Cressida McLaughlin - The Once in a Blue Moon Guesthouse - The perfect feelgood romance

Robin realized she had dipped her pen – instead of her digestive biscuit – in her tea, and was holding the biscuit absent-mindedly aloft, scattering crumbs all over the keyboard. She didn’t need to be here now the guests were all safely booked in. They had keys to the front door as well as their rooms, and could come and go as they pleased, but part of her felt like she should just sit there, waiting to see if they needed anything.

She wiped her pen down her trousers, locked the door of Sea Shanty and wrote on the hanging whiteboard she’d placed below the name sign: Popped out for half an hour , call my mobile if you need anything .

The wind buffeted Robin’s loose hair around her face as she walked along the pebbly sand with her ballet pumps in her hand. Campion Bay beach was a mixture of sand and pebbles below Goldcrest Road, good for barefoot walking if you didn’t mind the odd, sharp wake-up call, and a treasure-trove of shells and stone peppered with quartz. But stroll for ten minutes in an easterly direction, to the beach below the cliffs, and you had thick, pebble-free sand that you could bury friends in up to their necks, and forget that civilization existed save for ships passing as grey shadows on the horizon. Robin loved that there was a tame beach, close to the crazy golf and ice cream hut and parking spaces, and a wild beach that was narrower, more prone to disappearing underneath a high tide. A beach that felt exciting because it was never entirely safe, cliffs that harboured small, intriguing caves, a place where the sea was vast and all consuming.

For now, Robin walked along the tame beach, listening to cries of triumph from Skull Island, imagining the owner, Maggie Steeple, sitting in her hut, passing out clubs and balls, score cards and miniature pencils, all the while with a cryptic crossword book open on the desk.

Spray buffeted Robin’s face as she walked closer to the water, digging a pale pink pebble out of its sandy surround with her big toe. London had been fun – energetic and wild and breathless – but it didn’t have the beach.

She remembered one of the ‘Once in a Blue Moon’ days she had organized with Neve, for a woman called Janine whose passion was being close to the sea. It was a fiftieth birthday present from her husband Artem, and it turned out to be more of a challenge than they had first thought. She and Neve had sat at the round table in the tiny London flat they shared, Robin’s back pressed against the wall, and tried to work out how to do it. Because beaches are easy, but making a beach visit truly memorable, truly Once in a Blue Moon, was trickier.

She had called up a hotel that owned a stunning, private beach in West Cornwall while Neve arranged for a top-class chef to cook them a Michelin-starred meal and serve it on a table close to the waves. They arrived by speedboat, had a day’s uninterrupted access to the perfect sand and magnificent Atlantic Ocean, and then a night in the luxury hotel with a bay-view suite and a hot tub on the balcony. Artem had been ecstatic when they’d shared their plans with him, and they’d received a thank you card and box of chocolates from Janine, alongside a photo of the two of them on the beach – a snapshot of pure, undiluted happiness.

‘This,’ Neve had said, thrusting the photograph up towards the ceiling, her dark eyes wide with the joys of success, ‘is why we do this. To create moments and memories like this. Look at their faces.’ They’d hugged it out, as they always did, and then celebrated by sharing a bottle of prosecco and watching six episodes of Don’t Tell the Bride back to back, Neve always saying it was research for how not to surprise people.

Robin had seen that look on several faces already today. Maybe a uniquely designed bedroom wasn’t quite as special as having a private beach and a Michelin-starred chef to yourself for the day, but in her own small way she was carrying on the Once in a Blue Moon Days legacy. She turned the pink pebble over in her hands, and then thrust it forward into the water. It made a loud ‘plop’ before the ripples were swallowed up by a wave, crashing forward and, in all likelihood, depositing the pebble back on the beach. ‘Everything goes in circles,’ she muttered to herself and then, unhappy with how that soundbite could relate to her own life, turned away from the sea.

‘Coming for a round, Bobbin?’ Maggie called as Robin climbed the steps and walked around the edge of the golf course.

She narrowed her eyes, giving the older woman a practised glare. Maggie had called her Bobbin since Robin, aged five or six, had bounced her way round the golf course with her parents, swinging wildly and gasping at the pirates and skeletons that decorated Skull Island. Maggie had been in her thirties then – close to Robin’s age now – and was as much a part of Campion Bay’s fabric as the sea and the promenade.

‘I’m on my own,’ Robin said. ‘Competing against myself would be sad.’

‘So bring Molly with you, but tell her not to wear heels or it’ll ruin the course.’

‘That’s not a rule, is it?’ Robin asked, peering at the How to avoid walking the plank sign pinned to Maggie’s hut.

‘It should be,’ Maggie said. ‘And I have asked a couple of women to do it barefoot in the past, though the majority realize before they come that skyscraper heels are not the best footwear for a game of golf.’

‘And I’m sure Molly will too; she wears flats at work.’

‘So you’ll bring her? You’ve not been on the course since you’ve been back, and I’ve installed a great new water feature.’

Robin folded her arms. ‘Which hole?’ A water feature in this case meant that all who walked in the path of the new installation would get a soaking.

‘You think I’m going to tell you? Where’s the fun?’

‘I’ll remember to wear my cagoule, then. Bye, Mags.’

‘Catch you later, Bobbin.’ She waved a fond farewell as Robin turned away, back towards the Campion Bay Guesthouse and, she smiled at the thought, her guests.

‘So congratulations,’ Molly said, pouring a generous amount of Pinot Grigio into Robin’s glass. ‘You’re going to smash this place – no offence to Ian and Sylvie. I’m sure they could have stepped up to the challenge if they’d wanted to, but you deserve this.’

Robin frowned, wondering what her mum and dad ‘smashing it’ would look like. ‘No disasters so far,’ she agreed. ‘No mishaps with any of the rooms, people running out in horror at the décor, leaking aquariums or cats on the bed. Though I think Catriona in Rockpool would quite like Eclipse warming her feet from the way she was looking at him when they checked in.’

‘You’re doing great,’ Molly said, clinking her glass against Robin’s, ‘even if your nails are appalling. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.’

‘It wouldn’t have been worth it while I was decorating.’

‘But now? That side’s all done with, isn’t it? And if you’ve got other things on the horizon …’ Molly let the sentence trail off and gave Robin a firm look.

It was after eight and they were sitting on the navy sofas in Sea Shanty. The sea was a dark mass with a hint of late-sunset glow, mostly hidden behind the reflection of their interior, the fairy lights that Robin had strung up like constellations on the glass.