Читать книгу A Summer Scandal: The perfect summer read by the author of One Day in December - Kat French, Kat French - Страница 9

Violet swung a left, her stomach flipping over at the first mention of Swallow Beach on a road sign. Over the last few days she’d loaded the basics of her life into the back of her Morris Minor Traveller, the only car she’d wanted despite everyone advising her to get something newer and more reliable. She’d merrily ignored them all and her trusty woody van had fast become one of her most prized possessions, and right now it held a good chunk of her life in the back of its hatch. There had been little room for sentiment whilst packing up; the essential contents for her makeshift workroom filled the lion’s share of the space.

Realising that there was little to gain from standing in Violet’s way, Della had valiantly set aside her own feelings to assist her daughter, all the time dropping the words ‘temporary’ and ‘coming home again soon’ into the conversation to make sure they lodged well and truly in Violet’s subconscious. Her dad had been typically low-key, although he’d insisted on giving her two hundred pounds in fresh ten-pound notes drawn from the bank that morning, just in case of emergency.

She’d hugged them tightly, then watched them stand arm in arm on the pavement as she drove away with a lump lodged in her throat. Simon wasn’t there; he’d sent her a bon voyage card in the mail, vowing to keep the home fires burning until she returned ready to plan their wedding. Violet couldn’t help but feel like an Amish teenager. She’d seen a programme a few weeks back on how they were allowed one wild summer before they settled down to the traditional ways; Rumspringa, they called it. Was this her own personal Rumspringa? Were her family indulging her in the hope and expectation that she’d get it out of her system and return to the fold?

All such thoughts flew out of the window as she passed a road sign welcoming her to Swallow Beach, twinned with a French town she couldn’t pronounce the name of. Well, that had to be a good omen, right? Anywhere that was pretty enough to be twinned with a French town had to have something going for it, surely. She couldn’t see anything yet; the skinny country lane was the kind where you pray nothing comes in the other direction, the high hedges batting her wing mirrors on either side. And then a few twists later, the lane widened and crested a hill, and for a few seconds Violet paused the car and just sat and looked at the scene spread out before her, entranced.

From her lofty hilltop position, she could clearly see the curved sweep of the bay down below. Her eyes scanned the beach, her heart in her mouth, terrified of disappointment, but sure enough, still standing there on the far right, was the old Victorian pier. Her breath whooshed from her chest, pure sweet relief. She’d told herself over and over that there was every likelihood that it had crumbled into the sea, but there it was, looking almost exactly as it had in the photos in her mum’s battered album.

Sliding the car into first gear, Violet followed her nose slowly down the hill into the bay, her heart still banging around in her chest in a way that had nothing to do with the Traveller’s springy suspension. The town, if that’s what it was, felt like most out-of-season English seaside towns: closed up and waiting. April showers were the order of the day; it had dried up for now, but grey skies ruled and a damp, low hanging sea-mist clung to the air. Hardly the most welcoming weather, but Violet brimmed full of nervous optimism nonetheless. She was here. Now what was she supposed to do?

When she reached the seafront, she nosed the Traveller into one of the empty car park spaces facing the deserted beach, clearly placed there for people to pull in and watch the sunset. If the sun ever came out, that is. Not that it mattered all that much to Vi as she turned off the engine and let her eyes drink in her first good look at Swallow Beach Pier. At her pier. Ornate black ironwork reaching out into the sea. It wasn’t overly long; and considering its age and the fact that no one would have looked after it in years, it looked to be in pretty decent shape. The scrolls and arches were almost delicate, and balanced over the waves at the far end stood the prettiest of glass pavilions.

‘Oh,’ Violet whispered, steaming up her windscreen. ‘Will you look at that.’

Climbing from the car, she fastened the oversized wooden buttons on her kingfisher-blue felt coat against the brisk breeze, wound her hand-knitted cherry-red scarf around her neck, and locked the Traveller even though there wasn’t another soul around. She didn’t have a plan; she just felt the need to get closer to the pier.

Following the cobbled pavement along, she slowed as she neared the land-bound end of the pier, coming to a halt in front of two tall, wonderfully ornate gates closing the pier off from the rest of the town. A heavy metal chain bound the gates together, wound several times between the bars and scrolls. A huge old padlock held the chain in place, ensuring that no one set foot onto the wooden boards that lay beyond the gates.

Almost tentatively, Vi stepped closer and reached out her hands, closing her eyes as her fingers made first contact with the cold metal. Sighing deeply, she curled her fingers around the iron and leaned her head forwards to rest against it, imagining her grandmother standing in the exact same spot all those years ago. How had she felt the first time she’d been in Swallow Beach? She’d been on honeymoon, probably full of optimism and excitement. A strangely comforting wash of emotions swept across Vi’s skin, making her open her eyes and fill her lungs to the brim with bracing, salty sea air. If she’d been asked to give the emotion a name, it would have been hope.

‘Monica?’

Violet twirled around, startled by the voice behind her. She found herself looking up into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, cornflower bright and wide as they stared at her face. The tall, distinguished man was probably eighty or more, and he looked nothing short of incredulous as he narrowed his gaze and peered closer, then shook his head as if to clear it.

‘Sorry. Thought you were someone else then for a mo.’

‘You called me Monica,’ Violet said. ‘Monica was my grandmother.’

Again, the stranger stared, then nodded slowly and sighed. ‘Of course she was. Blow me, if you’re not the living image of her.’

‘You knew my grandmother?’

The man laughed then, those blue eyes glittering and wishful. ‘Oh, I knew Monica,’ he said. ‘And Henry, of course. Is he still …?’

Vi shook her head and bit the inside of her lip, holding in the sharp stab of longing for her grandpa. ‘No. He died a few weeks back.’

Lowering his gaze, the man removed his fedora. ‘Sad news, mon chéri.’

A thought occurred to Violet. ‘I wonder if you could help me?’ she said, digging in her coat pocket for her phone to check the address of her grandparents’ apartment. Or her new home, as she needed to start to think of it, temporarily at least. ‘I need to find the Lido building?’

The stranger didn’t say anything for a second, then he held his hand out. ‘I’m Bartholomew Harwood,’ he said. ‘Everyone calls me Barty these days, you should too.’

Ingrained politeness had Vi reaching out to shake his hand. ‘Violet,’ she said.

‘Violet.’ He repeated her name, as if deciding whether or not he approved. ‘How perfectly glorious. Lilys are two a penny these days. Violets are rarer by far.’

Glorious and rare? Well, no one had ever said that about her before. Vi decided she rather liked Barty Harwood. He had a rakish, old-school charm and the hint of a wry smile hovering around his mouth, and going on his bright floral shirt, he didn’t seem to care much for convention. Tall and well dressed, he looked like a man who had many anecdotes and would be happy to share some of them over a few glasses of good whisky.

‘How about I show you the Lido?’ Barty said. ‘It’s not far at all.’

Violet glanced back along the seafront towards the Traveller. ‘Is it walking distance? We could go in my car.’

Barty followed her gaze. ‘As you wish,’ he said, holding his arm out to indicate she should lead the way.

‘Have you always lived in Swallow Beach?’ She made conversation as she fished her keys from her pocket as they approached her car.

Barty ran his hand appreciatively over the polished wood on the Traveller. ‘It’s admirable that you don’t feel obliged to follow the trends, Violet.’

Violet slid into the driver’s seat and reached across to open his door, aware that he’d dodged answering her question. She didn’t push it; if he’d been here long enough to know her grandparents, he’d obviously spent a large part of his life here.

He rubbed his hands together briskly as she started the engine and reversed, then nosed her way along the seafront towards the pier.

‘Which way?’

Barty inclined his head across the strip of grass that served as a central reservation, towards a building fronting the main road. Following his nod, Violet scanned the scene and found herself gazing at a tall pale-brick villa, double-fronted and far more grand and ornate than she’d anticipated. Stone steps led up to the wide, central front door, flanked on either side by graceful white pillars. Curved bay windows ran up the full height of each floor of the building, and up on the very top gutters, large, white letters proudly spelt out ‘The Lido’.

‘You weren’t kidding when you said it wasn’t far,’ she murmured, taken aback. She’d imagined that the apartment would be somewhere tucked away at the back of Swallow Beach, not in the grandest building on the seafront. How frankly fabulous.

‘Where’s best to park?’

Barty directed her down a side street. ‘There’s a car park around the back for residents.’

Residents. Was she really to be a resident in such a gorgeous place, albeit only for a summer? Following Barty’s direction, Vi turned in behind the building and found a well-cared-for, almost empty car park. Even the back of the building was lovely, a rose garden already in early bloom beside the back door.

‘Does it matter where I park?’ she asked, keen not to wind anyone up on day one by parking in their space.

Barty wrinkled his nose. ‘Most people are at work, I expect; park wherever takes your fancy. Have to fight them off with a stick in the summer, mind.’ His hand was already opening the door, and he turned away to unfold his tall frame from the low passenger seat.

Sucking down a deep breath for courage, Violet swung her door wide and followed suit.

Following Barty through the back door, Violet found herself inside the ground-floor lobby, light and bright thanks to the many stained windows surrounding the front door and the freshly painted white woodwork on the gracefully sweeping staircase and two apartment doors, one either side of the tiled vestibule. Gold numbers on the doors declared them 1 and 2.

‘This is mine,’ Barty said, nodding towards number 1. ‘And that one belongs to Keris, my granddaughter.’

Vi’s jaw dropped. ‘You live here?’

He threw his hands out. ‘So it would seem. Cup of mint tea?’

Vi narrowed her eyes. ‘That’s my favourite.’

Barty looked at her steadily, half smiling. ‘Who knew?’

You did, Violet felt like saying. ‘I better not,’ she said, instead. Glancing towards the staircase, her nerves kicked back in. ‘I better head on up.’ She stalled, jiggling the keys, excited and terrified at the same time. ‘Has anyone been up there recently, do you know?’

Barty shook his head. ‘Not that I’ve noticed.’ He touched his fingers against his fedora. ‘I’ll let you get on. You know where I am if you need me. Tap the door for mint tea.’

And with that he turned and opened his own door. Looking back at her as he stepped inside, he paused. ‘Do you want me to come up with you?’

Tempted as she was to say yes, Vi shook her head. This was something she needed to do alone.

‘Thanks, I think I’m okay.’

He looked at her for a couple of silent seconds, then nodded and closed his door. Violet stood still for a few moments, fighting the urge to knock on his door and tell him she’d changed her mind, she’d love a cup of mint tea and someone to hold her hand and come with her. All she knew about the apartment on the top floor was that her grandfather had paid a cleaning company to go in once a month, but that aside, no one with any actual connection to her family had set foot near the place in decades. It was empty. Waiting. For her? Suppressing the chill that ran down her spine, Violet put her best foot forward and set off up the wide, shallow stairs.

Number 6. The swirled gold number on the left-hand door of the upper-floor landing confirmed it. Violet hesitated at the top of the marble staircase, her eyes flickering towards number 5. Who was her new neighbour? She hoped they wouldn’t mind sharing the top floor; they must be pretty used to having it to themselves after all these years.

God, but she was nervous. She’d been so caught up with the romantic notion of moving to Swallow Beach that she hadn’t paused to think about the reality of standing here poised to enter the apartment for the first time. She hadn’t counted on feeling so alone, or scared, even. She hadn’t imagined that she’d be ever so slightly spooked, or feel inexplicably certain that her life was going to change as soon as she opened the door. Shooting a look back towards the staircase, she toyed with the idea of asking Barty to accompany her after all. She almost stepped towards it, then at the last second she pulled herself together, swung purposefully towards her door, and raised the key towards the lock.

‘Er, not so fast, cat burglar. Who the hell are you?’

Violet jumped out of her skin, startled by the sudden male voice behind her. His timing couldn’t have been more spectacularly off; her heart was already in her mouth – he’d pretty much guaranteed her a heart attack. Swinging around, she tried to look more together than she felt. For a slow moment, she stared down the guy standing across the landing, mostly because she couldn’t breathe properly.

‘I know,’ he grinned, leaning against his doorway and folding his arms. ‘It’s a lot to take in.’ He gestured down at himself. ‘I can wait.’

Violet looked away out of the picture window towards the sea, ignoring his smart-arse remark. In truth, he was quite a lot to take in. Tall and tanned, so far so good, but also wearing overalls unbuttoned down his bare chest to waist level. He radiated a laid-back kind of charisma that Hollywood directors no doubt wished they could bottle, all dark curls and eyes that said more than his mouth.

‘I’m Violet,’ she said, aware she sounded clipped and prim as she raised her chin and looked at him again. ‘And I’m not a cat burglar. I live here.’

It was his turn to look surprised. ‘No one lives up here but me.’

‘Well, now I do.’

‘In there?’ he frowned towards her door.

‘Yes.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since now. Since this minute.’

He nodded slowly. ‘Have you been inside yet?’

Violet bit her lip. ‘Not yet.’

‘I didn’t realise the old place had been sold,’ he said, frowning.

‘It hasn’t. It belonged to my grandparents.’

‘Oh, right.’ His eyebrows flicked upwards, from confusion to surprise. ‘Well, welcome to the neighbourhood.’

When he made no move to go back inside, Violet nodded out of politeness and turned her back on him, raising the key to her lock again. This time, she didn’t hesitate. It slid in easily enough; the caretaking company were obviously doing a good job. And because there was nothing else for it, and because she could feel her new neighbour’s eyes burning the back of her neck, Violet pushed the door open and stepped back in time.