There was Polwenna Bay, falling away below her and just as she remembered it. In the marina the boats were riding the tide, their rigging jingling in the gentle breeze. Judging by the absence of the sturdy trawlers that usually hugged the harbour wall, the fishermen were out at sea. Funny to think that somewhere beyond the blue line of the endless horizon were her father and her brothers, casting their nets and hauling in their catch. Summer also knew that in the third small ripple-patterned stone cottage that nestled alongside the harbour her mother would be tackling the usual washing mountain, keeping an eye on the vast stew simmering on the range and listening to Radio Cornwall. Summer might have been away from home for a long time, but she knew that some things would never change.
And what about Jake Tremaine? asked a small voice – the same small voice she’d been trying to ignore for what felt like forever. Was he still working for the family business? Did he still love to set out to sea so early that the sky was rippled pink? Did he still laugh easily, head thrown back and sleepy eyes crinkled with merriment? Did he still think of her?
That was another of those thoughts Summer wasn’t prepared to contemplate. Anyway, of course he didn’t. Jake Tremaine had made his feelings very clear twelve years ago and, if she was honest, Summer didn’t think she could forgive him for that. Even though it was a long time ago, she still felt the pain of having to face everything alone. Sometimes she found herself wondering what her life would have been like if things had worked out differently and if Jake had been willing to put aside the hurt she’d caused. Goodness, but they’d been so young, hadn’t they? Little more than kids themselves. Did Jake have a wife now and children of his own? Did blond curly-headed little scamps play on the beach and make Miss Powell, the teacher at Polwenna Primary who seemed to have been there forever, tug her grey hair out with despair? Summer’s aunt had never mentioned anything, but then again Patsy Penhalligan knew that Jake Tremaine was a no-go zone, right up there with Area 51 and the Official Secrets Act.
Summer gave herself a mental shake. None of this mattered anyway. Jake had let her down when she’d needed him the most. Their time had been and gone.
She was at the end of the road now and Summer couldn’t help laughing; this couldn’t be more metaphorical. Harbour Watch was the final cottage in a terrace of six, the last dwelling in Polwenna Bay except for Seaspray, the Tremaines’ big white house, which seemed to grow from the acres of grounds and whose big windows had kept watch over the village for generations.
Jake’s house.
When Patsy had told Summer that Harbour Watch had had a last-minute cancellation, Summer had almost turned the car back to London rather than stay in this particular cottage. Only the thought of Justin and her throbbing cheek had kept her going. Harbour Watch was practically in the Tremaines’ garden and Jake would pass it every day on his journey to the marina – if he was still here, of course. He had always wanted to travel. She recalled that they’d spent many hours on the deserted sand at one of the numerous little coves that could only be reached by boat; they’d be curled up together on the old tartan picnic rug, looking up at the blue sky and dreaming of Spain and Australia and the Caribbean. Maybe even now he was living in one of these far-flung places, gazing up at a sun even brighter than the one that shone down right now. In spite of everything that had happened, Summer hoped his dreams had all come true.
The key was under the potted bay tree, just as Patsy had promised. Once Summer was inside and the door was shut securely behind her, with the heavy brass key turned firmly in the lock, she allowed herself to exhale. She hadn’t realised just how tense she’d been. Now that she was here, she felt weak and wobbly.
Buoyed up by having reached safety, Summer set about exploring the cottage. Like her childhood home this was an old fisherman’s cottage and didn’t have space to swing a hamster, so it wouldn’t take long. Downstairs consisted of a tiny kitchen with a deep window seat heaped with faded patchwork cushions. There was also a small scrubbed oak table and a stable door that opened straight out to the pathway. Against the whitewashed cottage wall somebody had placed a simple weathered bench and a couple of pots of leggy geraniums, half hidden beneath nets and lobster pots piled up like a game of seafaring Jenga. A black cat was sunning itself on top of this lot, stretched out and contented in the warmth. Maybe it would come inside and keep her company?
Summer laughed out loud at this. She’d only been single for a few hours and already she was turning into a mad cat lady. That hadn’t taken long – although, in fairness, she’d been trying to be single for a very long time…
The rest of the kitchen was little more than a hotchpotch of freestanding cupboards and tables, which would have been quaint if not so tatty. Some money was tucked under the bread bin, exactly as her aunty had promised, and Summer pocketed it with relief. Running away without her bank card hadn’t been her smartest move. She was also relieved to discover that Patsy had left her a couple of carrier bags full of spare clothes, since packing a suitcase hadn’t been high on Summer’s list of priorities when she’d fled from the house. As soon as she’d ordered a new bank card she would pay Patsy back and buy her a very big bottle of wine, Summer decided. It was the least she could do for putting her on the spot like this and forcing her to keep Summer’s arrival secret from the rest of the family.
A quick check of the fridge and cupboards in the small kitchen revealed that the thoughtful Patsy had provided some supplies and, most importantly, a jar of coffee. Summer filled the kettle and went to explore the rest of the house while it boiled. The house was only three rooms: the kitchen formed the ground floor; a tiny sitting room with a window seat and a small sofa occupied the first floor; and the bedroom and a miniscule shower room were up in the eaves. Sitting on the bed, Summer could hear the feet of the gulls on the roof and their squabbling over who got prime position on the chimney pot, while the sea crashed against the rocks. These were the sounds of her childhood, and she found them comforting.
She’d go and see her mother soon, Summer decided as she returned to the kitchen and made a strong coffee. Then she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror at the foot of the narrow stairs and winced. On second thoughts, maybe she ought to give it a day or two? The sad-eyed reflection with the swollen cheek and tangled hair looked nothing like the usual groomed and glossy Summer that the celebrity magazines and tabloids loved to feature. Susie Penhalligan would have a fit and demand to know exactly what had been going on. Summer felt like having a fit herself, and now that the adrenalin of her flight was subsiding she felt dangerously close to tears. There was no way she could tell her mother. No way at all. Susie would be jumping in her ancient Ford Fiesta and zooming up the M5 before you could say protective mother, and then all hell would break loose. The tabloids would have a field day and Justin would be even more enraged, which would be very bad news indeed. Who knew what he’d do then?
Summer shivered even though the kitchen was warm with pools of golden-syrup sunshine. If she could pinpoint the exact moment things had gone wrong, then she knew when it would be: back at that awards ceremony five years ago. If she could have returned to that time and changed things, she probably wouldn’t have dieted and exercised for weeks, or worn a dress that resembled a piece of dental floss and made Elizabeth Hurley’s safety-pin one look like a Burka in comparison. And when Justin Anderson had asked if he could join her, she would definitely have said no.
Yes, that was the moment when her life, or rather her new life, had gone so wrong. The parts with Jake had seemed long ago and, if not forgotten exactly, then at least consigned to the dusty corners of her mind that she didn’t often visit. She’d moved on from what had happened (she’d had no choice), and the world had just been starting to open up to her. Justin had wandered over, bow tie undone and inky hair sexily dishevelled, and given her a slow smile that had made Summer’s stomach tangle. He’d had two champagne glasses hanging loosely in one hand and a bottle of vintage champagne in the other, and his sherry-
hued eyes had held her as he’d joined her and poured them each a glass. Summer had drunk far too much of it far too quickly and by the end of the night was giddy, not just from the Krug but mostly from his undivided attention. He was Justin Anderson, the hottest and most talented Premier League star since David Beckham, and he was talking to her – and not just talking, either, but hanging on to Summer’s every word! As one of several models present, successful but hardly in his league, Summer had been stunned and not a little star-struck in the full beam of Justin’s charm offensive. No wonder she’d been bowled over by it.
She looked in the mirror again and the doleful reflection shook her head. What a fool. She really should have known better. One thing was for sure: she knew better now. All she could hope was that Justin wouldn’t do anything stupid like jumping into his precious red Ferrari and tearing down here on the off chance that he’d find her. If she lay low for a week or two, found a way to explain to her family why she was keeping herself to herself, it was highly likely that he’d give up and move on to somebody else.
She certainly hoped so anyway. Her hands fluttered down to her stomach and rested there for a moment. She had to be strong and she had to make this work. No matter how scared she was or how much Justin threatened her, she had to stay away from him. She had to.
It was no longer just about her.
Chapter 5
With a baseball cap crammed onto her head and her big Chanel sunglasses firmly in place, Summer locked the cottage behind her and headed into the village. It was early evening now and snatches of music floated up from the village green, suggesting that the celebrations were in full swing. The scent of roasting meat drifted on the breeze, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten. She’d have to do so at some point, but right now her stomach was churning like a washing machine. There was bread in the cottage, and a toaster. She’d have to try to eat something later on.
If only she’d had time to grab her bag. Then she could have sent Patsy a text and asked her for some help. She wished too that she and Morwenna were still friends. Mo would know what to do; the fiery redhead wouldn’t let a bully like Justin intimidate her and would be more than capable of taking on the press if they got in her way. Summer, always shy unless on the stage or in front of a camera, had lost count of the times that her best friend had looked after her at school and fought off the bullies. They’d seemed to hate Summer for no reason other than that she was pretty and dating Jake Tremaine, whom everyone agreed was way hot. When Ella St Milton, one of the meanest girls at school, had accidentally poured her paint water all over Summer’s GCSE art project, Morwenna had accidentally cut off Ella’s swishy blonde ponytail.
“But I tripped,” Mo had insisted, echoing Ella’s excuse of moments earlier. Unfortunately, Mo’s wide blue eyes and innocent expression had fooled nobody. She’d been excluded for a week and Ella had been whisked off to Plymouth for a full head of hair extensions. On the plus side, Mo had spent the week riding her horses – Alice Tremaine was no fan of bullies – and nobody had ever dared pick on Summer Penhalligan again. Well, not unless they wanted to be scalped, Mo had said cheerfully. On the downside, Summer had been pretty certain that both she and Morwenna had made a dangerous enemy for life in the spoilt and spiteful Ella. Hopefully she wouldn’t come across the other girl anytime soon. The St Miltons owned a big hotel just outside the Bay and had always been very wealthy. As a child, Summer had been taunted relentlessly by Ella and her cronies for her cheap clothes and her tiny home. Now she was famous, had a closet full of designer bags, shoes and clothes and a beautiful house in Kensington, Summer would have enjoyed a sense of Schadenfreude if it hadn’t been for the fact that her life was very far from the happy pictures that Hiya and All Right! liked to peddle. Her fingers stole to her bruised face and she flinched.
Unfortunately, Summer no longer had Morwenna to fight her corner and, whether or not she bumped into Ella, she was going to do her best to make sure she wasn’t discovered. It was holiday season in Cornwall, so Polwenna Bay was thronging with emmets, the name the Cornish affectionately gave their seasonal visitors. Besides, Summer was a trained actress (even though her skills hadn’t been employed lately, or at least not on the stage). How hard could it be to blend into the crowds? Passing the village shop, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window and felt reassured that the slim girl in skinny jeans, a baseball cap and a baggy long-sleeve tee-shirt could be anyone. She certainly didn’t bear any resemblance to the glossy-haired, lusciously curved and pouting creature known across the UK simply as Summer.
The village shop looked empty and Summer didn’t recognise the chewing teen behind the counter so, glancing around nervously, she stepped inside. She needed to grab a copy of The Dagger, just to see exactly what it was that had sent Justin wild this morning. Two holidaymakers were chatting by the Duchy Originals area while the bored teenager played with an iPhone. Nobody took the slightest notice of Summer. Brilliant. Feeling reassured, she scanned the selection of redtops, but there was nothing. Only by flicking through the last remaining copy of The Dagger did she finally come across a small picture of her leaning in closely to speak to Max Roberts. So that was what had set Justin off. For him this was actually something she could almost understand; more often than not it was something as trivial as Summer making tea when he wanted coffee, or wearing shoes he didn’t like, which made him flip. Max, with whom Summer had recently filmed an episode of the comedy quiz show Celebrity Squash, was one of the hottest young actors of the moment and also as gay as a Cath Kidston tea towel. If Justin had actually taken the time to ask, rather than sending Summer flying across their bespoke kitchen and smack into the central island, she’d have been able to tell him so.
“Do you want to buy that paper or not?” asked an impatient voice.
Looking up, Summer saw that a man was staring at her petulantly, a frown creasing the place between his eyes. His face was all sharp planes and perfect bone structure beneath hair that curled to his chin in waves the exact same colour as the chocolate dusting on cappuccino. Mocha-dark stubble sprinkled his jaw and his full mouth was pressed into a very unamused line. If he hadn’t been so bad tempered he would have been exceedingly good-looking.
“Well?” he demanded, clearly itching to snatch the paper from her. “Yes or no? The tide won’t wait for you to make your mind up. Some of us have got boats to get to.”
Oh great. This was a member of the species peculiar to Cornwall in the tourist season: the know-it-all emmet with more money than manners. Summer had met enough of these in her time to know one when she saw one, and this guy – dressed from head to foot in Musto, wearing Maui Jim shades perched atop a trendy haircut, and rocking the latest LV man bag – definitely ticked all the boxes.
“Well? I don’t have all day,” demanded Mr Musto, checking a Rolex the size of the village hall clock. Then his eyes narrowed. “Hey, have we met before?”
Only in my bad dreams, thought Summer darkly. Hastily, and before he could make the connection – unlikely, she knew, but still a risk not worth taking – she thrust the paper at him.
“Here, it’s all yours,” she told him over her shoulder. “Enjoy the boating!”
Without waiting for a reply she dashed out of the shop. For an awful moment she half expected him to come charging after her shouting that he knew who she was. For once, though, luck was on Summer’s side. Musto Man was far too busy elbowing locals out of the way in his haste to catch the tide to pay any more attention to a scruffy girl. Still, Summer knew this was a warning and that she had to do something drastic if she was to stay incognito. Hiding in plain sight, was how Patsy had put it. Then, like an answer to prayer, Summer saw it: the solution to her problems. Or to one of them, at the very least.
Kursa’s Kozi Kutz. All big hairdryers and faded 1980s shots of Princess Diana pageboy cuts and curly perms. But who cared? It may not have been Nicky Clarke but she had never been so in need of a salon. This was also a new addition to the village, and Summ
er was quietly hopeful that the mysterious Kursa wouldn’t know who she was. Maybe she could even have a go at doing an American accent. After all, her Blanche DuBois had once won all the critics over. She gave the door a push and dived in.
Over the course of her career Summer had spent a lot of time at the hairdresser’s. If she’d ever naïvely thought that being an actress was all about learning screeds of Shakespeare and channelling the muse, then she’d been in for a bit of a disappointment. It was true that she’d spent ages memorising her lines for various plays, but she’d also endured equal amounts of time in the stylist’s chair being dyed and blow-dried or styled for shoots. Lately she and Justin had frequented the same salon once favoured by Kate Middleton, and Summer owed her glossy dark mane to their magic rather than any real effort on her own part. Justin spent just as much time in the stylist’s chair as she did, knowing full well that every style he wore was going to be copied the length and breadth of the UK. Summer felt confident that she was something of an expert when it came to hairdressers; she didn’t think there was anything about a trip to one that could surprise her.
She was wrong.
For a start, was she actually in a salon or had she walked into her Nan’s front room by mistake? The walls were smothered with orange and green flowery wallpaper and the floor was carpeted in a lurid swirly shagpile. A carpet like that could only be some sort of 1970s masterpiece, unless the stress had really got to Summer and she was having a violent hallucination. A tiny sink lurked in the corner of the room, its taps jauntily sporting a plastic shower attachment of a kind that Summer hadn’t seen since childhood. Two overstuffed red-velour armchairs complete with frothing antimacassars flanked a stone fireplace. Huge dryers loomed over them like diplodocuses, while in another corner there was a tea trolley piled high with a jumble of curlers, perm papers and medieval-looking curling tongs. At least, Summer hoped they were curling tongs.
Runaway Summer: Polwenna Bay 1 Page 5
