A Perfect Cornish Escape

by Phillipa Ashley

  ‘I’m sorry that happened,’ she said, deciding that any defence of her former employer was useless. She wasn’t sure she could defend the intrusive nature of the press attention he’d received, anyway. It might have been a year ago, but he was clearly still hurting and definitely believed that the press, and specifically her own ex-employer, had had a hand in the break-up. His hostility towards her was now slightly more understandable. However, she hadn’t written the stories herself, so it was unfair of him to lay it at her door.

  He toyed with his fork. ‘Believe me, I was so happy for her when she landed the role in the series. It was what she’d always worked for and she’d gone through hell with all the rejections and knock-backs for years. Even though I knew our lives would probably change a bit, I was thrilled. But I’d no idea how drastically our lives would alter, and I wasn’t prepared for the attention once she became so well-known.’

  ‘It must have come as a shock after leading a relatively quiet life,’ Tiff said. From their brief acquaintance, she knew he was a private man: taciturn, fiercely loyal to his mates and shunned the limelight. It must have been very hard to handle his partner gaining sudden fame, even if he loved her dearly.

  ‘I was astonished – and horrified – but I didn’t want to hold her back. I went to some of the parties, but it was difficult. She wanted me to give up being a mechanic at the Thames Lifeboat Station and she said she’d support me so I could attend more events with her and travel abroad when she had to for other roles.’

  ‘That must have been a tough decision,’ she offered.

  ‘I thought about it very carefully. I lost sleep over it, but I needed something in my own life too. I couldn’t bear the idea of just following her around, even though I loved her. We were struggling to maintain the relationship by then. I thought about doing it. I almost gave in my notice but then that story broke – about the problems we were having. I got home, we had a huge row and I walked out.’

  Tiff knew what happened next but waited for him to tell his own side of things.

  ‘Amira went to the papers. She said stuff about us, about me. She later told me her publicist had made her talk to them. He’d told her it would keep her in the public eye and that she could convince me that the journalist had made it all up.’

  Tiff pressed her lips together, picturing the conversation between the journalist and Amira’s publicist. She winced inwardly. Hearing Dirk’s point of view, she felt she was hearing a new perspective – or perhaps, a perspective she’d lost sight of and dismissed over the years.

  ‘The story blew over in days and our lives were fit for the recycling bins before the week was out, but the damage was done. I tried to talk to her and see a way forward but we both knew we’d grown too far apart. She’s living with one of the cast members now.’ He paused for a second, and Tiff could see the pain in his eyes. ‘The worst moment was when Amira was pictured with that actor for the first time. The press hunted me down to get my reaction. They were on the riverbank the night we pulled a young guy from the Thames. He’d been drunk, jumped in and drowned. It made the papers because it happened during the Cricket World Cup and he was in a New Zealand shirt. They used a photo of me after we’d got the poor lad ashore. It had nothing to do with Amira, and there were other pictures of me on the web they could have used.’ His voice rose in anger. ‘Yet they chose to use the photo at the scene after I’d dragged a dead person from the water! It was obscene.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Tiff meant it, horrified at the use of such an emotional photo to sell a tabloid break-up story.

  ‘I decided then that my private life was affecting my mates on the crew, and the casualties. Amira made it clear we were over so when I saw a vacancy here, I jumped at the chance to get away.’

  Dirk’s voice faded. Perhaps he was embarrassed about revealing too much.

  ‘Porthmellow’s a long way from London …’ she prompted, eager to keep the words flowing, dreading that they’d dry up.

  ‘I was born in Cornwall,’ he said, frowning as if she should have known that already. ‘Up on the north coast. My parents still live up there so when I decided to move away, it was a no-brainer to come back here … Closer to them, and as far as possible from the city, as you say.’ He looked at Tiff. ‘More importantly, as far as possible from Amira and all the crap that surrounded her. It was your newspaper that ran the final story on her – on us. It was garbage, most of it, and they called me a tragic lifeboat hero.’

  Tiff sucked in a small breath. Now the layers were peeling back. No wonder he’d shown her such animosity. ‘I didn’t write it, Dirk.’

  ‘Your mate did. Esther Francois.’

  ‘Esther was a colleague, definitely not a mate,’ she said, sharply. It was an understatement if anything: Esther Francois was so far from being a ‘mate’ that she’d urged the editor to sack Tiff.

  ‘You’d have done the story too, if you’d dug it up,’ Dirk said. ‘Not that there was much truth in the stuff that ended up in print. It was a pack of lies.’

  She hesitated. ‘Without knowing the circumstances, I don’t know what I’d have done presented with the information. Tragic hero is a cliché. I’d probably have tried to dig deeper.’

  He breathed out his contempt.

  ‘Look, Dirk, I can’t apologise for a story I didn’t write. Why don’t you tell me more about the true version of events?’

  ‘So you can print it?’ he shot back.

  ‘No, so I can understand you better.’

  His eyes narrowed briefly, he looked at her as if she’d turned into a frog, then he shook his head. ‘Now why the hell would you want to do that?’

  ‘Why not? We’ve got the rest of the day.’

  He snatched up his empty plate and put it in the sink. Tiff flinched, certain she’d blown the moment. She was damned by association, but she refused to feel guilty for someone else’s article and certainly not Esther bloody Francois’ actions. Nor would she apologise for her job, per se.

  She took her own plate to where Dirk was standing gripping the edge of the sink. She left the plate on the worktop next to him.

  ‘Tell me more about your side of things, please.’

  ‘Are you really interested in my side?’ he said. ‘Your friend clearly wasn’t interested in it.’

  Tiff chose her words carefully, afraid to shatter the moment again.

  ‘Dirk, I am sorry this happened to you. I’m sorry that you split up with Amira, and I’m sorry you think the story in the Herald helped to tip her over the edge. Esther is definitely not … my friend. I don’t like her methods and I like to think I’d have handled it more sensitively, but I am not going to lie to you. I can’t say I wouldn’t have followed it up myself. Journalism is my job, same as fixing the boat is yours. Yours is just noble, that’s all.’

  ‘Noble?’ He laughed. ‘I got a transfer here to get away from London, not for noble reasons. I ran away.’

  ‘Then at least we have something in common,’ Tiff said lightly. ‘Along with let’s say … a compulsion to be honest.’

  He laughed. ‘Honest? Us … yeah …’ He turned to look at her, an intensity burning in his eyes. ‘Well, if we’re being honest – totally honest – I’d tell you, in spite of everything, how much I want to take you to bed … but you must already know that?’

  ‘Oh … No. I … didn’t know that.’ Her voice was suddenly throaty. ‘My God, I absolutely didn’t know that.’

  Even though she was irritated by his accusations, he’d stopped her dead in her tracks with his blunt declaration. She shivered, partly in surprise and partly in lust.

  ‘Are you shocked?’ he said.

  ‘Erm … shocked isn’t quite the word.’

  ‘So … I’ve made a mistake?’

  ‘No … I wouldn’t call it a mistake either …’ She floundered; floored by a directness that had hit her like a missile out of a clear blue sky and made her whole body grow hot and cold with desire.

  ‘Of course, it woul
d be a bloody terrible idea,’ he went on, cutting the ground from under her yet again. ‘I do respect you being honest, but I just don’t trust you.’

  Or can’t, she thought. ‘Wow. What a fantastic basis for a relationship,’ she said coolly. ‘You want to take me to bed but you don’t like me and you don’t trust me. How could I possibly resist?’

  ‘Easily. I’m a grumpy, rude, anti-social bloke who’s now insulted you.’

  Tiff seethed with indignant anger and at his comments, but a part of her also wanted to rip his clothes off, and she couldn’t decide which of those feelings was winning. ‘Anyone would think you were deliberately trying to keep me away from you,’ she said, putting her finger on his lips. His eyes widened in shock at her touch. His mouth was warm under her fingertips and sent a thrill through her.

  ‘I think you’re doing a very good job of being Mr Darcy. Without the gigantic mansion and millions, of course.’

  Reluctantly, she lowered her hand, furious with him but dying to feel her lips on his.

  ‘I always thought Darcy was an arse,’ Dirk said, holding her gaze. ‘Arrogantly jumping to conclusions about people when he didn’t know the facts.’

  Was he even aware of the irony of his comment? ‘There you go, then,’ Tiff said sweetly, yet inwardly fuming and glad she hadn’t acted on her impulse to kiss him. ‘None of us is perfect. Thank you for the lunch and the most absolutely fecking terrifying experience of my life. I’ll write up the feature about the crew. Should be in the next month’s issue.’

  ‘Wait, Tiff. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Oh, I think you did. I can find my own way out.’

  Snatching up her bag, she stormed into the hall. He followed but she flung open the door and marched out. She was pretty sure he was on the doorstep, but she absolutely was not going to look back to check.

  What a day. Rarely had she left someone’s house so shaken, so unsure of their feelings – or her own. Dirk ’n’ Stormy was a very fitting nickname. Not because of his changing moods but because of the turbulence he stirred up in others. Or perhaps, she realised as she reached Marina’s place, only in her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was several days after the kite surf incident before Marina saw Lachlan in the flesh again. She’d texted him that evening and received a short reply from him saying he’d needed to go home as soon as the lifeboat had taken the male casualty off the beach and asking her if she’d keep him updated on how the kite surfers were. She assumed that the helicopter’s arrival had been a trigger for him.

  Luckily, she had plenty to distract her at work: exam season was imminent and she encouraged the students to go outside and get some fresh air and sunshine as a break from the stress.

  She sat on the grass with her lunch and chatted to a colleague for a while before checking her phone in case Lachlan had messaged her again. His text had given no hint of when – or if – he intended to see her again. What a shame: she was disappointed as they’d been getting on so well and he’d seemed to be opening up to her.

  Tiff revealed she’d seen him when she’d been to the post office, but they only exchanged a nod and a ‘hi’.

  However, when there was still no message the following day, she texted him herself asking how he was. It was Friday and she’d taken the late afternoon shift at the lookout station. In late May, the coast was stunning. The shady banks were smothered in bluebells while the sunny areas popped with yellow gorse, white sea campion and mauve vetch. Pleasure craft joined the fishing vessels in the harbour and the beaches were busy every sunny weekend.

  Holiday time for tourists meant more work for the Wave Watchers and the lifeboat crews, but Marina was used to the rhythm of the seasons in the station by now. Fortunately, that day’s shift with Gareth was uneventful.

  ‘See you later,’ she told Gareth, leaving him to hand over to Doreen and Trevor.

  She had plenty of time to go home and change out of her uniform before heading down into town to meet up with some of the Wave Watchers for a drink at the pub. She strolled towards Coastguard Terrace, inhaling the salty sea air and listening to the choughs calling from the cliff edges, and the waves crashing onto the rocks below. Once again, she was struck by the contrast between the beauty and danger of the place. Nate wouldn’t have understood that: he was gung-ho about the sea, always telling her not to worry.

  An involuntary shudder shook her and when she turned away from the cliff, Lachlan was approaching on the path from the direction of the Lizard. She wondered if he’d slowed at first, having spotted her, but then almost immediately, he jogged towards her.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ she said lightly.

  He wrinkled his nose. ‘Aye. I have been a stranger … Marina, I’m sorry I rushed off after the incident. Once I was sure the casualties were going to be OK, I needed some space. I should have told you straight away, and not disappeared like that. Sometimes a little thing – or a big one – will trigger bad memories and I have to get away. It’s probably only a fight or flight thing …’ He toed the earth. ‘Though it always seems to be flight these days.’

  ‘We all need our space from time to time. I know I do. You don’t have to explain.’

  ‘It isn’t me – running away. It didn’t used to be me, anyway … perhaps I can’t get used to the changes in me. I know other people couldn’t.’

  Marina left a gap in the conversation, hoping he only needed time to fill it, but he shrugged. ‘You don’t want to hear about me and my problems.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. I’m on my way home. Do you want to try me?’

  They walked together, chatting, and stopped to look out over the coast. Cornwall was at its finest on this glorious May evening, with the light mellowing and the colours intensifying as the sun sank lower. The sky was a cornflower blue, the breeze whispering through the gorse and carrying its toasted coconut scent.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Lachlan said, standing by her side.

  ‘It is. I do love it.’

  ‘Working up here, sometimes on your own. Does it not bring back unhappy memories?’ he asked.

  ‘Sometimes … though they are memories now. I made peace with myself a while ago. I accepted that I couldn’t change the past, but I could, even in a small way, help to change the future for someone else. That’s comforting.’

  ‘I wish I was at that stage.’

  Marina found herself wishing he was too, but she understood better than anyone how much time he might need. ‘It will come.’ She waited for him to speak some more, perhaps unspool his fears and doubts, but he stayed silent – lips pressed together, eyes fixed on some nameless spot out over the waves.

  ‘Scotland must be very beautiful too …’ she ventured. ‘Can you believe I’ve never been?’

  ‘What? Ach, you must put that right. It’s quieter and wilder; there are far fewer people, which is fine by me. The mountains, glens and lochs have a way of seeping into your soul without you realising it …’ He shook his head, a little awkward. ‘I’m romanticising. I have to admit the weather is much better here.’

  Marina thought he sounded almost lyrical, and she found it endearing. ‘We have our moments with the gales and high seas.’

  He laughed. ‘Aaron’s dad loves telling me about the giant waves. They seem to get bigger every time Troy tells the tale.’

  Marina smiled. ‘Well, those waves can be quite something. A few years ago, in one winter storm, the sea threw shingle over the cliff so high that our kitchen window was broken.’

  ‘That’s scary.’

  ‘It was a long night …’ She suddenly realised he was only in a running vest and shorts. Not that she wanted him to put more clothes on, but he must be getting cold. Plus she had promised to meet up with her friends in town.

  ‘You must want to get back after your run?’

  ‘I’m in no rush.’

  This was promising. ‘I said I’d go to the pub with a few mates. It’s barbecue night at the Smuggler’s Tavern, and Drew’s band
is playing outside on the quayside. He runs the sailing trust for his day job,’ she explained, in case Lachlan didn’t know who he was. ‘But he’s in a folk band too and they’re really good. In fact, I was on my way home to change out of my uniform. Would you like to join us?’

  He hesitated. ‘I’ll not say no to a burger and a pint, but I don’t want to spoil a party.’

  ‘You won’t. There’ll be loads of locals there. Everyone turns up and joins in.’ She gave him time to refuse, realising that he’d only recently said that he found it hard to join in with community events. At the same time, she realised how very much she wanted him to say yes. ‘It’s pretty casual but don’t feel you have to.’

  ‘OK. Yeah, I’d like that. I need a shower first though or I’ll probably clear the whole pub.’

  Marina didn’t think so. She thought he looked hot in the running gear and wished he hadn’t mentioned taking a shower because it was conjuring up images in her mind that she probably ought not to dwell on.

  ‘Great. D’you want to knock on my door when you’re ready? Half an hour, enough?’

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  Back in her cottage, Marina showered, changed into a casual dress and was lacing up her pumps when Lachlan knocked the door. His arrival stirred a tickle of excited nerves in her stomach. He was in cargo shorts, a polo shirt and flip-flops: standard Porthmellow uniform, except that the vast majority of men in the town didn’t have a physique that had been honed by swimming in lochs, hiking and climbing. His scars were becoming part of him for Marina. It wasn’t that she ceased to notice them; more that her subconscious had accepted them like any other feature of his face and body.

  If he was apprehensive about meeting everyone, he didn’t show it, although she supposed that could all have been an act for her sake.

  There were already a couple of dozen people outside the Smuggler’s when they arrived, milling around the tables. On this balmy late May evening, the place was packed with locals and holidaymakers alike, their laughter and chatter ringing out along the quayside. Her nostrils twitched at the smoky tang of food and Lachlan was also hungry after his run, so they headed straight for the barbecue to collect plates of burger and salad. One of the Wave Watchers volunteers had already offered to buy a round, and their drinks were waiting when they joined a group of familiar faces on one of the pub tables.