The Once in a Blue Moon Guesthouse: The perfect feelgood romance

‘Any sign-maker could copy it – you can probably buy them on gift websites and create your own slogan. And there’s no evidence that Jane Austen wrote a book here.’

‘A lot of Persuasion is set in Lyme Regis! It’s a few miles down the road. It’s so plausible and it’s been there for years, since before online gift shops existed.’

Molly turned her gaze towards the window. ‘Honestly, if that plaque being genuine meant the difference between number four staying as it is and Tim and Malcolm getting their hands on it, I’d swap sides. She was a laugh though, wasn’t she, Tabitha?’

Robin grinned. ‘She was amazing. I’m just sorry I lost touch with her when I went to London. I should have made more of an effort to visit her when I came back to see Mum and Dad. And now her house has been empty for nearly a year and, if what you heard is anything to go by, it’s about to be gobbled up and turned into posh flats that are only lived in for two months out of twelve, just to fill Tim Lewis’s pockets.’

‘See if you can borrow an extra million off your folks and double the size of the guesthouse.’

Robin rolled her eyes and polished off her sandwich. That idea was obviously well beyond her means, but maybe there was some other way she could prevent next door from falling into the hands of the developers. It had been years since she’d been inside Tabitha’s house, but as a child she’d spent hours there, playing Monopoly and Gin Rummy and being introduced to Tabitha’s strange taste in tea. She’d been devastated when she’d heard the old woman had died, but it had been too close to Neve’s death for her to fully absorb it.

It was only now that she was back in Campion Bay that she’d been reminded of the time she spent with her, wondering if the figurines she’d had, the sheep collection that, as an eight-year-old, Robin had adored, were still in the cabinet in the dining room, the glass front keeping out years of dust. She wondered what the house would look like to her adult eyes. Maybe if Tim did get his hands on the property – or the front door keys at least – and Robin plucked up the courage to see him again, he’d let her have one last look before he wiped out the original features in a fit of magnolia paint and stainless steel.

Campion Bay town centre, a twenty-minute walk from the guesthouse, was a mixture of chain stores, quaint seaside gift shops and independent cafés. Bunting was strung up along the brick weave, pedestrianized Seagull Street all year round, the pink, orange and blue fabric flapping enthusiastically in the January wind, and the warm glow of shop interiors beckoned Robin in out of the cold.

She pulled her large jute bag further up her shoulder and pushed open the door of Seagull Street Gallery, the bell giving an appealing ‘ding’ as she stepped inside. The gallery owner, a grey-haired man in his fifties with rimless glasses and a round, pleasant face, looked up from a desk in the corner and nodded her a greeting. She returned it and began a slow tour of the room. It had white walls and polished pine floorboards, each painting given its own space.

In London, when she and Neve had gone on fact-finding missions, or after an initial meeting with a client, Neve would often take Robin into the National Gallery, dragging her by the arm to look at the latest exhibition and always, without fail, the room that housed Turner’s seascapes: The Fighting Temeraire and The Evening Star. Her friend could stand in front of them for hours, absorbing them, though she’d usually limit it to ten minutes in deference to Robin’s waning interest.

Buying one of the Turners was about a hundred times less plausible than Robin being able to purchase Tabitha’s house in an act of preservation, but she had the idea that one of the bedrooms in the new guesthouse would celebrate the work of local artists, with seascapes and portraits on the walls, the understated furniture giving it the feel of a mini gallery.

Her boots echoed on the floor and she stilled her movements, walking almost on tiptoe as she looked at the paintings; vibrant still-life acrylics in chunky frames; oil portraits with bold brush marks and, as she’d been hoping for, a wide array of seascapes. She stood in front of a large painting of the sea at dawn. The sky was burnished with golden streaks against the first, pale beginnings of blue, the water a dark turmoil beneath and a single smudge of colour on the horizon that, despite its lack of detail, was undoubtedly a boat. It was mesmerizing, an image to be stared at for hours. Robin felt her throat tighten, closed her eyes and willed Neve to be standing alongside her, to whisper to her all the reasons why she liked it.

When Robin opened them again, tears had squeezed themselves into the corners of her eyes and it was the gallery owner who was standing next to her. She hadn’t heard him approach.

‘Oh!’ Robin jolted and wiped at her eyes. ‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there.’

‘Spectacular, isn’t it? A new artist, Arthur Durrant. This is the only one we have of his at the moment, though we’ve more on commission. It’s a special introductory price.’

Robin nodded. It wasn’t cheap, but if it was the centrepiece of the room, on the wall facing the bed, then she could make it work within budget. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she managed, her voice croaky. ‘If I pay for it now, can I bring my car down later to collect it? I’m not sure it’ll fit in here.’ She gestured at the jute bag and smiled.

‘Of course. We’ll package it up for you when you’re ready to pick it up.’ He remained quiet, his movements small, but she could see the gleam in his eye – whether at a large sale or someone else appreciating the art that he loved, she couldn’t tell.

She stepped outside and took a deep breath, which turned into embarrassed laughter. She took the bag off her shoulder and swung it as she walked. Did she really think she could buy a few original paintings and pop them in a shopping bag? Shaking her head at her own ridiculousness, and distracted by an orb lamp glowing at her from its matt silver stand in a shop window, she wasn’t looking where she was going.

‘Whoa,’ said a familiar voice, and Robin turned just in time to see an overcoat-clad man take a quick sideways step.

‘Sorry, I—’ she stopped as the breath left her in a single exhalation. Overcoat man had a crop of blond curls, very blue eyes and, as their gazes met, a winning smile. ‘Tim?’ He didn’t belong in her reverie about Neve and paintings and the guesthouse. He belonged in a different part of her thoughts altogether – one that she was trying not to visit too often.

‘Robin Brennan. I was wondering how long it would take for us to bump into each other, though I hadn’t expected it to be quite so literal.’

His hand was on her arm, and he applied gentle pressure. For a horrifying moment she thought that he was going to hug her, but instead he leaned down and kissed her cheek. His skin was smooth, as always – he’d never sported even a hint of designer stubble in the time she’d known him – and she could tell that his overcoat, and what she could see of the suit beneath, was expensive. She had to admit that, despite the years that had passed without her seeing him, he looked as good as ever.

‘You look well,’ she managed. ‘Things are – OK?’

‘They’re great. Really good.’ He was appraising her unashamedly, his blue eyes taking her in, which she supposed was only fair as she was doing the same to him. ‘It sounds like you’re heading in a new direction, too. Back from London for good, and taking over your parents’ guesthouse?’

She nodded, cursing the Campion Bay rumour mill, though Molly had reminded her it was still in full swing, and she shouldn’t be surprised that Tim knew about her plans. ‘It’s a work in progress at the moment. I’m refurbishing the rooms. Bookings are always down in the winter, so we can concentrate on one room at a time, working around any guests we do have.’

‘Your parents are still here?’

‘They’re moving to France in April.’ She found she was stuck on a constant nod, the encounter having more of an effect than she had been prepared for. She’d spent a lot of time thinking about him but the reality was altogether different, somehow exhilarating and claustrophobic all at once. He’d cheated on her, had seemed almost proud of it at the time, and yet here he was without a hint of embarrassment or shame, acting as if it was only the distance that had ended their relationship.

‘Robin, you look incredible. Let me buy you a coffee, I’d love to hear how you’ve been.’

‘You don’t have to get back to work?’

‘Not for a while.’ His gaze lingered on her, his smile hinting at some secret between them, his ability to make her seem like the most important person in the world returning in a flash. ‘Half an hour, Robs. You can’t deny me that.’

Robin looked away, watched a seagull strutting down the street as if on patrol, and realized that she couldn’t say no. She wanted to hear about Tim as much as he seemed to want to know her news. ‘Half an hour,’ she agreed. ‘But only if you take me somewhere they have Bakewell tart.’

Tim laughed; a loud, open laugh that Robin had always loved. ‘It’s a deal. You haven’t changed, Robs. Not one bit.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ she said, but she let him take her arm and lead her up Seagull Street towards an independent café called Cool Beans, and tried not think about how the closeness of him was making her feel.

Chapter 3

‘I can’t believe you’ve brought me to a café called Cool Beans,’ she said after they’d sat in rounded, chocolate-brown leather armchairs, and the waiter had taken their order. Their table was low and very small, almost an afterthought, and Robin felt exposed without anything significant between them. She made a mental note that her guesthouse shouldn’t lose sight of practicality for the sake of style. Not that this place was stylish, but it definitely thought it was.

‘Hey,’ Tim said, eyes wide with mock hurt. ‘You set the parameters. This is the only place in town that’s guaranteed to do you a slice of Bakewell tart, and it’s good tart, too.’

‘The Campion Bay Teashop does Bakewell tart. Roxy and Ashley were telling me that they make all their own cakes and pastries.’

‘The place just along from you?’ Tim wrinkled his nose and sat back in his chair, elbows on the armrests. Robin could see the shimmer of silver cufflinks as his shirt protruded from the expensive grey suit. ‘We’re in town, and I don’t have time to head out to the seafront.’

‘So you do have to go back to work? I heard that you were doing well, that you’ve moved up to junior partner in your property firm.’

He ran a hand over his jaw, but he couldn’t hide the smile. ‘Things couldn’t be better, if I’m honest. I’m working on my own portfolio of sites, looking to develop them, bring Campion Bay a bit more up to date.’

‘You’re not a fan of the quaint seaside feel any more?’

‘Quaint is fine, but there are too many buildings – domestic and commercial – that are unlived in, unloved, and it has an effect on the whole area. Malcolm’s firm is working hard to eradicate those, to turn them back into desirable accommodation. I’m proud to be a part of that.’

‘Not least because it’s lucrative, I’ll bet.’ She gave him a quick smile, but Tim wasn’t offended. He never was. He was entirely sure of himself and of his place in the world, and wasn’t afraid to let people know it.

He spread his arms wide. ‘I’m not going to apologize for being successful. And isn’t that what you’re doing, just on a smaller scale? Taking your parents’ fading guesthouse, renovating it, smartening it up and looking to make a profit?’

‘Yes, but without me doing all that the guesthouse would close.’

‘And these buildings would become dilapidated if we did nothing, having an effect on adjoining properties. It’s no different.’

Robin narrowed her eyes, but she knew he was right. ‘Is that what you’re planning with number four Goldcrest Road?’

He gave her an amused, almost admiring look. ‘Nothing’s been confirmed about that site yet.’

‘But it’s on your radar?’

‘We’re looking into who owns it, seeing what options we have. And, if I’m honest, the thought of working on the building next to yours has moved it near the top of my wish list. But no decisions have been made, as yet.’

He was as charming and confident as ever, and despite the alarming admission that he wanted to get his claws into Tabitha’s house, Robin felt a tug of the old emotions, the headiness of first love that, a long time ago, had been strong enough to knock her sideways. As their coffee and cakes arrived – Tim had opted for a slice of brownie that looked about as impressive as the table – she noticed that the initials TL were inscribed on his cufflinks, and also, confirming what Molly had told her, that he had no ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. Tim thanked the waiter and turned just in time to see her looking. His gaze was penetrating, a hint of a smile on his lips.

‘Tell me about London,’ he said. ‘What made you come back here after all this time? Your plan was always to stay in the big smoke. Unless of course you couldn’t resist your feelings for me any longer?’

Robin stuck her fork in the Bakewell tart and tried to organize her thoughts. Someone cycled past, ringing their bell to scatter the seagulls. He was being flippant, she knew, but she felt the flush of her cheeks all the same. ‘We didn’t exactly end on the best of terms, did we?’ She met his gaze with her own. She wasn’t going to let him overwhelm her. She waited for a flicker of unease, but none came.

‘And if we hadn’t,’ he said, leaning forwards, ‘we’d still be together today, nearly fifteen years later.’

‘You sound like you actually regret what you did.’ She sipped her coffee, eyeing him over the rim.

‘I do. Seeing you again, Robs, here in Campion Bay, it …’ He shook his head. ‘I’d heard you were back, and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been looking forward to us meeting again, to seeing you in the flesh.’

Robin’s stomach fluttered unhelpfully. She’d been lost in Tim’s blue-eyed gaze and his carefully crafted compliments for five years. At the time it had been the most real thing in her life, but after what he’d done to her, it had all seemed like an act. He was gorgeous and charismatic and successful; he had many good things going for him, but she had to remind herself of the negatives. She had to remind her senses that feeling betrayed and heartbroken made the rest worthless.

‘It’s good to see you too,’ she said, keeping the emotion out of her voice. ‘Are you still surfing?’

He grimaced. ‘I haven’t for a while, but I’m hoping to get back into it. I broke my coccyx a few months ago, landed badly on a submerged rock. It was a real pain in the ass.’

Robin rolled her eyes, resisting the laugh. ‘It sounds awful. But at least you didn’t do it slipping on a banana skin or falling drunkenly out of a taxi.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘I don’t think you can lose any cool points for a surfing injury.’

‘Pretty sure your dignity is affected when you can’t sit down for three weeks.’

‘Oh, come off it, Tim, you’re—’ She stopped, caught herself. She would not feed his already overinflated ego. ‘You’re lucky it wasn’t a worse injury,’ she said instead, and then wished she hadn’t, her thoughts drawing the inevitable, unhelpful comparisons. She cut off a slice of Bakewell tart with her fork, but before she could bring it to her mouth Tim’s hand was over hers. The contact was warm and familiar, and unsettling in the unspoken comfort it provided.

‘Did something happen in London, Robs?’ He was suddenly sincere, his bravado hidden behind concern, and she felt herself being drawn towards it.

‘My friend died,’ she said, not shrugging his touch off. ‘Neve.’

Tim’s eyes widened, and for the first time since she’d seen him he looked less than composed. ‘Neve, who you met in your first year? The – your business partner?’

She nodded, her throat closing as Tim’s features clouded with shock. He’d met Neve on a couple of occasions while he and Robin were still going out, and he’d travelled up to London to see her in her first-year halls of residence.

She and Neve had hit it off instantly, and Robin had often wondered what would have happened if their rooms hadn’t been next door in halls, if they would still have found each other and come up with the idea of Once in a Blue Moon Days. She’d thought a lot about fate and destiny, and not only since Neve’s death. Her friend had been a big believer in those intangible things, in finding meaning in the cosmos, divining who you were meant to end up with from a horoscope. It was part of the reason Starcross was so special, with its focus on stars, on looking beyond the immediate.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked softly, wondering if she’d been callous in firing this bombshell at him, for using it, somehow, as a shield against his charm.

‘God, I’m so sorry, Robin.’ He moved his chair closer to hers, squeezed her hand. ‘I had no idea.’

‘Why should you have?’ She thought of the rumour mill, which had clearly kept him informed of some, but not all, of her news. She waited a few beats, grateful that he didn’t try to fill the silence, allowing her composure to return and her heart rate to settle. ‘I hadn’t planned to come back here, but then, afterwards, it was where I needed to be. And when Mum and Dad said they were moving away …’ She shrugged. ‘Molly’s helping out. She’s roped Paige and Adam in, and offered some builder friends haircuts for life if they’ll help with the redecorating. It’s a long way off being finished, but I’m excited. I’ve just bought a painting.’

‘A painting?’ Tim raised his eyebrows, matching her new enthusiasm, the solemn moment gone. It felt good, talking about the guesthouse again. It had become her safe place. Of course it would be hard work, it would be challenging, but she was ready for that. After all, Once in a Blue Moon Days hadn’t always been easy. The clients had been demanding, wanting – understandably – sheer perfection. As she told Tim some of her ideas, her mood lifted. The coffee and the sugar gave her a boost of energy, and she felt suddenly, overwhelmingly excited about the future. She was embracing the guesthouse as if it was her salvation. In lots of ways, it probably was.

‘When can I come and see it?’ Tim asked once Robin had finally run out of steam.

‘Not yet, it’s not ready.’

‘I don’t get a sneak peek?’ He pouted, looking so ridiculously crestfallen that she laughed.

‘No. What made you think you would?’

‘Our history.’

‘Not all good history,’ she reminded him, but she felt a flutter of unexpected longing. She risked looking at him. He was sitting perfectly still, his blue eyes trained on her.

‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’ he said quietly.

She shook her head, incredulous, but her heart was racing. She stood, catching her fork with her knee and knocking it to the floor. She bent to pick it up, but Tim was already there. They rose to standing together, so close that she could feel his breath against her cheek.

‘I have to get back,’ she said quickly.

‘Repurposing some furniture?’

‘Endlessly, for about the next four months.’

‘It’s been great catching up.’

Tim refused to let her pay the bill and walked her to the door. The cold was bracing, and Robin welcomed it; she needed to clear her head.

‘When can I come and see the rooms?’ he asked.

‘When they’re finished, not before.’

‘Robin Brennan, ever the perfectionist.’

‘Takes one to know one.’

‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’ He smiled, their eyes catching hold of each other’s. Tim was first to look away.

‘I’d best get on,’ Robin said. ‘Thanks for coffee.’

‘Next time let’s make it a glass of something celebratory to toast your new business.’ Before she had a chance to protest, Tim’s arm was around her and he was kissing her cheek, smelling of spicy, no doubt expensive, aftershave and filling Robin’s senses with heady nostalgia.

She watched him stride away and thought again about fate. She’d known that seeing Tim was inevitable once she moved back to Campion Bay, and she’d also known that their five-year, first-love relationship would always hold a special place in her heart, but she hadn’t been prepared for her heart to be quite so keen to see him again. Was this what was destined for her, what was written in the stars? Could she forgive his indiscretion, aged nineteen and with her too far away for their relationship to flourish? They were both so much older now, both with their own histories and heartaches behind them, but still with an undeniable chemistry. Could it be rekindled? As she started to walk back to Goldcrest Road, Robin chided herself for even entertaining the thought.

‘Where is she?’ Robin heard her dad’s voice, always on the right side of amiable, drifting up the stairs.

‘Up here!’ Paige called, and then glared at her mother as Molly made a loud shushing sound. Robin tried not to laugh. Paige was sixteen, Molly thirty-four, and they often acted more like sisters than mother and daughter. Paige’s hair was the same, expertly applied blonde, only three times longer than Molly’s.

‘This is a delicate operation,’ Molly hissed at her daughter.

‘Why?’ Paige asked. ‘Will the fish get scared?’

‘Not sure we’ll know if they do,’ Jim said, his back towards them, intent on securing the large fish-tank into the newly cut hole in the wall of Robin’s Rockpool room. Molly had been right, the wiry but – as Robin had discovered over the last few months – ridiculously strong builder and glazier had a very neat, impressive beard, and in her head he’d instantly become Beardy Jim. She was worried she’d say it out loud, but on voicing her fears to Molly had been led to understand he’d probably be quite pleased with the nickname. He’d worked solidly and cheerfully alongside his partner Kerry, and Robin knew that free haircuts for life would not be enough for all they’d done. But she’d held back some budget for labour costs, and was confident that she could pay them for their time.

Right now, they were making Robin’s vision of a fish-tank wall come true. Between the main bedroom and en suite bathroom of Rockpool, instead of plasterboard there would soon be a beautiful aquarium, reflecting the light from the window opposite, filled with colourful discus, rainbow fish and fantail guppies. It was a risk, she knew, but she couldn’t imagine a better feature for this room that, along with its bleached floorboards and hints of turquoise, held the essence of the sea.

Her mum and dad appeared in the doorway and the room, now full of bodies, seemed suddenly too small. Ian Brennan glanced at the large polythene bags on the floor, the assortment of fish waiting for their new home, and looked anxiously at his wife.

‘Ah.’

‘What’s wrong, Dad?’ Robin asked. ‘Has something happened with your ferry?’

It was the first week in April and her parents were about to leave for France. Robin had been working harder than ever, while also trying to ward off the encroaching panic that she would soon be in sole charge of the guesthouse. Not to mention that her mum and dad, who had been such a comfort to her after Neve’s death, would be hundreds of miles away, for good.

Sylvie approached her daughter, her narrow face pinched. She was holding a red, fleecy blanket. On closer inspection, Robin could see that the blanket was wriggling.

‘Mum, Dad?’ She looked from one to the other, then back at the blanket, and then at Molly who shrugged her shoulders. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Maybe this isn’t the best room,’ her dad said.

‘For what?’

Without answering, Sylvie thrust the blanket into her hands and Robin looked down at it. A tiny black paw emerged from the fleecy material, claws finding and holding on to the cotton of Robin’s paint-splattered jumper. She pushed back the blanket and found the fuzzy head of a kitten. It let out a huge yawn, exposing a tiny pink tongue.