Exciting times are on the horizon (see what I did there?) with the upcoming release of my new novel, The Girl Who Lives By The Sea, arriving this June. While I’m busy fine-tuning the final bits, prepping the covers, and getting the manuscript ship-shape, I thought it would be the perfect time to share a little sneak peek.
Just a quick legal note: Obviously, this content is subject to copyright and may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the author. All rights reserved.
So, with that said, Enjoy!
One
Mia
Sometimes I find it difficult to remember the girl I was before I met him.
I do remember when it all started, though. It was the 6th of April, and I could already tell it was going to be a hot summer, as if spring had been skipped altogether. When it got hot in my house, it got bloody hot. I’m talking sauna with the heating on hot; and totally impossible to get a decent night’s sleep.
But it wasn’t the heat that had kept me awake on the night prior to the 6th of April.
The sun was still rising when I checked the time in the top right corner of my MacBook again. It was 6:57 a.m.. How could it only have been two minutes since I last looked? Time seriously drags when you’re wrapped up in anticipation.
Without realising it, I’d been sitting on my hands and bobbing my knees. Usually, I’m quite a calm person, but that morning, I couldn’t sit still. It was only when the pins and needles started creeping through my fingertips that I noticed I’d been sitting on my hands for way too long.
6:58 a.m.
Come on, come on…
I tried drumming my fingers on my desk to see if that helped, but then stopped almost immediately. Too irritating. Back under my legs they went. The pins and needles would have to do.
6:59 a.m.
I was counting the seconds now. All the hard work, the late nights, the year I had to take off, and the chaos of stop-start studying through the grief of Dad… everything had led to this.
I clicked the sync button on my Mail app again and again. Nothing. But then again, it was still 6:59.
How was it still six-bloody-fifty-nine?
At long last, the little digital clock in the corner of the screen flicked to 7:00 a.m. And there it was, right on cue. A new email. I felt my heart begin to dance around my chest as weird prickles of heat began to wander up my spine.
I glanced at the sender.
Please don’t be Starbucks. Or Amazon trying to lure me into an offer.
Clicking unsubscribe never seemed to work.
But, thankfully, it was nothing like that. It was from them. Oxford University.
I narrowed my eyes at the subject, just to be sure the waiting hadn’t driven me completely mad. It read: Your application to Oxford University.
My thumb nearly shattered the trackpad as I clicked. I didn’t care. If I broke my laptop, I’d buy a new one. A treat to celebrate starting uni – student loans and all that.
I started to read, whispering each word. I needed to hear it out loud to believe it.
Dear Miss Marsh,
Thank you for your application to Oxford University. After much consideration, it is with regret that, on this occasion, your application to study English Language and Literature BA (Hons) has been unsuccessful. We know this may come as a disappointment and hope that…
With regret? Unsuccessful?!
I stopped reading, in favour of staring blankly at the screen, as if another email was going to miraculously pop up saying: ‘Oh, we’re so sorry, Mia. That was a mistake… We’d love for you to come and study English at Oxford…’
I felt my entire body sink as I re-read the last line over and over, hoping by some miracle it would change.
Bugger.
I knew Oxford was a long shot, but after everything – the second stage interview, the feedback, the endless refining of my personal statement – I really thought I had a shot. I really did. How could I have been so stupid? So bloody naïve? Yeah, Mum had been my cheerleader, but the thought of applying to Oxford had always scared the shit out of me. I didn’t have a posh accent or a million quid in spending money for starters.
I still had Birmingham as my second choice. Birmingham. That decision was due next week, via the post. Which said a lot really. But the course wasn’t the one I wanted. I had no desire to do a general creative writing course, just because that was the ‘closest thing they could offer’. Oxford had always been the dream. The holy grail.
Maybe that was why I didn’t get in. Because it was exactly that: a dream. A fantasy. I may as well have put bloody Hogwarts down as my second choice. I probably stood the same chance of getting in. I felt like I was going to be stuck there for the rest of my life: that tiny cove on the edge of a small village in Cornwall, overlooking the sea. I know how that sounds – like perfection. And it was lovely, I can’t deny it. I knew I was in no position to complain. But apart from my best friend, Kat, and a few others (Patrick, of course), Penlowen was the sort of place people came to when they were at the end of their careers, not the beginning. To me, it felt like that tiny village was a bubble, cut off from the rest of the world.
It’s weird, the little details which stick with you. I still remember how gentle the waves outside my bedroom window were that morning. It was the only sound to break the silence that comes with a massive rejection. The sea being calm was unusual for April. We often got sun during the day, and it was usually nice and warm by noon. But the morning breeze often made the waves quite choppy. Usually my idea of perfect. But that morning the sea was unbearably calm, meaning I couldn’t even surf off my frustration. I had a paddleboard – naturally – but there was something extra lonely about paddling out to sea by myself. That was always mine and Dad’s thing.
Almost like clockwork, as soon as I slammed my laptop shut, my phone began to buzz.
Oh God. It was Mum. No doubt phoning to find out if I got in. She wanted me to go more than I did.
I really didn’t want to answer, like really didn’t want to answer. But if I didn’t, I knew she would only start flapping. Even though I had turned twenty-one last September, this was one of the first times I had been left alone in the house for more than a couple of days. People in Penlowen didn’t tend to leave, unless they were tourists there for the weekend, of course. And to be fair to Mum, when your back garden was the sea, and your daughter had a habit of diving into it on a whim, not picking up the phone was always bound to spark an ounce of concern.
So, reluctantly, I tapped the green button and pressed the phone to my ear.
‘Morning, Mum.’
‘Come on then! How did it go?’ she squeaked. Her voice was devastatingly bright with anticipation. ‘Oh, come on, don’t leave me hanging! I’ve barely slept!’
You and me both, Mum.
‘Oh, um… well, I’m not sure yet. People on Twitter are saying the university’s having technical difficulties sending the emails out or something. Would you believe it?’
That was the killer question: would she believe it?
I’m not proud of lying. But I guess I didn’t want to tell her over the phone. She would just start saying Oxford wasn’t all that anyway, probably in some desperate attempt to make me feel better. Or worse, she might have come home early. And I couldn’t have that. This week away was good for her. Like I said, Penlowen wasn’t the kind of place people tended to venture from often. And because of me and my stupidity, Mum had been too worried to leave my side.
‘Gosh, they like to make us sweat, don’t they? You’ll let me know as soon as there’s any news, won’t you?’
I swallowed. ‘Yep. Sure will. So, how’s London? Is the book going well?’
Mum was off on a writing retreat, trying to (in her words) ‘rediscover herself as an author’. Which was funny, really, considering Deborah Marsh had spent the last decade churning out twelve bestsellers and turning PI Maisie Penrose into a household name. I mean, jeez… they were even making a bloody TV series based on her books now. But that was Mum. Always chasing the feeling that the next book might finally prove to her that she was good enough. Talk about being the only person who couldn’t see it.
She always used to say: ‘Looking back could only get you so far, and often not far enough.’ I had never been entirely sure what she meant by that. She had this way of being cryptic and blunt at the same time. Like when she sat me down one random Tuesday the previous summer after I had come in from a surf, and told me she wasn’t my biological mother. And that Dad wasn’t my biological father, either. Just like that. No cup of tea and a biscuit to help soften the blow. Jesus, she didn’t even sit me down first, or let me get dry. Just straight out with it: ‘I’m not your real mum, Mia.’
I couldn’t believe it. I had a similar lump in my throat then to the one I had now; chatting with Mum and acting as if everything was fine, even though the truth was my world had begun to spin all around me.
‘We wanted to tell you together,’ she’d said. ‘But with Dad’s cancer, we couldn’t. He didn’t want to risk you looking at him differently in his final weeks.’
Then came the rest: basically that I was adopted from birth. My birth mother was a young girl who had got pregnant by mistake and couldn’t afford to raise a baby. Mum couldn’t have kids due to some medical reason she didn’t disclose (and I didn’t ask), and Dad didn’t want to go down the donor route. So, adoption was their only option. Fair enough, I suppose. And I can’t exactly say I had a bad childhood. Sure, it was lonely at times, but Mum and Dad were my best friends. It was us, the three of us (four if you include Pebble), happy in our own little bubble. That was until the bastard that calls itself cancer came along.
Mum didn’t say much more about my birth parents. And to be fair, I didn’t seek to find out. I didn’t want to know. I was too wrapped up in what, at the time, felt like losing my dad all over again.
It took a while, but eventually, I adjusted to the new normal. So much had changed, but one thing remained the same: sure, Mum might not have given birth to me, but she was still my mum. And Dad was still Dad. Always would be. And that was okay. Blood wasn’t everything.
‘The book is going… okay,’ she said now, snapping me back. ‘I mean, I’ve barely written anything. I’m just heading out for a walk down The Mall. Try and get some fresh inspiration, you know? I thought it would be the romance aspect that would trip me up, but turns out, it’s the setting. I’ve never written anything set in a city before. I need to experience it. Soak it up. It’s always been Cornwall this, Cornwall that…’
It’s true. All of Mum’s books were set around Cornwall.
‘Well, there is that one set in Devon,’ I said.
She laughed. ‘Oh yeah, all three chapters of it. How adventurous of me!’
‘Well, it hasn’t done you too badly, has it?’
‘True,’ she said. ‘Thanks, good talk as always, boss.’
‘You’re very welcome. My invoice will be in the post.’
‘Ha! You wish. Have you taken your tablets this morning?’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘Okay, well it’s only because I—’
‘I know, Mum. Thanks.’
‘Look, love, I want to beat the morning commute – you wouldn’t believe how many people there are in this city – so I’m heading out, but I’ll have my phone. Call me the second you hear anything, promise? If I don’t answer it’s probably because I’m on the tube, but keep trying.’
I pressed my lips together. ‘Sure, will do, Mum.’
‘That doesn’t sound like a promise…’
‘Fine. I promise. Now go… you don’t want to miss the changing of the guards or whatever it is they do there. I’ll be fine.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘And hey, don’t sound so worried. You smashed the first stage, and your application was brilliant. You’ll get in. I just know it!’
I felt an involuntary tremor ripple through my bottom lip. In some ways, I wished I had told her there and then. It was definitely going to be worse now.
‘Fingers crossed,’ I managed.
‘I love you, sweetheart.’
‘I love you too, Mum.’
‘Alright, gotta dash… bye!’
I heard her kiss the phone. And with that, she was gone.
I tossed my phone onto my bed and pushed myself back from my desk, steering my office chair towards the little round window to the side of my wardrobe. It was a small house. Just an oversized beach hut, really. My room was upstairs, along with the small en suite – and there was Mum’s room down the hall. The kitchen and living room were downstairs. And that was about it. About ninety percent of the place was made of wood, mostly painted white. It was a bugger to keep on top of. Every time we patched up a chip, another one seemed to reveal itself. But I loved it. And so did Mum. And being there upon receiving such shit news sort of cushioned the blow of rejection in a way.
I peered down at the sea. Yep. Still too calm for surfing. That was what I usually did when things got tough: leave my problems on the beach whilst I rode the waves. But I wasn’t going to let a calm tide stop me. No sense in moping around when the world was going to continue spinning anyway. You either go with it or get off. I’d seriously contemplated both. Going with it seemed to be the only way.
So, I got up and dashed downstairs. Pebble, our fluffy canine resident, was still asleep in her bed by the back door. Best not to wake her. The last thing I needed was a moody poodle demanding breakfast.
I headed out through the kitchen door without so much as a glance at the coffee machine. My bare feet landed on the warm decking, and I rushed across it, reluctantly leaving my surfboard leaning against the shed before I took the cobbled steps down to the beach. That was what I loved about our house: within thirty seconds of stepping outside, I was greeted by the feeling of fresh warmth of sand between my toes. I can’t understand people who complain about sand; how soft and soothing it feels against the skin.
What’s there not to love?
I hurried to the shoreline, my feet sinking deeper the closer I got. Sea water rushed around my toes, slightly nippy, sure, but it washed away the sting of rejection all the same.
Well… if only.
I didn’t know where this sudden surge of adrenaline had come from, but my brain had clearly snapped into ‘fuck it’ mode without me having so much of a say in the matter.
One of the best things about living in a house that overlooked a small, hidden beach, tucked away in a cove, was that, for the most part, no one else knew it was there. Especially not the tourists, who would soon be swarming the village when the school summer holidays began, no doubt. So essentially, I had my own private beach. And yes, it was my beach. Well, mine and Mum’s. Sure, the odd group of kids might stumble down there at night, but they were usually chased off by Mum wielding a tea towel like it was a lethal weapon. I heard somewhere that she was known amongst the few teenagers in Penlowen as the ‘crazy writer lady’. That was fine. It deterred them, and suited us to the ground.
I looked around. As I said, practically a private beach. So, fuck it mode in full force, I pulled my pyjama top over my head and tossed it over my shoulder – not giving two shits as to where it landed. As the light breeze brushed my bare chest, a sudden thrill washed over me. A sense of empowerment. It was a bit weird… standing there without a top on, but I quite liked it. So without further ado, I slipped off my shorts and flicked them away with my foot, leaving me only in my birthday suit and my dad’s handmade shell necklace.
Now I was running into the sea, laughing with every step.
Fuck it.
Before I knew it, the water was up to my neck. My whole body went from comfortably warm to what I could only describe as bloody damn freezing. Enough to make my teeth chatter. I reminded myself I would have to thank my wetsuit for all of its hard work in keeping me warm next time I wore it (the secret is to wee).
My breaths came short. At first, I began to tread water, which probably looked more like I was struggling to doggy paddle, before I settled into a proper swim. I set my sights on the clusters of rocks ahead, where the two sides of the cove almost met in the middle, creating a narrow opening to the rest of the sea. I dipped my head under the water and began to swim, each stroke delivering its own surge of adrenaline.
Eventually, I found my rhythm, and my swimming became more structured, like I actually knew what I was doing. Living in Penlowen, swimming was almost second nature, like walking. Dad used to say I could paddle before I could walk… and surf before I could ride a bike.
I had no problems believing that.
I stopped and peered up, treading water. The water was deep now; I could almost reach out and pat the rocks. I was at the edge of the cove, and the water felt nice. Still a bit nippy in certain places, which I won’t disclose, but mostly… nice. I looked back at our small house, only a short distance away, and thought: yeah, things could be worse. I glanced up at the rocks beside me. It was the same spot where we scattered Dad’s ashes, and I reminded myself that I’ve fought harder battles and lived to tell the tale. Even if I was scarred as a result.
I ducked my head under and pressed my feet against one of the rocks below the surface, my toes brushing the smooth algae. I pushed off and started to swim back, opting for breaststroke this time.
Within minutes, I felt the seabed brush my knees. When I lifted my head out of the water, our small house on the edge of the cliff looked considerably larger.
Before I knew it, the water was shallow again, so I stood up and patted myself down. I must have drifted, because my pyjamas weren’t on the shore in front of me. Maybe the current was stronger than I thought that morning.
I shaded my eyes and scanned the beach, trying to spot them, but I couldn’t find them anywhere.
And that was when every muscle in my body tensed at the sound of a deep voice:
‘Morning!’
The Girl Who Lives By The Sea will be available from 26/06/26 – and you can pre-order today!
