Page 45 of Secrets of Starshine
“No,” I say, standing up on tip-toes to drop a quick kiss on his cheek. “It’s not silly at all. It’s perfect. Thank you so much. I’ll treasure it.”
I feel his hand on the small of my back, and see the look of surprise on his face at the unexpected kiss. Surprised, but maybe…pleased?
EIGHTEEN
It is New Year’s Eve, and I plan to spend it in exactly the way I am used to – on my own with a bottle of fizz and the TV for company.
Mum has always come round to ours for New Year’s, but has invariably gone to bed before midnight. For the last couple, Sam has been out and about with his pals. I am used to being alone, and I have no problem with it – in fact I’m looking forward to it, because it’s also my first night in Kittiwake, the cottage that is now my home for the next month or so.
In the end, the decision to stay was an easy one. Sam really wanted to, I was ambivalent, and when Viola called with the offer of accommodation, it was the deciding factor.
“It’s the only one not let at the moment,” she’d said on the George’s landline when she called, “because it’s down for a bit of a refurb. Nothing major, still perfectly inhabitable I assure you – but we were planning on giving it a bit of a makeover. The nice man who does our maintenance work says he’s fine to delay it for a while, though, and after Connie mentioned you might be staying, I just thought, well, might as well offer. I’m sorry it’s not Puffin, dear, like when you were little, but that one’s fully booked. Go and have a look around, and let me know what you think.”
I, on the other hand, was delighted that it wasn’t Puffin – although my memories of that particular holiday still remain blurred, I’m worried that at some point I’ll trigger a flashback, like inTotal Recall. And if that happens, I suspect it won’t be nice.
I’d popped around to the cottage the next day, finding it tucked away at the side of Trevor’s Emporium. It is petite but pretty, fronted with mellow golden stone, looking right out across the village green. It is slightly out-dated, and bearing the marks of constant use, but it is also small and cosy and warm. My bedroom looks out to sea, and best of all, it comes complete with the very finest of antiques – a VHS.
Sam is delighted with it all, and is currently upstairs getting ready for what I’m sure will be a riotous night at the inn. I know enough about Starshine Cove at this stage to predict that it will be a good party, but I am happy to give it a miss. I have a freshly baked baguette, cheese and deli meats from the Emporium, a bottle of fizz, and that video ofHighlander. I have prepared myself a small buffet, and will simply try to enjoy my very first New Year’s Eve where I don’t have to worry about either my mum, or Sam being out in town. I am attempting to relax, to go with the flow, to simply see what happens – none of which comes naturally to me.
The boy himself appears, strutting into the room in a cloud of cologne, striking a pose in front of me as I lounge on the squishy sofa. It’s one of those that seems to eat you alive, and I suspect I’ll need a crane to get out of it.
“What do you think?” he asks, gesturing towards his outfit. It is, as is often the case with Sam, something of a mix – combining his much-loved punk-style trousers that come complete with zips and safety pins with a smart dress shirt and tie. The top button of the shirt is open, his tie tugged down, his Westwood Cheer-Me-Up-Choker visible around his neck.
“I like it,” I reply. “Kind of a combo of just-home-from-the-office and night-out-with-the-Sex Pistols?”
“Exactly! God, I’m good…anyway, are you sure you won’t come out?”
As he talks, he goes over to my buffet and starts to make himself a plate. I warn him off my Maltesers – there are limits to maternal love – and he sits down opposite me, plate on his lap.
“No, honest, I fancy a night in,” I say, putting as much feeling into it as I can.
He nods, eats a Malteser – the swine – and replies: “Okay, but I’m not mad about the concept of you sitting here on your own while we all party like it’s 1999.”
I am suddenly struck by the thought that he is behaving like I used to with my mum – that he is worrying about me, that he feels responsible for me. I absolutely hate that whole idea.
“Love, it’s my choice, and I’m happy with it. I need to decompress a bit. It’s been busy, and I need a rest. You’re only a minute’s walk away, so I promise that if I feel like it, I’ll pop in. Just enjoy yourself.”
“You should pop in, even if it’s just for a bit. Archie will be there, and you haven’t seen him for days. It feels a bit like you’re avoiding him.”
“I am not!” I splutter, putting down my Prosecco. “It’s just…well, he’s had work, and I’ve had stuff to do, and…”
“You’re avoiding him?”
I stare him out, knowing that there is maybe a tiny grain of truth to what he is saying. It’s not like I made a decision about it or anything – I’ve just been spending time doing other things as well. Now I know I’m going to be here for a while, I thought it would be good for me.
I’ve explored the nearby villages, and visited a few more people who are housebound and in need of a haircut, and even been taken on an afternoon out by Trevor the Druid. He drove me to a place called Eggardon Hill, an Iron Age hillfort. It had the most spectacular views out over the coast and the surrounding countryside, and although I didn’t quite feel the “Spirit of the Ancestors” as much as he seemed to, it certainly was magical looking out over the snow-clad landscape, all sweeping clouds of pristine white curves, trying to imagine its now-remote vibe as a bustling settlement.
I’ve done a lot of walking, and done some shopping, and taken George, who doesn’t drive any more, into Dorchester for an eye test. I’ve kept myself busy, basically. That, I tell myself, is not the same as avoiding someone. Is it?
I stay silent, and Sam lets out a theatrical sigh.
“Honestly, Mum, what is it with your generation? You make everything so complicated…you’re worried that youlikelike him, and that either he doesn’t feel the same, or even worse, that he does and that might make things difficult. Why can’t you just go with it and see what develops? Have you never heard of the phrase ‘holiday romance’?”
I have to smile at being lectured by my eighteen-year-old, especially one who is waving a breadstick at me. I can tell that he really enjoyed saying “your generation” in that mildly disparaging tone, because it is usually me saying the same about his generation.
I’d like to tell him that he’s imagining things, that he’s creating drama where it doesn’t exist – that I am a grown-up and don’t need relationship advice from someone who has barely stubbed his toe on the awkward corners of life as yet. I’d like to, but that would be deeply patronising, and would also be a lie. He has, after all, pretty much nailed it.
“It’s not that simple for people in our position, love,” I reply instead. “I’m way past the age of holiday romances – and this is a complicated situation, isn’t it? I can’t just go blundering into someone else’s life like that. Plus, anyway, this is all completely pointless – I’m sure Archie has better things to be thinking about than me.”
