Breakfast Under a Cornish Sun (7 page)

‘Can't you control that child,' he muttered and threw his hands in the air. He grabbed a napkin and wiped his face, muttering something about too liberal parenting.

Phil stood up. ‘What did you say?'

George put down the napkin, face expressionless. The mum shot me a worried look. The little boy stopped crayoning and his bottom lip wobbled.

I stood up and shook off Izzy's arm before standing in between them. Being one of many siblings, I was
used to breaking up disagreements. Mum always called me the diplomat as I preferred to keep my fists to myself and fight with my tongue. ‘I'm sure there's no need to worry over a simple splat of purée.'

‘Exactly,' said Phil. ‘Honestly. This resort is useless. The restaurant isn't geared up for anyone under eighteen and the swimming pool is a joke—there is no slide, music or inflatables for kids and too many adult-only sessions. And, as for the evening entertainment …' He shook his head. ‘Last night was some operatic girl singing Katherine Jenkins. Great for me and the wife but where is the bingo or puppet show for the kids?'

‘I guess it is early days,' said Izzy, now on her feet.

‘There's no reason why any normal family can't enjoy this place, just the way it is,' muttered George, and Phil turned purple in the face.

Oh dear. Now tears hung in the little boy's eyes, while the baby grinned and smeared purée around its mouth, apparently enjoying the sideshow.

I glared at the three adults and jerked my head towards the boy. ‘Perhaps you could discuss this somewhere else?' I said quietly. ‘I'll look after the children if—'

‘Don't bother. We're leaving,' said Phil and grabbed his son's orange juice to knock back. Except the glass must have been wet and, as he lifted it into the air, Phil lost his grip for a second. Liquid gushed southwards and yes, you've guessed it, right onto short me.

‘Urgh!' I wiped my cheek and breathed in sticky citrus smells.

‘Christ,' said Phil. ‘Huge apologies. I didn't mean that to happen.'

George rolled his eyes.

‘It was an accident.' Phil glared at a smug George.

‘Attention, everyone!' snapped a voice. Formal Cornish tones, already recognisable to me. Within seconds, Tremain stood by my side as I spat out the citrus liquid. I turned around, slipped on spilt liquid and fell to the floor. My cheekbone hit the table on the way down and I winced. Immediately, strong arms pulled me to my feet. I flinched as Tremain touched my skin, just under the left eye.

‘Keep still,' he ordered and held up his hand as Izzy approached. With a handkerchief, he carefully wiped the juice from my face. He tilted my head to the light and my heart raced as he trailed a finger across my eye socket. Must have been the shock of the argument, that's all.

‘No real damage done. You might have a bruise for a few days. You're lucky you didn't hit the table corner. That could have gone in your eye.'

‘Lucky?' I stuttered and wondered why his proximity made me not trust myself. Up close, I noticed a small scar above his top lip. How many women had tried to kiss it better? Urgh! Where had that thought come from? Perhaps I was dazed from the fall. Yes. I mean nothing could persuade me to press my lips against the
lips of a man who was so arrogant. Even if his leaf-green eyes, for one second, appeared full of concern. Even if, up, close and personal, with his broad chest, firm arms and direct stare, he looked like a man who would single-handedly fight a whole army for you, if he'd decided you were his one.

Tremain turned to Phil and George. ‘It takes a five foot woman to try to settle your argument?'

‘Five foot two,' I muttered, ‘and that's sexist.'

Tremain flashed me a look. Blimey. Was that almost a hint of humour in his eyes? I couldn't tell, because it disappeared more quickly than the orange juice had flown.

‘This is a holiday resort not a war zone,' Tremain continued.

Phil rubbed his forehead while their baby looked on, absolutely delighted. No doubt this was even better than its favourite slapstick kids TV show. ‘Your waiter was rude, Mr Maddock,' he said and briefly explained what had happened, despite George's indignant interjections.

‘I see.' Tremain glanced back at me and something stirred in my stomach as he scanned me from head to toe. ‘Good thing that washing machine is working in your chalet—and that the drink wasn't red wine,' he said, in a matter-of-fact way. ‘Sir … Madam.' He half smiled at Phil and his wife. ‘I appreciate your disappointment in our site, so I do, and apologies—we are going through a transition period, thrown upon
us unexpectedly, and are doing our best. That's why you weren't charged for this week—so that you could provide useful feedback. Please.' Tremain called over Greg. ‘I'm sure Chef will be happy to cook something that meets your needs.' Tremain raised an eyebrow. ‘George?' He jerked his head and the two of them headed into the kitchen.

Around twenty minutes later, after Greg had taken the family's order and Izzy and I had finished our food, the kitchen's doors swung open. George stormed out and pulled off his name badge. He threw it onto one of the tables and then hurried past us, before leaving the building. Tremain appeared a few seconds later.

‘All sorted?' I said.

‘Yes,' muttered Tremain and shook his head. ‘George seems to have reacted to a flying splat of carrot purée, as if it were a hand grenade that might threaten your life.' He cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, my apologies for this incident. I've dealt with it.'

‘Perhaps he just needs time—to adjust?' Izzy said.

Tremain shrugged. ‘Mother and I have made it quite clear to the staff what is expected of them now. Fortunately, so far, most of our team have proved able to cope with the rebranding. But the change in clientele has brought new challenges.' Looking suddenly tired, Tremain gently took my arm and steered me towards outside, whilst Izzy sat talking to the young waiter. In the evening light, Tremain took another look at my face.

‘The bruise is blackening now. I'd get back to your lodge if I was you, and soak those clothes.'

‘Thanks … um … Shame about George. You wouldn't think he was such a snob, just to look at him. He seems like an ordinary guy—a granddad type, who loves kids.'

‘Then lesson learnt—never judge a person by their appearance.'

I shifted from foot to foot. ‘Yes, about that, you see, with the soil on your clothes, I assumed …' Urgh, rambling now.

‘I've never been afraid to get my hands dirty and I'd say the best managers get down with the lower ranks,' he said and walked off.

Ranks? He made his staff sound like an army regiment. I followed him. OK, I wasn't perfect, but I never found it hard to apologise when I was in the wrong.

‘Wait a minute. Look, I'm sorry.'

Tremain turned around. ‘Whatever. Makes no difference to me. Gardener, handyman, management …' His eyes flickered. ‘There are worse jobs a man can do.'

My heart squeezed as in that brief second his eyes revealed a degree of … damage. Once again I felt that urge to wrap my arms around his solid frame. What was that all about? Maybe, just maybe, there was a human being below that tough, uncompromising, robotic surface.

CHAPTER 5

‘We go together, like ramma ramma lamma, dippety dooby dooby, sha na na …'

‘Kate! You just murdered that chorus.'

‘Don't be cheeky.' I grinned and glanced sideways at Izzy as she drove along the coastal road. Or rather chugged—the volume of tourist traffic was high, but that didn't matter as it meant we could enjoy the sea views. I never could remember the exact words to that brill song from
Grease
and turned down the volume of the CD player as Izzy pulled into a car park. On the journey yesterday, we'd played the soundtracks to all our favourite girls-night-in films—
Bridget Jones, Love Actually, Pretty Woman, Bridesmaids
… I might like historical series, but even I sometimes needed a chick flick accompanied by, yes, what else, doughnuts and cocktails.

Cars already lined every inch of the car park on top of the cliff, just as you got into Port Penny—
no surprises there, due to the eggshell blue sky and picturesque sights. So we drove down into the town and finally we found a spot in a quiet cul-de-sac, up above Port Penny fishing town on the other side.

‘So, you crazy woman, what's the plan?' said Izzy, as we grabbed our rucksacks and headed downhill. I stopped for a moment and drank in the scene ahead—the masts of fishing boats visible in the distance, in front of the harbour backdrop. And, right in the distance, the flat oceanic horizon, broken only by the occasional trawler. Gulls swooping. Long grasses waving. Visitors milling.

As we walked further down, the view became even prettier. Turquoise waves dipping. A sandy, U-shaped cove. In the middle was a jetty with fishing boats moored either side, their navy, green and red paintwork standing out against the shoreline. Then higher up, on top of the cliffs either side, sat non-uniform rows of different coloured cottages. A strong breeze blew against my cheeks and I was glad to have tied my hair back. Tremain would have approved of my sensible pumps, worn with three-quarter-length cotton trousers and a ginger Indian silk blouse I'd picked up from the charity shop.

Oh, and scrub what I said about Tremain perhaps being human after all. This morning we'd driven past him and, on instinct, I waved. Yes, it was a bit of a watermelon moment, like awkward Baby out of
Dirty
Dancing
. I'm not sure why I did it and the response was suitably cool. In other words, a nod accompanied by no expression at all.

‘Hell
ooo
, anyone in?' asked Izzy and, keeping her eye on the road, playfully tapped a purple, varnished fingernail against my head.

‘Careful, you nearly touched my eye!' I said. Mind you, easy for her to forget. I'd managed to disguise the bruising with foundation. ‘The plan? Well, to find my own gorgeous miner lookalike, of course.'

‘But it's not as simple as that. How exactly?' she said, as the road narrowed into a path and we cut through the tiniest whitewashed stone cottages, with doll's house doors and uneven foundations. The roads turned to cobbled avenues and I marvelled at cute plant pots in tiny front gardens. An occasional cat crossed our path, as I pointed out funny house names like Seas the Day and Sunnyside Up. Tens of gulls squawked above our heads and, as we approached the wide harbour, I breathed in a fishy stench, which hit the back of your throat.

‘You see those boats?' I said and pointed to the jetty. ‘Well …'

OK. Between you and me, hands up, I had no plan.

Izzy squinted in the sun.

‘They clearly aren't touristy ones, for taking out visitors, which is great, because, um, I intend to target individual fishermen,' I said and tried to sound
confident. ‘And use my charm to see if they'll take me out for a one-to-one tour. That way I'll get to know them much quicker and see if they are suitable for the job of impressing Saffron.'

‘It's all rather clinical, isn't it?' she said, as we came to a large rock and sat down. Pools of seawater glistened metres away and small children ran around carrying fishing nets and buckets filled with the ocean's jewels. She slipped off her trainers and ankle socks, to reveal toenails painted lilac, to match the nails on her hands.

Johnny and I went to the seaside—to Margate—for the day, once, fingers entwined we sat on the sand, lips locked. Clinical was good, because anything deeper got you hurt.

I fiddled with my beaded bracelet. ‘I know. And I feel bad for … using someone—you know me, my natural modus operandi is to be upfront. Eventually, I'll have to make it clear that I'm not interested in a relationship.'

Izzy scoffed. ‘Tell me about it. Remember when old Mrs Lowe popped in last week, for her favourite peanut butter doughnut and asked if you liked her new hairdo?'

‘It was pink! All I said was she needed to update her wardrobe as the tweed didn't really go. That's subtle for me.'

‘She really appreciated you nipping across the road to the chemist to find a shade of nail varnish to match.'

I blushed. ‘She's a lovely lady. Always asks about my singing.' I took my water bottle out of my floral rucksack and took a glug.

‘Right. Let's do it then, lovely. Before you change your mind,' said Izzy.

‘How do you do that?'

‘What?'

‘Read my mind.'

Izzy grinned and squeezed my shoulder. ‘You? Chat up a random man? Then ask him to accompany you to a wedding before you so much as know each other's surname? It's a challenging remit for any woman. But I'm here to support you. Go on.' She gave me a little shove. ‘What's the worst that can happen? I'll be right here by your side.'

I adjusted the position of my rucksack. ‘Would you mind if I took things forward on my own. I'd feel less self-conscious.'

Izzy smiled. ‘No problem. I've already spotted a rather quaint ice-cream shop with a large selection of flavours I really must sample—purely for research, of course.'

‘Then I shall expect a full report afterwards. Two hours, yes? Leave room for lunch. With all this sea air, I'll be starving.'

I watched her head back to the shops, men's heads turning as she passed. With her striking looks and winning smile, Izzy never had a problem hooking a
bloke. Plus, she was the sweetest girlfriend—baking, cocktail-making, independent and as loyal as they come. She'd already had three proposals in her life, all rejected, because she was holding out for her idyllic Disney prince. I was still waiting for proposal number one. Thanks to fate, Johnny and I never got that far.

I took a deep breath and looked around, wishing I'd taken Izzy's advice and slathered my white skin with suncream. I had an English rose complexion, according to kind Guvnah—but in reality the colour was more like that of an uncooked Cornish pasty. My eyes narrowed as I surveyed the jetty ahead. I slipped down from the rock and wandered across the sand, enjoying the sensation of my feet sinking with every step. Kids ran around in costumes and deckchairs had been set up across the beach. It wasn't too crowded as most visitors seemed interested in souvenir shopping. Plus, Port Penny was known for being more of a picturesque harbour than a sunbathing trap, without toilets or changing rooms or a beach café.