Breakfast Under a Cornish Sun (8 page)

In the distance, groups of teenagers, probably locals, explored caves visible in both cliff sides. Right. I needed to find black curls. A swarthy complexion. A strong miner's frame. A man with a dollop of arrogance, but combined with enough passion and compassion to make that appealing to a modern woman.

I headed over to the nearest fishing boat. It was ramshackle with peeling paintwork, but that made
it more authentic, right? Saffron's crush was on an eighteenth-century miner, so I'm thinking the best bet would be a sailing vessel all down and dirty, not modern and streamlined. A man had stepped on to it and was examining a pair of oars. He wore a bright red cap and … hurrah! … from underneath that poked black curls. I coughed. Nothing. I coughed louder. Needed to see his face, because up until now he looked suitable, with the right height.

He turned around. ‘Can I help you?' he said, in a lilting voice, and gave me the warmest of smiles. Eyeliner. Soft skin. Scarlet lipstick to match the cap. Oops. Unless eighteenth-century miners had sex changes, then this fisherwoman was no good.

‘Um, no thanks, tickly throat—hay fever …'

She gave me a sympathetic glance. Hurriedly, I continued along the jetty, feeling a little seasick as the boats either side bobbed up and down. To the left, a man in a black shirt sat examining a fishing net. Short blond hair. No good. It wouldn't grow in time. With a sigh, I continued. In the next boat stood a stocky guy, with a beanie hat on even though it was practically August, and a wedding ring glistening on his finger. Forget that. A couple of kids and, presumably, their granddad were playing in the next boat, with a supply of fizzy drinks and crisps. A smooching couple sprawled across the wooden floor of the next. The rest of the boats were empty, apart from a huge white one,
right at the end. Talk about flash, with piles of nets and hooks, plus masts going in all directions and polar white sails.

But ooh … The owner stood on deck with dashing white marine cap, curly black hair, tanned skin and a pipe in his mouth. Old school, I liked that. Plus, he was reasonably tall and the sunglasses added an air of mystery. But would he stand up to close scrutiny and exude a sexiness rugged enough to drive Saffron wild?

I approached and pretended to be engrossed in my phone. As I neared his boat, I looked up.

‘Gosh.' Innocent voice. ‘I didn't know I'd walked so far.'

He turned his head to face me. ‘Good thing you didn't continue for a couple of metres. You'd have been shark bait,' he said and smiled.

Oh. No Cornish accent. But I couldn't be too picky. Mind racing, I smiled back. His voice was rather polite. In fact a bit plummy and I couldn't help thinking I'd heard it before.

‘Didn't know there were sharks in these parts,' I said.

‘Oh definitely. Mackerel shark just to name one species. Although granted, nowhere near Port Penny. I've done my research.'

I put away my phone and pulled out my bottle of water, whilst the fisherman went back to looking at his boat. How could I get myself invited on, just to get to know him that little better, or rather secretly audition
him for the part of my plus-one? Discreetly, I screwed the lid off my bottle and turned it upside down. The water ran out. Mentally, I shook my head. Was I really doing this?

‘Goodness. I'm gasping for a drink and I've no water left. I don't suppose you could fill this up could you?' I said and showed him the empty bottle.

His face broke into a smile again and I noticed wrinkles where I hadn't before. Plus that hair—it kind of shifted oddly when he scratched it. Oh my God! It wasn't real!

‘Come on into my cabin,' he said. ‘I believe there's a bottle of champers in the fridge. How about helping me celebrate?'

‘Um …'

He lifted up his hands, grinned and whipped off his wig and glasses. ‘No funny stuff, my dear. I am just a fuddy-duddy old writer doing research for my next book.'

I gasped. Of course, I'd seen him on several TV programmes last year, that's why I knew that voice.

‘Hardly fuddy-duddy!' I stuttered. ‘But it's a pleasure to meet you, Dick Thrusts.'

He ran a hand over his bald head and gave an infectious chuckle. ‘Trevor's the name. I may like writing erotica, but in reality most of my time is spent with a nice cup of tea and my gardening programmes.'

I grinned back, now. My shoulders relaxed. Yes, I'd seen him on a horticultural show. Dick Thrusts—
Trevor—was always extremely courteous and took jokes about his work very well. You see, on the tail end of
Fifty Shades
' success he'd written a birdwatching erotic book—don't ask—called
A Flock of Shags
. For the uneducated—which included me—a shag is a bird rather like a cormorant. The book was a runaway success due to its schoolboyish humour. Think Christian Grey with whips that made farting noises and blindfolds that left black stains around your eyes.

‘Come on,' said Trevor. ‘It's baking hot today. I, for one, could do with some fizz.'

‘Isn't it a bit early for champagne?' I said and stepped onto the boat.

Trevor steadied me. ‘Darling, it is never too early for alcohol in the publishing world—there is always something to sob over or celebrate. And today it is good news … I've finally made some progress with my new book.'

He left his pipe on the deck and I followed him into the small cabin and, grateful for the shade, sat down on a bench. There was a tiny sink with a cupboard underneath, a cool box, a few magazines and some biscuits. Trevor poured us two drinks.

‘Cheers, me dears,' he said.

‘Well done on your success,' I said. ‘If you don't mind me asking, what was with the wig?'

‘Huh? Oh. Just getting into character. I call it Method Writing. That's why I hired this boat. My next story
is set at sea. It will be called
A Finger of Fish
—sailor erotica, if you will.'

He looked at me. I paused. Then we both laughed.

‘Good for you. For not caring … I read an interview where you said that some of your friends had disowned you for writing sex.'

Trevor shook his head. ‘Stupid, isn't it? No one gets tortured or hurt in my books.' He shrugged. ‘They are just humorous stories about the one thing we all have in common.'

‘Do you genuinely not care what people think about you?' I said, Saffron and the school bullies popping into my head.

‘Nope. Not now. Life's too short.' His eyes went all shiny. ‘My wife left me three years ago, for a plumber. Totally unexpected. Devastated, I was. For a while, I felt like my whole existence was over. That taught me a valuable lesson—that if I still had dreams to crack on with them then and there. You don't know what's around the corner and you can't depend on anyone else for your happiness.' He ran a hand over his head. ‘You have to create your own luck, your own joy.'

I bit the inside of my cheeks. But I'd liked relying on Johnny. For the first time I'd had someone who had the time to listen, really listen, to all my dreams, my worries—from my views on climate change to the Kardashians.

‘You all right, my lovely?' said Trevor.

And, before I knew it, I was telling him all about Johnny's death. Perhaps it was a writer's trait to have a face for listening—a tool from Mother Nature, given to authors to help them gain stories. He had sincere eyes, a sympathetic nod and gave encouraging smiles. I told him how I understood, about his wife—how being left alone all of a sudden felt like a tight fist, squeezing your heart until it burst.

‘And you still send him—or rather his Facebook profile—messages?' he said, in soft tones.

My eyes blurred. Somehow I had let that slip. ‘Weak, I know. I was so angry in the beginning—at the way he threw away our future together; his actions that night, on the road. I blocked him on Facebook, WhatsApp, even Instagram at first.'

Trevor raised an eyebrow.

My shoulders bobbed up and down. ‘Pointless, I know, but for a brief moment in time it made me feel better, gave me some control.' My mouth upturned. ‘Johnny has hundreds of followers on social media, due to his job as an RSPCA officer, out in the field saving neglected animals. We used to joke that it was his photos of kittens that I really fell in love with.' I bit my lip. ‘But, in time, I accepted his death—that the accident wasn't all his fault. I couldn't blame Johnny for ever. So then my messages to him became more … more loving and chatty.'

Trevor patted my hand.

‘I just wish he'd come back to me,' I said, voice cracking, a lump in my throat.

‘I felt exactly the same, for a long time, but the intensity of that feeling eventually dissipated,' he said. ‘You just need a new passion, something—or someone—else to come along. Try to have faith, me dear. It will happen.'

We sat in silence and drank. I knew Trevor was right. I mean this clinginess wasn't me—out of all my siblings, I'd be the one reading in a corner or happy to spend an evening on my own, without playing or arguing with a brother or sister.

He cleared his throat. ‘You know what, we both deserve some fun. Seeing as you are here, could you do me an enormous favour? I'm writing a sex scene, set in a cabin, and I just need to know if, strategically, the positions are possible. I've got a tape measure.'

Don't ask me exactly what I had to do, because it's a secret I shall take to my grave and I will actually kill Izzy when I see her, for shoving me towards the boats! Although, to be honest, I giggled like a schoolgirl, at one point, tears running down both our faces. If I didn't already know Trevor's creditable reputation from the media, there is
no way
I would have agreed to his very polite but athletic requests. He even said he'd credit me in the book's acknowledgements. That brought the biggest grin to my face.

However, as I left him and headed down the jetty, weaving slightly after three glasses of good old Moët, the smile dissolved. It sunk in that my morning had resulted in a mission unaccomplished. This was useless. Pathetic. Had I lost my mind? How had I realistically expected to find a suitable Cornish, Poldark lookalike, let alone one who would be prepared to go along with my ridiculous plus-one charade? It was farcical. Desperate. I pictured the red wind spinner. Behaving like this did not feel like I was following my heart.

I gazed ahead and saw Izzy wave from the other side of the sand. Yep. Meeting Trevor had been a wake-up call to my madness. I would simply go to the wedding on my own and treat the rest of my stay in Cornwall as a holiday.

CHAPTER 6

There is only one thing that could make Guvnah's cottage more pretty, and that's if it were made from gingerbread, spicy dried fruit and icing. It had a thatched roof and plant pots out the front, tiny windows, low ceilings and a brickwork fireplace to die for. Geoff had lived there for years with his first wife and insisted, when Guvnah moved in, that she refurbish and redecorate every room. But my gran had never been one for doing things for the sake of it. She'd redesigned their bedroom to give it a vintage feel, but only made small changes to the rest of her new home.

Seaside paintings punctuated the walls along with ornamental shelves made out of driftwood. Cosy wasn't the word for the little lounge, with the terracotta colours, a warm oak laminate floor and mosaic rug. There was just enough room for a cherry sofa and two matching armchairs. A ginger cat completed the homely picture, as did a vase full of dried beach thistles on the windowsill.

Guvnah passed me a slice of Cornish honey cake. Geoff was a natural-born cook, his preferred method being barbecuing. No one served a hot dog like him, with home-made mustard relish and fried red onions. For years he'd run a mobile snack van, specialising in sausages, burgers and hot drinks.

‘I'm not sure I can find room after the lunch Izzy and I enjoyed. My pasty was served with the yummiest home-made tomato ketchup.'

‘Talking of which, Geoff has just made a batch of tomato pickle. You can take a jar. I've always wanted to live in a house with a vegetable garden.'

‘My favourite spot is the bench under the weeping willow.' I sighed. ‘It really is a dream home. When will Geoff get back from the garage? I can't wait to see him again.'

‘Only so that you can pick his brains about being a roadie in the sixties.'

I grinned, whilst admiring her purple blouse and baggy red trousers. Flamboyant was the word to best describe my artistic gran. Her clothes contrasted her uncolourful white bobbed hair and grey eyes. Chunky jewellery hung from her wrists and the outfit was completed with a wispy silk scarf. ‘I could listen to his stories all day. In fact I've got him a present—I managed to track down a vinyl single of that rockabilly band he worked for, in Leeds.'

‘The Bobby Boogie Boys?'

‘Yes. It's in my rucksack. Vinyls are making something of a comeback. Honestly, imagine being a roadie back in the day when fans had so little access to bands, without DVDs—not everyone even had a telly. He must have felt like a star himself.' I took a bite of the cake. ‘Mmm. That's got a kick. Whiskey?'

‘Ginger honey mead. There's nothing like alcohol for keeping a cake moist.' She glanced at the clock. ‘Geoff shouldn't be much longer. It all depends on how difficult the carburettor was to fix.' She fiddled with her pewter and lilac-stoned bracelet. ‘And talking of things being fixed, what's up with you? Your mouth keeps drooping at the corners, just like it used to when you were a little girl and in trouble. It's not like you to take a holiday. What's the matter, sweetheart?'

My cheeks burned. ‘Oh, you know, just fed up with losing my flat and a singing contract. We can't all be comfortably settled in a cottage that belongs on the front of a chocolate box, gliding our way quietly and conservatively through retirement, closing the door on our busy lives.' I grinned, waiting for a repost.