The Beach Hut Next Door by Veronica Henry Read Free Book Online Page B

day’s work in her life. Her mother had been a professional wife. A role for which, Elodie realized now, she herself had been groomed. An over-priced girls’ boarding school that taught you how to make rum babas but sapped you of any ambition; a job with daddy; no mention of anything intellectually strenuous …
    In some ways, thank goodness things had turned out how they did, or she would just be a carbon copy of her mother.
    The front door hadn’t altered. Oak, with large metal studs, a latch with a twisted ring for a handle, and a mortice lock that opened surprisingly easily. As she stepped inside, the ghosts all came fluttering forwards to meet her. She knew perfectly well they were only in her mind, but they were just as real. And the smell. How was it that the particular smell of a house never changed? The Grey House scent was a familiar mixture of seaside dampness and wood and something else that unlocked the flicker of a memory but wouldn’t be pinned down. The trace of someone’s perfume, perhaps?
    She stepped into the hall. The staircase rose to her right, curving upwards, its bannister as inviting as it ever had been. How many times had she slid down it as a child? How many times had she walked down the stairs from her bedroom, carrying a book or her bathing things or an empty glass or cup? And what of the last time she had walked down those stairs, her head held high and her heart thumping at the thought of what was to come, her father’s hand in hers? The final descent. Even now, the emotion made her chest feel tight.
    She walked through the hall, through a shard of dust motes spinning in the midday sun, ignoring the doors to the dining room and the morning room and the corridor that led down to the kitchen and scullery and heading straight for the drawing room. As soon as she opened the door, the light from the French windows blinded her, the light that bounced off the infinite sea; the sea that was the reason for the house being built. And she could hear it, too, the roar that never ceased, for the waves here never abated; the comforting susurrus that used to reassure her whenever she woke in the night, lulling her back to sleep with its gentle rhythm.
    The room had barely changed. Its shelves were empty of the books and ornaments she had grown up with; the wooden floor was scarred where the furniture had stood. The yellow curtains were still there, faded and thick with dust. They hung limp and tattered, as if too tired to carry on their job. The chandelier, too, was crusted in grime. But it was still a room to take the breath away, with its perfect proportions, the full-width French windows leading out onto the garden, and the staggering view beyond.
    Elodie stood in the doorway. She felt an incredible calm settle upon her. She had done the right thing, she felt sure. There was no other place on earth to make her feel like this. She walked across the floorboards, her footsteps echoing in the emptiness. She twisted the metal knob that undid the lock of the French windows. Even now she could remember the extra push you needed to unlatch it. As she stepped outside, the wind ruffled her hair, playfully rearranging her Sassoon-style bob, as if to say this is no place for your city chic, madam.
    She had so many plans. Landscapers, builders, decorators: she had them all lined up. There was a strict schedule to adhere to if she was going to meet her deadline. The beauty of it was that it was all here. She didn’t want to change a thing. All she wanted was for it to be restored to its former glory. Except for the hideous garage, there was to be no smashing down of walls, no restructuring, no ripping out of the kind that was so fashionable in magazines and on television. After all, you couldn’t improve on perfection. She wanted the house to be just as it had been, the last time she was happy. So that she could be happy again. It was just within her reach. She could feel it.
    But first, there was something she