There's Something About Cornwall

by Daisy James

  She had noticed there was a break halfway through their itinerary, which – as luck would have it – happened to be in south Cornwall before they moved on to the next shoot in Newquay. She had called her mother immediately from the train to ask if she could stay. As she had anticipated, her mother had been delighted to welcome her home so they could spend some precious time together. If she was honest, she was looking forward to being pampered and she intended to treat both her mother and herself to an indulgent day out at the local spa when she could maybe come clean about her disintegrated relationship with Brad.

  The urgent revving of an engine broke into her reverie and she shot a look in the direction of the noise. A bright orange retro VW camper van screeched to a halt in the lay-by outside the station twenty metres away, its gears scraping disconsolately.

  Emilie rolled her eyes and dragged her suitcase and prop box further down the waiting area so she could maintain her view of the approach road and the hopefully imminent arrival of Alice. It was unusual for her friend to be late. She was infamous in their photography circles for her fastidiousness, not only in timekeeping but also in adhering to any agenda like a tenacious limpet. She was also a walking information junkie!

  Emilie’s stomach gave a lurch as she wondered how Alice really felt about working with her – equally as renowned for her clumsiness, lack of orderliness and questionable talent in the punctuality arena. Unlike her own prop box where there was no discernible order, Alice’s trunk was catalogued, indexed, cross-referenced and labelled so she could call up any item her client demanded without hesitation. Emilie knew Alice had worked with Lucinda several times in the past and it was no doubt this indispensable characteristic that got her the repeat bookings on the Lucinda Loves… assignments.

  Despite possessing traits on the opposing ends of the character spectrum, far from causing each other irritation Emilie and Alice each seemed to view the other with fascinated curiosity. After all, Emilie argued to herself, opposites do attract. Alice was blessed with an abundance of energy and friendliness. A smile adorned her expertly made-up features whatever calamity she was troubleshooting (caused by others of course).

  In fact, Emilie had to admit that she’d experienced a surge of relief that it would be Alice who was working alongside her so she could act as a buffer between Lucinda and herself. Her reassuring presence might just make this ridiculous journey the length and breadth of England’s southernmost county bearable, not least because Alice’s second badge of honour, worn proudly on her breast, was party girl extraordinaire.

  Despite her attractive features – glossy bob the colour of chocolate ganache and sharp hazel eyes – Alice remained resolutely single, arguing that there was no point in hanging your dreams on the arm of a guy. She didn’t agree with Emilie’s thesis that finding a soulmate enhanced your life. Instead Alice pronounced herself judge and jury on all things romance and submitted the argument that you made your own happiness, that the potential delivery of happiness was not pinned to someone else’s mast.

  As for which of the eloquent submissions held sway now, after what had happened with Brad, Emilie decided that the jury was out and still deliberating – although had she been pressed, she would have had to agree with Alice. Until she’d met Brad, most of her relationships had been short: some sweet, some not so. Then along came Brad – suave, confident, knowledgeable and extraordinarily handsome. He had guided her in all things camera-related and she knew she had become a much better photographer because of him.

  It was only in the last six months that his attitude towards her had changed. In the early hours of the morning after his cheating had been revealed, when sleep had evaded her and she spent the time churning through what had happened, she had eventually been able to pinpoint the precise moment he’d changed – the awards night.

  She sighed and puffed out a breath of air. Brad was history. Here she was in Cornwall and she was determined to make the shoot one of her best to date, as well as indulging in some girly fun with Alice. A smile tugged at her lips when she thought of previous escapades. She dragged her tousled hair from around her cheeks, lifted it over her head and dropped it behind her shoulders.

  ‘Emilie! Sorry! Sorry!’ called Alice. ‘No excuses except for the weekend traffic and getting used to the unfamiliar controls.’

  Alice grabbed Emilie’s wheelie suitcase and stalked off down the pavement with it, coming to a stop so suddenly that Emilie slammed into the back of her.

  ‘Why are you stopping here? Where’s the hire car?’

  ‘This is it.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here!’ Alice indicated the VW camper van, its orange paintwork interrupted by swirls of white depicting rolling waves along both sides. ‘I’ve nicknamed her the Satsuma Splittie. What do you think?’

  Emilie’s jaw dropped in disbelief. She closed her mouth only to open it again, like a gobsmacked goldfish. She couldn’t think of anything to say that was favourable.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Alice had clearly mistaken her horrified silence for awe. ‘It’s got two beds, a table and a tiny kitchenette. I just know we’re going to have an amazing expedition. I can’t wait to get started on our journey after the shoot this afternoon. It’ll be like we’re part of an Enid Blyton adventure.’

  ‘But it’s…it’s a camper van!’

  ‘Yes, what were you expecting? A Winnebago? I know it’ll be a bit cosy, but we won’t be spending a lot of time inside – only to sleep and have a quick breakfast before joining the crew for the shoot. Come on, don’t stand there like a soggy treacle pudding. Climb in. We need to get over to the hotel in Padstow to get the shoot set up so we can start the photography as soon as Lucinda’s bakes are ready. There’s lots to organise. Today is an indoor shoot in the hotel’s conservatory, thank goodness, but I’m sure you’ll want to have everything wrapped up before we lose the natural light.’

  Alice leapt up into the driver’s seat but Emilie remained motionless on the footpath, clutching the handle of her beloved prop box so tightly her knuckles had bleached white. Confusion and a myriad of questions ricocheted around her brain. Why hadn’t she thought to check where she would be staying for the Cornwall-wide journey? If she were honest, she had assumed she would be in the same hotel as Lucinda and loyal her assistant, Marcus Baker – but how presumptuous was that? She was a lowly photographer, not a celebrated TV chef and bestselling cookery book writer. But still, two weeks in a VW camper van? Squashed into a makeshift bed next to neat-freak Alice? It was a recipe for verbal fireworks.

  The passenger-side window scrolled down and Alice peered over from the other side, her slender body hunched over the steering wheel, her mahogany bob swinging around her chin.

  ‘Earth to Emilie! What are you waiting for? We have a very tight schedule to keep to. I wouldn’t recommend risking Lucinda’s wrath so soon in the proceedings. Surely I don’t have to remind you that upsetting her would be professional suicide?’

  Alice’s words of warning somehow sliced through Emilie’s armour of denial. She grasped the silver handle and slid back the van’s side door to stow her precious trunk in the back, and then jumped into the seat beside Alice. With a stomach-churning crunch of the gears, Alice leapfrogged away from the kerb, revving the engine and crashing the clutch until she reached the junction outside the station. There she pulled into the path of a BMW Roadster, earning herself an indignant blast of a horn and a one-fingered salute. She graced the gesticulating driver with a bright smile and a wave and headed for the road to Padstow.

  ‘So, how exciting is this?’ Alice gushed. ‘Chocolate-box Cornwall – nine stops, a selection of local and traditional desserts in each. What a blast we’re going to have! Come on, Em, there’s no need to look so horrified. It’s only a camper van. Would you have preferred a tent?’

  ‘Good grief! No way! I haven’t camped in the great outdoors since I was in the Brownies and even then I was evicted from the tent and made to sleep i
n the kitchen hut for prolonging a midnight feast.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s the perfect solution? It’s mobile, it’s comfortable and it’s a stylish way to travel. I bet we get lots more comments about our mode of transport than Lucinda does in her blacked-out limousine.’

  Emilie glanced across at Alice to check if she was being sarcastic. Sadly she wasn’t. She truly believed they had drawn the long straw in the vehicle stakes!

  ‘We can make our own breakfast and eat on set at lunchtime. After all, there’ll be plenty of delicious cakes to sample.’ Alice laughed, gracing Emilie with a show of her movie star teeth. ‘And when the daily shoot is over we can drive to the next location, park up and party all night without having to check into some grotty B&B or worry about waking everyone up when we tumble in at two a.m.’

  Emilie turned her head to look over her shoulder into the back of the camper van – her Home Sweet Home for the next two weeks. No, wait a minute, half of her home as she would be sharing the space with Alice. There was a tiny kitchenette with a stainless steel sink, and a dual-burner hob with under-bench grill. There was even a minuscule fridge and a microwave built into the bright orange Formica units. Padded ivory leather seats, piped in matching orange, surrounded an orange table and, to complete the feeling of being imprisoned inside a satsuma, orange-and-yellow checked curtains were drawn neatly back at the windows.

  Emilie wished she’d thought to bring her sunglasses. Much as she liked Alice, she had an ominous feeling in the pit of her stomach that their daily struggle to five o’clock was not going to be plain sailing.

  ‘Take a look behind my seat!’ Alice smirked.

  ‘Why?’ asked Emilie, straining her neck to take in a nondescript square seat topped with a matching ivory cushion piped in the ubiquitous orange.

  ‘Guess what that is?’

  ‘Oh, God, don’t tell me.’

  ‘It’s a porta-potty.’

  ‘If you think either of us is going to use that then you’re living in a hippie-dippie dream world!’

  Alice smiled but knew when to change the subject. However, her new line of attack was no less uncomfortable for Emilie.

  ‘You might not think it at the moment but this trip is exactly what you need right now. Don’t look at me like that. You and Brad might have been the perfect couple when you started out, both amazing photographers in your own fields, but I did warn you that he wouldn’t be able to stomach the fact that you have acres more talent than he has and over time it would cause problems.’

  ‘He’s a great photographer, Alice. And he taught me loads!’

  ‘He’s good, yes. But you’re better. Ever since you clutched that golden trophy for Best Food Photographer of the Year to your sequinned chest in July, he realised that your star was in the ascendant whilst his was on the wane and he was jealous. Plain as that. That’s why he suddenly became so disparaging about food and product photography. Why he was always saying that it’s the agency’s poor relation, and by extension so were you. He should have been singing your praises from the rooftops, proud of your achievement and of his hand in it, but instead he’s constantly pulling rank and it’s destroyed your confidence. It’s just plain professional envy and it’s not attractive. I would have loved to be a fly on the wall when he went to Dexter and snatched the Venice job. When did he leave?’

  ‘Last Friday. I gave him a lift to the airport.’ She cringed when she saw Alice roll her eyes so she hurried on. ‘Even though we’re not seeing each other any more, there’s no reason why we can’t still be friends.’

  ‘He cheated on you with a clothes horse! Reason enough in my book.’

  ‘And we do still have to work together at the agency, especially now that the freelance venture is off the table.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean you can’t do it on your own, Em. Nothing’s changed as far as your awesome talent is concerned.’ Alice smiled.

  Emilie swiftly averted her eyes but it was no use; Alice Jenkins was an emotional X-ray machine.

  ‘What? What else did he do?’

  ‘He borrowed my new camera.’

  ‘What? Not your prized Nikon?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I take it you’ve protested in the strongest terms!’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We had a blazing row over the phone when he was at the airport. He accused me of sour grapes about his trip to Italy and I told him where I’d like to stick my bunch of squashed fruit. It wasn’t pretty, but it felt good to get it off my chest.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Okay, you’re right. Brad did change after I won that award, but I’m not sorry I got it. That night at The Dorchester was one of the best of my life!’

  ‘Attagirl!’

  She was saved from Alice’s further analysis on the appropriateness of Brad as good boyfriend material as they had pulled into the car park of an imposing hotel on the seafront at Padstow. She glanced through the windscreen at the pewter-grey stone exterior and the almost subtropical foliage that surrounded it. The grand cornices above and around the entrance had been painted a brilliant white, but the undeniable grandeur of the hotel’s architecture receded into the background when she caught a glimpse of the view of Padstow’s harbour and the pretty fishing boats bobbing next to their larger, sleeker cousins.

  Emilie refocused her attention on the hotel and her heart contracted with envy. Why weren’t she and Alice staying here?

  ‘That shade of green doesn’t suit you, Emilie.’ Alice laughed, swivelling round in her seat to look at her. Her smile slipped from her face as she grew serious for the first time since they’d left the station. ‘Okay, you haven’t worked with Lucinda before so let me give you a heads-up. As you would expect, she’s a seasoned professional. She demands absolute focus on the job in hand and insists on perfection first time – no excuses. I know she has a reputation for being a complete culinary ogre, but she gets results and she only demands of those around her what she expects of herself.

  ‘You have to admit her cookery books are bibliographic works of art. Every single recipe truly zings from the page; the colours are so sharp, the textures so perfect the reader can almost smell the intensity of the aromas, almost taste the exquisite flavours. Whenever you pick up a Lucinda Loves… cookery book you just have to pull on your apron and get baking! Just stay out of her way, remember the three rules of success, and you’ll be fine.’

  Alice jumped from the driver’s seat and yanked open the side door to let Emilie grab her prop box.

  ‘Erm, what exactly are the three rules of success?’

  Alice rolled her hazel eyes. ‘Preparation, preparation, preparation! Okay, it’s just after one o’clock. That means we have less than an hour to get everything set up for the first shoot and for you to take the test shots. We were only able to reserve the conservatory for a two-hour time slot because a wedding party is due to arrive at three. If we’re working to the schedule, Lucinda will deliver the desserts she wants you to photograph fresh from the kitchen at two p.m. precisely, which gives you an hour to get your shots done.’

  Emilie experienced a sharp flutter of panic deep in her abdomen. Whilst she had an idea of how she intended to sculpt the light around the images of the Cornish league of desserts, she usually liked to take her time. Even when she thought she had the perfect shot, she still needed to extract every bit of potential from it. She liked to take photographs using her tripod and then using her handheld camera, exploring the subject from all angles, viewing it through different focal-length lenses and using a variety of light sources.

  Next she would review each image on the LCD screen, checking the exposure, composition and sharpness before deciding how best to fine-tune the shot. Should she go in tighter? Back off to include more of the subject matter? Could the shot be improved with a vertical or horizontal format? Should she place the focal point in a different part of the image to see if it af
fected balance and flow? She knew she had a tendency to continue to question her work even beyond being satisfied – but the most fabulous shot ever could be just around the corner. She hated to be rushed.

  Her mind went blank as she searched the crevices of her memory for the details of the desserts Lucinda was at that very moment preparing in the hotel’s kitchen with the Michelin-starred chef. It was always the same; she was nervous at the beginning of a new assignment until she’d got to know the personalities of the clients she was dealing with and could relax.

  Her facial expression must have spoken volumes because Alice grabbed her elbow and all but dragged her up the sweeping staircase, depositing her in the conservatory that overlooked the rippling azure of the hotel’s heated swimming pool in the lush, tropical gardens. Beyond the horticultural paradise the view seemed to bask in a luminosity she didn’t see in London. Tourists sauntered or cycled along the beachfront pathways and children chased one another, shrieking with excitement – either anticipated or recently experienced.

  The town was spotlessly clean, as though an army of enthusiasts had scrubbed the streets that morning especially for Lucinda’s arrival. There was a palpable buzz of contentment, of calm relaxation, which when she thought about it wasn’t so surprising – most visitors were keen to soak up the last precious moments of their break from the relentless daily dash to five o’clock that would resume the following day.

  She watched as her friend rushed over to her own prop box and began to dress the table next to the window in accordance with the laminated cards she had no doubt prepared weeks earlier. As she did so, Alice maintained a constant commentary interspersed with snappy instructions to Emilie, whom she had clearly decided to treat as an amateur on the first shoot. But her famous organisational skills reaped rewards and the gastronomic stage set was ready with five minutes to spare.