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

‘Remind me why we have to do this now?’ Aunty Jo is tapping the toe of her least favourite rose gold pumps on the dust sheet we’ve thrown down on the flowery carpet.

This last week I’ve worked out the easiest way to deal with Aunty Jo is to ambush her. It’s our first day in ages without social events, so me leaping out of bed this morning, pulling on my boyfriend jeans and my weekend Hush C’est si bon sweatshirt, then starting to rip the wallpaper off the walls in the day room straight after breakfast is my way of leapfrogging any resistance.

It’s fine to roll out the reasons now it’s too late for her to stop me. ‘A decorator could take ages to come, and that’s when we find one, so I made a start.’ As boss of the job, I’ve decided – without consultation – it’s best to begin with the room where we spend most time, then work backwards through the house.

She’s still not convinced. ‘But I’ve never decorated before, not personally.’

The part where I pull her along on a wave of enthusiasm isn’t working. ‘We’ll do the easy bits, and call in the pro’s when we get stuck.’ Apart from anything else, it’s good for me to get back to practical tasks. Aunty Jo’s day room is only small and the ceilings are low so decorating it should be a great way to ease myself in and progress with ‘the quest’ at the same time.

When we were kids Tash and I used to scrap over helping Dad with the decorating. I was chief wallpaper paster, and a dab hand with a paint pot, so even if I didn’t run interior jobs I’d know what I’m doing. I slide my fish slice under a join in the design near the floor. As I ease the edge away there’s a wonderful ripping sound, and an entire panel of paper tears free from the wall. I bundle it up and grin.

Aunty Jo coughs and frowns down at a flake of paint on the floor. ‘It’s looking awfully messy, shall I get the vacuum?’

‘For now, why not rip off?’ However much she looks on the verge of a breakdown, this is my kind of fun and I can’t let her miss out. So I pass her a slice and a bin bag. As I dip a sponge in my bucket of suds and slosh soapy water onto the bits of paper still clinging to the wall I take pity on her.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll tidy later.’

She’s still hesitating, but now she’s staring at my legs. ‘Why not borrow some of Harry’s pyjamas? I’ve got lots of second-best ones.’

‘I’m probably okay, thanks all the same.’ Her wearing them is bad enough, but I can’t tell her that so I take a different tack. ‘How about some music?’ I always work better with some trashy pop to help me along. I’d sort it myself but my speaker is upstairs, and, even if I’m ripping her living room to pieces, I’m still very much a visitor when it comes to choosing music and TV.

She hugs her chest. ‘Would you like some Tchaikovsky? Or Vivaldi’s Four Seasons?’

‘Not if there’s anything else.’ We already had The Nutcracker right through our porridge and chia seeds. ‘How about music for cleaning?’

‘You mean Housework Songs?’ Aunty Jo’s brow furrows. ‘It’s not something I ever needed. In Harpenden I always had help.’

Of course she did – how did I not remember? ‘Loaded and spoiled with it’ was how my more robust mum put it, in her meaner, more frustrated moments. She taught French full-time and looked after a family of four, while Aunty Jo, who didn’t work and only had her and Harry at home, had at least two cleaning ladies, window cleaners, personal shoppers and an army of outdoor helpers at any one time.

‘Something similar, then?’ My fingers are tightly crossed under my slice. ‘A ‘hills are alive’ nun-in-the-mountains singalong would be good. Or Mamma Mia?’

‘Will this do?’ She fumbles in the sofa footstool and comes out with a CD case that she holds out to me.

And this is why I’m here and not at work. A few simple words for me to read, and any pretence of me being a normal, functioning human adult comes crashing down.

‘Sorry, that might as well be written in Chinese.’ I know a few of the letters on their own, but when they’re strung together in a line I have no chance. I take a deep breath. ‘Read me what it says, then I’ll tell you.’

‘I can’t bear anything too jolly.’

I take it that’s an excuse for what’s coming next, not the title. ‘So?’

‘The One Hundred Best Tearjerkers of All Time.’

I give way to a silent WTF? moment. ‘You’re sure?’

‘It flashed up on my laptop after I lost Harry, it seemed like a sign, so I bought it.’

That’s modern technology for you. I’m not even going to ask what the tracks are, with my wonky emotions I’m practically crying buckets already.

‘They’re miserable, but in a good way.’ She’s already holding the disc up to the light and blowing the dust off.

‘Watch out!’ I leap across the dust sheet to grab my shades from the coffee table before the flash hits my eyes. For the first time since I arrived there’s a break in the grey outside. Sun bouncing off things that shine is a whole other issue for me. Who knew one CD could throw up so many problems?

‘There you go, Everybody Hurts.’ She presses play then stands back to listen. ‘Aren’t those lyrics lovely? Then it’s Candle in the Wind and All by Myself.’ She’s not even reading, so she must know it off by heart. As for All by Myself, even Tash weeps at that one and she’s got a husband, a job, a house and two kids more than I have, so there’s no chance for me.

As if that wasn’t enough to make my heart sink to my elasticated ankle boots – which neatly sidestep all that tricky bow-tying that takes so long, in case you’re wondering why I’m not in Converse like everyone else my age – the stare she’s giving me is about as penetrating as a CT scan.

‘Which reminds me, I haven’t seen you practising your calligraphy.’

Why she’s jumped to that I don’t know, but I can’t say the same for her. ‘You’ve been doing enough for both of us.’ Her pile of sheets practically reaches the ceiling.

‘And your mum was asking about your reading too.’ Her stare powers up a notch.

Crap. I hadn’t expected she’d be on my case like this. To be honest, I’ve made so little progress so far, I’d decided to give it a rest for a while. I was hoping if I stopped worrying, when I came back to it in a few weeks’ time I might have made one of those huge accidental leaps of progress. I’m opening and closing my mouth to say that, but nothing’s coming out.

‘You’re going to have to put the time in.’ Three more power notches, and her eyes are like saucers. ‘I mean, it’s not going to happen by itself, is it?’ How did I ever have her down as a lightweight?

‘Well …’ I’m wondering how to explain that’s exactly what I’m planning, but I’m saved by a knock on the French window.

‘Barney! Again! So soon!’ My jump of surprise as I open the door and stand back to let him in sends my slice skittering across the floor, but I still get in first to stop Aunty Jo over-gushing. However much I wish he was anyone else, saying ‘hi’ to him is a damn sight easier than dodging awkward questions from Aunty Jo. I know I don’t have wet patches on my bum today, I’m not crawling through any upstairs windows, and I escaped the embarrassment of getting caught wearing Harry’s cast-offs, but I’m still kicking myself for rushing my eyeliner and skimping on the highlighter. ‘If you’re planning a two-minute trip round the bay that lasts all day, I’m probably too busy.’

‘Great to see you too, Edie.’ He picks the fish slice up and passes it back then he turns to Aunty Jo. ‘Sorry – am I missing something here? Are those Christmas reindeer on your pyjama jacket?’

Some of us would have shrunk in the spotlight, but Aunty Jo stands her ground. ‘They’re Harry’s, he had so many pairs I’m using up the festive ones for decorating.’

‘Go, Josie!’ There’s suddenly a sheepish hint to his expression. ‘You wouldn’t like an extra elf for ten minutes, would you? It’s years since I stripped paper, there’s nothing quite like the feeling of ripping it off the wall, is there?’

‘Absolutely right, Barney.’ She’s talking out of her Christmas tree-clad bottom here; she’s barely touched a piece of wallpaper yet. ‘Would you like a cup of tea while you’re here?’

I don’t believe what I’m hearing. As if things weren’t bad enough, Barney’s at my elbow and, without even picking up the spare cake slice, he’s already ripped off three huge lengths.

‘There we go.’ He isn’t even giving me the satisfaction of throwing his paper on the floor, he’s bundling it straight into the bin bag, dammit. ‘I’ll pass on the tea though, Josie. I can’t stay long.’

That’s the best news I’ve heard all morning.

He rips off two more strips whole, then he stoops to do the next one and ends up holding up a piece the size of a postage stamp. ‘Oops, my beginner’s luck ran out.’

I put my hands on my hips. ‘Too bad – looks like you’ve hit a superglued bit there, Barney. They’re way less fun.’

‘In that case I’d better leave it to you professionals.’ He gives a shrug and dips into the back pocket of his jeans ‘Before I forget, I came to give you your scarf. You left it in my sailing jacket.’

He’s pressed it into my hand and he’s reached the door before it sinks in. First, it’s been washed and beautifully ironed and folded. Second, and way more disturbing, the warmth currently seeping into my palm originated from his tush. As heat transfers go, that one’s too much.

‘Happy stripping, then.’ He pauses in the doorway. ‘And have a wonderful Christmas, Josie.’ Then he breaks into a run and, as he crosses the courtyard, for some inexplicable reason he’s punching the air.

I can’t decide whether to be annoyed he gave up so easily or ecstatic he’s left us to strip in peace. If I’m honest, I’m also struggling slightly with what happened when he whisked me away from Loella’s class. It’s not like I’m a pushover, I wouldn’t last two minutes in my job if I was. And I take a pride in taking responsibility for my own actions, and owning my decisions. More importantly, I’m definitely not a ‘Jane gets dragged through the jungle by Tarzan’ type of woman. Not even in my fantasies. Even in my wildest dreams I never imagined Marcus making me do something I didn’t want to, although I did occasionally fantasise about him helping around the house more. Or him not wanting clockwork sex every single morning. But, coming back to Barney – and even I have to concede the ‘but’ is a huge one – somehow, however it happened, whatever went wrong, I ended up bobbing around in the bay, even though it was not something I’d ever have signed up for, or willingly done.

However many circles I go around in, I haven’t quite resolved this satisfactorily in my head yet. At best, this was Barney asking for help he didn’t actually need at all, and taking advantage of my better nature, which I was completely aware of by the time I got down to the harbour. In which case, that still leaves me puzzling – why the hell did I get into that boat? I mean, at my age, I assumed I’d be past surprising myself, that’s all.