Page 26

Please, God, just make it stop.

Mum huffs, turning back to her jam.

‘I don’t know why I bother sometimes,’ she says under her breath.

‘Because you love me, that’s why,’ Dad tells her, and, honestly, I think this makes her even madder.

I stare down at my toast, wondering how long I can last in this madhouse. The chaos, the constant bickering and the endless fucking jams are enough to drive anyone crazy.

‘Could we try using honey instead of sugar?’ Mum wonders out loud.

Dad sighs dramatically.

‘Liz, if we start changing everything, we’ll never get it done,’ he tells her. ‘Let’s just stick to the recipe.’

‘But it’s too sweet,’ Mum insists.

‘You’re too sensitive,’ Dad replies.

I look between them as they bicker, my head pounding even more.

I’m not sure how much longer I can put up with this.

12

These shoes were not made with walking in mind – I don’t even think these shoes were made with standing in mind, and yet here I am, walking up the hill to get home.

I just needed to get out of the house today so I took myself for a walk into town, to investigate the shops on Main Street, and to just see the sea really, because the novelty of being back at the coast hasn’t worn off yet. It’s different in autumn, quieter and moodier, with a grey-blue sky hanging over the water – but still plenty of tourists regardless.

Main Street is the sort of place tourists stop to take photos of before they’ve so much as entered a shop or a café – the kind of place you could visit just to see the street, without needing to go inside anywhere.

It is beautiful. It slopes down towards the sea in a crooked line of old stone buildings, a mixture of shops, cafés and cute little homes. It’s the kind of shops you hope to find when you visit the coast, selling things that no one really needs, but everyone wants. There’s a shop that sells nothing but jam, called Fruitopia, which I love. A vintage clothes shop. A bookshop. A small art gallery. The kind of places you can browse happily, not needing to buy a thing to feel like you’ve had a great day out, although I’m sure I’d struggle to go home empty-handed if I allowed myself to do anything beyond window shopping.

The pavements are narrow and uneven, polished smooth in some places thanks to years and years of visitors wandering up and down with ice creams – or lattes, depending on the season. In summer, the whole street feels bright and busy, but in autumn it has a different kind of charm. The shop windows mist slightly at the edges, all of the menus change to offer the best of the season, and I love to see everyone go all-out with the autumn decorations – it’s little more than a taste of what’s to come, when we finally get into the festive season, and the whole town turns into a winter wonderland. I’m actually quite looking forward to it.

At the bottom of the hill, between the rooftops, the sea appears in sudden flashes of grey-blue. You can smell the salt in the air, even up here, at the top of the hill. You can smell fresh fish and chips too, and it’s making me feel absolutely starving.

I decide to pop and see my old friend Ivy, who runs the year-round Christmas shop on the edge of the town.

When I was little, it was the most magical place in the world. A tiny, glittering wonderland of baubles, wooden nutcrackers, snow globes – it even had a miniature steam train that raced around the shop. Mum used to bring me all the time, but I have really fond memories of visiting her in the run-up to Christmas, to stock up on festive supplies.

Ivy’s always been like a sort of big sister to me. Her mum passed away years ago, and Ivy took over the shop. I’d heard she’d expanded it, but I’m still surprised when I get there and see just how much bigger it is now. The old shop is still there, rebuilt but with the exact charm of the original, but now there are cute little holiday rentals too. It looks great.

I’m heading for the door when I notice my phone ringing in my bag. It’s a number I don’t recognise, but after only a moment of hesitation, I answer it with an overly cheery hello.

‘Hi, Lia,’ a man’s voice says.

‘Speaking,’ I say, rather formally, considering it’s a sort of familiar voice.

‘It’s Si,’ he tells me.

Oh, obviously, because I only gave him my number last night. Who else was it going to be? For a second I thought it was Mr L, because of course I did. Idiot.

‘Si, of course, hello,’ I say brightly. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m great, cheers,’ he replies. ‘How’s the head?’

‘Better than it was earlier, when I woke up to my parents having a jam-making session.’