by Daisy James
He might think he was embracing everything life could throw at him, but until he stopped and faced up to what had happened she knew he would never be able to move forward. Hadn’t she just realised exactly that with what had happened with Brad? ‘Perhaps you should think about restarting production? Start small and build on it?’
‘Maybe. But you’re right about one thing. No matter how hard I try to run away from what me and Jamie did at the brewery, I still can’t seem to conquer my obsession with exploring every new innovation in the beverages trade, to explore every new distillery, microbrewery, vineyard. We made a lot of friends in the business, and they have all been so supportive after what happened.’
Matt sighed and chanced a quick glance at Emilie before visibly brightening.
‘But I get a huge buzz out of writing about the new enterprises I stumble across. You’d be amazed at how many family-run craft breweries and distilleries are springing up around the country. And there’s a growing market too – people prefer the artisan ales and spirits to the mass-produced stuff that’s usually been imported. The editor of the magazine I write for takes everything I write and is constantly nagging me for more. Hugo has offered to let me help him with the grape harvest next year and to involve me in the winemaking process so I can write about that too. Small steps as you say, but you never know where it might lead.’
‘So you plan on returning to Cornwall and the surf academy next year too? Don’t you miss Northumberland? Your family?’ Emilie tried again to encourage Matt to talk about what he was avoiding. She knew it wasn’t a failed relationship because he had already told her about Marcie so what was it? And why didn’t he want to share it with her?
‘I suppose I do and I don’t. I love the freedom riding the waves offers me. Just me, the ocean and whatever the next wave throws in my direction. But I also need to know that I can take off whenever I need to. If I took on the responsibility of the brewery again I’m terrified that it would fail. Or worse, if I had to work in an office for someone else, I’d be strangled by the daily grind to five o’clock. I’d hate it; it’s not for me. Dad only suggested once that I consider using my legal qualifications. I couldn’t go back to that life. I’m not that person any more.’
Listening to Matt’s story, Emilie had lost all sense of time and was surprised when they drew into a driveway leading up to the prettiest office building she had seen in Cornwall – and that was saying something.
‘Is this the whisky distillery?’
‘I know.’ Matt laughed. ‘Gorgeous, isn’t it? It makes you think that if this is what the factory looks like their product can’t be bad!’
As they made their way to the front door Emilie’s phone started to buzz. ‘I’ll catch you up,’ she said, waving her phone at him.
‘Sure.’
‘Hello?’
‘Emilie! Guess what? I’ve managed to swing it for you!’
‘Oh hi, Dexter.’ She laughed. ‘Managed to swing what?’
‘A trip to Venice for the weekend! Don’t ask for the details; I’ll email them over to you. But your flight ticket is paid for and I’ve arranged for a car to meet you at Marco Polo Airport. I’ve booked you into a fabulous hotel overlooking the Grand Canal, which I know you’ll absolutely adore. I’m truly sorry about letting Brad talk me into sending him on that gig that should by rights have been yours. I know how much research you put into it and I hope this will go some way to making it up to you. You’ll love it there, Em. All I ask is that you take some stunning photographs that we can use for next year’s Dexter Carvill charity calendar. The selection of shots Brad had sent me are overexposed and clichéd.’
‘Dexter…’
‘There’s no need to thank me. I’ve checked your Lucinda Loves… schedule and I know you have this weekend off. I thought that without Alice around – and thanks again for stepping into the breach there, Emilie – you’d be kicking your heels down in Cornwall, so just grab your sunglasses and a bikini and get yourself over to Heathrow. I reckon there’s just enough time but you’d better get your skates on. Ciao, darling.’
Emilie stood motionless on the front lawn of the distillery, her phone still raised to her ear, her stomach churning with a cauldron of indecision. Wasn’t a trip to Italy exactly what she had been hoping for when she’d left London only six days ago? A weekend in a luxury Venetian hotel, all expenses paid, relaxing by the pool in the sunshine with a cocktail in one hand and the latest romcom in the other? Who was she kidding – the best part for her would be the chance to photograph the bridges, canals, the gondolas, the churches, never mind sampling the food and the wine.
She hadn’t had the chance to ask Dexter whether Brad was still there. She scoured her memory for the details of the Venice itinerary and realised that he probably would be. Did she really want to see him again? Her thoughts scooted back to when they had first started dating. They’d had everything in common – Dexter even called them the agency’s golden couple – and Brad had been attentive and generous. Was it possible to return to that blissful time as they wandered hand in hand along the canals of Venice? The dip of dread in her stomach told her that any residual feelings she may have had for Brad had evaporated.
The flick of sadness at what could have been quickly morphed into a tickle of excitement as she anticipated an unexpected Italian sojourn. Venice! The floating architectural paradise bathed in golden light – it was a photographer’s dream come true. However, if she was to have any chance of catching that plane she needed Matt to drive her to the nearest train station immediately, which would mean asking him to forgo his tour of the distillery.
Procrastination was a skill she had honed to perfection over the years. If she could put something difficult off until later so much the better, which inevitably resulted in a manic, Emiliesque scramble when a deadline loomed, but things usually worked out in the end. Nevertheless, this was a scheduled flight and she had to make a decision one way or another or the choice would be taken out of her hands.
She walked towards the door leading to the reception of the distillery through which Matt had appeared a few minutes earlier.
‘Everything okay?’ asked Matt, his handsome face creased in concern when he saw the expression on her face. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Oh, yes, everything is fine. It’s just…’
She couldn’t go on. She had no idea what she was going to do. She realised Matt was waiting for her to speak, his hands thrust into the front pockets of his bleached jeans, the soles of his Sketchers crunching the pebbles underfoot. God, she felt like a heartless cow. He’d just opened up his heart to her about the loss of his business and now she was about to abandon him to rush off to explore the delights Venice had to offer.
‘Emilie?’
‘Sorry, Matt. That was Dexter, my boss. He says he felt guilty about pulling the overseas photo shoot from me at the last minute so he’s managed to book me a flight over to Venice this weekend – so I can take some shots for next year’s calendar. It’s just that… Sorry,’ she added again, feeling dreadful.
‘Right, then. Better get you to the nearest train station. Hop in.’
She stared at his retreating back, her emotions in turmoil, wishing she could see the expression on his face. But she was also relieved that the decision seemed to have been made for her. She chased after him but he’d clambered into the driver’s seat and started the engine before leaning out of the window as she approached the camper van.
‘Grab your suitcase from the back and pack what you need for your trip. I might not be able to find a parking space at the station so it’ll be easier if I drop you outside.’ He smiled at her, his eyes gentle and non-judgmental, which only made Emilie feel even worse.
She did as he suggested and then climbed into the seat next to him, her stomach queasy with indecision and something else she was struggling to identify. She was disappointed to see the nearest station was only a ten-minute drive away.
Was she doing the right thing? Should she have told Dexter she wasn’t interested? She wasn’t sure whether he knew that her relationship with Brad was over – that he’d trampled over her ambitions for the last time. And did she really want to hang out with the rest of the photo shoot crew – the stylists, the make-up artists, the models – when it was obvious that she had been relegated to second place and had been delivered the calendar shoot as a consolation prize.
Was Venice and all its architectural wonders a big enough reward to compensate for not being able to spend the weekend getting to know Matt better? Maybe taking the time to discover what lay beneath that iron-hard armour of sadness he hid behind?
It didn’t matter because they had arrived at the train station at Penryn. Matt had been spot on in his prediction that it was impossible to park. He double-parked the camper van and turned to face her for the first time since she had told him about the Venice trip.
‘Have fun! Text me to let me know whether you want me to collect you on Sunday afternoon. If you decide to come back on Monday morning I can collect you from Penzance station for the shoot there in the afternoon.’
‘Matt?’
‘Hmm hmm?’
Emilie saw a flicker of something indecipherable in his eyes but couldn’t think of what to say to bridge the void that had opened up between them. There was still time for her to change her mind, to vote to stay in Cornwall, to spend the weekend with Matt, tour the area together, go back to the whisky distillery he’d been so keen to explore. Or she could opt for the Venetian adventure, a city she had dreamed of visiting and exploring every night since the Italian Culinary Odyssey had been commissioned.
Three months she had spent researching potential venues for the shoot, familiarising herself with the iconic images on offer, arranging for the right props to be available so that the photographs would be the best she had taken in her career so far. She had been devastated when the assignment was snatched from under her, so how could she even be considering passing up a second chance?
‘See you Sunday.’
Her decision had been made.
Chapter Eleven
Emilie stepped down onto the platform at Paddington station, dragging her hastily packed suitcase behind her. She looked around to get her bearings and her heart bounced against her ribcage as she heard the familiar symphony of her ringtone.
Was it Matt?
Her reaction to the possibility told her everything she needed to know. She had known him for less than a week and he had already made a huge impact on her life, not to mention her heart.
But it wasn’t Matt, it was Alice.
It would be such a relief to hear her friend’s dulcet tones, especially as she had spent the whole journey vacillating from one end of the indecision pendulum to the other, questioning her choice of the Venetian canals over the Cornish Riviera. The image of Matt’s cheerful face was imprinted on the inside of her eyelids so that whenever she had closed her eyes her heart gave a pleasurable nip.
Should she be hotfooting it back to Penzance to pick up where she’d left off with Matt? But what was the point of that? The Lucinda Loves…Desserts shoot would be over soon and it was unlikely that their paths would cross again. If he wasn’t hanging out at his home in Northumberland, he would be surfing the Atlantic waves in Cornwall, and her life and home were in the capital, especially if she decided to go freelance. Now she realised that she had another choice to add to the mix. She could stay in London with Alice.
‘Hi, Alice! How’s the ankle?’
‘Mending well, so I’m told. But you know me – I love to be busy so I’m climbing the walls of my pristine flat with boredom! I’m dying to hear every tiny, inconsequential detail about the Lucinda Loves…Desserts shoot. I want all the gossip, every last morsel. I want you to send over every one of the photographs you’ve taken so far and to talk me through what you’ve got planned for the last five shoots.’
Emilie laughed at her friend’s animation. It felt so good to listen to her chirpy voice that her spirits soared. She had only been away from London and Dexter Carvill for a week but so much had happened during that time that it felt like she’d been away for months.
‘You might be surprised when you see them.’
‘Marcus told me you decided to stray from the brief on the Truro shoot. Whilst I would never advocate such risky behaviour in the majority of the photographers I work with, I have to congratulate you, Em. It sounds like you’ve got some of your old flair for set design back. So tell me, do you still think Lucinda Carlton-Rose deserves the label of The Devil Who Wears an Apron, like Suzie says?’
‘Yes, it’s the perfect badge of honour.’ Emilie laughed, although her feelings had softened towards Lucinda when the reason behind the photographs she had taken of her dinner guests had come to light.
‘You have to remember that these location shoots are very stressful occasions when Lucinda needs everything to be perfect; not just the best of the local ingredients and recipes, but the final product has to be right first time, the background set has to be flawless, the lighting just right to enhance the final image and it all has to look effortless. She is an experienced TV chef after all and she’s not afraid to go after exactly what she wants, even if it ruffles a few feathers.’
‘You’re right, Alice. I’m beginning to realise how much hard work and commitment is needed to make a success of any enterprise. When I look at what Lucinda has achieved, I doubt I will ever be able to reach those dizzying heights. Sometimes I struggle to even stand upright!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Promise you won’t laugh?’
‘No! Heaven knows I could do with some jollity! Tell me.’
Emilie heard Alice’s charm bracelet jangling down the phone line as she made her way to a vacant bench so she could sit down whilst she made her confession to Alice. She placed her suitcase next to her and felt the heat flood her cheeks as she thought back to the misunderstanding at The Risings.
‘After the success of the Truro shoot I thought Lucinda had invited me to have dinner with her at the manor house where she was staying. I got glammed up, even wore my sparkly stilettos, and it turned out she only wanted me to photograph her VIP guests. Mortified doesn’t come near!’
Alice giggled. ‘Priceless. It could only happen to you, Em.’
‘Still, one good thing came out of my embarrassment. I got to meet Lucinda’s husband, Grant Carlton-Rose. Why didn’t you tell me how gorgeous he is? He could definitely grace the cover of a glossy fashion magazine. She might be the famous TV chef but he can cook my breakfast any time! And I found out later that the photographs were for Lucinda to auction off at a charity fundraiser when the new book is published, so I think we need to revisit Suzie’s nickname for her, don’t you?’
Emilie paused to glance around the station. The place was buzzing with Friday night commuters desperate to get away from the capital for the weekend and totally oblivious to anyone else’s conversations. Nevertheless, she lowered her voice to submit her hypothesis. ‘I think Lucinda is hiding something though.’
‘Like what?’
‘Earlier today after we’d finished shooting at The Dog and Trumpet in Falmouth – at which Lucinda didn’t even show her face, by the way – I saw her sneaking out of the kitchen door with a leather holdall over her shoulder. She disappeared off into the village.’
‘So…’
‘It was the way she was acting, Al. She kept glancing behind her to make sure she wasn’t being followed. She looked so suspicious it was obvious she didn’t want anyone to know where she was going.’
‘Look, Em, you’re a food photographer, not a private investigator! And now it looks like you can add “fabulous photo stylist” to your list of accomplishments. See, I told you that you needed to crawl out from under Brad’s ego and show the world how talented you are.’
‘Mmm, perhaps…’
‘Emilie? Is that a train station tannoy I
can hear in the background? Where exactly are you?’
‘Paddington station.’
‘What? Why aren’t you in Cornwall? I thought you’d have grabbed the chance to spend your weekend off with the handsome surfer you hit it off with at the beach party. Marcus said…’
‘Marcus is a Class A gossip.’
‘So why have you travelled back to London?’
‘Dexter managed to swing me a trip to Venice after all.’
‘You’re not thinking of getting back together with Brad, are you?’
‘No way. It’s just that you know how much I was looking forward to the Italy shoot…’
Emilie felt her cheerful mood deflate like a pricked party balloon at the introduction of Brad into their conversation, but she caught the brief hesitation in Alice’s voice as she said, ‘Oh.’ She didn’t have to be psychic to know that something was amiss.
‘What?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing…’
‘Tell me and I’ll decide whether it’s nothing.’ Emilie’s heart contracted suddenly but she swallowed down on the unexpected sense of unease. ‘Alice, what’s going on?’
‘It’s probably best if I show you. Hang on, I’ll send you a text.’
Emilie waited in silence, oblivious to the comings and goings around her, of friends and lovers meeting and parting, of giggling groups celebrating their release from the working week. The ambient noise level had ratcheted up to a rumble as another train left the station. Her heartbeat elevated to an allegro tempo as a tickle of unease appeared in the back of her throat.
Her phone pinged and she opened Alice’s text, squinting at the first blurry image attached. It was Brad, his arm hooked around the neck of a very pretty willowy blonde who had her head turned towards him with a look of complete adoration in her eyes. Emilie forced herself to look at the next picture and it was clear what was going on. Brad was outstretched on a sunbed, with a shimmering aquamarine pool in the background, and the same girl – this time clad in the skimpiest scarlet bikini – was lying next to him feeding him slices of fresh mango!
