Coming Home to Wishington Bay. Maxine Morrey

even once the property was sold. Or, as it turned out, inherited. Gigi was always singing his praises to me – this wonderful doctor – and I knew she wanted me to meet him. My own choices in men hadn’t exactly been stellar. She’d always said I could do better, and that she knew someone who would be perfect for me, hinting at her apparently attractive neighbour.

      But it never happened – the one and only time I hadn’t had a chance to think up an excuse during an impromptu visit I’d made, she’d called round to his place only to find he was on shift at the local hospital. I could remember feeling both a little relieved and a little disappointed at the time. I trusted Gigi implicitly, and she certainly couldn’t have made a worse decision when it came to men than I’d already accomplished with my past relationships. Although, if the man I’d met this morning really was the one she’d been trying to set me up with, then it looked like – for the first time in her life – Gigi might have been way off base. How dare he accuse me of not caring about my grandmother, or this place! He knew nothing about me and had no idea that she, and this place, had in fact meant everything.

      Reaching over, I pulled my bag towards me across the coffee table. I slid my hand inside, unzipped a slim inside pocket and pulled out a single piece of rose-coloured notepaper. After unfolding it, I ran my fingertips over Gigi’s flowing handwriting, all loops and swirls. Her writing, as with everything about her, was ebullient and glamorous, written in blue ink with the mother of pearl fountain pen Grandpa had bought her a few days after he’d met her – so that she would always have a pen to write to him with, he said. The engraving read Today, Tomorrow, Forever followed by a swirly heart. The inscription was still as clear today as when he’d given it to her in Paris all those years ago. I looked at the writing now, wishing more than anything that she was here. But at least I still had her words.

       My dearest, darling Holly,

       As you will now know, I have left the house at Wishington Bay to you. I know your first thought will be that it should have been to both of you, but I have explained everything to Ned in his own letter. Both of you have been left things of the same value, but in different ways that, hopefully, suit you best.

       I know that Ned and Carrie will soon be blessed with the children they so wish for and I do not want them to ever have to worry about providing for their education, or find themselves having to work such long hours that they never see them. Therefore, this has been taken care of. Of course, there is a little extra as well – strictly to be used just for fun!

      I smiled as I read that, feeling Gigi all around me, laughing and insisting on us doing something else ‘just for fun!’ Feeling my eyes dampen, I rubbed them with the heel of my hand and continued reading:

       For you, darling girl, I had to think a little harder. Unlike Ned, I’ve never quite known what it is you want from your life, and I think that’s because you haven’t yet discovered it either. But, don’t worry, you will. And, what better place to think about all those sorts of things than here, at Wishington Bay. The house is yours to do as you wish with, so don’t feel any compulsion to keep it if that’s not what you want.

       I have so many wonderful memories of you all in this house. You were always so happy here, and I hope that you will be again – even if you just stay for a weekend.

       I am so proud of you, Holly, my darling. I hope I told you that enough. You’re so bright, and beautiful and your heart, even though you keep it guarded, is of the kindest type. I only wish your mother could have seen what a wonderful woman you grew up to be. But rest assured, we are all together now, looking down over you and wishing you everything your heart could want.

       With all my love, now and forever, Gigi.

      I put the letter on the table in front of me, tucked my knees up to my chest and sobbed like a child.

      As my eyes dried, I leant over and picked up the letter once again. Her name was signed with a big flourish, as always. She was the queen of the single name long before Kylie, Beyoncé and anyone else who tried to claim it.

      ‘My grandmother had you all beat,’ I said aloud to no one. Carefully I refolded the letter and slipped it back into the pocket of my handbag.

      ‘Right,’ I said, taking a deep breath. ‘Let’s start ticking things off this to-do list. And then I’m going to make a big, bugger-off chocolate cake and eat it all. Possibly in one sitting.’

      From outside I heard the throaty roar of a motorbike. A proper bike. The noise that emanated from it definitely didn’t sound like one of the Vespas that sometimes buzzed about the village with teenagers aboard, acting like they were cool, hip Italian types going off to meet up by the Trevi Fountain. In reality, they were more likely to be nipping down to the local Spar because they’d run out of toilet roll.

      Hurrying over to the window and concealing myself behind the heavy drapes, I peeped out and saw a large bulk encased in leather swing one long leg over the burbling bike, adjusting his foot as it settled on the pedal. He moved his right hand on the handlebars and the engine revved briefly. Flicking a hand up to close the visor on his crash helmet, he blipped the throttle again and the bike pulled away, his other leg folding up to perch on the opposite pedal. I watched him disappear up the road, out of sight, and hoped that he’d stay that way for a long time to come.

      Just knowing he was no longer next door helped me relax a tiny bit. Admittedly relaxation wasn’t exactly my forte. That was partly how I’d ended up back here in the first place. As a top Discretionary Fund Manager in London, I’d worked hard and done well. I had a swish flat in Canary Wharf that had a view of the river and was perfect for the short commute to work at Canada Water. It was sleek and modern, and stylish. My brother had called it ”soulless” but then Ned never was in the running for any prizes for tact. Admittedly it didn’t have the warmth that Gigi’s house had, or that his and Carrie’s did. But then my life was very different to theirs too. And the fact that I started work early, and often didn’t leave until ten or later, meant that keeping it easy to maintain was important. Really the thing that was most important to me was that my bed was comfortable, and my coffee maker worked. Everything else was just window dressing.

      Nothing about Gigi’s house was just window dressing and there was certainly no way anyone could call it ‘soulless’. I stood and walked to the patio doors, pulling them back to let in the warmth of the morning and the sound of the sea washing the beach. It was still early in the season but looking further along to where the beach became public, I could see a few holidaymakers setting up towels and parasols on the soft, pale sand. After listening to the calming sound of the sea for a few more moments, I turned back to the house and set my coffee cup in the dishwasher.

      The kitchen had been revamped a few years ago and now had shiny white units and fancy worktops that sparkled when the light caught them. Gigi was like a magpie when it came to sparkle but I loved that she’d chosen it. It was so her. And while the units might have changed, this was still the kitchen where Ned and I had learned to cook, the same table where he and I had sat thousands of times, being fed and comforted and made to feel loved by Gigi and Grandpa.

      Letting my hand drift across the doorway, I moved back into the living room. I pulled back the curtains I’d hid behind earlier. They were heavy velvet in a deep shade of plum and really had seen better days. They were on my list of things to assess but right now I was just enjoying the tactile feel of them against my skin and the theatrical reminder of Gigi’s taste. Turning, I whipped off the last couple of sheets that had been covering the furniture, piled them on a chair and moved towards the stairs.

      I’d removed the sheets from the guest room I always stayed in last night and had claimed that as my room for my sabbatical stay. It was a beautiful room overlooking the back of the house and the beach beyond, its large windows flooding it with light. The décor, like all the other rooms, had a slight theatrical bent – but that was Gigi and right now, the familiarity of that was comforting.

      The other two spare rooms were mostly unused and one appeared to have developed into a bit of a dumping ground for things my grandmother had never quite decided on a place