not happy, had had a drawing of a row of multi-coloured beach huts. Never having been inside one, I’d always imagined there was a tiny, happy family in there that lived by the sea, and that the hut was like a castle inside.
It had been my favourite object in the entire house, and upon being removed from there, I had taken it with me, almost as if it could protect us against our next, unknown foster home.
I would give it to Hope to hold on to through the night whenever she had an argument with our host family of the month.
‘You’re not my parents!’ she’d scream. Same words, different house. ‘And you can’t treat us like rubbish! We have a right to go to the common if we want! We’re not your bloody prisoners!’ And then a loud smack would send her back, red-faced, to our room, where she would bawl into her pillow, telling me that one day we would be free of foster parents and that we would be adopted by someone who really loved us.
It still seems like yesterday – the loneliness and the fear and anxiety of not being loved if she acted up too much, which was quite often. And I was just as bad, if not worse, quiet but needy, constantly making spaniel eyes at our foster parents of the month, following them around the house like a lost puppy in the hope of a hug. I should have known that they couldn’t love us unconditionally, when not even our own parents could.
When it turned out Hope always needed that cushion, I’d pulled out my mini Singer sewing machine, dug into my stash of material, and made what was to be known as the Home Hug – a thick, triple-stitched, sturdy, house-shaped cushion you could wrap your arms around, with a chimney you could rest your chin on and even put your mobile phone in.
It was pretty and it gave us both comfort, and I wondered how many other teenagers could benefit from such a simple idea, so when the local association had invited us students from art college to enrol in a local design competition, I presented my product in the hope of comforting others as well.
But whilst I had been miserable and lonely in my day-to-day obscurity, Home Hugs had definitely put me in the sights of my schoolmates. Despite winning first place and being promised a one-year contract with a local designer company as soon as I left school, my falling on top of the company VP had been my undoing.
There went years and years of serious study down the drain in one single fall, and my butt being posted all over the media.
When I’d met Gabe and told him about it, he had laughed it off by saying, ‘Well, at least they’ll be talking about you forever!’ It was easy for him to say. He was charming and always the centre of positive attention way before he became famous. The fame and the money had just been an added bonus to him. He was born charming and everyone seemed to gravitate around him, leaving me to wonder what he’d seen in me, the wallflower.
In truth, Gabe was, in private, the most insecure man I’d ever met. I suspect that Vanessa has drummed that out of him by now. If she had fallen onstage and exposed her arse to the world instead of me, she would have ridden the wave of fame to her benefit. Made lemonade with lemons and all that. She would have even made her own arse cushions and launched them on the market herself. And I’m not all that convinced that it wasn’t she who made the cushions in the first place.
Not only is Vanessa my nemesis in every way, she is also the god-daughter of the ever-elusive Lord and Lady Wickford. And I’m certain that, besides my Posterior Design Fiasco, that is also why they won’t answer my emails or return my calls.
Because Vanessa hates me with a passion. She has always wanted what was mine – my friends, my clients and finally my boyfriend. And what Vanessa wants, even if she has to disturb the entire county of Cornwall, she gets. Gabe included. So now she must be fuming, which means I have to watch my back at all times.
With a huge sigh, I open the triple-glazed sliding glass doors facing the sea and, kicking off my shoes, I hurry down the stone steps carved into the cliffside leading to the beach, and in less than one minute, my toes are happily sinking into the cold, clean January sand.
Down here, nothing has changed. The sea has no idea what happened to Gabe and me, and it welcomes me as if I’d never left. The waves are still beating upon the shore and the seagulls are still circling, heaving their usual cry to the four winds. I breathe in deeply and close my eyes. Better. Even if memories are flooding through me like the sea at high tide, I can only go with the flow, and accept that what is done is done. Put it all in the past and look forward instead.
I stroll down the entire length of the beach, enjoying the wet, slushy sand between my toes and the fresh, pungent odour of the sea in my lungs. It’s an unnaturally warm winter’s day, and there are people swimming in the sea. For a minute I consider going for a dip myself, but I’m not that hardy or even that daring. Perhaps a dip in the pool later?
I look over my shoulder, and even from this distance I can see my former home, remembering it in every shade of light, rain and shine. From the outside, it actually hasn’t changed much, if you remove the purple and yellow zebra-striped awning over part of the deck, so gaudy that you could probably see it from the French coast.
Gabe hasn’t said what to do with any of her stuff, so I’ll look into storage in case Vanessa wants it all back. She’s welcome to it. Focused on my New Life mission, I know what to do and what arrangements to make.
After a long, solitary but happy stroll, I hear my mobile ringing again as I’m making my way back to the house. Luckily, it’s Gabe.
‘Hey, Faith? I forgot to mention that a buddy of mine will be delivering a side table tomorrow.’
‘Oh? I thought I was getting rid of everything?’
‘You are, but this is something I’d commissioned for you before I— Anyway, it’s oak and traditional. You’ll love it.’
‘I like non-traditional things, too,’ I counter.
He laughs. ‘You, my adorable little Miss Staid? Please. Besides, it’s to help an old friend out.’
‘I thought I knew all your friends.’
‘Not Henry. He saved my life once, so now I owe him.’
‘Saved your life? How do I not know about this?’
He chuckles. ‘See? Lots to talk about in our new life together.’
New as opposed to old, of course, but who am I to retort? I’m way too chuffed to start scoring brownie points. Besides, it’s not like that between us and never has been. New life, new slate. If I can overcome my wariness. Because, despite my wanting to start all over again, I’m wary of giving myself heart and soul all over again. Of needing someone who might not need me as much.
‘So you’ll be there to receive the table?’ he asks.
‘Of course. Can’t wait to see it.’ And to see you.
‘Okay, then. I’ve got to go, but we’ll talk soon.’
‘Brilliant,’ I reply.
‘Love you, my little Miss Staid!’ he calls, despite the albeit temporary professional wall I’ve put up between us. But he is right about one thing. I am too staid, too traditional. I need to loosen up.
Back at the house, I catch a glimpse of myself in the kitchen mirror. I look like a cardboard cut-out, and need to breathe some spontaneity into me, once and for all. Do something I’d never be caught dead doing. And the answer is right under my nose, on the back patio. I’d always been conscious of someone seeing us from the beach, even if we were way too high up to be noticed.
‘To hell with it,’ I say aloud to myself as, on pure instinct, and a bit of a rebellious surge, I peel off my clothes and let them fall – along with my underwear and bra – to the floor and step towards the infinity pool that seems to disappear into the sea. This ought to be a good start towards unwinding.
Completely naked, in one slow movement, I sink into the water, exhaling with a muffled shriek as it rushes over my shoulders and down my chest. It is true that we are having a freak heat wave in the middle of the winter, but January is still January. What were those bathers down there thinking? But it does feel amazing to be so natural and, if you’ll pardon me the pun, au naturel for once.
The last time I was in this pool Gabe and I were celebrating our third anniversary. He tried to make me go starkers, but I am a prude of biblical proportions. Or I was until two minutes ago. Let the new Faith be born from these waters!
Perhaps a little too late, I now realise that I could have enjoyed this kind of luxury all along. I could have indulged in this multi-millionaire lifestyle. But, as I’m always wary that I could lose things as quickly as I obtained them, I learnt very early to not value objects so much as I value people.
My people in particular are what make me strong – my sister, her children, my crew, and my friends. I guess that’s what formed my work ethic. Those things are what count in my life.
I have never won anything by pure fluke in my entire life. Every little achievement to the most important professional awards, I’ve earned by hard work. And it’s made me who I am today – a woman who’s worked very hard and played very little – and who now needs to wind down. Just a tiny bit.
So I let go of the side of the pool and float on the surface, trying to empty my mind of my plans to make this a home once again. Possibly our home. Without it, I had been feeling, well, orphaned all over again. But hopefully, gradually, Gabe and I might—
‘What the bloody hell is that?’ comes an almighty shriek from the front door, and for a moment I’m convinced it’s Vanessa on a mission to reclaim her kingdom of horrors.
In one single move, I dart to the edge of the pool and peer back into the house and watch in sheer, unadulterated horror as four people – three men and a woman – are traversing the foyer that is in a direct line with the patio doors and pool, if not for the various wild species of beasts caught in the line of sight. If I can’t see them, they can’t see me – yet. But I can hear every single word.
‘The designer went a bit over the top, but there’s going to be a proper reno to restore it to its original beauty,’ one of the younger men is saying in what I can only assume is estate agent speak. But what are they doing here?
The woman is on the elderly side, giggling at the various props strewn around the house, in particular at the red lacquered life-size wooden elephant at the bottom of the staircase.
I desperately look to the nearby life-size glass dolphin and in one mad dash, make a break for it just in time as the voices get closer. I am hanging on to my new glass Flipper friend for dear life, for once grateful that Vanessa had chosen to go as big as possible.
‘Ooh, is that an infinity pool out there?’ The woman’s voice bounces against the walls and I feel my eyes widen in panic. Any second they’re going to see me in my birthday suit and there’s nothing I can do. This is an absolute home invasion. If only I wasn’t naked, I’d have my phone on me to call Mick and Dougie. You see now why I never let my guard down?
It is at that point that one of the younger men, leading the way out to the deck all smiles, stops in his tracks at the sight of me covering my naughty bits with the sole aid of a transparent statue.
Like Cinderella caught at the stroke of midnight, I cringe, burying my nose into Flipper’s blowhole. I haven’t a stitch to clothe me, as I haven’t even bothered with a pool towel, and I’m now stuck here.
‘My clothes!’ I mouth to him in desperation.
Who The Bloody Hell Are You And What Are You Doing Here? the bloke’s face flash-reads before he doubles back to the elderly couple, steering them away. ‘Actually, uhm,’ he says. ‘Travis, why don’t you take our friends to see the upstairs while I switch the pool pump on? We’ll keep the best views for last.’
At that, the other young man, who has red hair, nods. ‘Sure. Let me show you the rest of the house first, and then we’ll come back down to enjoy the views from here. They’re one in a million.’
‘Good lad,’ the dark-haired man says and, after waiting a beat until the other three are off, he turns to me.
There’s no way I can make it to the foyer, and I can’t remember which animal I threw my clothes on. Which is a mouthful of its own. I glance around the kitchen. Vanessa is famous for not using tablecloths, and as petite as I am, there is no way a tea towel is going to do. As I’m frantically darting now from statue to statue trying to find my dress, Dark Hair throws something at me before turning around, and I make a beeline for it. It’s his suit jacket.
I slip into it just as I hear the other three coming back down, and ignoring the puddles I’m making, I bolt to hide under the bottom of the – glass – stairs in the shadow of a fake fern. Thank God for Vanessa’s last-minute nod to nature.
‘What happened to your jacket?’ the older man asks Dark Hair.
‘Oh, uhm,’ comes the delayed answer. ‘It’s so hot for January, isn’t it? I think I’ll go for a swim! You can both join me, if you want!’
Taking advantage of their collective laughter, I bolt to the master bedroom to wait until they’ve gone, but I can’t get dressed as my suitcase is still somewhere downstairs.
‘Just who the bloody hell are you, and what are you doing here?’ The deep, harsh voice pulls me out of my reverie, making me bounce off the mattress and straight to my feet. See? I’d read his face accurately, word for word.
He is standing on the door, wide-eyed as Red Hair brings up the rear.
‘Who the hell are you?’ I counter. ‘And how did you get in here?’
‘I have got a key,’ he says.
‘Well, so have I,’ I re-counter.
‘Have you really? What’s the code?’
‘The code?’ Damn, I’ve left it in my pocket. ‘I don’t know.’
At that, Dark Hair’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘You don’t know?’
‘I mean I don’t remember it. Mick and Dougie wrote it down for me,’ I say, wrapping my arms over my chest. Who cares if I wrinkle his jacket? ‘Call them if you want – they’ve known me for years.’
His expression changes from suspicious to shocked. ‘You’re the girlfriend-slash-designer?’
Now that’s a mouthful. It depends on whether he’s up to speed or six months behind. For all he knows, I could be Vanessa. ‘And you are…?’
He remembers his manners and darts forward, holding out a hand. ‘Henry. I’m so sorry about that. I’m a friend of Gabe’s. Well, sort of. And this is Travis.’
Unwrapping one arm from around me, the other keeping the huge jacket in place, I gingerly shake hands with them, still eyeing them suspiciously. ‘Well, then you must know he’s out of town.’
‘Right.’ Dark Hair stands there, awkwardly. And then his eyes widen in recognition. ‘Hey,’ he says suddenly. ‘You look familiar. Aren’t you, oh, uh, the one who—’
Here we go again with that damn arse video.
‘Yes, it’s me, the girl who fell onto a bloke’s chest in front of hundreds of people! The one whose bare arse is still on Instagram, Facebook, YouTube and Pinterest, thank you very much! And if you want to send it to your friends in Timbuktu and have a laugh, be my bloody guest!’
He blinks. ‘I was going to say the artist behind those house-shaped cushions – what are they called – Home Hugs?’
I stare at him. ‘Oh. Uhm, yes, that was me.’
‘Okay, guys, you’ve completely lost me now,’ Red Hair says in an American accent.
Dark Hair turns to him. ‘They’re these house-shaped cushions that you hug – really anti-stress,’ he explains, then turns to me. ‘I thought that was a great idea.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’ I shrug as the heat creeps up my neck. ‘It’s… just a cushion.’
‘No – it’s Home Hugs. Something everyone wants and needs – a home and a hug, combined into one. With space in the chimney to stash your mobile phone, a book or your glasses. So simple, yet absolutely stonking brilliant.’
Is he really going to fall back on flattery to get out of this? ‘And why are you here, Travis and Harry?’ I ask as Judi Dench would as if stumbling on a handsome gardener standing around in her rose garden. The dark-haired one looks like he could easily conduct a meeting in any boardroom. And, incidentally, any bedroom, with the huge dark twinkly eyes and the laughter wrinkles. I may still be in love with Gabe but I’m not blind.
‘It’s Henry. I, uhm, just delivered a table for Gabe. And actually, I’ve got a few more things coming, so…’
‘The table bloke!’ I gasp. ‘Weren’t you due tomorrow?’
‘I was, but then I got a call from Trixie and Bopper – old friends of mine, who wanted to see the house so—’
‘Sorry, wait,’ I say, interrupting him. ‘You let just anybody in to someone else’s house?’
He folds his arms in front of his chest. ‘No, not just anybody. Only prospective clients.
It’s my turn to freak out. ‘Prospective clients?’
He frowns and looks out the glass doors to the sea, as if for an easy escape route. ‘We may have come at a bad time. We’ll get out of your hair.’
‘This house is not for sale,’ I inform them.
‘Oh, it’s for sale all right,’ Red Hair assures me. ‘We’re going to be marketing this in the States, among other places.’
‘What? Impossible!’ I counter. ‘You’re wrong!’
Dark Hair whistles. ‘Wow. Perhaps you and your boyfriend should work on your communication skills.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’ll be back tomorrow. You can keep the jacket, by the way. Nice – or rather interesting – meeting you,’ he says as he makes his exit, followed by Travis.
If first impressions are usually the most accurate, it’s safe to say that the estate agents and I will never be friends.