There’s Something About Cornwall

Emilie’s creative passion had woken to overtake her nerves. She soon slid into her well-honed routine as each frame improved on the last until she was satisfied with the results. She sent up a fervent litany of thanks to her personal guardian angel for being on duty that afternoon on the spectacular north coast of Cornwall. Emilie heaved a sigh of relief that the photographs on today’s schedule were simply of the food and did not include a personal portrait of Lucinda demonstrating her techniques. She needed time to build up to that level of challenge.

‘Okay, I think I have what I need.’

‘You think? Have you or haven’t you? Please bear in mind that I want my readers’ jaws to drop in salivation at the exquisite recipes not yawn with boredom at the creative predictability. I shouldn’t have to tell you that people taste with their eyes first. I want my desserts to effervesce with vitality and freshness, not slump like leaden puddings.’

‘Erm…then yes, I do have everything,’ confirmed Emilie as assertively as she could. Her throat had tightened and her voice had started to waver now that she had finished the photography part of the shoot and Lucinda was addressing her directly.

‘Good.’

Relieved, Emilie took a step back, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. She inadvertently managed to propel herself at speed over a camera case she had carelessly discarded in the middle of the room. It had been crying out as a tripping hazard. She tumbled to the floor, landing heavily on her left shoulder and buttock. The searing pain of carpet burn shot out to her extremities. If her clumsiness had stopped there she might have got away with it, but on her way down her elbow had caught the rim of one of the nautical dishes, which meant the biscuits were tossed into the air like edible confetti.

Warmth rushed to her face as she scrambled to right herself and straighten her cardigan around her chest. She glanced across at Alice who was skulking next to the door. Alice was clearly taking her own advice and steering clear of Lucinda, who was staring at Emilie in abject horror. Lucinda eventually swung her eyes away from the impromptu comedy sideshow, rotated her head slowly in the direction of the scattered biscuits, then back to stare at Emilie as though she had just landed from outer space.

Silence spread into all four corners of the room. No one dared be the first to break it. After an interminable few seconds, Emilie could stand it no longer. ‘I’m so sorry…’

‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t fire you on the spot?’

‘Well, it was just an unfortunate accident. I…’

‘Don’t worry, Lucinda. I’ll sort this out, get everything cleared up,’ gushed Alice, at last scooting to Emilie’s rescue. ‘Things like this often happen on first shoots. Remember Rick and the mango puree disaster? But didn’t that shoot turn out to be one of the best ever? Rest assured that it will not happen again. I’ll make sure that Emilie is briefed more thoroughly next time.’

Lucinda gave an audible tut and stalked towards the door with Marcus scurrying in her Dior-infused wake. She paused on the threshold and turned back, causing everyone to freeze in their positions like an adult version of the child’s game of Silent Statues.

‘Okay, Alice, but I will hold you personally responsible for ensuring the rest of this assignment goes without a hitch. And I expect you to inject more individuality into our Perranporth shoot! I’d like to make one thing clear before we embark on this journey – the contents of my brief are absolute, my artistic requirements inflexible. When I specify perfection that is what I expect to get. Perhaps you can also apprise Millie of the calibre of my expectations in advance?’

‘Of course, Lucinda.’

‘Oh, actually it’s Emilie, not Millie,’ blurted Emilie, unable to stop herself before it was too late.

Lucinda turned her disdain-filled eyes towards Emilie. She held her gaze for several long seconds – during which Emilie prayed for the ground to turn into quicksand and swallow her into its all-encompassing embrace – before disappearing from the room.

What a culinary diva! thought Emilie. Lucinda even had the theatrical flounce off to a tee, never mind the inevitable scuttling assistant to cater to her every wish. The concrete block that had pressed against her chest from the moment Lucinda had walked onto the stage eased and she found she could breathe normally again.

‘Oh, God, she hates me!’ she groaned, collapsing in a cane armchair by the window, oblivious to the picturesque landscape beyond the glass, which was strewn with nature’s wonders: the sweeping expanse of blonde sand, the undulating aquamarine waves topped with frills of froth galloping towards the beach where they melted away until their cousins joined them. Nothing in the bucolic outlook breached Emilie’s radar as she massaged her temples and rotated out the knotted muscles in her neck, before moving on to check her scuffed elbow.

‘She doesn’t hate you,’ soothed Alice. ‘Actually, that was Lucinda at her most amenable. She didn’t bawl anyone out. You want to see her when she’s really irritable. You definitely want to take cover when that happens. I thought the shoot went really well.’

‘Thanks for coming to my rescue, Alice. It’s not that I’m ungrateful but perhaps being fired at the beginning of the trip would have been for the best?’

‘Everyone’s anxiety levels are set to Gas Mark eight when we start out on these kinds of photo shoots. You know that – you’ve done enough of them. And have you taken a look at the images yet?’

‘No.’

‘I bet they’re fabulous, and to be honest that’s all that matters in the end.’

Emilie flicked through the photographs she had taken and a surge of satisfaction washed over her. They were perfect; the light had been just right, the clarity crisp and the saffron cake looked as though you could reach out and touch it. She could almost smell the honey in the biscuits. The photos were just as Lucinda had said she expected them to be. A wave of relief spread through Emilie’s body and melted the earlier tension. Her personal life might be on a downward trajectory but she was still able to take a decent photograph.

‘Thanks, Alice.’

‘No problem. But you owe me.’ She smirked.

‘Why don’t I like the sound of that?’

Alice had already started to box up the cake stand and file away the props in their allocated spaces in her trunk. She folded the tablecloth neatly and slipped it into a protective plastic sheath, whilst Emilie chucked her equipment haphazardly into their cases in an effort to vacate the room as quickly as possible. The hotel management had wheeled in a magnificent two-foot-high conical wedding cake and were starting to arrange it on a linen-covered pedestal by the window.

Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be the wedding photographer for the afternoon and be on the train back to Paddington when the bride and groom retire to the honeymoon suite. Emilie sighed and followed Alice down the stairs to the front door, reluctant to leave the hotel’s mantle of silky elegance for the hessian sack of the camper van. They stowed the tools of their trade in the back and slid the door shut with a slam.

‘Okay! So, I was saving this news until after the business part of the day to reduce the risk of distraction. Maybe that didn’t exactly work out as planned, but anyway, we’ve been invited to a beach party to celebrate the end of the surf season with the guys from Coolwave Surfing Academy.’

‘Oh, Alice, I’m not sure…’

Emilie knew she could never hope to match Alice in either vitality or optimism. After that first encounter with Lucinda every ounce of her already depleted energy reserves from the trip down to Cornwall had seeped from her veins. All she wanted to do was curl up in the arms of the Satsuma Splittie and claim the oblivion offered by sleep. Yet how could she do that when Alice had been so supportive of her? Never mind the fact that she needed the camper van to get to the party? There was a downside of travelling with your bedroom in the back.

‘Oh, come on! It’ll be a blast! A fun start to an epic journey – like a ship’s launch except with cider instead of champagne.’ Alice scooted around to the driver’s seat and fired up the engine.

‘But it’s not even four o’clock!’

‘The party started at lunchtime and goes on until ten. There’re rules about music on the beach. And I’ve checked – we can park the van at the campground next to the car park at the back of the Academy so it’ll be staggering distance afterwards. Relax, Emilie! Have some fun. Isn’t that why you’re doing this shoot? You have to embrace everything this epic road trip can teach us. Use the experience to expand and enhance your vision and replenish your creative juices for your next assignment. Cornwall is a stunning location and you can take your images with you.’

‘But does Lucinda mind us partying when she’s expecting us in Perranporth first thing tomorrow morning for the next shoot? I thought the plan was to drive to the next venue straight away and camp there overnight.’

‘While the cat’s away…’ Alice giggled, swerving to avoid a runaway beach ball as she pulled into the car park. ‘I’m not going to tell her if you don’t.’

‘But…’

‘Look, we’ll have a couple of drinks and a mingle with the surfing brigade, then crash out in the camper van for a few hours. I’ll set the alarm and we’ll be on our way by seven a.m. Plenty of time to get to the shoot at eight-thirty.’

Emilie thought of where she would have been if Brad hadn’t trampled on her toes to snatch the European shoot with his sticky fingers. Venice!

She glanced out of the windscreen as the last gasp of sunlight disappeared behind the horizon, bathing the scene on the beach in front of them in a golden halo of warmth. From her vantage point she could see the party had clearly been underway for some time as the music had morphed into smooching tunes and the makeshift bar had only a smattering of polystyrene cups left to offer the thirsty. Torches of flickering amber light dotted the scene and delineated the dance floor, casting a mellow ambience over the whole gathering. Couples giggled and swayed, some kissing and saying their tearful goodbyes to season-long love affairs.

She flicked the visor down and studied her reflection. She was hardly beach party ready. On the other hand, despite having worked just as hard as she had, Alice’s make-up remained as pristine as it had been on the station steps that morning. She looked polished and attractive in her tailored black trousers and magenta velvet waistcoat embroidered with poppies. There wasn’t a hair out of place on her espresso-coloured bob. Her fringe tickled her eyelashes, bestowing her with a fraudulently coy expression. Even her lipstick remained smooth and glossy.

Emilie dragged her scrunchie from her hair and allowed her copper waves to tumble around her face and over her shoulders. She inserted her fingers into the tangled mess and gave her curls a shake before scrambling in her handbag for her lipstick.

What harm could one drink do? She was about to find out.

Chapter Four

By the time they stood on the weather-bleached veranda that skirted the Coolwave Surf Academy, the sun had performed its finale and disappeared for another day. Outside the wooden shack, which doubled as the booking office and a surfing merchandise shop, stood a huge blackboard listing the activities that had been on offer that season: beginner’s taster sessions, surf safaris, aquatic first aid, beach knowledge expeditions, lifeguard skills.

Next to the water sport menu rested a huge metal cage containing an assortment of surfboards in a myriad of sizes, like multicoloured pencils crammed into a jar. The sign hanging on the door declared the academy ‘Closed’ for the season and invited everyone to celebrate its successful and safe conclusion at a barbeque on the beach.

Emily removed her sandals and slung them carelessly into the back of the van, which gained her an eye-roll from Alice who refused to discard her stilettos. She constantly complained about her lack of height and explained how her self-esteem was intrinsically linked to the extra four inches her shoes delivered.

The taste of salty sea floated on the faintest of breezes. Emilie and Alice followed the amber necklace of fiery torches from the wooden shack to the makeshift food and drinks table set with a jaunty navy and white tablecloth on the beach. The waft of burnt charcoal and barbequed meats met her nostrils and her stomach reminded her once again of her neglect to deliver it lunch. As Alice had anticipated, there had been a surplus of cake in which to indulge after the shoot, but Emilie’s stomach had been so tightly twisted from her first encounter with Lucinda that she couldn’t face even a bite.

They grabbed a couple of bottles of Bud from the hunkiest guy Emilie had seen in years and Alice made a beeline for one of the weather-beaten tables on the edge of the dance floor, where the crowd moved as one to the pulsating Caribbean rhythms of Bob Marley. Alice’s eyes were bright with excitement.

‘Coming for a dance?’

‘Gosh! Not yet. I’ll just sit and chill for a while if you don’t mind.’

‘Suit yourself.’

She watched Alice disappear into the melee and marvelled at her stamina. Yet she knew there was something more than exhaustion preventing her from joining in the fun. This was the first party she had been to without Brad by her side and it felt weird. She thought about all the other things she had done as part of a couple and realised with a twist of trepidation that she would have to learn how to do them on her own from now on – and that included her photography ambitions.

If Brad couldn’t be happy for her when her talent as a food photographer had been recognised at the awards party then she didn’t need him in her life or on her photo shoots. At least she wouldn’t have to put up with him constantly breathing down her neck about her untidiness.

She took a chug of her beer and decided to join Alice on the dance floor after all. As she stood she came face-to-face with the guy from the drinks table and her heart bounced around her chest like an energetic space hopper. Wow, was he gorgeous!

‘Hi. I’m Matt Ashby – one of the surfing instructors at the Coolwave Academy.’

The guy brushed his long, sandy-blond hair from his eyes and offered her his fist to bump. Emilie smiled and responded, taking the chance to study his features, which were flashed with flares of gold from the torches around the dance floor. Were all the surfing instructors in Cornwall like Matt? she wondered. If so, she wished her parents had relocated to St Ives when she was a teenager. What fantastic summer holidays she could have had!

‘Hi, Matt. I’m Emilie Roberts, and that…’ she pointed to Alice who already had her slender arms slung around the neck of a muscular Adonis towering a good head above her, even in her stilettos ‘…is my friend Alice Jenkins. It must be a great way to earn a living – teaching holidaymakers to surf and being able to call all this your office.’

‘It’s amazing. I love every second of being out there on the waves, battling nature’s force. It’s a shame it’s the end of the season or I’d offer to take you out. The surf’s been spectacular this year.’

‘Oh, I’m not much of a water baby, I’m afraid. Even a hotel swimming pool looks more inviting from underneath a stripy umbrella, never mind the open sea.’ A ripple of discomfort shot down her spine as the image floated across her mind.

‘Are you saying you can’t swim?’ he asked.

‘No, I can swim. It’s just that when I was eleven one of my friends pushed me in a river for a dare and I had to be rescued by a passing dog walker. Now, whenever I teeter on the edge of a pool willing myself to jump, I start contemplating the long list of things that could go wrong!’

‘You don’t know what you’re missing. I bet with a little time I could help you overcome your fears. It’s just a matter of confidence and you look to me like a person who has acres of that.’

She laughed. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you had seen me this afternoon sprawling on the floor in front of an audience amongst a pile of squashed biscuits.’

Matt scrunched up his nose in confusion and Emilie giggled. She’d forgotten what it was like to chat to someone who was on the same wavelength as she was. She was enjoying herself immensely so she wasn’t about to confess her tendency to attract chaotic disaster wherever she went. Not a good omen for anyone who made their living on the sea.

‘Long story,’ she said.

‘So, what does bring you down to Padstow, Emilie Roberts? Are you on holiday?’

‘No, I’m working. I’m a food and product photographer. I’m shooting on the next Lucinda Loves… cookery book.’ The blank expression on Matt’s face told her he probably didn’t spend much of his spare time glued to the TV set – if indeed he even owned one. ‘I work for a photographic agency in London – Dexter Carvill – but I’m thinking of investing in my dream to go freelance.’

‘Just thinking? If it feels right just go for it, I say!’

‘I did have it all planned out. My boyfriend was a photographer too so we were going into business together, but that was before I found photographs of him with a certain lingerie and swimwear model on his Facebook page, and a few other things like taking my favourite camera without asking and always derogating my chosen field of expertise.’

She stopped, surprised at her frankness considering she had just met Matt. She usually took her time sizing up new acquaintances but Matt made her feel so comfortable and relaxed in her own skin that she felt she could confide her deepest darkest secrets and he wouldn’t judge her.

She lifted her head to check his expression, expecting a sympathetic nod, but what she got caused her stomach to drop like a silver penny down a well. His attraction to her was written clearly in his eyes, the colour of the ocean on a summer’s day. He wasn’t the usual kind of guy she found attractive with his tousled, sun-kissed hair, a natural golden tan from the hours he spent wrestling the waves and a body Ryan Gosling would be proud of. In contrast, Brad spent most of his time indoors, often in a darkened room, and therefore tended to work the pale and interesting look with gym-honed muscles, not the effortless, all-round physique that came from spending life in the fresh air.

Matt was the complete opposite of Brad in other ways too. Brad chose sharp, designer-branded attire, wore a Tag Heuer watch and wouldn’t dream of leaving the house without a comb in his pocket and a liberal sprinkling of his favourite cologne. His appearance was so camera-ready that he could easily have stepped into one of his own photo shoots should the unlikely occasion arise. He exuded impeccability and polish from every pore and thread.

Matt, on the other hand, was the epitome of an easy-going wave addict. Sun-kissed and a little frayed around the edges with his bleached jeans, washed-out tee shirt and the leather thong he wore around his neck. His hair, the colour of liquid corn, sprang from his head in tufts and added to laid-back vibe his presence projected.

But the major difference was in temperament. Brad oozed charisma and sartorial elegance and worked hard at maintaining this superficial veneer, as well as the signature come-to-bed glance from his chocolate brown eyes, complete with long spidery lashes she would have given her Nikon D810 for. However, Matt clearly didn’t give a second thought to his external appearance and was relaxed and content in his own skin. Nevertheless, Emilie detected a deep sadness behind his aquamarine eyes that even when he laughed was never completely erased.

She shoved away her surprise at the zing of desire that had started to fizz through her veins. The last thing she wanted to do was fall for a guy who was leaving the next day – and she had never been interested in one night of passion, no matter how hunky the guy was. She offered Matt a wide, but wary smile.

‘Maybe after this Cornwall shoot is over I will take the plunge and go solo. But as I said, I’ve not made the best of starts, unless you consider it normal to scatter your client’s hand-made biscuits – the very items you have been engaged to photograph – all over the carpet of the photo shoot venue.’ Emilie glanced over Matt’s shoulder and out to sea, again startled at her openness in front of Matt. She felt as though they occupied the same frequency somehow, that they had been friends for years not minutes.

‘Sounds like a case of beginner’s nerves to me. I’m sure things will improve as you settle in to the assignment and understand what your client wants, their quirks and their preferences. What happened after the biscuit fiasco?’

‘I was mortified and only Alice’s swift intervention stopped Lucinda from firing me on the spot. You know, I was never her first choice of photographer – that was Brad, my ex – so maybe it’s best for everyone if I just leave before things go from bad to worse and I’m looking at my career in the rear-view mirror.’

Warmth tinged her cheeks when she realised Matt was staring at her, his mouth curled upwards in amusement. Tiny dimples had appeared in his cheeks like brackets highlighting his plump lips. She felt strangely nervous, agitated even, in Matt’s company so she took another sip of her drink to disguise her surprise reaction. She watched him copy her action and take a swig from his bottle of beer before she asked, ‘So what do you do when the season ends?’

‘I’m packing up my tent and heading home to Northumberland tomorrow. Work as a surfing instructor tends to be seasonal. I’ve travelled down here for the last two seasons. If I’m lucky I’ll get something to tide me over the winter. I’ll stay with my parents so no problem with the rent and they love having me home, then it’ll be back down here at the end of March ready for another summer full of fun!’

‘Don’t they have surf in Northumberland?’ asked Emilie, an involuntary shudder snaking down her spine as she thought of dipping her toe in the North Sea.

Matt laughed, a sound that was both musical and infectious. ‘Actually they do. But the season is a lot shorter and I have to admit the surf is awesome here.’

‘And you live in a tent the whole time?’

‘Sure. It’s not a problem. I love the freedom it gives me. When I get time off I can pack up my rucksack and hike down to Newquay or Perranporth and ride the surf down there. I try to make every minute of my life count. It’s not a dress rehearsal, is it? We have to be prepared to squeeze pleasure from every moment – otherwise what’s the point?’

Once again Emilie saw the spectre of sadness stalk across Matt’s lovely eyes but she didn’t feel able to ask what demons had intruded on his happiness. He pulled his attention back to her and gave her a brief smile before finishing his beer and indicating her empty bottle.

‘Want to try something new?’ he asked, displaying a perfect set of teeth fit to grace any toothpaste advertisement.

‘Well, as it seems my friend has deserted me for the joys of the dance floor, yes please. What do you have in mind?’

‘Come with me.’

Matt took hold of her hand and a surprise jolt of electricity coursed through her body, snaking out to her fingertips. As he guided her towards the drinks table she scoured her brain for evidence that this was how she had felt when she’d first met Brad a few weeks after arriving at Dexter Carvill. Matt indicated a white plastic bowl filled with punch before she had chance to reach any firm conclusions. He scooped up a ladleful of the amber liquid and gently poured it into a plastic cup.

‘This is genuine Cornish Mine Punch.’

She laced her fingers around the cup and inhaled the warm sweet vapour that spiralled into the night air. She took a tentative sip and the smooth velvety liquid slipped down her throat, seeping into her veins and spreading heat to her extremities. She ran her tongue around her lips and smiled. It was delicious.

‘Like it?’