Breakfast Under a Cornish Sun (21 page)

Tremain gave me back my glasses. ‘Right.' He cleared his throat. Let's round up to everyone and find our fisherman.' He grabbed an anorak from the driving seat. ‘I hope Lucas is right about hearing a last-minute weather forecast saying this storm had changed course.
I almost cancelled the trip this morning, as torrential rain was due. And, in my opinion, these clouds now don't look as if they are about to budge. I don't think you'll need to wear those shades.'

I gazed at the windscreen, now covered in spots of rain. No matter. I didn't feel like strolling in sunshine. Everything felt a little shady after Tremain's announcement that our kiss had, effectively, meant nothing.

The day got shadier still. Talk about a washout. Guests had come prepared with waterproofs, but one little lad couldn't get warm and spent the walk down to the harbour wailing that he hated Cornwall—despite Earl Jones's attempts to get everyone to join in a singsong. When we arrived at the jetty, we discovered that a demonstration was taking place by animal-rights protesters. They held up placards bearing gruesome photos of injured fish and were shouting out insults to our group, as we headed for one of the boats.

A skinny woman in combat trousers and a camouflage-patterned T-shirt grabbed the arm of a curvy, female White Rocks guest. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself,' she hollered. ‘If you must fish to enjoy your holiday, follow a catch-and-release policy. Feed our waning seas by putting your trophies back. Don't feed your stomachs that are probably already full of fudge and pasties.'

The woman's husband squared up to the protestor. ‘Mind yer own business. We're here to enjoy our holiday.'

‘By torturing innocent fish with lines and hooks?'

The face of the couple's small daughter scrunched up. ‘I'm not eating fish any more,' she said and burst into tears. Her parents glared at Tremain as rain pelted down.

‘The police and local newspapers are here,' muttered the dad. ‘Shame White Rocks didn't plan ahead to find out what was going on.'

As it was, we found out afterwards, none of the tabloids had been interested in this demonstration before. One protester moaned that it had only been reported, the week earlier, in the local
Port Penny Express
. Then, to top it off, when we finally pushed through the noisy crowds and got to the boat of Lucas's friend—on time, of course, despite the protest, thanks to determined, ever-punctual Tremain—there was a simple note taped to the cabin window: ‘
Apologies. Due to illness, fishing excursions will resume tomorrow. Please call the number below to rebook
.'

‘This is a joke!' said a man in a drenched anorak.

From beneath her rainhood, his wife nodded and pointed to her kids. ‘We were promised a taste of Cornish life and fresh fish for tea.'

‘I want my money back,' said another mum. ‘We'd have been better off spending the day at the pool.'

‘It's not White Rocks' fault the weather didn't clear,' said Shirl and looked apologetic when Pearl announced that she wanted to go back to their chalet.

What a day. Would misfortune hit every effort to make White Rocks a success? It was with trepidation, that evening, that I set up for my ABBA show. Tremain insisted on working on reception, so that if there were any technical problems he'd be there to help.

‘That's very considerate of him,' said Izzy, as I grabbed a small Coke before I was due to start and sat up the bar. She mixed a couple of Long Island Iced Teas. As I'd walked in, I noticed that several customers had left their drinks, half drunk.

Heat surged into my face. ‘Yes. He's been very good—not shown his disappointment about Monday's disco evening. I hope tonight's show goes better.'

‘You OK?' Izzy smiled.

‘Uh huh.' I forced my lips to upturn.

‘How are things between you and Lucas?'

I put down my drink and placed my head in my hands. ‘Oh, Izzy. Everything is so screwed up. Lucas is nice. A great guy. Saffron would be spitting to see him on my arm. But Tremain. When we kissed …'

‘Whoa!' Izzy stopped mixing the drinks. ‘More snogging secrets kept from me? Just when were you going to tell me about that?'

‘Long story. It happened over the weekend.'

‘Was that why you couldn't come out Saturday night? You've still not really told me what that was all about.'

‘I know. It's been mad busy, hasn't it? When was the last time we had a proper girlie chat? I want to hear all about Greg, for starters.'

Izzy blushed. ‘He's got the cutest habit of staring at the floor, right after he pays me a compliment. His aftershave is the muskiest, sexiest smell ever and his jokes are so awful, I haven't stopped laughing since we met.'

‘Aw.' I squeezed her arm. ‘You deserve no less, Izzy. He sounds the best.'

She grinned. ‘You're right—a girlie get-together should be on the agenda. Let's try to take time out together soon, like you said, maybe a facial or that massage. Until then, my advice for you is—you know what Johnny always used to say …' She studied my face.

‘Follow your heart,' I murmured.

Izzy nodded. ‘You'll work out what's right. Hearts are funny like that—much clever than brains when it comes to the really important stuff.'

Talking about following your heart … ‘Look. Izzy. Those glasses people have left are still half full. I'm convinced something is wrong with our cocktails.' I went over and picked one up, bringing it back. I smelt it. ‘Not very strong.'

Izzy took a sniff. ‘True. Could just be that the ice melted quickly.' She turned around to the array of liquor
bottles, hanging upside down at the back of the bar. Izzy prepared a shot of vodka, took a sip and gave it to me. We both pulled faces.

‘Not as good quality as ours back home, is it?' I said.

‘Wait a minute.' She bent down and came up with three bottles.

‘Well, they certainly open more easily than the ones we usually buy,' she said with a puzzled face and poured out a gin, tequila and whiskey. We tried all three separately.

‘None of them taste right,' I said.

Izzy's face flushed. ‘Tomorrow I'll be ringing the suppliers. This is outrageous, especially considering they weren't the cheapest option. They must have swapped the labels with a cheaper brand.'

Lucas appeared at his side of the bar. ‘Problem, ladies? You look as if you've just drunk a glass of seawater.'

I explained. Lucas grimaced. ‘That's wholesalers for you. Sometimes I don't think they even know the origins of their stock.'

I shrugged. ‘But they weren't from there—remember, I told you, we only used good-quality products. Izzy sources her suppliers very carefully.'

He pointed to his own bottles. ‘Use the Rocky Roadhouse's for tonight. Beers and wines are always more popular than shorts anyway, on our side, with meals.'

‘Thanks, Lucas,' I said and my face broke into a genuine smile, hoping it wouldn't hurt him to know he and I had no future.

As Izzy remade the Long Island Iced Teas and took them over to a young couple with twins, I almost reached for my phone, for the first time in a while feeling an urge to message Johnny. But that's all it was. An urge created through habit. During tough emotional times, over the last year, my way of coping had been to tell him everything, even though I knew he wouldn't read my words. But I felt comfortable with not re-friending Johnny on Facebook. Plus the red wind spinner would stay locked up in my luggage.

However, to follow your heart was good advice and had served me well in the past. Johnny's parents had wanted him to go to university and become an accountant—they said that all children naively dreamt of working with animals, but Johnny said he'd always known, deep inside, that it was his vocation.

I could do this. I could sort out my life without having to chat to Johnny. As I stood in front of my audience later, and started singing ‘Waterloo', I remembered how he had pushed me to pursue my dream of becoming a singer. Whenever possible, he'd attended my gigs, even if it meant craftily gatecrashing a wedding.

As my voice soared and, thankfully, the mike worked and the music kept playing, I cast an eye across
the crowd. The Peppards sat at the back, staring at me intently. Lucas appeared at the side of the room and tapped his foot. We smiled at each other. Then Mrs Peppard hand-signalled him to join them. Tea towel over his shoulder, he headed their way and after about five minutes chat the couple quickly left. Lucas winked at me on his way past and went back in the direction of the Rocky Roadhouse.

As time passed, I worried less about things going wrong. Tremain sat behind the computer at the reception desk and every now and again I caught him watching me. ‘Supertrouper', ‘Dancing Queen' and ‘Voulez-Vous' all went well. Fully in the zone, I closed my eyes and swayed side to side. My brow relaxed. My shoulders dipped. This was the best stress-buster in the world. Like a hot bath with masses of fragrant soap bubbles and … I gasped.

My eyes snapped open and my heart pulsated with jolts as if it were punching the inside of my chest. Children screamed and jumped up from their seats, followed rapidly by their parents. Loud bangs and crackles came from … from somewhere and, at the same time, a piercing smoke alarm rang out across the whole of the reception building. The walls reverberated. I could have sworn the floor shook.

‘Kate! You OK?' Lucas appeared at my shoulder, eyes wild, searching the room. ‘What the hell are those bangs?' he shouted. ‘It sounds like a war film.'

I swallowed, thinking of the obvious after recent months of terror attacks around the world. Deep breaths. No. Get a grip, Kate. International terrorists weren't interested in a struggling holiday resort in Cornwall. Yet mums and dads hurtled out of the glass doors, carrying their kids. Izzy and Greg came over.

‘It's coming from the storeroom,' shouted Greg and pointed to a door in between the open-entertainment area and the Rocky Roadhouse. Dirty, dark grey smoke wafted from under the door. He made to go in but Izzy pulled him back. ‘No. Wait for the police. It could be dangerous. I think we should check that the building is clear and then head outside.'

‘Has anyone rung the emergency services?' I shouted and gazed around. Where was Tremain? Perhaps outside, checking all of the guests were all right.

‘I have.' Kensa appeared. ‘Where's my son?'

I shrugged as Izzy and Greg went off to check the building. Lucas said he would search the pool area, even though it should have been empty for a couple of hours. I went to take a look around the kitchens. Perhaps there was a problem with the gas.

But Kensa pulled my arm. ‘No. Don't. I think it's … fireworks.'

‘Huh?' I thought for a moment. ‘I remember now. Tremain told me you had a load left over from a couple of years ago, when he didn't work here. But he said you wouldn't put on a display because of worrying
about the health-and-safety issues, that you had enough concerns without that.'

‘And it's true. I never got around to selling them off. Stupidly—' she shook her head ‘—I shoved a boxful into the bottom of the storage cupboard. Yet I don't understand how they caught fire.' The banging stopped and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘But the real reason I wouldn't have a display, Kate, is because Tremain … he can't bear the loud noise. The army. Bad memories. Please. Go look for him. I must see to the guests but I'm really worried about him. Oh, Kate. Please. Do your best. The bangs. He must not be alone.'

CHAPTER 16

Together, then push arms out … together then push arms out … same with the legs, think frog-like, keep going and breathe …

As I did breaststroke to and fro across the pool, my eldest sister's words came back to me. She'd taught me to swim—Mum had no money for lessons and was too busy to take me to the pool. Despite my longing for tranquillity and independence though, often over the years I'd learnt to appreciate the hustle and bustle of my chaotic youth. You see, I couldn't find Tremain last night and he still hadn't returned. I couldn't help thinking again what if he'd had a sibling? Someone he could have confided in? A person who knew him, his history, and all the places he would have run to if life's problems suddenly seemed insurmountable? I'd searched the golf course. Wandered around all the chalets. In the end I'd even persuaded an obliging Lucas to drive me to the beach. I didn't divulge what
had happened with the red roses—that was private to Tremain. Not that it mattered. Lucas seemed pretty shaken up by the fireworks and was keen to help me find his boss, even though they were hardly the best of friends.

And then, late last night, after returning, the strangest thing happened. For the first time in ten months, I put pen to paper and wrote a song. Inspiration had left me this last year. At one point I wondered if I would ever write my own material again. Johnny had always encouraged me. Our love inspired me and once he'd gone my creativity lost its spark, despite several feeble attempts to relight it again. But finally, due to the hurt, the passion, the anger … all those emotions I'd experienced with Tremain this week … finally those feelings had morphed into lyrics and notes. Rough ones, but creative scribbling nevertheless.

I ducked under the water and bobbed up to find Mrs Peppard poolside. Full make-up still on and hair stylishly twisted up. She sneered at me and stood for several minutes as if wanting to show off her cellulite-free, bikini-clad body. So, I had to smile when a child water-bombed a metre away from her and soaked her legs.

I clambered out of the water and headed for the changing rooms, feet smacking against the cold tiled floor. Just before I went in, Kensa appeared, carrying a pile of white, fluffy towels, from the laundry room,
no doubt on her way to stock up at Reception. Unlike Mrs Peppard, she hadn't got a scrap of make-up on. Her puffy eyes looked red. Loose strands of hair hung down from a tight bun.