‘What happens in the first chapter of your novel should be like an arrow pointing to the last.’
Author Elle Fielding
I slow the car into the curve of the lane, feeling it bounce over ruts and channels, loose gravel spraying from beneath the tyres.
As the track climbs, I straighten, peering beyond the hedgerows to catch a glimpse of the sea. In the muted light of dusk, I spot whitecaps breaking across the water, the sea ruffled by wind. Already, my breathing softens.
I flick off the radio, not wanting the presenter’s voice to dilute the next moment. I’ve been looking forward to it during the long drive from London to Cornwall.
As I turn the corner, I see it: the house on the cliff top, standing like a promise at the track’s end.
*
Pulling into the driveway, I cut the ignition, and sit for a moment, engine ticking.
It still feels entirely incredible that this is where I live.
In the first meeting with the architect, I’d no idea what I’d wanted beyond the number of rooms and a space to write. Over the months that followed, those untethered ideas began to weave together into a vision, which now stands three storeys tall, overlooking the wave-pounded bay.
The house is painted dove-grey, with large windows framed in natural wood. ‘Contemporary coastal heritage’, the architect said. I’m glad the weatherboarding is starting to lose some of its stark newness, and the windows look pleasingly salt-licked. I still need to soften the exterior, perhaps train some wisteria to climb around the entrance – if it can survive the bracing sea winds.
I’ve never owned a house before. Or a flat. Growing up, my sister, mother and I always lived in rented accommodation. Words like house and mortgage were for other people, not us.
The car door swings wide as I step out, the sea breeze causing my dress to billow and flatten around my thighs.
Gravel crunches underfoot as I cross the drive, hauling the case onto the flagstone doorstep, then searching the depths of my handbag for my house keys. I’m one of those people who carries too much – purse, phone, pens, a novel, my notebook.
Always a notebook.
Slotting the front door key into the lock, I hesitate.
There is something unsettling about returning home knowing strangers have been staying here. My fortnight in France was laced with worry over the decision to Airbnb the house, so much so that twice I’d clambered onto the roof terrace of the farmhouse in search of mobile reception. Thankfully there were no cries for help from them, or my sister.
Standing on the doorstep, I have the unnerving sensation that when I open my front door, I will find the family who rented it still inside. The mother – an attractive woman with an expensive-looking hairstyle, I recall from her Airbnb profile – will be at my butler sink, water sluicing over pale hands that hold a plastic beaker. Behind her, I imagine a child in a high chair, pudgy fingers pushing a strawberry into its mouth. At the breakfast bar, a father will be cutting slices of toast into soldiers, lining them onto one of my stoneware side plates, before carrying it to a girl of three or four, who will count the pieces carefully with a fingertip.
There will be music playing. Talking and laughter. The side-step of parents’ feet as they avoid a toy car on the floor. All that noise and energy and movement that a family generates pulsing inside my house.
My heart contracts: it should be my family.
Pushing open the front door, I’m immediately aware that the air smells different. Something earthy and damp, mixed with the residue of someone else’s cooking.
The wind sucks the door shut, slamming it behind me with a startling clang.
Then silence.
No one to call out to. No one to greet me.
I drop my handbag onto the oak settle beside a pile of neatly stacked post. I glance at the bill resting on top, then look away. I slip off my shoes and walk barefoot into the kitchen.
Sea and sky fill the windows. Even at dusk the light is incredible. Two gulls wheel carelessly on the breeze, and beneath them the sea churns. This is why I fell in love with the house, which was originally a rundown fisherman’s cottage that hadn’t been modernised since the sixties.
I read somewhere that the beauty of a sea view is that it’s always changing, no two days are the same. I remember thinking the statement was pretentious – but actually, it’s true.
Pulling my gaze from the water, I scan the kitchen. The long stretch of granite surface is clean and empty. A note is tucked beneath the corner of a terracotta basil pot. In my sister’s handwriting, I read:
Welcome home! All went well with the Airbnb. Pop over for a glass of wine when you’re settled. Fiona x
I missed her. And Drake. I’ll go over tomorrow, suggest a beach walk, or a pub lunch somewhere with a play area so Drake can roam.
Right now, all I have the energy for is taking a long bath with my book.
I reach into the cupboard for a glass, and as I draw it towards the tap, a movement by my fingertips causes me to drop it, the tumbler smashing into the sink. A thick-legged house spider scurries from the broken pieces to take up a crouching position in the plug hole.
I shiver. There’s just something about the way spiders move – the jerkiness of all those articulated legs. With a sigh, I resign myself to the new task of removing the spider from the house. Catching it in a spare glass, I head for the front door.
The flagstones are freezing as I climb down the steps barefoot, then wince as I pick my way across the gravel to the far end of the driveway. This bugger isn’t getting back in. I set down the glass, then nudge it over with my toe, before hopping back. The spider remains motionless for a few moments. Then, with a flurry of black legs, it scuttles away.
I turn back towards the house just in time to see my front door catching in a gust of wind, slamming shut.
‘No!’ I hurry across the driveway and grab the handle, yanking at it fruitlessly. My palms slam against the door; I’m furious with myself.
My handbag is on the settee, my keys and mobile zipped within it, my jacket hanging from its hook. Idiot!
Fiona is my spare key holder, but her house is a good half-hour walk away. I can’t do it barefoot and coatless in November – I’ll probably freeze to death before I get there.
I look over my shoulder towards the bungalow that crouches beyond my house. It is the only other property on the cliff top and belongs to Frank and Enid, a retired couple who’ve lived there for thirty years.
I remember walking to their door that first time, my hand pressed in Flynn’s, filled with an excited anticipation that we were homeowners, that we were meeting neighbours. It all felt so impossibly grown up, as if we were play-acting. Frank had a brusque manner and looked at us through the corners of his eyes, as if trying to get the full measure of us. Enid fretted over the strength of the tea and that there were dishes in the sink from breakfast. But Flynn always had an easy, relaxed way with people and by the end of the visit a friendship had been made.
Now those visits are over. I haven’t been inside their home in months. If we pass on the single-lane road, Frank ensures it is me who reverses to a pull-in, or if he catches sight of me while putting the bins out, he looks determinedly away.
With a sinking feeling, I cross the driveway, framing my request for help.
My hair whips around my face, and I gather the long twist of it in one hand. I’m about to press the bell when the door swings