Nest Cottage in the heart of the sleepy village had always looked like the perfect holiday rental to me, hence my insistence that I was photographed standing in front of it.
Built next to the pub and just a stone’s throw from the dip down to the beach, it was a higgledy-piggledy little place, but full of charm. We had never stayed there. The limited holiday fund my parents had then was just enough to secure us one of the few static caravans on the clifftops outside the village, but I had always promised myself that I would stay at the cottage one day and here it was, still listed as holiday accommodation.
My fingers lingered over opening the availability enquiry form. Was there even a slim chance that I would be able to convince my father that now was a sensible time for me to take a break, and if I somehow did, would Wynmouth be the same? Would it be capable of filling me with that same sense of calm? Because that was what I was desperate for. That was what I was craving every bit as much as the invigorating sea air. Throwing myself into my work hadn’t helped me get over losing Mum, but perhaps Wynmouth would.
Then I remembered the hasty departure surrounding our last holiday. Dad had insisted on packing up and leaving early, saying an unmissable work opportunity had come up and it was imperative that we left straightaway.
‘It’s the opening of a lifetime,’ he had said, urging us to pack. ‘A chance to really put Tyler PR on the map.’
Whatever the opportunity was – I was too heartbroken to care – it must have succeeded because by the following year the business was flying and we had spread our holiday wings far further than Norfolk. We had never returned to Wynmouth and yet it was still the place I dreamed of, the very spot my moments of mindful meditation always led me back to.
My phone began to ring and I reached for it.
‘Have you seen the Sunday papers?’ Dad barked, the second I answered.
‘No,’ I swallowed. ‘What is it?’
‘Your man’s been on another bender and his wife’s thrown him out.’
I took a moment to take a deep breath. It was in no way soothing.
‘I’ve got my laptop right here,’ I said with an urgency I didn’t feel as I opened a new tab next to the Crow’s Nest Cottage page, ‘if you send me the address, I’ll email Vicky Price’s agent and the advertiser straightaway.’
Chapter 2
Even before I ended the call from Dad, I knew that it would be impossible to take off anytime soon, but I still submitted the cottage availability form. It was my misguided attempt to fool myself into thinking that I was putting some sort of self-care practice into action.
Vicky Price, her agent and the advertiser were thrilled with the prospect of us all working together, but the other guy, now back in rehab, and his increasingly belligerent agent, were less than impressed by the turn of events. It was beyond belief that either of them could really think that he was still right for the job, but they did, and their grumbling had rapidly turned into threats of legal action. We had a watertight contract in place to ensure that couldn’t possibly happen, but the mere mention of bad press for Tyler PR had sent my father marching along the warpath and given me a migraine to end all others.
‘Are you going home?’ Lucy asked me, late on Tuesday afternoon. ‘I really think you should, you look absolutely dreadful.’
Not only was I battling a sledgehammer attacking my fragile skull, but I was feeling increasingly nauseous too and the office lights were hurting my eyes. My brain felt far too swollen to fit my head and no number of painkiller combinations had helped.
‘Lucy’s right,’ said Sonya, eyeing me with a frown. ‘You should go, Tess. We can manage until tomorrow.’
If Sonya was telling me to go home, then I must have looked really bad. The last thing I wanted was to desert my post, but I had no choice. I had exhausted every avenue of trying to cope with the pain and nothing had helped.
‘All right,’ I caved. ‘I’ll go, but if anything happens, you ring me, okay? I’ll keep my phone turned on and I’ll be in even earlier tomorrow.’
When I arrived home, I checked my emails. There was one from someone called Sam about the cottage.