I run my hand over the pretty floral cover. It contains some drawings I did of Mum, and I like having it with me.
I discard the waterproof - it’s too hot to climb in that – but the cap is perfect.
It takes me twenty minutes to climb the winding path to the top. At times, the path veers quite close to the steep drop on one side, and the distance down there, to the sea below, makes my stomach swoop. But Josie is right. The view is absolutely worth it. At the top, I stand as near the edge as I dare, gazing at the ocean, and looking out over the little town and the half-moon curve of sandy beach.
There’s no-one else up here and I lie back for a while, resting against a grassy hillock, enjoying the gentle breeze on my face and the fabulous scents of the seaside. It’s lovely just relaxing after a sweaty day’s cleaning.
I have only one day left to complete the job, but there’s still a lot to do. The greasy kitchen especially needs a thorough scrub, but if I get an early night, I can be at the hotel by five in the morning to start.
I glance at my watch. Time is moving on. I’d better get back.
I’m hurrying down the path from The Rocks when my notebook slips from my hand and skids down the sandy path in front of me. In a panic, thinking it might fly off the edge into the water far below, I quicken my step. But my foot catches on a stray bramble and I go flying myself, tumbling down hard onto some rocks at the side of the path.
Panting, I pull myself up, not caring about my cut knees, just needing to rescue my notebook.
‘This must be yours?’
I look up into a familiar face. Jump Leads Man.
‘Thank you.’ I spring forward, aware of a deep ache in the heels of my hands from falling so clumsily.
He frowns. ‘Hey, are you all right?’
‘Oh, yes, just a scrape. I’m wearing the wrong shoes for scrambling down this path.’ I grit my teeth, pain throbbing in my knees, and paste on a smile. ‘We must stop meeting like this.’
He studies me with an expression I can’t decipher.
‘Your knees are bleeding. Here.’ He pulls a towel out of his backpack. ‘Why don’t you sit down for a minute?’ He points to a nearby rock and I subside onto it gratefully, while my rescuer kneels down, pulls a fresh bottle of water from the backpack and twists off the cap.
‘Thank you.’ I take the bottle, have a sip or two, and pass it back.
‘Actually, I was going to…here.’ He tips some water onto the edge of the towel, soaking it and starts gently washing my wounded knees.
‘Oh, right.’ I flush at my faux pas. ‘Ow, ow, ow.’ The water on the broken skin is really stinging.
‘Sorry. Need to clean the wounds.’ His voice is a deep rumble and I catch his lovely man-scent, which does weird things to my insides.
I swallow hard. ‘No. I mean, yes. Of course. Thank you.’
I look down at his bent head as he works. His thick hair is a lovely chestnut brown colour, with glints of gold and red picked out by the sun. The messy style suits him style. It looks as if he’s emerged from the sea and run his hands through it, and his hair has dried in the sun. Maybe he was a ginger ninja when he was younger, but the passage of time has mellowed the colour? As opposed to mine, which, if anything, has got redder as the years have gone on.
I study his hands as he tenderly wipes the scrapes on my knees and a funny little shiver runs all the way up my back. He has good hands. Strong and capable-looking. Lightly tanned with clipped nails.
The citrus of his shower gel or cologne mingles with his tantalising, musky man scent and suddenly, my stomach feels hollow with desire. A tiny flying beetle has landed on the tanned skin of his smooth, strong neck, and instinctively, I reach out to brush it away.
I stop myself just in time. And then he’s standing up, tossing the towel in the direction of his backpack and holding out his hand.
‘Come on. I’ll buy you a drink as part of your recovery.’ He’s smiling down at me, his striking pale grey eyes full of warmth and humour now. A breath-taking contrast to his previous grumpiness.
Suddenly painfully aware I must look a proper sight with my hacked-at hair and baggy tracksuit, I feel hot colour whooshing into my face. ‘No, no, honestly, there’s no need. I’m fine.’
He shrugs, a twinkle in his eye, reaches out his hand and pulls me to my feet.
‘Hey, listen, please forgive me for my rudeness the other day.’ He looks down. ‘I was in a hurry.’ He grins sheepishly. ‘I’m not usually such a curmudgeonly oaf.’
He doesn’t drop my hand immediately and my insides do a funny little forward flip. It feels nice. ‘Apology accepted.’ I smile up at him. He lets go of my hand and I feel a little pang of disappointment.
‘And I’m sorry it took so long to answer your question.’
I look at him questioningly.
‘You asked my name. It’s Gabe Jackson.’
‘Ah. Right.’
‘Are you walking back down? I’ll lead the way, shall I? In case there’s any more dangers to navigate.’ He glances meaningfully at my knees.
‘Great.’ My voice emerges weirdly high-pitched. What the hell is wrong with me?
When we get to the bottom and no longer have to walk in single file, he asks me where I’m staying.
‘Oh, I’m parked on my employer’s driveway at the moment but I’m going to find a permanent site as soon as I can.’
He nods. ‘There’s plenty of sites round here for camper vans.’
‘I guess so.’ I glance at him. How does he know I have a camper van?
He sees my puzzled look and shrugs. ‘You seem like a camper van type of person. Definitely not a motor-home or a caravan girl.’
I laugh. ‘Really? Is that a criticism or a compliment?’
‘Oh, a compliment, without a doubt. I’m a camper van man myself. We’re an elite class of travellers.’
‘You have a camper van?’
He shakes his head. ‘Sadly not. I’m an impoverished engineering student, so I cycle everywhere at the moment.’
‘Do you live here?’
‘Yes. Well, I study in Manchester but I’m staying at my parents’ house, which is five miles in that direction.’ He points back towards The Rocks. ‘A little village called West Pengully.’
‘So you cycled along here today?’
‘I did indeed. My bike is locked up along here.’
I kick off my shoes and plunge my bare feet into the soft sand. It feels nice. Gabe does the same and we stroll along the water’s edge. It’s almost nine now and the beach is deserted, the sun a huge pinkish-orange globe dipping below the horizon.
A sudden boisterous wave crashes over my feet and I skip out of the way with a little squeal.
‘The tide’s coming in. Shall we…?’ He points up to the promenade and I nod, and we start trekking up the beach towards the steps that lead up to the restaurants and cafes.
‘Shouldn’t you be going that way?’ I ask shyly, pointing behind me.
His eyes twinkle at me. ‘I suppose I was hoping you might have a drink with me, if I kept you talking long enough.’
My heart does an odd little leap.
‘And those knees need attention.’
Ah, yes, of course. He just wants to make sure I’m okay after my fall.