not sure I can face her sober, especially knowing that you’re going to crucify her in the local guesthouse scene.’
Robin laughed. ‘I am not going to crucify her, Molly. That’s not fair. But’ – and now she couldn’t help grinning as the idea, out in the real world for a few more minutes, began to take hold – ‘there’s nothing wrong with a bit of healthy competition, is there?’
‘The Seaview Hotel won’t know what’s hit it,’ Molly said, draining her second glass. ‘Not now Robin Brennan and her quiet determination are in the game.’
‘In what game?’ Robin’s dad asked, bustling genially into the room with a box of party poppers under his arm.
Robin exchanged a glance with Molly. ‘Nothing,’ she said quickly, deciding that pre-party was not the best time to spring this on her parents. She’d wait until the dust and the streamers had settled, and she’d had at least one night to sleep on the idea. ‘It looks like it’s going to be a great party, Dad.’
‘And all the better for having you here to celebrate with us,’ he said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. ‘Especially now, with all that’s behind us, and ahead of us.’
‘Hey,’ Molly said, ‘don’t start that. It’s too early in the evening for deep and meaningfuls.’
Robin saluted her friend. For the first time in what felt like ages, and – as her dad had said – despite all that was behind her, she could see a glimmer of hope in what was to come. The idea had been planted, and Robin could tell that it was already beginning to grow in the background, working quietly away in her subconscious. By the time midnight struck and the New Year had dawned, the seed might even have generated a few solid roots.
Robin watched the party guests from her prime position on the top step of the guesthouse. She could feel the warmth of the hallway at her back, seeping out through the half-open door to meet the cold night air, and the solid heat of Molly sitting next to her on the step, wearing Robin’s navy wool coat. She could see the backs of her parents, of Mrs Harris, of Ashley and Roxy from the Campion Bay Teashop, and the couples who had chosen their small corner of the south coast to celebrate the New Year. And then, as the bongs of Big Ben reached her from the radio in the kitchen, Robin watched the night sky light up with the first golden fireworks. She could just make out the boat they were being launched from, the smoke drifting through the air in the split seconds between one burst and the next. The pops and bangs were like a starting rifle in her mind. On Your Marks, Robin.
‘Happy New Year,’ Molly said, slurring slightly, holding her champagne flute up to the sky, the strobes and chrysanthemums and brocade bursts reflecting in the glass.
‘Happy New Year, Molly.’ Robin clinked her glass against her friend’s.
‘I’m envious,’ Molly said. ‘You’ve already got your resolution. I’m still deciding whether I want to learn how to windsurf or take that tattooist course I’ve been threatening to do for ages.’
‘Why not both? They sound pretty challenging, but somehow still a lot less daunting than taking over the guesthouse.’
‘You’re having second thoughts?’ Molly sat up and turned towards her.
‘No, not at all. I’ve thought of nothing else all evening – not even when Dad threatened to give us all a rendition of “Mack the Knife” after his fourth glass of punch. It made me wonder if I should have the dining room redecorated to look like a fifties American diner. You’ll be happy to discover I quickly decided no, by the way.’
‘You’re thinking of having themed rooms?’
Robin gave a quick shake of her head. ‘Not themed, exactly. Styled, definitely. I want each room to have a name and its own individual look, but maybe that’s too ambitious.’ She scrunched her nose up, cross with herself for letting the doubt circle closer and closer, like a shark.
‘You know I can rope Paige in to help around her college course, don’t you? She’s tired of clearing up glasses at the Artichoke, and helping with refurbishments would play to her creative strengths.’ Molly’s daughter, Paige, was studying jewellery design at the local college, with ambitions of setting up her own studio. ‘And I’ve got a couple of builder clients I can talk to,’ Molly added, ‘depending on the scale of work you’re thinking of.’
Robin sipped her champagne and watched as a blue waterfall firework lit up the sky, shimmying down towards the water. ‘I don’t know. It depends how much money I can put into the refurbishment.’
‘Ian and Sylvie?’
Robin nodded. ‘I’ve not even mentioned it to them yet.’
‘They’ll be delighted. It’s a much happier bombshell to drop on them than the one they landed you with.’
‘It might be the bombshell I need. To get properly going again, after Neve.’ It sounded like a new era: After Neve, and that was exactly how she felt about the death of her friend. She had to get going again, to live on in this strange new world where a big piece of her existence was missing.
Molly threaded her fingers between Robin’s and squeezed. ‘You’re in the right place. Even when your mum and dad have gone, you’re not starting it all on your own.’
Robin returned the gesture. ‘I appreciate all of this – the encouragement, the not abandoning me when I first came back, when I was greasy-haired and in my pyjamas, getting through a box of tissues a day. I’m not sure I’ve told you how much.’
Molly dismissed her gratitude with a quick frown and headshake, carrying on as if Robin hadn’t spoken. ‘You’ve got me and Paige. Paige will rope in Adam, and if you want any expert advice, there’s always Tim Lewis, junior partner at Campion Bay Property. I’m sure he’d be keen to offer you a free consultation about your renovations.’ She raised her eyebrows suggestively.
Robin gave a shallow laugh, but her palms were suddenly slick. ‘Oh God, don’t.’
‘Have you seen him, since you’ve been back?’
She shook her head. ‘Sometimes I think I have, a head of blond curls in the supermarket or on the beach, but it always turns out to be someone else.’
‘He must know you’re here. The Campion Bay rumour mill would have spat that nugget of information in his direction. He’s obviously picking his moment.’
‘Or he’s decided to stay away.’
‘Oh, come on.’ Molly laughed. ‘That’s not exactly his style, is it?’
‘No,’ Robin admitted, her stomach churning unpleasantly. ‘No, it’s not.’
The patter of the fireworks was replaced by a meagre smattering of applause from the crowd as the display came to an end. Robin found herself searching through the darkness for that head of blond curls, wondering if Tim Lewis, the ex love of her life, would miss the one New Year’s Eve event that Campion Bay was putting on. Then she realized that he was more likely to be at an exclusive house party somewhere in the Dorset countryside, drinking Taittinger and fifty-year-old Macallan, if Molly’s updates over the years were anything to go by. But if her friend was right and he was choosing his moment to reacquaint himself with her, then what was that moment; why was he waiting? Suddenly it wasn’t just the thought of taking over the Campion
