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

‘You have lovely beaches in Wales, though.’

‘Oh yes,’ Mrs Barker said. ‘Some of the best.’

Robin filed the completed confirmation sheet, and took the keys to Andalusia out of the drawer of the wooden desk. The hall had never been wide enough to house a proper reception area, so she’d continued her parents’ tradition of having a desk and computer station in the living room – now Sea Shanty – where the keys and paperwork were kept. Mr and Mrs Barker stepped back, allowing her to lead the way.

‘We have got a tiny lift,’ she said, ‘or we can take the stairs up to the second floor.’

‘Stairs are fine,’ Mr Barker confirmed, hefting his Barbour bag on to his shoulder.

‘Can I take anything?’ Robin asked.

‘Oh no, we’re fine, aren’t we, love?’

‘That we are.’

They both had tanned, weatherworn faces, and their clothes were smart but practical, their jackets and boots indicating that they worked outside, riding or gardening or managing country estates. Robin wondered if they owned a huge, secluded mansion in North Wales, with meticulous rose gardens, acres of grassland and a river running through a woody copse. ‘Good-oh,’ she said quickly, snapping herself back to reality. ‘If you’d like to follow me, then.’

When she opened the bedroom door, allowing Mr and Mrs Barker to go in first, she couldn’t help but grin. Mr Barker’s reaction was subtle, his eyebrows shooting skywards, but his wife clapped her hands together in glee.

‘It’s even better than the photo,’ she said, turning in a slow circle.

‘I’m so glad you approve,’ Robin rushed, her heartbeat beginning to return to normal.

Andalusia was the boldest of her bedrooms, with its rustic styling, red and burnished orange fabrics and dark wood furniture. The sun was streaming through the window, adding to the impression of being in another country, and Robin thought she couldn’t have picked a more perfect moment to invite her guests in.

‘This is incredible,’ Mrs Barker said, running her hands over the red-and-gold runner at the end of the bed. ‘You’d hardly believe you were in Dorset if it wasn’t for the view outside. Have you spent lots of time in Andalusia?’

‘I’ve never been there,’ Robin admitted, ‘but I’ve heard a lot about it.’ Neve had promised to take her there, to show her the narrow streets and old churches of the Pueblos Blancos, but with Once in a Blue Moon Days getting off the ground, it had never happened. ‘A friend of mine was born in the area, and she made it sound so magical. I know you don’t have the amazing Spanish hills outside the window, but Campion Bay beach is beautiful in its own right, and this way you get a sense of the exotic alongside the English seaside.’

‘I don’t suppose it comes with a Spanish breakfast as well?’ Mr Barker sat in the nook in the window and peered out at the sea. Robin had made sure that the window seats, a feature of every room except Starcross, were as snug as possible, but she thought Mr Barker was perhaps too big to make full use of this one. She couldn’t imagine him leaning back against the cushions, his feet up on the padding, reading glasses perched, owl-like, on the end of his nose.

‘I’ve got tostadas on the menu, with tomato and olive oil,’ Robin said. ‘Or you can have your scrambled eggs with avocados, chorizo and a dash of Tabasco sauce. All the information is in the folder on the chest of drawers: fire procedures, breakfast times – as well as the menu – and ideas for things to do in the area. If you need anything at all, or have any questions, then please ask. I’m usually around, but my mobile number is in the folder if you can’t find me. I hope you enjoy your stay.’

‘Thank you,’ Mrs Barker said. ‘I’m sure we will.’ Mr Barker nodded from the window seat.

Robin stepped out of the room and pulled the door closed behind her, then did a little dance on the landing. This was the fourth positive reaction she’d had to the rooms, from people who were actually staying in them. A couple who looked almost as young as Paige and Adam had checked into Rockpool, and had been instantly mesmerized by the wall of fish; and the middle-aged couple in Wilderness, Ray and Andrea, had seemed very taciturn, but as Robin had closed the door behind them, she’d heard Ray say: ‘Well, this is pretty bloody nice.’

Dorothy, who had checked into Canvas for the week, had stared at the painting of Campion Bay at Dawn for so long that Robin had simply closed the door behind her, without giving her prepared spiel about breakfast times and mobile numbers. She’d noticed that, along with her suitcase, she had a fold-up easel and an A3 portfolio case.

Now Robin glanced up at the narrower staircase, the one that led to Starcross. It was the most personal room, the one that was most precious to her, and part of her was glad she hadn’t booked it out immediately. She had been nervous enough as it was, but now the hurdle of having happy guests – at least on first impression – was out of the way.

She had many more challenges ahead; cooking successful breakfasts, coming up with new ways to promote the guesthouse and keeping on top of the finances. Actually making a profit would be preferable, and balancing everything with only Paige to help with the breakfasts and changeovers was going to keep them both busy, but she was prepared to expand if it got too much. At least that would mean the bookings were continuing.

She made herself a cup of tea and checked that she’d booked everyone in properly on the GuestSmart software. The sea beyond the window was choppy, though not quite enough to release the white horses, and the sun scattered rays on the water, creating a patchwork of light and shade.

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.

Guests were able to use the room when Robin was at home. She had a small living room at the back of the private area of the house, behind her bedroom, but it wasn’t anywhere near as cosy as Sea Shanty, and she wanted her guests to feel comfortable in the house, rather than hide away and leave the downstairs feeling deserted.

‘Other things?’ Robin asked lightly.

‘Don’t think I didn’t notice the chemistry between you and Tim yesterday. I know you were apprehensive about seeing him, but it didn’t look like you were having a totally horrible time. If I lit my cigarette between the two of you …’

‘You don’t smoke.’

‘Just don’t wear hairspray around him.’

‘I’m not going to go back there.’ Robin tried to look out of the window, but was faced with a faded, blurred version of herself. ‘It would be the least sensible decision ever, even if I wanted to – which I don’t.’

‘Not even a little bit?’ Molly asked, holding up finger and thumb close together.

Robin knew her friend was testing her. ‘I can’t forget what he did to me. I know I was in London by then and you didn’t get the full force of the fallout, but you know how much it hurt. You’ve been through it yourself – and you had a baby on the way when Simon left you.’

‘It just proves that teenage guys are unfaithful bastards, and we should never commit to anything until the men involved are at least thirty.’

Robin laughed. ‘The sad thing is, I don’t know if that would help in Tim’s case. He’s so similar to how I remember him. I think anything I am feeling towards him—’

‘Lust, you mean?’

Robin gave her friend her best scowl. ‘It’s just nostalgia. I loved Tim with that wide-eyed, first-love enthusiasm. And he’s still so confident about everything, reminding me of our relationship – the good parts – without any hint of embarrassment or regret. It’s a bit overwhelming.’

‘You’ll get past it. It’s strange seeing him again, I get that, but when you’ve bumped into him a couple more times you won’t feel a thing. He’ll go back to being ex-boyfriend, love rat, arrogant try-hard.’ Molly finished her wine and refilled their glasses.

Robin sighed. ‘I hope so. Tim is in the past. We may manage to be friends in future, but revisiting what we had would be a bad idea.’ She shook her head vigorously, trying not to think about the way he had placed his hand over hers in the coffee shop.

‘So we turn our attention to the rich male pickings of Campion Bay?’ Molly held her glass up.

‘You’re being ironic, right?’ Robin grinned, happy to stop talking about her ex-boyfriend. ‘Or did Campion Bay become a hotbed of male loveliness while I was away?’

‘Oh, you just wait, Robin Brennan. Though,’ Molly added, ‘you might be waiting a long time. I’m going to get another bottle of wine.’

‘No,’ Robin said as Molly stood up, ‘I’ve got to cook breakfast for seven guests in the morning. I can’t be hungover.’

‘You’ll cook a better fry-up with a hangover than without one, because you’ll be more invested in it. It’s the perfect cure. Besides, Paige will be there to help if you need a break.’

‘Molly,’ Robin said, a warning in her voice as her friend, shoes discarded next to the sofa, danced lightly to the door.

‘What? We don’t have to drink the whole bottle, do we?’

‘You’re a bad influence on me.’

Molly waved her away with a hand and disappeared into the hall. Robin sat back on the sofa and closed her eyes, grateful that Molly was there to talk things over with, to make her laugh, and to make light of the worries that she was storing up inside.

A loud bang from outside startled her eyes open, and she sprung up and turned the lamp off in a single movement, pressing her face to the glass. A blue car pulled up between Robin’s Fiat 500 and the Barkers’ Land Rover. Robin squinted. It was an Alfa Romeo; it looked old and rather battered, and not just because of the exhaust fumes puffing out into the night-time air. She watched as the driver’s door opened and a man unfolded himself, then stood and peered up at the house fronts. He was tall and broad-shouldered and probably around her age, though Robin couldn’t see his features clearly. He walked round to open the passenger door and a small curly-haired, caramel-coloured dog hopped on to the pavement. The man wrapped the lead around his wrist, pulled a holdall out of the boot and then, to Robin’s astonishment, walked up the stairs of Tabitha’s house.

Robin’s nose was completely squashed against the glass as she tried to keep her eyes on him, but the angle was too acute and he disappeared from view as soon as he’d reached the top step. She saw the dog’s tail for a few more seconds, and then they were both gone.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ Molly asked, returning with a fresh bottle of wine, a lurid pink rosé that had been on offer in the supermarket but Robin hadn’t yet plucked up the courage to open.

Robin rubbed her nose, listened for the sound of Tabitha’s front door closing, and then flopped on to the sofa. ‘Someone just went inside next door. Someone who arrived in a battered old Alfa.’

‘Who?’ Molly asked, sounding as shocked as Robin felt. ‘Squatters? More property developers?’

‘It’s after nine,’ Robin shook her head. ‘He had a holdall and a fluffy dog and … and I don’t know what else. But he’s gone inside, or at least he disappeared up the stairs and I heard the door close.’

Molly made a ‘come on’ motion with her hand and Robin finished her wine, then allowed her friend to refill her glass. ‘Borrow some sugar.’

‘What?’

‘Let’s go round and ask to borrow some sugar.’

‘No. No way.’

‘Why not? I bet Mrs Harris would.’

‘Don’t lump me in with her,’ Robin warned. ‘How would it look? Someone goes into a house that’s been empty for a year, and then someone else who lives in an open, functioning guesthouse asks the new person for a cup of sugar. It’s completely back to front. I may as well scrawl nosy neighbour on my forehead.’

‘So go and say hello. Introduce yourself.’

‘Why me?’

‘Because you’re next door.’

‘You’re on the other side,’ Robin protested. ‘You’re a neighbour too.’

‘But I’m not at home right now.’ Molly clutched her wine to her chest and pulled her legs up on to the sofa.

Robin sighed. ‘I am not going to go and knock on the door. Not until at least tomorrow, otherwise he’ll know I noticed him arriving.’

Molly whooped and let out a loud peal of laughter. ‘I knew I could rely on you.’

‘Shush. Now, how’s this wine? Is it as toxic as it looks?’

It was after midnight, and the doorbell was ringing. Robin looked up from the sink and glanced down the hallway as if that would give her clarity. All her guests were safely tucked up in their rooms. She knew this because as they’d come in throughout the evening she had invited them to have a glass of wine with her and Molly. Catriona and Neil had accepted, and the four of them had spent an hour in Sea Shanty, Robin and Molly extolling the virtues of Campion Bay to the young couple, who turned out to be on their first holiday together – paid for with Neil’s work bonus – and had travelled from just outside Birmingham.

But now it was officially tomorrow, and the doorbell was definitely ringing. Robin had had it replaced, having spent far too long listening to sound-snippets on a website before picking the perfect chime, so there could be no mistaking it. She padded down the hallway, wondering whether Molly had, in her slightly tipsy state, left her phone behind, but as she got closer to the door and turned the outside light on, the figure behind the coloured glass became clearer, and it wasn’t Molly-shaped.

Robin pulled the door open and tried not to gasp. ‘H-hello,’ she stuttered, ‘how can I help?’

It was the man who’d gone into Tabitha’s house. He had the same tall frame and broad shoulders, and the same small dog at his feet. A closer look confirmed he was her age, or perhaps a couple of years older. He was blinking at her under the outside light, and he was soaked. Robin peered behind him to check there hadn’t been a sudden, silent downpour, and when she was satisfied, turned her attention back to him and the dog who, she realized, looked equally bedraggled. It was adorable, the kind of breed that could be mistaken for a cuddly toy, and she had to resist scooping it into her arms.

‘There’s been a leak,’ he said. ‘I mean, there is a leak, next door.’ His voice was deep and slightly breathless, his expression was apologetic, and his eyes, Robin couldn’t help noticing, were very green. He had a spread of freckles across a straight nose and tanned cheeks, and his short hair, which was plastered to his forehead, gave a suggestion of being chestnut brown when it wasn’t wet. The dark stain on his grey jumper looked like he’d been dumped under a bucket of water rather than an impromptu rain shower.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, I – have I caused the leak?’

He frowned. ‘What? No, I don’t think so. I think the roof needs repairing.’

‘My roof?’ Robin stepped outside and peered up at the front of the guesthouse, her heart hammering with alarm. She was very close to him now. She caught a whiff of mildewed water and something else, something much more pleasant that brought back a childhood memory: full paper bags from the traditional sweet shop in town.

‘No,’ the man said, his voice now with a hint of frustration. ‘Next door. Look, I’m not accusing you of anything, and I’m sorry to knock so late, but you are still a guesthouse, aren’t you? The sign says so.’ He pointed upwards. Robin resisted the urge to look up at her own name sign, and instead stepped back inside, facing him.

‘Sorry.’ She rubbed her forehead. Damn Molly and that second bottle of wine. ‘Sorry, yes I am. You’re staying next door?’ she asked tentatively.

‘Well,’ he said, giving her a wry smile. ‘I was trying to, but it seems the house has other ideas. I can’t … I mean, I could stay there. It would probably be the manly thing to do, style it out on the floor in another of the rooms, do the whole Bear Grylls thing, but the place needs a complete overhaul. Then I remembered that, as luck would have it, my aunt lived next to a guesthouse.’

‘Your aunt?’ Robin had been about to tell him that she was pretty sure Bear Grylls grappled with terrains a bit more hard-core than seafront houses, but now she was distracted. ‘Tabitha was your aunt?’

The man’s eyes widened, and then his smile registered something that was either genuine happiness, or possibly relief now that he was finally getting some sense out of her. ‘Yes, yes she was. Hi.’ He held out his hand. ‘Will Nightingale.’

Robin took it. It was warm and firm and – unsurprisingly, given the rest of him – slightly damp. ‘Robin Brennan,’ she replied, trying to find similarities with the woman she had lived next door to for most of her childhood. Tabitha’s eyes had been hazel rather than startling green, but, along with a growing spread of grey, she’d had the woody, mid-brown hair that Robin suspected Will’s would be once it dried. And Robin remembered her neighbour once telling her that her maiden name was Nightingale, and that the only sadness she’d had in getting married to the love of her life was losing such a beautiful surname for the mundanity of becoming Mrs Thomas.