Willow grins at me and nods. She looks bushed after a long day at the café, her slender limbs sprawled over both arms of the floral-printed chair, her pink hair gusting around her face. Bella Swan, her Border terrier, is curled up in a small wiry ball on her lap.
‘As long as you’re home before midnight,’ she says, stifling a yawn. ‘In case you turn into a pumpkin.’
‘Terrible story, that,’ interjects Lynnie, frowning in contempt. ‘Completely anti-feminist. What kind of a message does it send out to young girls, telling them they need a Prince Charming to rescue them, and that their sisters are ugly and evil? Patriarchal nonsense …’
Willow and I share an amused look, and nod. Every now and then, the old Lynnie pops up and gives us a rant, the kind we grew up listening to, and it’s somehow very comforting. Our bedtime stories were never the bedtime stories that other little girls listened to.
There’s a knock on the door, and I feel a quick surge in my heart rate. I’m like a giddy schoolgirl, which Lynnie wouldn’t approve of.
She looks a bit surprised at the sound – visitors can be unnerving for her – and Willow quickly says: ‘Auburn, that must be Finn. Your poor boyfriend. Off you go, have fun!’
We’ve got used to doing these subtle recaps for Lynnie’s benefit, finding ways to gently remind of her what’s happening around her so she doesn’t get frightened, without making her feel stupid.
‘Yes, have fun!’she adds, reassured that the knock on the door doesn’t represent any kind of threat to her or her loved ones. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!’
As Lynnie has spent most of her life living on various artists’ communes, having affairs with much younger men, and raising three kids on her own, she’s something of a rule-breaker. I’m not sure there’s much I could do that Lynnie hasn’t done already.
I sprint to the front door and unlock it. We have to keep everything locked in case Lynnie goes walkabout, which she did last year and almost died. It’s a pain, but not as much of a pain as searching the clifftops at four o’clock in the morning, looking for your mother.
Finn is standing in the porch, all tall and gorgeous, and I fight to keep down a little squeal. Mine, all mine. Just seeing him knocks some of the strangeness of the day out of me, and makes me feel more human again.
He’s wearing jeans and a black chunky-knit sweater, and looks like he could throw me in his longboat and take me away for a good ravishing and a smorgasbord.
‘Your carriage awaits,’ he says, pointing at his four-wheel drive. Huh. Weird – it’s almost as though he heard us earlier.
‘Patriarchal nonsense …’ I mutter, leaning up to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.
‘Nope,’ he replies, evenly, ‘a Toyota Land Cruiser.’
I climb in and buckle up as he sits beside me and starts the engine.
‘Everything okay at home?’ he asks, glancing at me through his mirrors. Lynnie, when she knows who he is, adores Finn. She calls him her Angel of Light, and clearly imbues him with all kinds of spiritual goodness. When she doesn’t know him, though, it’s a different matter entirely.
‘Yes, fine,’ I reply quickly to reassure him. ‘I needed an escape route, that’s all. Thank you, Star Lord.’
Star Lord was Tom’s nickname for the person he was recruiting to manage Briarwood, and it’s kind of stuck.
‘You do know, don’t you,’ I say, as he pulls out onto the road and heads off to destination unknown, ‘that you only got the job because of your name?’
‘What? Being called Finn was part of the job description, was it?’
‘No. I mean you got your job because your name has one syllable. Only men whose names have one syllable are allowed to live in Budbury.’
I see him running through the men he knows here – Joe, Matt, Cal, Sam, Tom – and realising that it’s true.
‘But some of their names are shortened versions,’ he points out. ‘Wasn’t the other guy shortlisted called Simon? He could have been called Si.’
‘Ah yes, but you’re missing one very important point – I couldn’t have given the job to someone I had to call Si.’
‘Why’s that?’ he asks, his smile telling me he knows he has fallen into an evil trap but he doesn’t mind.
‘Because every time I was in a room with him, I’d have to dance around Gangam Style …’
He pauses, then replies: ‘You do know that’s spelled P-S-Y, don’t you?’
Huh. I didn’t, as a matter of fact. Bastard.
‘Thank you, Admiral of the Pedantic Fleet,’ I say, in a minor huff with myself for my lack of pop culture spelling knowledge. ‘Where are we off to, anyway?’
‘The cliffs near Durdle Door,’ he says. ‘For a picnic.’
‘Did you bring whistle pops?’
‘No. I brought salad.’
‘Uggh. Why would you do that to me?’
‘Because I’m me,’ he says, grinning. ‘And your body’s a temple. If it’s any consolation, I also brought Scotch eggs and blueberry muffins from the café.’
‘That’s all right then,’ I answer, already figuring out ways to pretend to eat salad without actually eating it.
As it turns out, the salad was also from the café – Finn had been there earlier in the day and brought home some treats – and therefore it was delicious as well as healthy. Chunks of feta cheese and lots of olive oil and pine nuts make everything taste better.
He’s spread out two zipped together sleeping bags on the ground, and laid various items of bodily sustenance across them. He’s found a spot a mile or so away from the famous Durdle, and the view is amazing. It’s properly dark now, the sky studded with stars, the only sound that of the sea rolling across the sand and the occasional rummaging of wildlife around us.
We eat, and chat, and all seems well with the world. I feel blessed to live in such a beautiful place, and to be with such a beautiful man, and to eat such beautiful muffins.
After we’ve had the picnic, he clears up, and we climb into the sleeping bags. It’s been another warm day, but it’s still spring and the night-time temperatures are not as friendly as they could be. I don’t mind – I’m only human and, aware as I am of patriarchal nonsense, being crammed into a sleeping bag with Finn is not my idea of oppression.
He wraps me up in his arms, my head resting on his chest, and strokes my hair as we gaze up at the night sky.
‘This is nice,’ I say, burrowing into him even more. ‘We’re snuggling.’
He laughs, and replies: ‘Snuggling. That’s not a word I associate with you, Auburn.’
‘Me neither! I don’t think I’ve ever used it before in a non-ironic way. Maybe I’ve used it to incorrectly describe the illegal activities of those who import goods while also bypassing customs tax …’
‘Would you call those trunks Daniel Craig wears in Casino Royale budgie snugglers then?’
‘I’d call them heavenly. You should get some. We could role-play Bond together. I could be your Pussy Galore.’
He’s silent for a moment, and I know he’s thinking it through.
‘Yes,’ he says eventually. ‘I’d definitely be up for that. I’ve got a tux.