That was then. Now I’m feeling more human, an angry voice is telling me to ring him. Ring him and demand an explanation. Why should he be allowed off the hook so easily? To get away without having to see or speak to me again? Sail off into the sunset with his bit on the surfboard? He owes me an apology at the very least! How bloody dare he treat me like this! Then a different voice whispers a few pertinent questions in my ear. Isn’t all this indignant fierceness just bluster? Isn’t it really hope, in a kick-ass disguise, sneaking in at three a.m. by the back door, like a teenager on her last warning? Isn’t this phone call nothing but a way of hearing his voice again, even though the conversation will crucify me? Am I expecting a miracle? Do I want Josh to say he’s made a terrible mistake, to say he’s sorry and beg me to marry him or something? Pathetic.

  My weary head flops back onto the pillows like a punchbag under an invisible fist. What the hell should I do? To phone, or not to phone? That is the question. Or one of them. Many others are packing a suitcase and queuing up on my tongue’s runway. I swallow them and make a decision. Sod it. I’m phoning him. I can’t just cut him out without a word. I need closure. A bloody stupid phrase, but it fits my reasoning. Before I can talk myself out of it, I jab my finger at his number so hard my nail bends. Ouch.

  ‘Hello, Sen. How are you doing?’ A cough follows, but this time I know it’s false.

  ‘No better then?’

  ‘Getting there… Still not up to working though.’

  ‘Or seeing me?’

  ‘Not really, hon. I would hate you to catch it.’

  ‘You don’t mind Surfer Girl catching it though, eh?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The girl that you were snogging the face off in the café at Fistral a few days back. You know, the one that Jasmine saw you with. Unless she’s one of many women you’re seeing?’

  The silence between us is wide and deep. Echoing around inside it, I can hear my heartbeat thudding in my ears, and hope throwing me ridiculous scenarios. This is the bit where he denies it, asks me if I’ve lost my mind, says Jas was mistaken, says he has a long-lost twin he didn’t know about until last week. This is the bit where I wake up from a nightmare, sans hangover, in a sun-drenched room, with happy little bluebirds tweeting at me from my windowsill. The bit where all the red flags I’ve ignored ostrich-like have been figments of my imagination. This is the bit where I get to carry on with my life and live happily ever after.

  Josh blows the silence away with long heavy breath. ‘No. No, she isn’t one of many. I didn’t want you to find out like this, Sennen. But at least it’s done now. I was going to tell you soon. Real soon. But I think I’m a bit of a coward.’

  The birds fly from the windowsill into a thunderstorm and the phone trembles in my fingers. No denial, no excuses, no apology… Nausea rolls again, but this time it has nothing to do with the booze. Tremors rack my whole body, and I can’t find my voice for a moment. When I do, it’s loud and angry and injured. ‘You think? YOU THINK! How long have you been cheating on me, you spineless bastard!’

  ‘Not long. It wasn’t planned, just happened.’ Josh’s tone is calm. Collected. Detached.

  ‘Bet she’s a client.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Your eyes met across a surfboard, hm?’ Hot, angry tears stream down my face. I wipe them away with the duvet. There’s no way I’m breaking down in front of him.

  ‘Something like that.’

  His detached, almost bored tone pushes my buttons. ‘So, what happened, Josh, eh? Just fancied a change after two years?’

  ‘As I said, it wasn’t planned. Erm … think I was beginning to feel pushed into a corner, if I’m honest.’ A sigh. ‘You know, with you always wanting to talk about moving things on, settling down. All that domestic stuff. It’s not me.’

  ‘No. We all know you’re a free spirit, a rebel, an inspired-by-nature boy,’ I mimic the wistful way his voice sounds when outlining the description of himself he’s so fond of sharing with me. And I fell for it, didn’t I? Made excuses for him to my parents, told myself I loved his free spirt, his refusal to be tamed and tied down. I had to admit to myself that the truth had been filtering through my blindfold for some time though, growing brighter and brighter, until I was blinded by it. So, what did I do? Shoved my head in the sand where it was nice and dark – blotted it out.

  His reply is bitter and sharp. ‘Nice to know what you really think of me.’

  ‘Oh please. Don’t make me out to be the bad guy.’

  ‘Well, I’m not the bad guy either, Sen. I just follow my heart. Life’s too short to be doing stuff—’

  ‘That you don’t have to. Yeah. You have mentioned that a few times!’ I thump my fist down on the pillow, wishing it was his smug face.

  ‘Okay. I think we’re done here. You’re bringing me down, big time.’

  ‘Ha! I’m bringing YOU down?’ I’m incredulous. ‘After what you’ve just pulled! You haven’t even had the decency to apologise!’

  ‘Okay. I’m sorry you’re upset. But it’s for the best. You need some family guy – a pipe and slippers dude – and that’s not me.’

  ‘You condescending bastard! You don’t have the first clue about what I need! In fact, you don’t care about anyone but yourself. It’s all about you, isn’t it, Josh!’ Realisation strikes home like a hammer blow and I add quietly, ‘It’s only ever really been about you.’

  ‘Bye, Sen. It was good while it lasted. You’ll meet someone else and—’

  I cut him off. A range of emotions – rage, sadness, humiliation and bewilderment – twist themselves into a tornado and surge through me, bashing around my insides like a trapped demon. I howl, thump my fists into the pillow some more, throw stuff, swear, cry and then fall silent as numbness creeps across me like shadows at twilight. Staring at a crack in the ceiling, my thoughts idle, my gut hollow, I let my body float. Leaden eyelids plunge me into welcome darkness and, totally exhausted, I give myself to sleep.

  Another missed call from Jasmine. I consider switching it from silent, but instead, shove the phone back under the cushion on the sofa and dig a spoon deeper into the tub of chocolate-chip ice-cream as big as my head. Really? What a cliché. Girl gets dumped. Girl sits on sofa stuffing herself with ice-cream and crisps while watching mindless rubbish on TV for three hours. Guilt, don’t forget that, Sennen. Guilt has added to the self-pity fest. Poor Uncle Pete. I think again about how I worried the hell out of him by not opening the shop today. He’d popped round to Sea Spray to see how things were going, only to find it closed, so he’d phoned me. I’d explained the situation and made him promise not to tell my parents. I couldn’t cope with Mum racing over here demanding to know all the ins and outs.

  Licking the spoon, I consider Jasmine. I really ought to ring her or she’ll be round too. I’ve missed four of her calls since switching the phone off after the Uncle Pete conversation. I shovel three or four more spoonfuls of ice-cream into my mouth and pull the phone from behind the cushion. This is not a call I want to make. Not what I want to be doing at all – reliving the horrible truth of what happened today – when I’ve so nicely hidden it under a pile of junk food. But needs must.

  ‘Thank God! I was just putting my coat on to come over. You okay?’

  ‘Um, yeah. Kind of.’

  ‘Did you contact Josh?’

  I tell her as quickly as possible about what happened and pretend I’m someone else. Someone in a play reciting rehearsed lines to a faceless audience. Detaching myself from reality, so I can stop myself from weeping and wailing down the phone. ‘So, time to move on. I’m not wasting any more time over that shithead.’

  ‘Oh, mate, I feel for you. I’ve been there.’

  ‘Yeah. I know. Thanks.’

  ‘I must say, you seem remarkably calm. Must be the shock.’

  ‘Nah. I was really upset earlier, but I’ve cried my last tears over him. He doesn’t deserve them.’

  ‘That’s for damned sure.’ Jas sighs. ‘Didn’t you have any suspicions about him at all?’

  ‘Um, if I’m honest, I did…’ My mind replays scenes of Josh saying he had to go here, there and everywhere whenever I suggested he came round to my parents, or I go to his. Or the way he’d always changed the subject when I’d talked about the future, or the one time when he said he’d been out with his mate Nathan, but then Nathan had seemed surprised when I’d seen him in the street the next day and mentioned it. He’d covered well, but the guilty lie was written all over his face.

  ‘Oh, right… Why didn’t you say anything to him?’ Jasmine’s question is loaded with pity and I have to swallow hard before answering.

  ‘Because I was doing the ostrich. Sticking my head in the sand, pretending I was imagining things. Making excuses, blaming myself for not being interesting enough or attractive enough to make him want to see me more, and move in with me. I was so in love with him, Jas. I couldn’t bear to think of life without him. Pathetic, I know.’ This being strong act is falling apart, and I press my fists into my eyes to stop tears forming.

  ‘Now listen to me, young lady. You are not pathetic! He’s the pathetic one. Look, are you sure you don’t want me to come over?’

  I close my eyes and release a calming breath. ‘No. Thanks for offering, but I’m going to ring our Ruan, he will be furious at Josh, and want to rehash it all. But me and my little bro have always confided in each other, as you know, no matter how painful the subject is. Then I’ll be ready for my bed and then off to the shop early tomorrow morning to make up for today. I’ll make a few pots too.’

  ‘Okay. Well, we’ll catch up in a few days.’

  ‘Yeah.’ And then to end on an upbeat note, I say, ‘By then I’ll expect lots of juicy information about your first date with the delectable Rob.’

  ‘Ha! There won’t be one. I haven’t seen nor heard from him.’

  ‘You will if Nancy’s right.’

  ‘Hmm. And I expect news of TT and the mysterious Nancarrow House.’

  Surprised, I say, ‘What? There’s no point in finding out about all that now, is there? I wanted the parting glass to help me decide if’ – I twist my fist into my eyes again and clear my throat – ‘if Josh was the one.’

  ‘I know, love … but you also wanted to find it because you thought you’d feel close to your gran. The last thing you did together – a way of honouring her memory.’

  Thoughts of Gran wrap around me like a hug and before I can stop them, tears form and fall silently down my cheeks. ‘Hmm. I’ll see. Night, Jas.’

  Ending the call, I close my eyes and let memories of sunny days with Gran on the beach act like a soothing balm on my tired, sad heart. I open my eyes and say to the ceiling, ‘What do you think I should do, Gran? Look for the parting glass, or leave it alone?’ I picture her face. She doesn’t answer, but there’s a wistful smile playing across her lips. I think that tells me all I need to know.

  Chapter Seven

  Where has the time gone? The calendar tells me it’s the fifteenth of October. Weeks have run into each other, and I’ve got through them by putting one foot in front of the other. Each step I’ve taken into the future has been easier than the one before, and Josh has been left further behind in the past. I’d be lying if I said I was over him, or that I don’t sometimes lie awake at night allowing memories of us together to torture me, but the proverbial corner has been turned. I think. I hope.

  One day at a time, as my mum said to me when I broke the news, weeping and wailing on her shoulder and then collapsing in a snotty heap. I smile as I grab my car keys and leave my flat. Dear Mum, I’m lucky to have her. Since then, she’s been very supportive and clearly secretly glad Josh is off the scene, though she’s never spelled it out. Her feelings on some things I can read plainly. Undetectable and unspoken to others, to me they flash like neon signs on a dark night. My brother Ruan was more explicit. I know he’s never really liked Josh because he told me, said he was up himself and false. But would I listen? No. Ruan said he was sorry I was hurting, but relieved that I was free of the lying, conniving, cheating pile of horseshit. And Dad? Dad is Dad. Nothing really fazes him. He gave me a quick hug and said, ‘What will be, will be.’ And how could I argue with that sound philosophy? Laughing at the thought of him having a fit recently because one of his assistants had forgotten to order some shrimps, his face as pink as a cooked one, I get behind the wheel and start the car.

  A crisp blue autumn sky stretches a smile across Daymer Bay, and under the direction of an offshore breeze, a host of red and yellow leaves dance the Twist around the carpark. Out of the car, I have an urge to join in the dance, as the scent of autumn mingles with the salty air and a couple of oystercatchers swoop down to the shoreline. Once I’ve immersed myself in the scene and my senses have had their fill, I zip up my fur-lined parka, pull my yellow wellies on and set off up the coastal path to see what’s happened to Nancarrow House in my absence. I’m glad I decided not to contact Tremaine Nancarrow. I’ll wait until there’s some activity up at the house before I ask to see inside the old place. And if all fails, despite wanting to be above board and ask permission to explore the forgotten beach, I can ask Uncle Pete to ferry me over one day. The parting glass is the most important thing on my agenda, and nobody’s going to know, are they? For now, I’m just here to enjoy a walk and look at the house again. It’s daft, but I have to admit to myself that there’s a fascination with it – I’m drawn towards it. Towards this area. Maybe Gran’s got a hand in it, somehow. She’d be thrilled that I’m interested in her past, and in the place where she met the one she wanted to ‘walk alongside’.

  Nancarrow House is a run-down hulk of a thing, clinging to the clifftop like a novice climber who has lost their footing. As I draw nearer, an unexpected rush of sadness for the building swells in my chest, coupled with irritation that the owners had let it come to this. If they didn’t use it, why not sell it on? Thankfully, this poor old thing is set to be restored to its former glory, according to Mum’s text message this morning. She’d heard it from Bob Simmonds, the local builder and next-door neighbour but two. Bob is a jovial type who’d never got fed up with me singing Bob the Builder to him when I was a kid. Apparently, he and his crew have been given the job by, presumably, Tremaine Nancarrow. I take a deep breath of sea air and turn my face to the wind.

  On it comes the unmistakable sound of construction. Banging, hammering, the rumble of a digger. So, they have begun already. Quickening my pace, I arrive at the gateposts just as the digger coughs out a mouthful of soil onto the path at my feet.

  ‘Oops! Good job I saw you, there!’ Bob says, with a surprised smile, his weather-beaten face reminiscent of an old leather handbag. ‘What brings you up here, Sennen?’

  I briefly consider telling him I’m doing a survey of private beaches as Jasmine suggested, but then realise it’s easier to tell a partial truth. ‘My gran used to deliver bread here years back and Mum said she loved this old place. Just wanted to have a look round.’ I smile and look over to where his workmates are cutting back some foliage. ‘What exactly are you doing to it?’

  Bob gets down from the cab and turns the engine off. ‘We’re clearing the grounds a bit so we can get to the brickwork properly.’ He reaches in a rucksack and pulls out a flask. ‘Then we’re going to repair the mortar and various other bits and bobs, maybe a new roof, or at least half a one.’ He pours what looks like a cup of sludge and takes a swallow. ‘Want a coffee?’ He points at the flask.

  ‘No thanks, Bob. And what about inside? Does it need much doing to it?’

  The old handbag face rearranges itself into a thoughtful expression. ‘Only decorating and refurbishment, really. Definitely needs a new bathroom. It’s not been used much since the 1990s. And the decor is at least ten years older than that. Very outdated.’

  ‘Hmm. I suppose it would be,’ I say, looking up at the house.

  ‘Could do with a dampcourse too.’ He takes more coffee and points a meaty finger towards the grounds. ‘Garden needs an overhaul, as you can see. There’s even talk of a swimming pool being put out the back.’ Bob says this as if he thinks the money could be used in better ways.

  ‘So, who’s going to live in it after all that?’

  ‘Mr Nancarrow. Tremaine. He’s the son of Julian Nancarrow, the one who upped and left to go to London in the 1990s. Seems like Tremaine wants to have a bolthole, as he put it, for weekends and stuff.’

  I know the answer already, but it seems as if Bob has a mine of information ready to tap into. ‘This Tremaine’s from London, then?’ Bob nods and pulls a sandwich from a Tupperware box. ‘Has he got a family?’

  Bob takes a huge bite of what looks to be ham and cheese and the handbag manoeuvres around it. ‘No idea,’ he mumbles from the side of his mouth. ‘He said his parents are still in London, I think he’s the only son.’

  ‘And he’s not married?’

  Bob’s dark eyebrows knit over his deep-set brown eyes. ‘How come you’re so interested in Mr Nancarrow then, Sennen?’

  ‘I’m not really,’ I say in a small voice, and turn away so he won’t see that I might possibly be fibbing. ‘Just curious.’

  ‘Well, he’s in there right now if you want to go and ask more questions.’ Bob gestures at the house with what’s left of the sandwich. ‘He might even make you a cup of tea.’ The twinkle in his eye tells me that’s never going to happen.

  I manage a little laugh and turn my back to the house. ‘Yeah, as if.’ Then to cover my tracks I tell Bob all about how my gran used to walk over from Polzeath with fresh bread every day and how things were all so different back in the 1950s, and could he imagine anyone doing that nowadays? I don’t tell him about her and Jory, but I tell him about her box of memories and some of the things we found in there. I’m rambling on purpose, and Bob’s eyes start to glaze over, and his polite expression looks fixed on with concrete.