Lauren gave her sister a pointed look. ‘Surely nothing that can’t wait. It’ll be good for you to meet a few of the locals.’
Charlotte looked as if that was the last thing she wanted to do. ‘I need to do some research. If my claim for unfair dismissal is unsuccessful, then I’ll need alternative employment. And I can’t expect to find a proper job if I sit around socialising all the time.’
Her emphasis on the word ‘proper’ sent flares of annoyance shooting up his spine. Sod her. He didn’t need another person in his life telling him to grow up and get a proper job. He had enough of that from his parents.
It was time to leave before he said something he’d regret. ‘Well, this has been fun.’ He made no attempt to hide the sarcasm in his voice. ‘I hope you enjoy your holiday. Good luck with the job hunting.’
Poor Lauren squirmed next to him, making him feel a tad guilty. It wasn’t her fault that her sister was colder than ice. He blew her a kiss. ‘See you later, Lauren.’
Leaving the beach, he fought against the shame battling inside him. It wasn’t important. Charlotte Saunders was of no consequence to him. He shouldn’t feel so rattled by her blatant dismissal of him. Everyone else in Penmullion thought he was a cool guy. Someone who’d got life sorted. They envied him. It shouldn’t bother him that one highly strung, opinionated, gorgeous woman looked down her nose at him … but it did … and it really pissed him off.
CHAPTER SIX
Thursday, 2 June
Charlotte had only been in Cornwall for six days, but she was already tearing her hair out – literally, the moisture in the air making it curl, no matter how often she straightened it. Her headaches weren’t easing, and she was fidgety and restless. She guessed her body had become acclimatised to working long stressful days and was unaccustomed to lazing about doing nothing.
The employment tribunal had advised that there was a backlog of claims, so it might be a few weeks before a date was set. She had planned to look for another job while she was here, but then realised that the likelihood of being offered another position, when she’d been fired from the previous one, was remote. She was better off waiting until the outcome of her claim was decided before contemplating her next move. Until then, she needed to find something to occupy her time.
Her attempts to keep busy by helping Lauren around the flat hadn’t worked out either. When her offer to contribute to the rent had been refused, she’d figured that she needed to earn her keep by doing chores instead. It didn’t take a genius to work out that Lauren was struggling financially, but her sister was determined to manage on her own and didn’t want to be seen as a ‘charity case’. Charlotte hadn’t meant to cause offence, so by way of an apology, she’d blitzed the flat from top to bottom, scrubbing the bathroom until her arms ached and removing all the mould from the discoloured grout. She’d mended the blind, sorted the children’s books into alphabetical order, and boxed up their toys to avoid any unnecessary accidents. But far from appreciating her efforts, Lauren had seemed more annoyed than grateful. It was all very confusing. Especially as it was obvious that Lauren could do with the help.
For the past seven years, Charlotte had foolishly believed that her sister lived an idyllic lifestyle, but she’d discovered the reality was quite different. Lauren worked part-time in a café, relied on benefits, and left her kids with all manner of childminders. But Lauren seemed to like her life, claiming to be happy existing at a slower, less material pace, placing value on free time, socialising with friends, and partaking in hobbies such as amateur dramatics.
Their dad was the same. Charlotte had imagined an emotional reunion, whereby Tony Saunders enveloped his eldest daughter in a bear hug, told her he’d missed her and everything would revert to how things had been before her mum had died. Instead, she’d spent one brief evening with him before he’d had to rush off, something about a fishing boat caught on the nearby rocks. It was all highly depressing. All she’d been able to glean from Lauren was that he lived on a narrowboat, worked for a local fisherman, and spent his free time manning the local RNLI boat station.
The only people that were pleased to see her were Freddie and Florence. She’d quite enjoyed reading them bedtime stories, picking them up from school, and teaching them to bake cupcakes. They were surprisingly good company.
She checked her watch. It wasn’t even lunchtime. Lauren was working at the café, and the kids were at school. What was there to do on a Thursday in Penmullion?
She guessed there was only one way to find out.
It wasn’t the warmest of days, so she slipped on her navy rain mac over her silk shirt and white pencil skirt. She considered changing her footwear, but decided she wasn’t going far, so stuck with her nude courts. It took a lot for her to ditch the heels.
Dobbs Road wasn’t in the desirable part of town, so she had to walk down to the main quayside if she wanted anything other than pound shops and budget supermarkets.
The road was extremely steep; the houses either side were cut into the rock face, their driveways at acute angles to the road. Her slow walk turned into a speedy trot as her momentum increased on the downhill slope. Thankfully, the road levelled out before she reached the water’s edge, preventing her from landing head first in the sea. Quite apart from the embarrassment that would have caused, her shirt was dry-clean only.
In order to reach the other side of the quay, where most of the boats were moored, she needed to cross the narrow footbridge. Determined not to be defeated by the drop below, she focused on the view ahead, and tried to slow her breathing, as she negotiated the unstable walkway. It wasn’t the sturdiest of bridges, with lengths of rope supporting the wooden slats. She tried not to look down, ignoring the sound of splashing water beneath, which evoked memories of falling into a weir when she was a child and nearly drowning.
The sound of a cockerel startled her. She turned to see a huge bird waddling across the bridge. It was making the most godawful noise. Was it normal for random animals to be wandering about? Keen to avoid any contact with the bird, she hurried to the other side.
Her father’s boat was moored somewhere along this side of the quay. She hadn’t consciously decided to visit, but now she was here, it seemed appropriate to call in and say hello. If nothing else, it would show a willingness to ‘bond’. Besides, she was curious to see where he lived.
A long line of narrowboats were moored along the water’s edge. She instinctively knew which boat belonged to her dad. The sight of The Lady Iris brought a lump to her throat. He’d named his boat after their mum? Emotion rooted her to the spot. She took in the teal paintwork and abundance of potted flowers adorning the upper deck. The side of the boat was decorated with painted, purple irises, her mum’s favourite flower. The image allowed her mind to drift back to a happier time before their family had been ripped apart.
She’d enjoyed a happy childhood, with a kind, doting mother, a relaxed, chilled father, and a congenial younger sister. She’d worked hard at school, had a few close friends, and spent her time listening to music and drawing pictures of grand houses with swimming pools and vast landscaped gardens. She hadn’t been a big socialiser, but she’d started to come out of her shell at university, loving her design course and finding a few kindred spirits. A few months into the course, her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Iris Saunders died before Charlotte had finished her first year.
Her mother’s death affected them all differently. Lauren became rebellious, dropping out of school, entangling herself with a boy who ditched her the moment she fell pregnant. Her father sank into a deep depression, gave up work, and lost any desire for life. It’d been left to Charlotte to hold the family together, picking up responsibility for paying the bills, buying food, and keeping Lauren on the straight and narrow. She’d encouraged her father to seek counselling, and urged him to take the medication he’d been prescribed. Unable to deal with her own grief, she’d focused on her career, knowing it was the only way to provide security and struc
ture for her family. She’d thrown herself into study, spending long hours training, trying to impress in a tough industry. She lost touch with friends and rarely had any free time, but it was necessary if she was to help them all recover from the loss of their mother … and then Lauren and her dad had moved away. After all she’d done, all the sacrifices she’d made, they left without even a thank you for having looked after them.
She dug out a tissue. She hated crying.
Over the years, she’d tried to make peace with her feelings. Her dad had been so consumed by grief that he wasn’t in any fit state to realise what his daughter had given up. It wasn’t his fault. Depression was a crippling illness, she understood that. And Lauren was barely sixteen when their mum had died, she couldn’t be expected to realise the impact it had had on her older sister.
But life had moved on. Her dad had recovered, and he and Lauren had built a life for themselves in Cornwall … A life that didn’t include her.
Recovering from the shock of seeing the boat’s name, she made her way onto the gangplank, or whatever it was called. It certainly felt like she was walking to her doom. Don’t look down, her brain instructed – which was challenging when the wood beneath creaked, threatening to tip her into the murky water.
A woman appeared from inside the cabin, her bright-orange jumper and yellow capri-style trousers blending with the hanging baskets tied to the rigging. ‘Well, hello there,’ she called, sounding surprised, but not unfriendly. ‘No prizes for guessing who you are. You’re the spitting image of your sister.’ She offered Charlotte her hand. ‘Mind the step, there you go. Much as I admire your shoes, I’m not sure they’re suitable for wearing on a boat.’
Charlotte stepped onto the deck, relieved to be on solid footing. ‘You may have a point.’
The woman’s big laugh drew attention from passers-by. ‘I’m Sylvia Johns, a friend of Tony’s. And you must be Charlotte. Your dad’s told me so much about you. Goodness me, he’s proud of you.’
A lump formed in Charlotte’s throat. Her dad was proud of her?
‘Fancy that, a fashion designer in London. How thrilling! He follows your career, you know. Always keen to know who you’re working for.’
Her good feeling disappeared. ‘Interior designer, not fashion.’ So much for her dad following her career. ‘And unfortunately, I’ve recently been fired.’
The woman stilled. ‘Oh, dear.’ She quickly rallied. ‘A blip, I’m sure. Now come inside, let’s make you feel welcome. Tony!’
Her dad appeared, his expression affable and relaxed. He’d aged a bit. He wasn’t quite as jovial as he used to be, but other than that, he hadn’t changed. He was wearing galoshes, a knitted hat, wellington boots and a yellow jacket. She recoiled when he hugged her, the stench radiating off him was toxic. ‘Dad, you stink.’
He laughed. ‘I’ve been working on the fishing vessels.’
She pushed him away. ‘I don’t want that stench on my clothes. This shirt cost a fortune.’
‘Relax, it’s only fish.’ His laughter faded, but he released her. ‘It’s good to see you.’
She swallowed awkwardly, aware she was being prickly again. ‘I thought I’d come and check out where you lived.’
‘That’s nice.’ He shrugged off his jacket.
‘Make yourself comfortable, lovey. I’ll put the kettle on.’ Sylvia gestured to a chair. ‘Your dad loves having visitors, don’t you, Tony?’ She didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Lauren and the kids are often over here. They adore going out on little trips, sleeping in the bunkers, isn’t that right, Tony?’
Her dad kicked off his wellington boots and pulled up a wicker chair. ‘How are you enjoying Cornwall?’ he asked Charlotte, seemingly unfazed by Sylvia’s incessant chatter.
‘It’s okay.’ Charlotte didn’t feel it was appropriate to tell him she was struggling to unwind, she was getting on her sister’s nerves, or that she’d recently been diagnosed with stress-related anxiety. ‘Penmullion is beautiful.’
Sylvia appeared from the galley with a tea tray. ‘Isn’t it just? I know they say Kent is the garden of England, but I think it should be Cornwall.’
Charlotte watched Sylvia trying to balance the tray. Was this woman her dad’s girlfriend? If she was, she was very different to their mum.
Sylvia handed her a cup of weak tea in a floral china cup.
‘Thank you.’ Charlotte managed one sip before looking around for somewhere to put it down. The cabin was small, the padded bench seats along either side took up most of the room.
When Sylvia’s back was turned, her dad leant across and took her cup, discreetly pouring the contents into the plant pot sitting on the floor. ‘Lovely woman. Makes a terrible cup of tea,’ he whispered, making her smile for what felt like the first time in ages. God, she’d missed her dad.
Her smile soon faded when Sylvia turned and saw her empty cup. ‘Goodness me, you were thirsty. You’re just like your dad, he knocks them back in no time too.’
The sound of her dad chuckling made up for the trauma of being forced to drink another cup of Sylvia’s tea. But as she watched her cup being refilled, the sound of an alarm went off, making her jump.
Her dad was up before she knew what was happening. ‘Sorry, love. Got to go.’ He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. ‘We’ll catch up soon.’ He was out the door before she could find her voice.
Charlotte watched him sprint down the jetty. ‘What’s going on?’
Sylvia picked up the discarded hat he’d thrown to the floor. ‘Your dad volunteers for the RNLI. When the alarm goes off, he has to respond. He’s the senior helm, you know.’
No, she didn’t know. All she knew was that he volunteered there. She’d assumed he had a desk role; he’d always worked in an office when he’d lived in London. She was starting to realise she knew very little about her family’s new lives in Cornwall.
‘Only the other night he rescued a Polish family whose boat had sunk. None of the family could swim, and they weren’t wearing life jackets. It was on the local news and everything.’
Her dad running off to save lives was another surprising development. ‘Will he be gone long?’
‘Could be hours. Looks like it’s just you and me.’ Sylvia offered her a custard cream. ‘Now, tell me all about yourself, and don’t leave anything out. I want to hear all the details.’
As much as Charlotte didn’t want to spill her life story, an excuse to refuse didn’t surface quick enough. Resigning herself to the inevitable, she spent the next twenty minutes engaged in polite chit-chat before she could make her excuses and leave.
Extricating herself from Sylvia’s tight hug, she thanked the woman for her hospitality and made her escape, almost running across the footbridge to the safety of the quayside.
It was strange, but talking about Ethan hadn’t upset her anywhere near as much as it should. Why was that? she wondered. After all, he’d been a big part of her life for a long time. She should miss him. She should be crying herself to sleep every night, wishing he would call, raging at the way he’d treated her, but she wasn’t. She just felt a low level of annoyance at the way her life had been upended. Realising she hadn’t been as invested in the relationship as she’d imagined, was both alarming and depressing. How had she got things so wrong?
Not wanting to return to the flat just yet, she decided to explore Penmullion.
Her feet were sore from walking on cobbled stones in heels, but the views across the cove made up for it. The sand below was pale gold, a contrast to the white cliffs and deep blue of the sea. To her right, she could see the café where her sister worked, and the RNLI boat station. Shielding her eyes, she looked across the water, wondering if she’d spot her dad rescuing whoever it was who’d got into trouble, but she couldn’t see anything.
As she followed the line of the horizon, the cliff incline rose sharply. There appeared to be some kind of castle in the distance, the stone pillars jutting out from the rock face. A wave crashed below, sending sp
ray up and over the railing. She moved away, unwilling to ruin her mac with salt water.
Behind her, a row of tiny shops lined the quayside, from art galleries advertising works by local artists, to cafés specialising in Cornish pasties. They were quaint and inviting, painted in a series of pastel colours. She walked past the Coddy Shack fish and chip shop, and Candy Cravers sweet shop, admiring the window displays.
She came across a delightful little shop, painted sunflower yellow, with a white bay window. The sign above the overhang said, ‘Dusty’s Boutique’. The mannequin in the window was dressed in a red wrap dress, the hem cut at an angle, the layered two-tone fabric striking and unusual. The door was open, inviting her to browse, so she decided to venture inside.
The interior looked like something from Carnaby Street rather than a picturesque town in Cornwall. There were photos on the walls of 1960s singers dressed in Mod outfits and Mary Quant monochrome mini dresses. The items on display were colour-coordinated and arranged to show them at their best. It was a real gem. She’d just unhooked an A-line skirt from the rail when a man appeared from the rear of the shop.
‘Good afternoon. Welcome to Dusty’s. Please feel free to browse.’ He was a good-looking man with almost white-blond hair and startling blue eyes. He reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t think who. Probably one of her clients back in London. He was dressed in a narrow, fitted grey suit with a thin paisley tie and winkle-picker shoes.
She smiled, appreciating his sense of style. ‘It’s a beautiful shop. I adore the design.’
‘Well, aren’t you a love. Coming from someone with such sophisticated dress sense, I’ll take that as a real compliment. Is that Karen Millen you’re wearing?’ He touched the fabric of her mac.
She nodded. ‘The skirt is Ted Baker.’ Realising one of her shirt buttons was undone, she quickly fastened it.
He pushed the rim of his thick black glasses up his nose. ‘Paul Naylor. This is my boutique,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’
The Summer Theatre by the Sea Page 6
