‘So, you crazy woman, what’s the plan?’ said Izzy, as we grabbed our rucksacks and headed downhill. I stopped for a moment and drank in the scene ahead—the masts of fishing boats visible in the distance, in front of the harbour backdrop. And, right in the distance, the flat oceanic horizon, broken only by the occasional trawler. Gulls swooping. Long grasses waving. Visitors milling.
As we walked further down, the view became even prettier. Turquoise waves dipping. A sandy, U-shaped cove. In the middle was a jetty with fishing boats moored either side, their navy, green and red paintwork standing out against the shoreline. Then higher up, on top of the cliffs either side, sat non-uniform rows of different coloured cottages. A strong breeze blew against my cheeks and I was glad to have tied my hair back. Tremain would have approved of my sensible pumps, worn with three-quarter-length cotton trousers and a ginger Indian silk blouse I’d picked up from the charity shop.
Oh, and scrub what I said about Tremain perhaps being human after all. This morning we’d driven past him and, on instinct, I waved. Yes, it was a bit of a watermelon moment, like awkward Baby out of Dirty Dancing. I’m not sure why I did it and the response was suitably cool. In other words, a nod accompanied by no expression at all.
‘Hellooo, anyone in?’ asked Izzy and, keeping her eye on the road, playfully tapped a purple, varnished fingernail against my head.
‘Careful, you nearly touched my eye!’ I said. Mind you, easy for her to forget. I’d managed to disguise the bruising with foundation. ‘The plan? Well, to find my own gorgeous miner lookalike, of course.’
‘But it’s not as simple as that. How exactly?’ she said, as the road narrowed into a path and we cut through the tiniest whitewashed stone cottages, with doll’s house doors and uneven foundations. The roads turned to cobbled avenues and I marvelled at cute plant pots in tiny front gardens. An occasional cat crossed our path, as I pointed out funny house names like Seas the Day and Sunnyside Up. Tens of gulls squawked above our heads and, as we approached the wide harbour, I breathed in a fishy stench, which hit the back of your throat.
‘You see those boats?’ I said and pointed to the jetty. ‘Well …’
OK. Between you and me, hands up, I had no plan.
Izzy squinted in the sun.
‘They clearly aren’t touristy ones, for taking out visitors, which is great, because, um, I intend to target individual fishermen,’ I said and tried to sound confident. ‘And use my charm to see if they’ll take me out for a one-to-one tour. That way I’ll get to know them much quicker and see if they are suitable for the job of impressing Saffron.’
‘It’s all rather clinical, isn’t it?’ she said, as we came to a large rock and sat down. Pools of seawater glistened metres away and small children ran around carrying fishing nets and buckets filled with the ocean’s jewels. She slipped off her trainers and ankle socks, to reveal toenails painted lilac, to match the nails on her hands.
Johnny and I went to the seaside—to Margate—for the day, once, fingers entwined we sat on the sand, lips locked. Clinical was good, because anything deeper got you hurt.
I fiddled with my beaded bracelet. ‘I know. And I feel bad for … using someone—you know me, my natural modus operandi is to be upfront. Eventually, I’ll have to make it clear that I’m not interested in a relationship.’
Izzy scoffed. ‘Tell me about it. Remember when old Mrs Lowe popped in last week, for her favourite peanut butter doughnut and asked if you liked her new hairdo?’
‘It was pink! All I said was she needed to update her wardrobe as the tweed didn’t really go. That’s subtle for me.’
‘She really appreciated you nipping across the road to the chemist to find a shade of nail varnish to match.’
I blushed. ‘She’s a lovely lady. Always asks about my singing.’ I took my water bottle out of my floral rucksack and took a glug.
‘Right. Let’s do it then, lovely. Before you change your mind,’ said Izzy.
‘How do you do that?’
‘What?’
‘Read my mind.’
Izzy grinned and squeezed my shoulder. ‘You? Chat up a random man? Then ask him to accompany you to a wedding before you so much as know each other’s surname? It’s a challenging remit for any woman. But I’m here to support you. Go on.’ She gave me a little shove. ‘What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll be right here by your side.’
I adjusted the position of my rucksack. ‘Would you mind if I took things forward on my own. I’d feel less self-conscious.’
Izzy smiled. ‘No problem. I’ve already spotted a rather quaint ice-cream shop with a large selection of flavours I really must sample—purely for research, of course.’
‘Then I shall expect a full report afterwards. Two hours, yes? Leave room for lunch. With all this sea air, I’ll be starving.’
I watched her head back to the shops, men’s heads turning as she passed. With her striking looks and winning smile, Izzy never had a problem hooking a bloke. Plus, she was the sweetest girlfriend—baking, cocktail-making, independent and as loyal as they come. She’d already had three proposals in her life, all rejected, because she was holding out for her idyllic Disney prince. I was still waiting for proposal number one. Thanks to fate, Johnny and I never got that far.
I took a deep breath and looked around, wishing I’d taken Izzy’s advice and slathered my white skin with suncream. I had an English rose complexion, according to kind Guvnah—but in reality the colour was more like that of an uncooked Cornish pasty. My eyes narrowed as I surveyed the jetty ahead. I slipped down from the rock and wandered across the sand, enjoying the sensation of my feet sinking with every step. Kids ran around in costumes and deckchairs had been set up across the beach. It wasn’t too crowded as most visitors seemed interested in souvenir shopping. Plus, Port Penny was known for being more of a picturesque harbour than a sunbathing trap, without toilets or changing rooms or a beach café.
In the distance, groups of teenagers, probably locals, explored caves visible in both cliff sides. Right. I needed to find black curls. A swarthy complexion. A strong miner’s frame. A man with a dollop of arrogance, but combined with enough passion and compassion to make that appealing to a modern woman.
I headed over to the nearest fishing boat. It was ramshackle with peeling paintwork, but that made it more authentic, right? Saffron’s crush was on an eighteenth-century miner, so I’m thinking the best bet would be a sailing vessel all down and dirty, not modern and streamlined. A man had stepped on to it and was examining a pair of oars. He wore a bright red cap and … hurrah! … from underneath that poked black curls. I coughed. Nothing. I coughed louder. Needed to see his face, because up until now he looked suitable, with the right height.
He turned around. ‘Can I help you?’ he said, in a lilting voice, and gave me the warmest of smiles. Eyeliner. Soft skin. Scarlet lipstick to match the cap. Oops. Unless eighteenth-century miners had sex changes, then this fisherwoman was no good.
‘Um, no thanks, tickly throat—hay fever …’
She gave me a sympathetic glance. Hurriedly, I continued along the jetty, feeling a little seasick as the boats either side bobbed up and down. To the left, a man in a black shirt sat examining a fishing net. Short blond hair. No good. It wouldn’t grow in time. With a sigh, I continued. In the next boat stood a stocky guy, with a beanie hat on even though it was practically August, and a wedding ring glistening on his finger. Forget that. A couple of kids and, presumably, their granddad were playing in the next boat, with a supply of fizzy drinks and crisps. A smooching couple sprawled across the wooden floor of the next. The rest of the boats were empty, apart from a huge white one, right at the end. Talk about flash, with piles of nets and hooks, plus masts going in all directions and polar white sails.
But ooh … The owner stood on deck with dashing white marine cap, curly black hair, tanned skin and a pipe in his mouth. Old school, I liked that. Plus, he was reasonably tall and the sunglasses added an air of mystery. B
ut would he stand up to close scrutiny and exude a sexiness rugged enough to drive Saffron wild?
I approached and pretended to be engrossed in my phone. As I neared his boat, I looked up.
‘Gosh.’ Innocent voice. ‘I didn’t know I’d walked so far.’
He turned his head to face me. ‘Good thing you didn’t continue for a couple of metres. You’d have been shark bait,’ he said and smiled.
Oh. No Cornish accent. But I couldn’t be too picky. Mind racing, I smiled back. His voice was rather polite. In fact a bit plummy and I couldn’t help thinking I’d heard it before.
‘Didn’t know there were sharks in these parts,’ I said.
‘Oh definitely. Mackerel shark just to name one species. Although granted, nowhere near Port Penny. I’ve done my research.’
I put away my phone and pulled out my bottle of water, whilst the fisherman went back to looking at his boat. How could I get myself invited on, just to get to know him that little better, or rather secretly audition him for the part of my plus-one? Discreetly, I screwed the lid off my bottle and turned it upside down. The water ran out. Mentally, I shook my head. Was I really doing this?
‘Goodness. I’m gasping for a drink and I’ve no water left. I don’t suppose you could fill this up could you?’ I said and showed him the empty bottle.
His face broke into a smile again and I noticed wrinkles where I hadn’t before. Plus that hair—it kind of shifted oddly when he scratched it. Oh my God! It wasn’t real!
‘Come on into my cabin,’ he said. ‘I believe there’s a bottle of champers in the fridge. How about helping me celebrate?’
‘Um …’
He lifted up his hands, grinned and whipped off his wig and glasses. ‘No funny stuff, my dear. I am just a fuddy-duddy old writer doing research for my next book.’
I gasped. Of course, I’d seen him on several TV programmes last year, that’s why I knew that voice.
‘Hardly fuddy-duddy!’ I stuttered. ‘But it’s a pleasure to meet you, Dick Thrusts.’
He ran a hand over his bald head and gave an infectious chuckle. ‘Trevor’s the name. I may like writing erotica, but in reality most of my time is spent with a nice cup of tea and my gardening programmes.’
I grinned back, now. My shoulders relaxed. Yes, I’d seen him on a horticultural show. Dick Thrusts—Trevor—was always extremely courteous and took jokes about his work very well. You see, on the tail end of Fifty Shades’ success he’d written a birdwatching erotic book—don’t ask—called A Flock of Shags. For the uneducated—which included me—a shag is a bird rather like a cormorant. The book was a runaway success due to its schoolboyish humour. Think Christian Grey with whips that made farting noises and blindfolds that left black stains around your eyes.
‘Come on,’ said Trevor. ‘It’s baking hot today. I, for one, could do with some fizz.’
‘Isn’t it a bit early for champagne?’ I said and stepped onto the boat.
Trevor steadied me. ‘Darling, it is never too early for alcohol in the publishing world—there is always something to sob over or celebrate. And today it is good news … I’ve finally made some progress with my new book.’
He left his pipe on the deck and I followed him into the small cabin and, grateful for the shade, sat down on a bench. There was a tiny sink with a cupboard underneath, a cool box, a few magazines and some biscuits. Trevor poured us two drinks.
‘Cheers, me dears,’ he said.
‘Well done on your success,’ I said. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what was with the wig?’
‘Huh? Oh. Just getting into character. I call it Method Writing. That’s why I hired this boat. My next story is set at sea. It will be called A Finger of Fish—sailor erotica, if you will.’
He looked at me. I paused. Then we both laughed.
‘Good for you. For not caring … I read an interview where you said that some of your friends had disowned you for writing sex.’
Trevor shook his head. ‘Stupid, isn’t it? No one gets tortured or hurt in my books.’ He shrugged. ‘They are just humorous stories about the one thing we all have in common.’
‘Do you genuinely not care what people think about you?’ I said, Saffron and the school bullies popping into my head.
‘Nope. Not now. Life’s too short.’ His eyes went all shiny. ‘My wife left me three years ago, for a plumber. Totally unexpected. Devastated, I was. For a while, I felt like my whole existence was over. That taught me a valuable lesson—that if I still had dreams to crack on with them then and there. You don’t know what’s around the corner and you can’t depend on anyone else for your happiness.’ He ran a hand over his head. ‘You have to create your own luck, your own joy.’
I bit the inside of my cheeks. But I’d liked relying on Johnny. For the first time I’d had someone who had the time to listen, really listen, to all my dreams, my worries—from my views on climate change to the Kardashians.
‘You all right, my lovely?’ said Trevor.
And, before I knew it, I was telling him all about Johnny’s death. Perhaps it was a writer’s trait to have a face for listening—a tool from Mother Nature, given to authors to help them gain stories. He had sincere eyes, a sympathetic nod and gave encouraging smiles. I told him how I understood, about his wife—how being left alone all of a sudden felt like a tight fist, squeezing your heart until it burst.
‘And you still send him—or rather his Facebook profile—messages?’ he said, in soft tones.
My eyes blurred. Somehow I had let that slip. ‘Weak, I know. I was so angry in the beginning—at the way he threw away our future together; his actions that night, on the road. I blocked him on Facebook, WhatsApp, even Instagram at first.’
Trevor raised an eyebrow.
My shoulders bobbed up and down. ‘Pointless, I know, but for a brief moment in time it made me feel better, gave me some control.’ My mouth upturned. ‘Johnny has hundreds of followers on social media, due to his job as an RSPCA officer, out in the field saving neglected animals. We used to joke that it was his photos of kittens that I really fell in love with.’ I bit my lip. ‘But, in time, I accepted his death—that the accident wasn’t all his fault. I couldn’t blame Johnny for ever. So then my messages to him became more … more loving and chatty.’
Trevor patted my hand.
‘I just wish he’d come back to me,’ I said, voice cracking, a lump in my throat.
‘I felt exactly the same, for a long time, but the intensity of that feeling eventually dissipated,’ he said. ‘You just need a new passion, something—or someone—else to come along. Try to have faith, me dear. It will happen.’
We sat in silence and drank. I knew Trevor was right. I mean this clinginess wasn’t me—out of all my siblings, I’d be the one reading in a corner or happy to spend an evening on my own, without playing or arguing with a brother or sister.
He cleared his throat. ‘You know what, we both deserve some fun. Seeing as you are here, could you do me an enormous favour? I’m writing a sex scene, set in a cabin, and I just need to know if, strategically, the positions are possible. I’ve got a tape measure.’
Don’t ask me exactly what I had to do, because it’s a secret I shall take to my grave and I will actually kill Izzy when I see her, for shoving me towards the boats! Although, to be honest, I giggled like a schoolgirl, at one point, tears running down both our faces. If I didn’t already know Trevor’s creditable reputation from the media, there is no way I would have agreed to his very polite but athletic requests. He even said he’d credit me in the book’s acknowledgements. That brought the biggest grin to my face.
However, as I left him and headed down the jetty, weaving slightly after three glasses of good old Moët, the smile dissolved. It sunk in that my morning had resulted in a mission unaccomplished. This was useless. Pathetic. Had I lost my mind? How had I realistically expected to find a suitable Cornish, Poldark lookalike, let alone one who would be prepared to go along with my ridiculous plus-o
ne charade? It was farcical. Desperate. I pictured the red wind spinner. Behaving like this did not feel like I was following my heart.
I gazed ahead and saw Izzy wave from the other side of the sand. Yep. Meeting Trevor had been a wake-up call to my madness. I would simply go to the wedding on my own and treat the rest of my stay in Cornwall as a holiday.
CHAPTER 6
There is only one thing that could make Guvnah’s cottage more pretty, and that’s if it were made from gingerbread, spicy dried fruit and icing. It had a thatched roof and plant pots out the front, tiny windows, low ceilings and a brickwork fireplace to die for. Geoff had lived there for years with his first wife and insisted, when Guvnah moved in, that she refurbish and redecorate every room. But my gran had never been one for doing things for the sake of it. She’d redesigned their bedroom to give it a vintage feel, but only made small changes to the rest of her new home.
Seaside paintings punctuated the walls along with ornamental shelves made out of driftwood. Cosy wasn’t the word for the little lounge, with the terracotta colours, a warm oak laminate floor and mosaic rug. There was just enough room for a cherry sofa and two matching armchairs. A ginger cat completed the homely picture, as did a vase full of dried beach thistles on the windowsill.
Guvnah passed me a slice of Cornish honey cake. Geoff was a natural-born cook, his preferred method being barbecuing. No one served a hot dog like him, with home-made mustard relish and fried red onions. For years he’d run a mobile snack van, specialising in sausages, burgers and hot drinks.
‘I’m not sure I can find room after the lunch Izzy and I enjoyed. My pasty was served with the yummiest home-made tomato ketchup.’
‘Talking of which, Geoff has just made a batch of tomato pickle. You can take a jar. I’ve always wanted to live in a house with a vegetable garden.’
‘My favourite spot is the bench under the weeping willow.’ I sighed. ‘It really is a dream home. When will Geoff get back from the garage? I can’t wait to see him again.’
Breakfast Under a Cornish Sun Page 6
