Rain has started to fall now, that gentle, mizzling Cornish rain that gets you even wetter than the heavy, driving kind. My hair starts to frizz and beads of moisture sit on my thick coat. The air is thick with the smell of damp wool.
I scramble over some net bins and haul myself on to the top of the quay. Feeling very Meryl Streep in The French Lieutenant’s Woman, I walk along the cobbled summit and raise my face to the rain. Below me the trawlers bump against the quay and above me the seagulls glide and plunge like a squadron of feathery bombers. On the small sliver of beach a red setter bounds across the sand, all fire and life against the grey of the afternoon. The dog barks and its owner, hood up against the rain, throws a stick. If I screw up my eyes I could almost believe that I’m watching Ollie and Sasha.
If only I was. I wouldn’t stuff things up a second time.
OK, I wouldn’t stuff things up a third time.
Once at the end of the quay I peer down into the water, an angry green colour today, and watch the waves boil and froth against the harbour gates. One seasick-looking gull bobs past and scummy foam gathers like an advert for Fairy Liquid.
I watch the water swirl and my thoughts swirl with it. So much has happened in such a short time. Breaking up with James, thinking I had cancer, leaving London, ‘dating’ Gabriel, Jewell dying, and losing Ollie. The list feels endless, and I’m tired, so tired, of trying to make sense of it all. Once upon a time I could have whipped out my notebook and written something cathartic, but lately my writing has left me too.
Well, I guess it’s in good company.
I close my eyes and breathe in slowly. I am not going to cry. I’ll probably never stop if I do.
‘What a great view,’ says a voice over my shoulder.
Grief does funny things to people, I know, but I could swear that’s Ollie’s voice. I sense somebody looking at me, their gaze so sizzling that it all but strips the flesh from my bones.
‘It’s a very pretty village,’ I say.
‘I’m not talking about the village.’
I spin round and cry out in joy. Ollie really is here, smiling that dear crooked smile, the dimples playing hide and seek and his eyes crinkling and sparkling. Sasha hurls herself against my legs, barking so loudly that the flock of seagulls trying to roost on the fish-market roof take flight, screeching in protest.
I’m not protesting, though, when Ollie pulls me into his arms.
Far from it.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Ollie. ‘Katy, I’m so sorry.’
And he takes my face in his hands, kissing my forehead and my nose and even the tears that trickle from my eyes before he finds my mouth.
‘It’s OK now, Katy,’ he whispers, in between kisses. ‘It’s all going to be fine.’
His mouth is as soft as an almond croissant and a thousand times more delicious. I kiss him back and hold him tightly, scared to let him go in case he vanishes, while Sasha bounces around us like a canine space hopper.
‘I’m so sorry,’ whispers Ol, over and over again, ‘so sorry that I raced off like that. I had no idea Jewell had died. I acted like a total wanker because I was so jealous of Gabriel. Can you ever forgive me?’
‘I’m sorry for not telling you Gabriel’s gay,’ I say. ‘I wanted to but I never got the chance.’
‘Whoa!’ Ollie’s eyes widen. ‘Run that by me again! Did you just say that Gabriel Winters is gay? As in only-gay-in-the-village gay?’
‘Not quite the only gay in the village. He’s with Frankie, has been for ages. He paid me to pretend to be his girlfriend; it was a kind of summer job. Honestly. We were never a real couple.’
Ollie’s mouth is literally hanging open. I shut it gently by putting my hand under his chin.
‘You saw Gabriel on This Morning?’ I say. ‘When he told Phil and Holly? Didn’t you?’
Ollie is looking completely blank.
‘You didn’t?’
‘What sort of camper van do you think I have? I haven’t got a telly. I’m lucky to have a stove.’
‘If you didn’t see it,’ I say, looking up into his melting toffee eyes, ‘if you didn’t know… why are you here?’
Ollie strokes my cheek tenderly. ‘I saw Jewell’s obituary in The Times and I couldn’t bear to think of you going through this alone. I know how much Jewell meant to you. Suddenly it didn’t matter about Gabriel any more. Nothing mattered apart from seeing you again.’
He kisses me, then pulls away, shaking his head.
‘Say something,’ I whisper. ‘Tell me what you’re thinking.’
‘I’m thinking that I can’t believe Frankie managed to keep that secret to himself. He’s got more mouth than Zippy,’ whistles Ollie. ‘Gabriel Winters is really gay and dating Frankie?’
I nod. ‘They’re like an old married couple. They’ve even got a poodle called Mufty. I know I was stupid to agree to Gabriel’s plan, Ol, but I really thought you were getting engaged.’ My throat goes all tight with misery just at the memory. ‘I thought you hated me.’ Bollocks. I’m crying again. At this rate I could give Tiny Tears a run for her money.
Not that I’m wetting my pants, though.
‘Hey, don’t cry,’ Ollie murmurs, in between kisses. ‘It’s all going be fine.’
‘I know,’ I sniff. ‘That’s why I’m crying.’
‘I can’t have everyone seeing you with red eyes and a runny nose,’ says Ollie, gently dabbing at my eyes with the sleeve of his coat. ‘I don’t want them to think I’ve made my future wife unhappy.’
I gape at him. ‘Was that some kind of back-to-front proposal? If it was, it wasn’t very romantic.’
‘Sorry,’ says Ollie, and his mouth curls into a shy smile. ‘That came out all wrong.’
‘Did you mean it?’
‘Of course I did!’ he replies, kissing me gently. ‘We’re both crap at dating, so why bother with all that? Besides, I already know all your annoying habits and I still love you.’
‘I don’t have any annoying habits!’ I say indignantly. Then I think about it. ‘Well, I may have one or two. But you have loads!’
‘I don’t doubt it for a minute,’ he agrees. ‘But that’s the whole point, Katy. We already know each other inside out. Besides,’ his hand strays to my breast and simultaneously raises my blood pressure, ‘there’s something even more important than the very obvious fact that I’m totally and utterly in love with you, and have been for years, lovely, sexy Katy.’
He loves me?
Lovely and sexy?
Me?
It’s no good. I can’t listen to this and have him doing that thing with his hand. Sorry, women everywhere. I must be the only one who can’t multitask. I clamp my hand down over his, stopping the tummy-melting squishy feeling in its tracks.
‘What could possibly be more important than love?’
‘My dog likes you,’ says Ollie simply. ‘So it’s a done deal.’
‘Well, far be it for me to argue with Sasha. I’ve seen what she did to James’s office.’
Then we’re both laughing and crying.
And I’ll probably get a bright red nose, but do you know what?
Am I bothered?
But what, I hear you ask, about the romantic champagne-and-roses proposal I’ve always dreamed of?
It’s a strange thing, but as I kiss Ollie, lovely funny Ollie with his thick chestnut hair and sexy curling mouth, I find that I don’t care about that any more. Nothing could be more romantic than being here with him on a drizzly autumnal afternoon.
And then I suddenly get it, like the final piece in the jigsaw. This is what romance really is. It’s about being with the right person; all the rest is immaterial.
Bloody Mills and bloody Boon! Somebody should sue them for being so misleading. Tall, dark handsome heroes in breeches?
Highwaymen? Actors? Fishermen?
Why didn’t I realise that my real hero was right under my nose all the time? Making me laugh, taking me to the hospital, putting up with me even when I ke
pt his starter in the bath.
I think I’ve had my fill of romantic heroes.
‘Is that a yes?’ asks Ollie.
‘It’s a yes,’ I tell him. ‘But only on one condition.’
Ollie looks a bit concerned, no doubt worrying I’m going to demand a prenuptial agreement that includes my right to spend the housekeeping in Waterstone’s or something.
‘Which is?’
‘That we don’t have lobster Thermidor at our wedding reception,’ I say firmly. ‘I don’t think I can go through that again.’
‘Amen to that,’ says Ollie fervently. ‘I like to shower and keep my toes intact.’
And as we kiss and laugh and kiss some more, something very strange happens. I swear that below me, in the depths of the churning sea, a claw breaks the surface and waves at us before vanishing back into the depths.
I open my mouth to tell Ollie, but close it again.
After all, we know about the power of my imagination.
But as Ollie threads his fingers through mine and leads me back towards the Mermaid, where the fairy lights are twinkling and Mads, Guy and Frankie are hanging out of the window and cheering, I know that even in my wildest dreams, in my most purple Jake and Millandra prose, I could never have imagined how it feels to be this happy.
It’s not a roller coaster.
Or like drowning in eyes like deep pools.
Or any of the other old clichés, actually.
Being loved by Ollie is about a billion times better than that.
It feels like coming home.
Epilogue
Six months later
‘Quick,’ squeals Mads. ‘Stop snogging, you two, and come and sit down! It’s starting!’
Ollie and I break apart guiltily. We’re supposed to be putting the Pringles and dips into bowls, but he looked so cute as he bent over to reach into the fridge that I couldn’t resist grabbing his bum. Honestly, love has done weird things to me. There used to be a time when I would have been more interested in grabbing the Pringles.
‘Could you bring the pickled beetroot in too!’ calls Mads. ‘And some condensed milk!’
Ollie pulls a face. I must admit that pickled beetroot dipped in condensed milk isn’t my first choice for a snack, but Mads can’t get enough of either.
The joys of being pregnant.
‘Thanks, babes,’ Mads says, her eyes lighting up when Ollie puts the food in front of her. ‘The weenie beanie can’t get enough of this.’ And she rubs her bump with one hand and fishes out a hunk of beetroot with the other.
‘Shove up,’ orders Richard, joining her on the sofa. ‘I’m looking forward to this. Aren’t you, Katy?’
‘Sort of,’ I say. Actually I’m really nervous. What if it’s awful?
‘It’ll be great,’ Ollie tells me, collapsing into a beanbag and pulling me on to his lap. ‘Have some faith.’
Guy, entwined with my sister Holly on the armchair, raises a can of Stella to me. ‘Watching the filming was excellent. Loved all the tits.’
Holly sloshes him with a copy of New Scientist. Her glasses slip down her nose and she pushes them back with her forefinger. ‘Guy! You are awful!’
But she’s laughing as she says it.
Life is certainly stranger than anything I could ever have written, and there must have been magic in the air that night at Jewell’s party, because her pairings game has had some very peculiar results. I could never in a million years have imagined that my strait-laced sister would end up quitting academia and moving to Tregowan to be with Guy, but they seem blissfully happy. Guy goes to sea and props up the bar in the Mermaid while Holly lectures in Plymouth and sorts out his accounts.
Even stranger is the rumour that James and Nina also got it together that night. According to Ed, Nina made a fortune when she floated Domestic Divas on the stock market, and paid off all James’s debts. But being Nina, she was clever enough to legally loan him the money and now she doesn’t wear the trousers so much as the entire suit. What a lovely couple. I’m not sure who I feel sorrier for. Maybe Cordelia? Nina has a tongue like a Samurai sword and I can’t imagine her being bossed around.
Oh to be a fly on the wall when those two lock horns.
‘Here we go!’ Ollie holds me close as the titles begin. The haunting tones of Enya drift from the television, and on the screen mist billows across a deserted-looking moor. Above the soundtrack we hear the rumble of wheels, the pounding of hooves and the jingle of harness as a carriage appears at the brow of a hill. The camera pans to the left where a lone rider waits, a handkerchief over his mouth and a blunderbuss in his hand.
Heart of the Highwayman, boasts the title, and a host of illustrious names follow, the first of which is Gabriel Winters.
‘You’ve done it!’ screams Maddy.
‘Calm down,’ warns Richard, placing a tender hand on her tummy. ‘Your blood pressure.’
‘Bugger my blood pressure!’ Mads says. ‘My best friend’s a screenwriter! It’s fucking fantastic.’
Richard winces.
‘Sorry, darling.’ Mads doesn’t sound very sorry; in fact she winks at me. ‘It must be my hormones.’
‘Gabriel looks quite good in a dark wig,’ Ollie says. ‘And he worked very hard to get fit for the part. His swimming really improved.’
‘He thought the riding lessons with Mrs M would kill him,’ I recall. ‘Frankie said he was in agony for weeks.’
We fall silent and watch the story unfold. It’s a really weird experience seeing all these people who’ve lived and breathed and talked in my mind for all this time actually coming to life in front of me.
As Gabriel holds up the carriage, the tight breeches showing off his long, lean legs to perfection and those sapphire eyes brimming with passion for Millandra, I almost want to cry with relief. The scriptwriters and producers have done a really good job of turning my story into a gripping drama. Jake is handsome and dangerous and the young soap babe playing Millandra is porcelain-fragile.
‘It’s good!’ I say, so thankful I feel dizzy.
‘Of course it is.’ Ollie smiles at me. ‘Haven’t I just spent the last six months telling you that?’
I think back to the weeks we spent travelling in our camper van, all the conversations we had late into the night, wrapped in each other’s arms and watching shooting stars whiz across the sky. It was like when we were best friends, only better.
You probably don’t need me to tell you why.
‘Isn’t it funny how Gabriel’s even more popular since he came out?’ says Mads, dunking a lump of beetroot. ‘And he wasted all that time terrified that his career would be over.’
‘Honesty is always the best policy,’ states Richard sanctimoniously. It’s interesting that he can’t quite look me in the eye when he says this.
It is strange, though, just how popular Gabriel is since he outed himself on This Morning. The press certainly had a field day but Seb handled the whole situation so well that Gabriel emerged smelling of roses.
OK then, Paco Rabanne.
In any case, crying on Philip Schofield’s shoulder didn’t do him any harm, and the Screaming Queens are so popular that his street cred increased about tenfold once it was common knowledge that he was with Frankie. Now they have their own reality TV show, hang out with Elton and David, go shopping with Posh and Becks and next month are rumoured to be having the first televised civil partnership on This Morning. These days Frankie poses for Hello! and OK! in Gabriel’s idyllic retreat and does a much better job of it than I ever did.
So maybe Richard does have a point after all about honesty.
‘Ssh!’ says Guy, leaning forward and practically joining Gabriel as he rescues Millandra from a runaway carriage. ‘I’m watching this!’
So we watch the rest of the episode in silence, and I can’t quite believe it’s really happening. From being scrawled in Wayne Lobb’s exercise book to being ripped up by James, the odds always seemed against me ever getting published. Maybe writin
g television drama is the way to go.
There’s one problem, though.
I haven’t written a word for months.
I’m scared I can’t do it any more.
I’m scared that I’ll fail.
Early the next morning I’m up with the fishermen, who shout, drop things and chug their noisy boats out to sea. Ollie sleeps through it all, goodness knows how, and when I slip out of bed he barely stirs. Dropping a kiss on his cheek, I slip out of bed and creep downstairs.
Auntie Jewell didn’t leave me her millions — or Cuddles, thank God — but she did leave me enough to buy this tiny fisherman’s cottage right by the water. So when Ollie and I get tired of travelling we have somewhere to put down roots. Or maybe when we have a baby…
There’s no under-floor heating, no laminate floor and no Le Creuset. The furniture is battered and tatty, cushions, throws and painted glass clutter the place and Sasha has chewed a massive lump out of the sofa.
It’s just the way I always wanted my house to be, and it’s home.
I pad into the kitchen and throw open the top half of the stable door. Cool morning air rushes in and Sasha stirs in her basket but like her master can’t be bothered to get up. I make a cup of coffee in a chunky ceramic mug, then sit down at the scrubbed pine table. In front of me are a notebook and a pen.
Can I?
Is it the right time?
I close my eyes and visualise Ollie, all bronzed and naked and tousle-haired in bed, his limbs strong and dark against the white sheets.
The perfect romantic hero.
Taking a deep breath, I pick up the pen and begin to write.
About the author
Ruth Saberton was born in London in 1972. A chance meeting with a stranger whilst holidaying in Cornwall resulted in Ruth marrying a fisherman and moving to beautiful Polperro, near Plymouth. In between writing novels and short stories, Ruth also teaches Media Studies and English at a secondary school in Cornwall.
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