Meet Me at the Lighthouse: This summer’s best laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

“You sure you’re ok?” I asked. “Thought I’d have a job to stop you streaking through town playing a vuvuzela after that.”

“Just tired, that’s all. I am excited, promise. Didn’t mean to kill the mood.”

I shot a concerned glance at his baggy eyes. He did look drained. And I’d felt him flinch when I squeezed his arm, as if he was on edge.

“You’re burning yourself out,” I said gently. “You need to take a break, Ross. How about you come for a drink with me? We can swear off lighthouse talk for the afternoon and relax.”

“Hmm. Dunno, socialising with you’s always a dangerous business,” Ross said, his mouth twitching. “God knows what public building I’d wake up with.”

I laughed. “Well, I promise not to buy the Scout hut or anything. So you want to?”

He sighed. “Sounds fun, but I can’t. Work to do. Sorry.”

“Still on that big design contract?”

“Yeah, putting in a lot of hours. I can’t really afford to turn jobs down at the moment, to be honest. Money’s been a bit tight the last few months, paying my rent here and the mortgage on mine and Claire’s old flat. I thought it’d get snapped up once we put it on the market but the place seems to be taking forever to sell.”

And he’d just turned down a no-strings offer of £35,000, plus his half of the 20 grand sitting in our emergency fund. The project really must mean a lot to him.

“Then let me do more on the lighthouse,” I said.

“Would you have time?”

“I’ll make time. It’s the long summer break coming up anyway, then I’ll have two months off work to give to it.”

Ross smiled. “Always look out for me, don’t you?”

“That’s what partners are for.” I patted his shoulder. “Go on, get yourself home so you can finish your work and grab an early night. I’ll see you at the pub next week.”

“Ok. Cheers, Bobbie, you’re a good mate.” He chucked me under the chin by way of a goodbye and headed back to his car.

It was a glorious May day and the air was heavy with the seaside smells that always meant home to me: cigarettes and shellfish, saltwater and sweet things. And vinegar, always vinegar. In spite of the spirit-dampening conversation I’d just had with Ross, my heart lifted. It was a Punch-and-Judy world, but it was mine.

I inhaled appreciatively, hugging myself. It was too nice to sit indoors after nearly two hours closeted in a stuffy town hall. Turning in the direction of town, I took the scenic route down to the seafront for a walk.

The sea, when it eventually hoved into view, was deep blue and glittering, the beach’s chalky pebbles radiant. Cragport always looked its best clad in sunshine. The old pier stretched invitingly into the water, and I bent my steps that way.

It was the town’s third or fourth pier, which back in the less safety-conscious times of good Queen Vic had had a nasty habit of catching alight. The current incarnation was long, broad and meticulously fireproof, laden with the sort of seaside entertainment that kept tourists happy and townspeople solvent: a greasy spoon caf, penny arcade, kiddies’ Teacup ride belting out a tinny circus tune, and a naff old cabaret club, Tuxedo’s, that doubled as a bingo hall during the day. Right at the end was a glass pavilion, The Orangery Tearoom, which boasted the best sea view in Cragport. I shot it a smug look as I dawdled along. Once the lighthouse was open for business, they’d have to drop that tagline.

I was sauntering past the industrial 1970s-style cafe, smiling as I thought about the lighthouse, when I pulled up short and stared through the window. I gasped, blinking to reassure myself I was really seeing what I thought I was seeing.

It was Ross! Ross Mason, who not half an hour ago had assured me he was heading for home. Ross Mason, squirting ketchup lavishly over a plate of chips.

And he wasn’t eating alone. A petite woman with long strawberry-blonde hair was sitting with her back to me, tucking into some chips of her own. Ross was laughing at something she’d said, crinkling his handsome eyes. As I watched, the woman leaned over and rested her long, manicured fingernails on his forearm.

I swallowed hard, then darted into the amusements next door before they spotted me.

Inside, the flashing coloured lights and assorted buh-buh-bips of the one-armed bandit aisle greeted me. Schools hadn’t broken up yet and it wasn’t quite peak tourism season, so the place was nearly empty.

The proprietor eyed me suspiciously as I shuffled to one of the Coin Cascades. Rummaging in my jeans pocket, I located a few twopenny pieces and started feeding them mechanically into the slot.

With my free hand I pulled out my phone.

“Hm?” Jess said when she answered my call. It had been another late shift, or a late date with Gareth, I forgot which, and I’d clearly woken her up.

“Guess who I’ve just seen,” I hissed.

“Well it’d better be someone pretty A-list if you’re interrupting my beauty sleep.”

“It was Ross. Having chips at the caf on the pier.”

“Wow, living the dream. Very happy for him. Ring me back in two hours.”

“Wait, don’t hang up,” I said urgently. “There’s more. He wasn’t alone.”

“Sorry, can you speak up?” she said as one of my 2p pieces got lucky and the machine started paying out in a series of noisy chinks. “Where the hell are you?”

“Hiding out in the slotties.” I raised my voice. “I said, he wasn’t alone!”

“What?”

“WASN’T ALONE! ROSS!”

The stiff-necked proprietor was subjecting me to a properly filthy look now, the kind he reserved for customers who carried out loud phone conversations while winning all his tuppences, and I flashed him an apologetic smile.

“Look, I can’t talk here,” I muttered to Jess while I scooped up my winnings. “Come meet me in the playground, ok?”

“Oh, what, get dressed?” She groaned. “Can’t you come home?”

“Please, Jessie. The natural light’ll do you good. And you can bring Monts for his walk.”

***

The old playground perched halfway up the hill, overlooking the sea. A fat, muddy cloud had swallowed the sun and the water wasn’t sparkling any more. Instead it looked clotted and greasy, like my mood. I pushed my swing back and forth with my feet, eyes fixed glumly on Monty foraging for treasures in a nearby patch of shrubs.

“So it was probably just a mate,” Jess said for about the third time as she swung past me. “Or a client maybe. Graphic designers meet with clients, don’t they?”

“And buy them chips?”

“Yeah, when they’re hungry. If someone’s your bread and butter you have to keep them sweet.”

“Do clients touch your arm and giggle and stick their boobs out at you?”

She shrugged. “If they’re paying for the platinum service.”

“Don’t joke. It was a date, Jess. What else could it be?”

“Any number of things. Lass from school, maybe.”