Even with its cloak of December grey, Campion Bay was beautiful. Robin Brennan tucked her gloved hand through her mother’s arm and slowed her pace. The sand was compact beneath their feet, and Robin wanted to take her boots off and feel it against her bare soles, despite the blistering cold.
She had been back here for three months; back in her childhood town, with its quaint teashops and Skull Island crazy golf course and the sea stretching out alongside them, never the same, today a dark, gunmetal grey with barely a hint of blue. It was the last day of the year, a time to think about starting afresh and promised resolutions, but Robin felt in some respects like she’d gone backwards.
‘It’s encouraging that we’ve got a full house for the New Year,’ she said to her mum. ‘We can celebrate properly tonight.’
‘Yes, darling.’ Sylvie Brennan patted her arm. She was trying to inject enthusiasm into her voice, but Robin could tell her mind was elsewhere. ‘No empty rooms for the first time in … well, months.’ She gave Robin a quick, unconvincing smile.
‘Maybe things will improve now.’ Robin bent to pick up a pebble polished smooth by the sea, the thin sliver of quartz running through it glinting in the weak sun. ‘I know there are going to be fireworks later, but it’s not exactly an extravaganza. Most people like to spend New Year’s Eve in big cities or at house parties, not the Dorset seaside, so the fact that people have booked to spend it here means that … that they want to come here.’ It was a pathetically obvious statement, but Robin was finding positivity as hard to come by as her mum was.
The Campion Bay Guesthouse, Sylvie and Ian Brennan’s pride and joy since the family had moved to the area when Robin was four, was in trouble. Robin had returned from London because of her own problems, feeling like she had nowhere else to turn, and had discovered that she wasn’t the only one who was suffering. She’d thrown herself into helping out, managing the changeovers, baking fresh bread for the breakfasts, setting up Twitter, Instagram and Facebook accounts. She’d used her experience to try and give the guesthouse a boost, and it had taken her mind off her own struggles for a time, but then her parents’ worries about the business – the worries they had obviously been trying to keep from her – had become her own. Now it was New Year’s Eve, they were hosting a party for their guests and for a few friends in the bay, and if her mum and dad were feeling anything like she was, it would be hard to muster up enough celebratory spirit to pop a single champagne cork.
Sylvie steered her daughter left, angling them towards the water, and the icy December wind met them head on. Robin felt her dark, shoulder-length curls tugging out behind her, her cheeks burning from the cold. She squinted against the assault, wondering why her mum had brought her out for an impromptu walk when the weather was so hostile, and whether she could encourage her back home, or perhaps to the Campion Bay Teashop. It was a few doors down from the guesthouse along Goldcrest Road, the seafront street of houses with an unimpeded view of the English Channel.
The seafront was colourful despite the December gloom. Most of the three- and four-storey buildings had, over the years, been converted to guesthouses, or businesses on the ground floor and accommodation above. As well as the Campion Bay Guesthouse and the teashop there was an Italian taverna, its façade in sunny greens and yellows, the candyfloss-pink door of Molly’s beauty parlour, and the cornflower trim and net-curtained windows of the Seaview Hotel, run by Coral Harris.
A couple of the buildings had remained single dwellings, and Robin could just make out the gleam of blue glaze on the clay plaque next to number four’s front door. Tabitha Thomas had lived there, observing everything that had happened on Goldcrest Road with a quiet watchfulness, until her death earlier that year. Robin felt the familiar twinge of regret when she thought of Tabitha, who she’d known so well growing up, but who had become a distant memory after Robin’s move to London.
‘Robin,’ Sylvie said, raising her voice to compete with the whistle of the wind, ‘I wanted to have a chat with you about something.’
‘Righto,’ Robin said warily, her shoulders tensing. ‘Fire away.’ Her mother was the more serious of her parents, but this tone was especially solemn, and Robin felt that whatever was coming was the reason Sylvie had brought her out here. It wasn’t likely to be about the fireworks. She tried to interpret the expression on Sylvie’s face but found that it was unreadable, her features scrunched up against the wind. Her mum was a couple of inches shorter than she was, her frame more fragile. She’d always said that Robin was lucky to have been gifted her delicate features and her dad’s long, lithe limbs in equal measure.
‘Your dad and I have had a talk,’ she said now. ‘To be honest, we’ve had thousands, on a daily basis, and long before you came back to Campion Bay in September.’
‘You are married,’ Robin said. ‘It would be strange if you didn’t.’ She smiled, but the joke remained unanswered. Robin bit her lip, dreading what was coming next.
‘We can’t run the guesthouse any more,’ Sylvie said bluntly. ‘Bookings are down too much, with no sign – despite your optimism about tonight – of picking up. Our advanced bookings for the spring are paltry, and by now we’d usually have a few full weeks in May and June. We’re both getting on and the truth is, darling,’ she turned towards Robin, grasping her hands and looking her square in the face, ‘we’ve made an offer on a house in Montpellier, and it’s been accepted.’
Robin stared at her mum, trying to let the words sink in as the winter gusts squeezed tears out of the corners of her eyes.
‘What?’ It came out as a hoarse whisper. ‘I knew you’d been looking, thinking about retiring, but … but you’re actually going? When? What will happen to – I mean, what about the guesthouse?’ She released a hand and flung her arm in the direction of Goldcrest Road.
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Obviously we don’t want to leave you here without …’ She sighed, the sentence trailing off.
‘Anything to do?’ Robin gave her mum a quick, humourless smile, realizing how pathetic it was to depend on her parents to give her purpose.
‘You can’t spend the rest of your life helping us run our guesthouse,’ Sylvie said, her tone softening. ‘You’re destined for greater things. I know this was – is – a stepping stone, that you needed to come back here after what happened in London, but you were always going to have to think about your future.’
‘I know that,’ Robin murmured, turning towards the water. She hadn’t even started to think about what she wanted to do after London; she’d come back to Campion Bay to regroup and hadn’t realized she was working to a deadline.
‘We’re buying the house in France with the money your gran left me,’ Sylvie said, ‘so it’s not dependent on us selling the guesthouse. There’s no rush for you to move out, though I imagine you won’t want to stay in such a big place.’ She resisted adding ‘alone’, but Robin heard the inference.
‘But what about the business?’ she asked, choosing to focus on less complicated things than her emotions or her own future. ‘You can’t just close it. It’s been running for almost thirty years, it’s nearly reached its pearl anniversary.’
Sylvie smiled at Robin’s attempt to lighten the mood, but her tone was grim. ‘Yes, but it’s failing. It’s had some wonderful years, we’ve been very successful, but it’s not what people want any more. Sometimes you have to count your losses.’
‘Everyone wants to come to the seaside,’ Robin protested, flinging her arms wide. ‘The seaside never goes out of fashion.’
‘What we’re offering is behind the times, then. It happens. Your dad and I are past trying to keep up with newer, more fashionable hotels.’
‘Mrs Harris is still going,’ Robin said, as they turned away from the sea and began walking back. ‘She doesn’t show any signs of closing down, and she doesn’t even advertise it as a Bleak House hotel.’
‘Robin,’ her mother chided. ‘She caters for a different market; she has a steady, loyal clientele who return each year – often more than once. The Campion Bay Guesthouse is slipping through the gaps. We’re not traditional, but we’re by no means trendy any more.’
‘So renovate then,’ Robin said, whirling to face her as the sand gave way to shingle. ‘Give it a makeover. Don’t let it go so easily. When I was running Once in a Blue Moon Days I saw hundreds of amazing hotels – boutique and modern and classic and themed and, sometimes, downright bizarre. I’ve got some ideas, we could work on it together.’ The rug was about to be pulled out from under her feet, and she couldn’t get her head around the thought of having to start all over again quite so soon.
‘Robin, darling. If the guesthouse ran solely on your enthusiasm, then we wouldn’t be struggling at all. Things have been so hard for you over the last year, and you haven’t given up.’
‘I gave up on Once in a Blue Moon Days,’ Robin whispered, looking down at the pebbles.
‘No.’ Sylvie shook her head. ‘You kept working at it until the bitter end, until there was nothing you could do. A luxury event company like that can’t survive on one person’s energy and determination to keep it going. You’re a fighter, Robin, and we’re so proud of you. But your dad and I, we don’t have the energy, or the fight, left in us. We’ve spent a long time talking it over – we’re not taking this decision lightly – but this is right. I know it’s a shock, but we didn’t want to tell you until it was definite.’
Robin’s legs felt heavy as they made their way past Skull Island Crazy Golf, closed down for the winter, and back to the Campion Bay Guesthouse.
Robin had returned to Campion Bay after her London life had fallen apart because it was safe, because she knew what to expect and she could slip back into a familiar, almost mindless, routine. But now that, too, was coming to an end. As the shock started to dissipate, Robin discovered that what was underneath was panic. What would she do if she had no guesthouse to help out with? How would she cope without her parents’ gentle, unobtrusive comfort? She hadn’t felt like partying before their walk, but now the thought of putting on a dress and eyeliner and spending the evening socializing seemed impossible.
She understood why her parents had made their decision. She knew, as soon as her mum had told her, that it was the right time for them to retire. But that still didn’t answer the question thrumming through Robin’s head as she took her coat and gloves off and went to put the kettle on: what would she be left with?
‘Just open it,’ Molly said, thrusting two glasses underneath Robin’s nose and waggling them, her charm bracelet tinkling delicately in the quiet. They were standing in the Campion Bay Guesthouse’s huge living-room-cum-dining-room, the French doors at the back leading out to a small patio garden, the windows at the front looking out on to the sea. It was close to six o’clock and it was dark outside, the lighting low, the textured, teal-green wallpaper making it seem slightly gloomy.
‘The guests won’t be coming down for at least half an hour,’ Robin protested, trying to sidestep Molly and put the bottle of prosecco on the table.
‘But you’ve organized this party,’ Molly said, ‘we’re both here now, and you’ve had a shock. We’ve just got time to sink the bottle before anyone else turns up, and nobody’ll be any the wiser.’ She flashed Robin a grin, her teeth pearly white behind her bold pink lipstick.
Robin tried again, and was again blocked by her friend. She rolled her eyes and began to open the bottle.
‘At least you didn’t discover a secret talent for willpower while you were in London,’ Molly said. ‘That’s a relief.’
Robin laughed and then, realizing she couldn’t remember the last time she’d used those particular facial muscles, grinned at her friend.
She’d known Molly since she was eleven. The petite blonde had been two years above her in secondary school, but once they’d said hello in the short-lived school orchestra – Molly admitting she’d only started to learn the flute as a way to stay inside during the windswept winter lunchtimes – they’d become solid friends. When Robin had accepted a place at university in London, Molly’s daughter Paige was two years old and she’d committed to settling in Campion Bay, but their friendship had lasted the distance. While Robin had been seeking the unconditional love of her parents when she’d decided to come back to Campion Bay, she’d also known Molly would be here. If she hadn’t, the decision wouldn’t have been so straightforward.
‘I can be stubborn when I want to be,’ Robin protested, filling the glasses with bubbling liquid. ‘I just agree with your assessment of the situation.’
‘Assessment of the situation?’ Molly clinked her glass against Robin’s. ‘You mean I’m right, as usual. Let’s make a toast – to new years and new beginnings.’
‘Zero points for originality.’ Robin leaned against the table, which held an array of nibbles and glasses, and her mum’s crystal bowl full of homemade punch. She’d changed into a black, knee-length dress with a high neckline and swooping back, her curls loose – and slightly frizzy – around her shoulders. She looked a lot more prepared for a party than she felt, but she still wasn’t anything to match Molly, whose perfectly made-up face couldn’t hide the natural beauty underneath. Her friend was always immaculately turned out, but then, as the owner of Groom with a View, the beauty parlour two doors down from the guesthouse, she was bound to be. She was wearing a thigh-skimming plum-coloured dress and towering heels, her short blonde hair styled expertly into corkscrew curls.
‘It’s not meant to be original,’ Molly said, after she’d taken a swig of prosecco, ‘but it’s true, isn’t it? For you. You’ve been forced into a new start. You’re beginning to make a habit of it.’
Robin sighed and dropped her head forward. ‘What am I going to do? They’re moving just before Easter, to beautiful, sunny southern France. It should seem a long way off, but it feels like it’s hurtling towards me at a hundred miles an hour. Do you think they’d mind if I went with them? Robin Brennan, once a successful entrepreneur, now committed to life as a recluse, hanging on to her parents’ coattails at the age of thirty-two.’
Molly leaned against the table alongside her, and she caught a whiff of her friend’s heady, seductive perfume. ‘That is not an option,’ Molly said. ‘Firstly, you’ve got too much spirit to live such a humdrum existence, you’d be bored in ten minutes, and secondly, you’re not moving away again so soon. Not now I’ve just got you back.’
‘I’m not moving, not really. Mum and Dad have left me the house, when they could have legitimately booted me out and bought a chateau.’ Robin chewed her lip. ‘But it’ll be weird rattling around in this place without a job or a purpose or my parents.’
‘Right,’ Molly said. ‘So you need to do something. You don’t want to start up Once in a Blue Moon Days again?’ She asked it tentatively, shooting a glance in Robin’s direction then looking quickly away.
Robin stared at the floor, her chest squeezing at the mention of the upmarket events company she had started with her friend Neve. They had planned exclusive days for their clients – weddings, anniversaries, extravagant birthday celebrations. No request was too big or difficult; Robin and Neve would track it down, make it happen. It wasn’t cheap, but the experiences they organized were unforgettable – as rare as seeing a blue moon in the night sky.
‘No,’ she replied quietly. ‘I gave it up because it didn’t work without Neve. I couldn’t do it. Not just because I missed her, although that was a part of it, but because she was the organized one. She did the planning, made everything run like clockwork, and I kept the clients happy. She said that I was the shiny exterior, putting everyone at ease, and she was the frenetic back office that nobody wanted to see.’
‘You were the serene swan and she was the swan’s legs pedalling frantically beneath the water.’
‘Exactly. I tried to keep it going after she died, but without her to execute her meticulous plans, things went wrong. Sooo wrong.’ Robin winced and tried to shrug away the memories. ‘And London is so well-connected. You can get anything online these days, but lots of the bespoke orders we were placing needed to be negotiated face to face. I’d be starting with too many handicaps if I tried again down here.’
‘All very fair and logical,’ Molly said, waving her glass at her friend. ‘No more Once in a Blue Moon Days, and no more Campion Bay Guesthouse.’
‘Let’s try and keep it positive, shall we?’ Robin elbowed her gently in the ribs. ‘Frame it as an opportunity, rather than the end of everything.’
‘That’s what I’m trying to do, if only you’d keep up. So,’ she spun to face Robin, who jumped and spilled prosecco all over her wrist, ‘you can’t help your parents with the guesthouse any more, because they won’t be here.’
‘Right,’ Robin said, narrowing her eyes. ‘I’m still waiting for your positive spin?’
‘But you’ll be here, and so will the guesthouse.’
‘They’re closing it – it’s going downhill, not getting the bookings any more, making a loss. I see it every day. My tomato and parmesan bread is going uneaten, except by me, and that can’t go on for too much longer unless I take up triathlons.’ She sighed and sipped her drink. ‘And I don’t want to take up triathlons – sometimes getting out of bed is hard enough.’
‘Don’t get off topic, Robin. Listen. You see it every day,’ Molly repeated, raising her little finger. ‘And you ran a successful luxury experience company.’ She held up the ring finger. ‘And you have your head around modern marketing and social media; Instagram, Periscope, Twitter.’ Her middle finger came up, and she waggled them triumphantly.
Robin’s stomach did a tiny somersault, competing with the prosecco bubbles. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Three valid points, if you discount the total disaster Once in a Blue Moon Days became when I was on my own.’
‘So take it over.’
‘What?’ She chewed her cheeks frantically as her friend’s eyes got wider, the seed of the idea planted firmly inside both their minds.
‘Take it over – the guesthouse.’ Molly put her glass on the table and clapped her hands together, her blonde curls bouncing. ‘Do all the things you told your mum to do. Give the place an update, refurbish the rooms, launch the new and improved Campion Bay Guesthouse with a killer marketing campaign. They’re not asking you to move, so why not just take over from them and bring the place up to scratch at the same time?’
Robin shook her head, more out of disbelief than refusal. It was a huge decision to make, but instantly she saw the possibility. She’d grown up in the guesthouse; she’d helped out all the time, slinking past strangers on her journey to or from her attic bedroom. She’d seen guests arguing with each other on the stairs, returning home in the dead of night giggling and covered in sand, complaining to her dad that their porridge was more like wallpaper paste. She’d seen it at its most popular and, more recently, at its most bereft. She drummed her fingers on the edge of the table.
‘I see those fingers,’ Molly said. ‘You think it could work, don’t you? I know you could do it. Luxury experiences, but all under the same roof – not to sound like Toys R Us or anything, don’t use that tag line. But it would be …’ Molly stopped, swallowed, held Robin’s gaze.
‘Carrying on Neve’s baby,’ Robin finished. ‘Keeping the idea of Once in a Blue Moon Days alive, but here in Campion Bay.’
‘Her dream, and your parents’ dream. The guesthouse won’t close, yours and Neve’s brainchild won’t be forgotten, and you’ll be making a living, running your own business again.’
Robin stared at her hazy reflection in the window, surrounded by the pre-party scene, the ideas buzzing inside her mind like fireflies. It was obvious when she thought about it. Her parents couldn’t keep the guesthouse going – they didn’t have the will to do it any more – but she did. It wouldn’t be the same as the events company. The groundwork was in place, the booking software, the rules and routines her parents had lived by. She wouldn’t be creating unique experiences from scratch on her own, and so was less likely to cause any disasters. She realized her glass was empty and turned towards the table to find Molly already holding the bottle.
‘Now,’ Molly said, her pink lips smiling, ‘we really have something to celebrate. Let’s get another glass down us before Mrs Harris arrives. I’m not sure I can face her sober, especially knowing that you’re going to crucify her in the local guesthouse scene.’
Robin laughed. ‘I am not going to crucify her, Molly. That’s not fair. But’ – and now she couldn’t help grinning as the idea, out in the real world for a few more minutes, began to take hold – ‘there’s nothing wrong with a bit of healthy competition, is there?’
‘The Seaview Hotel won’t know what’s hit it,’ Molly said, draining her second glass. ‘Not now Robin Brennan and her quiet determination are in the game.’
‘In what game?’ Robin’s dad asked, bustling genially into the room with a box of party poppers under his arm.
Robin exchanged a glance with Molly. ‘Nothing,’ she said quickly, deciding that pre-party was not the best time to spring this on her parents. She’d wait until the dust and the streamers had settled, and she’d had at least one night to sleep on the idea. ‘It looks like it’s going to be a great party, Dad.’
‘And all the better for having you here to celebrate with us,’ he said, reaching out to squeeze her hand. ‘Especially now, with all that’s behind us, and ahead of us.’
‘Hey,’ Molly said, ‘don’t start that. It’s too early in the evening for deep and meaningfuls.’
Robin saluted her friend. For the first time in what felt like ages, and – as her dad had said – despite all that was behind her, she could see a glimmer of hope in what was to come. The idea had been planted, and Robin could tell that it was already beginning to grow in the background, working quietly away in her subconscious. By the time midnight struck and the New Year had dawned, the seed might even have generated a few solid roots.
Robin watched the party guests from her prime position on the top step of the guesthouse. She could feel the warmth of the hallway at her back, seeping out through the half-open door to meet the cold night air, and the solid heat of Molly sitting next to her on the step, wearing Robin’s navy wool coat. She could see the backs of her parents, of Mrs Harris, of Ashley and Roxy from the Campion Bay Teashop, and the couples who had chosen their small corner of the south coast to celebrate the New Year. And then, as the bongs of Big Ben reached her from the radio in the kitchen, Robin watched the night sky light up with the first golden fireworks. She could just make out the boat they were being launched from, the smoke drifting through the air in the split seconds between one burst and the next. The pops and bangs were like a starting rifle in her mind. On Your Marks, Robin.
‘Happy New Year,’ Molly said, slurring slightly, holding her champagne flute up to the sky, the strobes and chrysanthemums and brocade bursts reflecting in the glass.
‘Happy New Year, Molly.’ Robin clinked her glass against her friend’s.
‘I’m envious,’ Molly said. ‘You’ve already got your resolution. I’m still deciding whether I want to learn how to windsurf or take that tattooist course I’ve been threatening to do for ages.’
‘Why not both? They sound pretty challenging, but somehow still a lot less daunting than taking over the guesthouse.’
‘You’re having second thoughts?’ Molly sat up and turned towards her.
‘No, not at all. I’ve thought of nothing else all evening – not even when Dad threatened to give us all a rendition of “Mack the Knife” after his fourth glass of punch. It made me wonder if I should have the dining room redecorated to look like a fifties American diner. You’ll be happy to discover I quickly decided no, by the way.’
‘You’re thinking of having themed rooms?’
Robin gave a quick shake of her head. ‘Not themed, exactly. Styled, definitely. I want each room to have a name and its own individual look, but maybe that’s too ambitious.’ She scrunched her nose up, cross with herself for letting the doubt circle closer and closer, like a shark.
‘You know I can rope Paige in to help around her college course, don’t you? She’s tired of clearing up glasses at the Artichoke, and helping with refurbishments would play to her creative strengths.’ Molly’s daughter, Paige, was studying jewellery design at the local college, with ambitions of setting up her own studio. ‘And I’ve got a couple of builder clients I can talk to,’ Molly added, ‘depending on the scale of work you’re thinking of.’
Robin sipped her champagne and watched as a blue waterfall firework lit up the sky, shimmying down towards the water. ‘I don’t know. It depends how much money I can put into the refurbishment.’
‘Ian and Sylvie?’
Robin nodded. ‘I’ve not even mentioned it to them yet.’
‘They’ll be delighted. It’s a much happier bombshell to drop on them than the one they landed you with.’
‘It might be the bombshell I need. To get properly going again, after Neve.’ It sounded like a new era: After Neve, and that was exactly how she felt about the death of her friend. She had to get going again, to live on in this strange new world where a big piece of her existence was missing.
Molly threaded her fingers between Robin’s and squeezed. ‘You’re in the right place. Even when your mum and dad have gone, you’re not starting it all on your own.’
Robin returned the gesture. ‘I appreciate all of this – the encouragement, the not abandoning me when I first came back, when I was greasy-haired and in my pyjamas, getting through a box of tissues a day. I’m not sure I’ve told you how much.’
Molly dismissed her gratitude with a quick frown and headshake, carrying on as if Robin hadn’t spoken. ‘You’ve got me and Paige. Paige will rope in Adam, and if you want any expert advice, there’s always Tim Lewis, junior partner at Campion Bay Property. I’m sure he’d be keen to offer you a free consultation about your renovations.’ She raised her eyebrows suggestively.
Robin gave a shallow laugh, but her palms were suddenly slick. ‘Oh God, don’t.’
‘Have you seen him, since you’ve been back?’
She shook her head. ‘Sometimes I think I have, a head of blond curls in the supermarket or on the beach, but it always turns out to be someone else.’
‘He must know you’re here. The Campion Bay rumour mill would have spat that nugget of information in his direction. He’s obviously picking his moment.’
‘Or he’s decided to stay away.’
‘Oh, come on.’ Molly laughed. ‘That’s not exactly his style, is it?’
‘No,’ Robin admitted, her stomach churning unpleasantly. ‘No, it’s not.’
The patter of the fireworks was replaced by a meagre smattering of applause from the crowd as the display came to an end. Robin found herself searching through the darkness for that head of blond curls, wondering if Tim Lewis, the ex love of her life, would miss the one New Year’s Eve event that Campion Bay was putting on. Then she realized that he was more likely to be at an exclusive house party somewhere in the Dorset countryside, drinking Taittinger and fifty-year-old Macallan, if Molly’s updates over the years were anything to go by. But if her friend was right and he was choosing his moment to reacquaint himself with her, then what was that moment; why was he waiting? Suddenly it wasn’t just the thought of taking over the Campion Bay Guesthouse that was on her mind, and when she finally made it into bed, a sliver of pale moon glinting at her through the converted attic window, she slept fitfully.