Breakfast Under a Cornish Sun (15 page)

Izzy stopped tidying and rocked her head from side to side. ‘It could be … Nah. Probably not.'

‘What?'

She sighed. ‘My Uncle Ron. Got himself into a bit of a mess a few years back. His car-selling business was doing badly. He fiddled his tax form.'

‘And?'

‘Ended up getting a two-year sentence. When he came out he never called it prison. Only referred to it as his “trip away”. Maybe Tremain was thrown out of the services or even jailed.'

‘But what for? I can't imagine anything serious.'

‘Well, it might not be that at all,' she said and swung her feet off the bed and onto the floor. ‘But it could explain why he and Kensa are so cagey about his former career.'

Tremain? With some sort of black mark against his character? I guessed that was possible. And he did have that funny scar I'd seen at Guvnah's. Perhaps he had a history of violence—but his gentle touch and my heart told me that couldn't be true. Maybe Lucas knew more about it. Hmm. Lucas. How had our kiss been for him? Was I still in with a chance of taking him to Saffron's party? Treating myself to another all-day breakfast the next morning, before checking out the sound equipment, would probably be the best way to find out.

CHAPTER 11

Wow. Friday already. Three days to the reopening of White Rocks. The less humid weather suited everyone on site. What a list of tasks lay ahead of us. Kensa would go shopping for inflatables for the pool, to make it more fun for young ones. Izzy would practise the new Cornish-themed doughnut decorations plus wait for a delivery of all our branded extras—her mum had posted them express delivery. Tremain had to work on the gardens, to spruce the place up. Housekeeping would vacuum and polish and scrub. Geoff was staying at the cottage to make his chilli sauce and would later shop for napkins, cooking oil—all the little things he hadn't bought yet. And then this afternoon Guvnah and I planned to visit some of the chalets, to paint an image of Rocky Rabbit onto the wall of every children's bedroom.

But this morning? I'd sing through part of my playlist for the disco evening on Monday, to test the
entertainment area's acoustics—after the biggest all-day breakfast. I snuck out early, chest back to normal after the smoke of the evening before—unlike my hair which still stank and needed three washes before it remotely smelt of the passion fruit shampoo. I wore beige three-quarter-length trousers and a white blouse, with beads hanging from the neckline and a fringe all around the bottom hem. Guvnah despaired sometimes at my bland choices, but working with a best friend like psychedelic Izzy, I figured my subdued shades helped the universe balance things out. Whistling a Michael Jackson tune, I headed for the reception building.

‘Morning, Kate!' called Maria, as she passed in a housekeeping buggy. ‘You feel OK today?'

‘Yes. Thank you,' I called back and gave the thumbs-up. Although not one hundred per cent between you and me. Truth be told, I still felt foolish—risking my life for nothing. I should have heeded Lucas's conviction that the chalet would be empty.

‘Well, I think you've got guts,' said Lucas, as he sat down next to me to eat. He'd rustled up the perfect breakfast, knowing by now that I liked no kippers and extra baked beans. The crisp fried bread felt so indulgent—a real no-no for the cholesterol-obsessed twenty-first century. And he'd grilled tomatoes so that they melted in the mouth—same for the mushrooms that had been lightly fried.

‘Guts or no sense?' I said and gave a wry smile. ‘Tremain was right. I could have got killed. All for nothing.'

‘But you didn't know that.' Lucas wiped his greasy fingers and rubbed his hand up and down my bare arm. I waited for chemistry between us to spark. However, since the original excitement over finding my very own Poldark had subsided, I realised that this romance—if that's what it was—might be a slow-burner.

Romance. Gosh. I hadn't talked of that for a while. I chewed a mouthful of bacon and relished the smoky flavour. I stared at Lucas—that dirty gold skin, the foppish hair, that dangerous stubble, a teasing sense of humour, that hard-working ethic … He was the whole package, right? I'd be stupid not to consider him as more than just a companion to a wedding.

‘Have I got egg on my face?' he said.

My cheeks burned. ‘Sorry. I just wondered … has anyone ever said you're a doppelgänger for Poldark?'

Lucas stretched back in his chair and burst out laughing. ‘Yep. All the time. I'm used to it now. A lookalike agency even approached me last year.'

‘That could have paid well.'

He shrugged. ‘Cooking is what I love. And I don't ride horses. Nor do I know the first thing about mining. I'd probably be a huge disappointment.' A tide of
emotion swept through those dark eyes and a muscle flinched in his cheek—the first hint that perhaps cocksure Lucas actually lacked confidence.

‘I doubt you could ever disappoint a woman—being a whizz in the kitchen would notch up a thousand Brownie points.'

‘Yep, but life isn't just about impressing the opposite sex. It's about impressing yourself; having self-respect. And that earns you the respect of others like your friends, colleagues and parents.' He fiddled with his watch strap. ‘My dad has had high hopes for me. Working as a lookalike wouldn't impress him much.'

This wasn't the first time he'd mentioned his father and I was about to say aren't you too old to worry about what he thinks, when I realised that I was no better trying to impress Saffron, a mere friend—and ex-friend at that—so talk about being a hypocrite.

‘How about dinner tonight?' I said, brightly. ‘Seeing as last night's date never took place?'

He kissed me on the cheek. ‘Sounds great.' He stood up and took my plate. ‘Just don't go hurling yourself into any other emergency situations, before we've had a chance to leave the resort.'

‘No need to tell me.' I groaned.

‘Now go and sing some cool tunes. I'll hear them from the kitchen.'

‘Still creating the perfect menu?'

He sighed. ‘I'm trying desperately to come up with my own quality version of burgers and chicken nuggets that will still appeal to kids but be reasonably healthy.'

‘Good luck with that,' I said. ‘In my experience, nothing satisfies a kid's taste buds more than saturated fat, additives and sugar when on holiday.'

Jokingly, Lucas held his head in his hands and I grinned as he strode off to the kitchen. Humming, I went into the open area ahead, in between the reception and the restaurant. Its back glass wall gave a great view of the swimming pool. Around stood comfy leather chairs, circling low coffee tables, plus a snooker table to the back left and a fruit machine to the right.

As you entered this area, on the immediate left there was a small podium with a mike-stand and DJ turntable. Plus, a CD machine with big speakers and a karaoke machine leaning against the wall. I plugged the mike in and switched it on.

‘Everything OK?' said Tremain, who'd been polishing the coffee tables. He put down his cloth. ‘How are you feeling? After last night.'

‘My pride's dented. I feel silly. Fine though. This sing-through will tell me if my lungs have fully recovered.'

Tremain curled his hand around the top of my arm. It felt as if liquid lava suddenly flowed from that spot to my chest and cheeks. ‘Sorry, if I was a bit harsh last night. Proper brave, you were. I just …'

‘It's OK.' I recalled Kensa's words about the fire reminding him of something that had happened in his past. ‘How are you?' I leant forward to sniff his hair and he stepped back.

‘What are you doing, woman?'

I giggled. ‘Just seeing if you've managed to get rid of the smell of smoke. I had to take more than one shower.'

He leant forward to smell mine. His proximity made my palms feel sweaty. Confusion washed over me. It was so long since I'd dated and now I wasn't so sure of the telltale signs of attraction. Tremain caused a physical reaction, but him and me? No. Often he was rude, untalkative, detached … He chuckled. ‘Jeez. You smell like you spent the night enjoying a barbecue on the beach.'

‘Have the firemen any more details about how the fire started? Kensa filled me in on what they thought yesterday.'

He shook his head. ‘Nothing to add. The only bits of evidence are the shreds of newspaper, scented-candle holder and pink leopard-print bra—a size ten from M&S, apparently.'

‘Clearly not mine, then, Sherlock Holmes,' I said and flexed my arms in the air, taking on a muscleman position.

‘Nor mine,' he said and grinned before heading over to the reception desk.

Blimey. Perhaps that smoke had laughing gas as a secret ingredient. As he walked away, I admired his strong outline, remembering how he'd swept me into his arms last night. Hands up, that is hardly an alpha-female thought, but, as you know, I am an avid fan of historical romances, featuring dashing heroes on steeds.

I picked up the mike. ‘Testing, testing, testing, one, two, three.' Hmm. Good quality. I wouldn't have to overstretch my voice. However, just to double-check the area's suitability, I ran through a couple of songs. ‘Blame it on the Boogie' was always a sure winner, and got people on their feet to do the actions to the words ‘moon' and ‘sunshine'.

As my CD played, I swayed side to side. Often for gigs I was lucky enough to have a mate, Jim, play his portable piano, but, failing that, I had a good range of recorded soundtracks, minus the vocals—compilations that I'd put together myself. Like this one for a disco evening. I had another for jazz. ABBA as well. A fifties one and another for eighties-retro evenings which had been really popular over recent years.

I closed my eyes as I sang and got into the zone, so that I could exactly judge the pitch and tone of my voice for this venue. When I opened them, Lucas had come over. The Peppards had arrived and sat watching, him in baggy knee shorts and a polo-neck shirt with a designer logo on the front. She wore a tight cream
blouse with a plunging neckline and shorts that showed off the fact that she must spend every spare hour in the gym. Tremain now stood behind the computer at reception, fingers tapping in time on the desk.

When I stopped everyone gave me a quiet round of applause. I smiled. This was the one area of my life where I wasn't the slightest bit embarrassed. Compliment my outfit or make-up and my ears would probably glow scarlet but clap my singing and I'd just bow my head or give you the thumbs-up. It wasn't because I considered my voice amazing—it was because the approval meant less. Of course positive reviews lit up my world for a while but bad ones would never stop me singing. It was what I did. It was me. Music ran through my bones. It gave my purpose. Singing was my past, present, future and any afterlife.

I closed my eyes again. How good it felt to be performing. A few days away from a mike made me feel like an addict reaching the point of needing a detox—singing again was the ultimate, feel-good rehab. I opened my eyes as the last notes of the CD player stopped, to see Mr Peppard shrug, pick up his golf magazine and get to his feet.

‘Coming to get a coffee?' he said to his wife and jerked his head towards Donuts & Daiquris. You couldn't miss Izzy, who had just arrived in her favourite yellow tie-dye T-shirt. While the resort wasn't officially open, it made sense to serve people for early feedback.

Mrs Peppard glanced at Lucas. ‘No, dear, I'm not thirsty. I'll just sit here and listen to some more music.' She gave a false-sounding laugh. ‘And I'd only be tempted to have one of those doughnuts. Have to watch my figure—or no one else will.'

A meaningful comment directed at Lucas?

One more song, I thought. Something modern. I fast-forwarded the CD to one of my favourite Beyoncé tracks—suitably, for me, ‘Single Ladies'. Johnny never got as far as choosing a ring, let alone putting it on my finger—although, in a funny way, it always felt as if he had. Our future together had seemed so indisputable. Or so I'd believed.

I stared over at reception. Kensa had appeared and was trying to get Tremain to dance. Oh the horror on his face. Kensa looked about twenty years younger. It was the first time I'd seen her joking since we'd arrived. She must have been feeling positive about the week ahead. Mrs Peppard stood up and grabbed Lucas's arm. Politely, he shook his head, but she pulled him nearer and placed one hand on his shoulder, leaving him no choice but to slide his arm around her waist. He shot a look backwards, towards Donuts & Daiquiris. Mr Peppard was sitting down, hidden behind his golf magazine. His wife stared intently into Lucas's face. Her crush was more obvious than ever and reminded me of a scene from
Dirty Dancing
, where dance teacher Patrick Swayze is accosted by a wealthy woman holidaymaker.

‘It's embarrassing for her—and her husband,' I said to Guvnah, later that afternoon, as we sat in the bedroom of chalet number six, painting an image of Rocky Rabbit onto the wall.

Guvhah adjusted her headband. We both wore long aprons and had tied our hair back. Despite this, she'd still got a splodge of white paint on her nose.

‘She must be lonely.' My gran shrugged. ‘Money alone doesn't bring you happiness.'

‘Agreed. Her husband has always got his head in a newspaper or magazine, or is criticising her clothes. Bravo Lucas for remaining polite. He even kissed her hand at the end of the dance and led her back to her husband. Talk about well handled.'

Guvnah's tongue stuck out as she carefully drew an ‘R' on the front of the rabbit. ‘Tremain seems like a lonely chap to me,' she said. ‘Looks like he could do with the love of a good woman.'

‘You could be right. Just before she left to buy inflatables, Kensa asked if I have five minutes for a coffee. She's got it into her head that Tremain and I get on well. Said that tomorrow—the fifth of August—was a big day for him. Bad memories or something. The second anniversary of an event he would rather forget. Kensa just mumbled something about wishing he'd never signed up. She wouldn't say any more, but asked me to keep an eye on him.'