The Cliff House: A beautiful and addictive story of loss and longing. Amanda Jennings

corner of the terrace, poking a pile of smoking charcoal which sent clouds of sparks into the air with each prod.

      I decided to try to talk to him. My stomach fizzed as I neared him and I focused on the voice in my head which was telling me to be brave, be brave, be brave.

      He must have heard me and turned, face broken in half by a smile, and raised his tongs in greeting. A film of sweat coated his forehead and there were two patches of damp in the armpits of his snow-white shirt, which was open to his stomach revealing white skin with a light thatch of greying chest hair. He wore long red shorts with a crease ironed down the centres of the legs and on his feet the soft blue shoes. I’d seen them a hundred times through the lenses of my dad’s binoculars, but had never noticed the two gold coins slipped into slots in the leather on the tops of the shoes.

      He must have seen me staring at them. ‘They’re penny loafers,’ he said, with an unmistakable glint of amusement. ‘You’re supposed to put a penny in them, but I put pound coins in mine.’

      ‘Like a wallet?’

      He laughed. ‘For decoration.’

      I hadn’t realised money could be used for decoration. When I looked back down at the coins they seemed to shine like the beams from a lighthouse.

      ‘Mum’s not sure about the new coins,’ I said. ‘She likes money you can fold, not pockets weighed down with shrapnel.’

      ‘Your mother sounds supremely sensible.’

      I smiled. His voice was different to how I’d imagined it. Posher and gravelly as if he’d swallowed a handful of sand before talking.

      ‘What’s your name?’

      ‘Tamsyn Tresize.’ I hoped he wouldn’t notice me blushing.

      ‘A good Cornish name.’ He smiled again. ‘And pretty too.’

      ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mr Davenport,’ I said, remembering my manners.

      ‘Max,’ he said. ‘You must call me Max.’

      As he spoke I was hit by the peculiar sensation of being separated from my body and sitting up by the rock, watching Max Davenport talking to a girl with long red hair who looked identical to me.

      ‘Max? Are you ready to cook yet?’

      The voice catapulted me back onto the terrace. I turned to see Mrs Davenport walking out through the door. She was dressed in a voluminous kaftan in peacock greens and blues, which was edged with gold and wafted out behind her as she moved. Oversized white-framed sunglasses concealed most of her face and her hair was piled into a bun on the top of her head, revealing heavy pearl and gold earrings at each ear.

      ‘You must be Tamsyn,’ she said.

      Her voice was soft with a slight slur as if her words had melted into each other. She smiled and showed perfect white teeth and when she sashayed over to me with her hand outstretched, I almost didn’t take it, worrying that if I did I’d make it dirty.

      ‘Lovely to meet you. Your mother is an absolute godsend. I have literally no idea how we’d survive sans elle.’

      ‘Her mother?’ Max asked.

      Mrs Davenport smiled. ‘The cleaner, darling.’

      I swallowed as my reality bit at my ankles like a vicious dog. My eyes flicked over to Max. I watched for his reaction. Wondered if he now thought my name less pretty.

      ‘Amazing woman,’ he said and I beamed.

      Edie came out of the house holding a green bottle and sat down. She beckoned to me and I went to her, though part of me wanted to stay and talk to Max about his shoes.

      A short while later we were all sitting at the table and my cheeks ached with smiling. It was all I could do to stop myself laughing out loud. I thought of all those times I’d hidden myself in the sandy grass on the cliff and watched the Davenports eating – either out on the terrace or inside at the round white table in the sitting room – and sucked up every movement, every mouthful, every sip of every drink. It was all so familiar, the way she placed her knife and fork down precisely as she chewed, how he leant back in his chair to look out over the ocean, how he poured wine and she tipped her face to the sun. It was like I’d fallen into my favourite film.

      ‘Your mother was kind enough to lay up for us this morning. Of course, she did it for three not four. Edie didn’t tell us you were coming until just before you arrived so I had to lay the extra place myself.’

      Edie rolled her eyes. ‘It’s not exactly hard to put out another knife and fork, Eleanor.’

      ‘It’s really nice to be here, Mrs Davenport,’ I said quickly, sensing something between them.

      Eleanor smiled at me as she lifted a bottle of wine from the ice bucket and topped up her glass, though I could tell that she was annoyed, and I wished Edie hadn’t mentioned the cutlery.

      Max Davenport stood and excused himself quietly before walking back to the barbecue. He picked up the tongs and waved them about like a sword as he turned steaks as thick as the Bible.

      ‘So, Tamsyn,’ said Eleanor Davenport, dragging my attention away from Max and the barbecue. ‘Are you pleased it’s the school holidays?’

      ‘Oh, yes. Very. I’ve just had exams so last term was pretty hard work.’ I thought back to all the hours I’d stared blindly at my books whilst daydreaming and then the exams in which the words had swum and I’d struggled to even remember my name let alone how to long divide.

      ‘O levels?’

      ‘CSEs.’

      ‘CSEs?’ Eleanor placed her glass down on the table. ‘The ones you take if you aren’t bright enough to do O levels? How many did you take?’

      I swallowed and a wave of hot shame swept over my body. ‘Just five.’

      ‘Do we have to talk about school, Eleanor? I mean, God, that’s the last thing Tamsyn and I want to think about.’

      ‘My apologies,’ Eleanor said. ‘I was interested, that’s all. Aren’t you always saying I need to be more interested?’

      I wracked my brain to think of something to say. ‘I really like this tablecloth.’

      ‘The tablecloth?’ Eleanor laughed. ‘Thank you. It’s an old one we don’t need in London anymore.’

      ‘I’ve never eaten at a table with a cloth before. I don’t think we even own one.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Mum would worry about staining something so pretty.’ I fingered the cloth, which was made of fine white cotton with exquisitely embroidered daisies dotted across it. I imagined my mum lifting it up into the sky so the sun lit its whiteness and the wind caught hold of it like a ship’s sail before allowing it to float back down to the table. I saw her hands smoothing it. Saw the care she’d have taken to make sure it was centred properly, everything perfect, wanting to please Mrs Davenport. Then I heard her voice.

      They’re different to us.

      And she was right, she and Eleanor were as different as two people could be. Eleanor reached for the salad bowl and I studied her hands. Soft. Blemish-free. Unlike my mother’s which were blotched red and rough, unpainted nails trimmed short for practicality. Mum might have been right about her being different but she was wrong about me. Sitting at that table I didn’t feel out of place or as if I shouldn’t be there. I felt as if I belonged.

      ‘Do you want some water, Tamsyn?’

      Edie was holding the green glass bottle and without waiting for my reply she leant over to pour some in my glass. The water fizzed as it went in. I didn’t even know they made water fizzy and wondered briefly if it came up from the ground that way. Before Edie had finished filling my glass, however, Eleanor reached over and lifted the neck of the bottle