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       A cup of tea and a stunning view

      A thin veil of early morning pink-grey light was suspended above the sea. The colours reminded her of the inside of a pearlized shell, subtle and beautiful. She hugged the mug of tea between her hands. Up early again – six a.m. It was a regular occurrence after the nightmare of the past year. Her mind and thoughts veered between tumultuous and exhausted. She’d thought she might as well get up, make her first cup of the day. At least here she could sit and enjoy a calming sea view.

      What a bloody journey it had been yesterday. Not the best start to what was meant to be a relaxing break. Her car had broken down two streets from ‘home’ – she used the word loosely these days – in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. She’d had to get it towed back to a garage, only to find out after much tutting and shaking of heads by men in oil-smeared boiler suits that it was never going to be fixed in an hour, or even a day, and that it was likely to cost a small fortune. So she’d had to take the metro to the main station, a train to Alnmouth, and then spend another bloody fortune – twenty-five quid no less – on a taxi to get to her idyllic cottage by the sea, which was meant to be somewhere near Bamburgh but seemed to be in the middle of nowhere.

      The idyllic cottage itself left a lot to be desired. On unlocking the peeling white-painted front door, Claire had discovered a hallway of beige woodchip wallpaper with tell-tale bubbly patches of damp. She’d come to the kitchen next, which sported basic white MDF cabinets and a cooker that looked like it had come out of the ark. She hadn’t dared to try and use it last night, settling for the sandwich she’d bought on the train and never eaten, and an apple she’d had in her bag.

      She’d sat on the dark-brown velour sofa in the lounge area, staring at a clock that had stopped, possibly several years ago, on the mantelpiece over a real fireplace. Looking around at the matching brown armchair, whose seat cushion sagged heavily, a nest of 70s-style wooden tables and a couple of faded prints on the walls, she’d wondered where the hell she’d ended up. This was meant to be a relaxing holiday, a chance to chill-out. And she’d booked for a whole three weeks. It was cheap, admittedly, but she hadn’t expected anything quite this basic.

      She’d tried to cheer herself up. Yes, the place was a bit old-fashioned and in need of some TLC, but maybe she was just tired. She’d had an exasperating day, after all. She decided to have an early night, so she’d tucked herself up under a handmade patchwork quilt in her upstairs double room, and told herself it would all seem better in the morning.

      In the light of a June morning, it still didn’t look that promising! The whole place seemed tired, worn, and all the windows and ledges appeared to be a mass of rotten wood. The house was crumbling at the seams, and to top it all, after a hunt for the boiler and radiators to turn on against the morning chill, she’d realized it had no central heating. A cup of tea had been the only option, and now she thought she might as well head outside and get some fresh air and a sea view. She supposed she should be grateful that the balcony that led out from her upstairs bedroom was holding up.

      Right, Claire Maxwell – enough moaning, you old tart. You’re here to rest and recuperate. Her mind took on a school-marmish voice which sounded very like her mother’s. No, they hadn’t given her nearly a month off work to sit grumbling. This was the start of her new life, and she had no idea where it was going to take her. For now, it was sitting on a rickety wooden balcony on a Friday morning in June watching the sun rise over the North Sea. It was a place of calm, with a solitary gull swooping in the sky and a pair of black-and-white oystercatchers balanced on spindly legs dipping their orange beaks in the shallows.

      A door slammed somewhere nearby, causing her balcony to wobble. She gripped her mug to prevent a spill. There were two stone cottages here, side by side, which fronted the beach – being isolated had been its appeal. Typical that the other was occupied, but it was the summer season. There was some guy coming out; he was probably here with his wife and a brood of noisy kids. The rest of them would be safely tucked up in bed for now, it being six a.m., but no doubt ready to shatter her peace in another hour or so.

      Claire stared at the man; she had nothing better to do. He walked from his grassy square of garden straight out onto the beach. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with sandy-blond hair – quite handsome, actually – wearing flip-flops, a white T-shirt and red shorts. He looked in his thirties. He began to jog straight for the sea, stopping a couple of metres before he hit the waves to slip off his footwear. Then, in one swift movement, he pulled off his T-shirt, revealing a rather gorgeous toned and lightly tanned torso. Hey, things were looking up! Another swift motion and his shorts were off. Jeez, he wasn’t wearing any Speedos beneath. The peachy whiteness of his firm buttocks and the muscular V of his back entranced her. He bent slightly to drop his clothes. Gulp. Claire leaned forward in her seat, her heart racing.

      He continued his now-naked jog down to the sea. The rear view was gorgeous, athletic. Wow! Was this real? Had she guzzled way too many glasses of wine or something last night? Was this wishful thinking, a hallucinatory dream? She really didn’t want to wake up from it if