Edie Browne’s Cottage by the Sea: A heartwarming, hilarious romance read set in Cornwall!. Jane Linfoot

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Margot all day then?’ As fast as my heart’s sinking, my panic’s rising. Cosying up in front of Dad’s log-burner with Bridesmaids and Love Actually on repeat was fine, but I’m not up for all-day pas de deux.

      She nods. ‘Dance is very therapeutic.’

      ‘We should go out.’ It’s easy to do, I know. The more you stay home, the more you want to. ‘There must be some classes. Can you look what’s on?’ I nod at the laptop even though I’m not that hopeful. As remote places go, St Aidan is at the end of the line. As the gale thrashes sand grains against the window, I’m wondering how I ever imagined I’d be sitting on the beach soaking up a winter sun patch.

      ‘Let’s see.’ She pulls her laptop onto her knee and scrolls through. ‘They do them at the Leisure Centre – there’s macramé, or basket-making?’

      Surely that can’t be it? ‘Read them all out, please.’ I’m using the ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ tone I keep for stroppy builders because, to be fair, the most awkward contractor probably has nothing on Aunty Josie when it comes to heels being dug in. Due to my voice recognition software completely failing to understand my West Country twang, brushing up on reading’s what I’ll be concentrating on next. In between renovations, that is.

      ‘Fine.’ Aunty Jo lifts her eyebrows. ‘Woodworking, Car Maintenance, Kick Boxing and Learn Spanish while Making Tapas.’ She pulls a face. ‘The best ones seem to be run by the Singles Group, but we can’t go to those.’

      ‘They might be … er … friendly?’ We are both on our own, in case she’s forgotten. It’s one of my greatest reliefs that I split from Marcus a couple of months before I was ill, because he wasn’t the best with hospitals or looking after people. But in case anyone’s wondering – though I can’t speak for Aunty Jo – a partner’s the last thing I’d be looking for right now.

      One sniff from her says that’s a no to the singles. ‘The ones at The Whole Earth Centre are better. Paint your Own Plant Pot, Molecular Gastronomy, How to Make Vegan Dumplings, Hydroponics for Beginners, Breast Painting, Handstand Masterclass, Play the Ukelele in an Hour …’

      ‘Breast what?’ I have to ask.

      ‘From the picture, it looks like you roll on the floor and paint with your boobs. I’m not sure mine are big enough.’

      Even if mine are, I still shake my head. ‘Keep going.’

      ‘Sew Your Valentine a Pair of Boxers. Oh, no, sorry, that’s gone.’

      ‘Damn.’ I grin at her, but she doesn’t smile back.

      ‘Interior Design … Well, that’s wasted on you. Creative Writing’s not suitable for now. We’d be out of place at Wedding Flowers. Which only leaves Heart Surgeon for a Day, Zombie for an Evening or Goat Rearing.’

      I let out a groan. ‘Who goes to these?’

      ‘Oh, but there’s a Practical page.’ She looks more closely. ‘Dry-Stone Walling or Plastering. With the buildings to finish, either of those might be useful?’

      It’s great she’s so up for this, but with everything else going on, I’m not ready to drop rocks on my feet.

      ‘What about Cupcake Making?’ Cupcake’s another word I can always find. Thankfully. Or Cake Icing would do, so long as it’s the squishy sort.

      ‘Edie, I’m sugar-free. So we’re back to Macramé?’

      I’m a stroke survivor, I could have died. I may not be able to tell the time, but I value every second. ‘Not things from string. Life’s too short.’

      ‘Calligraphy, then? Harry’s mum used to do that, she made wonderful Christmas cards.’

      In my head it’s in the same box as string.

      ‘It says Modern so it must be for young people like you. It’s drop-in, which is good, so you only pay when you go. Tuesday afternoons at The Deck Gallery.’

      ‘Is that it?’ It’s vital to get Aunty Jo out again, and it’ll be great to sharpen up my writing. But I can’t believe I’ve come all this way to end up doing that.

      ‘You can still write?’ She knows because Mum talked to her about helping me with my letters.

      ‘A bit.’ It’s odd that writing’s easier than reading. Tash says they’re worked from different bits of my head, which is why it’s useful having a sister who’s a doctor. She also has a house, a husband and two kids and she’s older and cleverer. Seriously, she’s got all her shit together.

      ‘There you go then.’ Aunty Thing looks pleased. ‘It says Tasty Treats on offer too.’

      Which finally tips it for me, even if it doesn’t for her.

       6

       Day 137: Sunday, 18th March

       At Periwinkle Cottage

      Epic Achievement: Cake on Sunday.

      ‘So, you can see the stables haven’t been used in a while.’ The bunch of keys Aunty Josie’s swinging is too big to fit in her pocket.

      However much I’d intended to get straight down to work, it takes a few days to find my way around. I half expect to open the quirky cottage doors and find Red Riding Hood or Hansel and Gretel hiding behind them. It’s Sunday morning by the time I get out my clipboard and as we make our way towards the outbuildings I’m so intent on business, all that’s missing is my hard hat.

      I thought the days might drag here, but since I arrived I’m yawning before it’s tea time. It’s hard to believe I used to be up at four and rarely went to bed before midnight. At least I’m finally getting my wear out of the navy pinstripe PJs Tash gave me as a ‘new job congratulations’ present, as a joke to celebrate my new-found ‘suit status’.

      To be fair, up until I moved out of Marcus’s house, the pyjamas stayed firmly in their Net-a-Porter carrier bag because Marcus and I always slept naked. Out of bed he turned a blind eye to global warming and cranked up the heating so I rarely wore more than a teensy vest and shorts. But I could hardly go around like that when I boomeranged back to live with the oldies. Quite apart from the over-exposure, in a family of women, the thermostat is one of the only places where Dad takes control. After Marcus’s, Dad’s running temperature is arctic, and whoever invented those damned Smart meters that flash up how much you’re spending on gas every minute through the day wasn’t thinking of me and Mum.

      Aunty Jo is making her way along the horseshoe of stable buildings which border the garden, opening every door and closing them just as fast. Apart from the stiff locks, it’s hard to believe it’s her first visit since she and Harry colour-coded all the keys the day before he died. On the fourth door, when I’ve still not seen anything, I barge my way past her, click on the light and kick into professional mode.

      ‘Nice switches.’ They’re funky and industrial, but best of all, there’s not a jungle beast in sight. Looking up at the old hewn timbers is spinning me back to the Zinc Inc sites. ‘The roofs are new and

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