Five
Willow
Willow took her change from the bed and breakfast lady/barmaid and wandered over to an empty seat, placing her glass down on the table and taking out her phone to check for any messages from either the builders or Ethan. There was an uncomfortable feeling in her gut, as though there was a small but hefty bowling ball in there, clogging and silently damaging her insides. She tried to ignore the feeling, knowing if she paid it too much attention it would take over completely and send her into a panic. So far, with the distraction of her mission to find accommodation, she was coping with the catastrophe, but she knew once she stopped and really thought about the situation she and her husband were now in, she would fall to pieces.
Falling to pieces wasn’t usually Willow’s style. She could be cool, calm and collected at the worst of times, thinking rationally about the bigger picture instead of giving in to dread. When her caterers had cancelled at the very last minute on her wedding day, phoning just minutes before she was due to have her hair and make-up done with news of a faulty fridge and ruined food, Willow hadn’t flapped. She’d been momentarily disappointed she wouldn’t get to enjoy the menu she’d planned weeks in advance, but she knew it was only food. Good food, but food all the same. Marrying Ethan was the important part, the part making her heart race and her hands jitter, so she’d let the lack of catered food slide as she slipped her phone into her pocket and sat on the hairdresser’s chair. Later, once she was Mrs St Clair, Willow led her guests to the seafront, where she and Ethan bought them the most delicious fish and chips, which they ate on the beach. It had been a chilly evening, but everyone said it was the best fish and chips they’d ever eaten and Willow remembered the day with fondness. The smell of battered fish and salt and vinegar-drenched chips filling the pub now reminded her of that day. Everything will be okay, the aroma reminded her. She and Ethan would sort everything out. This was a tiny blip they’d maybe laugh about one day.
Or maybe not. Only time would tell.
She checked her phone again. Still no word from Ethan. She wasn’t too surprised or worried about the lack of contact under the circumstances, but hearing from him would have offered a little bit of comfort and gone a long way in preventing her from teetering over the edge.
Placing the phone on the table, she took a sip of her drink, swallowing hard against the miniature bowling ball, which had crawled stealthily to sit in her throat.
‘Fancy a chip?’
Willow placed her glass back down on the table and glanced first at the bag of chips being proffered and then its owner sitting at the neighbouring table. He was perhaps in his early thirties, with smooth, brown skin and closely cropped black hair, and when he smiled – as he did now, while pushing the bag of chips ever so slightly closer to Willow – he displayed an enviable row of neat, white teeth.
‘No, but thank you.’ Willow didn’t think she could manage it. The lemonade had been battle enough.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked, removing the chips – and the strong vinegar scent that tickled Willow’s nose – and placing the bag on his own table. ‘You look… sort of stressed.’
Understatement! Willow was this close to weeping, right there with a pub full of witnesses.
But no. Deep breaths. Deep, calming breaths.
Everything will be okay.
‘Are you a doctor or something?’ Willow asked, and he smiled again.
‘Not for humans.’ He wiped his hand down the thigh of his jeans to rid it of any grease and held it out to Willow. ‘I’m Alfie Michaels, the local vet.’
‘Ah.’ Willow shook the hand. ‘You’re the one I need to speak to about a stable.’
‘Sorry?’
Willow laughed. ‘Sorry, bit of an in-joke. There’s no room at the inn – or the local B&Bs – so I was hoping a stable would be free. Oh, excuse me…’ She pounced on her phone as it sprang into life, but it was neither Ethan nor the builder and she didn’t recognise the number on the screen.
‘Hello? Is that Re-Create?’ a male voice asked once she answered.
Willow pushed the bowling ball to the very back of her mind as she switched to business gear. ‘It is. This is Willow speaking. How may I help you?’
‘It’s Malcolm Kershaw?’ The man on the other end of the line posed the name as a question, as though Willow might be familiar with it. ‘We’ve been exchanging emails about the bed?’
Ah! Willow recognised the name now. She and Malcolm had been communicating about one of the old, disused rowing boats she’d rescued from the harbour, upcycling her treasure into a bed that hung from the ceiling, creating a gentle rocking motion for the sleeper. Malcolm had spotted the bed on her website and was keen to buy it.
‘I’ve got a van,’ Malcolm said now. ‘I’m about ten minutes away from Clifton-on-Sea.’
‘You’re on your way?’ Willow knew from their exchanges over the past couple of weeks that Malcolm lived in Huddersfield, which was around seventy miles away. This was not a quick trip and he’d be disappointed – to say the least – if he arrived to find an empty shop.
‘Yep. Won’t be long. You still have the bed?’
The bed was currently taking up a huge chunk of her workroom at the back of the shop, and the prospect of finally having that space back almost made her lightheaded with relief. The bed was quite a niche piece, and she’d been worried she wouldn’t find a new owner for it. On the other hand, she was in the middle of a crisis here and – it had just occurred to her – she could use the rowing boat bed if she failed to come up with another solution.
But no. Malcolm had been so excited about the bed, which he’d told Willow he wanted for his son as part of a sea-themed bedroom makeover. She couldn’t deny it him – especially when he’d travelled so far to pick it up.
‘I do have it,’ Willow confirmed. ‘But I’m not at the shop right now. I can be there in…’ She calculated the distance between the Fisherman and her shop. ‘Twenty minutes?’
‘Great. I don’t mind hanging around for a few minutes. It might take me that long to find your shop. Where exactly is it? I’ve just got off the motorway and pulled over. I can see a sign for the train station.’
‘Head that way.’ Willow stood up and headed for the pub’s door. ‘My shop is just around the corner from the station. It’s your first left. Thorpe Lane.’ She reached the door and pushed her way through it, saying goodbye to Malcolm as she reached her van and hopped inside. A text message beeped through to her phone as she dragged her seatbelt across her chest.
Sorry, only just got your message about the house! Can’t talk now – will phone in about an hour.
Slotting the key in the ignition, she left it to dangle for a moment while she tapped out a reply. Slipping her phone into the pocket of her dungarees, she started the van and pulled away from the Fisherman, heading back towards the station, her shop and the rowing-boat bed. Behind her, just as she turned away from the harbour, the doors of the pub flew open, a pair of red, peep-toe slingbacks clattering onto the pavement.
Mae
She threw herself out of the pub, eyes darting left and right as they hunted the dungaree-clad woman, a hand held against her forehead to shield her eyes from the bright midday sun. She was greeted by the familiar line of wooden benches opposite the Fisherman, their backs against the seagull-lined harbour wall, but the only people around were a young couple wandering hand-in-hand, a bag of chips held between them, a mother holding her toddler son up to the harbour wall, pointing out the boats bobbing up and down on the water beyond, and the owner of the B&B a couple of doors down watering her hanging baskets.