Page 30 of Under Your Spell

I plan to arrive at Granny Mac’s house in the afternoon so that I have time to set things up nicely and go to the shop to get the extensive last-minute list of ‘essentials’ that David has emailed to me, and some real human food for myself. I don’t know why I thought, given my current success rate, that things would simply work out the way I wanted them to.

First of all there’s an accident on the motorway involving spilled oil, and I sit in four hours of stationary traffic, hoping my car doesn’t die. Then, when we’re finally moving again, my car does die and I have to wait another two hours for the roadside assistance van to come. The driver works in grim silence for a while before finally getting the car started again.

‘Not going too far, are you?’ he asks hopefully.

‘Up to Northumberland,’ I reply.

The air whistles out from between his teeth. ‘Might want to keep us on speed dial, love.’

On that reassuring note he departs, and I chug the remaining 150 miles while holding my breath, lest the smallest movement should make the car collapse. When I finally do reach the house it’s after ten o’clock at night. I had forgotten how light it stays this far north in the summer, so for the last hour of the drive it has felt as though I was keeping pace with the sun, which still hovers ember-orange just above the horizon.

I unfold myself from the car with an audible groan, and gather the carrier bags from the local supermarket, which certainly don’t include Theo’s specific brand of mineral water or lychee juice, or 90% of the other things on my list. I am already braced for several hundred icy emails on the subject from David.

As if I am a character in a police procedural being asked to identify the body, I steel myself to look at the house, drawing my shoulders back, taking a deep breath, lifting my eyes.

It looks the same. I don’t know why I expected it to look different… I suppose because I knew that Petty was having work done on it, but – at least from the front – it’s just as I remember, and the nostalgia that hits me is so intense it knocks the air out of me.

Looming up above the driveway, the high grey stone wall, punctuated by irregularly spaced, different-sized windows, isn’t exactly welcoming. It looks hewn from the landscape, like it was made to withstand the wind, the rain and the waves that I can hear crashing down to the side of me. An old converted mill, the house is perched on the edge of a low cliff, and round the back there are views out across the water to Holy Island. If you scramble down the footpath from the back garden you find yourself on a private stretch of beach, hemmed in by dark, craggy rocks. It’s the beach where Serena, Lil and I spent our summers swimming and playing pirates, and eating crab rolls, gritty with sand and somehow more delicious for it.

Awash with the memories of arriving here so many times before – the giddy excitement of another wild summer stretching out in front of me, of singing along to ABBA, of reading smutty romance novels and wearing coconut-scented sun cream – I walk up to the front door. It’s the same pale green it always was, but cleaner now, shiny where the paint had once been peeling off in strips. I punch the code that Petty sent me into the key safe on the wall and let myself in, flicking the lights on as I go.

Inside it’s a lot more obvious that changes have been made. Gone is Granny Mac’s clutter, the fussy floral wallpaper removed in favour of muted greys and pale blues. It’s different, but the bones of the house are the same, and it’s like I’m seeing double – overlaying the image of what was with what is now. Off to the left of the front door is the living space, which is long and light – thanks largely to another of Petty’s changes: the entire back wall has been replaced with sliding glass windows that frame the view of the sea.

I know that the record company had Petty put everything in the house in storage and they sent a bunch of furniture, so everything is – as you might expect – extremely expensive-looking. There’s a giant TV, a couple of bookcases and a small four-seater dining table with an elaborate glass light fitting hanging above it that looks like something from Picasso’s nightmares. I manoeuvre around the enormous L-shaped sofa – petrol-grey velvet, draped in snuggly blankets – and stand in the window taking in the view.

Unsurprisingly, this view has also stayed the same, and I find it comforting. I can hardly begin to sort through everything I’m feeling. Memories pepper me so hard and fast that I can’t even separate them – my sisters, Granny Mac, that last summer, all the summers. I’ve been so busy worrying about Theo and staying here with him that I haven’t really let myself imagine what this part would feel like.

I take the bags through to the kitchen, which is off the living room and all sleek and modern now, and unpack the groceries, fill the enormous American-style freezer with ice. David had sent me a one-line email that simply read, ‘There MUST always be ice on hand’, as though Theo might keel over if forced to drink a room-temperature beverage.

I poke my head into the small study and find that – per David’s instructions – this has been purged of any remaining furniture and instead contains a collection of gleaming gym equipment. Stacked neatly against one wall are a lot of boxes of various sizes which I know are some of the orders placed by David. As with the gym equipment, he liaised with Petty to make sure everything was delivered properly. ‘He’s quite the character’ was her placid response to the organizational force of nature who has quickly become the bane of my existence.

I can’t even bring myself to start sorting through the boxes now – I’ll do it in the morning before Theo gets here. The thought of his arrival brings another rush of nerves.

I go back out to the car and collect the rest of my bags before stomping upstairs to my bedroom. When we were little, Lil and I always shared, but now the bunk beds that were our pride and joy have been replaced by a small double. I stick my head in what would have been Serena’s room, across the hall from mine, and find to my delight that Petty has kept the walls that we painted midnight blue unchanged.

Next door to my room is Granny Mac’s room, which Petty told me would be all set up for Theo. I push the door open tentatively, but again, the space is unrecognizable. There’s a new, bigger window that offers a beautiful view over the bay. The bed is enormous, and the bedding is crisp, white and about a million thread count, spun by nuns in some remote mountain convent or something similar – honestly, I lost track of the bedsheet conversation thirteen emails in and just agreed with whatever David said.

I run my hand over the bed and instantly feel my skin prickle with heat. Great, now Theo Eliott is turning me into some sort of bedsheet-obsessed pervert. Why does it matter to me that the man will be sleeping in here? I have no feelings about that at all. None. It is just a bed.

Against one wall is a rack that holds several gleaming guitars, instruments that I know from David have been shipped with great care and at great expense. I check that everything is clean and tidy, and grab some fresh (Egyptian cotton) towels out of the linen cupboard where – when I read and reread The Pursuit of Love at aged fourteen – Serena, Lil and I used to pretend to be Mitfords, ‘but without the fascism’, as Lil was always careful to add. Here we sat practically on each other’s laps – it was not a large cupboard – and talked about sex, a subject with which we, as the love children of Ripp Harris, were significantly more au fait than the Radletts, but about which we still had many, many interesting questions.

Fortunately for me, the cleaning company that Petty employs has done an excellent job, and so apart from laying out the towels and arranging some sweet peas from the garden in a jam jar on his bedside table, there’s nothing else to do. I think the flowers add a homey touch that is currently missing – it looks too much like a hotel room right now: beautiful but soulless. And that seems wrong in Granny Mac’s house.

I drag myself off to bed, sinking into the very ordinary, slightly worn cotton sheets with a great sigh of relief. Perhaps I’ll have time after I unpack the boxes in the morning to drive back down to Newcastle where the bigger shops may help me cross more items off my list.

On this reassuring thought I fall into a deep and dreamless sleep until I am awoken by a loud banging noise.

As I sit up, my groggy brain takes a moment to catch up with my surroundings. Then I realize the banging is someone knocking on the front door. I stumble out of bed and down the stairs, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I guess it’s the online order David placed for weird Japanese energy drinks.

I’m almost at the door when my phone starts ringing shrilly in the bedroom.

‘Oh God, hang on, hang on,’ I mutter, wrenching the door open.

Standing on the other side is Theo Eliott, a phone held up to his ear. He’s wearing jeans and a grey T-shirt that looks soft and worn but that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. His dark hair is mussed, his face unshaven.

‘Gah!’ I say, succinctly.

He has a pair of sunglasses on so I can’t really see his reaction, but his mouth kicks up at the sound. ‘It’s okay, David. She’s here. I’m in,’ he says into the phone. There’s a brief pause, and then, ‘Yes, you’ve made your feelings on the matter very clear, thank you. I’ll speak to you later.’