Breakfast Under a Cornish Sun (6 page)

Yet Mum always drilled into me one thing: never rely on anyone else. Unexpected tears sprung to my eyes. What a great lesson, which had steered my way through life—until Johnny, my one and only serious boyfriend. I'd come to depend on him for that sparkle in life. And then he left one night, to fetch me a takeaway, and fate decided he should never come back. I gazed at the wind spinner. Oh, Johnny. I miss you. I'd sacrifice anything to feel your warm breath against my neck, one more time. I gave a wry smile. Hardly romantic was it, that my last words to him were ‘make mine a large portion of chicken tikka'.

Forcing my attention to switch, I flicked through the information pack, mentally noting the opening times of the pool and spa. I sat more upright, scanning lots of handy details about fishing villages in the area.

‘Tremain?' said Izzy. ‘It's Cornish. He must be the son. This is a family-run place. His mum, Kensa Maddock, handed me the keys.'

My cheeks burned. So, he was management. ‘What about the dad?' I said.

‘Dunno. Wasn't mentioned. Perhaps he up and left.'

‘Why?'

Izzy came over and sat on a nearby armchair, smoothing down her banana-milkshake yellow skirt. ‘The stress? Kensa apologised for the rundown appearance of the resort—said that's why the price was lower than usual. Apparently the place's bookings have really plummeted in the last few years, with people either struggling financially and choosing cheaper holidays, or doing all right and going abroad. She said White Rocks seemed to fail to bridge the gap. They have one year to turn things around.' Izzy shook her head. ‘You should see her—such deep rings under her eyes and as thin as a cocktail stick. She said they are trying to appeal to the budget family market and next week, with August arriving, they'll have their first full-paying guests with children. The ones here at the moment won a competition, to stay here for free but give feedback.'

‘But that's mad—it still looks like a couples' site to me. Where is the fun cafeteria, or ball-play area, or crazy golf site?' I'd spent enough holidays on cheap caravan sites as a child to know what was needed for a fab family break when money was tight. Who needed foreign sun if the resort had children's entertainment, a fun pool and plenty of drinks?

Izzy took off her pumps and rubbed her feet. ‘Apparently her accountant and the bank dropped the bombshell only a few weeks ago—that things were so bad.' Izzy smiled. ‘I really liked Kensa. She seems
honest. Upfront. Hoped we'd enjoy our stay, despite any building work going on or noisier, younger guests.'

‘Yes, well, you make sure you do take a break, Izzy. I really appreciate this holiday. Leave the cooking to me. I'll drive us everywhere if you want. Do any washing …'

‘Me? Take it easy?'

I grinned. ‘'True. Mission impossible.'

‘It's enough to have your company,' she said. ‘Anyway, you can return the favour when you're a famous singer—I'm thinking a cruise in the Bahamas or shopping in LA.'

‘Dream on!' I gazed back at the laminated information pack. ‘It says in there that the park belonged to her parents. That must make the place harder to give up. Still, we all have stresses. There's no need for her son to be quite so rude.' I glanced out of the window, as a random cloud offered a brief respite from the sun. The plan was to unpack and then head to the resort's restaurant, as a treat after our long, sticky, journey south. My shout, of course. Perhaps we'd enjoy a couple of cool beers. Much as I loved cocktails, it was nice sometimes to drink something simpler. Although I'm not sure whether alcohol went with an all-day breakfast, the meal Izzy was obsessing about since the receptionist mentioned it. Apparently, the resort's cooked breakfast was legendary and making it available all day was the chef's first baby
step towards tweaking his highfalutin menu to give it a broader appeal.

As if on cue, my stomach rumbled and I tapped away on the laptop, planning tomorrow's trip to Port Penny, the first fishing village on my list to check out for any signs of a local Poldark. Gulls squawked outside. We'd left the lodge's door open to catch the evening breeze. I yawned. How did fresh salty air always manage to act like a tranquilliser?

‘His only redeeming feature was the sexiest Southwest accent,' I said in a loud voice to Izzy, who'd disappeared into her bedroom. ‘Even if he used it to accuse me of dropping litter.'

I jumped as someone knocked on the open door and stuck their head inside our lodge. My mouth desiccated and I begged the universe to create a sinkhole under my bottom.

‘'Ousekeeping said the washing-machine door is jammed,' he said in a loud voice and looked me straight in the eye.

‘Um, yes. I rang. I didn't think … I mean, cheers. Come in,' I rambled.

Izzy came in and I saw her note the name Tremain on the badge pinned onto his shirt.

Whilst he crouched down to examine the machine's barrel, she glanced at me, eyes a-twinkle. I glared at her not to speak. She put her fist in her mouth. Oh God. Please don't let her explode with laughter. At least
I hadn't talked within his earshot about his nice bum in those chinos. Annoying, isn't it, when irritating people also have appealing qualities? And even more annoying that such an abrupt man could be the first to produce a thought like that since Johnny. My face kind of scrunched for a second.

Tremain stood up, rummaged through a drawer and retrieved a leaflet. He skimmed a couple of pages before pressing a button on the machine and, hey presto, the door flew open.

‘Try reading the instructions before you call us out, next time,' he muttered.

‘Of course. Silly me,' I said. ‘Thanks for calling by.'

‘You're Kensa's son?' said Izzy and smiled. ‘Lovely place, you've got. We are very much looking forward to our holiday.'

He acknowledged her words with a tilt of the head.

‘Have you always worked here?' I asked.

‘No.'

Clearly small talk didn't form part of his customer relations.

‘How's the rebranding going?' said Izzy in her business voice. I often teased her about how she changed her accent. It went kind of cockney when speaking to suppliers and bordered on received pronunciation when dealing with an unhappy customer.

‘It's going,' he said, tilted his head again and strode out of the cabin.

Izzy chuckled. ‘I see what you mean by his attitude, although what he lacks in charm he makes up for in … in …'

‘I know. There is something attractive … a sense of …'

‘Capability? Decisiveness?'

She'd felt it too. But I wasn't fourteen any more. Looks, first impressions, of course caught my eye but it was personality that really held my attention. Not that I was going to worry about the character of my much-needed plus-one. He could have bad breath or talk about nothing but the complex rules of cricket or his latest computer game, as long as he smouldered and made Saffron realise I was no longer in girl in the corner.

‘Right, let's go. I'm starving,' she said. ‘And itching to try that all-day breakfast.'

‘Apart from the kippers …' I pulled a face.

Izzy grinned. ‘We are in Cornwall. A coastal county. It's time you tried some delicacies from the sea.'

‘You're not getting me to try anything that lives in a shell or breathes through gills,' I protested. ‘Unless it is covered in batter and served with chips or in a yummy sauce, like the pie I tried with Marcus.'

The two of us strolled towards the restaurant, Fisherman's Delight, and, as we approached, my stomach rumbled again. That was the other thing about sea air—it gave you a great appetite. In fact, in Guvnah's last letter she'd talked of having put on a few kilos. My chest glowed. I'd arranged to visit her
tomorrow. Her village wasn't far from Port Penny and Izzy said she'd drop me there in the afternoon, following us having lunch out at a café she'd found that had a great reputation for Cornish fare—she was hoping to be inspired. Guvnah had a bicycle I could borrow if I fancied cycling back to White Rocks.

We headed into the reception building and the restaurant to the left. It had a long bar, stretching across the back. At the rear, on the right, was the kitchen with an open serving hatch. Fisherman's Delight boasted a classy decor, albeit a little worn—think uncluttered magnolia tables and walls covered with arty black and white photos of local beauty spots. Yet the clientele—a couple of families—were your average holiday crowd, in shorts and T-shirts, with wet, chlorine-fragranced hair. Kids sat eating chips and playing on their Nintendos. In one corner, a baby in a high chair screamed, its face covered in bright orange purée. Talk about a mismatch. Two waiters were dressed in formal black trousers and a waistcoat.

‘Ooh, he's nice,' said Izzy and gazed at the younger waiter, who had baby-smooth skin and highlighted, gelled back hair. She gazed at his name badge. ‘And his name is Greg!'

I grinned. Izzy was obsessed with the presenter Gregg Wallace from the programme
MasterChef
.

‘Nah. He's too well groomed for me. I wouldn't dare forget to wax or floss my teeth if he and I went out.'

‘I bet his chest is as smooth as a baby's bottom,' she said and pulled a face. ‘I really
do not get
the modern woman's obsession with Poldark and his chest hair. I mean, imagine licking whipped cream off it. Ew. You'd probably get your teeth caught.'

‘Izzy!'

We giggled.

‘So full-paying families arrive next week?' I said in a low voice.

‘Yes. These competition winners leave tomorrow, which gives Kensa and Tremain five days to do some last-minute thinking before the proper launch next Monday. The resort will effectively be shut down apart from a few guests like us who booked, regardless of the rebranding phase.' She blushed. ‘Or rather idiots like me who didn't read the small print. It does warn that only a skeleton staff will be working over the next few days. This restaurant, for example, will be open but only in a casual way, while the staff do last-minute retraining for next week.'

I shrugged. ‘Idiot or rather genius—means you got a cheap booking and who wants to eat in all the time anyway? We'll be out and about.'

The older waiter, George, came over and showed us to seats, a couple of tables away from the screaming baby.

‘Should be a bit quieter for you here, ladies,' he said and jerked his head towards the young guests before wrinkling his nose.

‘He'll have to change that attitude before next week,' I said to Izzy, once we'd ordered two beers and all-day breakfasts. I covered my eyes with my hands and then suddenly pulled them away—cue a minute or so of playing peekaboo with the baby. And cue silence. The mum shot me a grateful glance, as her small one returned to playing with his spoon.

I squinted into the kitchen. Raven curls flashed by now and again. I wondered how many chefs they had. The more I saw of the place it was obviously run on a tight budget. Not that that seemed to affect the quality of the food. All I can say is, wow, when our breakfasts finally arrived. An invitingly brown sausage lay glistening, next to a buttercup yellow egg, its plump yolk just waiting to be burst. I eyed a crispy rasher of bacon and aromatic fried mushrooms. I forked up a mouthful of shiny baked beans and couldn't wait to cut into the square hash browns, which promised a satisfying carb kick. Plus on the side was fried bread—I hadn't enjoyed that since my childhood. Two thirds of the way through, I felt Christmas-dinner-full, but kept on eating—it would have been a travesty not to, with all the different flavours and textures satisfying my taste buds.

The baby screeched as loudly as a fishing boat's horn, because his beaker fell on the floor. A tut headed its way from the waiter called George.

‘Is there a problem?' said the mum and straightened her halter-neck floral top, as he shot her a disdainful look.

I tried peekaboo faces again, but this time they didn't work. George pursed his lips, while shouting came from the kitchen. Black curls flashed again across the back of the hatch.

Izzy studied the menu and shook her head. ‘I can't see any evidence of rebranding so far. How on earth is this menu going to appeal to kids?'

I glanced down my menu and looked at the breakfast section—eggs Benedict, granola with yogurt, fried kippers, Welsh rarebit … Where were the cereals, toast, muffins and chocolate croissants? Breakfast. Mmm. Best meal of the day. Particularly in those budget hotels that served a morning buffet for ten quid. I'd have a bowl of fresh fruit, followed by a full English fry-up, then help myself to bottomless cups of coffee and anything baked. Muffins were the best—so soft and crumbly—although flaky croissants always hit the spot.

As if she had heard us talking, the mother of the baby called the waiter over. ‘Eggs Benedict,' she said, brow furrowing, ‘is that hard-boiled ones covered with Hollandaise sauce?'

The waiter wrinkled his nose again as if he'd never been asked that question before.

‘We'd be grateful if the kitchen just did us scrambled eggs instead, mate, if we come here tomorrow morning after a swim, just before we leave,' said her husband, who wore a football top to match his son's.

The waiter straightened up. ‘I don't believe he would. Chef is quite firm about sticking to the menu.'

The husband glanced sideways at his little boy, who scribbled with crayons on a pad of paper. ‘Surely he'll bend those rules for a child?'

Lips pursed, George folded his arms.

Shifting awkwardly in her seat, the mother sighed. ‘Leave it, Phil love. Clearly rules is rules here. Come on, darling, this place is a disaster. It won't be getting a great write-up. We can make do with cheese on toast tonight, back at the lodge.'

I glanced at Izzy, before we both looked at the waiter, expecting him to do his best to make the family happy, like we did when—rare occurrence—a customer complained about a cocktail or doughnut. Instead, he just bowed and stood to the side. Unfortunate position as just at that moment the baby lost control of its spoon. A blob of orange purée flew through the air and landed on George's left cheek.