‘I’m glad,’ Rita whispered, herself welling up. She folded the ironing board. ‘You’d better text the rabble and see how many want to come down and eat.’

  Later that evening, Rita was just getting ready to head over to the Snack Shack when she heard the crunch of tyres on the gravel courtyard. She looked out of her bedroom window expecting to see Teo back from the harbour in the Land Rover. But bold as brass in the trailer behind Jago’s tractor, standing squarely and smugly atop a bale of hay, was Camilla.

  Jago looked up to give a casual nod as he passed, barely slowing, causing Rita to take a sharp intake of breath, her heart suddenly beating an unwelcome symphony.

  Camilla gave out a loud, offended, ‘Maaaaa-aaaahh!’

  As Rita appeared at the front door, Camilla then let out a low, theatrical bleat.

  Jago shouted back over the engine. ‘I daren’t argue with a lady in her condition!’

  Rita raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m not even sure if we can get Cedric to pay the kid’s maintenance. I think she’s been pregnant more times than she’s escaped, this little harlot.’

  ‘Maybe she’s a romantic. Falls in love every spring and regrets it by autumn.’

  Rita could tell by Jago’s face just how much he regretted that comment. They shared a look, brief, loaded. Jago cleared his throat. ‘I’d have got Stan to bring her back, but he had to leave early today.’

  ‘It’s fine. Thank you.’ Just the presence of this man unsettled her. It was like the air around her was suddenly charged with electricity. He made her feel alive in a way only Archie had done before him.

  ‘Would you like me to take her up to her pen?’ Jago smiled with his eyes, that easy warmth that both comforted and confused her.

  ‘Yes, amazing. The guests are coming down for dinner soon; I’d better help Zenya.’ Rita was itching to escape the invisible pull that made her heart race, and her thoughts spin out of control. She needed space, room to breathe.

  She shut the front door behind her, the latch clicking a little harder than intended. As she walked towards the Snack Shack, Jago’s voice carried after her, low, almost uncertain. ‘My mum used to say to me that between what is said and not meant, and what is meant and not said, we can lose so much.’

  Rita paused for the briefest of moments, eyes fixed ahead. But she didn’t turn. He was the one who had said it was better if they kept away from each other. She said nothing, just kept walking, her ears open but whatever Jago Jenken wanted to say next never came.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Lola knocked gently, then wandered into the farmhouse kitchen, her purple hair scraped into a messy bun, an oversized charity-shop T-shirt hanging loosely over yoga shorts. Her face was light pink from being in the outdoors for so long. She paused in the doorway, nose twitching as she caught the scent of something unfamiliar, her colourful water bottle clutched in one hand. ‘Is that actual coffee I smell?’ she asked, mock horror on her face. ‘As in, non-fair-trade, non-locally sourced, possibly rainforest-murdering coffee?’ She laughed.

  Zenya, busy making some raspberry jam from the fruit-laden plants in the vegetable patch, raised an eyebrow. Rita, who was checking supplies in the fridge, grinned. ‘You know it’s organic and shade-grown, thank you very much. I don’t even have to recycle the guilt anymore, thanks to you.’

  Lola let out a faux dramatic sigh of relief and crossed to one of the bench seats in the marquee. ‘I was after some water, actually. I ran out from my breakfast pack.’

  Rita went to hand her a plastic bottle out of the fridge and then quickly retracted it. ‘Oops. I am getting better, Lola, thanks to you. I kind of wish there were more adverts telling us what we shouldn’t be buying packaging wise and how exactly to recycle everything.’

  ‘It’s not bloody brain surgery,’ the young woman replied flippantly.

  ‘I know, I know but we get set in our recycling ways, don’t we?’ Rita took Lola’s bottle. ‘I’m more than happy to fill it but just so you know the outhouse sink is mains and drinkable. Next time you come, if you want to, that is, there will be more facilities out there for you. Better showers et cetera, too.’

  Lola sighed, shoulders dropping. ‘I must sound like cracked record, but I’ve been reading a lot lately. And watching, like, really watching, the nature documentaries, and I can’t stop thinking about it. I know people get mad at the climate protestors, but like, what if we’ve already screwed it all up? What if it’s too late? Rising temperatures, mass extinctions, rainforests destroyed, plastic in the reefs, the Arctic ice melting. It’s all happening so fast.’

  Rita softened. ‘I know. It’s overwhelming when you do pay attention.’

  ‘David Attenborough is in his nineties and still fighting.’ Lola’s voice was now thick with emotion. ‘He should be swinging in a hammock, relaxing in the sunshine, not begging us to stop destroying our planet.’

  ‘I have a weird crush on him,’ Zenya piped up, pushing a teaspoon of jam across a saucer to check it had set. ‘He’s amazing. A beautiful, brilliant force helping us to listen and understand. And sadly, most people are too busy or ignorant to care.’

  Rita looked to Lola. ‘But you care. You’re influencing people in real ways, not just some face forcing us to buy the next best wrinkle cream or to take some expensive collagen shots that the promoters would probably never even consider touching their own lips.’

  ‘Maybe I need to rethink. Maybe it’s not about having thousands of followers.’ Lola took another drink. ‘Perhaps I/we should be convincing one person at a time to bring their own coffee cup or switch to shampoo bars and asking them to pass it on. We don’t have time to get this wrong, Rita. And sometimes it feels like everyone’s still asleep.’

  Rita nodded slowly. ‘Well, I shall do my bit to make this place as sustainable as possible.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ Zenya added, putting jars in the Aga to sterilise.

  With Zenya now busy in the Snack Shack and Lola away to the bus stop for a trip down to the harbour, Rita had just sat down to enjoy her second cup of coffee at the kitchen table, when the back door creaked open and Jude poked his head round.

  ‘Morning.’ The bookseller sounded tentative. ‘Sorry to barge in, Rita, but do you know where Teo is? We’ve arranged to lunch in the orchard.’

  ‘Have you now.’ Rita smirked. ‘Did you try the annexe? I saw him come back from a run earlier; maybe he’s showering.’

  ‘Ah, I didn’t think.’

  ‘So, if it’s not too nosy, how’s it going?’ Rita took a sip of coffee.

  Jude gave her a look. ‘Well, we are still at the talking-into-the-early-hours-of-the-morning stage. I’ve been walking around like the happiest of zombies all week.’

  ‘Aw, I love this for you both…’ She stuck out her bottom lip. ‘And I’d forgotten how amazing new love is.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure if it’s love yet.’ Jude winked. ‘But there’s a healthy dose of lust going on.’

  Rita felt sad for a moment, and Jude clocked the change in her expression. ‘You’ll find it again, Rita. You’re far too beautiful for someone not to fall for you… someone who won’t be able to bear being anywhere but by your side.’

  ‘You should write a book.’ Rita laughed.

  ‘Or next best thing, become a bookseller, eh?’ Jude pushed his glasses back up his nose and grinned. They both noticed Teo walking across the courtyard.

  ‘Go to your boy.’ Rita smiled.

  ‘To love again, I felt my heart consenting.’ Jude declared dramatically.

  ‘Who wrote that?’

  ‘I just made it up.’ Jude grinned, blowing her a theatrical kiss. As he headed for the front door, he was completely unaware of how deeply that quote had struck a chord with her, too.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The next day, the rain had stopped, making way for another beautiful summer morning. Rita quietly placed the last breakfast hamper against Michael’s yurt then crept across the top of the field to the Singing Tree. The morning was still. Not silent, however, with gulls wheeling overhead and the soft rushing of the tide far below.

  Something about the other night on the beach had helped her to find her inner boho. Had made her dig out clothes that she had always felt she wanted to be wearing but hadn’t felt confident enough lately to do so. Wearing a loose, tiered maxi skirt in a rich rust-red, a soft cream vest showing just a flash of midriff and a floppy sunhat, she could easily have come straight from the Glastonbury Festival. Sitting on Archie’s bench with a sigh, her eyes drifted out to sea, and she let herself think of Jago. Of the way he’d looked at her yesterday. Of the kindness in his eyes, and the hurt and the danger of sorts.

  Then, inevitably, she thought of Paul, and despite the sheer wildness on her part, how tender the whole encounter had been. She also realised that she hadn’t spoken to Sennen in a while, or Kelly for that matter. And then Thom, whose name landed like a stone in her gut. Her boy. Her beautiful, distant, furious boy. Her dear old dad had always said if she had a tantrum to think about ‘what the matter was really’. Because nine times out of ten it wasn’t what she had been kicking off about. ‘Thom, what is it?’ she said aloud as if the tree would have the answer for her.

  A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. She brushed it away with the heel of her hand, half annoyed with herself. But it didn’t stop the ache. She leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sea breeze lift her hair and the faint rustle of the Singing Tree whisper above her. Somewhere in the wind, she could almost hear Archie’s voice, quiet, knowing, full of that dry old humour. Another tear fell. Just then, a white feather floated lazily through the air, dancing its way to the ground and landing at her feet, right by the entrance to the old cubby hole.

  Heart skipping, she bent forward, slipped her hand inside, and, groping blindly, her fingers brushed against folded paper. With a small gasp, she pulled it free.

  Another note. Neatly typed. Familiar.

  Her hands trembled as she unfolded it.

  When the time is right, you will start looking

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ she shouted, her voice cracking as she shoved the note into her pocket. Tears began to stream down her face. Whoever it was, she thought, they were trying to tell her something, something she needed to hear. It had to be Hilda. She was the only one who seemed to have been looking out for her lately, in her own Hilda way. But maybe it was time to stop wondering who and why and start listening to what the notes were saying instead. Because whoever was leaving them wasn’t just doing it for fun.

  She was aware of someone approaching, soft footsteps on the earth. ‘Rita?’ Paul’s voice was low, gentle.

  She startled, and turned to greet him, wiping hurriedly at her cheeks. ‘Hello,’ she said through a watery smile.

  ‘Hello, you.’ Paul’s eyes crinkled with mischief. His faded band T-shirt and a pair of tatty cargo shorts that hung low on his hips, revealing just a hint of tattoo ink curling around one thigh, made him look effortlessly cool.

  ‘You’re here for your peace and quiet, not a hysterical woman breaking all of the above.’

  ‘We’re all human,’ Paul soothed. ‘And you were far from hysterical the other night.’ He smirked, then softly said, ‘I can’t even imagine how difficult it must have been for you, being with someone new.’

  Rita sniffed loudly. ‘And you made it so easy, thank you.’

  ‘Sometimes us humans just need to feel things. If we don’t feel sadness or anger or fear or love or hate or any other feeling I can’t think of at the moment’ – Paul smiled – ‘then how boring would life be. Get it out, lady, I say.’

  ‘And what about us?’ She swallowed, then began to gabble. ‘I’m worried, worried that if I don’t take things further, I’ll upset you. I don’t want to make it weird between us, either, and I don’t think I want a relationship. And I think you’re amazing and…’

  Paul put his hand to his chest and gave her a slow, reassuring smile.

  Rita sighed. ‘I’m so naïve with relationships. All I’ve known is Archie for the past twenty-five years.’

  ‘And how lovely is that?’ Paul added, squeezing her hand tightly. ‘Rita, the other night, it was a beautiful moment in time. No expectations, no strings attached. Like I said on the beach. Just that moment. Pure and simple.’

  He reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘You’re a gorgeous person, Rita. But that doesn’t mean I want a relationship with you either. That night, I’ll never forget it. And I hope you don’t either. I’d like it to be the start of many happy moments for you. And I’m pretty stoked to be able to say I was your first.’ He smirked.

  Rita laughed. Paul sighed deeply. ‘You… this place… have helped me so much, you know. It’s released something in me, too. Encouraged me to start writing a song. Even got the guitar out the other night; we all had a sing-along.’

  ‘No way!’ Rita sniffed, her eyes still glistening from the tears.

  ‘Yes, way. And I intend to finish it. And I’m not saying any more, but I think you’ll like it.’

  Rita exhaled, a fragile smile breaking through. She looked out to the timeless expanse of ocean, then back at Paul, feeling a warmth she hadn’t expected.

  ‘I love that fact! And as for that night, it will be a moment to hold on to whenever I feel like I’m falling.’

  ‘Exactly that.’ Paul nodded, squeezing her hand gently. ‘But let’s hope there won’t be too much more of that, eh?’ He lifted her hand and kissed it. ‘It’s just so peaceful here, isn’t it.’

  Then, ATCHOO!

  They both jumped. Paul glanced toward the sound and grinned. ‘Well, it was. Before Michael’s sneeze just declared war on tranquillity.’

  Rita laughed out loud.

  ‘That’s better, sweet cheeks.’ Paul grinned.

  Rita yawned loudly. ‘Right, I’d better see what Annie’s doing. I’m taking her down to the harbour to show her the delights of Reformer Pilates.’

  ‘Good luck with that.’ Paul chuckled. ‘I’m sticking to a deckchair and Thomas Hardy today, I think.’

  A smiling Rita stood up. ‘You’re the best, Paul Best.’

  Paul gave a mock bow. ‘Quite simply.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The Seahaven Bay Reformer Pilates studio smelled deliciously of Jilly’s grapefruit perfume when Rita pushed open its door, swiftly followed by Annie, wearing tight yoga pants and a huge baggy T-shirt with Minnie Mouse on it.

  Jilly had the back doors wide open, letting in the sea breeze and the occasional squawk of a furious gull who’d been denied someone’s half-eaten pasty.

  ‘Right, ladies!’ Jilly clapped her hands. ‘Shoes off, dignity optional. Let’s stretch our souls and our hamstrings, shall we?’

  Rita nudged a nervous Annie forward. ‘Come on, it’ll be good for your back. And our moods.’

  ‘I don’t trust a woman in full make-up who can touch her toes,’ Annie muttered, pulling her T-shirt down over her wobbly bits.

  ‘Oi.’ Jilly overheard, as always. ‘This woman in full make-up can not only touch her toes, love, but once got cramp whilst doing a reverse cowgirl and still managed to fake an orgasm. So, less lip, more lunge.’

  ‘I’m loving that studio rule.’ Annie laughed.

  Rita shook her head. ‘Not sure I am.’

  The pair mounted the Reformer machines awkwardly. Jilly expertly adjusted springs and straps, while Rita attempted to look graceful and Annie looked like she was preparing for childbirth.

  After forty-five minutes, Annie’s hair had burst free from its scrunchie, and she was sweating in places she’d forgotten existed. ‘Why do people pay good money to feel like a hog trussed up for roasting?’ She panted and strained against the foot bar.

  Jilly lay back on her machine and opened her legs in a V, so wide she could’ve done semaphore.

  ‘Ooh, I can do this one all right.’ Annie laughed, widening her legs as far as she dared. ‘Although it’s been a while.’

  Jilly laughed. ‘I hear you, sister, and ignore the pain; Pilates is just so good for your back and your core. You’re on the final exercise now – pelvic curls. Heels up on the foot bar. You will thank me next time you sneeze and don’t wet yourself.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh,’ Rita added. ‘Or I might actually wet myself now.’

  They were silent for a few minutes, aside from a few cracks, exhales and the occasional muttered swear.

  Then, unexpectedly, Annie said, ‘Do you think we let men get away with too much?’

  Jilly paused mid-pelvic curl.

  ‘I mean’ – Annie’s voice wobbled – ‘I’m on the dating apps, you know. The last one, Sean, his name was. Couldn’t even plan a date. Just kept saying he was busy, but not too busy to ask if I’d send him a nude photo. We hadn’t even exchanged last names. And what did I do, took over an hour getting in a position where the tits looked big, the stomach looked passable, and turning my ankle on the high heels that I’ve only ever worn once to a day racing at Royal Ascot.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Rita sighed. ‘I’m so out of the dating game, I can’t even imagine going into it like that.’

  ‘It’s worse than awful.’ Annie lay back flat on the machine, talking to the ceiling. ‘I told him to piss off, eventually. But I still felt… used, I guess? Dating is so difficult, right now with men offering such low effort with high expectation.’

  Jilly slowly rolled up from her machine, suddenly serious.

  ‘Sweetheart, I’ve been there. It’s a minefield. And let me tell you something, it’s not just the men taking the piss. It’s us letting them, too. Because we think if we ask for more, they’ll leg it.’