The Last Letter from Juliet - Melanie Hudson Page 0,38

little wide, and perhaps optimistic for a seventy-eight-year old man, even if he did have elves and a red nosed reindeer. After a little polite persuasion, he eventually agreed to upping the age limit to fifty-eight – ‘but no higher!’ he said. ‘Women go downhill rapidly after that. And I need someone young enough to keep up!’

And so, with a smile on my face and a gin-infused spring in my step, I clicked Noel’s door behind me and carried on down the hill, only to be quickly seized upon by Percy, (who, if Noel was my scarecrow, must, therefore, be my tin man) who leapt out of his front garden gate as I passed by and invited me into his cottage for a festive glass of sherry and to meet his wife, Cherie.

A batch of tasty canapés had, quite coincidentally, just come out of the oven, he said. Seeing this as a perfect example of seizing on an unexpected opportunity and making the most of it (aka coddiwompling), I allowed him to guide me in.

Drinking sherry with Cherie was surprisingly enjoyable, but the arrival of a couple of apostrophe vigilante neighbours soon marred the experience. The conversation turned to the positioning of the ‘s’ and I realised that my company had been sought for unscrupulous means. I was just about to pop my second prawn vol-au-vent into my mouth when, realising I was impervious to bribery (and possibly edging towards a conclusion that the apostrophe should go before the s), Percy saw that he was getting nowhere, took my glass from my hand and announced that I must be wanting to be on my way and I was man-handled out of the door moments later without much more than a bye or leave.

I never did warm to the tin man as much as the scarecrow.

I carried on down the hill, warmed a little by the gin and sherry and stopped by the harbour wall to assess the state of the swell. As Fenella predicted, it seemed the sea was now sleeping off the mother of all hangovers and had adopted a flat, calm, comatose, couldn’t be arsed, state.

I really shouldn’t have had that drink.

But I wasn’t needed at Fenella’s until seven, which meant I had plenty of time to sober up before foraging for seaweed. I settled myself at the kitchen table, flashed up the computer and was just about to email to Sam Lanyon when my phone pinged.

Uncle Gerald.

George stable. I’ve told him a thousand times to cut back on the port and cigars, not to mention the truffles he ships in from Harrods. Hope you’re having a good time. Feel terrible to have left you on your own. I’ll make it up to you. Any joy with the apostrophe? Did Fenella mention the seaweed? X

Blooming seaweed.

I opened my email and selected ‘compose’. It was a fairly easy letter to write:

Dear Mr Lanyon

My name is Katherine Henderson and I’m the lady who is staying at Angel View this Christmas. Thank you so much for allowing me to stay in your beautiful cottage (I love it!), but I’m afraid I have a confession to make (and I may as well tell you before the elf grasses me up).

There was a shocking storm last night and to calm my nerves Uncle Gerald pointed me in the direction of whiskey in the sideboard and said that I was to help myself. The thing is, I stumbled across your grandmother’s memoirs while taking out the whiskey and I’m so sorry but I’m afraid I started to read them, and now that I’ve started, I’m afraid I don’t want to stop. I think I’ve fallen a little bit in love with Juliet, and was wondering if you would be kind enough to allow me to carry on reading her story. I know it sounds odd, but feel as though she is very much still alive within the cottage – like she could walk back in at any moment – which I know makes no sense at all now that she’s gone.

I know you must be very busy, what with being at sea and everything, but it would be wonderful if you found the time to email back giving the green light for me to delve into your grandmother’s fascinating life.

With very best wishes,

Katherine

P.S. Are you the same Sam Lanyon who writes the travel blog? I’ve been reading it.

P.P.S. I’m not a mad stalker, honest.

Sam’s Christmas card was sitting on the table, resting against the