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

I slowed my swing down and twisted to look at her. “No. This was a stranger.”

Jess stopped swinging too. “You only saw her from the back, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but I could tell it was no one we knew.”

She sighed. “Look, I want to be supportive sister and all that, Bobs, but… well, what’s it to you? He’s not your boyfriend.”

“It’s just he’s – I mean, since we started this, it’s felt like we’ve been –” I broke off. What the hell did I mean, exactly? “I can’t believe he’s still dating, that’s all,” I finished lamely.

“Why can’t you believe it?”

“Because he’s married, Jess! He told me he couldn’t even think about seeing people until his divorce came through.”

“Did he?”

I hesitated. Actually, thinking back, had he said that? Or had I told him that’s what he ought to do and then just assumed his agreement?

“I’m not sure. I thought he did. I thought…”

“What did you think?”

I flushed. “That he liked me, I guess. The flirting, the way we just seem to click. In the back of my mind I think I had an idea that eventually his divorce would come through and me and him and the lighthouse would live happily ever after. And now he’s off guzzling chips with another woman, on top of the wife he keeps back in Sheffield for emergencies.”

Jess stretched her arm around my shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “You don’t know it means anything.”

“It bloody well looked like it did.”

I stared absently at Monty, still scrabbling in the shrubs like his little doggy life depended on it. It made me smile in spite of myself, watching him cover himself in dirt with his tail wagging excitedly.

The playground Grandad had taken us to so often as kids was steeped in a sepia layer of nostalgia and neglect now, just like the lighthouse. A fancier modern affair with a zipwire on the other side of town was more of a draw for local children, but Jess and me still liked to come sometimes to swing and reminisce. Whenever one of us felt down, it was safe money that’s where we’d be.

I heaved a deep sigh. “The worst thing is, Ross lied to me about it. Why would he do that?”

“What did he actually say?”

“Said he was going home to work on a big project.” I scoffed. “Actually had me feeling sorry for him, offering to take on more of the lighthouse stuff so he could get some rest. Turns out he’s knackered from nights on a different sort of job.”

“I could be right though, couldn’t I?” Jess was like a dog with a bone when she got a fixed idea in her head. “If she’s a client it could’ve been a working date.”

“Pretty touchy-feely for a graphic design client.”

Jess shrugged. “He’s a good-looking lad. Not his fault if his lady clients want to feel him up.”

“Trust me, he wasn’t exactly fighting her off.”

She laughed, pushing with her feet to get the swing swaying again. “Stick the bottom lip in, before you trip on it. You need to grow up.”

“Shush your face. You do.”

“Look, all it boils down to is you’ve seen a bloke you like eating chips with someone. It’s not as if you’ve caught him inflagrante in a pair of frilly knickers bending over the kitchen worktop, is it? Ross Mason’s a nice lad, I’d bet my medical degree on it.”

“The one you bought online?”

“Ooh. Right, come here and take your punishment, you.” She jumped off her swing and came over to get me in a headlock, rubbing my hair with her fist.

“Arghh, geroff!” I spluttered. “I’ve got mousse in, bitch.”

“Make me.”

Giggling, I pushed her away.

“So am I being a daft cow as usual then, our Jessie?”

“Yeah. But I can’t help being fond of you. You’re like a manky old cat living in a bin you just have to feel sorry for.” She gave my hair another affectionate nuggy. “Come on, manky, let’s go to the pub. I’ll let you drown your sorrows if you’ll let me have a go on the quizzer.”

Chapter 8 (#ulink_656bae34-af6a-5c94-a66d-6f0adbfa288e)

I tried to follow Jess’s advice and put the redheaded woman, whoever she was, out of my mind, and although I couldn’t help being a little cool to Ross at our next meeting, it soon melted as we threw ourselves into our pet project with gusto.

Once the clean-up operation was under way, we decided the next step was to rally the troops: do the rounds of everyone we knew who might be able to help. Which was why I found myself one Saturday morning knocking on the door of a rundown bed and breakfast by the seafront, swilled over in peeling, pastel-pink paint.

It was answered by a short, slim woman in beads and tie-dye skirts, her green hair clashing eye-wateringly with the building’s strawberry-milkshake façade.

“Well, if it isn’t the prodigal daughter,” she said. “Which one are you again? The doctor or the mad lighthouse owner?”

I tutted. “We’re not identical, Mum.”

“No, thank God. One of each is plenty.”

I followed her along a yellowing hallway, pungent with the smell of greasy bacon and black pud, to the dining room. We navigated the tables of guests enjoying their full English then headed upstairs to her snug living room.

“So, what do you want?” she asked when she’d made us both a cuppa and we were seated together on the sofa.

“Can’t a daughter visit her aged parent without needing a reason?”

“No. And I’m 46, missy. What is it then?”

“Want to pick your brains.” I pulled out the notepad and pen that these days seemed to live in my handbag. “Lighthouse stuff.”

She shook her head. “You must get this from your dad, you know. There was never any history of insanity on my side of the family.”

“And was there on his?”

“I don’t know, do I? If your art teacher knocks you up with twins when you’re 17 and promptly buggers off back to the missus, popping round for a detailed medical history isn’t the first thing that springs to mind. ‘Bollocks’ is the first thing that springs to mind. Followed closely by ‘ow’.”

I patted her arm. “Ah, who needed him? You and Grandad managed us all right.”

“Some might say you and your lighthouses are evidence to the contrary.”