New Beginnings at Rose Cottage Read online

  Copyright © 2019 Erin Green

  The right of Erin Green to be identified as the Author of

  the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This Ebook edition first published in 2019

  by HEADLINE REVIEW

  An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may

  only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means,

  with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of

  reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences

  issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Author photograph © Aimee Spinks

  Cover images © Shutterstock and Getty Images

  eISBN 978 1 4 722 6354 4

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  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Contents

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Bonus Material

  Emma’s fig and balsamic ice cream

  Benni’s chocolate truffles

  Catching Up With Erin Green

  Don’t miss Taking a Chance on Love

  About the Author

  Erin Green was born and raised in Warwickshire, where she resides with her husband. An avid reader since childhood, her imagination was instinctively drawn to creative writing as she grew older. Erin has two Hons degrees: BA English literature and BSc Psychology – her previous careers have ranged from part-time waitress, the retail industry, fitness industry and education.

  She has an obsession about time, owns several tortoises and an infectious laugh! Erin writes contemporary novels focusing on love, life and laughter. Erin is an active member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and was delighted to be awarded The Katie Fforde Bursary in 2017. An ideal day for Erin involves writing, people watching and drinking copious amounts of tea.

  For more information about Erin, visit her website: www.ErinGreenAuthor.co.uk, find her on Facebook www.facebook.com/ErinGreenAuthor or follow her on Twitter @ErinGreenAuthor.

  About the Book

  One glorious summer brings the chance to begin again.

  When solo travellers Benni, Emma and Ruth find themselves holidaying together at charming Rose Cottage in Brixham, Devon, they are initially disappointed to be sharing with strangers of a different age group.

  But ‘friendship and home comforts’ are guaranteed at Rose Cottage and soon a bond blossoms between the women, who each have valuable life lessons to share.

  As the summer unfolds, Benni, Emma and Ruth begin to realise that age is just a number. Before their time at Rose Cottage ends, will they take the chance to grasp the dreams that are now within their reach?

  To those of us who have sought and

  experienced new beginnings

  Come not to sojourn, but abide with me.

  Reverend Henry F. Lyte, 1847

  Chapter One

  Saturday 18 August

  Benjamina

  As I step from the bus, I’m nervous yet relieved. Relieved that the kindly driver helped me offload my oversized suitcase, avoiding the embarrassing situation I’d been anticipating throughout my journey from Paignton station. And relieved to see the street sign: Lower Manor Road. I’m in the right location.

  This isn’t my usual Saturday afternoon. This is an adventure I’ve talked myself into over the last few weeks. A holiday I’d have loved someone to try to talk me out of booking but, sadly, my life doesn’t contain such loyal friends. Just family.

  Turning to my right, I view the steep incline of Lower Manor Road – the route to my holiday cottage. I can’t see the end of the road, simply a double row of pastel-painted cottages lining the cobbled street, which stretches skywards before disappearing. It looks picturesque, the perfect setting for a two-week holiday, but it’ll be a bugger to walk up. No one mentioned that Brixham is so hilly, though I doubt my family are aware of such details.

  I should have booked a taxi. Not because of my oversized wheelie case, but because when your exercise routine consists of nothing more strenuous than pushing a shopping trolley around a supermarket, you doubt your physical prowess. I have what I prefer to call a curvy, somewhat ample figure – voluptuous, some might say – certainly not one that’s accustomed to steep hill climbing.

  What I do know is that one step in front of another always gets me where I need to be. So off I plod. I’ll pace myself. Stop for a breather whenever I need to, but I’ll get there in my own sweet time.

  My suitcase wheels provide a comforting rattle to my trek. I switch hands numerous times as its plastic handle cuts deep into my sweating palms. I count my steps as I walk, a habit from childhood; it helps to pass the time.

  I stop several times to take deep breaths and appreciate the stunning views of the harbour, the cliff face opposite with its stacked cottages, and the deep blue horizon. I smile at passing folk striding down the hill, knowing that my freckled cheeks are bright red, my blonde ponytail is sticking to the nape of my neck and a trickle of sweat runs the length of my back to soak my elasticated waistband. But still, despite my ballet pumps digging into my swelling feet, one step at a time gets me to the top of Lower Manor Road, which leads into Higher Manor Road, then Church Street, before a sharp left presents a glorious view of Rose Cottage.

  Despite my nerves, it’s a welcome relief to view the lilac paintwork, the wrought-iron gate and the plethora of pale roses growing above the bay window. The narrow street doesn’t have a pavement, so I stand in the road and admire the cottage, playing for time in order to slow my heartbeat and renew my ability to speak before meeting my holiday housemates. I’m aiming for a good impression. I’m hoping to portray the adult I should be, rather than the naïve child I continue to feel like.

  I recall the holiday let’s small online advert in my mind’s eye.

  Cosy, picturesque cottage available for solo holidaymakers, offering a comfy home from home with new friends guaranteed.

  Which is exactly what I need. It’s not the holiday option I’d have chosen for my mid twenties. Growing up, I always imagined lying with a group of close girlfriends on an exotic beach filled with toned, tanned bodies whilst overstimulated holiday reps cajoled drunken males fortified with beer to participate in ludicrous sports. Sadly, nearly a decade after leaving school, all my friends are
either married, pregnant or AWOL – away with other ladies. And I, desperate for my first holiday as an adult, am going solo.

  I fish my mobile from my pocket and quickly text my brother to let him know I’ve arrived safely, after which I find the email containing my arrival instructions and note the combination for the key safe, which the attached diagram pinpoints beside the front door.

  I retrieve the key and enter Rose Cottage.

  This is it . . . Let my holiday begin.

  Emma

  This bar isn’t my usual scene. I stare at the darts board, the numerous framed photographs of winning pub teams jostling for wall space alongside a small wooden shelf lined with trophies and tankards. I admire the humour of the young bartender’s quirky comments in response to the free-flowing banter from the cheeky guys leaning against her bar. She dashes back and forth behind the counter, her plum-coloured mane flowing attractively about her delicate features. I couldn’t do her job for all the tea in China. I watch as she pulls pints, delivers change and stands her ground, all with a pleasant smile and a polite manner. At her age I’d have blushed and run for cover – which probably explains why I’m not front-of-house material. I’m happy backstage, hidden from public view. It’s tough enough earning your corn each day without having to interact with the general public.

  ‘Another?’ asks Ruth, the stranger sitting opposite me. Her kindly green eyes look eager to please, her greying brown hair is pinned behind her ears and her growing smile is enhanced by the large glass of rosé I carried to our tiny table thirty minutes earlier.

  ‘Yes, why not. She can’t be much longer, can she?’ I say, nudging my empty wine glass towards her outstretched hand.

  ‘I shouldn’t have thought so. My email did say we would all be arriving on Saturday. It must be gone half five by now,’ says Ruth, before heading to the bar. I watch her careful step, her knee-length brown skirt swinging gently from her hips. I imagine she’s a good twelve years older than me, fifty-one . . . fifty-three at the most, though looks can be deceiving. Her soft, placid voice is lost to the sound of the men jeering at the TV’s football results.

  It’s not that I’m disappointed by first impressions – Ruth seems very pleasant, easy to chat to – but I was hoping for people my own age, late thirties or thereabouts. I hope the third woman, when she arrives, is more on my wavelength. If not, I suppose I’m in for a busy two weeks of avoiding my holiday housemates and doing my own thing. That isn’t out of the ordinary for me, but I’d set my heart on a bit of excitement; a fun holiday spent with other people. Alone time is the last thing I need. I only booked this fortnight because I knew there’d be other solo holidaymakers, though it didn’t enter my head to ask questions regarding their ages. I don’t know what I’ll do if the third woman is in her fifties, or even sixties. I won’t be impolite. I’ll simply accept the situation and make my own plans.

  Ruth

  I stare at the array of drinks lined up neatly behind the bar. I could stick with rosé, but with such a variety to choose from, maybe I should try something new. I am on holiday, after all.

  ‘What can I get you?’ asks the young woman behind the bar.

  ‘One large rosé and . . .’ I scour the bottles, unsure of what I fancy. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  ‘We have a good selection of gins. Can I tempt you there?’

  ‘Gin . . . It’s not really my thing, but why not!’

  ‘We’ve got Bombay Sapphire, Hendrick’s, Gordon’s or a very nice rhubarb and—’

  I don’t let her finish; rhubarb sounds divine.

  ‘Rhubarb, please.’

  ‘With ginger ale or tonic water?’

  I shrug. I haven’t a clue regards taste.

  ‘The ginger ale is a nice mixer with rhubarb,’ she adds.

  ‘OK.’ I simply hold out a ten-pound note and wait as she prepares our drinks before handing me the change.

  I’m as proud as Punch delivering the glasses to our small table, Emma eyes her rosé and then points to my rather bulb­ous glass of pale pink liquid.

  ‘Rhubarb gin,’ I say, popping my small bottle of ginger ale alongside. ‘Apparently they go well together.’

  ‘I usually lace my rhubarb crumble with ginger – it smells beautiful while it’s cooking,’ says Emma, sipping her wine.

  ‘So you said you’re a chef?’

  ‘Yes, but not the kind I trained to be,’ she says as I pick up my gin.

  ‘Where do you work?’

  She waves her hand dismissively. ‘In a poky roadside joint where everything on the menu is fried at least twice and served with a side order of chips . . . Seriously, it doesn’t bring out the best in my talents, but hey ho, it’ll be a different story in a few weeks.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ I ask eagerly, buzzing from the unexpected zing from my first sip of chilled gin.

  ‘Redundancies. After forty years of ownership, my boss has sold out to a guy who wants to convert the place into an Indian restaurant . . . which makes sense given that the car park is huge. It’s been a long time since we’ve managed to fill it anywhere near to capacity. And you’re in banking?’

  ‘Yes, a clerk for NatWest . . . I’m mainly on the till, serving customers and handing out leaflets, you know the sort of thing.’

  Emma nods but seems lost in a world of her own. Her rich auburn hair bounces with life; what I wouldn’t give to have such a fine head of hair. Instead mine’s got as much grey as brown and is looking listless and lank of late.

  ‘And do you enjoy it?’ she finally asks, seeing me watching her.

  ‘Not really. I did in my younger days – banking was a different industry back then – but now I feel it’s more like glorified shop work.’

  ‘No chance of a change of career?’

  ‘I doubt it, not at my age.’ If only that were a possibility. But how do you venture to pastures new when all you know is banking? I’ve spent a lifetime asking customers, ‘Is that in tens or twenties?’ and now I have to do battle with the younger generation, who only ever want to use the automated machines. I’m virtually redundant, sitting behind my counter, smiling and making small talk about the weather. It’s not how it used to be when I could name ninety per cent of the customers who came through our doors, many of whom I could identify by their signature alone.

  I notice Emma doesn’t ask how old ‘my age’ is, so I assume I look all of my fifty-two years. My dress sense is a little dowdy and sensible compared to her vibrant off-the-shoulder top, but I mustn’t complain. I’m still agile and have kept my figure – though given all the running about I do, it’s hardly surprising.

  Benjamina

  I stand outside the Queen’s Arms, my hand poised above the handle of the double doors, unsure if I should enter. I never go into bars on my own. Never. I rarely socialise at all, come to that.

  Can I do this?

  I need to go inside, but here lies the biggest problem: who will I be looking for? It’ll be two females for sure. But what happens if the pub is full of female pairings sipping wine and laughing? Do I then walk up to every table to ask each pair if they are the other two occupants of Rose Cottage? Or do I simply dash through, heading for the ladies’ toilet, only to linger for a minute in a locked cubicle before slinking back out towards the exit?

  I reread the scribbled note I found on the kitchen sideboard of Rose Cottage.

  Hi, hope you had a good journey. We’ve popped over the road for a drink. Join us when you can. TTFN.

  There is no name signed, no mobile phone number . . . nothing.

  Who still writes TTFN?

  Maybe, if I hold the note before me as I enter, the author will recognise her scribblings and beckon to me across the pub.

  I take a deep breath and wrench open the door.

  The pub is much smaller than I imagined. One step in and I’m in the middle of the floor with
a short bar to my right and several small wooden tables to my left. Instantly I spy the sign for the toilets – useful in case I need a bolthole. A group of men lean against the bar; another crowd stand beneath the plasma screen blaring football results. The only other occupants are two women seated on the far side, both staring in my direction.

  Is it a toilet dash or a cheery hello to the pair of staring strangers?

  ‘Hello, I’m Benjamina,’ I say, walking straight towards their table. My smile is firmly fixed in place and won’t falter even if I’ve made a giant faux pas and they sheepishly exchange a glance signalling ‘Who the hell is this?’

  ‘Wow, finally! We thought you’d got lost,’ jokes the younger woman.

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ says the older one, her hand wrapped about her gin glass.

  ‘Benni for short,’ I add, uncertain which side of the table to sit. I opt for the chair beside the older lady.

  ‘Emma Grund,’ says the younger woman, her brown eyes holding my gaze.

  ‘I’m Ruth. Ruth Elton,’ offers the other lady, before sipping her gin.

  ‘Well, Benni, why don’t you grab yourself a drink and we’ll introduce ourselves properly,’ says Emma, her dark eyes blinking quickly. She appears pleased to see me; I’m hoping she’s not one of those people who can be overfamiliar in a heartbeat.

  I leave my seat, nudging the table as I sidle past it awkwardly. Maybe I should have gone to the bar first before joining them, but then what if they weren’t the right females? I’d have looked a plonker standing alone, drink in hand, or worse still, dashing into the toilets with it.

  As I approach the group of men near the bar, I avert my eyes and focus intently on the wine taps. I know if I lift my gaze for a fraction of a second, I’ll see them noticing me. I might see their sideways glances, their heads nodding in my direction, and even worse, their mouthed comments, which they think are funny but which I know from past experience can be hurtful and unnecessary. So I continue to stare at the wine taps while the pretty bartender delivers change to her previous customer and receives a grateful ‘Cheers, Marla’ in response.