Coming Home to Wishington Bay. Maxine Morrey

the fact that I needed to sort through it all in the relatively short space of time I had, and then I moved on. My hand rested on the handle of the fourth and final bedroom. Gigi’s bedroom. But I didn’t go in. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

      From the back pocket of my shorts, my phone made a ping and I pulled it out immediately, opening the email app only to find another spammy newsletter from a company I hadn’t bought anything from for the last three years. I really ought to get around to doing some unsubscribing. Something else to add to the list. Opening my To-Do app, I did just that, gave the markets another quick scan and checked my work email again before putting the phone back in my pocket.

      I’d planned on spending the day going through boxes and making a start on getting the house into order for sale. That was, after all, the plan. The thought of keeping it was wonderful but I knew in reality it wasn’t a viable one. The idea of a beach retreat in a place that held such happy memories – really the only place that did – was perfect. But it was just a daydream. I knew that, with me working the amount I did, it wouldn’t get used – at least not in the way it should. Even if I did manage to get away from London, I would only end up bringing work with me. I barely looked out of the window of my flat, even though the view of the Thames and the city could steal your breath away, especially at night. Why would it be any different here? Better to sell it to someone who would appreciate it. And I would ensure that was the case. This was going to be a family home. Not an opportunistic investment for some businessman who already had a second, third and fourth home.

      If Carrie and Ned weren’t so settled and in love with their own house, I’d have insisted they have it but that wasn’t an option. The thought of turning it into an Airbnb had crossed my mind – albeit only fleetingly. Ned and I had been enveloped with love here, and the house was a part of that. I couldn’t bear the thought of it becoming a place where people just dropped their luggage. Four walls and nothing more. It had meant so much to Gigi, and still meant so much to me. It was a house that deserved to be loved. So, I would just have to find a new family to bring to it.

      While the house was beautiful, it was definitely in need of some updating. Gigi had been a showgirl in her youth, performing at top theatres in London and Paris when she met my grandfather all those years ago, and the décor definitely reflected a tendency to draw on that part of her life for inspiration. There were a lot of rich, deep colours on the walls and in the furnishings. I had no intention of trying to get rid of all of Gigi’s stuff so I’d decided to ask my brother Ned what he wanted, choose a few pieces for myself and then sell the house with much of the rest included. But as it was, even though the Thirties’ Art Deco style of the house supported a bit of Gigi’s style, with my business head on, I knew it wasn’t as attractive to a modern buyer as it could be, so I needed to think up some tricks for adding in a bit more of a contemporary look.

      Of course, I’d also have to work on a strategy that would help sell the sitting tenant next door – something I wasn’t terribly thankful to Gigi for, knowing that without that particular fly in the ointment, I’d be looking at a far quicker turnaround. But, as it was, it seemed a good time to take some leave from work anyway. Well, that and the fact that my boss had told me I was wound tighter than a Swiss watch and if I didn’t take a break he was going to fire me and blacklist me for six months just so that I had to. All of which was really Gerald’s way of being a sweetheart. He’d watched me working long hours for years, and then of course, after the break-up with Paul, something pretty much everyone in the company had seen, I’d only increased my workload. If I was thinking about work, I wasn’t thinking about anything else. But everyone, apparently even me, has a limit and Gerald knew I was burning out.

      The ultimatum had come after I’d gone off the deep end about a report he wanted. One that, despite practically living at the office, I still hadn’t had time to get around to. As I’d begun assuring him that I’d have it done by the end of the week, without having the faintest idea how, my chest had got so tight I could barely breathe, the room had begun to swim and I’d ended up sliding down the side of Gerald’s desk in what I don’t imagine to be the most elegant of ways, getting more and more panicky as I found I had less and less breath.

      At this point, Gerald had had a little panic of his own and in my fuggy, lack-of-oxygen state, I’d heard him on the phone, trying to find out who the First Aider was. With the tiny bit of energy I’d had left, I’d flung my tingling arm out and yanked the phone away from him, and the desk, cutting off the call as I shook my head. This was already an embarrassing enough situation without more people coming in to gawp at me and comment as to whether that particular shade of waxy white my face had taken on was really my colour.

      Gerald had tried to wrangle the phone back from me but I’d kept him at bay and instead flapped my hand about on his desk until it had reached his paper lunch bag from the posh sandwich shop just down the road. Scattering the contents across Gerald’s desk, I’d quickly shoved the paper bag up to my face. After a few breaths in and out, the room spun a bit slower and I’d focused on trying to calm my racing mind. The pain in my chest was still there but it would go in time, like it usually did. Although, this was by far my most spectacular, and most public, experience of it. I hadn’t admitted it to anyone – and barely to myself – but I was terrified.

      Gerald had been my boss, and friend, for over ten years. Once I’d calmed down and returned to a much more normal colour, he’d sat me down and given me the ultimatum, telling me that with the way I was going, my next position was either going to be a sabbatical at the seaside, or a stay in hospital. Put like that, the decision was kind of made for me. I arranged for my post to be forwarded to Gigi’s place, packed a suitcase and drove down. The further I got from London, the more I had tentatively started looking forward to it. I still wasn’t sure how I was going to cope without going into the office every day but I had my phone and laptop so it wasn’t like I was going to be cut off from civilisation entirely.

      That night, I’d gone to sleep surrounded by peace and quiet and woken to the sound of real waves gently washing over a real beach. I’d lain there feeling a little of the long-held stress leave my body with each return of the tide, confident that this little break was all I needed to see off the attacks I’d had.

      And then Gabe McKinley had appeared at my window, seen me in my scrap of silk undies, and spoiled it all.

      * * *

      I’d succeeded in accomplishing very little today. The morning’s encounter with my neighbour had put me out of sorts and disrupted my equilibrium. I hadn’t felt able to concentrate on anything after that, which wasn’t like me at all. I’d fiddled about, moving bits from one place to another before moving them back again, looked half-heartedly over paint charts, and wandered out into the garden to deadhead a few flowers before finally giving up. Pulling out a big box of photos I’d found in a sideboard, I sat on the overstuffed sofa, tucked my feet up underneath me and proceeded to lose the next two hours looking through them.

      Many of them I hadn’t seen for years or had never seen. I smiled at a photo of Gigi and Grandpa laughing together and cried at one of my dad and me building a sandcastle on the beach outside this very house. For once, he actually looked happy. Eventually deciding I’d had enough emotional pummelling for today, I gave my phone another quick check for market news and possible emails then headed out and took a long walk on the beach, making some notes on my phone about jobs I needed to get done in the house as I did so.

      It was nearly three hours later I returned to the house, feeling both mentally and physically calmer. Even just approaching the house from the beach, knowing that was where I was headed, had sent a ripple of calm through me that I couldn’t remember feeling for many years. And not one I could remember ever feeling anywhere else. Thankfully there seemed no signs of life from next door and I settled down on one of the steamer chairs on the patio with a stack of interior design magazines to study for ideas for the house. The huge UV protective sail that stretched across both sides of the house provided perfect shade – which was just as well because the next thing I knew it felt cooler and there was a large shadow over me. I opened my eyes to find Gabe McKinley back, and loitering by my patio door.

      ‘What are you doing?’ I snapped, waking properly and pushing myself into an upright position.

      He