Page 33 of Pull Me Under

I went back up to the cottage after he left. Scrubbed the kitchen counter until it gleamed, cleared the mouse droppings from under the sink, bleached the surfaces until my eyes watered. Not because Jude Harding told me the place was a health hazard. Because seeing it through someone else’s eyes made the grime real in a way it hadn’t been when it was just mine.

First item on the list: Kitchen – clear, scrub, make functional. I drew a line through it with grandad’s pencil.

A tiny victory. One down.

I’ve also rung the roofer in Pencross. He can do the flashing on Tuesday for £180 if I supply the lead. I’ve got £212 left in my account, which means the lead and the labour and then I’m eating air until I can generate some income. But a dry roof changes everything. A dry roof means the damp stops spreading, the walls dry out, the rest becomes cosmetic. So: Tuesday. Lead flashing. Then everything else.

Nina looks up from the espresso machine, and there’s no surprise on her face. Like she expected me. ‘Coffee?’

‘Industrial strength.’

‘That bad of a morning already?’ She’s pulling shots before I answer, movements automatic but graceful. ‘Heard there was some excitement at the harbour earlier. Reuben’s boat going AWOL.’

‘News travels fast.’

‘News travels at the speed of Frankie’s mouth, which is surprisingly quick for someone with such few teeth.’ She slides the cup across, perfect crema on top that makes me want to weep with gratitude. ‘Lavender shortbread?’

‘I don’t⁠—’

‘On the house. You look like you need sugar.’ She’s already plating it, delicate purple-grey squares that smell like summer and better times. ‘Besides, I made too much. Stress baking. It’s becoming a problem.’

I bite into one and make an embarrassing sound. ‘Oh God.’

‘Right? Peter used to say they were—’ She stops, that careful pause people do when they’ve accidentally walked through a door to grief. ‘Anyway. They’re addictive.’

‘Dangerously so.’ I take another, because if I’m going to have feelings, I might as well have carbohydrates too.

She’s late twenties, I’d guess. Around my age, though grief has a way of adding decades overnight. She’s got the look of someone who belongs here – salt in her bones, the café an extension of her body – not someone who washed up four years ago. And she told me the other day, she arrived well after the Trelawneys left, which means she doesn’t carry the weight of whatever history everyone else is dragging around.

‘So you missed the great Trelawney exodus?’ I ask her, because there’s no point skirting the conversation.

‘I did. Though I’ve been getting the highlights from various sources. Dramatic midnight fleeing, mysterious circumstances, possible curse on the harbour.’ She grins. ‘The stories vary depending on who’s telling them and how many pints they’ve had.’

‘No curse. Just regular small-town ugliness.’

‘Those are often worse than curses.’ She tops up my coffee without asking, which might make us friends.

‘Speaking of the Hardings – Kit. He’s in New York, yeah? With Isla Quinn?’

Nina’s eyes widen with the particular delight of someone who didn’t expect me to already know this. ‘You’ve heard?’

‘Hard not to. The Marcus Vale thing was everywhere – even in the garages where I was working, someone had a paper with her face on it. And then someone at the harbour mentioned Kit’s with that actress.’ I sip my coffee. ‘Didn’t connect it to Sea Salt Bay until I got here.’

‘Oh my God, it’s quite the love story. She grew up spending summers here – childhood sweetheart thing with Kit. Then she went off to be famous, but came back last October when that scandal broke.’ Nina’s in full flow now, the way people get when they’re telling you a story they love. ‘Rekindled the whole romance. Very cinematic, except with more fish and less background music. She’s been offered a six-week stint on Broadway – first time back in the spotlight since everything happened. Kit went with her, took Maisie too – that’s Kit’s daughter, she’s eight, eats her weight in cinnamon buns after school – the whole family out there supporting her.’

‘Leaving Jude to handle everything alone.’ The words are razors. Unexpectedly sharp in my throat.

Nina tilts her head, studying me. ‘Defensive of Jude Harding? That’s unexpected.’

‘I’m not defensive. I’m just…’ What? Recognising the weight he carries? Understanding what it’s like to be the one who stays while everyone else gets to leave? ‘Making an observation.’

‘Hmm.’ She doesn’t look convinced but lets it go. ‘To be fair, Jude gives the impression he’s managing. Though between you and me, I think he’s drowning a bit. Reuben’s … well, he’s a force to be reckoned with. And Kit settled down with Isla, moved up the hill, and Jude … well, Jude got everything else.’ She trails off and shrugs. ‘Family business, hey?’

‘Family business.’ I take a bitter-edged swig of coffee. ‘My grandad restarted in Bristol, building up from scratch.’ Behind a blink of my lashes runs a film reel of those years – boat sheds, engine oil and chip suppers and grandad’s hands guiding mine over a gearbox at dawn.

I blink again and it’s gone.

‘Speaking of the business – and don’t take this wrong, but how exactly are you planning to relaunch Trelawney Marine Services when you don’t even have a boat?’