A Perfect Cornish Escape

by Phillipa Ashley

  Tiff winced as Evie’s voice purred over a loudspeaker next to the lifeboat station. Not that she didn’t think Evie was doing a fabulous job of whipping up interest in the auction. Quite the reverse: Evie was ramping up the anticipation to fever pitch, which only served to make Tiff’s stomach swish like a washing machine. At the moment, it was only on a ‘delicates’ wash, but it wouldn’t take much to set it going into a spin.

  This was a little seaside fete, she reminded herself, not a swanky London charity ball. There was no pressure … although, seeing the locals behind their stalls, trying so hard to raise a few pounds for the Porthmellow Lifeboat Station and the Wave Watchers, she couldn’t quell her butterflies.

  Luckily the weather gods had been good to them, and by eleven a.m., a healthy number of holidaymakers were mingling with the townspeople. The fundraiser was being held on the quayside outside the station. Everywhere was bedecked with blue and orange bunting and a large canvas sign had been hung from the station entrance announcing the event.

  Porthmellow Search and

  Rescue Fundraising Spectacular

  give generously to our coastal lookout

  and lifeboat crews

  Well, ‘spectacular’ was probably pushing it, but it was very charming. She would have genuinely been looking forward to it if … well, it was too late to worry now.

  The whole thing was quite retro and reminded her of her old school fete with its hoopla and a ‘splat the rat’ sideshow. There was a second-hand bookstall, bric-a-brac and refreshments were being sold from the ground floor of the harbour office. It was an overcast breezy day, cool for the time of year. Tiff was in jeans, a white shirt and padded gilet; she didn’t do fleeces – ever. Her bob was rapidly growing out so she’d added a silk scarf to keep it out of her eyes, and ditched the designer boots for low-heeled leather ones, hoping she wouldn’t stand out too much.

  For now, anyway.

  She made her way to the tombola stall and helped Marina put out the ‘prizes’ and the drum containing the raffle tickets.

  ‘Good grief, the last time I saw one of these was at the school fete,’ she said, sticking tickets on a bottle of vodka that had a price ticket on it marked ‘Porthmellow Super Booze’. The price was improbable by 2020 standards. ‘Is there even a Super Booze in Porthmellow these days?’

  Marina wrinkled her nose. ‘It closed at least ten years ago. Nate used to go in there.’

  ‘I hope this is still fit for consumption.’

  ‘Apparently anything over twenty per cent never goes off,’ Marina said. ‘Slap a ticket on it. We need all the prizes we can get.’

  ‘Has Lachlan put in an appearance yet?’

  ‘Aaron said he’d promised to drop by after he’d done some work at the office. I hope he pops down.’

  While they finished setting up, Tiff discreetly checked out the townspeople and holidaymakers, willing to give up their spare time and precious cash to help fund the lifeboats and Wave Watchers because it mattered to their community. She wasn’t naive; they doubtless had their own problems and disagreements but for today had set aside their differences to help a common cause.

  Now she had more time on her hands, she could make her contribution to the local community, help out Marina and get one over on Dirk at the same time.

  However, so far her every effort at securing a standout headline lot – even one – had come to nothing. She’d hoped for a backstage pass to a gig, or front row tickets to a West End show, or hospitality at a sold-out sports event – anything that money couldn’t usually buy and would create a real stir in Porthmellow. She’d contacted a dozen people in London, yet all but two hadn’t returned her calls. She was obviously persona non grata and her editor – or Warner – had made her too toxic to even speak to. Or maybe they were simply so busy, with their eyes on the prize, that a request from an ex-colleague was at the bottom of their priorities. She knew the feeling.

  Two friends, however, had responded positively and said they’d see what they could do, although they’d both warned it was very short notice. One was a young reporter whom Tiff had mentored and supported during her early career and was now entertainment ed at a glossy magazine. The other was an ‘old school’ editor, a blunt northerner, who Tiff had always got on well with. She was the one who’d agreed to pay Tiff to string some stories, and she had been outraged when Tiff had been sacked.

  However, when neither had got back to her that morning nor replied to her messages, she’d known she had to admit defeat and confess to Marina that she’d been unable to deliver on her promises.

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ Marina said. ‘We wouldn’t have had three of the lots without you.’

  ‘I know but I wanted to help you. I was sure I could call on my old friends – well, they’re not friends, clearly. I just wanted to make this a big success. Now I’ve let you down, and I don’t let people down.’

  ‘Please! You had no time to set things up.’

  ‘I kept on saying I could do it. People have a right to be disappointed.’

  ‘No one will be disappointed. I – um – managed their expectations in case things didn’t happen. They’re all too busy dealing with their own stalls and work anyway.’

  Marina was right. She was overreacting and if it hadn’t been for recent events with Warner, she might have not been so agitated. But he’d shaken her confidence; the total capitulation of her own editor and even some of her colleagues had stunned her. She knew she operated in a cutthroat world, but fellow editors and journos were meant to back you not throw you under a bus …

  That’s why she’d had no choice but to offer herself as an auction lot.

  And now she was regretting it almost more than anything she’d ever regretted before.

  ‘Tiff. Are you OK?’ Marina broke into her thoughts. ‘You’ve gone very pale. Are you nervous about running the stall?’

  ‘No … not about this.’ She chewed her lip in anguish. ‘Oh God, I have to tell you something.’

  Marina frowned. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’ve put myself up for auction as a star prize. I felt so guilty about letting everyone down that I suggested it to Evie last night. She thought it was a brilliant idea but now I wish I’d never done it!’

  Marina’s eyes widened then she burst out laughing. ‘That’s inspired! People will love it.’

  ‘I won’t!’ Tiff wailed. ‘What if no one bids for me? Or someone horrible bids for me? I’m not much real use beyond writing scurrilous stories. Oh God, why did I do it!’

  Marina hugged her. ‘Because you’re a good person who wanted to help. But you shouldn’t have felt bad about the lots. You’ve helped already. Oh, Tiff, I’m sure everyone will be kind to you and you’ll raise lots of money.’

  ‘I wish I was as optimistic as you … Oh my God, it’s Dirk.’ Tiff caught sight of his tall figure hovering nearby. She nodded a ‘hi’. ‘Well at least one person will be happy,’ she said to Marina, cursing inside.

  ‘Dirk?’ Marina laughed. ‘He’ll be amazed and delighted you’re up for sale, I’m sure.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Tiff muttered. ‘He’ll probably pass out with laughing.’

  ‘No, he won’t, and I bet he’ll be very impressed.’

  ‘That’s not why I offered to auction myself,’ Tiff insisted.

  ‘Hmm …’ Marina said. ‘Try not to worry. Concentrate on running the tombola for now …’

  Trying to take Marina’s advice, while ignoring Dirk, Tiff pulled a face. ‘Please don’t tell me that’s a tin of mushy peas up for grabs?’

  ‘Some people like mushy peas …’

  Tiff rolled her eyes and tried to throw herself into running the tombola while Marina returned to rat splatting. She recognised at least a couple of dozen people who had introduced themselves to her over the past weeks, and whom she’d seen on several occasions, as was the way with small town life.

  While people queued for their turn, the locals asked how she was settlin
g in, joking about whether she missed the bright lights. In fact, she thought, she’d had more conversations with her near neighbours in three weeks than she’d had in three years with the residents of her London street. She hadn’t thought it mattered, and frankly while she’d been zoned in on her job, frequently had her phone clamped to her ear while rushing to her flat to avoid wasting time on the briefest exchange.

  Since she’d lost her job, and Warner had scuttled off like the cockroach he was, she’d noticed how lonely it was to walk into an empty flat, having seen or spoken to no one all day. She’d also realised that her life had been consumed by work and that her spare moments had been spent in Warner’s company and his bed.

  Life had been hectic, and the start of their relationship had been exciting, full of flowers – if not hearts. Looking back, she realised how he’d started to withdraw from her as he’d climbed the political ladder.

  Should she have seen his betrayal coming? Was she too wrapped up in the moment to have taken his ‘Working late again’ and ‘Sorry, I can’t make dinner’ more seriously?

  There had been precious few people she could trust during and after the fallout.

  She used to have friends outside of work too, but everyone was so focused on their careers that some of them – from university and the classical music society she used to belong to – had fallen by the wayside. It was hard to believe she’d once found time to go to concerts and the opera almost every week. Everything had been swept away by her long hours and devotion to getting a good story.

  Tiff returned her attention to taking people’s money, twirling the drum and handing out the occasional bottle of wine, chocolates or bath gift set. She’d discreetly replaced the mushy peas with a packet of Thornton’s Continentals she’d bought out of her own pocket from another stall, and was delighted when a bowling club friend of Evie’s won it.

  It was a fleeting moment of pleasure in a morning where nervous tension had tied her stomach in ever tighter knots at the thought of what might happen at the auction. Had she let down the little community by not securing a ‘proper’ prize? No matter what Marina said, she felt awful and her mind churned.

  She saw Dirk laughing with Drew, the man who ran the sailing trust. She was under no illusions, they probably weren’t talking about her, but she wasn’t imagining the fact that he glanced her way a few times. After she’d spent an hour on the stall, Dirk sauntered up, unable to hide a smile. It was her first really close-up view all day. He was in jeans and a dark blue lifeboats polo shirt. It wasn’t exactly a uniform, but close enough for parts of her to do melty things that were very inappropriate in a community setting. Mind you, he could have turned up in sandals and socks and she’d have still fancied the pants off him.

  His eyes swept over the stall. She’d re-stocked a few prizes from spare donations but things were looking a bit desperate with a bottle of HP sauce one of the prizes. ‘Hello. How’s it going?’

  ‘Pretty good, actually. Can I interest you in a ticket for the tombola?’ she said cheerfully. ‘There’s a still a bottle of wine left? I’m not sure it’s a vintage I’ve heard of or how long it’s been in someone’s cellar, but it might be OK to add to coq au vin.’

  He switched his focus from the stall to her. Tiff felt the temperature soar. ‘How can I possibly resist?’ he said and dug in his jeans pocket for some change.

  He handed over a pound coin, still warm from his pocket.

  Mentally longing for an internal fan, Tiff twirled the drum. ‘There you go,’ she said breezily. ‘Good luck.’

  Dirk delved inside and pulled out a pink ticket. ‘Ah. Lucky me. Sixty-nine.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  He frowned and held it out for inspection. ‘No? Why would I be? Look.’

  Tiff took the ticket and sucked in a breath. It was indeed number sixty-nine. ‘Oh, I see. Right. Hold on, I think you have won something …’ Mortified by her innuendo – and that he didn’t seem to have got the joke – she made a meal of scanning the table. ‘Aha. The trio of red-hot sauces is yours.’ She handed over a pack of bottled chilli sauces.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll treasure them. Anyway, I must get back to the station. It’s my turn to show people round the lifeboat.’ He seemed about to leave, but then added, ‘And I’ll see you for the auction, of course?’ His eyes glinted wickedly. ‘I can’t wait to find out about all these exciting lots you’ve wangled.’

  Tiff held onto her civility by a thread. ‘Ah, well, I don’t think you’ll be disappointed,’ she murmured.

  He rubbed his hands together. ‘Can’t wait.’

  ‘Argh. That infuriating …’ Tiff muttered to herself, already wishing she hadn’t risen to the bait. It remained to be seen if Dirk would be disappointed by her ‘lots’ or not. Either way, he was bound to find her predicament hilarious.

  She could see his head above most of the crowd all the way back to the lifeboat house. She pulled a flask of water and downed half of it, though what she really needed right now was a hose-down and a stiff drink, preferably with lots of ice.

  Chapter Eight

  Marina searched the crowds as the sun climbed higher in the sky. She was well into her second hour on the splat the rat stall, but there was still no sign of Lachlan. She hadn’t realised quite how much she wanted him to turn up – for his own sake as well as hers – or how disappointed she might be if he didn’t.

  On the upside, her sideshow was doing a roaring trade.

  The ‘rat’ was a small furry beanbag with a woollen tail and it was her job to drop it down a piece of plastic drainpipe fixed to a painted wooden board. The goal was to whack the ‘rat’ as it shot out of the tube before it hit the ground. Each go cost fifty pence and there was a small prize for anyone who scored a direct hit.

  She’d done the job before and was getting quite good at releasing the rat in such a way as to create maximum surprise for the punters. Like most fairground games, it was actually much harder than it looked because, even if the player was totally focused, they could easily miss the rat. It was also very addictive, and people often tried many times to hit the rat, resulting in a very nice build-up of funds, while families and friends egged each other on.

  Once or twice, she had to admit, she’d been more focused on the possible sighting of Lachlan than defeating the customers, so two teenagers had gone away gleefully clutching their prizes. They were only bags of Haribo and Percy Pigs, but hey, everyone loved to win.

  From the moment they’d opened, they’d had people of all ages, from toddlers to a ninety-year-old lady from the sheltered housing, eager to have a go. Marina had been lenient with what counted as a ‘hit’ for the tiny ones and the older lady.

  ‘Hello, Marina. How’s it going?’

  ‘Oh, hello, Craig.’

  Her latest punter was Craig Illogan, one of Nate’s old fishing – aka boozing – mates. He wasn’t a bad bloke but he’d encouraged Nate’s drinking and wilder schemes. Today, he was with his wife, who Marina liked, and their son and daughter, who were both at Porthmellow Primary School.

  ‘I used to be really good at this when I was a lad,’ Craig declared, holding the stick as if it was a baseball bat. ‘Watch and learn, you two.’

  ‘You always say that, Dad,’ the little boy muttered.

  His wife rolled her eyes and exchanged a smile with Marina.

  After half a dozen fruitless splats, Craig was sweating and red in the face, but Marina refused to let him win just to feed his ego. He finally gave up, disgruntled, and she invited the children to have a go. She gave them some tips on how to catch the rat and managed to ensure they both scored a direct hit.

  Craig’s daughter jumped up and down in delight. ‘I splatted the rat! I splatted the rat!’ the little girl said.

  ‘Me too. Hit him right on the nose. Did you see it, Dad?’ the boy shouted

  ‘Beginners’ luck,’ Craig muttered, earning himself a telling-off from his wife.

  And with that, the kids skipped off with th
eir sweets, giggling and teasing their dad, while their mother told him not to be such a bad loser.

  ‘Hi there.’ Lachlan stepped from behind the stall.

  A frisson of pleasure rippled through her. ‘Oh, hello!’ she said, feeling flustered. ‘I didn’t see you.’

  ‘I’ve been here a moment. I would have come forward sooner but you were busy with that father and his family. He was getting frustrated.’

  ‘Oh, yes … Craig. That’s typical, I’m afraid, but he had every chance to win.’

  ‘Too many chances, if you ask me,’ Lachlan said.

  ‘Hmm.’ So, Lachlan really had been observing carefully. With the crowds and her attention focused on defeating Craig she hadn’t noticed him. ‘He’s always been the same. His own worst enemy.’

  ‘So he’s a local?’

  ‘Friend of Nate’s actually.’ She took a breath. ‘Nate was my late husband.’

  His mouth opened and closed before he said, so softly she could barely hear, ‘Ah …’

  ‘He drowned in a boating accident seven years ago.’

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ he said. ‘And for speaking out of turn. I didn’t mean to disrespect the man, if he was your husband’s friend.’ Lachlan looked crestfallen so Marina took pity on him. It was always a difficult moment, hearing news like hers. She had no intention of elaborating on it and making an awkward situation worse.

  ‘Please don’t worry. You’re absolutely right. Craig goes over the top and he can be insensitive to his family, let alone others.’

  ‘Even so, I should keep my opinions to myself,’ he said, unable to conceal the dismay in his voice. Marina was used to people’s reactions but upset that Lachlan clearly felt so guilty about his comments. ‘Please don’t worry about it,’ she repeated. ‘And I’m so glad you could make the fundraiser,’ she added, keen to change the subject.

  ‘I told you I couldn’t keep away,’ he said, obviously relieved she hadn’t taken offence. He softened the compliment with a smile so she wasn’t quite sure if he was serious or not. She wasn’t sure about anything as far as Lachlan was concerned and she had a feeling he kept his cards very close to his chest. And what a chest it was …