I walk towards the back. Again, my lack of boat-based terms evades me. I don’t know if it’s the bow or the stern, but it’s the end of the boat that overlooks the sea. There’s a comfortable living room with an oversized pale blue velvet sofa with navy sail-stripe cushions scattered over it. There’s a range of accompanying eclectic accent armchairs and I remember Bill telling me that he’d sourced them through various up-and-coming designers, as we do with all of our work when we can. It’s what gives our interiors an original edge. Every piece has been hand-picked and placed with painstaking care – Bill’s forte – from the furniture to the artworks on the wall. There are giant sea charts on one wall and, on the other, a huge poster of Sean Connery and Ursula Andress on a beach. He’s catching hold of her slender ankles as she does a handstand in her bikini – it’s an iconic image and is perfect for the space.
In front of the span of bi-fold doors there’s a telescope set up and I put my eye to it, but can see very little as it’s all blurry. When I’m settled, I’ll have plenty of time to work out how to focus it properly. With a bit of fiddling, I open one of the doors and step out onto the spacious rear deck. The wind has dropped and the air isn’t quite as nippy as it was on the ferry coming over here, but I don’t think I want to hang about out here too long today.
The view is breathtaking. Sunny Days is situated right in the middle of the curving sweep of the harbour, so has an all-encompassing vista. Bill certainly knows how to pick his spot. Right now, the tide is high and I can see that, at the mouth of the harbour wall, there’s a circular, brooding fort ahead of us which is currently shrouded in low cloud. It looks as if it’s floating on the water like a mirage. To the left, there’s a line of moored boats, what looks like a sailing club and a shack painted bright blue that’s a café selling fresh seafood. To the other side, more sailing boats and houseboats, but not much else. Ahead of me, there’s just the sea, the gulls wheeling in the air and the sturdy fort.
Out on the deck there’s a dining table with four chairs which will be an ideal spot for breakfast or reading should the weather perk up. Beyond that is a small ramp which goes down to a wooden pontoon that extends out over the water and is home to two pristine, teak steamer chairs.
The only other human figure I can see in the harbour is a man out on a paddleboard in a wetsuit. Even looking at him makes me shiver. I guess these coastal types are more hardy than soft townies like me. Nothing on earth would persuade me into water that cold, that grey. I’m not even keen on venturing into the sea when the climate is tropical. I watch him for a few moments as he glides across the calm water of the harbour, before I retreat inside. Not my idea of fun, but he looks as if he’s enjoying himself, anyway. It takes all sorts, I suppose.
My cursory exploration of this floor over, I scoop up my bags again and head downstairs to the bedrooms. There are only two, but they’re both generously proportioned. The second bedroom is, as yet, empty, waiting to be finished. The master suite is, of course, beautifully furnished. My brother has impeccable taste and flair. He’s so fussy, though, which probably explains why, at the age of nearly forty-four, he’s still resolutely single. I don’t think anyone could live up to his exacting standards. He says he might rent out this place, but I can’t see him wanting to let strangers in here on a regular basis.
The main bedroom is the furthest away from the harbour road, facing the sea. Down here, all windows are traditional portholes and it does feel more boat-like. The theme is fresh, seaside-influenced without it being clichéd. There’s a white bed-frame and crisp white linen topped with pale blue tweed cushions and a couple that are hand-stitched with delicate shell patterns. A rich, royal blue throw is meticulously arranged in a casual style. The bedside cabinets are stripped-back wood with glass lamps and white shades. The white dressing table has a Philippe Starck ghost chair in front of it – no doubt an original rather than a copy. It’s all so pristine and wonderful.
Looking round, I like what I see. I can definitely be comfortable here, even if happy might be stretching it a bit. I can’t exactly say that I feel any better or lighter, but some of the weight that’s been pressing down on my heart and my head has lifted for a moment. Perhaps that’s what sea air and some well-placed designer furniture does for you. I haven’t lived on my own for years and it feels strange to be completely by myself without any detritus from another person in the house – or boat, in this case. All I can hear is the sound of the gentle waves lapping against the hull which is soothing, hypnotic. Perhaps I could learn to live again here. Heaven knows, the total solitude is appealing.
Then I hear the front door bang and a voice shouts, ‘Coooooeeeee!’
Chapter Three
‘What the f—?’ I say to no one but myself. That made me jump out of my skin. Bill didn’t tell me that anyone else had a key. Did I leave the front door open?
‘Only me!’ More shouting.
Abandoning my bags and any thoughts of unpacking, I take the steps two at a time to go and see who’s invaded my space.
In the kitchen, there’s a very buxom woman with bleach-blonde hair – as white as it possibly could be. Her red lipstick is also the brightest I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s positively neon. She’s wearing leopard skin print jeggings that give the impression of a boa constrictor trying to eat her. They’re topped with a white floaty number that has a perilously plunging neckline and exposing a good deal of her comely cleavage. The outfit is completed by a pair of vertiginous red heels. Her nails are an inch long and also an eye-popping shade of red. She makes me feel very drab in my black trousers and grey shirt, but then my interest in my appearance has taken a back seat for some time now. This woman is far more glamourous – in a slightly alarming way – though she must be twenty years older than me.
Currently, she’s determinedly loading shopping into my fridge from a carrier bag that states Shopping is my cardio.
‘Just a few bits, sweetheart,’ she says as if we’ve been friends for life. ‘I thought I’d get you going. Cheese, hummus, pork pie – food of the gods – and salad.’ She grimaces at the pack of three iceberg hearts. ‘Though I can never see the point of lettuce myself.’ She indicates her curves. ‘As you can tell, I’m a confirmed salad-dodger. You’re not vegan, are you? Joyless buggers. There’s a nice loaf in the cupboard. Get some carbs down your neck, lovely. You’re as thin as a chip.’
I stand there and gape. Who the hell is this?
‘Cuppa, sweetie? You look knackered.’ She bangs about with the kettle. ‘How do you take it? Black, white? I’ve brought milk and sugar.’ The woman holds them up for my inspection. ‘You don’t look like you take sugar.’
She gets two mugs out of the cupboard and crashes about with the kettle. All her bracelets jangle, dozens of them clanging together, setting my teeth on edge.
‘Sorry,’ I say, when I finally find my voice. ‘But who are you?’
‘Marilyn.’ She looks at me as if I should have known this. ‘I was named for Marilyn Monroe.’ Like Monroe, she does a shimmy and a pout. ‘My mother was a big fan. I’m a McConaughey, though.’