New Beginnings at Rose Cottage

by Erin Green

  ‘That suits me, Ruth. Couriers and shipping costs will need to be taken into account, but still, that’s how the majority of artists manage nowadays. If you can keep a steady flow of watercolours coming my way, I’m happy to provide gallery space. It’s a lucrative market for us both.’

  While the tea brews, Dean collects an envelope from a cabinet drawer and hands it to me. I blush profusely, embarrassed at accepting the money.

  ‘This seems surreal to me,’ I say. ‘Literally two weeks ago, I was sitting at a cashier’s till asking customers if they’d like tens or twenty-pound notes. That was my lot in life. And now this.’ I sound overwhelmed and gushy; I can hear my inner excitement for myself, so there’s no chance of hiding it from Dean.

  ‘You’ve earned it, Ruth,’ he says. ‘I suggest you plough a little of your earnings back into your materials: widen your colour palette, purchase bigger painting boards, that kind of thing. But otherwise, enjoy!’

  ‘I intend to. This has given me a new lease of life. Did I mention that I’ve resigned from the bank?’

  Dean shakes his head before turning his attention back to the tea-making.

  ‘Four weeks’ notice and then I’m free to focus on being at home, caring for my mum and spending more of my time painting,’ I explain, reining in my excitement for fear of spilling the beans about another idea that is slowly forming in my mind. I just need a few days back home, then I’ll know whether I can make it a reality.

  I stand awkwardly, the envelope grasped in my hand.

  ‘You can count it, check it’s all there,’ he says, addressing the elephant in the room.

  ‘Oh no, I’m sure it’s fine.’ I sound pathetic. I’ve been hand­ling money all my life, and now I’m dismissing it as nothing.

  ‘Please. I’d like to know that you’re happy.’

  Relieved, I open the envelope and draw out the wodge of new ten-pound notes. I can’t believe that my efforts have resulted in . . . I quickly finger through the notes and a few pound coins – two hundred and sixty-four pounds.

  ‘This seems rather a lot, Dean,’ I say.

  He turns from the worktop.

  ‘No, it’s as we agreed. Two paintings sold for two twenty each, with a sixty/forty split. I’m no fool where calculating money is concerned.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you,’ I say, pushing the envelope deep into my handbag before taking a seat at the table. ‘I can’t believe the second painting sold so quickly.’

  ‘I hardly had time to frame and display it before I was taking the payment.’

  I’m stunned by this new world, everything happens so quickly. One minute you’re painting, the next you’re delivering and, surprise, it’s sold!

  ‘I’m amazed that customers view a painting and purchase it straight away, they don’t seem to wait or buy on a second visit.’

  ‘You can’t wait, not where art is concerned.’

  ‘Obviously, they purchase before others can.’

  ‘And you’re still enjoying the painting?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘The pressure of having to produce a finished piece isn’t getting to you?’

  ‘No, it’s the best thing I’ve ever done . . . I’m loving every minute of it. It’s a pity I waited so long before I made a proper effort to use my talent. When I look back, I seem to have wasted so many years dreaming of doing something, and yet doing nothing.’

  On hearing my own explanation, I understand how my sudden change of heart has occurred. I hadn’t fully realised before how all the dots connected.

  ‘Now come on . . . From what you’ve told me, you’ve raised a fine young man. More than I’ve done!’

  He’s right, but I’m not thinking about Jack, more about myself. Jack has matured into the man he is through his own efforts.

  ‘Here . . .’ Dean hands me a steaming mug of tea and settles himself opposite me.

  ‘Would you mind if I nipped to your toilet?’ I ask, standing up before he can answer.

  He splutters tea on to the tabletop as I follow the sign and open the door. I glance over my shoulder to see him frantically dabbing at the spillage and waving a beckoning hand in my direction.

  What on earth is the matter with him? I simply need the loo.

  I take three strides along the corridor and stop, for there lies the answer. Two frames lean against the interior wall. A sheet of bubble wrap has been laid between them, but I recognise my own compositions in a flash.

  I turn to call to Dean, but he’s already standing in the doorway, panic etched on his face, watching my reaction.

  I simply point. My mind is racing. I am lost for words.

  ‘Ruth . . . I can explain. Please hear me out and then we’ll—’

  His hands lift in a calming motion.

  ‘These are mine!’ I exclaim. I don’t need confirmation but my brain isn’t cooperating in such confusion. ‘Why isn’t Marina Mania hanging in the young Scottish couple’s dining room?’

  ‘Please, I can explain . . .’

  ‘You lied! You haven’t sold either of them. Instead you’ve stashed them here, hoping I wouldn’t find them.’ I bend down, pulling away the bubble wrap to fully reveal my lighthouse painting, Lonely Watch. ‘You’ve paid me for work you haven’t even sold!’

  ‘Please, Ruth . . . it isn’t how it looks, honestly.’

  ‘How does it look, Dean? Suspicious, that’s what I think. Having a good laugh at my expense, were you? Poor stupid Ruth thinks she can paint; we’ll boost her ego by letting her think she can. Hopefully with practice she’ll improve somewhat and produce a decent composition – is that it?’

  ‘Hear me out on this one, please.’

  ‘No!’ I sound like I mean it. It is a no-negotiation ‘no’ that comes out as harsh and as hurt as I feel. ‘I bet you and your arty mates have had a good laugh at my expense. Is this the normal routine each summer, stringing along a gullible woman into thinking that she can achieve her dreams? Is that where your true artistry lies, in convincing others that they have a talent?’

  My need for the toilet has disappeared. I hastily push past Dean, grab my handbag from beside the table and exit through the gallery.

  ‘Ruth . . . wait!’

  ‘No. You wait, Dean.’ I stop dead and turn to face him. ‘You wait until next week, when you’re walking along the harbour wall and spot the next woman wanting to try her hand at something new, something that might bring a slight glimmer of hope into an otherwise bland existence.’ His brow is contorted, his eyes pleading. ‘Do us all a favour: save her the hassle of this bullshit and walk on by!’

  I hastily depart before my tears can spill over.

  My anger makes swift work of the steep hill as I speed-march towards Rose Cottage, in search of a caring friend who’ll understand my anger at such deception.

  Emma

  It’s just gone eleven o’clock when my mobile rings, interrupting my online search for catering jobs. It’s a welcome interruption, given that all I can find in my area is minimum-wage employment and long, antisocial hours.

  ‘Hello!’ I say, surprisingly cheerful despite the last two hours of unproductive searching.

  ‘Good morning, may I speak to Emma Grund, please?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Hello, Clarke Mellors here, head chef at the Country Club. We received your enquiry letter this morning and wondered what the delivery time is on three litres of black walnut and three litres of champagne and violet ice cream?’

  My brain is still marvelling at how reliable Royal Mail is – I only posted my CV letters yesterday afternoon, and they’ve already started arriving – that is next day delivery despite people suggesting first-class postage is a waste of time – so I’m not focusing properly on what he’s saying.

  ‘I’m sorry, could you repeat that?’


  ‘Yes, we’d like to order three litres each of black walnut and champagne and violet, but your leaflet doesn’t state the expected delivery time or costings.’

  This can’t be happening. I stand up in shock.

  ‘When do you require it by?’

  ‘We’ve got a midweek wedding next week, and I think the champagne and violet ice cream will complement the bride’s chosen dessert perfectly.’

  ‘I see,’ I mutter, playing for time as I grab a piece of paper and a pen. ‘I could deliver that for Monday, at fifteen pounds per litre,’ I say, cringing to my core, knowing full well I’ve plucked the figure from thin air.

  ‘And the black walnut?’

  ‘That would be twelve pounds a litre . . .’

  ‘Sounds good to me. Could you ask for me by name when you deliver on Monday? I assume you’ll invoice us?’

  ‘Yep, yep, that’s how it works,’ I say, sinking down on to my haunches, not believing the giant whopper I’ve just told.

  ‘Thank you. See you Monday then,’ he says, before my mobile goes dead.

  I remain crouching until my legs tingle with pins and needles. It feels safer than standing up to face the fear of what I’ve just agreed to, which feels distinctly like catering fraud, if that were an actual crime.

  Ruth

  I can’t find Benni on my arrival at Rose Cottage. Her mobile is missing from the dining room, so I know she’s been back. After last night’s fishing trip, I assumed she’d still be in bed.

  I grab the envelope of money from my handbag and begin to pace the dining room.

  My mind is a whir as Dean’s words spin about my head: ‘always complete’, ‘invest in your materials’, ‘it’s a lucrative market for us both’ – what a bloody cheek! He’s no better than Martin. Are there no decent people left in this world? Is everyone out there a cheating con man out to deceive others?

  My mobile rings: Emma.

  ‘Good timing,’ I say, grateful that I can air my annoyance before my panic kicks in. ‘You’ll never guess what’s just happened.’

  ‘I’m all ears . . . then I’ll tell you what’s happened at my end,’ says Emma, sounding brighter than she did last time we spoke.

  It only takes me a few minutes to explain the last hour of my day, as I fire off details about Dean and his gallery quicker than an auctioneer in full flow. I tell her how cheated I feel having nearly completed the seal composition, and how I’ve given in my notice to the bank.

  ‘But you’ve got the cash, right?’ she asks as I pause for breath. ‘You’ve still sold two watercolours and been paid for both; the fact that it’s Dean who’s bought them matters very little. Don’t let the bastards get you down, Ruth . . . seriously, you’ll find your way.’

  ‘That’s hardly the point given that Dean’s thrown my plans sky high and left me in a quandary as to what I should do next,’ I retort, beginning to wonder if Emma is the right person to listen to my concerns.

  ‘You were perfectly fine knowing that the paintings were elsewhere, so why let it bother you that for some unknown reason he stashed them? A sale is a sale, my lovely.’

  I’m miffed that she isn’t seeing his deception in the same light as I am, but I suppose she has a point. It’s all a matter of perspective, which seems ironic.

  ‘And you, how have things been on your return?’ I ask politely, not wishing to be unfair given she had her holiday cut unfairly short.

  ‘Rob’s graciously accepted how I feel about our marriage,’ she says. ‘He’s not happy about it, but I think that’s more to do with his male ego amongst his circle of friends. I’ve also posted out fifty CVs . . . but the most alarming news is I’ve accidentally become an ice cream manufacturer overnight!’

  ‘What?’ I’m bewildered with the speed with which she’s found her feet. ‘How long have you been home?’

  ‘Exactly, and that’s what I’m trying to say to you: forget what Dean’s done and why he’s done it. It’s his issue, not yours. Just focus on what you want to achieve and go for it. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing this morning; it seems the hotels’ administration bods have opened the envelopes, removed my letter and passed the ice cream menu card to their head chefs. This morning I’ve taken orders that will see me busy until next Friday. How’s that?’

  ‘Amazing! But how are you going to meet the demand – surely you’ll need a proper catering kitchen?’

  ‘Ah, do you remember me mentioning that my previous boss has sold the roadside café to a developer who wants to convert it into an Indian restaurant? Well, I’m heading over there in a while to discuss renting a section of his kitchen and associated equipment, much like a hairdresser renting a chair in a salon.’

  I’m blown away by her ingenuity.

  ‘Emma, you are a force to be reckoned with, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Simply a case of needs must. I could just sit around moping about my lost redundancy money and Martin, crying about my failing marriage, and panicking that I can’t pay the bills, but this world doesn’t allow you time to wallow in self-pity. You’ve got to get out there and help yourself.’

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, but bloody hell, it’s a scary prospect. Resigning from the job and focusing on my painting seemed legit when I had Dean’s backing, but now it feels like the rug has been pulled from under me.’

  ‘I saw the painting and I think it was great. I believe you can achieve your dream, and I’m sure Benni will say the same. What’s so great about Dean – or Martin come to think about it – that you need his seal of approval before you make a decision?’

  ‘For starters, he owns a gallery, and you don’t. He’s been in the art business for a long time; he has expertise, Emma.’

  ‘So what? I’ve been in the ice cream business for all of four hours and I’ve got more work than I care to think about, and do you know what, these chefs won’t have a clue that I haven’t been doing it for years, because I will deliver the goods!’

  ‘I wish I had just an ounce of your confidence, I really do.’

  ‘You do, you simply don’t realise it yet. Now go and finish off your seal painting. You’ll need to start selling online, which means you’ll need a gallery of images so that potential customers can browse before purchasing.’

  I tap the mobile’s screen and kill the call.

  I can’t help but smile. I feel ten times better already. I look at the envelope of cash in my hand.

  ‘Hello, you look pretty pleased with yourself,’ says Benni, entering the dining room. ‘Have you had a good morning so far?’

  I’m on the brink of recounting what’s happened, but decide not to.

  ‘I have, actually, and it’s about to get even better, because I’m just about to nip into town and open a new bank account.’

  Benjamina

  I literally don’t know what I want to do. With only a few hours left before Ziggy needs to go back to work, I have no idea what to suggest.

  ‘We could visit the cove, walk to Berry Head lighthouse, sit in the Sprat and Mackerel – though I won’t be able to drink . . . It’s up to you,’ says Ziggy, holding my hand as we walk along the quayside. ‘We could even go for an ice cream if you like.’

  ‘I daren’t in case Martin walks in; there’s a good chance I’d give him a piece of my mind, and Emma doesn’t need me messing up her investment for her,’ I say.

  ‘So where to? I know it’ll only be a few weeks before I come up to see you, but still . . .’ Ziggy frees my hand and wraps his arm about my shoulder.

  ‘Fish and chips on our bench,’ I say, unsure whether he’ll laugh at my request.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I nod. I have a million things I want to tell him, but I know I’ll mess up the sentiment by attempting to say them.

  It takes us ten minutes to grab our food and settle on our bench. I feel like a t
eenager sloping off from lessons to spend time with her first crush, rather than a twenty-five year old who should know better.

  I simply can’t help myself. Ziggy is my first crush, the only young man I’ve spent time with enjoying his company. I’m not worldly wise regarding relationships. I don’t pretend to be knowledgeable about men. I simply recognise that I like him, and I suspect he likes me.

  We pick at our chips, our chatter fading and becoming strained as time ticks by. I keep checking my watch, he his phone. We both know what needs to be said, what needs to be done, but I don’t want this to end.

  ‘Are you done?’ he asks, indicating my half-eaten chips.

  ‘Yep, you?’

  ‘Yep. Come here.’

  We slide together, our chip parcels discarded in the nearest bin, and sit in silence with our hands entwined. My fingers play with his, his thumb strokes my palm.

  ‘Benni . . . this isn’t goodbye for us,’ he whispers.

  ‘I know,’ I murmur. ‘Let’s not talk.’

  Instead we sit close and stare into each other’s eyes, each of us reading the other from the inside out.

  Emma

  I don my clean chef’s whites, adjust my hairnet to cover my ears and stand at the stainless-steel worktop to begin cracking a box of eggs into a bowl. I grab the large balloon whisk and begin beating the eggs in a vigorous circular motion.

  I smile as a memory from Rose Cottage pops into my mind. Poor Benni couldn’t even boil an egg, let alone whisk them properly. I recall her zigzag technique and her disgust when I complained. When she arrives home, we’ll have to make arrangements for a series of cookery lessons so she’ll be able to feed herself when she finally strikes out on her own.

  Around me, the busy kitchen swarms with waiters and waitresses collecting cutlery and calling for table orders. Freshly prepared food sits waiting beneath glowing lights on the hot plates.

  I watch the chefs yelling impatiently, hear their curt tones, and wonder if I looked that miserable cooking – correction, frying – to order every day.

  I put aside the beaten eggs and reach for the measure of double cream, gently mixing the two. There’s no rush, no pressure – I’ll make three litres of champagne and violet ice cream in my own sweet time.