Cosmo is sitting on a bench on the waterfront, watching the boats and eating a crab sandwich he’s bought from The Salcombe Yawl. Reggie sits attentively beside him, one eye covetously on the sandwich, but Cosmo is thinking about the girl he saw in the Coffee Shop: her paint-stained dungarees worn over a T-shirt, the way her hair was twisted up. She looked workmanlike, confident, happy. He knows that he shouldn’t want to see her again but he does. It’s probably because she’s the antithesis of Becks, whose short black hair is always cut into neat sharp angles, whose business suits are smart, her high heels clack along busily and her iPhone is always clamped to her hand. She is ambitious, driven, successful. He admires that, finds it sexy. At the same time it’s leaving less and less time for fun, for chilling, for seeing their friends. It’s why he’s kept his little pad in Hackney – so that he can take time out from the rarefied atmosphere that surrounds Becks; from her expectations of him. It’s why he loves it here: the slower pace, the boats bobbing at anchor, the rise and ebb of the tides.
As he turns to share with Reggie the last piece of crust he sees the girl again. She is swinging along towards him and even as he looks at her, his fingers still outstretched to Reggie, she sees him and begins to laugh.
‘I saw that,’ she says. ‘Very bad habit.’
He laughs too, delighted by this friendliness. He drags his handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his fingers.
‘I couldn’t resist, he looked so pathetic,’ he tells her. ‘Don’t tell anyone.’
‘I shan’t have to,’ she answers. ‘He’ll be begging now every chance he has. Is he yours?’
Cosmo shakes his head, making a face, guying guilt.
‘Thought I’d seen him around before,’ she says. ‘You’re in big trouble.’
He gets to his feet, seizing this opportunity. ‘I’m dog-sitting him,’ he tells her. ‘His owners live just round the head of the creek. I’m looking after the house and Reggie whilst they’re away for a couple of months. My name’s Cosmo.’
He holds out his hand and she takes it briefly with a firm clasp.
‘I’m Amy,’ she says. ‘I’m a local. I work with my dad. I’m a painter and decorator.’
He’s slightly taken aback but doesn’t show it.
‘So that’s like interior design? Must be fascinating.’
She smiles at his effort to reclassify her work, to make it sound more upmarket, but shakes her head, rejecting it.
‘No,’ she says. ‘Just painting and decorating. I like working with light and space and colour. That’s all.’
‘Sounds good,’ he says, trying to make right his well-intentioned blunder. ‘You must be pretty busy round here with all the holiday letting.’
‘We are.’ She bends to stroke Reggie. ‘What did you say his name is?’
‘Reggie,’ Cosmo reminds her. ‘He’s such a good dog. So obedient and well behaved.’
‘You’ll soon change that,’ she says, and nods to him. ‘See you around, then.’
‘Yes.’ He’s reluctant to leave it so casually. ‘I saw you earlier in the Coffee Shop. Perhaps we could have a coffee sometime?’
‘Perhaps we could.’ She smiles, and then relents a little. ‘I’m in most mornings around ten thirtyish. I’ll look out for you.’
She turns away, walking with that easy graceful stride, and he watches her out of sight and then looks down at Reggie. It seems that there is a look of reproach in Reggie’s brown eyes: disapproval, even.
‘Oh, come on!’ says Cosmo defensively. ‘It’s just coffee, OK? It’s not like a proper date or anything.’
He grabs the end of Reggie’s lead and they set off towards Island Street, heading back to the creek, past the quirky galleries and cafés, the Salcombe Distilling Company. Cosmo has promised himself a visit to the Distillery and Gin School. They have a tasting bar but he hasn’t quite liked to go on his own. He thinks it might make him look a bit of a loser. Briefly he wonders if Amy likes gin and, almost as a knee-jerk reaction, he pulls out his phone and pauses to send a text to Becks. Reggie stands patiently watching him. His tail wags gently as if with approval and Cosmo begins to laugh.
‘What are you?’ he demands. ‘My conscience or something? Tell you what. How about we go up on Dartmoor? Explore a bit? OK. I know you’ve done it all before but I haven’t. I’m on holiday.’
He puts the phone back in his pocket, gives Reggie a pat and they set off again. Cosmo feels light-hearted, excited, happy. He knows why but he doesn’t want to admit it even to himself. Instead, he plans what he must take on his jaunt to the moor: his camera, the Ordnance Survey map, water for Reggie. He remembers the woman in the Coffee Shop, Cara, and he laughs and repeats the words to himself: Dolce far niente.
As she drives out of the car park, Amy sees him striding along with Reggie. She likes the look of him: the short spiky black hair, those dark brown eyes, and his ready smile. She wishes now that she’d asked him where he lived when he wasn’t dog-sitting, what he did for a living, but it seemed all a bit too quick: too keen. She might go into the Coffee Shop tomorrow or she might wait a day or two. Amy drives away in the opposite direction, up Shadycombe Road and into the residential part of the town. She parks outside a semi-detached Victorian villa and gets out. Collecting some tins of paint from the back of the car, she walks up the drive, opens the front door of the house and shouts: ‘It’s me, Dad.’
There is an answering call, and she carries the cans inside, puts them on the doormat and shuts the door behind her. Her father appears in a doorway just up the hall and nods at her.
‘Perfect timing. Thought they were in the van. Thanks, sweetheart. Bring anything else?’
She grins at him. ‘If you mean, did I bring you something to eat, the answer’s yes.’
‘Come into the kitchen,’ he says. ‘I can take ten minutes. How’re you doing down in Courtenay Street?’
She nods, following him into the big kitchen. ‘Pretty good. It’s a nice space to work in and they’re lovely people.’ She glances round. ‘I like it better than this. And it’s really cool that it’s only just a few doors up from us.’
‘Bigger, though,’ he says, taking a flask out of a large canvas holdall. ‘Much posher than we are in our little cottage.’
‘I like our little cottage,’ she says. ‘And talking of posh, I’ve just met this guy called Cosmo.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Seriously? Cosmo? Very posh. What is he, a grockle?’
She shakes her head and passes him a pasty. ‘No. He’s dog-sitting for some locals for a couple of months, he says. Nice dog.’
Her father bites into his pasty. ‘What’s the dog’s name?’
‘Reggie.’ Amy laughs. ‘Cosmo was feeding him a bit of his sandwich so I told him off.’
Her father nods. ‘Sounds familiar. Interfering as usual.’ He pours tea from his flask into a mug. ‘So are you seeing him again?’
She shrugs, feigning indifference. ‘Dunno. I expect so. Salcombe’s a small place. Well, I’d better get back.’
‘OK. Thanks for bringing the paint and the pasty. Don’t forget it’s quiz night at the pub.’
She gathers up the wrappers and crumbs, gives him a quick kiss. ‘I’m off to Kingsbridge. Had a call from a lady who wants me to create a nursery for her new baby. I’m just going over to check it out. Should be a nice little job. See you later.’
Jack hears the front door close but stays where he is for a while, finishing his tea. He feels his luck at having such a bright, lively daughter living with him, working with him, but it hasn’t been all roses. He can still hardly believe that it’s been nearly ten years now since Sally died from that bloody awful cancer. Amy was thirteen. She’d been three when he and Sally bought the little cottage in Courtenay Street, raising every penny they’d saved towards a fearsome mortgage but determined to stay in the town. No way they could do it now, given how property prices have gone through the roof, but they’d managed it back then. Sally worked with him, took any odd jobs that came her way, helped him do up the cottage, which was a wreck. How she loved that little cottage. They’d grafted, and they’d been so happy …
Jack puts the mug down with a bang. The disease had eaten her up so quick and he’d felt so helpless, so angry. It was only having Amy that kept him going. He couldn’t believe his luck when, after she’d finished her art course at Falmouth, she told him she wanted to join him, work with him, stay here in Salcombe.
‘I love it here,’ she told him. ‘And I love this work, making things fresh and clean and bright. I like going sailing and going to the pub and walking on the cliffs. If you’re happy with it then that’s what I’d like to do.’
He could barely answer her without blubbing.
‘I’ll take that as a “yes” then,’ she said.
And that’s how it’s been for the last couple of years. Amy’s like her mum: she grafts, she’s cheerful, likes a bit of fun.
Jack washes his mug under the tap, wraps it in a tea towel, puts it back in his holdall, and wonders about Cosmo. There was a certain note in Amy’s voice, a little sparkle in her eyes, but he’s glad now he didn’t tease her about it. There have been a few young fellows about, quite a serious relationship while she was at college, but nothing too serious. He’s learned to give her space and independence, and together they’ve learned to manage the pain of losing Sally. It will be very difficult when Amy decides to leave home but he knows it will happen and he hopes that he will be able to make it easy for her.
Not with Cosmo, though. He couldn’t cope with a son-in-law called Cosmo. Grinning to himself he prepares to start work again, fetching the tins of paint from the hall, prising off a lid with a screwdriver. Suddenly he has a thought, takes out his phone and sends a text. Then he picks up his paintbrush, plugs in his earphones and switches on his music. Bill Withers. ‘Lovely Day’. That’ll do nicely.
The text comes in just as Cara and Max are finishing lunch. They sit at the big kitchen table, the doors open to the balcony and to the sunshine. Max takes his phone from his pocket and reads the message.
‘Jack,’ he says. ‘Reminding me that it’s quiz night at the pub. I had a senior moment a couple of weeks ago and missed it. He doesn’t let me forget it now.’
‘Jack?’ she queries.
‘Jack Hannaford,’ he answers, tapping a reply. ‘He did all that work here when we moved the kitchen upstairs. He’s good news, is Jack. If you come along tonight you’ll meet him, but don’t underestimate him. He’s a very intelligent man who gave up a career as a teacher in favour of being his own man. He’s a free spirit.’
‘Sounds like fun,’ she agrees. ‘You’re so lucky to have all this, Max. Very clever of you to buy way back and to have this to retire to, and your little boat. I envy you.’
Max gets up, collects their plates, not knowing how to answer. He feels his good luck in the face of Cara’s situation but the right words are so difficult to find. As he puts the plates into the dishwasher he has a sudden recollection: a flashback to childhood.
He was twelve years old, just home from prep school for half term. He was looking for Cara, calling her name, but she was nowhere to be found. He climbed the narrow stairs to the attics, pushed open one of the doors and then stopped, staring. At the end of the small room a huge, gilt-framed mirror was propped against the wall, taking up almost the whole space. Standing before it was four-year-old Cara. She was gazing into the mirror, talking and gesticulating eagerly to her reflection. She laughed, twirled round and pointed her toe. He watched, fascinated, yet something prevented him from going to join her. He retreated on to the landing, backing down the steps, and then he called her name again. She came running out, hurrying down the stairs to him, delighted as always to see him home.
‘Come and see, Max,’ she cried, hugging his knees, then taking his hands and pulling him up the steps. ‘I’ve got a friend, Max. Come and see.’
He followed her, touched and almost frightened by the intensity of her excitement as she gestured at her reflection. She laughed, and twirled and then suddenly leaned forward and kissed her mirror image. Then she stopped and stared in delight.
‘And look, Max,’ she said. ‘You have a friend, too.’
He knew that he must take it seriously, but that he must also try to diffuse the intensity, so he stepped forward and bowed to his reflection.
‘Good day, sir,’ he said solemnly.
Cara clapped her hands together. She stood for a moment and then bowed to her own reflection.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘But now it’s time for tea and I’m starving. Come on.’
She allowed him to lead her away, downstairs, but he still felt disturbed by the depth of his small sister’s passion.
Remembering, he realizes how lonely she must have been, the late mistake in a loveless marriage. How much was her gaiety a shield against the silence and bitterness that existed between their parents; their mother’s unpredictable behaviour? And now the wheel has come full circle and Cara is alone again.
She is watching him, puzzled by his preoccupation, and he pulls himself together.
‘Yes, we’ve been lucky,’ he agrees, ‘but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t find somewhere to live here, too.’
‘The trouble with moving around so much,’ she says, ‘is that there’s been no real chance to put down roots. The house in Fulham was the nearest we ever came to it.’
‘It’s early days,’ he says. ‘Look, I need to get Oscar out for a walk. Do you feel like a yomp over Bolberry Down?’
‘Love to,’ she answers promptly.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘Let’s get going.’
Oscar is already clattering down the wooden staircase, and Cara pushes back her chair.
‘Give me a moment,’ she says, ‘and I’ll be with you.’
Max feels an awkward corner has been successfully negotiated. Tomorrow they’ll check out a couple of rentals in the town. He shrugs away Judith’s probable annoyance and follows Oscar down the stairs, whistling just below his breath. After a moment he realizes that he’s whistling the opening bars from ‘Let’s Face the Music and Dance’. He shrugs. There might well be trouble ahead but he can’t give up on Cara now.