Snowflakes Over Holly Cove: The most heartwarming festive romance of 2018 Read online

  I nod, feeling much calmer now my pulse is no longer racing and pounding in my head. ‘Thank you, I’m really very grateful you saw me and came to my rescue. I hope I wasn’t trespassing—’

  ‘No, I saw you yesterday, looking out of the cottage window when I was fishing. You have as much right to be here as I do.’

  The man doesn’t say anything else; we exchange pleasant smiles and, in tandem, turn to begin heading back up the beach. I feel I ought to engage him in conversation out of politeness, as it’s clear he isn’t going to say anything more.

  ‘Are you a local?’ I notice there’s a hint of a Welsh lilt to his voice but it’s not as pronounced as Olwen’s accent had been.

  He turns his head, his eyes scanning my face for a few seconds before he responds.

  ‘You could say that. I live in the cabins over there.’ He nods in the direction of the two wooden structures that look much more like holiday chalets from this angle.

  The wind is starting to whistle around my ears. The sky is no longer blue, but an oppressive shade of pale grey that makes it hard to distinguish where the sea ends and it begins.

  ‘There’s a storm coming,’ he warns.

  We stop in front of the gate to the cottage and I hesitate for a moment, because he seems to be lingering, as if he’s waiting to be invited inside.

  ‘Can I offer you a hot drink, or something, for saving me from my own folly? It’s the least I can do.’

  He smiles, those soft, gentle eyes at odds with his well-worn and rather stern demeanour.

  ‘I’m not really a people-person, Miss. But thank you for the thought.’

  He turns and trudges back across the sand, his heavy boots leaving a clear trail of footprints behind him. It’s rather comforting knowing there is someone close, even if I have no idea exactly who he is, or why he lives here on the beach.

  5

  Back in My Stride

  Well, the adrenalin boost isn’t wasted and after a strong, hot coffee I sit down at the dining table and set up my office. The Wi–Fi seems to work well on both my laptop and the iPad, so it doesn’t take long to begin pulling things into shape. Six weeks seems to be a reasonable amount of time for the assignment. While the subject is how people from varying backgrounds keep the love alive, it’s really three standalone articles; each one will be contrasting rather than comparing two very different lifestyle choices. And now, of course, I’m one case-study short.

  If I broadly assign one week to each article, then I know that the time is going to fly by and it’s not as generous a timescale as it might seem at first glance. But there’s still this little niggle in the back of my mind about the motivation behind Clarissa’s thoughtfulness. It’s so totally out of character for her, even though I will admit I don’t think I could have coped with this without the change of scene. Here, at least, it’s peaceful and there aren’t any reminders of what I’ve left behind. It’s as if my worries have been set to one side for a short while and I’m able to take time out to focus exclusively on the task in hand.

  Of course, Clarissa said that everyone thought I was perfect for this project, but does that mean everyone else turned it down? Maybe that’s why she decided to present me with a fait accompli, as the French would say – a done deal. She knew that it would be virtually impossible for me to refuse when she already had the arrangements put in place.

  I sigh and reach for my phone. As much as I don’t want to speak to my brother, I suppose I’d better tell him where I am in case he needs my input. We’re joint executors of Mum’s will, although it’s unlikely he’ll seek to involve me in any way at all. He thrust two pieces of paper under my nose, asked me to sign and since then he’s dealt with everything.

  ‘Will, it’s Tia.’

  He clears his throat and there’s an angry, almost dismissive, edge to the sound. ‘I left a couple of messages on your answerphone.’

  I grit my teeth, realising he’s cross with me because I haven’t been in touch, but then he could have tried my mobile too.

  ‘Sorry. I’m back at work and I have a new assignment, so I’m staying on the Gower coast for the next month or so. I’m just checking in to see if there’s anything you need me to do.’

  ‘It’s all in hand. It’s not a quick process.’

  I won’t know that if you don’t tell me what’s going on.

  ‘If you need to contact me, use the mobile number as there’s no landline here. Is everyone all right at that end?’

  I don’t want to annoy him by asking directly about my sister-in-law Sally, or my niece, six-year-old Bella. Before Mum’s death, we hadn’t spoken for nearly four years. It all began when Mum started getting close to an old family friend called Edward. Ed had been Dad’s best man at their wedding and their friendship went way back to their school days. Dad was only in his forties when he passed away, quite suddenly, from a massive heart attack. Ed and his wife were there to help Mum through the worst. Then, about seven years ago, Ed’s wife died of cancer. He was a lost soul for a while and it was only natural that Mum was there for him.

  But as they grew closer together, it seemed to anger Will and the tension began to build. One day he turned on Mum, implying that Ed was using her. I stepped in and, after an explosive rant, Will walked out of Mum’s house and never set foot over the doorstep again. Until the day she died. When he responded to my call I had no idea what his reaction would be. As we waited for the ambulance to arrive to take her body away, he thanked the doctor in attendance and asked all the right questions, but there was no sign of emotion. I was kneeling at her side, holding her hand and I remember looking up at him.

  ‘Do you want some time alone with Mum to say goodbye?’ I’d asked him through my tears.

  ‘It’s too late for that,’ he’d replied, coldly. And I knew that I would find it very hard to forgive him for his harshly-spoken words.

  *

  Having sent a draft interview schedule off to Clarissa’s PA, Hayley, to set up as quickly as she can, I start gathering background information on the interviewees. Each person has filled out a general questionnaire but I want to dig a bit deeper before I start having those one–to–one sessions. If people realised how much information is readily available about them online if you simply type in their name, I’m sure many would be appalled. Most of the participants are on several social media platforms and I begin taking notes and generally gleaning whatever information I can.

  Suddenly my phone pings and I’m delighted to see it’s Hayley.

  Hiya, how’s it going? I’ll start getting those appointments set up first thing tomorrow.

  I know full well that she will have a million other things to do on a Monday morning, so I appreciate the fact I’m jumping the queue.

  Did I ever mention you are a star? And have the patience of a saint!

  That will make her laugh. She holds the record for being Clarissa’s longest-serving PA and, in fact, the only one who made it past six months in the job. It’s now a little over a year and counting.

  Once or twice. I was going to phone you, but I wasn’t sure if you were busy.

  I stop texting and call her. She answers immediately and it’s nice to hear a familiar voice.

  ‘I can’t believe you are checking your work emails on a Sunday afternoon! Haven’t you anything better to do? Or has he exhausted you already?’

  Hayley snorts, bursting out in that trademark high-pitched laugh of hers. She’s in the loved-up phase with her latest boyfriend and they spend every moment they aren’t working, together. I take much delight in joking with her about it, but it’s lovely to see. It helps restore my faith in the belief that it is possible to find the one.

  ‘Jack had to go into work. An emergency, apparently. I’m home alone and feeling abandoned.’

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. ‘Poor you, so desperate you turn to work. If it’s any consolation at all, I’ve only crossed paths with one person today, even though he might have actually saved my life.’
/>   There’s a sharp intake of breath and I regale her with the tale of the little episode I had on the beach this morning.

  ‘Hey, you have to be careful, Tia. I need you to come back here in one piece. I’m already counting the days until your little beach holiday is over. I mean, I need someone to whom I can vent occasionally. You know you’re the only person here I can trust.’

  I, too, miss our little chats.

  ‘It’s only six weeks, and two days of that have already flown by. I’ll be back at my desk before you know it. Dare I ask who has taken up residence in my absence?’

  There’s a moment or two of hesitation before Hayley responds.

  ‘Finlay.’

  As usual, I find myself grinding my teeth at the very mention of his name. Finlay Robertson-Smythe is a fast-track trainee who joined us a little over a year ago. He’s ambitious with a capital A and keen to prove himself to Clarissa. Which is fine, but I’ve discovered that he’s also not above playing a few devious tricks to get what he wants. At least two fairly prestigious features ended up on his desk when he gained Clarissa’s ear and sowed a few seeds of doubt. I hasten to add they weren’t assignments that were coming my way, but now he has his feet firmly planted beneath my desk and he’ll be savouring that. I wonder if he’s trying to undermine me whenever he has the chance, as that seems to be his style. After being out for a whole month and now away for an additional six weeks—

  ‘Don’t go worrying about it. He’s nowhere near as good as you are and you know it. Clarissa knows it, too.’

  Hayley is a great supporter and we always have each other’s backs, but this doesn’t look good. And, somehow, it doesn’t feel right.

  ‘Was it Clarissa who suggested Beach View Cottage?’

  I wonder if that was one of Finlay’s little ideas.

  ‘Yes, it seemed to be.’ Hayley sounds quite confident about that, so maybe I’m being a little paranoid here. ‘Clarissa and I were alone when she gave me the instructions to set everything up for you. She said it was a place she’d visited many years ago and that she remembered a cottage tucked away on a small private beach next to Caswell Bay. She was pretty sure it was called Holly Cove, but suggested I call the local tourist information office as it didn’t appear on the map. I rang them and they gave me the number of a holiday letting agency. It took a couple of phone calls to track down the owner, as the cottage itself wasn’t listed. He took a day or two to think it over, then I received the go-ahead. OK, I admit I was totally taken by surprise. I mean, Clarissa talking about a memory not connected with work, for starters. And then the fact that—’

  Hayley grinds to a halt, not sure how to broach the subject.

  ‘Don’t worry; it’s not something I can avoid talking about. I’m actually very grateful to Clarissa, as I will admit my head has been all over the place. I used to talk to Mum every day as soon as I arrived home from work. At least being here it’s a different routine yet again, so it’s easier to focus on what I have to do. By the time this assignment is over I’ll be ready to do battle in the office again. So, tell Finlay not to get too comfortable in my chair.’

  ‘I will. And it’s good to know you’re doing OK. I mean, I’m here if you need to chat about anything at all. Hearing all about the goings-on of a little seaside resort would brighten my day.’

  ‘I think it’s a little too sedate for there to be goings-on, as you put it. But the views are breathtaking and the private beach is perfect.’

  ‘And you already have a protector, you say?’ Her voice lifts with innuendo.

  ‘He’s probably in his sixties and as I don’t know anything at all about fishing it’s unlikely we have anything in common.’

  ‘Well, keep me posted if you meet anyone, you know, interesting.’

  I find myself chuckling, thinking if only.

  ‘I will. Sleep well and we’ll speak later this week.’

  As the line disconnects, I try my best to put Finlay out of my mind. What’s the worst that can happen? He worms his way into Clarissa’s good books and when I get back I’m demoted from the A-team, into the B-team? We affectionately refer to them as the Achievers and the Better Next Time teams. I’ve only fallen out of grace with Clarissa once and that was over a difference of opinion. What should have been a straightforward interview, unwittingly threw up some rather unpalatable facts about an A-list celebrity. Clarissa took a few quotes she found in my notes and, without consulting me, made some changes to the article. It turned nasty and the magazine was threatened with a lawsuit, so Clarissa had to publish an apology in the next edition. But I was left feeling mortified and looking as if I was guilty of wantonly divulging information that was never meant for publication. Sales that month hit an all-time high, which quickly overshadowed any negativity in Clarissa’s eyes. I took one for the magazine and as there was no financial penalty, Clarissa’s gamble paid off.

  ‘I’ll sort Finlay out if he starts getting up to his old tricks again,’ I announce out loud, as I stretch my tired arm muscles and think about making dinner.

  Is talking to oneself a sign of madness, or the sign of a woman not used to being on her own for long periods of time? Guess I’m about to find out.

  6

  We’re All Very Different

  I’m up at six, throw on my jogging bottoms and a hoodie, and go for a run on the beach. With only another ten days until the end of May, today it really does feel that summer is literally around the corner. There’s hardly any breeze at all coming off the sea and with a clear blue sky reflecting down upon the water, it looks calm and inviting. I run in a loop, straight down towards the water’s edge and then in parallel to the sea, along the wet sand. As the rocky cliff looms up in front of me I curve away, my route taking me back up to the area that is softer underfoot, which slows me down. There’s no sign of my fisherman, but then he could still be asleep.

  As I approach the cottage once more, I decide I might as well test my stamina and I start the uphill climb. It doesn’t take long before my calf muscles are screaming. I slow to a walk, but I’m determined to make it up to the road, content in the knowledge that walking back down at least gravity will be on my side.

  Either side of the lane are swathes of tall trees. The woodland is quite dense in places as I climb higher. There’s an almost constant sound of raucous calls and flapping wings as birds swoop in and out amongst the branches overhead. Something moves at ground level just a few feet away from me but it’s only a rabbit. He’s gone in a flash, disappearing into a bank of bronze bracken and gorse, amongst which the new growth is fighting its way through.

  I’d forgotten the sounds of nature in all its glory. And I hadn’t realised how attuned I’d become to the sounds of traffic and people in the thronging metropolis that is London. Up here, among the trees, the air you breathe in has a rich sweetness to it, in sharp contrast to the intense and slightly bitter, saltiness of the sea air at beach level. What puts the fresh into fresh air is the lack of pollution from bumper-to-bumper, idling car engines. But there’s also an earthiness that pervades my nose in waves and reminds me of mushrooms before they are washed. I smile to myself.

  And that one thought is enough to trigger a flashback. I remember a camping holiday in Devon: it was the year after Dad died and our first holiday without him. As kids, Will and I didn’t realise how big a deal it must have been for Mum, but we had a great time and one afternoon, in particular, she took us mushrooming. We traipsed through a wood, very similar to this one; Will often trailing behind as he insisted on dragging a big stick behind him. The pointed end left a thin, but visible trail, on the ground. He said we could retrace our route and I realise now that maybe he carried a sense of responsibility, as the eldest child, to step into Dad’s shoes. I remember feeling irritated and constantly turning to call out for Will to hurry up, but Mum was very patient with him. Eventually she put her hand on my shoulder and looked down into my eyes.

  ‘He’s fine, lovely, let him be. Boys love a little adven
ture and Will is looking out for us.’

  Her face is there, in front of me, every feature so clear that I could reach out and touch her and then it’s gone. She’s gone. My stomach constricts and I brush a stray tear away from the corner of my eye.

  ‘Stay strong, Tia. Stay strong.’

  The main road lies straight ahead and I decide it’s time to turn around and head back for breakfast. Checking my mobile, I see there’s no signal here, and there probably wouldn’t be in the cottage if it weren’t for the signal booster. I begin thinking about the owner of Beach View Cottage again. I wonder whether the isolation of this spot ever bothers him, or whether it’s what attracted him here in the first place. To me it feels like I’m hiding myself away and I’m not sure that’s something I could ever feel totally comfortable about. I decide that when Olwen pays me a visit today, I’m going to try to find out a little more about this mystery man.

  *

  Feeling more energised than I’ve been in a long while, I work as I munch on hot buttered toast and marmalade. Setting up individual files ready for the interviews and filing away the information I already have makes me feel I’ve made a real start.

  Shortly after ten o’clock, Hayley texts to say that one of the couples will be jetting off to Spain tomorrow, but they are free today if I wanted to catch them before they go. It’s a lot to do in one day, as I want to interview them together as a couple and individually. But if it works for them, then I’m up for it.

  That’s great, thanks Hayley. I’ll need an hour to get organised, so tell them to expect a call at eleven a.m. Can u text me their Skype ID? I have to go and make myself presentable. Guess I really am back at work now. Oh, and happy Monday!

  I rush around the cottage manically, sorting out something more appropriate to wear and then blow drying my hair, which is still damp from the shower. A little make-up and I start to feel more like the old, professional me.