Meet Me at Beachcomber Bay: A delicious Cornish romance

by Jill Mansell

  She nodded, then looked up at him. ‘Does it get better? Easier?’

  ‘It does, I promise. Little by little.’

  ‘Thank you. You’re being so kind.’ Moving forward with him as he reached over for the bottle and refilled their glasses, Kate said, ‘Don’t you have somewhere else you’re meant to be? You can’t want to spend a whole evening stuck here with a crying machine.’

  ‘Let me be the one to decide that.’ Ronan liked the way she came out with whatever was in her head. He smiled. ‘I’m not bored yet.’

  To be clear, there had been drink involved. But not huge amounts. As the evening had worn on and a second bottle of wine had been opened, they’d carried on talking. The conversation had ranged in all directions, Kate’s tears had dried and the mood had lightened. Somehow, too, it had never seemed necessary for Ronan to remove his arm from her shoulders. His fingers had continued to stroke the back of her neck. Then proximity had turned into kissing … lots of kissing … and eventually he’d taken her by the hand and led her into the bedroom, and as they’d undressed each other Kate had murmured, ‘Sure you’re not bored?’

  Three hours later, as a glimmer of moonlight shone through the gap at the very top of the curtains, Ronan tilted his head to one side and saw that it was almost midnight. Operation Cheer Up Kate hadn’t been pre-planned but it had certainly seemed to do the trick; following an extremely enjoyable hour or so, they’d both fallen asleep.

  He glanced across at her. She was breathing deeply and evenly, lying on her side, her bare legs intertwined with his and her left arm resting across his chest. Her lashes cast dark shadows across her cheekbones and her loose blond hair, spread across the pillow, smelt faintly of apple shampoo. Breaking into a slow smile, Ronan marvelled at the way the evening had turned out. Talk about unexpected. And it was even more incredible when you thought how unlikely—

  RAP-RAP-RAP.

  Ronan froze. What the hell? Someone was outside his bedroom window, tapping on the glass. Next to him in the bed, Kate briefly stirred before settling again.

  Ten seconds passed, then twenty. Ronan realised he’d been holding his breath. Maybe they’d given up and gone away.

  RAP-RAP-RAP-RAP-RAP. Louder this time, and more insistent. Kate’s eyes snapped open. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Someone’s tapping on the window.’ His mouth was dry.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ This wasn’t true; he was ninety-five per cent certain he knew who was currently standing less than six feet away from them on the other side of the glass.

  Much as he’d prefer it to be a burglar, he was pretty sure the midnight visitor was Laura.

  Oh God.

  RAP-RAP-RAPPITY-RAP.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Ronan whispered.

  ‘If someone’s trying to break in, you should probably call the police,’ Kate murmured back. ‘Then again, if they’re trying to break in, they’re being very polite about it.’ As she said the words, she gave him a knowing look.

  Easing himself out of bed, Ronan moved silently through to the living room, located his phone on the floor next to the sofa and returned to the bedroom. As he slid back into bed, he saw the most recent text light up the screen.

  The most recent text of very many that had been sent during the last two hours.

  Ronan, your car’s outside, I know you’re at home. Let me in, I need to see you. We need to talk properly.

  ‘Oh no we don’t.’ He said the words under his breath and gave Kate’s hand a squeeze. ‘It’s OK, she’ll go away soon enough.’

  Please God …

  Then they heard her voice, strained with emotion. ‘Ronan, you can’t do this to me! I love you! Let me in.’

  All in all, the next minutes surely ranked among the most calamitously awkward of Ronan’s life. Since letting Laura into the flat clearly wasn’t an option, all he could do was lie there next to Kate and wait it out, while they both listened to his ex-girlfriend cajoling and begging, shouting tearful insults and, most excruciating of all, reading aloud a poem she’d written about their great love for each other.

  Despite the fact that the great love existed only in her mind.

  Ronan, his eyes closed, felt mortified on Laura’s behalf. She’d evidently spent a lot of time on the poem. Even if she had tried to make the word heaven rhyme with leaving.

  ‘So now my heart is broken, like an egg, And all that’s left for me to do is beg. The End.’

  Silence followed Laura’s recital of the final couplet, while she waited once more for a response. When none came, she said brokenly, ‘That’s it then, I’m going. I suppose you’ll get over this in a few days and find some slapper to sleep with you, and it’ll be like you and me never happened. Well, good luck to whoever’s in your bed next, because she’s going to need it. You’ll end up breaking her heart just like you’ve broken mine.’

  Finally, finally it was over. They heard her footsteps receding, then the sound of her car being driven off. Ronan exhaled. ‘God, I’m so sorry about that.’ He reached for Kate but was too slow; she’d already leapt out of the other side of the bed.

  ‘Don’t be sorry. I’m the stupid one for staying here.’ In the dim light, he saw that she was trembling as she reached for her discarded clothes and scrambled into them.

  ‘But I thought—’

  ‘No,’ Kate blurted out, ‘I wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.’

  ‘I don’t have a girlfriend.’ Even as he heard the words emerging from his mouth, Ronan sensed they weren’t sounding good. ‘We were together, but we broke up.’

  She looked at him. ‘When did you break up?’

  OK, this time he knew for sure she wasn’t going to like the answer. ‘Well … it was yesterday.’

  Kate finished zipping herself into her dress. ‘Nice. Well done you. That explains why the bed still felt warm.’

  Ouch.

  ‘Look, she hasn’t slept here for the last fortnight. I was trying to find a way to break up without hurting her feelings. It took a while.’

  ‘Poor you, it must have been terrible.’ Kate located her shoes. ‘Yesterday you dumped your girlfriend. Today she wrote you a poem because she’s so devastated. But you’ve already moved on. Which you’re perfectly entitled to do, of course. I just wish I’d known, because it makes me feel pretty awful.’

  ‘Oh you mustn’t—’

  ‘But I do!’ She swiftly intercepted him. ‘Laura thought you’d find yourself another slapper to sleep with in a few days. Imagine if she found out it had only taken you a few hours.’

  ‘Look, I had no idea this was going to happen,’ Ronan protested. ‘It wasn’t planned.’

  Kate shook her head. ‘I know, I do understand that. I’m not angry with you, just ashamed of myself. I’ve never had a one-night stand before, and I’m pretty certain I won’t be doing it again.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I thought it was what you wanted. I was trying to help.’

  Kate looked at him, her eyes swimming with unshed tears. ‘I’m sure you were. How long were you and Laura together?’

  ‘Not long. A couple of months.’ Did that make things better?

  ‘And does she live here in St Carys?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Work here?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ronan hesitated. ‘In the chemist’s shop on the Esplanade.’

  He saw Kate flinch; she may not have been in St Carys for very long, but there was only one chemist’s shop on the Esplanade.

  ‘The pretty brunette or the tall one with the freckles?’

  ‘The … er, pretty brunette.’

  Kate nodded. ‘OK, but she’s never going to know about this.’ She gestured awkwardly at him, then at herself. ‘About us. Is she.’

  It was a statement, not a question. Ronan said, ‘No.’

  ‘Nobody’s going to know about us,’ Kate reiterated. ‘I mean nobody, not a single person. Will you promise me that?’

  He experienced a f
lash of frustration, because it didn’t need to be like this. If Laura hadn’t turned up, everything could have been so different. It hadn’t been planned, but they’d had a nice time, hadn’t they? Better than nice. And now she was looking at him as if the mere sight of him were causing her pain.

  ‘You have to promise me,’ Kate repeated.

  And to think that most girls would be only too delighted to be able to tell their friends they’d slept with him. Ronan sighed; had he really been that out of order? Plenty of men cheated on their girlfriends and didn’t think twice about it. At least he’d finished with Laura first.

  But it clearly mattered to Kate, so he shrugged and said, ‘Fine, I promise.’

  That had been over six months ago now, and Ronan had kept his word. Back then, he’d expected the awkwardness between them to last a week, maybe two; he’d had no idea it would carry on this long. But it had only intensified over time, and he still had no idea how to overcome it. Basically because, against all expectations, he hadn’t been able to dismiss the attraction he felt towards this girl who had been so disappointed in him.

  It really was the most inconvenient situation. Ronan had never experienced anything like it before and he didn’t like it one bit. It was as if he’d been turned into a gauche, nerdy teenager incapable of behaving normally in front of a girl he fancied but knew he had absolutely no chance with. And the longer it went on, the worse it seemed to get. Each morning, Kate delivered the post to the office. He wasn’t always there when she called in, but often enough. And he wasn’t able to ignore her; they had to exchange pleasantries as if everything was completely fine, or suspicions would be aroused. It was so difficult though, like having an illicit affair, with all of the downsides and none of the benefits.

  And Kate clearly found the situation as agonisingly uncomfortable as he did, which was why she’d made a point of booking today’s viewing with Gavin.

  Oh well, it was done now.

  ‘So maybe we’ll have to start calling you Slug Lady,’ Ronan said as they drove back to the office.

  It was a poor attempt at a joke, but she managed a brief smile. ‘I could have it tattooed on my arm.’

  And there it was, happening again. He instantly found himself recalling that night when he’d lain there in the darkness and felt her bare arm resting across his chest. He could remember every moment of their time together. Details he would normally have forgotten were recalled with Technicolor clarity.

  He gave himself a mental shake. ‘So, slug graves aside, what’s the verdict on the house?’

  Kate shook her head sadly. ‘It isn’t the one. Sorry.’

  Still apologising. ‘No problem. How many have you seen now?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  She’d been scouring the local property market for something to spend her mum’s money on. Clemency had shown her a couple of places, Ronan knew, and she’d also been visiting other estate agents in the area.

  ‘Like we said before, it has to be right, smell right, feel right.’ Oh God, he was talking about houses but thinking about her … He pulled up on double yellows close to the office so she could jump out and pick up her pushbike. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll find the perfect place one day and be glad you waited.’

  ‘I know. Well, thanks anyway.’ Kate fumbled to unclip her seat belt.

  ‘Is it starting to get easier?’

  ‘No. Oh. What are you talking about?’

  ‘Being without your mum.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ She nodded vigorously. ‘I think so. I still miss her, but I’m getting used to it.’

  Ronan smiled. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  And when she’d left the car, after yet another clumsy round of goodbyes, he watched her cycle off down the road and wondered if one day he’d be able to look at her and feel fine too.

  Chapter 9

  Marina had first realised her marriage might be in trouble on the morning of her fortieth birthday, when she opened the card from her husband George and saw that it was a comedy one featuring a picture of a woman with boobs so droopy they peeped out from beneath the hem of her knee-length nightie.

  Inside was a voucher from a local private clinic entitling her to a breast augmentation, to be carried out by a surgeon whose client list apparently included stars of stage, screen and reality TV.

  And by the look on George’s face as he watched her read the punchline inside the card, he was expecting her to be impressed.

  ‘But my boobs don’t sag down to my knees,’ Marina told him.

  ‘I know they don’t. That’s just a joke.’

  ‘And this?’ She held up the voucher. ‘Is this a joke too?’

  ‘No, it’s for implants! You can have proper boobs, as big as you like. And a real cleavage. You’ll look fantastic.’ George made exaggerated curvy gestures with his hands. ‘Think of the low-cut dresses you’ll be able to wear.’

  ‘But … I don’t wear low-cut dresses,’ said Marina.

  ‘I know you don’t. That’s because you don’t have the figure for it. But once you’ve got new boobs, you’ll want to wear them! There’ll be no stopping you!’

  Fifteen years they’d been married. From the age of twenty-five through to forty, she’d lived with a man who thought she secretly hankered after a boob job.

  ‘Would you like me to have bigger boobs?’ she asked George, who looked as baffled as if she’d said, ‘Would you like it if we won the Lottery?’

  ‘Of course I would.’

  Marina almost wanted to apologise to her boobs, of which she’d always been rather fond. She felt quite protective towards them. They might be on the small side, but they were fine, and they were hers. Hopefully they weren’t listening in to this conversation; she didn’t want them to feel inadequate and get a complex. She looked at George. ‘Anything else you think I should get done while I’m there?’

  Whereupon George, without missing a beat, said, ‘Well Debbie looks fantastic, don’t you think? Since she had that facelift?’

  Debbie was the sales manager at his furniture showroom. She had been married three times, and was loud and terrifyingly confident. Since last year’s facelift, Marina would have described Debbie’s facial skin as stretched.

  ‘Or I could have my nose straightened,’ she suggested.

  Evidently delighted that she was keen to improve herself, George beamed widely. ‘You could have that as your Christmas present!’

  It had been the initial clue that as a wife she was something of a disappointment. George had always liked to mix socially with people who were keen to show off their wealth, but in the last couple of years he’d gone into overdrive. Having joined the local country club – it was one of the most desirable in Cheshire and had a waiting list that only served to increase its desirability – he’d taken to spending more and more time there.

  His new friends regarded themselves as the ultra-smart set, and when they met Marina, they seemed bemused by her love of art. They were nice enough in their own way, but she had so little in common with them. All they seemed to talk about was liposuction and Louboutins and their villas in Puerto Banus. They thought nothing of spending hundreds of pounds on a dry-clean-only swimsuit. One of the wives said, ‘Marina, you’re so pretty, I don’t understand why you won’t come along with me to the salon. My beautician’s brilliant with a tattoo gun. You could have eyebrows like mine!’

  The thing was, Marina was used to having George as her husband. OK, he wasn’t perfect, but who was? Marriage was about compromise and tolerance, and loving each other in a comfortable, affectionate way. It was fine for them to have their own interests. It simply wasn’t necessary for a couple to be joined at the hip.

  Well, those had been her views on marriage at the time.

  Gosh, nine years ago now.

  Time flies when you’re having fun.

  The tide had turned and was now going out, the edges of the breaking waves silvery as they were caught by the setting sun. Marina perched on a smooth rock and watched as
Boo, her elderly neighbour’s springer spaniel, snuffled his way along the shoreline, busily intent on investigating every piece of seaweed left on the wet sand. Boo was fine, so she took out her phone and brought up the email that had arrived an hour earlier, just as she’d been collecting the dog.

  It was from George, the first she’d received from him in over two years, though you wouldn’t think so to read it.

  Hi Marina,

  How are things with you? All good, I hope. Everyone says hello and sends their love. I looked at your website earlier and the painting seems to be going well. I always knew it would.

  Well, things aren’t great with me at the moment, sorry to say. Looks like it’s my turn to have health problems. Been pretty miserable, to be honest, and thought it might be nice to come down to Cornwall and pay you a visit. It’ll be so good to see you again, Marina. Shall we make it this Saturday? Book a table at the best restaurant in St Carys.

  Love, George xx

  Marina replaced the phone in her pocket and marvelled at her ex-husband’s ability to gloss over the past. But that was George for you; he was the ultimate salesman, Teflon-smooth, always selling himself. Apologies simply weren’t in his nature.

  The most sensible course of action would be to refuse to see him, she knew that, but the mention of health problems had caught her attention. And George’s failure to elaborate was unlike him; she couldn’t help but be concerned. As a lifelong hypochondriac, he’d always been one of those people to whom you didn’t dare say ‘How are you?’ unless there was nowhere you needed to be in a hurry. It was just his way.

  A light breeze whipped her hennaed curls across her face. Marina brushed them out of her eyes and watched Boo as he cavorted in the shallows with a string of seaweed wrapped around one paw.

  It was six years ago now since the diagnosis. The day she’d learnt she had breast cancer might have been traumatic, but it hadn’t been the worst day of her life.

  That had come along a few weeks later, while she’d been recuperating from the surgery and undergoing chemotherapy. George had arrived home from work, appeared in the bedroom doorway and looked at her for several seconds without speaking.