Winning her tribunal case hadn’t been as rewarding as she’d imagined. The judge had given her two options: monetary compensation or overturning the dismissal. It was widely acknowledged that looking for another job was much easier if you were already employed, so she’d opted for returning to Quality Interiors, figuring this would tide her over until she found a new position. Big mistake. Aside from having to deal with the strain of damaged professional relationships, she’d discovered that she had no appetite for job hunting, and she wasn’t quite sure why.
She moved from a seated position to kneeling – which proved tricky when wearing her snug Karen Millen suit. She had to roll off the beanbag and shuffle across the rug to start her presentation. ‘The good news is that we have plenty of space to work in. The master bedroom is beautiful.’
Freya’s iPhone pinged with another message. The draw of social media was too enticing. The girl was popular, if nothing else.
Irritation itched beneath Charlotte’s skin. Her client had the attention span of a goldfish. Once around the bowl and she was onto something else … which made trying to present a sales pitch extremely difficult. All she could do was wait … and wait.
God, she was bored. Plus, her suit felt too tight. Had she put on weight over the summer? Or had she just got used to wearing more relaxed attire? Either way, she felt constricted and uncomfortable.
When Freya’s attention finally reverted to the task in hand, Charlotte angled the three mood boards for her client to peruse. ‘You mentioned Scandinavian, Romantic, and Moroccan styles in your brief.’ This confusing mixture was probably another factor in Lawrence lumbering her with the pitch. Anyone who could make three contrasting themes work together would certainly earn their commission. ‘I have three designs for you to look at. I’ve tried to keep a neutral colour palette, so we get that bright, clean Scandinavian look you’re after. I’ve done this by using a mixture of whites and soft greys for the walls and ceiling.’
Freya screwed up her nose. ‘I like colour.’
‘Which is why I’ve introduced splashes of mink, mushroom, and a hint of lime green to accent the room, with a collection of sheer fabrics for the soft furnishings. If we use silk and satin, it will give the room that romantic feel you’re looking for.’
Freya didn’t look impressed. ‘I dunno. It doesn’t look very Eastern.’
The client is always right, Charlotte told herself, and moved on to the last mood board. ‘I was thinking that we could use the alcoves in the room, building the arches into the design, and backlighting them to create warmth and give it a hint of Morocco.’ Plus, it would enable her to hide the client’s sixty-inch plasma TV, the curse of many a designer.
Freya’s phone rang. She answered it with lightning speed, like a modern-day gunslinger. ‘Babe!’ She was up and out the room without so much as an ‘excuse me’.
Don’t mind me, Charlotte thought, trying to stand up so she could stretch her legs.
She hobbled over to the large glass doors which led out to the garden. The house was currently of modern design, which suited the layout much better than the latest occupant’s suggestions. But who was she to question her client’s brief? As the professional, it was up to her to make the scheme work, no matter how conflicting it might be. After all, she’d always enjoyed a challenge. Trying to satisfy a client’s wishes whilst pushing the concept to incorporate her own sense of style had always been what had inspired her, what drove her on. So why was it no longer enough?
The view from the window was stunning. The grounds were landscaped and vast. Despite the miserable weather, the garden looked lush and green, a brief reminder of what she’d left behind in Cornwall. She felt another pang of longing.
Resting her hand on the window frame, she reasoned this was only to be expected. It was bound to take a while to readjust to city life. Five weeks really wasn’t that long. Her enthusiasm would return soon enough … wouldn’t it?
Her GP seemed to think so. When she’d visited him a couple of weeks ago, he’d assured her she was making good progress. Losing the desire to make everything ‘just so’ was a positive step, he’d said, an indication that she’d finally ‘dropped the stick’. The bad news was that this had allowed the grief she’d suppressed for so long to take its place. The sense of loss she was experiencing was only to be expected. But now that she’d ‘sunk to the bottom’, she’d be able to float back up to the top and sail away down the river stress-free and unbuttoned, ready to live a happy and relaxed life. God, she hoped he was right.
She watched a squirrel scurry across the grass and disappear into the undergrowth.
It didn’t help that she was staying in a cheap B&B Lawrence had organised for her, or that she’d been lumbered with Dodgy Roger – whose building skills hadn’t improved over the summer – on three separate jobs. There was no doubt about it, Lawrence was paying her back for suing him. Whatever the reason, London life no longer held the same appeal.
‘Miss Hughes asked me to pass on a message.’ Charlotte turned to find Freya’s assistant standing in the lounge looking apologetic. ‘She’s unable to continue with the meeting, and will need to reschedule.’
‘That’s unfortunate. Nothing wrong, I hope?’
‘No, madam.’ The resignation in her words indicated that running around after her demanding employer was a common occurrence. ‘I’ll show you out.’
Charlotte packed up her mood boards, cursing the thought of another difficult Tube journey with bulky hand luggage and nothing to show for her efforts. Lawrence wouldn’t be happy. Nothing she could do about that.
The rain was coming down harder. With no free hand to hold an umbrella, she accepted the inevitability of getting wet, and headed for the Tube station. The traffic was heavy, with vehicles hurtling past, splashing up water, their emissions an assault on her senses. That was another thing she missed about Cornwall, the fresh air.
The Tube was packed, even though it was barely the beginning of the rush hour. She squeezed into a seat, her large holdall banging against her leg every time someone moved past. The atmosphere was steamy and unpleasant, the combination of wet clothes and warm bodies adding to the rancid odour emanating from the gentleman next to her.
She closed her eyes, hoping to transport her mind back to a happy place. Penmullion in the sunshine. The crash of waves lapping the sandy beach filled with holidaymakers, fishing boats bobbing on the water, her niece and nephew building sandcastles. Barney out surfing on the water, his coal-black hair slicked back, his tanned chest unashamedly on display.
She sighed. Lovely as it was, it wasn’t enough to ease the stiffness creeping into her shoulders – something that had started almost as soon as she’d returned to London. Apart from the annoyance of physical pain, it served to remind her of Barney’s lovely shoulder massages, his dexterous fingers kneading her flesh, creating warmth, relaxing her muscles as his hands …
She opened her eyes. Thinking about Barney Hubble was not helpful. She’d never settle into London life if she kept allowing her mind to drift backwards.
By the time she’d changed trains at Victoria and navigated her way to South Croydon, it was gone six o’clock. She was tired, wet, and miserable. Rain lashed against her as she walked up the hill towards the B&B. Unlike the hill in Penmullion, it wasn’t winding and narrow, taking her past quaint cottages, set against a backdrop of lively seagulls and an impressive historic castle. This hill was lined with rows of bland terraced houses, which masked any kind of view, and littered with SUVs parked nose to tail.
She entered the B&B and made her way up to the single room where she’d been staying for the past month. She recalled the sinking feeling she’d felt on entering Lauren’s flat and seeing the tired décor and cramped conditions. Ironically, she’d give anything to be back there now, sleeping on the lumpy daybed, having to use a knife to open the kitchen drawer with no handle. Despite its shabbiness, it had been a place filled with love and happiness, a proper family home. Compared to
her current abode, it had been a palace.
She dumped her holdall on the dark-red carpeted floor. There was no window in the room, the electric lighting gave it a dungeon-like quality, as though it was situated underground. The view of a snow-capped mountain, painted on the wall and framed with thick curtains, failed to dupe her into believing the room overlooked a pretty Austrian village.
She undid her suit jacket, only to find the top button already undone. She didn’t need her GP to tell her this wasn’t a good development. Having finally overcome her compulsive behaviour, she couldn’t bear the thought of her anxiety returning. But quite how she was going to keep it at bay when she was already fighting off neck pain, she wasn’t sure. Covering herself in a bathrobe, she headed into the hallway, only to find the communal bathroom occupied. She returned to her room, forced to use the toilet crammed into what could only be described as a cupboard. Lawrence had gone out of his way to find the most offensive dwelling possible.
Her phone rang. Talk of the devil. ‘Hello, Lawrence.’
‘Tell me you secured the deal?’
The days of preamble and niceties had gone. ‘The meeting was cut short. Something came up, and the client needed to reschedule.’
‘When for?’
‘We didn’t get a chance to discuss alternative dates.’
‘Disappointing, Saunders. We need this job.’ Another development was the calling of her by her surname. And to think she’d objected when he used to call her Charlie. Now, she’d prefer it. ‘If you’re not taking care of the customer, the competitor will.’
She rubbed her forehead, aware of a dull ache around her temples. ‘Not much I can do when the client cancels, Lawrence.’
‘We miss a hundred per cent of the sales we don’t ask for, Saunders. You know that.’
She really didn’t need a lecture. His endless sales quotes were painful at the best of times. As he prattled on about ‘success only occurring when your dreams get bigger than your excuses’, she flopped onto the single bed. She was tired, her headache was getting worse, and she was incredibly, heartbreakingly lonely.
She looked up at the stained ceiling. Why was she so unhappy?
But, deep down, she knew. She no longer wanted to strive towards achieving someone else’s dream. She wanted her own dream. Dusty had been right: she hadn’t been as happy in her old life as she’d imagined. It’d just been safe, a habit, something she’d worked so hard for that admitting it was stressful and challenging and not always rewarding would feel like failure. When her anger had eventually faded, she realised she’d used her argument with Barney as an excuse to run away. She’d been scared.
But Dusty hadn’t been right about everything. She’d said Barney would call her when he returned to London, and he never had.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Saturday, 15 October
Barney had found himself in some strange situations over the years, but watching Nate trying to coax an eight-stone dog into the inflatable rescue boat was right up there. His mate was currently tugging on Bubba’s lead, one leg on the rocks, the other still in the rescue boat, as he tried unsuccessfully to save the animal from drowning. But Bubba wasn’t cooperating.
‘Get his owner in the boat first,’ Tony called, trying to keep the vessel steady as another wave hit, sending a spray of water into the air. The sea was getting choppier now the daylight was fading. ‘The dog might follow.’
‘I’m not leaving him!’ The woman flattened herself against the rocks, her love for Bubba the St Bernard preventing her from cooperating with her rescuers.
‘We need to get you both in the boat,’ Barney shouted across to her, battling to be heard above the crash of waves. ‘The tide is coming in.’ Realising that the woman wasn’t able to climb into the boat unaided, he jumped onto the rock face and held out his hand. ‘Come on, I’ve got you.’
The woman had lived in Penmullion all her life and was used to the rapid changes of tide, she’d told them. She’d always been careful not to get cut off, but Bubba had got carried away chasing seagulls, and had disobeyed numerous orders to ‘heel’ – which was how they’d both ended up getting stranded.
Tony had been right. The moment Mrs Bubba climbed into the boat, her dog followed. He jumped from the rocks, and landed on Nate’s midriff, causing his mate to stagger backwards, his arms full of St Bernard.
Barney wrapped the woman in a foil rescue blanket, trying not to laugh at Nate’s disgruntled expression.
With owner and dog reunited, Tony manoeuvred the inshore rescue boat away from the rocks, and they headed back to dry land. It was the second successful rescue of the day. The first one had called on Barney’s medical skills. The swimmer involved had developed something he now knew as ‘post-rescue collapse’, when a person suffers shock-like symptoms, and needs oxygen to stem a full-blown panic attack. He was certainly learning on his feet. Thankfully, all the boats came equipped with Entonox, so he’d been able to manage her condition with gas and air until the paramedics arrived.
Barney was loving his new life. It was everything he’d hoped it would be … career-wise, at least. His training had included spending two days at the RNLI college in Poole this week, completing his accredited course. He’d learnt all about the equipment and different types of boats in the fleet. They’d also covered safety regulations, lifeguard skills, and tested his fitness levels. He’d had to swim two hundred metres in less than three minutes, and run two hundred metres across the sand in under forty seconds. Thank God surfing had improved his stamina.
It was almost dark by the time they arrived back at base and drew alongside the jetty. The wind had picked up, making the boat unstable. Barney helped the woman onto solid ground, leaving Nate to handle Bubba – who jumped before Nate was ready and ripped the lead from his mate’s hand. An unhappy Nate climbed onto the jetty, rubbing his arm and mouthing obscenities at Barney for laughing.
Yep, being back in Penmullion was definitely good for the soul, even if it hadn’t eased the constant ache in his chest.
Despite his best efforts, he still pined for Charlotte. He’d hoped that keeping busy might help eradicate her from his mind, but it hadn’t worked. There were too many reminders, like seeing her sister all the time. Lauren was a regular at The Mousehole now she and Nate were a couple, and as much as he liked Lauren, it wasn’t helping him to forget Charlotte. But he needed to try. She wasn’t here anymore, and he had to find a way to get over her and move on.
He glanced up at Morholt Castle silhouetted against the inky sky, his mind drifting back to the summer. The fun and laughter they’d shared, the intimacy and sense of closeness that had developed between them, his hope for a future together. How the hell was he supposed to get over that? It wasn’t like you could just decide to stop loving someone.
He helped Tony secure the boat, and made his way up to the boathouse, leaving Nate to deal with the woman and her dog.
Despite only being back in Penmullion for two weeks, it felt like he’d never been away. Nate and Paul had welcomed him like a long-lost brother, and Dusty had coerced him in to playing Mustafa Kit-Kat in the Christmas pantomime. He was probably taking on too much, especially as he started his new job on Monday, but he figured that keeping busy might help him get over Charlotte. Fat chance of that.
He removed his drysuit, and flicked on the kettle. The noticeboard behind was crammed full of photos depicting various rescues over the years. It filled him with a sense of pride to be a part of that tradition now. His love life might be dead in the water, but at least his career was on the up.
No sooner had he poured boiling water into the three mugs than the alarm went off. His first Saturday on the roster was proving to be a busy one.
Tony and Nate hadn’t undressed, so they were ready to go quicker than he was. He tugged his drysuit up over his hips, and followed them down to the jetty. ‘What have we got?’
‘Reports of a woman in a sailing dinghy being dragged out to sea.’ Tony jumped into t
he rescue boat and started the engine. ‘The caller said the woman didn’t appear to be wearing appropriate sailing gear, and she didn’t look in control of the boat.’
Barney fastened his suit. ‘Is she drunk?’
‘Who knows.’ Tony waited until Barney had secured his helmet. ‘Take the lead on this one, Barney. Then we can sign you off. Okay?’ Without waiting for a reply, Tony gunned the engine and pulled away.
Barney looked across at Nate. ‘Great. My final assessment and I get a joyrider.’
Nate grinned. ‘Welcome to the colourful life of an RNLI helmsman.’
It served him right for laughing at Nate’s attempts to rescue Bubba the dog.
It was now fully dark, the moon providing the only light as they left the bay and ventured into deeper water. The sea was rough, the waves bouncing under the boat, lifting them up and crashing them back down. It wasn’t a nice night for sailing. If the woman had capsized, then she wouldn’t last long in the water. Time was critical, they needed to get to her as quickly as possible. He’d learnt that as part of his training. No one wanted to drag a body from the water.
Lights came into view as they neared where the boats were moored alongside the harbour wall. He switched on his flashlight. ‘You take the port side,’ he shouted to Nate, who gave him a thumbs up.
Both their lights skimmed the water, looking for the stranded boat. Tony slowed the engine as they neared where the vessel was last seen. And then he pointed. ‘Straight ahead.’
Barney flashed his light to where Tony had directed. Bingo. A small sailing dinghy came into view. It was just like the one Tony owned. It was tilting violently from side to side, the boom swinging about untethered, the hull low in the water, indicating it was taking on water. Logic dictated that if the woman didn’t do something soon, the boat was going to capsize.
A gust of wind caught the mainsail, dragging the boat further out to sea. And then Barney spotted the woman. She was clinging hold of the mast, making no attempt to stabilise the boat. What the hell was she doing?
The Summer Theatre by the Sea Page 32
