The Lavender Bay Collection. Sarah Bennett

on her bed, staring at the damp patch in one corner of the ceiling hadn’t produced any clarity so she’d hoped a change of scene might help. Quitting her job had been a stupid, impulsive move, but she couldn’t bring herself to regret it. A few half-hearted web searches had produced a ream of vacancies for jobs she could do with her eyes closed, but she hadn’t submitted her C.V. to a single one of them. It was like being suspended in jelly, or wrapped in cotton wool. Everything muffled and muted—one step removed from her reality. That one week had been all she could stand before the inertia had threatened to drive her up the wall.

      Lavender Bay had been the obvious choice, but now she was here it felt wrong. London wasn’t home anymore either, hadn’t been since the day Charlie had sat her down and explained in calm, cool tones that their life together, the life she’d tried so hard to fit into, just wasn’t working for him.

      Beth was adrift, and she hated it. Her forehead thunked against the frame of the open cupboard. ‘Tell me what to do.’

      ‘Take out a mug, drop in a tea bag and pour the hot water over it.’

      A strangled laugh escaped her. ‘Oh, Libs.’

      Warm arms encircled her waist. ‘Take out a mug, drop in a tea bag and pour the hot water over it. One step at a time, Beth.’

      She nodded, catching her forehead on a sharp edge where the lining on the cupboard had chipped away. ‘Ouch.’ Libby let her go and she stepped back, rubbing her forehead.

      ‘Here let me.’ Libby reached past and grabbed the first two mugs, including the floral one.

      ‘Not that one, it’s Eleanor’s…’

      ‘Well, technically, it’s yours now.’ Libby set about making their drinks, squeezing the tea-bag in the floral cup until the liquid inside turned the perfect shade of creamy-brown. She thrust it at Beth. ‘Here, take it.’

      When Beth made no move to take it, Libby huffed in frustration. ‘What is going on with you? I can’t believe you’ve been sitting on all of this…’ She waved the mug, causing a slop of tea to spill over the edge. ‘…And you didn’t say anything.’ Libby turned away to dump the tea back onto the side of the small kitchenette. ‘Shit. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout.’

      ‘It’s all right, we’re all out of sorts, aren’t we?’ Sinking deeper into the chair, Beth wriggled her bottom to avoid the loose spring Eleanor had never got around to having fixed. She traced a pattern over the crocheted arm protectors, her fingers adopting the old habit without thought. Everywhere she looked, everything she touched was as commonplace to her as breathing. She knew this place. Being here could be easy if she only gave herself a chance, and if she could bear the weight of her grief.

      Her thoughts drifted to an earlier conversation. ‘Sam thinks I should reopen the emporium.’

      ‘Oh, does he now?’

      Beth rolled her head towards Libby, drawn by the sly humour in her tone. ‘What?’

      Libby blinked as though she couldn’t believe why she was even asking. ‘What do you mean what? This is Sam we’re talking about. Of course, he wants you to reopen the place.’

      Beth thought about it. If the pub was to continue to succeed, Sam needed the seafront at Lavender Bay to be as appealing as possible to visitors. It made sense, she supposed, that he would prefer to have an open, thriving business rather than a boarded-up shop, or noisy development works. Especially when the shop in question was right next door to his own establishment. ‘I suppose it makes sense for him and the other owners on the prom to want the emporium open.’

      Libby opened her mouth, closed it again, then shook her head. ‘Yeah, that’s why.’ She settled into the chair opposite Beth. ‘So, are you going to do it? It’d be nice to have you around again.’ She held her hand out across the gap between their chairs. ‘I’ve missed you, B. You and Eliza, both. Skype is great and all, but it’s just not the same as you being here, you know?’

      ‘Oh, Libs.’ Beth took her hand, squeezing her fingers tight. What kind of a best friend was she to sit there bitching about things when she had so many options, and poor Libby had none? The early death of her mother had left Mick and Libby both devastated and they’d clung to each other. Libby felt responsible for her dad, and the chip shop didn’t make enough money to both pay for her to go to university and hire a replacement for the many hours she put in behind the counter. Libs had laughed it off, saying the idea of more study was her idea of hell, but she must have resented not even having a choice about it.

      A horrifying thought occurred to her. ‘Did you hate us when we left?’

      ‘What? No! Well, maybe a little bit. You were both having such a good time, making all these new friends, falling in love…’

      Beth snorted. ‘Yeah, and that worked out just bloody brilliantly, didn’t it?’

      ‘Hey, at least you were getting some action. What did I have, a few spotty boys more interested in a free bag of chips than getting off with me? And that hasn’t improved over the years. Lavender Bay isn’t exactly a hotbed of passion, so I’ve never even had the chance to get my heart broken. God, the last bloke I went out with, I didn’t even like him, I just wanted someone to pay me some attention.’

      ‘Oh, Libs, when was this?’

      Libby shrugged. ‘A couple of months ago, I got drunk in the pub. He was a travelling salesman, called Barry.’ She covered her face with her hands and groaned. ‘Barry. Oh, God, you should have seen him, all greased-back hair and groping fingers. I don’t know what I was thinking.’ Her friend dropped her hands with a laugh. ‘And old too, he must have been thirty if he was a day.’

      ‘Ancient,’ Beth said, drily, thinking of their own impending birthdays. She and Libby were both spring babies, and would be turning twenty-five within a couple of weeks of each other. Eliza was a late summer child. One day later and she would’ve been in the year below them, and they wouldn’t have the special bond the three of them shared.

      ‘Well he seemed old. Mature, like he might know what he was doing, you know?’ Libby waved her hand vaguely. ‘I was so drunk, and mad, and frustrated. I just wanted to feel special, for once in my boring bloody life, so I let him walk me home.’

      Beth cast her mind back, remembering her own early days at uni, the constant seesaw of emotions between breathless anticipation and abject terror as every new boy she met was sized up as a potential date. Freshers’ week had been a cocktail of hormones, vodka and terrible decisions, but there’d been some spectacular kisses too. Something else Libby had missed out on by staying home. ‘So, how was it?’

      Libby grinned. ‘Technically, it was very good. Emotionally…’ She heaved a sigh. ‘It was a disaster. A total washout. You know like how the books talk about fireworks and flutterings?’ Beth nodded. ‘Well not a thing. It was hardly more exciting than those practice kisses we used to do on our hands.’

      Beth threw back her head and laughed. ‘Oh my God, I’d forgotten about those!’ They’d read somewhere in a teen magazine about a practice technique which involved making a mouth shape with thumb and forefinger. The three of them had slurped and snogged their hands, trying to work out the mechanics. Eliza had gone so far as to suck up a red mark and had to make up a story about banging herself on a desk at school after Annie spotted it. Thinking about Eliza inevitably drew her thoughts back to the original subject. ‘What makes you so sure he wasn’t just a bad kisser?’

      ‘Because I’ve had some really bad kisses, and some pretty spectacular ones too. He knew his way around a pair of lips, trust me. It just felt empty, and a bit weird. I knew he expected more, and I almost felt like I should go back with him to his room.’ A bleakness settled over her, and Beth worried about where the story was taking them. Libby’s face brightened. ‘Thankfully Dad chose that moment to put the rubbish out. Nothing like the sight of him with his dressing gown flapping around his knees to cool a man’s ardour! I beat a hasty retreat, and hid at home for the next few days until I knew his holiday had ended. After