The image of Jake seducing me anywhere at all is actually a very enticing one, but I understand what he is saying. He is backing off, in the nicest way possible. He is giving me a way out of the maze. He is allowing me the distance I need to decide which way is up.
I nod, and follow him up the wooden steps, Larry at my heels. Breathing space. Maybe that is exactly what I need – exactly what I was looking for when I threw my bags in the back of Mark’s car and ran.
“Hey,” I say, as we pause outside the inn, “if I did stay, does that mean you’d be my patient?”
He stares at me and laughs out loud.
“Not a chance in hell,” he replies, firmly. “I’d rather go and see Dr Wong.”
ChapterTwenty-Three
I wake up the next morning to be greeted by the first bad weather I’ve seen in Starshine Cove. I pull open the curtains in my room, and gaze out at a slate-grey sky and slashes of rain hammering down onto the bay. A few dog walkers are out there, raincoats on and hoods up, determined to battle their way through the elements.
“Maybe this is a sign,” I say to Larry, who is chasing a loose sock around the floor. “Maybe this is nature’s way of telling me to leg it.”
Except, I realise, as I stare out to sea, it is still just as beautiful. In some ways, even more so, the clouds and the gloom and the tiny stripes of fugitive sun giving the view a certain romantic broodiness. It has gone from being a picture-postcard perfect vision to being the kind of place where Lord Byron or Wordsworth might stride forth, creating works of poetic genius. I can imagine this view in snow, and sleet, and storm – and I think I’d probably still think it was gorgeous.
I drag myself away, get dressed, feed Larry, and realise that whatever I decide, my time in this room has come to an end. I pack my belongings, tidy up the bed, look around with a sense of melancholy. I remember being little, and my parents having this ritual whenever we stayed anywhere – we’d walk around, saying goodbye to everything, on the morning we left.
It feels fitting to resurrect it, and I wander my domain, announcing ‘Goodbye, bath!’, and ‘Farewell, wardrobe!’, and ‘So long, candy-stripe duvet cover!’
Larry looks at me like I’ve lost the plot, and I pause in the doorway, feeling a simmering sense of sadness. I close the door behind me, wondering if another will open.
We head down the steep and twisting steps, my suitcase bouncing and jarring as we go, and I stop to catch my breath at the bottom. I look out at the inn, the tables laid for breakfast, the other guests with their wheelie bags and coats and the resigned looks of people whose holiday has come to an end.
They will be loading cars, filling petrol tanks, setting routes on their satnavs. They will be heading home to whatever the week ahead has in store for them – work, kids, family. They will be saying goodbye to Starshine Cove, and telling their friends about it, trying and failing to point it out on maps. Perhaps they will take souvenirs: pebbles from the beach or knick-knacks from the Emporium or cakes from the bakery – perhaps they will already be planning a return trip next year.
I know nothing about these people, and probably never will – we are ships passing in summer, bumping hulls on our way to somewhere else.
I see Jake behind the bar, and our eyes meet. He smiles, and nods at me, but stays where he is. He is giving me my breathing space, and I am grateful. Being near him is confusing; it clouds my mind, makes my senses whirl like a compass spinning when a magnet is too close.
I nod back, and drag the case outside. Larry is keen to go, seeing me head to the car and expecting a full day of superlative adventuring, new things to pee on, novel dogs to sniff, fresh treats to steal. I open up the boot, stash the case next to my medical bag, and close it firmly. I am packed. I am ready.
The rain has calmed to a steady drizzle, and I pull my hoodie up around my hair as I walk firmly away. Larry yaps once at my change of direction, then follows.
Together, we walk past Trevor’s Emporium, the usual racks of postcards and almanacs and copies of his history booklet safely moved inside. We pass the bakery, both of us involuntarily sniffing at the aroma of freshly baked bread. I glance upwards, notice the tiny porthole window, its yellow curtains closed.
We move on in front of George’s cottage, where Larry stares down the path towards the door, ears raised and shaggy head turned on one angle as he listens out for Lottie.
We make our way across the little side street that is home to Connie and her children, and I hear a blast of angry guitar music wafting from a window that must be Dan’s.
We cross the green, where not so long ago I first witnessed the joys of Mystery Cricket as I ate raspberry cheesecake and drank lemonade and wondered if I’d slipped into an alternative reality. I’m still not sure I haven’t.
The patio is empty today, the umbrellas dripping rain onto soaked stone, the windows of the café steamed up from so many customers sitting inside. Larry stays close by my side, nervous at the presence of so many people he doesn’t know, and I spot Connie dropping off an order to a table full of men in walking gear. She nimbly jumps over their walking poles and heads back to the counter, spotting me as she approaches.
She looks up at me, and her face is a picture of restraint – I know how hard it is for Connie to stay quiet for more than a few seconds, and suspect she might explode if she tries to do it for too long. She raises her eyebrows at me as I sit on one of the tall stools by the counter.
“Okay,” I say finally, putting us both out of our misery. “I’m in.”
She laughs and claps her hands and does a little dance, and I grin along with her. I don’t think even I’d known what I was going to say until the words came out of my mouth.
“I have conditions, though,” I add seriously.
She nods so hard her curls waggle, and replies: “Anything!”
“I need some kind of rear entrance to the surgery, so people can come and go in private – I know you probably all have a hive mind, but let’s at least try for some confidentiality. I’ll need some new equipment. And, most importantly of all, no more winding me up about pretend naked karaoke.”
“Oh,” she says, frowning, “does that mean we’ll have to start doing it for real?”
