Page 5 of The Clifftop Cottage

Erica fought the urge to roll her eyes. She didn’t need the judgement. It wasn’t as though she’d got plastered last night; three glasses of wine was hardly excessive. And really, how was anyone supposed to sleep soundly in a place where prehistoric seagulls squawked the night away?

Leah glanced at her watch again, panic flickering across her features. “I need you to take Maisie to school. She’s downstairs eating cereal. She’ll be ready in five minutes.”

“School? Of course,” Erica said brightly, though her mind was already scrambling. What school? Where was it? How far was it? Surely Leah wasn’t expecting her to just know these things?

But Leah was already halfway down the stairs, calling something back about Maisie’s lunch being in her bag and reminding her not to forget Maisie’s jacket.

Erica hovered in the doorway, trying to catch her breath, but Leah had no time for hesitation. By the time Erica stepped out onto the landing, Leah was already bustling out the front door, mug of tea in one hand and her phone balanced precariously in the other.

Erica watched through the window as Leah climbed into her little car and disappeared down the narrow, cobbled street.

And just like that, Erica was alone. Alone with her niece, in an unfamiliar village, and the vague sense that today was not going to go as smoothly as Leah seemed to assume.

She took a deep breath, willing down the lump in her throat that had lodged there ever since the first inkling of Steven’s infidelity. That moment when doubt crept in, accompanied by its shadowy friends – humiliation and anger. Then came the unexpected hospital stay, the culmination of stress she hadn’t even known she was carrying. Erica could feel those memories rising now, threatening to overtake her, but she shook her head. Not today.

Before she could let the tide of grief and regret swallow her whole, a small figure appeared in the doorway, dragging her back to the present.

Maisie stood there with her thumbs hooked under the straps of an enormous backpack, her little frame swaying back and forth on her heels. Her tight curls were pulled into firm pigtails atop her head, the same curls Erica had spent years taming into sleek obedience. In her grey pinafore, black tights and cardigan, Maisie looked so poised and innocent that the weight of responsibility settled on Erica’s shoulders, pressing down and scattering the lingering fog of her own pain.

“Are you okay, Auntie Eri?” Maisie’s wide eyes gazed up at her, full of curiosity and concern.

Erica forced a smile, her voice taking on an overly chipper tone. “Absolutely. Just dandy.”

Maisie didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t push.

“Now,” Erica continued, clapping her hands together, “do you have a coat to put on? Then we can hop in my car and get you to school.”

Maisie frowned, tilting her head in that disarmingly grown-up way children sometimes do. “We don’t need to do that. Mummy takes me on foot.” Her eyes drifted down to Erica’s bare legs, her brows knitting together. “You might need to wear a bit more than that, though.”

Erica glanced down, realising she was still in her vest. “Of course. I’ll be ready in a jiffy. You go wait by the door.”

Maisie nodded solemnly and trotted off, leaving Erica to scramble into something vaguely presentable. She tugged on socks, white jeans, and a cream sweater, then shoved a toothbrush into her mouth while wrestling her hair into a low ponytail. Her usual standards of immaculate grooming felt like a distant memory as she stumbled through her sister’s unfamiliar house.

She was disorganised. Off-kilter. Like someone had taken her life, shaken it vigorously, and put everything back in the wrong drawers.

Ever since she’d sold off her London flat, her carefully curated furniture and decor picked over by strangers at an estate sale, Erica had been adrift. Her business, her so-called friends, even her purpose – all gone in a matter of months. Now she was literally living out of a suitcase, shuffling through a wardrobe reduced to its barest essentials.

Erica grabbed her bag and forced a smile as she joined Maisie by the door. Her niece stood with her arms crossed, looking every bit the picture of youthful patience – something Erica didn’t remember being part of the job description for eight-year-olds.

“You ready, Auntie Eri?” Maisie chirped.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Erica turned to lock the door, but Maisie waved her off.

“Mummy never locks it,” Maisie said with a small shrug.

Erica hesitated, her London instincts screaming in protest and mentally drafting a crime report. But this wasn’t the city, and the quiet charm of the little fishing town seemed to defy the idea of locks and bolts.

“Alright, lead the way,” Erica said, stepping outside and pulling the door closed behind them.

Maisie took her hand without a second thought and they started down the cobbled street. The houses leaned close together, painted in soft, weathered hues of white, blue, and grey, their facades streaked with salt from years of briny sea air. A stiff breeze carried the tang of the ocean, and Erica shivered, already regretting her choice of outfit.

The streets were eerily still, save for the distant cry of gulls overhead. Erica glanced down at Maisie, who was humming to herself as they walked, utterly at ease in her little world. This place was charming, in its own way. Quiet enough that she felt like she should be whispering, just in case she disturbed something ancient.

“Maisie,” she began hesitantly, “your school … it’s not too far, is it?”

Maisie giggled. “No, Auntie Eri. You’ll see – it’s just down the hill.”

Erica let out a small sigh of relief, but the lump in her throat remained.