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

‘Who did all of this?’ she whispered into the quiet room. ‘Was it you, Gran?’

The mermaids served as the theme for the rest of the bedroom. The large, low bed’s high scalloped headboard had been padded in shimmering oyster silk, and an elegant clamshell chair sat in the curve of the floor-to-ceiling bay window.

Sinking down onto its ink-blue velvet seat, Violet took a few minutes to just let herself be. A tailor’s dummy stood beside the chair in the bay, dressed in a floor-length sheath that seemed to be made entirely from sequins and lace and light. Necklaces and pearls had been looped around the dummy’s neck, a glamorous makeshift jewellery box.

Every last thing in the room had been chosen with a nod towards maritime decadence; polished curved wooden furniture reminiscent of a luxury ocean liner, the fabulous, huge Tiffany glass bowl suspended from the ceiling an intricate mosaic of rainbow shades. Seventies glam wasn’t everyone’s style, but it sure was Violet’s. So much so that she felt as if she’d been winded; her own leanings towards colour and craft were so clearly inherited from the woman who’d hand-decorated this place with such unique style.

She was starting to understand that she hadn’t inherited just her gran’s physical looks. All of her life she’d felt very different to her practical, list-loving parents, and now she understood why. Monica’s blood ran hot in her veins. Violet hadn’t expected to feel an instant connection here, but by God she did. She saw now why her mum had wanted to keep her from this place: she’d known. Della knew precisely who her daughter was most like in the world, and probably feared what that knowledge might do to Violet.

Leaving the bedroom reluctantly, Violet headed for the last unopened door. She opened it slowly, wanting to savour this final new space. It was worth the reverence; the lounge-diner wouldn’t have looked out of place on the faded cover of a seventies copy of House Beautiful. A low, burnt-orange, oversized velvet sofa sat central in the lounge, accented by curved pale-blond wooden furniture, and the orange and grey oversized flower print wallpaper would have been perfect in an Orla Kiely showroom.

The kitchenette ran across the back of the space, a glossy swathe of orange. A breakfast bar acted as a room divider, complete with stools upholstered in orange and grey stripes. Accents of muted gold warmed and glamourised the space, not least the decadent wheeled glass and brass drinks trolley, still loaded with half-full bottles of colourful spirits and cocktail paraphernalia.

Vi gazed up at the chandelier dripping with clear and orange glass droplets and fell in love. She fell in love with the Lido apartment, and with Swallow Beach, and with her grandmother. Sinking down onto the sofa and wrapping her arms around her midriff, she couldn’t decide if she felt like laughing or crying. Because in the most unexpected of ways, she felt as if she’d come home.

‘Hey cat burglar. You still in there?’

Violet jumped as her new neighbour rapped on her front door. Unfolding herself from the sofa, she went to open it.

‘Hello again,’ he grinned. ‘I was a little rude earlier. I brought wine to say sorry and welcome to the top floor.’

He held out a bottle of red, and then produced a bunch of white roses from behind his back like a magician.

She narrowed her eyes as she accepted them. ‘Did you cut those from the bushes outside?’

‘I did,’ he said, lifting one shoulder, clearly unabashed at being caught out. ‘But I also grew them, so I’m not all that sorry.’

‘You grew them?’

He scrunched his nose, as if debating how honest to be. ‘Well, I water them sometimes. Strictly speaking, Barty is the green-fingered one of the block.’

Violet liked the idea that the tenants of the Lido worked as a community.

He glanced over her shoulder into the apartment. ‘How’s everything going?’

She accepted the wine, unsure how to answer the question. ‘Okay. Sort of.’

‘Need a hand with anything?’

‘No, I’m good I think,’ she said. ‘Except … I don’t suppose there’s a lift in the building, is there? A trade one, or something?’ The Traveller was fully loaded, and her sewing machine in particular was going to be a bit of a monster to lug up all of those stairs.

His mouth kicked up at the edges. ‘’Fraid not. You do, however, have a handsome neighbour with guns of steel who’d carry your stuff in exchange for a glass of wine?’

‘A neighbour who hasn’t even told me his name,’ Vi countered, amused despite herself. He was cocksure, but the mischievous glint in his brown eyes told her that he didn’t take himself seriously. Back home in Violet’s world everyone took themselves seriously, so he was something of a breath of fresh air.

‘I didn’t?’ he said.

She shook her head.

‘Cal.’

Different. ‘Short for … California?’ she said, knowing full well it wouldn’t be.

He laughed loud. ‘Trust me, my mother is nowhere near that adventurous. Calvin,’ he said. ‘Calvin Dearheart.’

Jesus, he’s straight out of a Jilly Cooper novel, Violet thought, nodding wordlessly. At least he’d buttoned his overalls up before knocking on her door.

‘Right, so now you know who I am, and I know who you are, that makes us friends. Now take the flowers, let me help you with your stuff, and then let’s get gloriously drunk and tell each other our darkest secrets.’

Well, that was unexpected. Violet swallowed hard, unsure how to reply, because Calvin Dearheart was fast becoming one of the most startling men she had ever met.

‘Jesus, Violet, what’s in here, a dead body?’

Cal appeared on the upper landing with the last and heaviest of her belongings cradled in his arms, her precious sewing machine.

‘Careful,’ she cautioned, wondering where in the apartment to set up her workroom. She’d upgraded to the eye-wateringly expensive machine last summer off the back of a couple of big theatre costume contracts, and right now Cal was staring at her questioningly, slightly out of breath.

‘Where to?’

Up to that point, he’d deposited her bags and boxes on the top landing and she’d ferried them inside as he fetched the next load, but it made no sense for him to put the machine down because she’d have to pick it up again.

‘This way,’ she said, hesitant. Inviting him inside the apartment felt almost disrespectful to her grandmother, as if Monica’s artistic secrets were going to be spilled. And then reality bit; Vi reminded herself that this was her home now, not Monica’s, and she needed to work out how to live in it, new neighbour included.

Turning her back, she led Cal into the lounge and asked him to put the machine down on the pale wooden dining table. It was an interesting piece: a thin slice of polished walnut on a white plastic pedestal with matching slender-legged walnut chairs. He carefully did as she’d asked, then straightened and looked slowly around the room, wide-eyed.

‘Christ,’ he murmured, rotating almost three hundred and sixty degrees on the spot. ‘I never realised this place hadn’t been touched. It’s amazing.’

Pride slid down Violet’s spine, making her stand straighter. She’d expected him to have a reaction to the place, because who wouldn’t, but she wasn’t sure which way it would go. She found it mattered that he appreciated her grandmother’s taste, because it was so in line with her own.

‘It’s really something, isn’t it,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t even know it existed until a couple of weeks back.’

He nodded slowly, taking it all in. ‘I think we need that drink now.’

Violet looked at her watch. It was well after three, and she was starving.

‘I better go food shopping first,’ she said. ‘Can you point me in the right direction?’

‘I could,’ he said. ‘Or I could take you to the local instead? They do a mean lasagne, Roberto makes it himself.’

Lasagne was one of Vi’s all-time top ten dinners. It was too good an offer to pass up, especially when it was cooked by someone who sounded like they might actually be Italian.

‘Go on then. You’re on.’

Cal wasn’t kidding. Perhaps it helped that Violet was hungry, but Roberto’s lasagne was to die for, as was his ice-cold sauvignon and his infectious belly laugh. The Swallow, as the pub was appropriately called, sat a little further along the seafront than the Lido, a hop and a skip away for an evening pint.

‘Have you always lived in Swallow Beach?’ Vi asked, poking a patchwork of holes in her lasagne with the tip of her knife to cool it down.

Cal nodded. ‘Give or take a few years. My family have been here for more generations than anyone can count back.’