A Match Made in Devon

by Cathy Bramley

  I stood at the threshold, mesmerized.

  ‘Hey, beauty!’ said a creamy Devonshire voice from the counter.

  She was round-cheeked, with shoulder-length blonde hair, dip-dyed pink at the ends. A blue and white striped T-shirt strained over her plump arms and buxom chest and one strap of her faded dungarees had slipped off her shoulder.

  ‘Hi there,’ I replied.

  Before I knew what she was doing, she’d grabbed her phone and pointed it at me. ‘Smile.’

  ‘Oh!’ I blinked as the flash went off and stumbled into a rack of hand-painted pebbles. ‘I think I’ve gone blind.’

  The girl giggled. ‘Sorry, I should have warned you.’

  ‘Why did you take my picture?’

  ‘Hold on. Two ticks.’ She poked out her tongue in concentration as her thumbs tapped at the touchscreen. She finally looked up. ‘Sending it to my brother. He’s had no luck with internet dating so I’m on a mission to find him a match myself, see?’

  ‘By showing him pictures of your customers?’

  ‘Only the pretty ones.’ Her phone beeped and she winked a sapphire-blue eye at me. ‘A reply from my bro. That was quick.’

  ‘Actually,’ I said, a bit taken aback, ‘I came in for a postcard, not a partner. So please tell him to ignore my picture.’

  She screwed up her face and dumped her phone down. ‘Just as well, he says no. No offence. Are you staying nearby? What’s your name?’

  Good grief, who’d trained this girl for customer service – the KGB?

  ‘Nina,’ I blurted, without thinking. ‘And I’m staying at Driftwood Lodge.’

  ‘Really?’ She came out from behind the counter and folded her arms. ‘Has his wife left him? Apparently Molly Asher knows, because she was friendly with his wife, but she’s not telling. I feel sorry for him; he always looks so sad. I’m Eliza, by the way.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said, edging towards the rotating postcard display unit.

  ‘That’s funny you being called Nina,’ she said, chuckling. ‘I was reading on Facebook this morning something about an actress called Nina who … Hold on.’ She narrowed her eyes suddenly and shoved her face closer to mine.

  Damn. I was rubbish at this lying-low thing.

  ‘Your shop is lovely,’ I said swiftly, selecting a couple of postcards and marching to the counter. ‘I’ll take these please.’

  Eliza scurried behind the counter and grinned.

  ‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘Nina Penhaligon, the missing actress. I’d never heard of you before but everyone’s looking for you. Didn’t you do the ice bucket challenge on Cecily Carmichael? And blab a confidential storyline?’

  ‘Shush.’ I glanced automatically over my shoulder.

  ‘So it is you!’ Her eyes lit up. ‘Is there a reward for turning you in?’

  ‘No!’ I yelped. At least I hoped there wasn’t. ‘And I don’t need turning in; I’m not a criminal, I just needed to get away for a while.’

  Eliza’s face softened sympathetically. ‘Oh, beauty, I get it. Hey, I know what you need.’

  To be left to shop in peace? I eyed the door, already regretting my visit.

  She shoved a leaflet in my hand. ‘To be a mermaid for a day. You dress up, get a photo shoot on the rocks or in the water, depending on the weather. And we focus on body positivity and stuff like that. Ooh, can I take a picture of you in one of my mermaid tails? It would really help launch my business. They’re not here yet but—’

  ‘Actually, Eliza,’ I lowered my voice, ‘I’m keeping my stay here low key. So, if you don’t mind?’

  ‘Oh, but you’ll love this!’

  I looked down at the leaflet, which had clearly been cobbled together on a home computer.

  Brightside Cove Mermaid School – Be a mermaid for a day!

  ‘I love mermaids. So much. I’ve got a website,’ she said, ‘and I’m getting authentic mermaid tails from the USA.’

  ‘Authentic?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Let me show you a picture of them on the American website,’ she demanded.

  ‘No signal,’ I said, holding up my phone.

  ‘Come behind the counter by me and you can log on to the pub’s WiFi for free.’ She demonstrated by holding her phone up to the wall between the shop and the pub and beckoned me behind the counter. ‘And mind the kittens.’

  I gave her a puzzled look; mermaids and kittens? Was she right in the head? But sure enough, there was a basket on the floor with four tiny sleeping kittens in it.

  ‘Oh, cute!’ I bent down to stroke them. ‘May I?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Eliza. ‘You can even take one as your fee for posing as a mermaid for my website. Give me your phone; I’ll log in for you.’

  ‘Thanks. But no thanks.’ I’d only brought it out with me so that I could take some photos. I was still avoiding contact with the outside world as far as possible.

  I took a picture of the kittens and laid my phone down before picking up the biggest one with long black fluffy fur. It mewed crossly at me.

  ‘Hello, grumpy. You are just like Theo.’ I laughed, pressing a kiss to its little head.

  Driftwood Lodge had chickens and ducks, but no cat. And a cat would give Theo something to care about round the house other than himself. Maybe giving one a home might not be such a bad idea.

  ‘So he is depressed, then. Here you go, WiFi connected. And I’ve texted your number to my phone so I can ring you about—’

  ‘Oh no!’ I whirled round to grab it out of her hand but before I could even wrestle it from her grasp it beeped with a text. She read the screen and sucked in air before handing it to me.

  ‘Poor man.’

  It was from Theo.

  Managed to get in touch with Kate. There’s good news. And there’s bad news. Please come back.

  A second text followed immediately from Becky Burton, my best friend on the cast of Victory Road.

  Jesus, Nina, where are you?? Everyone is going apeshit. CALL ME!

  Oh God. My fingers fumbled as I grappled to turn off my phone. Should I call? Or should I follow Sebastian’s instructions and talk to no one? Staying silent seemed a bit cowardly. But I felt safe and cocooned from the mess I’d left behind me here. If I spoke to Becky, I’d have to face the world again. Whereas if I simply put my phone away and didn’t look at it again, it would be problem solved … and I could sort out Theo’s bad news. I blew out a calming breath. I’d do that.

  I shoved my phone in my pocket.

  ‘I’ll get back to you about the kitten,’ I said, putting the ball of fluff back in the box.

  ‘Oh good,’ she said, stuffing the postcards into my jacket pocket. ‘And don’t worry; I’ll have another bash at my brother for you. He might reconsider once he knows that you’re famous.’

  ‘We can but hope,’ I said drily. I halted at the door. ‘No really, thanks for the confidence boost, but please don’t mention I’m here to anyone. Mum’s the word, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ She saluted her compliance.

  ‘Phew.’ I grinned. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Bye, Nina, bye!’ Eliza yelled and waved as I set off on the coast path back towards Driftwood Lodge. ‘And remember: always be yourself, unless you can be a mermaid, then always be a mermaid!’

  That had to be the most surreal shopping experience of my life, I thought and I laughed to myself all the way home.

  Chapter 9

  Brightside Holidays was expecting another guest.

  Just one. Someone called B. Nutley. Arriving on Monday. Which gave us approximately forty-eight hours to finish off one cottage completely. According to Theo this was bad news. I didn’t know what he was moaning about. Beaver’s Barn could be ready by then; it would be a piece of cake.

  ‘It’s just so vague,’ he’d complained as we stuffed the Birds’ bedlinen into the washing machine. ‘We know nothing about this person.’

  ‘I remember this about you.’ I grinned, handing him the fabric so
ftener. ‘Archie used to say you were a bit OCD, which is what made you such a good engineer. He said you needed to gather every piece of information on a subject before you’d even contemplate starting work.’

  ‘True,’ said Theo, bending down so that the detergent dispenser was at eye level. He poured the liquid in precisely up to the line on the display. ‘You can’t fight with the facts. Case in point,’ he said, twisting the dial and switching on the machine. ‘That load weighs eight kilograms and therefore requires fifty-six millilitres of detergent.’

  ‘Phew,’ I said, ‘imagine if you’d calculated that wrongly.’

  ‘Details matter in business,’ he insisted. ‘The only thing Kate’s email reveals …’ his eyes softened at the mere mention of her name, ‘… about this Nutley person is that they live in Windsor and plan to attend a local art festival. Apparently they want to stay close by but not too close.’

  I’d spotted a poster in Eliza’s shop about a festival. It started tomorrow and completely took over the little seaside town of Shapford, where the light was meant to be unique and it was therefore a mecca for artists.

  ‘So? He or she is probably an artist. What else do you need to know?’ I picked up the laundry basket full of freshly washed towels and handed it to him, then found some pegs and set off outside to the field where Theo had strung a lengthy washing line. ‘It’s a self-catering holiday, as long as they pay up and adhere to your rules, nothing else matters, does it? Get pegging.’

  ‘I’ve emailed him or her directions and our bank details. Perhaps the response will shed some light on the matter,’ he grumbled.

  The sky had cleared and was back to being bright blue and breezy. The washing would dry in no time, which was just as well as we had several more loads to get through and I wanted to crack on with painting Beaver’s Barn if we were to get rid of the smell of wet emulsion by Monday morning.

  The Nutley booking had only been half of what Theo considered bad news. The other half was that evidently before leaving, Kate had contacted Coastal Cottages, an internet bookings agency for upmarket self-catering properties in the south-west. She had arranged for a representative to come and vet Brightside Holidays next Friday with a view to being featured on their website. I offered to pretend to be Kate for the meeting, but Theo was reluctant.

  ‘I want Kate here for that appointment,’ he said with a sparkle in his eye as he looped a large bath towel over the washing line. ‘The real Kate. Coastal Cottages is the crème de la crème of holiday rentals. She’ll be delighted if Brightside Holidays secures a listing on there.’

  So we agreed that he would contact them on Monday during office hours and postpone the appointment. Fine by me; our immediate goal was to complete the cottages and get Brightside Holidays properly open for business. Then Kate would come back to Devon, retract her threat of ending their marriage and the two of them would live happily ever after. Meanwhile, I would go back to London and pick up where I left off.

  Back to my dream of becoming an Oscar-winning actress. I tilted my face to the sky, feeling the sun on my skin and the clean air in my lungs and I felt a niggle of disquiet. If I really did want to be a famous actress, then why did I feel so happy hanging laundry in a Devonshire field?

  ‘Tell me again what the good news part of Kate’s email was,’ I said later on when we went back inside to make ourselves a sandwich.

  Theo popped the caps off two beers and handed me one and tried desperately to keep the grin off his face.

  ‘She apologized for forgetting to tell me about the Birds and she was delighted that I managed to accommodate them. She said … some nice things.’ He slurped his beer and looked down at his feet shyly. ‘I think I’ve earned lots of brownie points.’

  ‘Did she say anything about me?’ I said, sitting opposite him at the kitchen table and sliding the plates on to the table.

  ‘Um.’ He bit into his sandwich. ‘I didn’t mention you.’

  I felt a tweak of concern that she might somehow find out and be annoyed with him for keeping secrets but quickly brushed it away. Theo didn’t seem to have made any friends here and Eliza obviously didn’t know where Kate was so it seemed unlikely that that would happen.

  ‘To you and Kate,’ I said, clinking my beer bottle against his.

  ‘To me and Kate,’ he echoed. ‘And to you for helping.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Do you think we can forget about that kiss at your wedding now?’

  ‘What kiss?’ He raised his dark eyebrows innocently.

  We both drank to that.

  With the help of Vic and his team, Theo and I finished Beaver’s Barn by the skin of our teeth. It was a triumph and just how I’d envisaged it: warm and welcoming but at the same time contemporary and fresh in tones of chalky white, soft sea-glass green and natural oak. I’d cleaned and hoovered every inch of the cottage and Theo had ironed the sparkling new bedlinen so thoroughly that the creases would probably never drop out. We’d made up both bedrooms, to give our guest a choice, and left a pile of soft fluffy towels and a selection of toiletries from the Mermaid Gift and Gallery in the bathroom. There was a lovely seascape above the tiny log burner and a row of pretty green and white mugs hung from hooks above the kitchen worktop. I could happily move in there myself, I thought, recalling the cramped little flat I shared with Trudy.

  Theo peered into the cottage one last time and whistled. ‘Vic and his crew have worked wonders. Hard to imagine that this was a building site a week ago.’

  ‘And by the end of this week, the others will be habitable too,’ I said, swishing the mop from left to right and backing my way out of the kitchen. ‘There. Done.’

  Vic wandered over and handed Theo an envelope. ‘Here’s my invoice. Cash most appreciated.’

  After securing a promise from Theo not to keep him waiting for his money this time, Vic and his apprentice left for the day.

  ‘Just in time,’ said Theo, as the builder’s van trundled away in the distance. ‘The email said they’d be here any moment now.’

  We set off back to the house to put the kettle on in readiness for the arrival of our guest. We didn’t have to wait long; I hadn’t even had the chance to drink my tea before the purr of an engine and a crunch of gravel had us heading to the door.

  A sleek blue Mercedes came gracefully to a halt beside Theo’s van and we walked out to greet our latest arrival. Definitely an artist: the legs of an easel were sticking out of the boot, which had been secured with a stretchy luggage strap.

  ‘It’s an AMG,’ murmured Theo, eyeing up the badge on the car. ‘Expensive motor.’

  ‘OMG more like,’ I said, squinting to see through the blacked-out windows. I’d been to a red-carpet do last month with Sebastian and I’d had a driver to collect me in a car like this. I half-expected a celebrity to climb out.

  ‘Businessman, at a guess,’ said Theo.

  ‘Or woman,’ I countered.

  The driver’s window slid down with a luxurious buzz.

  ‘Hi there!’ I bent down so I could peer into the car.

  A buxom woman in her fifties with poppy-red bobbed hair and matching lipstick lifted her sunglasses to the top of her head and boomed, ‘Heavens to Betsy! How gorgeous are you and your little house!’

  ‘Kind of you to say,’ said Theo, failing to hide his surprise with an open jaw and wide eyes.

  She started to open the car door and then hesitated. ‘You don’t have dogs, do you?’ She grimaced. ‘I don’t really do dogs.’

  ‘No,’ I confirmed, ‘although we might be getting a kitten.’

  ‘Might we?’ Theo gave me a look of surprise.

  ‘Part of your emotional therapy,’ I said out of the side of my mouth while the woman clambered out ungracefully.

  ‘We guessed you might be an artist,’ I said, nudging Theo to close his mouth and remember his manners.

  ‘An artist!’ She pressed a hand to her quivering cleavage as if I’d just paid her an enormous compliment. ‘I paint, therefore
I am!’

  There was no questioning that; she had paint ingrained under every fingernail and her neon-green Crocs were speckled with a rainbow of colours too.

  ‘Welcome to your Brightside holiday.’ Theo stepped forward, ready to shake her hand. I mentally cheered; his hospitality skills had improved a hundredfold since last week.

  ‘Thank you!’ She ignored his outstretched hand and threw her arms around him, inhaling so deeply that her bosom reached perilously close to Theo’s chin. She then retrieved a fold of banknotes from her bra and handed them to me. They were warm.

  ‘This air, the light!’ she cried, exhaling as she tossed her purple pashmina over her shoulder. ‘I can tell already this is going to be perfect. Over here, are we?’

  She pointed at the row of cottages and without waiting for a reply, stomped off towards them. I was about to set off after her to show her the facilities when she twirled round and flapped a hand at Theo. ‘Bring my easel, would you?’

  ‘She seems fun,’ I whispered with a giggle.

  ‘What did her last slave die of?’ Theo chuntered, battling to pull the huge wooden easel wedged between a crate of red wine and a box of paints from the boot of her car.

  ‘He was crushed,’ I murmured, ‘under the weight of her personality.’

  Afternoon tea, it transpired, was something that Kate had promised to all guests. The Birds might have arrived too late, but I didn’t want to disappoint our artist. Ten minutes after she arrived, I sent Theo over with a pot of tea, a plate of homemade scones, jam and clotted cream. And strict instructions to find out B. Nutley’s first name.

  He quickly returned none the wiser.

  ‘She was in the loo,’ he said. ‘I didn’t feel I could ask.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said, helping myself to a scone and piling it with jam. ‘I’ll ask her later.’

  We’d just demolished the rest of the batch when we heard raised voices outside.