A Summer Scandal: The perfect summer read by the author of One Day in December. Kat French

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       CHAPTER FOUR

      It didn’t smell of anything, really. She’d braced herself for it to somehow smell like her grandpa’s house, maybe, or of her grandmother’s perfume, which she knew was ridiculous. Or, more likely, of stale year-upon-year emptiness. But, no doubt thanks to the diligent upkeep of the cleaning company, it simply smelt vacant, as if waiting to catch the scent of someone new.

      Closing the door, Violet stood in the small hallway to get her bearings, lowering her bag slowly to the floor and breathing deeply. She was here. This was it. Little as it was, the square hallway told Violet two things straight away. One, her grandmother had an eye for colour and interior design, and two, she was going to adore number 6 Swallow Beach Lido. It was pure seventies retro glamour right down to the shell-pink Bakelite telephone table, topped of course with a curly-wired ivory telephone, its sharp-angled handset resting lengthwise over the dial. Violet lifted the receiver and placed it against her ear, then replaced it, feeling foolish as she caught her reflection in the mirror over the table. As if there would have been any dialling tone.

      Four doors led off the hallway, each of them closed. Turning the handle of the nearest door, Violet pushed it wide and stepped through it, finding herself in the bathroom.

      ‘Oh my God,’ she whispered, her eyes darting all around the room. It had all of the usual things – bathtub, loo, sink – but none of them were the usual kind. The huge, turquoise kidney-shaped bathtub had been inset into a surround with steps up, and the whole bathing corner had been lined with mirrors, like a child’s music box. It wasn’t a wallflower’s bathtub, that much was for sure. The loo and sink were squared off and equally bright turquoise, and the forest-green-and-turquoise-swirled wall tiles added to the impact. The taps were gilt, water-spouting goldfish, the light fitting a golden chandelier. It was a Hollywood starlet’s bathroom, and Violet found herself almost laughing with unexpected delight.

      ‘Go Gran,’ she whispered, turning a tap, glad to see the water flow from the goldfish’s open mouth. She hadn’t thought to check if the utilities were still connected; it seemed that she was in luck.

      Opening the wall cupboard above the sink, Violet found herself looking at a collection of vintage glass-bottled bubble baths and paper-wrapped soaps, all still perfect thanks to being tucked away safe from the daylight. A pang of sadness washed over her at the sight of a glass holding three toothbrushes, two adult, one smaller. Her mum’s. Closing the cabinet quietly, she backed out of the room.

      Right, so which door next? Vi looked at each of them and chose the one on her right, pushing it open slowly to reveal a single bedroom. She didn’t go inside, just stood in the doorway of her mum’s childhood bedroom and let the sweet sadness settle over her. The low, white single bed covered with a lemon and white patchwork eiderdown, the chunky white and lemon furniture, the wheeled book-box filled with well-thumbed picture books. Della had been seven or eight when she’d left this room for the last time, and as far as Vi could see, it hadn’t been touched since. She didn’t venture further inside the room. She would eventually, but of all the rooms in the house she knew that this one was likely to be the most difficult for her personally, because it represented her mum. Clicking the door closed, she moved on to the next, the master bedroom where, once again, glamour reigned.

      Violet drew in a sharp breath; it was unique, and wild, and quite stunning. One wall had been hand-painted, a marine-blue ocean adorned with mermaids, some coy, others joyfully bare-breasted with their arms flung over their heads as they basked on rocks. As she neared the wall for a closer look, glints of iridescent gold glittered in their scaly tails, and their eyes seemed to watch with interest, as surprised by her presence as she was by theirs.

      ‘Who did all of this?’ she whispered into the quiet room. ‘Was it you, Gran?’

      The mermaids served as the theme for the rest of the bedroom. The large, low bed’s high scalloped headboard had been padded in shimmering oyster silk, and an elegant clamshell chair sat in the curve of the floor-to-ceiling bay window.

      Sinking down onto its ink-blue velvet seat, Violet took a few minutes to just let herself be. A tailor’s dummy stood beside the chair in the bay, dressed in a floor-length sheath that seemed to be made entirely from sequins and lace and light. Necklaces and pearls had been looped around the dummy’s neck, a glamorous makeshift jewellery box.

      Every last thing in the room had been chosen with a nod towards maritime decadence; polished curved wooden furniture reminiscent of a luxury ocean liner, the fabulous, huge Tiffany glass bowl suspended from the ceiling an intricate mosaic of rainbow shades. Seventies glam wasn’t everyone’s style, but it sure was Violet’s. So much so that she felt as if she’d been winded; her own leanings towards colour and craft were so clearly inherited from the woman who’d hand-decorated this place with such unique style.

      She was starting to understand that she hadn’t inherited just her gran’s physical looks. All of her life she’d felt very different to her practical, list-loving parents, and now she understood why. Monica’s blood ran hot in her veins. Violet hadn’t expected to feel an instant connection here, but by God she did. She saw now why her mum had wanted to keep her from this place: she’d known. Della knew precisely who her daughter was most like in the world, and probably feared what that knowledge might do to Violet.

      Leaving the bedroom reluctantly, Violet headed for the last unopened door. She opened it slowly, wanting to savour this final new space. It was worth the reverence; the lounge-diner wouldn’t have looked out of place on the faded cover of a seventies copy of House Beautiful. A low, burnt-orange, oversized velvet sofa sat central in the lounge, accented by curved pale-blond wooden furniture, and the orange and grey oversized flower print wallpaper would have been perfect in an Orla Kiely showroom.

      The kitchenette ran across the back of the space, a glossy swathe of orange. A breakfast bar acted as a room divider, complete with stools upholstered in orange and grey stripes. Accents of muted gold warmed and glamourised the space, not least the decadent wheeled glass and brass drinks trolley, still loaded with half-full bottles of colourful spirits and cocktail paraphernalia.

      Vi gazed up at the chandelier dripping with clear and orange glass droplets and fell in love. She fell in love with the Lido apartment, and with Swallow Beach, and with her grandmother. Sinking down onto the sofa and wrapping her arms around her midriff, she couldn’t decide if she felt like laughing or crying. Because in the most unexpected of ways, she felt as if she’d come home.

      ‘Hey cat burglar. You still in there?’

      Violet jumped as her new neighbour rapped on her front door. Unfolding herself from the sofa, she went to open it.

      ‘Hello again,’ he grinned. ‘I was a little rude earlier. I brought wine to say sorry and welcome to the top floor.’

      He held out a bottle of red, and then produced a bunch of white roses from behind his back like a magician.