Oh, hell. He’d rather eat his own socks … not that he was wearing any.
And to think he’d been feeling sorry for Nate and Dusty. At that moment, he’d have traded places with either of them.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
… Later that evening
Charlotte couldn’t describe the elation she’d felt when the director finally approved her designs. There was no logic to her reaction. It was amateur theatre, she wasn’t getting paid, and the conditions she was expected to work in could rival those of a Victorian poorhouse, and yet elated she remained. Maybe it was the challenge of turning her creative ideas into reality. Or the satisfaction of winning over the director’s initial negative response. Whatever the reason, his approval had evoked a genuine sense of enthusiasm she hadn’t experienced in a long time. So, despite not having the right tools or environment to work in, she was relishing the opportunity to create something amazing and ensure her stay in Cornwall wasn’t a complete washout.
Working in a cramped, cold cellar beneath a village hall wasn’t exactly ideal. It was dingy, with poor lighting and thick stone walls that dripped with water. Ducking under the piping, she tried to find a decent paintbrush amongst the array of moth-eaten offerings stored in an old wooden bucket. There wasn’t much floor space, and the pipes running along the ceiling rattled every time someone flushed the loo. It was a far cry from the conditions she was used to working in as an interior designer. Strangely, she didn’t mind, which was a puzzle in itself.
She found the size of brush she needed, but the bristles were matted together. She tried to locate some white spirit amongst the ancient tins of paint stacked in a tiny cubbyhole. Above her, she could hear the muffled voices of the actors rehearsing their lines. She spotted a tin of paint stripper that’d seen better days. The lid wouldn’t budge. Wrapping the top in a piece of cloth, she twisted it, forcing the lid off. She poured the rancid-smelling liquid into an old mug and put the paintbrush in to soak.
The other reason for getting involved with the Isolde Players was that it was an excuse to spend time with her family. When she’d told her dad and sister about her involvement, her announcement had been met with a mixed response. Her dad had raised an amused eyebrow and said, ‘You know it’s not The Globe?’ as though the idea of her volunteering for a community project was on a par with the Queen running the dog show at a local fete. And Lauren had visibly flinched, clearly unhappy about her sister encroaching on her hobby. Maybe Lauren thought she’d try and take over, or criticise her acting talent. Neither of which she had any intention of doing. The plan to return to her old life in London was still her priority. But she didn’t want to leave Cornwall without building bridges first.
Swirling the paintbrush in the stripper, she tested it to see if it had softened. It wasn’t great, but there was some bend in the bristles. She wiped the excess on the cloth and returned to the large canvas hanging from the rafters. The backdrop was twelve feet by ten, so scaling up from an A3 drawing was testing her design skills. With no CAD programme to assist her, she was having to paint freehand, something she hadn’t done since college. She began marking up the canvas using a grid as a guide. She then painted in the midnight-blue background, followed by the tree trunks, building layers and shadows so the woodland came to life. She outlined the moon, which dominated the middle of the backdrop. Her aim was to give the illusion of a magical land where fairies truly existed.
Using a combination of silver and pale-blue paint, she mixed up a test colour and tried it on the canvas. It worked surprisingly well. The moon now glowed.
The door creaked above. A pause followed, before she heard the sound of Barney’s voice. ‘Okay to come down?’
‘There’s not much room,’ she said, her warning pointless as he appeared anyway.
He ducked under the water pipes. ‘I thought you might like a cuppa. It’s cold down here.’
Suppressing an inward sigh, she took the mug. ‘Thanks.’ Politeness forced her to take a sip before she could put it down, but much to her surprise it didn’t taste too bad. In fact, it was pretty good. She took another sip, just to be certain.
Barney grinned. ‘It’s not laced with strychnine.’
She felt herself frown. ‘Pardon me?’
‘The expression on your face. It’s just tea, I promise.’ He was wearing a fitted T-shirt and knee-length cargo shorts, showing off his tanned legs.
She took another sip. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t expecting it to be quite so nice.’
He laughed. ‘Blimey, you really do have a low opinion of me.’
‘It’s not that. I’m just a bit fussy when it comes to tea.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You, a bit fussy?’ Stepping over the roller trays on the floor, he studied the backdrop, taking in the intricate leaves and branches sprouting from the tree trunks like wizened hands reaching up to touch the sky. ‘You are one conundrum.’
Unsure of his meaning, she went over and stood next to him. ‘Explain, please?’
His eyes didn’t leave the backdrop. ‘For someone who’s so tightly coiled, you sure unravel when you paint.’
She paused, the mug halfway to her lips. ‘Is that a compliment or an insult?’
He turned to look at her. ‘It’s a compliment. This is stunning.’
‘Oh.’ She swallowed awkwardly. ‘Thank you.’
‘You have paint on your cheek.’ He reached out, but she ducked before he could wipe it away. No way was she letting him touch her.
‘It’s only emulsion. It’ll come off.’ She drank another mouthful of tea and placed the mug on a large dice, a prop from a previous show. ‘How’s the rehearsal going?’
He let out a small laugh. ‘Eventful. So far there’s been two tantrums, one fight and three people crying.’ He shrugged. ‘A typical rehearsal.’
She couldn’t work out whether he was being serious.
‘I’m not needed at the moment. I thought I’d come down and see if you wanted a hand.’
She stopped loading up the brush with paint. ‘You want to help?’
‘Don’t look so surprised.’ He handed her a cloth so she could wipe the handle. ‘Am-dram is about teamwork. It doesn’t matter whether you like people or not. If they need help you offer it.’
She turned back to the canvas, fighting the urge to ask why he didn’t like her. Although, if she was honest, it didn’t take a genius to work out why. She could be difficult at times. Her striving for perfection sometimes rubbed people up the wrong way. Especially if the person didn’t share her desire for a neat, orderly life.
‘Not that I don’t like you,’ he said, as if reading her thoughts.
She glanced over. ‘Sure about that?’
He shrugged. ‘Let’s just say, the jury’s still out.’ And then he grinned.
She handed him the paintbrush, unsure of how she felt about being teased. ‘Cover this middle section, please. And don’t paint over the lines.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ He took the brush. ‘So, how do you like Penmullion?’
She watched him, checking he could be trusted not to ruin her design, before replying. Satisfied he was sticking to the brief, she went in search of pale-green paint to highlight the edges of the leaves. ‘It’s okay. A little quaint for my taste.’
He frowned at her. ‘Quaint? I’ve never heard it called that before. You must see it differently to me.’
There was no pale-green paint. The best she could find was khaki. ‘What am I missing then?’ She used a screwdriver to prize open the rusty lid. The contents had all but dried up.
‘Well, for a start, there’s a beach on my doorstep,’ he said, as though this was enough of a reason to love Penmullion.
When nothing more was forthcoming, she said, ‘That’s it?’
‘Isn’t that enough?’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘Okay …’ His expression turned ponderous. ‘I wake up every morning to the sound of herring gulls.’ He resumed painting. ‘The town is filled with independent shops run by peo
ple I know by name. I can swim and surf every day. I eat fish that’s been caught that morning. When I play a gig, people clap and talk to me afterwards, they don’t ignore me like they sometimes did in London. And when I lie in bed at night, I drift off to sleep listening to the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs.’
He conjured up an attractive picture.
‘You moved here from London?’ Charlotte asked.
‘That’s all you got from that?’ He turned back to the canvas. ‘Must be losing my poetic touch.’
She spotted a small tin of dark-green paint. It wasn’t perfect, but it might do if she could find some white. ‘I admit it sounds … nice.’ She ignored his laughter. ‘I just meant, why would you leave a vibrant city like London for, you know, a backwater existence?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve nothing against London, it just didn’t suit me. I wanted something different.’
She lifted paint pots, searching for white. There didn’t appear to be any. ‘But London is filled with such opportunity.’ Could she use beige?
‘Maybe.’ He shrugged. ‘What is it about London you love so much?’ His strokes slowed as he reached her pencil line. At least he was adhering to her instructions.
She tried to open the beige paint tin with the screwdriver. ‘So many things. The variety of restaurants, theatres on your doorstep, the ease of getting around town …’ Even though using the Tube made her claustrophobic, but that was beside the point. She wrestled with the lid, it was rusted shut. Placing the tin on the floor, she knelt on it so she could get better leverage. ‘Not to mention career opportunities’ – despite work currently being a sore subject – ‘museums, art galleries, exhibitions’ – that she never actually went to, but fully intended to when she had enough time.
‘Didn’t you find it stressful?’
She pushed down on the screwdriver. ‘Well, yes, sometimes. But that’s what being a grown-up is all about. No one said life was easy.’ The lid creaked. ‘We can’t all sit around on the beach listening to the waves and smoking weed.’ The lid bent upwards, ripping the screwdriver from her hands. ‘Ouch!’ She jumped up, the pain in her hand almost causing her to swear.
He appeared next to her and took hold of her hand. ‘Let me see.’
‘It’s just a scratch.’ She tugged, but he wouldn’t let go. ‘Can I have my hand back, please?’
‘No.’ He dragged her over to the light. ‘Not until I’m satisfied you haven’t done anything major.’
‘I can do that myself.’ She tried to retrieve her hand, but he wasn’t letting go.
‘I can do it better.’ He lifted her hand to the light. ‘When was your last tetanus jab?’
‘No idea. Within the last ten years.’ She made a noise of protest as he manoeuvred her over to the sink. He ran her hand under freezing-cold water. ‘And what makes you better equipped to tend to a graze than me, eh, Mr Surfer Dude?’
‘I’m a doctor.’ He tore off a wodge of paper towels and dabbed the wound, wiping away excess blood.
‘Oh, please. You are not.’ Being pressed against his body was making it hard to keep her composure. She could smell remnants of aftershave and fabric conditioner. There was no call for him to invade her personal space in such a way.
He looked closer at the wound. ‘It needs cleaning and dressing. Sit down, I’ll fetch the first-aid box.’
The relief she felt when he let go of her hand was superseded by indignation when he physically plonked her onto a rickety wooden throne. If he thought she was going to sit still and …
‘Don’t move,’ he said, disappearing up the narrow stairway.
‘I am not a dog,’ she called after him. ‘I do not respond to commands.’ But when she stood up, she came over a little dizzy, so sat back down again. It was probably just the sight of blood, and the throbbing in her hand. She stayed seated, not because he’d told her to, but because it was the prudent thing to do. Once the dizziness had passed, she would tend to the wound herself. A doctor, indeed. Did he think she was born yesterday?
He reappeared with a first-aid box. ‘Not feeling faint, are you?’ He placed his hand on her forehead. She batted him away. ‘Good to see there’s nothing wrong with your reactions.’ He opened the box and tore open a small white packet. ‘This might sting.’
‘I’m more than capable of … ouch!’
‘Hold still and it’ll be over quicker.’ He carefully wiped around the wound.
‘I never asked for your help.’ She sounded grumpy, but she didn’t care.
‘You like being in control, I get that. This will be a new experience for you.’ He crouched down on his haunches. ‘Think of it as character-building.’
She tried to ignore the weight of his arms resting on her thighs. ‘My character is just fine, thanks.’
‘Would it kill you to accept help for once?’ His face was a picture of concentration as he cleaned the graze. ‘Particularly from someone who knows what they’re doing.’
She glared at him, even though he wasn’t looking at her. ‘Right, because you’re a doctor. Pull the other one.’
He looked up. ‘This may come as a shock, but I wasn’t lying.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re a doctor?’
He inspected the wound. ‘Technically, I’m on a sabbatical, but I think I’m qualified to treat a graze.’
‘A doctor?’ She couldn’t believe it. ‘Who sounds like a cartoon character?’
He opened a packet of plasters. ‘That’s my parents’ fault. I was named after the eminent surgeon Barnabas Winston. I think they hoped it might inspire me to become a medical pioneer.’
‘And has it?’
He shook his head. ‘Not in the slightest.’
‘They must be disappointed.’
He gave her a rueful smile. ‘You have no idea. Any allergies?’
She frowned. ‘Pardon me?’
He held up the plasters.
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘Plus, they never watched TV so their blunder didn’t become apparent until I started school.’ He folded a small piece of gauze in half and covered the wound. ‘You can imagine the ribbing I got.’
She could. She still wasn’t sure she believed him, though. ‘Where did you train?’
‘Queen Mary’s, University of London.’ He answered without any hesitation.
Thinking up a university wasn’t difficult; she needed more proof. ‘What’s the medical definition of paracetamol?’
He smiled. ‘Analgesic antipyretic derivative of acetanilide.’
Okay, that was slightly more impressive. ‘What’s it used for?’
‘It’s a common analgesic with mild anti-inflammatory properties.’ He peeled the backing away from a plaster. ‘Anything else?’
This new development was puzzling. Her brain was struggling to compute. ‘So, if you’re a trained doctor, why are you dossing about in Cornwall on the beach all day?’
He secured one end of the gauze. ‘I do not doss. I have two jobs. I work hard.’
‘You know what I mean. Renting out surfboards isn’t exactly a proper job.’
He pinned her with a glare. ‘Did my parents hire you?’
What on earth was he on about? ‘No, why would they?’
‘Let’s just say they share your view of my current employment status.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ She assessed his first-aid skills. He’d done a reasonable job. ‘Whether you work hard or not, it’s still not the same as being a doctor. I don’t get it.’
‘People rarely do.’ He ripped off the backing of a second plaster, but dropped it before he could secure it.
Seeing him fumble was somehow a comfort. She didn’t like having to adjust her opinion of him. ‘You’re clearly not the most competent medic on the planet.’
‘Why do you think I left?’ He selected another plaster.
She’d meant it as a joke, but realised she’d hit a nerve. His shoulders slumped a little. ‘Sorry, that was crass of me.�
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He carefully attached the plaster to her skin. ‘It’s not your fault I was a crap doctor.’ When he looked up, something shifted within her.
It was like standing up too quickly, when the world lurches to the right before settling back in place. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked … troubled. She knew better than most how devastating it was when your career went down the toilet. It was clear he wasn’t as blasé about the situation as he made out. Maybe she needed to show a little more compassion.
‘And for the record, I don’t smoke weed.’ His dark-blue eyes were speckled with flecks of copper, she noticed.
‘Sorry?’ He still had hold of her hand.
‘You accused me of sitting on the beach all day smoking pot.’ His thumb skimmed over the pulse in her wrist. The throb in her hand seemed to increase. ‘Inhaling marijuana speeds up the heart rate, expands the blood vessels in the eyes, and reduces the body’s ability to carry oxygen.’ His tone was seductive, as though he was offering her words from a sonnet, not a medical dictionary. ‘It also increases the risk of cardiovascular disease, and lung hyperinflation.’
She should remove her hand from his. Her dizziness had passed … hadn’t it?
His hand slid up her arm. ‘The effects can often leave a person feeling relaxed and light-headed.’
Someone shouted down from above, breaking the moment. ‘Barney, you’re needed upstairs!’
He stood up. ‘I’d better get back to rehearsal. Keep the wound covered for twenty-four hours. If the skin gets hot or you feel unwell, go to A&E immediately.’
‘Thank you.’ She struggled to regain her composure. That was twice he’d come to her aid. And she really wasn’t happy about it.
He stopped by the bottom of the stairs. ‘Oh, and by the way.’ He waited until she looked at him. ‘You look much better slightly unravelled.’ And with that he disappeared, any hint of insecurity gone.
She glanced down. The top three buttons of her denim shirt were unbuttoned.
How the hell had that happened?
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Summer Theatre by the Sea Page 11
