To my surprise, Saffron replied, ‘very sensible. A particular friend of mine always posts whilst drunk and another picked up a stalker. I’m very careful with my privacy settings. Facebook must be essential for you though, in terms of networking with bands.’
‘Yes, it is,’ I said flatly and thought how clever she’d become over the years at hiding her real feelings. I mean, why the sudden turnaround? Why treat me like an equal when all she’d ever done at high school was put me down?
‘What does your boyfriend do?’ she said.
‘He … he …’ He’s Ross Poldark, I wished I could say. There would be no way she could beat that.
My mind tripped back, again, to that famous grass-cutting scene from the show, in Saffron’s Facebook banner. ‘He’s a gardener. Self-employed. A landscape designer,’ I said, warming to my theme. ‘He’s called Ross.’
‘Really? How wonderful. People always need work doing in their gardens. He must be terribly fit to cope.’
‘Oh yes,’ I said, knots in my stomach unfurling. ‘In fact, he looks just like Poldark—dark curly hair, tanned from his job and gorgeous eyes. There is nothing quite like a six-pack that’s acquired from good honest work and not some gym where everyone is obsessing over their body fat ratio or biceps size, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘The only six-pack Miles knows contains packets of cheese and onion crisps! Well, good for you,’ she said.
Oh. Disappointing. She’d managed to hide every trace of envy in that voice.
‘In fact, that’s great because the reason I’m ringing is … I’d like to invite you to my wedding next month,’ she blurted out. ‘Could you give me your address? I can’t wait to meet Ross, your plus-one.’
What? I closed my eyes. Fair dos, universe, this is a swift punishment for my lie. Perhaps she’d guessed I wasn’t telling the truth. I mean, why else would she want me there?
‘That’s … very kind of you,’ I said, ‘but … Saffron … I’m really busy during the coming months and … I’m sure there are closer friends you’d like to invite instead of me.’
Didn’t the non-confrontational British just love an understatement?
Silence. Awkward. I awaited the shallow, meaningless retort.
‘It would mean a lot to me. Really. And several friends from school are going to be there,’ she said with a super-soft tone.
I squirmed. Then it truly would be the wedding from hell. But once again, curiosity piqued me and, despite some deep-set feelings of inadequacy that occasionally made a reappearance, for the most I wasn’t that insecure teenager any more. Plus, I was trying to build myself as a singer, and weddings were the best opportunity to subtly leave out business cards.
‘You’d be doing me a favour, Katie. I couldn’t invite everyone I wanted but two family members have just dropped out, due to illness. That’s why my invite is quite late notice. Please. Do consider it.’
Maybe things hadn’t changed so much after all—I clearly wasn’t her first choice of guest.
‘OK,’ I found myself saying. ‘Ross and I would love to attend. I’ll message you my address. Right. I’d better go—customers await.’
I pressed ‘end call’, put my mobile on the table and sank into my chair. How I would have preferred to say ‘Yes, I have a boyfriend called Johnny.’ My fingers flexed as if wanting to message him on Facebook, even though, deep down, I knew it was fruitless trying to exchange words with someone who was … dead. My eyes tingled and I gave myself a shake. I wasn’t one of life’s wallowers. Ever lost my job? I’d be the first in the queue at the employment office. Argue with a sibling or Mum? It was usually me to phone first and smooth things over. But losing someone isn’t the same, is it? Deep-felt feelings can’t be shaken away like salt out of a salt cellar. And messaging him was still possible, you see, because after … the accident, his family memorialised his Facebook profile. That meant friends could still visit his page to flick through photo albums. It meant, in my darkest hours, I could pretend that he was alive but simply ignoring my heartfelt words.
I gave a sigh and gradually my mind cleared of images of Johnny and uncomfortable school memories, until before me I saw … Ah. Izzy, mouth open, with one eyebrow disappearing into her hairline, clearly having heard me talk of a supposed new boyfriend called Ross …
CHAPTER 2
With a sigh, I opened the lounge window, before collapsing onto my squat plum-coloured sofa. Well, the throw was plum. It hid threadbare blue cushions. I loved my flat, even though the kitchen was tiny and my clothes hung on a rail in this living room, due to the bedroom being so small that it could only house a bed or a wardrobe, not both. After years of sharing my personal space with siblings, however cramped, life here felt luxurious. I blinked rapidly and still couldn’t believe my landlord’s announcement, last week, that he wanted me out in two months. He’d decided to refurbish and sell because he needed the money to move back to Australia. Apparently ten years of grey English winters had taken their toll.
I bit the inside of my cheeks. No point moping but I’d miss old Mrs Bird from next door. She’d call on me whenever she needed a light bulb changing, as these days she was wobbly on her feet. Often I’d stay for a cup of tea and a biscuit and she’d play her old vinyl records, her favourites by Doris Day.
I inhaled and breathed out slowly. I’d already started searching the rental ads in the local paper. Little point worrying over things that couldn’t be changed, as Johnny always used to say.
I gazed up at the ceiling, in the corner of the lounge, at the shiny, red, heart-shaped wind spinner he had given me soon after we met. With every turn, the angled metal gave the impression that it pulsated. I hadn’t dared hang it in the garden, in case the damp weather turned it rusty and brown.
‘Whenever you look at it, remember,’ he’d said, ‘it pulsates with my love. I love you Kate Golightly and this is a constant reminder to follow your heart.’
‘Oh, Johnny,’ I murmured and flinched at that vice-like feeling across my chest. I sniffed, picked up my mobile and clicked on the Facebook icon. Very quickly, I found his profile and messaged: Johnny … How are you? I’m missing you still, every time the wind spinner catches my eye. Oh what I’d give just to hear one more of your laughs—just to kiss those lips that had a hotline to my heart. I swallowed, the typed words for a moment looking blurry. What should I do? Soon I’ll be homeless. Mum has relocated to Scotland with her new job. Shall I follow her there?
I know. Pathetic, wasn’t it—the irrational part of me still wanting a response? But I’d never been able to talk to anyone like I could to him, apart from Guvnah. As for moving to Scotland, my instincts already knew the answer. I’d been brought up by a woman determined not to sponge off relatives or claim benefits. Mum had held down three jobs at one point, to manage on her own. ‘Independence is the key to happiness and self-respect,’ she always said. True words. Nothing beat the feeling of paying your own bills or finally buying something you’d saved up for. But not even Guvnah lived nearby any more. After five years of widowhood, she’d met a lovely bloke and moved to Cornwall to marry him last year.
I couldn’t help grinning at the memory of my sixty-seven-year-old grandma on her Big Day. Cupid had unexpectedly shot his arrow at her, during a bowling match, when her friend Bill had brought his friend, Geoff, visiting from the South-west. All of a sudden stubborn techno-phobe Guvnah learnt to text and Skype. She even bought a selfie stick. It gave me faith that it would never be too late to find my soul mate.
I gave the wind spinner one last glance, before prising open my laptop. If only Guvnah lived nearer or I had more paid days off work to go visit. Scrub that. I couldn’t even afford the petrol to get there. Money was tight. That’s why I’d offered to work a double shift today, because Suze, the afternoon waitress, had fallen ill. Mind you, Izzy’s requests were hard to resist when she shook a plate of fresh Oreo-inspired doughnuts under your nose.
Clothes feeling sticky and feet swollen, I yawned. Nothi
ng beat waking up to summer blue skies but a warm café-bar wasn’t the best place to work when temperatures tipped into the mid-twenties Celsius. Not that industrious wasps seemed to agree, having spent the afternoon mounting a well-thought-out campaign against customers and their sweet guilty pleasures. I kicked off my shoes and stared at the screen. Spiteful Saffron. Wedding. Plus-one. This was an emergency situation. I had four weeks to find a partner who looked exactly like a brooding mine owner. So that meant emergency chocolate, right? With an evening ahead of me, registering with as many dating sites as possible, cooking wouldn’t feature on the agenda. Not that it often did, what with me living above the Egg and Whistle, a cheap and cheerful café. Izzy despaired and occasionally forced me to eat an apple during my tea break. I know. How paradoxical—her running a fast-food diner yet obsessing with fresh foods and vitamin C.
Having said that, she prided herself on baking with the freshest, best quality ingredients. And stewed fruit often bubbled away in the kitchen, to make fillings, plus her savoury doughnuts often required chopped veg. I slipped a hand under one of the faded blue cushions and pulled out a huge bar of fruit and nut chocolate. I stashed it there, kidding myself it was hidden and not offering temptation.
Mouth watering, I slipped my fingers along the wrapper. The rectangle looked misshapen, due to melting in the summer heat—not a problem us English chocolate-lovers often suffered from. I went to tug it open when the doorbell rang. At half past eight? Who could that be? Perhaps some local incarnation of Poldark, complete with eighteenth-century tricorn hat, frock coat and roguish smile, offering to escort me to Saffron’s Big Day. I slipped the chocolate back under the cushion and headed to the window, stuck my head out into the muggy evening air and stared down at the pavement.
‘Who’s there?’
‘The most considerate boss you’ll ever have the honour of meeting,’ called a voice.
‘Izzy,’ I said in a faux bored voice. ‘What do you want? Isn’t it enough that you listen to my erudite conversation all day, every day?’
She stepped backwards, into view, and we grinned at each other, although my chest squeezed. I’d avoided her after Saffron’s phone call, not wanting to answer embarrassing questions about my fictional boyfriend, Ross. I headed over to the front door and pressed the button to let her in. Eventually, footsteps sounded in the hallway and I opened the door.
Izzy walked in, carrying a large plastic bag and humming, headed straight for the kitchen. With her yellow shorts and strawberry-red T-shirt, she reminded me of a garnished Pina Colada cocktail.
‘Make yourself at home,’ I said and she caught my eye. We chuckled and I shut the front door.
‘Thanks for working that double shift,’ she said. ‘Figured I owed you a decent dinner as it was so busy. When I left, a group of eighteen-year-olds came in … or at least said they were. I prompted James to check their ID and, as a result, most had to order mocktails instead. So I think he’s having a quiet night.’
‘I’m surprised you didn’t stay to help your newest employee,’ I said, airily.
Izzy swung around.
‘Goodness, how flushed your cheeks look, must be the heat.’ I grinned. ‘Or the thought of how his muscles show through a tight T-shirt. That man must live in the gym.’
‘You know me, Kate—ever the professional. I would never have a relationship with someone I’d hired …’ She cleared her throat. ‘So if I have to fire him for not thinking to check those girls’ IDs on his own, well, so be it.’
‘Izzy!’
Her shoulders moved up and down as she laughed. ‘Only joking. Sure, he’s cute, but a bit young for me.’ With a flourish she pulled out a bottle of Prosecco.
‘Ooh. What are we celebrating?’
She shrugged. ‘There’s no law against fizz on a week night, is there—especially if you’ve had a challenging day?’
My throat went tight.
‘I saw your face after that phone call,’ she said softly. ‘No need to explain if you don’t want to. I just thought your evening might benefit from a bit of sparkle. But Auntie Izzy is here if you need a chat.’
My mouth quirked up—‘Auntie’ indeed. Izzy was only a couple of years older than me, although to be fair, she fussed over all her employees, apart from the ones she sacked for turning up late or helping themselves to too many doughnuts. Gooey as her heart was, like unfried batter, kind Izzy was no pushover.
My throat tightened further as, for a few seconds, I relived the teenage feelings of inadequacy, embarrassment, self-hatred—feelings belonging to Katie Golightly, the round peg in a square hole girl.
‘Oh, Izzy. What have I got myself into?’ I slumped onto the sofa.
She came over and sat next to me. ‘So, when were you going to introduce me to this Ross?’ Her eyes twinkled.
Now my cheeks burned.
‘Some friend has asked you to their wedding and you decided to make up that you had a plus-one?’
Avoiding her eye, I nodded.
‘Kate! It’s not like you to lie! And there are thousands of people every year who go to events on their own. You’d be viewed as a confident, strong woman.’
‘Or as a wallflower wimp,’ I said. Izzy already knew bits—about the teasing; me not fitting in with the popular crowd. However I’d never really talked about what exactly had happened between me and Saffron and how she’d ditched me as soon as we left primary school. How we’d once been friends but then, for no apparent reason … I cleared my throat and again tapped on my laptop. ‘Sorry for going on,’ I mumbled and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. ‘I know I should be over the whole high school thing by now.’
‘I don’t think people ever get over that teenage stuff, Kate. It’s fifteen years ago for me and I still remember the knots in the pit of my stomach when the older girls used to corner me in the toilets. I’ve always loved cooking and used to hang out in the food technology department at lunchtime and read up on new recipes with my favourite teacher. I didn’t smoke, drink or snog … guess I was an easy target.’ She shrugged. ‘But those experiences don’t need to define our whole life, right?’
I nodded.
‘So, why don’t you just forget this whole Poldark thing? Tell Saffron you and Ross split up. Or, even better, don’t go to the wedding at all. She’s not even a friend. You’ve nothing to prove to anyone and you don’t owe her a single thing.’ Izzy got up, headed over to the tiny, open-plan kitchenette and, seconds later, a cork popped. She picked up two clean glass tumblers from the side of the sink and came back. Izzy sat down and our glasses clinked. As tiny Prosecco bubbles tickled my tongue, heat spread through my chest. I put down the glass.
‘But why did she invite me? I’m curious. And If I say Ross and I broke up it will seem suspicious. No …’ I sat upright. ‘My original plan remains. I need to find a Poldark lookalike and I’m hoping an online dating site can help.’ I sighed. ‘If only Johnny were here.’
‘But he’s not, Kate. And I really hope you are trying to stop messaging him,’ she said gently. ‘You know he won’t respond.’
My ears felt hot and I swallowed, suddenly experiencing the biggest urge to do exactly what she’d advised against. Apart from Guvnah, Izzy was the only person who knew I’d obsessed with my late boyfriend’s social media platforms for the first few months after he’d gone. Now, the need to check out his profiles was less overwhelming, less compulsive, and yet proved to be a hard habit to break.
‘But if you are adamant that this pretend plus-one plan is the way to go, I’m here for you,’ she said more brightly, ‘and I’ll do whatever I can to help—starting with making us something to eat. I brought chicken and stir-fry veg. It won’t take me long.’
While ingredients sizzled in the kitchenette, I dived, broad mind first, into a search engine, looking for appropriate dating sites to join. Wow. What an array. I found one for dog owners, another for ramblers, several for naturists and even for grisly fans of The Walking Dead. I couldn’t help glanci
ng at the profiles of people who’d joined that one. Most had made up their faces with plastic eaten-away skin and trickles of blood or held a crossbow or gun. Images flooded my mind regarding the perils of zombie sex and loose body parts. Ew.
But wait a minute. I moved forward and perched on the edge of the sofa. Perhaps there were dating sites specifically for fans of other shows like … Quickly I typed in ‘Poldark dating’. I scrolled down website links offering articles about the TV programme, its stars and Cornwall and was about to give up on page three when … ooh: Perfect Poldark Pairs—find your perfect brooding hero or feisty heroine. No joining fee. Could your very own Ross, Demelza or Elizabeth just be one mouse-click away?
‘You won’t believe what I’ve just found,’ I said and took another sip of Prosecco.
Izzy stopped chopping and headed over, a tea towel between her hands. She sat down and read the screen. ‘Really? I mean, really? Can’t people tell the difference between fiction and reality any more? It’s fine having a celebrity crush but taking it this far … ?’
I snorted. ‘So you wouldn’t be interested in joining a site that promised to find your very own Jack Black?’ Nothing attracted Izzy more than a man who could make her laugh—apart from a Disney prince.
Izzy giggled. ‘Hands up. You got me there.’ She leant forward and, not for the first time, I admired the length of her legs. But then at a curvy five foot two, most people’s limbs outstretched mine and certainly Izzy’s as she was a willowy five foot nine. ‘So, who is this Demelza?’ she said.
‘A feisty redheaded miner’s daughter who ends up marrying Ross Poldark. Although his first love is delicate, fragile, posh Elizabeth. It’s a bit of a love triangle …’
Izzy scrolled down the page. ‘Hmm. OK, so … what about him?’
I gazed at the picture of a man in his, ooh, thirties, with ruffled black hair and half-shaven cheeks. My eyes narrowed. ‘Nah. Read that. He reckons a date would enjoy a tour of the local mines near his house. That’s making the whole Cornish dream a little too real. A romantic man, that’s what I’ll need to impress …’
Breakfast Under a Cornish Sun Page 2
