The Little Vintage Carousel by the Sea: A gorgeously uplifting festive romance!

‘The Shell Hotel?’ I say, not used to this number of people keen to help you find your way around.

She makes the same face the newspaper man made. ‘Are you an inspector come to shut them down?’

‘No, just a guest.’

‘Oh, lovely.’ She sounds just as false as the newspaper man. What is it about this hotel?

‘It’s that way.’ She points down the second road that clearly heads into the village. ‘It’s right on the other end of the village, just follow this road and go downwards when you come to the fork. You can’t miss it.’

‘Thanks.’ I set off before the idea of this hotel sends me running straight back to the train station.

‘Come back anytime,’ she calls after me. ‘We do the best chips in Pearlholme! The fish and chip shop on the seafront will tell you otherwise, but we all know which one of us is right!’

It makes me smile as I wheel my suitcase behind me, through a narrow, cobbled street that seems barely wide enough to allow even the smallest of cars. This street must be the main residential street, and its rows of brick cottages fit perfectly with the uneven cobbles of the road. Each cottage looks like it could tumble down at any moment, but they all have perfectly neat front gardens, separated from the cobbled street by a haphazard brick wall covered in trailing purple aubrietia flowers. Each one has a path of stepping stones up to their door, a neatly trimmed lawn, and borders full of flowers. Even the birdhouses on tall stands at the end of each garden are miniature replicas of cottages, and birds who are happily pecking at seed inside their tiny bird cottages fly off in groups as I walk past, my suitcase bouncing along the cobbles behind me.

There’s one house on the street that’s a bit different. This one still has a freshly mowed lawn and the scent of cut grass is strong in the air, but in the window is a ‘Post Office’ sign, and instead of flowers in borders, there’s a bright red postbox outside, a chalkboard advertising fresh milk and bread, a newspaper board with today’s local headline, which is blank, and I wonder if that’s indicative of how quiet it is around here. Zinnia would’ve told them to make up a story about someone being mauled by a starfish to sell more copies.

Even from what Nathan said on the phone the other night, I didn’t realise quite how picturesque it would be. Every house has window boxes brimming with a rainbow of flowers and trailing hanging baskets on either side of their bright-painted front doors. It’s like a picture-perfect film set, the kind of village that you see artists painting in watercolour.

At the end of the main row of houses, the road forks – the left fork curves down towards a battered-looking old barn, and the right twists up a shallow slope towards green hills and a handful of little cottages that must overlook the beach. I’d rather take that road, but the woman outside the pub did say to go downwards, didn’t she? And I’m sure there’s something written on that old barn …

As I walk towards it, only the side is facing me, peering above rusty black railings. The back garden is hidden behind overhanging trees that have overhung so far they’ve gone for a scramble through the blackberry bushes behind the building. It looks more like an overgrown graveyard than any kind of hotel, but as I cautiously walk round the front, I realise that’s exactly what it is. The Shell Hotel is in big letters across the front of the building, but the S has gone wonky and dropped down, looking like it’s hanging on by a thread.

This does not look like a hotel. It looks like somewhere you’d expect Lurch to open the door.

I suddenly understand why everyone I’ve spoken to so far has made the same face at the mere mention of this place.

* * *

The hotel is not that bad. If you like broom cupboards with no view. There only seems to be one elderly man working here, and the only other guest I’ve seen is a man I passed in the corridor with an easel under one arm, making me think I wasn’t far wrong about artists painting such a picturesque village.

And I suppose I was lucky to get a room here at such short notice, in June, in a gorgeous little seaside village, and it doesn’t matter how small my room is or how uncomfortable and stained the bed looks, because I’m here, and I’ve done something unusual for me; I’ve ‘put myself out there’ as Daphne would say, and now I’m walking up the other fork of the cobbled road, towards the cottages, and hopefully the carousel on the beach.

At the peak of the hill, I stop and take in the view. From here, to my left, are the green hills of the cliffs overlooking the beach, and they’re spotted with little cottages, all with pretty gardens stretching out behind them. In front of me is the most perfect beach I’ve ever seen. Miles of unblemished sand stretches out into the ocean. The tide is out and the waves are lapping in the distance.

To the right is the seafront, and my reason for coming here. I walk down the lower road towards what is obviously the promenade. A blue-painted iron railing springs up along the grassy edge as I head towards a row of colourful beach huts along one side of the road, opposite a wide set of steps and a long ramp leading down to the beach. Just beyond them, is the tip of a marquee tent. It must be the carousel. It’s exactly where the newspaper man described.

The road has changed from cobblestone to smooth tarmac now, which I notice because my knees are shaking as I walk, and while I could convince myself it was because of the cobbles before, now I have to admit that it’s nerves. What the hell am I doing here? Coming halfway across the country to meet a man I smiled at on a train a few times? He’s going to think I’m a nutter. Maybe I am a nutter.

If I left now, I could probably make it back to London by tonight. I could at least stay somewhere near the station and get the first train out tomorrow morning. He would never know I was here. We could meet like normal, sensible, sane people in a neutral place in London where I can hand his phone over like a normal, sensible, sane person, and not stalk him two hundred and fifty miles across the country. In six weeks’ time. When he gets back … Six weeks is a hell of a long time. And I’m here now, aren’t I? I can just drop by the carousel and hand over his phone like it’s not a big deal … Maybe I could tell him I’m visiting family in the area? That’s a reasonable excuse, right?

My legs have carried on walking without me realising, and I’m suddenly on the liveliest part of the promenade, right next to one of the sets of steps leading onto the sand, and mere metres from the marquee surrounding the carousel. He must be in there. It’s too near, this is too weird, everything about it from the train to the phone to the article … and the lovely-sounding guy who phoned me, who I talked to unreservedly the night before last, who voluntarily rang again last night and then texted when I didn’t answer, and I still haven’t responded to.

I examine the row of beach huts on the opposite side of the promenade to delay having to approach the carousel and somehow make myself sound rational while explaining that I’ve stalked him halfway across the country.

They’re all painted in bright colours, each one different from orange to purple, graduated so they form a rainbow along the street. All have signs above their doors and sandwich boards outside advertising their goods. There’s the fish and chip shop I’ve already heard about, an old-fashioned arcade, an art shop showcasing paintings by local artists, a shop selling all kinds of beach goods from dinghies, windbreakers, and inflatable whales to buckets and spades and snorkels, and there’s an ice cream parlour … Oh, now there’s an idea.

The sign outside advertises a 99 cone that still costs 99p, something that’s probably as rare in Britain nowadays as when a Freddo used to cost 10p, and I can’t remember the last time I had one. I go into the little red hut and buy two. Turning up with ice cream makes this much less weird, right?

There are four rows of wide concrete steps leading down to the beach and sandy ramps side on, so I walk down one of them, holding an ice cream in each hand.

A wooden walkway has been installed in the sand surrounding the carousel, and a temporary metal fence about six-foot high has been put up around it, stopping anyone getting any closer.

As I cross the sand towards it, I try to work out what on earth I’m going to say. Shall I knock? If I can even get in, how do you knock on a tent? Rattle the fence? Call his name?

Just as I’m thinking the best thing to do would be to run away and eat both the 99s as I go, he steps out from around the side of the tent and I freeze because it’s suddenly real. He’s actually here. I’m actually here. I actually did something so completely out of character for me, and maybe that’s not an entirely bad thing, even if it is about to go down in flames.

He’s wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of dungarees, which are covered in paint and oil stains and ripped at the knees, and he’s rubbing a manky-looking cloth over something, looking out towards the sea. He looks completely entranced by the ocean and hasn’t even glanced in my direction, and I wonder how long I could stand here admiring him if these ice creams weren’t melting.

‘Nathan?’ I finally pluck up the courage to speak and it comes out barely above a whisper. I’m sure he won’t have heard but he jumps at the sound of something other than the squawking of seagulls and swivels towards me.

‘Ness?’ He physically does a double take and squints in the sunlight.

At least he recognises me. That’s something.

‘Ness!’ he says again, his voice going high. ‘You actually came?’

Suddenly he’s moving, pushing aside one of the metal fence panels and striding towards me, his mouth turning into a grin that lights up his whole face and makes the laughter lines around his eyes crinkle up. He doesn’t look like someone who thinks I’m a deranged stalker.

What’s weird is that as soon as I see him, the moment I see that smile spread across his face and the dimples I haven’t been able to get out of my head since the first time I saw him, all of my nerves melt away.

He looks … overjoyed. No, it can’t be overjoyed. Maybe constipation? I don’t think anyone has ever looked that happy to see me before.

‘You made it sound so perfect.’ I have to wet my lips and swallow a couple of times to make my voice sound stable.

‘I can’t believe you came!’

‘And I brought ice cream.’ I hold one of the cones out towards him.

He goes to take it but his hand stops in midair and we both look at it because he’s covered in black grease. He pulls it back quickly and tries to wipe it on the cloth he was using to clean the thing he’s just shoved into the pocket of his dungarees. ‘Look at the state of me. I don’t usually get into this much of a mess.’

He plunges a hand into the dungaree pocket again and pulls out a mini packet of wet wipes, covering it in the black grime as he struggles to open it and pull one out, and I stand there with two ice creams melting in my hands, wondering when dungarees became so sexy. I’ve always thought of them as a work uniform for builders, but on Nathan, they look like something from a Calvin Klein aftershave advert. Even with the rips and stains, one rip in particular shows a delicious sliver of thigh, and …

I’ve been here for all of two minutes and I already can’t stop perving on the man. I can’t remember the last time I looked at a guy and fancied him this much, no matter how much Daphne tries to make me. Fancying men and how sexy they might or might not be hasn’t been on my priority list for a long time now, and yet I already want to slide a finger into that tear in the faded denim and … I force myself to think of something else.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Nathan’s scrubbing at his messy hands with a wet wipe, which looks about as effective as a chocolate teapot. ‘Talk about a good first impression. This is a boiling hot water, exfoliating handwash, and a scrubbing brush job, and I’m nowhere near any of them.’

He seems nervous, maybe even more nervous than I was, and it’s completely and utterly endearing.

‘Do you need a hand?’ I say, wishing I could kick myself before I’ve even finished the sentence. Who makes terrible puns like that in front of a gorgeous man they wouldn’t be opposed to impressing? What is wrong with me? I don’t know why I bother hunting for excuses not to go out with any of the men Daphne tries to set me up with. I should go and let them be instantly put off by my terrible sense of humour. She’d soon stop trying.

At least he’s polite enough to laugh and make it sound genuine, his eyes crinkling up again as he grins at me, and I find myself staring at him. His hair is so dark brown that it’s almost black and his brown eyes reflect the colour of the sand and the sun, making them look golden in certain slants of light. I always thought he was gorgeous by the washed-out light of an underground train, but in natural daylight, he’s glorious.

‘You couldn’t, er, feed it to me, could you?’

I let out an undignified snort and cover it with a nervous giggle, sounding like a pig that’s had a nappy accident, if pigs wore nappies and were perceptive enough to be aware of soiling themselves. Maybe those nerves aren’t so far away after all. ‘Well, that’s one way to break the ice.’

I try to ignore the way my stomach flips as he groans and goes to smack himself on the forehead but stops just in time to avoid a greasy handprint across his face. ‘Oh God, that wasn’t meant to sound as bad as it did. I meant in a completely non-erotic way, obviously. Just hold it in my general direction and I’ll lick it like a dog.’

‘I’d be happy to,’ I say, wishing I could think up a clever, witty response to make up for the ‘do you need a hand’ fiasco.

‘My nefarious plan for getting pretty girls to feed me ice cream is almost complete. Next step, world domination.’ He steeples grease-covered fingers in an evil overlord way, making me giggle again. ‘I’m going to stop making an idiot of myself anytime now.’ He gestures towards the gap in the metal fence. ‘Come in and sit on my wood.’

I laugh, but mainly at how fiercely red his cheeks have gone.

‘I meant my wooden decking, obviously.’ He points towards the edge of the platform in the sand surrounding the tent. ‘I told you I’m crap at talking to people.’

‘Well, I asked you if you needed a hand, so I think we’re fairly even on that front. And these are melting.’

He smiles as he sits down and I perch on the wooden pathway next to him, not close enough to touch, but close enough to hold his ice cream to my right.

He leans forward and licks it. ‘You have full permission to poke me in the nose with it if you want.’

I’m trying eat mine daintily without ending up in a Beauty and the Beast-style porridge scene and it makes me laugh so much that I nearly take my own eye out with the Flake. ‘I was just thinking about how easy it would be to do that. Are you some sort of mind reader or what?’

He laughs too. ‘I think there’s an innate part of every human being that makes that connection when there’s a pointy ice cream and a nose around.’

I give him a sideways glance, appreciating the way his tongue runs up that smooth ice cream. His chin is so close to my hand as he moves, near enough that I can almost feel the drag of his stubble, and it’s probably a really weird thing to sit here and feed ice cream to a complete stranger but it doesn’t feel as weird as it should.

‘I can’t believe you came. I didn’t think you would and I was really hoping …’ He shakes his head without finishing the sentence. ‘And I can’t believe you brought me ice cream. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but …’ His voice drops to a whisper and I naturally lean a bit nearer to hear him. ‘I’ve already had two of these today.’

I laugh like it’s a terrible secret. ‘Isn’t there an unwritten British law that says you have to have a 99 when within a five-mile radius of a beach?’

‘Oh, definitely, but I don’t think they mean to prescribe them like Paracetamol, you know, one every four hours until your liver packs in from sugar overload. I had one when I got here this morning and then I couldn’t resist running back across the road for another one after lunch. I foresee that working across the street from an ice cream parlour is going to be very bad for me.’

‘I can’t think of a nicer place to work.’ I nod towards the sea in an attempt to take my mind off his tongue and how close it is to my hand. ‘The ice creams are just a bonus.’

‘I can’t believe you came,’ he says again. ‘I was really hoping you would. I got the impression on the phone that you’d love it here, and I thought I’d probably scared you off and I’d never hear from you again, and I just …’ He swallows and leans over until his shoulder knocks gently into mine before sitting upright again. ‘I’m chuffed you’re here.’

It makes the sun warming my skin feel like it’s warming the whole of me from the inside out. He’s so … uninhibited is the word that springs to mind. Either he’s overcompensating because he thinks I’m a deranged stalker and is biding his time until he can run away, or he’s genuinely pleased to see me, and instead of trying to hide it and invent excuses like I am, he’s not afraid to say it. I’m still wondering if he’d believe that I have family in the area and I happen to be visiting them mere days after he told me where he was and I conveniently forgot to mention it the other night. ‘You made Pearlholme sound so perfect and I liked talking to you,’ I say, trying to be a bit more forthright with my answer. ‘I couldn’t resist seeing the village and the carousel.’ And the guy restoring it. Well, maybe not that forthright.

‘Did you get my text last night? I thought I’d better check to make sure I hadn’t bored you into a coma the night before.’

‘Yeah. Sorry, I’d gone to bed because I knew I’d have to get up early for the train, and I got your text this morning, but I didn’t answer because …’ Right, forthright. ‘I didn’t know how to say I was on my way here without sounding like I was stalking you.’

‘Well, I wasn’t joking when I asked you. I tried to pretend I was because it’s a bit weird to talk complete strangers into holidaying with you … I mean, not with me but in the same place I am …’ He twists one blackened finger around the other. ‘When I said I was going to stop making an idiot of myself earlier, I clearly meant now, not then. Now I’m going to stop making an idiot of myself. Just as soon as I finish the ice cream you’ve been forced to feed to me because I can’t get my hands clean.’

I giggle again, and I really am going to have to stop all this nervous giggling, I’m even annoying myself, but the thought that he actually wanted me to come … that it wasn’t a joke … It’s making me feel all fluttery and light, like in the movies when you see the heroine twirling down the street in a floaty pink dress after a wonderful romantic date with a handsome man who’s too good to be true.

I look over at Nathan again and his eyes meet mine and we both smile at the same time. Until he takes a bite out of the cornet and sends crumbs fluttering everywhere.

‘So, is “will you feed it to me” the worst chat-up line you’ve ever heard? Not that it was a chat-up line or anything – I am not interested in that kind of thing – I just meant it sounds like something a leery drunk in a pub would think was a clever chat-up line, doesn’t it?’

‘I don’t know, but “hold it and I’ll lick it like a dog” is right up there.’

He laughs and groans at the same time. ‘Oh God, I hadn’t even thought of that one. See? I’m terrible at having conversations with people. I’m not even trying to chat you up and I’ve tried out the worst chat-up line you’ve ever heard in your life.’

‘Nah … A bloke outside the tube station told me he’d like to eat my ovaries once. Not quite sure what he expected the outcome to be.’

Nathan puts a non-greasy wrist to his forehead and pretends to swoon. ‘Oh, finally, your prince has been found?’

‘Exactly. Now that’s setting the bar high for bad chat-up lines.’ I laugh. ‘I always wonder how many women he tried it on and if any of them ever said, “Oh, lovely, that sounds like a jolly good way to spend an afternoon.”’

He dissolves into a fit of laughter and the fact that he’s nervous and giggly too makes me feel a bit more normal.

‘So what’s the worst chat-up line you’ve ever had then? It’s not some girl turning up on a beach and ramming an ice cream down your throat, is it?’

‘Are you kidding?’ He meets my eyes and raises both dark eyebrows. ‘This is the highlight of my day. No, my month. Although that’s a bit unfair because we’re only a week into June and I doubt anything will beat a beautiful girl feeding me a 99 this side of Christmas.’

I blush because he called me beautiful. I’ve never been called that before. Daphne is beautiful. I’m just plain and ordinary, the kind of person who would never stand out in a crowd.

He seems to realise his slip-up because he continues quickly. ‘I mean, no, I’ve never been chatted up.’

‘You’ve never been chatted up?’ I ask in disbelief. I know I don’t know him at all, but on face value, I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t chat him up.

‘I think I put out a bit of a “not interested” vibe. I’m quite boring and I’m not looking for a relationship so I don’t go out and meet people. I generally just work and spend my evenings collapsed on the sofa in front of Netflix.’

He doesn’t put out a ‘not interested’ vibe to me. He seems warm, and friendly, and so approachable that I nearly broke the unwritten rule of London transport and spoke to a stranger on the tube.

‘Ditto. On all things.’ I make a point to emphasise the ‘all’ just in case he gets the mistaken impression that I am looking for a relationship because I most definitely am not. ‘And hooray for Netflix – my evenings would be empty without it.’

‘I would offer you a hooray for Netflix high five, but …’ He wiggles his greasy fingers in front of us. ‘I also fear a high five might give away how desperately uncool I am. No one high fives anymore, right?’

I grin at his self-deprecating humour. In person, he’s even funnier than he was on the phone and just as easy to talk to, but I’m more self-conscious because I can’t hide how much he’s making me laugh, and I’m all too aware of vanilla ice cream slowly dripping down my fingers because I’m not eating my own ice cream fast enough, and I can’t remember the last time a man was more interesting than an ice cream. That just doesn’t happen, right?

He uses his teeth to take the bottom of the cone out of my hand in one go, and I can tell he’s making an effort not to touch me, but this time his barely there stubble does brush against my fingers, making me shiver despite the warm sun.

Somehow, he manages to fit the whole thing in his mouth at once even though it’s so big he can barely chew it.

‘Impressive,’ I say, unable to take my eyes off him.

He laughs despite the mouthful and nearly chokes.

‘Why, thank you.’ He pretends to bow when he can finally speak again. ‘My ability to feed myself is second to none.’ He pauses for a second. ‘I say while someone else feeds me.’

It makes me giggle again. I’ve got to stop this – the giggling is getting ridiculous.

‘Did you find the place all right?’ He says while I try to furtively lick melted ice cream off my fingers after finishing my own cornet.

‘Not really, but I thought I’d have the full Pearlholme experience and ask a stranger for directions. The bloke selling newspapers outside the train station?’

‘Yep, I asked him as well.’

‘So he said. You weren’t joking when you said everyone knows everything around here, were you?’

‘Told ya.’ He winks at me. ‘Where are you staying? It’s not The Shell Hotel, is it?’

I roll my eyes. ‘Oh, come on. Why are you the third person to say that to me today?’

He looks worried. ‘I take it you are?’