New Beginnings at Rose Cottage

by Erin Green

Genres: Family Life; Friendship; Holiday books; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

Escape to gorgeous Rose Cottage in glorious Devon for a chance of a fresh start in Erin Green's feel-good novel.

'Utterly charming...an uplifting and optimistic story' Hot Brands Cool Places

If you love Lucy Diamond, Phillipa Ashley, Sue Moorcroft and Holly Martin, you'll LOVE Erin Green's novels of love, life and laughter!

'A pleasure to read... A summer breezes treat' Devon Life

'A perfect story full of hope, love and friendship' 5* reader review

'An uplifting, engaging and heart warming book. Loved it' 5* reader review

'An amazing book and makes you really think that your dreams of changing your life can really happen' 5* reader review

'Like a scrummy bowl of Devon cream and strawberries, this is a tasty, rich and delicious summer read laced with the warmth of friendships and the possibilities of new beginnings... The author has the knack of making her characters spring off the pages so real that you'll care about them' Peterborough Telegraph

You are invited to holiday at gorgeous Rose Cottage - where friendship, home comforts and romance are guaranteed...

One glorious summer brings the chance to begin again.

When solo travellers Benni, Emma and Ruth find themselves holidaying together at charming Rose Cottage in Brixham, Devon, they are initially disappointed to be sharing with strangers of a different age group.

But 'friendship and home comforts' are guaranteed at Rose Cottage and soon a bond blossoms between the women, who each have valuable life lessons to share.

As the summer unfolds, Benni, Emma and Ruth begin to realise that age is just a number. Before their time at Rose Cottage ends, will they take the chance to grasp the dreams that are now within their reach?

For another uplifting read from Erin Green, don't miss Taking a Chance on Love, out now!

'Full of humour, poignancy and ultimately uplifting this is an absolutely gorgeous read' Hot Brands Cool Places

(P)2021 Headline Publishing Group Limited

Release date: August 8, 2019

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 289

Sample

Chapter One

Saturday 18 August

Benjamina

As I step from the bus, I’m nervous yet relieved. Relieved that the kindly driver helped me offload my oversized suitcase, avoiding the embarrassing situation I’d been anticipating throughout my journey from Paignton station. And relieved to see the street sign: Lower Manor Road. I’m in the right location.

This isn’t my usual Saturday afternoon. This is an adventure I’ve talked myself into over the last few weeks. A holiday I’d have loved someone to try to talk me out of booking but, sadly, my life doesn’t contain such loyal friends. Just family.

Turning to my right, I view the steep incline of Lower Manor Road – the route to my holiday cottage. I can’t see the end of the road, simply a double row of pastel-painted cottages lining the cobbled street, which stretches skywards before disappearing. It looks picturesque, the perfect setting for a two-week holiday, but it’ll be a bugger to walk up. No one mentioned that Brixham is so hilly, though I doubt my family are aware of such details.

I should have booked a taxi. Not because of my oversized wheelie case, but because when your exercise routine consists of nothing more strenuous than pushing a shopping trolley around a supermarket, you doubt your physical prowess. I have what I prefer to call a curvy, somewhat ample figure – voluptuous, some might say – certainly not one that’s accustomed to steep hill climbing.

What I do know is that one step in front of another always gets me where I need to be. So off I plod. I’ll pace myself. Stop for a breather whenever I need to, but I’ll get there in my own sweet time.

My suitcase wheels provide a comforting rattle to my trek. I switch hands numerous times as its plastic handle cuts deep into my sweating palms. I count my steps as I walk, a habit from childhood; it helps to pass the time.

I stop several times to take deep breaths and appreciate the stunning views of the harbour, the cliff face opposite with its stacked cottages, and the deep blue horizon. I smile at passing folk striding down the hill, knowing that my freckled cheeks are bright red, my blonde ponytail is sticking to the nape of my neck and a trickle of sweat runs the length of my back to soak my elasticated waistband. But still, despite my ballet pumps digging into my swelling feet, one step at a time gets me to the top of Lower Manor Road, which leads into Higher Manor Road, then Church Street, before a sharp left presents a glorious view of Rose Cottage.

Despite my nerves, it’s a welcome relief to view the lilac paintwork, the wrought-iron gate and the plethora of pale roses growing above the bay window. The narrow street doesn’t have a pavement, so I stand in the road and admire the cottage, playing for time in order to slow my heartbeat and renew my ability to speak before meeting my holiday housemates. I’m aiming for a good impression. I’m hoping to portray the adult I should be, rather than the naïve child I continue to feel like.

I recall the holiday let’s small online advert in my mind’s eye.

Cosy, picturesque cottage available for solo holidaymakers, offering a comfy home from home with new friends guaranteed.

Which is exactly what I need. It’s not the holiday option I’d have chosen for my mid twenties. Growing up, I always imagined lying with a group of close girlfriends on an exotic beach filled with toned, tanned bodies whilst overstimulated holiday reps cajoled drunken males fortified with beer to participate in ludicrous sports. Sadly, nearly a decade after leaving school, all my friends are either married, pregnant or AWOL – away with other ladies. And I, desperate for my first holiday as an adult, am going solo.

I fish my mobile from my pocket and quickly text my brother to let him know I’ve arrived safely, after which I find the email containing my arrival instructions and note the combination for the key safe, which the attached diagram pinpoints beside the front door.

I retrieve the key and enter Rose Cottage.

This is it . . . Let my holiday begin.

Emma

This bar isn’t my usual scene. I stare at the darts board, the numerous framed photographs of winning pub teams jostling for wall space alongside a small wooden shelf lined with trophies and tankards. I admire the humour of the young bartender’s quirky comments in response to the free-flowing banter from the cheeky guys leaning against her bar. She dashes back and forth behind the counter, her plum-coloured mane flowing attractively about her delicate features. I couldn’t do her job for all the tea in China. I watch as she pulls pints, delivers change and stands her ground, all with a pleasant smile and a polite manner. At her age I’d have blushed and run for cover – which probably explains why I’m not front-of-house material. I’m happy backstage, hidden from public view. It’s tough enough earning your corn each day without having to interact with the general public.

‘Another?’ asks Ruth, the stranger sitting opposite me. Her kindly green eyes look eager to please, her greying brown hair is pinned behind her ears and her growing smile is enhanced by the large glass of rosé I carried to our tiny table thirty minutes earlier.

‘Yes, why not. She can’t be much longer, can she?’ I say, nudging my empty wine glass towards her outstretched hand.

‘I shouldn’t have thought so. My email did say we would all be arriving on Saturday. It must be gone half five by now,’ says Ruth, before heading to the bar. I watch her careful step, her knee-length brown skirt swinging gently from her hips. I imagine she’s a good twelve years older than me, fifty-one . . . fifty-three at the most, though looks can be deceiving. Her soft, placid voice is lost to the sound of the men jeering at the TV’s football results.

It’s not that I’m disappointed by first impressions – Ruth seems very pleasant, easy to chat to – but I was hoping for people my own age, late thirties or thereabouts. I hope the third woman, when she arrives, is more on my wavelength. If not, I suppose I’m in for a busy two weeks of avoiding my holiday housemates and doing my own thing. That isn’t out of the ordinary for me, but I’d set my heart on a bit of excitement; a fun holiday spent with other people. Alone time is the last thing I need. I only booked this fortnight because I knew there’d be other solo holidaymakers, though it didn’t enter my head to ask questions regarding their ages. I don’t know what I’ll do if the third woman is in her fifties, or even sixties. I won’t be impolite. I’ll simply accept the situation and make my own plans.

Ruth

I stare at the array of drinks lined up neatly behind the bar. I could stick with rosé, but with such a variety to choose from, maybe I should try something new. I am on holiday, after all.

‘What can I get you?’ asks the young woman behind the bar.

‘One large rosé and . . .’ I scour the bottles, unsure of what I fancy. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

‘We have a good selection of gins. Can I tempt you there?’

‘Gin . . . It’s not really my thing, but why not!’

‘We’ve got Bombay Sapphire, Hendrick’s, Gordon’s or a very nice rhubarb and—’

I don’t let her finish; rhubarb sounds divine.

‘Rhubarb, please.’

‘With ginger ale or tonic water?’

I shrug. I haven’t a clue regards taste.

‘The ginger ale is a nice mixer with rhubarb,’ she adds.

‘OK.’ I simply hold out a ten-pound note and wait as she prepares our drinks before handing me the change.

I’m as proud as Punch delivering the glasses to our small table, Emma eyes her rosé and then points to my rather bulb­ous glass of pale pink liquid.

‘Rhubarb gin,’ I say, popping my small bottle of ginger ale alongside. ‘Apparently they go well together.’

‘I usually lace my rhubarb crumble with ginger – it smells beautiful while it’s cooking,’ says Emma, sipping her wine.

‘So you said you’re a chef?’

‘Yes, but not the kind I trained to be,’ she says as I pick up my gin.

‘Where do you work?’

She waves her hand dismissively. ‘In a poky roadside joint where everything on the menu is fried at least twice and served with a side order of chips . . . Seriously, it doesn’t bring out the best in my talents, but hey ho, it’ll be a different story in a few weeks.’

‘Why’s that?’ I ask eagerly, buzzing from the unexpected zing from my first sip of chilled gin.

‘Redundancies. After forty years of ownership, my boss has sold out to a guy who wants to convert the place into an Indian restaurant . . . which makes sense given that the car park is huge. It’s been a long time since we’ve managed to fill it anywhere near to capacity. And you’re in banking?’

‘Yes, a clerk for NatWest . . . I’m mainly on the till, serving customers and handing out leaflets, you know the sort of thing.’

Emma nods but seems lost in a world of her own. Her rich auburn hair bounces with life; what I wouldn’t give to have such a fine head of hair. Instead mine’s got as much grey as brown and is looking listless and lank of late.

‘And do you enjoy it?’ she finally asks, seeing me watching her.

‘Not really. I did in my younger days – banking was a different industry back then – but now I feel it’s more like glorified shop work.’

‘No chance of a change of career?’

‘I doubt it, not at my age.’ If only that were a possibility. But how do you venture to pastures new when all you know is banking? I’ve spent a lifetime asking customers, ‘Is that in tens or twenties?’ and now I have to do battle with the younger generation, who only ever want to use the automated machines. I’m virtually redundant, sitting behind my counter, smiling and making small talk about the weather. It’s not how it used to be when I could name ninety per cent of the customers who came through our doors, many of whom I could identify by their signature alone.

I notice Emma doesn’t ask how old ‘my age’ is, so I assume I look all of my fifty-two years. My dress sense is a little dowdy and sensible compared to her vibrant off-the-shoulder top, but I mustn’t complain. I’m still agile and have kept my figure – though given all the running about I do, it’s hardly surprising.

Benjamina

I stand outside the Queen’s Arms, my hand poised above the handle of the double doors, unsure if I should enter. I never go into bars on my own. Never. I rarely socialise at all, come to that.

Can I do this?

I need to go inside, but here lies the biggest problem: who will I be looking for? It’ll be two females for sure. But what happens if the pub is full of female pairings sipping wine and laughing? Do I then walk up to every table to ask each pair if they are the other two occupants of Rose Cottage? Or do I simply dash through, heading for the ladies’ toilet, only to linger for a minute in a locked cubicle before slinking back out towards the exit?

I reread the scribbled note I found on the kitchen sideboard of Rose Cottage.

Hi, hope you had a good journey. We’ve popped over the road for a drink. Join us when you can. TTFN.

There is no name signed, no mobile phone number . . . nothing.

Who still writes TTFN?

Maybe, if I hold the note before me as I enter, the author will recognise her scribblings and beckon to me across the pub.

I take a deep breath and wrench open the door.

The pub is much smaller than I imagined. One step in and I’m in the middle of the floor with a short bar to my right and several small wooden tables to my left. Instantly I spy the sign for the toilets – useful in case I need a bolthole. A group of men lean against the bar; another crowd stand beneath the plasma screen blaring football results. The only other occupants are two women seated on the far side, both staring in my direction.

Is it a toilet dash or a cheery hello to the pair of staring strangers?

‘Hello, I’m Benjamina,’ I say, walking straight towards their table. My smile is firmly fixed in place and won’t falter even if I’ve made a giant faux pas and they sheepishly exchange a glance signalling ‘Who the hell is this?’

‘Wow, finally! We thought you’d got lost,’ jokes the younger woman.

‘Lovely to meet you,’ says the older one, her hand wrapped about her gin glass.

‘Benni for short,’ I add, uncertain which side of the table to sit. I opt for the chair beside the older lady.

‘Emma Grund,’ says the younger woman, her brown eyes holding my gaze.

‘I’m Ruth. Ruth Elton,’ offers the other lady, before sipping her gin.

‘Well, Benni, why don’t you grab yourself a drink and we’ll introduce ourselves properly,’ says Emma, her dark eyes blinking quickly. She appears pleased to see me; I’m hoping she’s not one of those people who can be overfamiliar in a heartbeat.

I leave my seat, nudging the table as I sidle past it awkwardly. Maybe I should have gone to the bar first before joining them, but then what if they weren’t the right females? I’d have looked a plonker standing alone, drink in hand, or worse still, dashing into the toilets with it.

As I approach the group of men near the bar, I avert my eyes and focus intently on the wine taps. I know if I lift my gaze for a fraction of a second, I’ll see them noticing me. I might see their sideways glances, their heads nodding in my direction, and even worse, their mouthed comments, which they think are funny but which I know from past experience can be hurtful and unnecessary. So I continue to stare at the wine taps while the pretty bartender delivers change to her previous customer and receives a grateful ‘Cheers, Marla’ in response.

‘What can I get you?’ she asks, her row of perfect teeth framed by a wide smile.

‘A large glass of medium house white, please,’ I reply, dividing my attention between the bartender and my purse. I don’t need to witness any unpleasant gestures or comments from those further along the bar.

A colourful display of crisps and nuts stands beneath the optics calling my name and luring me to buy. I could murder a large bag of scampi fries or dry-roasted peanuts, but . . . I can’t. I shouldn’t. I mustn’t be tempted.

I talk myself into just having the wine. I don’t want to be crunching while the two women are talking to me. I’m trying to give a good first impression.

‘That’s all, thanks,’ I quickly say, before my brain can request the much-wanted snacks.

Back at the table, the two women look up and smile as I approach. I’m not disappointed by my fellow holidaymakers; I get along better with older people. I automatically feel inferior to women of my own age, not because of anything they do, but more due to my own insecurities.

‘Sorry I’m late. My train journey involved three changes, and then I had to catch a bus – not to mention the hike up that huge hill,’ I joke, gratefully sipping my wine.

‘I caught the train but got a taxi from Paignton station,’ says Emma, looking at Ruth.

‘Same here, though just one change for me.’

I can hear a unifying tone in their accents.

‘Are you both from the Midlands?’ I ask.

‘Rugeley,’ says Emma.

‘Tamworth,’ says Ruth.

‘Wow, no way – I’m from Burntwood.’ I laugh. Emma and I can only live ten miles from one another. ‘How the hell does that happen?’

‘You travel to the other side of the country only to meet people from your own doorstep; how funny is that?’ says Emma, unceremoniously spluttering her wine across the table.

We laugh and shake our heads at the bizarre nature of coincidence.

Or is it fate?

Emma

‘Seriously, you contemplate booking a holiday, which you are in desperate need of, but then you start thinking: but with who? All my girlfriends are married or busy raising their children, some refuse to do British holidays any more, so I kept putting it off. It was only when I saw the advert—’

‘The one about cosy comforts?’ interrupts Ruth eagerly.

I nod before continuing.

‘Yep, the very one. Emma, I said to myself, just bloody do it – stop faffing about and pay the deposit . . . and that was that!’

‘I did the same. It took me two weeks to get myself sorted, though, as I had to make arrangements for my mother. We live together . . . she has dementia,’ says Ruth, giving a tiny shrug after her explanation. ‘My father was killed in a car accident when I was twelve, so I look after my mum.’

‘Oh dear, is it difficult for you to be here?’ asks Benni, her tone softly comforting.

‘Yes, yes, it is. I haven’t had a holiday in years, so it felt like a huge decision for me to come away and organise for Mum to go into respite care for the two weeks . . .’ Ruth’s sentence fades; she seems to be struggling to justify her own needs.

‘Will she be OK?’ asks Benni, a look of concern eclipsing her features. I’ve taken an instant liking to this young woman. She’s not the age group I was hoping for, but still, she seems a genuine sort.

I watch as Ruth seems to shrink into herself. ‘I’m not sure.’ She shrugs. ‘Her doctors assure me she’ll be fine, and the care home seems lovely, but you never know what she’s thinking or feeling. She might do very well for a few days and have a good sense of clarity, but then suddenly relapse. She’s steadily getting worse.’

‘I’m sure she’ll enjoy herself. The time will fly by,’ says Benni, sounding uncertain of her words.

‘Good for you,’ I add quickly, hoping my delayed reaction doesn’t imply that I think badly of Ruth.

‘You deserve a break from the daily routine just as much as we do,’ chimes in Benni, obviously catching my drift.

‘And you, Benni – have you got a job?’ I ask.

‘Of sorts. I do agency work at the local vinegar factory near to where I live.’

‘Agency?’ I ask, taking in her appearance: a natural freckly complexion, a defined dimpled chin and a blonde ponytail, the fullness of which I’d kill for. Her cotton T-shirt is simple but unflattering given her fuller figure, but as long as she’s comfortable, what does it matter?

‘Yeah, there’s very little chance of a permanent job at the moment, so I have a contract with an agency, who send me wherever I’m needed. It’s all a bit up in the air most of the time, but I get called back to the vinegar factory most weeks.’

‘Won’t they employ you directly?’ asks Ruth, playing with her empty glass.

‘It’s difficult. The agency tie you into their contracts, and if you get offered a full-time job with the company, there’s a release fee to be paid. So to employ me, the factory would need to pay more upfront, but then they’d save money because the agency charge so bloody much to send me there. It’s ridiculous, if you ask me.’

‘Sounds like a rip-off,’ I say, shaking my head.

‘It means I’m stuck for the time being,’ agrees Benni, adjusting her T-shirt to cover her elasticated waistband.

Our three glasses sit empty before us.

‘Shall we have another drink here, or should we mosey on over to the cottage and I’ll rustle up something to eat for us all?’

Ruth and Benni exchange a quick glance and a decision is made.

‘To the cottage!’ announces Benni, pushing her chair back.

Ruth

I feel awful as we walk the short distance back to Rose Cottage from the Queen’s Arms. It’s literally twenty steps, and yet my silence seems so obvious. I need to start coping with this. I believe the term is ‘self-care’. I need to start looking after myself a little better, but as soon as I mention my mother, that wave of guilt washes over me and I could burst out crying.

Emma unlocks the key safe and lets us into the cottage. It’s such a sweet cottage, and suitably named. I wish our climbing rose at home blossomed and bloomed as this one does above the lounge window. Though I suppose it would be awkward to dead-head each year, a ladder job for sure. I wouldn’t cope well with that task; it would definitely be overlooked whilst I cared for Mum. Sadly, every job is overlooked in favour of Mum’s care.

I follow the other two into the hallway, past the staircase, and head for the galley kitchen at the rear of the cottage, which leads off the dining room.

‘I dumped my belongings in the lounge when I found your note,’ explains Benni. ‘Have you both chosen a bedroom?’

As Emma explains the bedroom set-up, I listen, hoping to chase away my negative thoughts.

‘Ruth has taken the first bedroom on the first floor, me the second – but I didn’t unpack in case you didn’t like the large bedroom with the en suite on the top floor. The choice is yours. I’ll happily move rooms.’

I watch Benni’s eyes widen at the mention of an en suite. I secretly wanted that room, but felt it looked a little pushy to ask when Emma and I were deciding. I should be grateful that I’m on holiday at all, I remind myself sternly.

‘I’ll go take a look, shall I?’ says Benni, hastily leaving the dining room as Emma wanders through to the kitchen and opens the fridge.

‘The owners have left us a welcome hamper: eggs, cheese, butter, milk . . . some button mushrooms and cherry tomatoes – sounds like an omelette to me!’ calls Emma, her back end poking out from the fridge door.

‘Sounds fine to me, though you might want to run it past Benni too,’ I say, settling myself at the dining table, unusual by design given its rustic, artisan style.

‘Phuh! I’m sure she eats anything,’ calls the muted voice from the kitchen.

I wince. I’m sure Emma didn’t mean to be rude, but that sounded a little offensive, given the young woman’s size.

Emma’s head pokes around the kitchen door.

‘Sorry, did that sound a bit . . . ? What I meant was, who doesn’t like omelettes? Eggs, cheese and milk – surely everyone eats those.’

‘Of course, but she might have allergies or such like,’ I say, pushing the original comment aside. No offence caused or meant, plus Benni didn’t hear the remark.

‘Yes, right you are . . . allergies – I’ll ask.’ Emma disappears and I hear the sound of frying pans and cooking utensils being gathered. I hope she doesn’t start cracking eggs before she checks with Benni.

Benjamina

I climb the staircase to the first landing, then take the second set of stairs up to the final floor, which opens into a massive bedroom complete with a stunning view of the surrounding rooftops and the harbour beyond.

I linger by the window, getting my breath back.

Two flights of stairs might be an issue, but I want this room. I hope I don’t have to be polite and give it up for Emma. I feel like a child excited purely by the prospect of waking up in the morning and seeing this is all just for me. My bedroom at home, being my mother’s bungalow, is the tiny box room that first-time buyers use as their nursery. I’m still in my nursery aged twenty-five – how bad is that! Though given my crap wages and employment prospects, it’s hardly surprising.

I lean against the window ledge and admire the sky-high view. To my right I can see a tier ef. . .