Always and Only You

Chapter Fifty-Three

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Present Day

The following morning, Simon brings me breakfast in bed. Once the tray is on my lap and I’m tucking into yoghurt and berries, he sits down on the edge of the mattress, facing me. ‘I know how you can get away from this flat and still find some peace and quiet, you know, proper rest,’ he says.

‘Mm-hmm?’

I’m not sure how I feel about that. My body is screaming at me that he’s right, that it’s something I desperately need, but my stubborn will is digging its heels in. I want to be able to cope.

However, words like ‘relaxation’ and ‘peace’ bring to mind luxurious country house spas and fluffy white robes, so I have half an ear open to what he’s about to say.

‘I think the problem is that here, you’re always going to get sucked into doing too much, taking too much on. And I can understand why you’re frustrated just being in the flat all day, every day, with nothing of real purpose to do.’

I feel a rush of warmth in my chest. The fact Simon has not only listened to me but came up with a plan to help shows I really can count on him when it matters.

‘I know a place in the countryside where you won’t be disturbed, and you can stay there as long as you like.’

Okay, maybe not a spa, but a gorgeous little thatched cottage with views over rolling hills, maybe a trickling stream running through a cottage garden? I could handle some of that. ‘Thank you … This is really sweet of you.’ I take a spoonful of yoghurt, making sure I also catch a couple of blueberries, and ask, ‘So where is this perfect haven?’

Simon just smiles. ‘You’ll see.’

* * *

Exactly one week later, Simon and I leave our flat at the crack of dawn, get in his car, and head west. He won’t tell me where we’re going, wanting it to be a surprise. Since I rained on his parade about Edinburgh, I play along, even though it’s making me stressed not knowing our destination. By the time the sun is high in the sky, we’ve travelled through a handful of counties, passed Stonehenge and crossed the border into Devon. I recognize this route. We take it every time we visit Simon’s parents.

‘Are we going to Lower Hadwell?’

Simon keeps his eyes on the road and his lips firmly pressed together. It’s infuriating.

‘We’re not going to your parents’ house, are we?’

As much as I love Michael and Grace, I really don’t want to move in with them. That won’t be restful at all. Even if they tell me to relax, I’ll still feel as if I’ve got to be on my best behaviour, especially as I’m responsible for wasting a ton of money they generously put into the kitty for the wedding that never was.

Simon just flashes me a smile and gives a one-sided shrug. I give up, facing the front again as my stomach begins to churn gently.

We continue our journey through the Devon countryside. It’s the beginning of August and the fields are lush green or a warm glowing yellow. Now and then, we dip down into a valley and cross a bubbling river on an old stone bridge before cresting yet another hill. I recognize each landmark, and so I’m not surprised when we pass through Stoke Moreton, then turn off the at a sign that says ‘Lower Hadwell 3’.

Oh crap. We are going to his parents’ after all. So much for Simon understanding what I needed.

The centre of the village is up on the hill, with amazing views over the water and surrounding countryside, but buildings also spread down towards the riverbank, where there is a pub, some cafes, and a small quay. Grace and Michael live just beyond that, past the village green, the only true piece of flat land in the village.

We begin our descent down the hill, past ice-cream-coloured cottages, some with window boxes, some with thatched roofs. I get ready to put my game face on, my I-had-a-nasty-bumpon-the-head-but-now-I’m-doing-fine face, but just before we reach where the road swings left in front of the Ferryboat Inn, Simon takes a right, down a lane I’d never really noticed was there before.

I sit up taller and glance at Simon. He’s staring straight ahead, looking pretty pleased with himself. We travel for maybe half a mile, past a couple of other dwellings. We’re practically on top of our destination before I see it because the drive is almost level with the flat roof of a of a two-storey building that sits on the edge of the hill, almost on the very shoreline itself.

It’s only when I get out of the car and draw closer that I realize I’ve seen this building before. If you take a boat up to Lower Hadwell or stand at Whitehaven Quay, you can see a boathouse with a small concrete jetty tucked into the woodland on the opposite bank.

I’ve always wondered who it belonged to, what it looked like inside. It’s not old like many other structures around. Well, not centuries old. From its square shape and flat roof, I’d guess it was built in the 1950s. The exterior looks older, though, because it’s covered in blocks of local stone that echo the colours of the river. The bottom floor lies level with the shore, where large arched doors open onto the water, and possibly is only half the size of the upper floor, thanks to the steep hill it nestles into. Above that is a floor with wide horizontal windows and a balcony that wraps around both water-facing sides of the building. Instead of being a concrete monstrosity out of place with its surroundings, it somehow manages to stand apart yet blend in at the same time.

This is where I’m going to stay? It wasn’t what I was expecting, but it’s breathtaking all the same.

Simon gets the smaller of my two cases from the boot and I follow him to the front door, which is on the upper of the two floors, and he knocks loudly. I’ve only ever seen this place from the river before, so I didn’t realize there was another wing joined to the main house by a flagstone hallway, topped with a glazed roof.

When no one answers, Simon tries the handle. The door swings open and we step into the narrow atrium, which has only an old church bench and a rubber plant for decoration. The walls are an achingly bright white, which makes me think it’s just been decorated.

‘Hey!’ Simon calls out. I hover behind him. It’s not easy meeting new people these days. It never used to bother me making a first impression, because I always knew when I walked out the front door I’d tried my hardest in how I presented myself. But that Erin feels like my prettier, more successful cousin.

Simon walks the length of the hallway and opens the door at the far end. We emerge into a vast space that serves as a living room, dining area and kitchen. It’s been renovated to look modern while paying homage to the mid-century architecture. Perhaps the most unusual feature of the room is that the centre of the ceiling is raised, leaving only a metre or so of a border to meet the walls. Narrow horizontal windows at the top allow light to flood in from above. Back near floor level, two wide windows run down the adjoining side of the large square room, revealing a stunning view of the bend in the river as it widens. The water is dotted with small boats that are moored to bright buoys, and beyond that I can make out the village. ‘Wow …’ I can see why the architect chose not to stick to a traditional house layout and placed the main living space upstairs.

Simon comes to stand behind me and drapes his arms over my shoulders, joining them in front of my chest, holding me tight. ‘You like it?’

I turn in his arms and give him a kiss. ‘I love it.’

There are footsteps in the hallway. Simon grins. ‘Here the owner is now.’

I wait, desperately trying to quell the quiver in my stomach, but when the owner steps through the doorway, I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing.

Simon releases me, walks over, pulls the man into a bear hug, and claps him on the back. ‘Good to see you, mate!’

The guy hugs him back, and then he glances over Simon’s shoulder to me. ‘Hi, Erin.’

‘Hi, um … Hi, Gil,’ I croak.

I’m still in shock as Simon explains Gil just inherited this place, and he’s doing it up for the next few months. ‘You’ve always said how much you love this part of the world, how much you’d like to live here,’ Simon says, coming back to loop an arm around my shoulder. ‘And now you can! For a while, at least. Didn’t I tell you it was the perfect solution?’

Gil is watching me carefully, as if he’s not sure how I’m going to react to him.

‘Are you okay with this?’ I ask.

He gives a curt nod. ‘Sure. Welcome to Heron’s Quay.’