So I climb out of the cab and go to the edge of the fields to gaze out. A meadow of rather hopeful early wildflowers spreads out in front of me. Beyond that the lush, green pastures drop away, rolling gently towards the ribbon of sparkling silver sea that stitches the land to the vast blue-white sky. It’s as if I’ve entered a different land. The mist has gone, the sun looks like it might be struggling to come out. Even on such a dull day, it’s beautiful and I take a moment to breathe in the air, to admire the view.
Sensing the driver waiting patiently behind me, I return to the car. A short while later and I’m looking at the sea again as we drop down to the coastal road on the other side of the island. I check the address again, even though I’ve already given it to the driver and he hasn’t, thus far, looked once at his sat nav. A few minutes later, the taxi turns onto the curving harbour road and a sign says Welcome to Cockleshell Bay.
He slows down as we pass a long line of smart houseboats and eventually, he pulls up outside one that’s rather smarter than the rest.
‘Here you go, love.’ He turns in his seat and I hand over a modest amount of cash for my journey and get out of the cab. The price of taxis is also quite different in London.
The driver joins me at the boot and flicks it open. ‘Want a hand with your bags?’ he asks as he lifts out my two bulging holdalls.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Nice place,’ he observes with a nod at Bill’s houseboat.
‘Yes, it is.’ This is the first time that I’ve seen it in the flesh. Although Bill’s shown me enough photographs of it.
‘Enjoy your holiday.’ The driver jumps back into his warm car and buzzes off, leaving me standing there at the side of the harbour.
Holiday. That’s not quite how I’d describe it.
I have a good long look at Bill’s boat - my home for the foreseeable future. It’s called Sunny Days and is painted cream and grey. It’s not hard to tell that his lengthy and rather expensive renovations have only recently been finished. Everything looks shiny and new, even though the day is trying its best to stay dreary. My brother has clearly thrown a lot of money at his latest project, which is so typical of him. He has, of course, been too busy to visit it since it was completed, so I’m to be the first occupant. I think his plan is to use it as a weekend bolthole, but I can’t see that ever happening. Bill runs his own company – the one that I work for too: WJ Design. I’ve been with him for years, ever since he set it up and I love working with my older bro. We lost Mum and Dad some years ago, so now it’s just the two of us and, because of that, we’ve always been close.
Bill’s company specialises in designing the interiors for hotels, office blocks, shopping centres and, though I say it myself, we’re very much in demand. Which, as a result, leaves us little time for play. I’m marginally better at crafting a social life than Bill, who is a complete workaholic. My dear brother has more money than he knows what to do with and no time to spend it. At the moment, I’m feeling grateful that he has this follyas I had no idea where else to go and, when Bill suggested I escape to his houseboat, it seemed like the answer to my prayers.
The houseboat is solid, and sturdy on its moorings – I think Bill said it had been in service as a Thames Lighter. I don’t even know what that is, but while the houseboat looks like it might have started out life as some kind of workaday tug there’s not much evidence of that left now. Bill’s team have worked their magic on it and now it’s a houseboat fit for a queen – or a sister who’s broken into little pieces.
I pick up my bags and walk up the gangway. As I do, I can’t help but note that the houseboat next door is not quite so chi-chi. The entrance to Bill’s boat is flanked by two bay trees in gleaming steel pots – so perfect that they look artificial. Where my brother has fancy, architectural plants, my new next-door-neighbours have instead a gas cylinder, a pile of wood, a tatty green and yellow wicker chair, a mountain bike and an abandoned shopping trolley to welcome their visitors. On shore by their boat there’s a lean-to shed made out of a dozen different types and sizes of board. That too is filled with wood. No doubt it’s individual, but it’s also kind of an eyesore compared to Bill’s fancy refit.
The owners seem to have taken shabby-chic to the extreme as this houseboat looks as if it’s been cobbled together from stuff that was previously destined for the Tidy Tip and, as such, stands out in a row of pristine weekend places. The sides are covered with worn cedar shingles and one wall is painted a vivid purple. The window frames are many shades of bright blue and of every shape and size conceivable. There’s an intricate totem pole carved from driftwood too with a kayak propped up against it and there are other attractive carved motifs on its shingle walls – a sunshine, a leaping fish, a tree. Though it sits uneasily next to the other boats – which with this one exception all look rather like Bill’s – I admire its bold quirkiness and individuality. It’s a hippy squatting in an office of accountants. Jed Clampett in the middle of Beverly Hills. In a world of grey, don’t we need more colour? Just don’t tell Bill I said that. Like me, he tends to favour the muted shades. The houseboat – Sea Breezes – doesn’t look as if it’s currently inhabited, so maybe no one lives there any more. There’d be no point asking Bill about his neighbours as I’m sure he hasn’t a clue.
With a last appraising glance at Sea Breezes, I let myself in and, of course, my brother has worked his amazing magic with the interior too. I expected no less. I haven’t seen any photographs of it completely finished inside and the ones I did see certainly didn’t give any indication of just how lovely it is. If I hadn’t been so busy with my own projects, I would have given him a hand, but the time was never available. Seems like he’s done a pretty good job without me.
Dropping my bags in the hall, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. What a sorry picture. My long blonde hair hasn’t benefited from being styled by the wind. It looks lank and lifeless. I used to get it coloured every eight weeks, cut every four weeks and would splash out on a professional blow-dry every week, but I can’t remember when last I went. Whenever I look in a mirror, I see Bill looking back too. He and I share the same looks and, as kids, we were often mistaken for twins. My brother is only eighteen months older than me, so we’re not very different in age – or outlook, or likes and dislikes. We’re both tall, slim and are strawberry blondes – though my hair is highlighted with blonde and Bill’s is now naturally highlighted with silver-grey. We both have green eyes – though there is no sparkle in mine any more. Once people used to remark on my eyes, including my husband. Now there are dark shadows beneath them and my skin looks as washed-out as the day. I’ve avoided mirrors for months. Now there is too much reflected there and I can’t bear to look. I trace the line of my jaw, the curve of my nose, run my fingers over my long black lashes. I see my past, my present, my future staring back at me and it’s all too much. When my eyes fill with tears, I tear myself away.
Going through to the main living area, I push all other thoughts aside and concentrate hard on appreciating it. There’s a lot to admire. It’s a huge space, flooded with light. On a sunny day, it will be incredible. The kitchen is fitted with white units and a huge Aga in a soft dove-grey colour - which does make me smile as I don’t think I’ve ever seen Bill cook. I’m sure that the majority of numbers in my foodie brother’s iPhone are for restaurants that he favours. The table is white, possibly a French antique, and has a shabby-chic finish. To go with it are a range of beautifully co-ordinated mis-matched chairs in soft seaside colours – pink, pistachio, duck egg blue, lemon.