Jane Linfoot - A Cornish Cottage by the Sea

But I’m on a roll here. This is the new, brave, Cornish version of me – I’m not going to let anything as small as a locked door stand in my way. When my mum talked about the fabulous healing sea air in St Aidan she somehow missed out that it would blow my face off. I clamp my hands on my scalp to save the last of my messy up-do, step out into the wind and take in the long stone cottage. I run my gaze along the higgledy row of salt-spattered windows to check for a light shining into the late afternoon gloom, but there’s no flowers or plants on the windowsills and most of the blinds are down. My gaze stops at a narrow sash window where the central bars don’t quite line up. It’s a sure sign that the latch isn’t on, and as my fingers close on one of the stepladders on the porch the choice is clear. I can wait down here until I get blown out to sea – which will probably happen in the next few seconds, given the gale – or I can nip in through the window and have the kettle boiling in time for when the cakes arrive. The message was to let myself in, and that’s exactly what I’ll be doing. The only difference will be that I’ll be arriving through an upstairs window instead of the downstairs door. So long as I whip off my shoes the moment I’m through, my aunt won’t have anything to grumble about.

The window is at a half level so it’s not even that high, and the ladders are light and extendable. A few seconds later I’ve shimmied up to find it’s as I thought – the catch is off, and as I push on the bottom sash it trundles upwards. As I launch myself off the ladder and into the gap it leaves, what I’m thinking most is that I’ll have to tell my aunt to be more careful to lock her windows in future. But then something more important takes over.

You know those times when you pick up a pair of jeans in a shop and they look big enough, massive even. Then you get in the fitting room and try to pull them up, but somehow there’s a complete mismatch between the size they appear and the size they actually are and, no matter how much you wrench, they’ll only come up to your knees. That’s what happens with me and the window. As I dive for the hole it looks plenty big enough, but I plunge as far as my waist before sticking fast. There’s plenty of room above, so it’s my width that’s wedged. And right at the moment my ribcage sticks, something else not so good happens too – I look down the wall inside and realise the window’s way above the floor in a double height hall, so even if I did flip in like a seal as planned I’d be hurling myself into thin air rather than onto some wonderfully sturdy floorboards.

And just when I’m kicking my legs against the wall in a wild attempt to get free, thinking how things couldn’t possibly get any worse, there’s a shout from outside.

‘WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?’

It’s a guy and, unless my aunt arrived out of nowhere, he has to be talking to me. I freeze as I try to think of some words to explain but I’ve only got as far as a whimper when he starts again.

‘BREAKING AND ENTERING. SCARING THE ELDERLY. YOU’RE NOT GETTING AWAY WITH THIS!’

My aunt would be mortified to be called elderly, and she’s being so kind having me to stay, so I’m already bristling on her behalf. I manage to screw my head around and catch sight of some shoulders down below, bursting out of a beaten-up denim jacket, and yell down a reply. ‘What the hell’s it got to do with you?’

‘Ever heard of Neighbourhood Watch? Well, I’m from next door.’

I feel my chest implode, although it can’t have deflated too much as I’m still stuck. ‘Okay, Mr Nosey-Neighbour, thanks for the concern. I rang the bell but no one came, the front door was locked, so I’m letting myself in.’

The deep notes of his voice turn high with disbelief. ‘Digging yourself in deeper with every word. EVERYONE knows the front door’s round the back – this part of the house is shut up.’

And damn that I didn’t work that out for myself. ‘But I’m visiting my aunt.’ I meant it to be less of a wail.

‘Good luck to her with that if this is how you carry on.’ There’s a moment’s hesitation, then he goes in for the kill. ‘So which aunt would that be?’

‘I … I … I …’ I remembered the name of the cottage all the way. ‘I’ll know … as soon as she reminds me.’

‘Nice try.’ There’s a loud snort. ‘We’ll see about that once you’re on the ground – let’s have you down that ladder NOW, please.’

‘There’s nothing I’d love more …’ if only I wasn’t squeaking ‘… but I’m stuck.’

‘Now I’ve heard it all.’

There’s a scrape of the ladder on the wall, the creak of metal, then a sharp yank on my belt. Next thing, the gale is lashing my ears and my ribs are free, but now I’m being crushed between the ladder and what my bestie Bella would call a ‘hard, hot human’.

Strictly speaking, when a woman says a guy is ‘hot’ it’s shorthand for him having eleven key qualities; stuff like empathy and generosity count just as much as looks and muscle definition when it comes to heat. When I grab a quick glance behind me, all I’m taking in is some tousled brown hair, eyes that match and a seriously sexy voice, even if it is coming out with all the wrong words. Enough to say, from what’s accidentally pressing against my back, we can mark him down as fit and ripped enough for Bella. Between us, her ‘hot’ only has about three tick boxes – she’s never that fussed about integrity or a sense of humour.

As for me, I’m avoiding every kind of guy until I get back in touch with my fast comebacks and my ‘old’ self is as I used to be. In any case this one’s just seen my two worst assets – my bum and my luggage – so I’d be a lost cause even if he wasn’t out of my league.

So, for my next trick, all I have to do is to work out how to disentangle myself here and reach the ground without falling off the ladder and making even more of an arse of myself than I have already. Further down the track I can see a boy kicking the grass on the verge, hands rammed in the pockets of a blue puffer coat. A small dog skittering at his feet. And suddenly there’s another figure too, rushing forward, hand shading her eyes, peering up at me as she shrills, ‘Edie? Is that you?’

‘Aunty …?’ She doesn’t even look like she’s dressed and, worse still, there’s no sign of any bags of cake at all.

‘I’m Aunty Josephine – you remember me, don’t you?’ If you leave a gap where a word should be, someone will usually fill it in for you. As for remembering her, it’s only a couple of weeks since she visited us in Bath, so who knows what she’s implying with that. ‘What on earth are you doing up there, Edie? And why have you come with a window cleaner?’

‘He’s not a …’ The details are too confusing; I need to skip to the important bit. ‘When you didn’t answer the door, I thought I’d come in through the window.’

I stick my chin out and stare down at the crinkly bits at the edge of those dark chocolate eyes just below me. ‘Aunty JOSIE – is that the answer you were looking for? Maybe now you can stop banging on about breaking and entering?’

His hand on the ladder has wide knuckles and broad thumbs and, worst of all, it’s still there, making my insides fizz a little when it should be moving downwards. He’s staring at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Great, so now we’ve sorted that, what’s your status, exactly?’

I might not always remember what my mum’s sister is called, but I know the answer to this one. ‘I’m happily single and determined to stay that way, thank you. Why?’

‘That makes two of us then, but I’m not about to propose.’ There’s a twist to his lips. ‘All I meant was, are you a tourist or a local? You’ve got a hell of a lot of luggage if you’re only here for a weekend. Unless that’s your swag pile down there?’