attic room will take us up to five chargeable rooms, all doubles, all with an en suite. The rooms downstairs will be more than enough space for me, and the attic could be really special if we do it right.’ If she closed her eyes, she could picture it. The telescope, the navy feature wall, pinprick lights dotting the ceiling and globe reading lamps set in snug recesses either side of the bed. She’d seen her fair share of luxury when scoping out Once in a Blue Moon Days projects, and she remembered Neve’s favourite. It was a five-star penthouse suite in Switzerland, its glass ceiling inviting the night sky in, as if you were sleeping on the edge of the world. For Neve, who had believed wholeheartedly in astrology, in finding truth and love by reading the stars, it was perfect. Robin couldn’t quite manage the penthouse-level of extraordinary, but she could capture the essence of what had made it so magical.
‘So,’ Molly said, leaning forward, speaking through a mouthful of pen lid, ‘let’s do the rooms in turn. What’s the attic room going to be called?’
Robin finished the doodle of the man sitting in the curve of her crescent moon, took her grey pen and wrote Starcross in large, swirling script. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Room number five.’
‘Starcross,’ Molly read. ‘Robin Brennan, you crazy romantic. Just don’t call one of the rooms Elsinore, or you’ll be tempting fate. What ideas have you got for the other bedrooms?’
They worked for hours, coming up with more and more ideas, words in minute writing squashed up to the edge of the sheet as the new and improved Campion Bay Guesthouse took shape, albeit just on paper.
‘And I was in charge of social media at Blue Moon Days, so I can get that working to promote us,’ Robin said, even after they’d declared their ideas banks empty. ‘I can make bread, I’ve got a mean kedgeree recipe and I saw this incredible wall in a hotel that was actually a fish-tank. How amazing would that look in the sea-themed room?’
‘It would look stunning,’ Molly said slowly, ‘as long as your parents have left you a million quid, which is about what we’ve spent already, judging by this.’ She waggled the sheet of paper.
Robin stood and stretched her hands up to the ceiling, undoing all the knots in her back. The sea had taken on a deep, inky hue as the weak January sun had emerged, and it winked on Molly’s Murano glass earrings. She thought that she could put stained-glass window panels in one of the rooms, taking advantage of the ever-changing Campion Bay light.
‘It’s not as bad as all that,’ she said, pushing away a wave of unease. ‘Mum and Dad have offered to invest a fair amount – I think partly they feel guilty about going to France even though I’m resurrecting the guesthouse.’ On New Year’s Day she had made a maple and pecan loaf cake, sat her parents down with that and a pot of Ceylon tea, and introduced the idea of taking over the guesthouse. She had expected them to tell her that they didn’t think she was ready, that it wasn’t possible, but instead they had cautiously embraced the idea, offering as much support – moral and financial – as they could. ‘Besides,’ Robin continued, ‘once we start investigating suppliers, putting the research in, we’ll find affordable options. And with your friends, Jim and Kerry, agreeing to help with the decorating, we’re going to make some savings. I can’t believe Jim was sold by the offer of free haircuts for life.’
‘It’s for his beard. He’s beyond proud of it, and nobody trims a beard better than at Groom with a View.’ Molly grinned and then, catching Robin’s eye, her expression became more serious. ‘When I met them in the Artichoke the other night to discuss your plans and see what bartering could be done, I did also, uhm, happen to see Tim.’
Robin went very still, one hand pressed between her shoulder blades, her elbow sticking up towards the ceiling. ‘You did?’ Her mouth was suddenly dry.
Molly nodded. ‘He was there with his boss, Malcolm. Tall, weaselly, gives me the creeps – you’ve probably not run into him yet. It looked like they were celebrating a deal.’
‘Right,’ Robin managed. ‘You didn’t speak to him – Tim, I mean?’
Molly shook her head. ‘But he flashed me one of those what-a-man-I-am grins, as if maybe he knew I was going to relay the encounter to you.’
‘That’s how he smiles at everyone.’
‘I had a feeling that this smug grin was extra special. I’m unnerved by the fact that he’s not dropped by to see you yet. It makes me wonder what he’s up to.’
‘Maybe he heard about London, about what happened to Neve, and thought he’d give me some space.’ Robin chewed her lip. ‘Actually, no, if he’d heard about it, he would have offered me a shoulder to cry on.’
‘His shoulder would be the best, obviously.’
‘Oh, of course,’ Robin said, smiling at her friend, ‘none better in the whole of Campion Bay – or on the south coast, for that matter.’ She turned away, thinking how wrong it felt to talk flippantly about her grief, even though she knew it was progress – returning to some semblance of normality, making fun of the darkness when you were relieved to be emerging into brighter days. There had been a time, not so long ago, when even smiling had seemed like too much of a stretch.
‘Lunch?’ she asked.
Molly rubbed her stomach. ‘If you’re offering, otherwise some of these Sharpies might mysteriously disappear.’
‘Make yourself comfortable downstairs and I’ll bring in some sandwiches.’
Robin boiled eggs, fried rashers of streaky bacon and brewed Lapsang Souchong in one of the ruby-red breakfast teapots. As she did, she found her thoughts turning unavoidably to Tim.
Tim Lewis had been her childhood sweetheart. The most irritating, prank-playing, arrogant little shit at school who, somewhere between the ages of twelve and fourteen, had become utterly desirable. He had still played the odd prank, but his ridiculous blond curls were tamed, and his arrogance had honed itself into a confidence and determination that he was going to do something with his life.
Robin had, like all the other girls, harboured a not-very secret crush on him, and was more surprised than anyone else in the school – though only by a small margin – when, on a balmy September day, aged fourteen, he had asked her out. She had never been a wallflower at school, but she hadn’t reached the heights of popularity that put her automatically within his reach, either. He’d seemed over-confident when he’d asked, accidentally spilling the can of Coke he was holding nonchalantly in his hand, and Robin liked him all the more for that. They’d travelled on the bus to Bridport cinema and watched There’s Something About Mary, nervous at having got in a year too young. Towards the end of the film, Tim had slipped his hand in hers.
They’d dated, declaring each other boyfriend and girlfriend, their relationship surviving against the odds right up until Robin went to London to study Sociology. They’d thought they could make it work; Robin had harboured ideas of Tim coming to join her in the capital – she was sure his ambition would outgrow their cosy Dorset town – but she had misjudged him. Tim was happy where he was, staying close to his family and being a big fish in a small pond, working for a local estate agent, graduating from first homes and small flats to manage country estate sales. Now, it seemed, he’d progressed even further.
Robin poured out the boiling water and ran the eggs under the cold tap, the smell of sizzling bacon filling the kitchen. Of course she’d thought about Tim when she’d made the decision to return to Campion Bay, but they hadn’t spoken for over ten years. They were both in their early thirties now. Molly had kept her updated with significant news while she was in London, and so as far as she knew he wasn’t married, but did he still leave his hair that bit too long, allowing those gorgeous blond curls to flourish? Robin bit her lip. It was only a matter of time before they bumped into each other.
There had been something magnetic about his confidence, something altogether irresistible. It was the thing that made her heart beat faster now, so many years later, and even after the way it had ended. The problem was that Tim knew how irresistible