A Summer Scandal: The perfect summer read by the author of One Day in December

Vi sat down at the kitchen table, the scene of so many family dinners, discussions and the occasional argument. Violet’s adventurous, rebellious streak had often placed her at odds with her placid parents, and every now and then they’d clashed over late nights, unsuitable-length dresses and even more unsuitable boyfriends.

They’d thanked their lucky stars when she’d brought Simon home, even if her dress sense hadn’t exactly calmed down. She’d settled into her own style over the years, an eclectic mix of wartime vintage and sixties boho, all carried off with a slash of red lipstick and a collection of hair accessories to rival Claire’s Accessories.

She was her own best advert; she adjusted all of her vintage buys to fit her curves perfectly, and made many of the hair accessories herself from feathers and jewels left over from her latest commission. Her business was starting to gather a reputation; she was making a name for herself in the costume world as someone whose eye for detail and carefully honed skills created wonderfully intricate showgirl outfits and feather headdresses. Boned silk corsets, sequinned hot-pants, feather and rhinestone bras. She was carving her own niche, and one day she hoped – no, she planned – to supply costumes to the legendary Moulin Rouge. It was the Holy Grail; one day she’d walk under that famous, glittering red windmill and see her costumes up there on that famous old Parisian stage.

Right now though, she had more immediate concerns. She needed her parents to accept that she was going to spend the summer in Swallow Beach; her every instinct told her that it was the right thing to do. She could work from there as easily as from here; there was bound to be space in her grandparents’ apartment for her to set up a temporary sewing room. Was it fanciful? Maybe. Was it sudden? Yes. But she was going to do it nonetheless, and she’d really like to do it with her parents’ blessing.

‘I don’t want to redecorate Simon’s house, Mum.’ His house was a minimal temple of neutral shades; the last thing he’d want would be Violet’s jewelled hues and eye for colour un-minimalising his home.

‘Fine. Buy a new home. That’s exciting, Violet! Buy a house, a big Victorian one you can do up. You’d love that, right?’

Vi shrugged. Who wouldn’t?

‘In fact, move in next door! It’s perfect. We won’t sell Grandpa’s house, you can move in there with Simon instead. Go wild with the decorating.’

Violet’s father looked at his wife, clearly alarmed. The proceeds from Henry’s house was their retirement plan; he loved his daughter and of course he’d love it if she wanted to stay so close, but his spreadsheet would be buggered, as would his grand plan to take Della on a walking tour of the Scottish Highlands. He’d have to keep working, there was nothing else for it.

‘Mum, it’s a lovely thought and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it, but no. Next door would remind me too much of Grandpa Henry. Besides, Simon loves his house, he wouldn’t want to leave it.’

Out of the corner of her eye, Violet saw her dad sag with relief and shot him a small smile. She knew how much he was relying on the sale of next door; she wouldn’t dream of taking up her mum’s offer. Della knew too, really; she was just clutching at any straw going because the idea of Violet going to Swallow Beach filled her with trepidation. Bad things happened to people at Swallow Beach. That bloody pier! Why had her father hung onto the past? God knew their memories of the place weren’t good ones.

‘Look Mum,’ Violet said, keeping her voice light. ‘Why don’t you come with me for a few days, have a look what state everything is in? It might not even be possible to stay if it’s as bad as you think.’

Della had implied that both the pier and the apartment were sure to have gone to rack and ruin, and if that was the case then Violet was going to need to revise her plans. She watched as her mother’s expression changed from obstinate to fearful, alarmed when Della sank into the nearest chair with her head in her hands.

‘I can’t go back there,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so sorry Violet. I just can’t. Please don’t ask it of me.’

Why had her grandpa hung onto the place? He mustn’t have felt the same feelings of fear and hatred as her mum, or surely he’d have sold it on, severed his connections. Della had been only a child when they’d left, her perception of the events would have been very different to Henry’s, of course. And to Monica’s. Violet felt torn, conflicted; the last thing she wanted to do was upset her lovely mum, but the pull towards Swallow Beach was, out of nowhere, overwhelmingly powerful.

‘I need to do this, Mum.’ She knelt beside Della and laid her head against her mother’s knee. ‘I promise I’ll be careful, and you’re probably right that it’s a fool’s mission, but I still need to go and see it for myself. I’m twenty-five, Mum, and I know you think I’ve lost my mind not to accept Simon’s proposal, but I can’t help how my heart feels. Or doesn’t feel.’

‘He’s deferred it,’ her father chipped in. ‘He’s going to wait for you until you come back. A lot on at work anyway, he said.’

Violet wasn’t sure if her dad’s comments were meant to be supportive to her or helpful to her mum. The latter, presumably, because the idea of someone deferring their proposal due to the pressures of stock-taking season was about as unromantic as it got. Rhett Butler, it wasn’t. She’d watched Gone with the Wind countless times, mostly for the fabulous boned and feathered costumes, but also for the sweeping, epic – if somewhat unconventional – romance. It might not be a typical love story, but Violet kind of liked it all the more for that because she wasn’t a typical kind of girl. She had spiky edges and a taste for adventure; Swallow Beach was calling, and she had no choice but to answer.

CHAPTER THREE (#u57291a77-a29f-55e7-afa5-22124fdd8f8c)

Violet swung a left, her stomach flipping over at the first mention of Swallow Beach on a road sign. Over the last few days she’d loaded the basics of her life into the back of her Morris Minor Traveller, the only car she’d wanted despite everyone advising her to get something newer and more reliable. She’d merrily ignored them all and her trusty woody van had fast become one of her most prized possessions, and right now it held a good chunk of her life in the back of its hatch. There had been little room for sentiment whilst packing up; the essential contents for her makeshift workroom filled the lion’s share of the space.

Realising that there was little to gain from standing in Violet’s way, Della had valiantly set aside her own feelings to assist her daughter, all the time dropping the words ‘temporary’ and ‘coming home again soon’ into the conversation to make sure they lodged well and truly in Violet’s subconscious. Her dad had been typically low-key, although he’d insisted on giving her two hundred pounds in fresh ten-pound notes drawn from the bank that morning, just in case of emergency.

She’d hugged them tightly, then watched them stand arm in arm on the pavement as she drove away with a lump lodged in her throat. Simon wasn’t there; he’d sent her a bon voyage card in the mail, vowing to keep the home fires burning until she returned ready to plan their wedding. Violet couldn’t help but feel like an Amish teenager. She’d seen a programme a few weeks back on how they were allowed one wild summer before they settled down to the traditional ways; Rumspringa, they called it. Was this her own personal Rumspringa? Were her family indulging her in the hope and expectation that she’d get it out of her system and return to the fold?

All such thoughts flew out of the window as she passed a road sign welcoming her to Swallow Beach, twinned with a French town she couldn’t pronounce the name of. Well, that had to be a good omen, right? Anywhere that was pretty enough to be twinned with a French town had to have something going for it, surely. She couldn’t see anything yet; the skinny country lane was the kind where you pray nothing comes in the other direction, the high hedges batting her wing mirrors on either side. And then a few twists later, the lane widened and crested a hill, and for a few seconds Violet paused the car and just sat and looked at the scene spread out before her, entranced.

From her lofty hilltop position, she could clearly see the curved sweep of the bay down below. Her eyes scanned the beach, her heart in her mouth, terrified of disappointment, but sure enough, still standing there on the far right, was the old Victorian pier. Her breath whooshed from her chest, pure sweet relief. She’d told herself over and over that there was every likelihood that it had crumbled into the sea, but there it was, looking almost exactly as it had in the photos in her mum’s battered album.

Sliding the car into first gear, Violet followed her nose slowly down the hill into the bay, her heart still banging around in her chest in a way that had nothing to do with the Traveller’s springy suspension. The town, if that’s what it was, felt like most out-of-season English seaside towns: closed up and waiting. April showers were the order of the day; it had dried up for now, but grey skies ruled and a damp, low hanging sea-mist clung to the air. Hardly the most welcoming weather, but Violet brimmed full of nervous optimism nonetheless. She was here. Now what was she supposed to do?

When she reached the seafront, she nosed the Traveller into one of the empty car park spaces facing the deserted beach, clearly placed there for people to pull in and watch the sunset. If the sun ever came out, that is. Not that it mattered all that much to Vi as she turned off the engine and let her eyes drink in her first good look at Swallow Beach Pier. At her pier. Ornate black ironwork reaching out into the sea. It wasn’t overly long; and considering its age and the fact that no one would have looked after it in years, it looked to be in pretty decent shape. The scrolls and arches were almost delicate, and balanced over the waves at the far end stood the prettiest of glass pavilions.

‘Oh,’ Violet whispered, steaming up her windscreen. ‘Will you look at that.’

Climbing from the car, she fastened the oversized wooden buttons on her kingfisher-blue felt coat against the brisk breeze, wound her hand-knitted cherry-red scarf around her neck, and locked the Traveller even though there wasn’t another soul around. She didn’t have a plan; she just felt the need to get closer to the pier.

Following the cobbled pavement along, she slowed as she neared the land-bound end of the pier, coming to a halt in front of two tall, wonderfully ornate gates closing the pier off from the rest of the town. A heavy metal chain bound the gates together, wound several times between the bars and scrolls. A huge old padlock held the chain in place, ensuring that no one set foot onto the wooden boards that lay beyond the gates.

Almost tentatively, Vi stepped closer and reached out her hands, closing her eyes as her fingers made first contact with the cold metal. Sighing deeply, she curled her fingers around the iron and leaned her head forwards to rest against it, imagining her grandmother standing in the exact same spot all those years ago. How had she felt the first time she’d been in Swallow Beach? She’d been on honeymoon, probably full of optimism and excitement. A strangely comforting wash of emotions swept across Vi’s skin, making her open her eyes and fill her lungs to the brim with bracing, salty sea air. If she’d been asked to give the emotion a name, it would have been hope.

‘Monica?’

Violet twirled around, startled by the voice behind her. She found herself looking up into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, cornflower bright and wide as they stared at her face. The tall, distinguished man was probably eighty or more, and he looked nothing short of incredulous as he narrowed his gaze and peered closer, then shook his head as if to clear it.

‘Sorry. Thought you were someone else then for a mo.’

‘You called me Monica,’ Violet said. ‘Monica was my grandmother.’

Again, the stranger stared, then nodded slowly and sighed. ‘Of course she was. Blow me, if you’re not the living image of her.’

‘You knew my grandmother?’

The man laughed then, those blue eyes glittering and wishful. ‘Oh, I knew Monica,’ he said. ‘And Henry, of course. Is he still …?’

Vi shook her head and bit the inside of her lip, holding in the sharp stab of longing for her grandpa. ‘No. He died a few weeks back.’

Lowering his gaze, the man removed his fedora. ‘Sad news, mon chéri.’

A thought occurred to Violet. ‘I wonder if you could help me?’ she said, digging in her coat pocket for her phone to check the address of her grandparents’ apartment. Or her new home, as she needed to start to think of it, temporarily at least. ‘I need to find the Lido building?’

The stranger didn’t say anything for a second, then he held his hand out. ‘I’m Bartholomew Harwood,’ he said. ‘Everyone calls me Barty these days, you should too.’

Ingrained politeness had Vi reaching out to shake his hand. ‘Violet,’ she said.

‘Violet.’ He repeated her name, as if deciding whether or not he approved. ‘How perfectly glorious. Lilys are two a penny these days. Violets are rarer by far.’

Glorious and rare? Well, no one had ever said that about her before. Vi decided she rather liked Barty Harwood. He had a rakish, old-school charm and the hint of a wry smile hovering around his mouth, and going on his bright floral shirt, he didn’t seem to care much for convention. Tall and well dressed, he looked like a man who had many anecdotes and would be happy to share some of them over a few glasses of good whisky.

‘How about I show you the Lido?’ Barty said. ‘It’s not far at all.’

Violet glanced back along the seafront towards the Traveller. ‘Is it walking distance? We could go in my car.’

Barty followed her gaze. ‘As you wish,’ he said, holding his arm out to indicate she should lead the way.

‘Have you always lived in Swallow Beach?’ She made conversation as she fished her keys from her pocket as they approached her car.

Barty ran his hand appreciatively over the polished wood on the Traveller. ‘It’s admirable that you don’t feel obliged to follow the trends, Violet.’

Violet slid into the driver’s seat and reached across to open his door, aware that he’d dodged answering her question. She didn’t push it; if he’d been here long enough to know her grandparents, he’d obviously spent a large part of his life here.