Charlotte Butterfield - Me, You and Tiramisu

This flat had been the place of their dreams once; the refuge that they’d talked about since their early teens. It was more than just a place to live for them; it was a symbol of their success. Whenever Jayne had passed a new shop with the signage being hoisted up outside, she’d always pictured the hope of the new owners, the moment when they would gather their family and friends outside on the day of opening and proudly unveil the shop front, switching on the lights to delighted ahhs and oohs, to backslapping and chinks of plastic glasses and short speeches about dreams being fulfilled and new beginnings. This poky flat above a takeaway was that place for the Brady twins. On the day they moved in, they’d sat in exactly the same position on the floor, surrounded by very similar boxes, with another screw-top bottle of wine, elatedly rejoicing their escape from a future of no potential.

Moving to Will’s home was a mere postcode upgrade for Rachel, but for Jayne it was huge. Much like those faith-filled shopkeepers who only had a vague plan and blind optimism to help them sleep at night, she mentally ricocheted between gung-ho whooping at her good fortune and rocking back and forth, head in hands, wondering whether she was making a monumental mistake.

It wasn’t that she doubted Will in any way – she knew he was pretty darn perfect from that first cider-swilling afternoon in the park when they were fifteen, but she couldn’t help feeling that things like this didn’t happen to people like her. Surely it would only be a matter of time before the bubble burst, or the other shoe dropped, or some equally baffling phrase that describes the moment it all goes wrong.

But while Jayne waited for that to happen, they had some shopping to do. And that’s how the three new housemates found themselves in Ikea on a Friday night negotiating over how many tea lights is too many and what they were going to put in the hundreds of box photo frames that were stacked in the trolley. Family photos were overruled by all of them on the reasoning of not wanting to be reminded of their genetic origins – through shame and the desire to forget them for the girls, while Will was content keeping his own photos in his memory box under his bed. He didn’t need to walk past pictures of his parents in the hallway every day to know they were with him. So the consensus was to leave much of the décor up to Rachel, who was describing a jigsaw effect she wanted to create by painting a huge abstract, and cutting it up into rectangles that fitted into each individual frame, ‘art that reminds us to look at the big picture,’ she’d said, or something like that.

‘And a peace lily, we definitely need one of them.’ Will said as he wedged a rather sorry-looking plant into the gap between a new toilet brush and a set of six wooden hangers.

‘How the mighty have fallen.’ Rachel yawned, automatically picking up a white wicker basket and tossing it in. ‘It’s Friday night, people. Friday night. I hope this isn’t an indicator of what life with you will be like, Will, because, truth be told, I don’t think I can cope with this level of hedonism.’

‘I wanted to warn you quite how close to the edge I live, but neither of you would have believed me.’ Will put his hand on top of Jayne’s as she steered the trolley past the woks. ‘And if you both behave, I may well treat you to a £3 plate of Swedish meatballs.’

Later that night Will and Jayne were sprawled on his old leather sofa – which was now beautifully adorned with vibrant throws – and Rachel was slumped in a newly acquired Fatboy beanbag when Jayne judged the moment to be right to casually mention that she was heading down to Devon to see their granny the following Saturday and would anyone like to join her. By anyone she meant both of them. By would they like to join her, she meant they would join her. From the stunned silence that ensued you would have thought she’d said, ‘so I was thinking of draping myself in a Union Jack and going camping in the mountainous region between Pakistan and Afghanistan – is anyone keen on tagging along?’

Will purposely didn’t move his eyes from the television, he had very little inclination to revisit the place where his last days with his mum were played out. ‘Um … next weekend? Saturday’s my busiest day in the shop, um … sorry, sweetheart, you know I’d love to otherwise.’

‘It’s okay, I thought of that and Abi said she wouldn’t mind holding the fort for the day.’

‘Oh. Well the pricing system’s quite complicated and the till is a bastard to work if you don’t know how.’ He shrugged apologetically, ‘Sorry, darling.’

‘She’s coming round on Wednesday after work so you can show her how it all works. Next excuse?’ Jayne turned to Rachel, ‘Oi, sharer of the womb, you’re very quiet over there.’

‘Why the hell do you want to go back down there again? Weren’t you only there a few weeks ago?’

‘It was nearly a year ago and Granny sounded a bit quiet on the phone earlier, so I just thought us all going down would cheer her up, and she always asks what you’re up to, and she hasn’t met Will yet, and I thought it might be nice.’

‘Nice? Don’t get me wrong, Granny’s a sweetheart, but I Skype her every week. I don’t feel the need to physically be breathing the same air as her to fully bond.’

‘So I’m going alone, then.’ Jayne looked from her boyfriend to her sister, ‘By myself. Unaccompanied. Flying solo. Bereft of company. Deserted. Abandoned–’

‘Oh for the love of all that’s holy, I’ll come if that will shut you up!’ Rachel growled. ‘Will, you’re coming too. No arguments. If I’ve got to do this, you’re not getting out of it.’

‘Won’t it take ages to get down there?’ Will asked.

‘Three hours or so, or we could stay over somewhere – make a weekend of it?’ Jayne said.

Rachel and Will both chimed a resounding, ‘No!’ completely in sync.

Despite Jayne putting on re-runs of Doc Martin to get them all in the mood for a spot of South West fun and games, a bleak depression had descended over the spruced-up lounge, which even the fourteen new Summer Fruits-scented candles couldn’t disguise.

Today in Talk Devon we are discussing the frightening topic of a new wave of seagulls that are plaguing the seafronts of South Devon, and having a devastating effect on the profits of beachfront ice-cream sellers. We have Keith on the line from Salcombe. Keith, are you there …?

Will idly flicked the volume down on the radio.

‘What are you doing?’ Jayne yelped, reaching for the dial, ‘I want to hear about the killer gulls.’

‘You can talk the girl out of Devon, but you can’t take Devon out of the girl,’ laughed Will. ‘It’s great, though, a whole phone-in for debating ice cream-loving birds. I would say it’s a slow-news day, but I guess this is headline-making stuff down here.’

‘Don’t come over all townie on us Will Scarlet, you were a Devon boy for a while too, don’t forget.’

As the car took the exit at Newton Abbot and began the all-too-familiar descent along the coastal road towards Pine Grove Residential Home for the Elderly, it was as though someone had pressed the mute button – the mood in the car changed from jovial and jocular to silent and reflective. Rachel and Jayne were staring out of the windows, taking in the familiar sights that they’d grown up with – the sea to their right, the numerous B&Bs to their left, with comedy names like Dunromin and ambitious ones like Water’s Edge.