The Summer Theatre by the Sea: The feel-good holiday romance you need to read this 2018

His parents thrived on hard work, long hours and the buzz of a stressful environment. Packed commuter trains, crowded streets and constant noise combined to form a drug, fuelling their determination to achieve in their high-flying careers. Noise pollution did nothing for Barney. It didn’t inspire him, it depressed him. Life in Penmullion was much kinder on the soul.

Over the last few weeks, he’d been busy rehearsing for A Midsummer Night’s Dream, he’d taken on extra shifts at the surf kiosk, and added more gigs to his schedule, eager to prove he wasn’t a layabout or afraid of hard work. But no matter how much he crammed into his new life in Cornwall, he knew it would never be enough for his parents.

‘See where the cliffs meet the sea?’ He pointed to the horizon. ‘You can just make out HMS Isolde, a three-hundred-year-old battleship anchored near the disused naval port.’ The morning mist was lifting, the breeze dragging the damp air away from the bay. ‘It’s worth a visit, if you’re planning on staying for a while.’ God, he hoped they weren’t staying.

‘We’re only here for the day.’ His mother made no attempt to search out the ship.

No one could say he didn’t try.

As well as increasing his workload, he’d been partying hard too. He didn’t need a shrink to tell him he was drowning his brain in alcohol to avoid thinking about his future. He loved life in Penmullion, it was everything he’d ever wanted, but it still lacked something. Whether he admitted it or not, there was a gaping career-shaped hole in his life. And he had no idea how to fill it.

Smugglers Inn wasn’t busy. One of the regular bar staff laughed when he walked in, confirming his suspicions that he’d made a fool of himself last night. He went over to the bar and ordered three coffees, not wanting to tempt fate by putting food in his stomach. They opted to sit outside. Fresh air and a pleasant view might ease the trauma of the lecture he felt was coming his way.

He selected a table near the grassy bank. The bushes and trees rose upwards to where the posh hotels overlooked the sea, giving a nice contrast to the crashing waves ahead of them. The tide ebbed and flowed, inviting him to come in and play. It was tempting, but even he wasn’t up for a surf today.

They’d barely sat down when his mother said, ‘Your father and I would like to know when you will be returning to your studies?’ There was never any preamble with Alexa Hubble, she always cut to the chase.

He couldn’t blame her. The first either of them had known of his quitting medicine was after he’d purchased a one-way ticket to Cornwall. It was cowardly and unfair of him, and they had every right to be angry. After all they’d done for him, all the sacrifices they’d made, paying his living expenses, providing a monthly allowance, ensuring his time spent studying was as easy as possible, he’d left without a proper explanation. He’d hurt them, confused them, and left them severely out of pocket. He was a rotten son.

He took a long breath, hoping the cool June air might ease his headache. For nearly a year, he’d avoided answering questions about his return. He’d given excuses, employed all kinds of delaying tactics, hoping time would enable him to reach an answer, but he was no nearer resolving the issue of what to do about his career than when he’d left London.

It was time to stop fudging and answer honestly. ‘I’m not sure I want to return.’

His mother stilled. ‘I beg your pardon?’

He sighed. ‘I know it’s not what you want to hear. I’d hoped time out would clarify things for me, but it hasn’t. I’m more confused than ever.’

His mother looked at him like he was speaking a foreign language.

His dad frowned. ‘What’s there to be confused about? You’ve successfully completed your medical degree and the two-year foundation programme. The hard part is done. All you need to do is select a specialism.’ He made it sound so simple.

‘But that’s just it, I don’t want to specialise.’

‘Nonsense.’ His mother dismissed his words with a wave of her hand. ‘Of course you want to specialise. If you can’t decide which direction to take, then we’ll help you. We have openings on the postgraduate medical diploma at Hammersmith, but you’ll need to commit soon if you want to secure a place this coming autumn.’

‘I can get you onto the cardiology or orthopaedic programmes at St. George’s,’ his dad added, looking hopeful. ‘Just give me the nod and it’s done.’

Barney felt the weight of expectation crushing him. His parents had supported him, encouraged him, used their influence to secure him decent placements, and how had he repaid them? He’d thrown in the towel. ‘I appreciate your efforts, really I do—’

‘Even if you choose general practice,’ his dad said, cutting him off. ‘It’s not what your mother and I had hoped for, but we’d support you becoming a GP, if that’s what you wanted.’

‘But it isn’t what I want.’

His mother rubbed her temples. ‘Then what do you want, Barnabas, because quite frankly you’re testing our patience.’ She paused when the coffees arrived, waiting until the bar manager had disappeared inside before continuing. ‘We didn’t object when you announced you were taking a gap year, did we? Neither of us felt it was ideal, but we supported you. Well, you’ve had a break, it’s time to get back to work.’

He looked at his mother. ‘I already work. I’m not sitting around twiddling my thumbs.’

‘Singing in a pub and teaching tourists to surf is not proper work, and you know it.’

On the word ‘proper’, Barney recalled Charlotte Saunders’ dismissal of his employment status with equal derision. She hadn’t been impressed by his lack of a suitable career either. ‘Do you know how insulting that is? A lot of people in this area work in the tourist industry. It’s a perfectly legitimate way to earn a living.’

Alexa Hubble showed no signs of remorse. ‘I agree, for someone who hasn’t spent seven years using public resources training to be a doctor.’

He couldn’t argue with that. ‘I get that you’re disappointed. I am too. I stuck with the programme because I didn’t want to quit. I knew I’d be letting a lot of people down, but I can’t help how I feel.’

His dad placed a hand on his wife’s arm, preventing her responding. ‘So how do you feel, son?’ He was no doubt trying to be sensitive, even though he probably wanted nothing more than to shake some sense into his only child.

Barney shrugged. ‘I’m not sure medicine is for me. The stress, the long hours—’

‘Long hours?’ His mother cut him off. ‘Your generation has it easy. When your father and I trained, we worked a hundred-hour week.’ She stopped talking when her husband squeezed her arm, silently conveying that she wasn’t helping.

Henry nodded for Barney to continue. ‘Go on.’

What was the point? They wouldn’t understand; they were made differently to him. When confronted with a patient, they saw a medical problem that needed solving. It was science, factual, they were able to remain emotionally detached. When faced with the same scenario, Barney just wanted to scream, cry, and run away. These were not traits that would make him a good doctor.

He had a sudden flashback from his early days on the wards. It was late one evening and his shift was due to finish. When his bleeper went off, he’d briefly considered ignoring it, letting whoever was on next pick it up. But his morals wouldn’t let him do that, so he’d headed off to the ward. On arrival, he’d heard the nurse say to the patient, ‘It’s okay, the doctor’s here now,’ which had only increased his panic. The patient was Mrs White, a seventy-seven-year-old woman with terminal cancer. Her body was a bag of bones, her skin sallow and bruised. She was in severe pain, the agony of dying etched on her face. ‘Please,’ she’d said as he’d neared. ‘Please help me.’

He’d been frozen to the spot. The nurse had looked at him expectantly, willing him to ease the woman’s suffering. But how could he? Medical training covered disease, medication, and fixing broken bones. It didn’t tell you how to respond to a dying patient who just wanted the torment to end. Helping people had been the motivation for becoming a doctor. He liked the idea of fixing problems, but he’d quickly discovered that there wasn’t always a cure. No one had covered that on his course.

‘How much longer?’ Mrs White had asked him. ‘Why doesn’t the Lord take me? I’m ready to go.’ Tears had filled her eyes, mixed with desperation and pleading.

When the nurse had leant across and whispered to Barney, ‘Shall I call the palliative care team?’ he’d grasped the suggestion like being tossed a life jacket at sea. Help was on its way, but then Mrs White had said, ‘Will you stay with me, Doctor? I don’t have anyone else.’

He’d sat with her for several hours, holding her hand, even though she’d slipped into a morphine-induced coma. When Mrs White died later that day, Barney had twenty-nine minutes left before the start of his next shift.

The sound of his mother dragged him back to the present. ‘We’re still waiting for an answer.’

Failing to find the right words, he reverted to avoidance. ‘I need a bit more time.’

‘No more time, Barney. We’ve been patient enough.’ His mother dropped a cube of sugar in her black coffee. ‘You need to stop prevaricating and focus on your career. We haven’t spent thousands of pounds supporting your education to see it go to waste.’

He bristled. ‘If it’s about the money, then I’ll pay you back—’

‘It’s not about money,’ his dad interjected. ‘It’s about wanting you to succeed in life.’

‘And what about being happy, Dad? Doesn’t that count for anything?’

‘Happiness is overrated,’ his mother said, and then caught the look on her husband’s face and stopped stirring her coffee. ‘What I mean is, happiness will come later. You need to put in the hard work first, build your career. Once you’re established, you can meet a nice girl, settle down and have a family, content in the knowledge that you can provide for them. Trust me, we know.’ She forced a smile at Henry, who smiled back … once he realised what was required of him.

The idea of meeting a nice girl conjured up another image of Charlotte Saunders. Why, he wasn’t sure. ‘Nice’ wasn’t a word that immediately sprang to mind when thinking about her. And why was he thinking about her? ‘I wish more than anything I shared your commitment to medicine, really I do. But I don’t think it’s for me.’

‘Then work harder,’ his mother barked. ‘You don’t just give up on seven years of medical training.’ She lowered her voice when she realised people were looking. ‘I blame your mother,’ she said, directing her comment at Henry. ‘I knew encouraging him to play around with non-academic interests was a bad idea. But would you listen? Now look where it’s led!’ She pointed at her son. ‘A wasted talent. Letting everybody down.’

A mist of red fog descended. He knew his mother didn’t mean it. She was just worried he’d go off the rails like his cousin had done, ending up unemployed and alcohol dependent. But he wasn’t about to make the same mistake. They just needed to get off his case. He was twenty-seven, for fuck’s sake. He could make his own decisions. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to you,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘You don’t need to tell me I’m letting you down, I see it on your faces every time I look at you.’

‘Your mother doesn’t mean—’

‘Yes, she does. She means every bloody word, and she’s right. I am a let-down. But you couldn’t be more disappointed in me than I am in myself.’ He dug out ten quid from his wallet and threw it on the table. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, my shift starts in half an hour. Have a safe journey back to London. I’m sorry you didn’t get the outcome you were hoping for.’

He stormed off, ignoring his parents’ protests and curious glances from the other punters. He didn’t need anyone telling him he was inadequate. Not some snooty designer from London, or his mum and dad. He was perfectly aware he was a screw-up.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Thursday, 16 June

Lauren glanced at the kitchen clock, wishing time would slow down this morning. She’d yet to brush her hair, or put the bins out – and it was recycling day.

The toaster popped, sending a burnt slice of bread flying into the air like a clay pigeon being released from an automated trap. She tried to catch it, but it bounced off the fridge, landing on the disgusting linoleum flooring. Thankfully, her housework-obsessed sister had mopped the floor yesterday, so she felt safe in applying the ‘five-second rule’ and picked it up.

Blowing on it, she dropped it onto the breadboard, making a mental note to add ‘new toaster’ to the list of things to buy once her loan had been cleared later on today. She’d circled the date on the calendar, the last instalment. It was the only thing keeping her sane this morning.

‘Breakfast is ready!’ She used the last of the cheap margarine on the toast, relishing the prospect of buying proper butter next week, when she’d be twenty-five quid better off.

‘How far away is Looe?’ Her sister looked up from the newspaper.

Lauren wiped her hands on a tea towel. ‘It’s on the other side of the coast.’ Her children had yet to appear from their bedrooms. ‘Freddie! Florence! Breakfast is getting cold.’

Charlotte tucked her straightened hair behind her ears – a lack of grooming time in the mornings clearly wasn’t an issue for her. ‘Too far to commute?’

Lauren plated up the toast, catching sight of her reflection in the fridge. Next to her perfectly presented sister, she looked like she’d slept rough. ‘Sorry, what?’

‘Looe? Could you get there for work?’ Charlotte had been studying the jobs section in the Penmullion Gazette, highlighting the positions she felt Lauren should apply for to ‘better her situation’.

Her sister meant well, but Lauren wasn’t interested in working in a building society, a call centre, or trying to sell social media space to online retailers – she could barely understand the apps on her phone. ‘No, Charlotte, I could not get to Looe for work. Apart from the fact that I have school-age children, I’m not looking to change jobs. I’m happy working at the café.’ As she’d told her sister on countless occasions. ‘Kids! I’m not going to ask again!’

Florence appeared in the kitchen wearing her Princess Fiona nightie.

‘Sweetie, why aren’t you dressed?’ Lauren glanced at the clock. ‘It’s twenty past eight. We need to leave in ten minutes, and you haven’t eaten breakfast.’

‘I’ve got tummy ache.’ Florence rubbed her stomach, emphasising the point.

Charlotte wasn’t done with her career advice. ‘I know you say you’re happy working at the café, but do you really want to spend the rest of your days serving stewed tea and limp sandwiches?’

‘What sort of tummy ache?’ Lauren knelt down, assessing whether her daughter had a genuine ailment, or whether it was a lame excuse to stay home and watch TV. ‘Where does it hurt?’

Florence pulled her sad face. ‘All over, Mummy.’

Charlotte picked up the kitchen scissors. ‘I’m sure we can find something much more fulfilling. I’m cutting out the jobs I think are suitable.’

Lauren felt her daughter’s forehead. ‘You don’t have a temperature.’

‘I’m very hot,’ Flo said, in a slightly dramatic fashion. ‘And cold too.’

Lauren kissed her daughter’s cheek, which showed no evidence of being too hot or too cold. ‘You might feel better once you’ve had something to eat.’ She eased her onto a kitchen chair. ‘Eat a slice of toast, and then we’ll reassess.’ She marched over to Freddie’s bedroom door. ‘How many times do I have to call you for breakfast?’

He was sitting on the floor playing with his Lego. At least he was dressed for school. Well, of sorts. His shirt was buttoned up wrong. It would have to do. She didn’t have time to correct it.

‘Kitchen, now, please.’ She folded her arms, a feeble attempt at being stern.

Grinning, he got up from the floor and went into the kitchen, carrying his partially built truck. ‘Can I stay home with Florence today?’

‘No, and Florence isn’t staying home, she’s going to school.’ Lauren ushered him onto a chair. ‘Please put the truck down. We haven’t got time to mess about this morning.’

Before Lauren had even collected his toast from the counter, Charlotte was unbuttoning his shirt. ‘We can’t have you going to school looking scruffy, can we?’

Lauren supressed a sigh. Normally, she’d count to ten in a bid to calm her agitation but, with the clock rapidly ticking down, she didn’t even have time for that this morning.

Charlotte realigned the buttons. ‘Is this shirt ironed?’

Lauren loved her sister, really, she did. But right at that moment, she had an overwhelming urge to pour Charlotte’s specially selected, loose-leaf, two-minute-brewed English breakfast tea over her head. ‘No, Charlotte, it’s not. Funnily enough, I don’t have time to iron school shirts, which last a day before being covered in mud and require washing again.’

Lauren was subjected to a slow shake of the head. Her sister was not impressed.

Well, tough. She didn’t have the time or inclination to pander to Charlotte’s obsessiveness. She didn’t mind her sister staying; she was glad to help out, and the kids loved having Auntie Charlie around – even if she did make them tidy up constantly – but it was challenging, to say the least.

‘Eat your toast, please, Freddie.’ Lauren picked up a discarded hair clip from the windowsill, tidying her appearance before her sister offered to plait her hair for her, like she’d done when they were kids. Well, they weren’t kids anymore. Charlotte needed to realise she was no longer the boss of her younger sibling. So what if she wasn’t organised, successful or driven? She muddled along as best she could, trying to provide a happy and stable upbringing for her kids. Charlotte had no idea what it was like to be a single parent. If she did, she might be a bit more understanding.

Someone knocked on the door. Great. That was all she needed.

‘Keep eating, please.’ Lauren checked her watch. ‘We’ll be leaving for school in five minutes.’

Ignoring Charlotte’s comments about the merits of laundry-delivery services in London, Florence moaning about her tummy ache, and Freddie not wiping his hands before smearing margarine over his Lego truck, she answered the door.

It was a shock to find Glenda Graham standing on her doorstep. The woman didn’t normally come to her home. No one else knew about the loan, and she wanted to keep it that way. Even more alarming was the sight of her two bulky sons hovering in the background. Vincent and Quentin often helped out backstage with the plays, but they never said much, and didn’t exactly radiate friendliness, so she’d always kept her distance. She’d certainly never invited them to visit her home.

‘Hello, Lauren, love. How are you this fine morning?’

As much as she didn’t appreciate Glenda’s intrusion, knowing this would be their last interaction stopped her from making a fuss. The sooner she paid the last instalment, the quicker she’d be debt-free. ‘I’m well, thank you, Glenda. A little rushed, we’re running late for school.’

‘Then I won’t keep you. I know how it is trying to juggle the demands of family.’ Her smile was sincere. Lauren felt a little bad for never having warmed to the woman. It was probably down to owing her money. ‘Never a borrower nor a lender be,’ her dad would constantly tell them growing up. It was an admirable sentiment, and one she didn’t disagree with, but asking a utility company to wait for their money while she saved up wasn’t feasible or realistic.

She withdrew the folded notes from her back pocket. ‘It’s all there, but please check it.’ She handed Glenda the money.

Glenda’s mass of grey corkscrew curls sat on top of her head like a large hat, wild and frizzy. ‘No need, I trust you.’

‘Thank you.’ Maybe dealing with Glenda hadn’t been so bad after all. She’d trusted her to pay up each week, and respected her wish for discretion … well, until today at least. ‘I really appreciate you helping me out.’

‘My pleasure, love.’ Glenda counted the notes, despite having just said she trusted her. She handed the money to Vincent, who repeated the count before pocketing the cash.

It wasn’t worth getting upset about. The debt had been repaid. Lauren could finally move on with her life.

She was about to close the door, eager to get her kids to school, when Glenda said, ‘Same payment, same time next week.’

Lauren wondered if she’d heard correctly. ‘But that was the last payment, Glenda. Twenty weeks at twenty-five pounds per week. I’ve been keeping track. I can show you the payment dates in my diary if you want to check?’

‘No need. But the debt is far from paid. You still owe interest.’ Glenda removed a small black book from her oversized leather handbag.

‘Interest?’ Lauren’s heart rate began to increase. ‘But … but I didn’t realise there’d be interest?’

Glenda smiled. ‘Oh, love, all loans are subject to interest. You’re a smart girl, surely you knew that?’

‘Well … yes, if I was borrowing from a bank, but we’re friends … aren’t we?’

Glenda squeezed her hand. ‘We are indeed, good friends. Which is why you get mates’ rates.’

Lauren’s head was spinning. ‘Mates’ rates?’

‘That’s right.’ Glenda’s slow smile revealed a discoloured front tooth. ‘If you can’t help out your friends when they’re in trouble, it’d be a pretty bleak world, wouldn’t it?’

Lauren nodded, but she was on autopilot.

‘Which is why I only charge two hundred and fifty per cent.’

A rush of cold raced up Lauren’s spine. ‘But that’s extortionate!’