‘And Daniel had dickhead form before I even met him.’
‘Hmmm.’ Juliette looked at the table. ‘Have you spoken to him at all since Saturday night? Any texts? Aubergine emojis?’
‘Nothing. I don’t know what to say. I mean, why was your business on there if you didn’t get my bus shut down, and what was that kiss about, and what fabric softener do you use because you smelt really great the other night doesn’t seem like a conversation you can have via text.’
‘So go and see him, then.’
Charlie let her head drop to the table, then lifted it up and rubbed her brow. ‘I will, but I can’t until I find out who was behind this. I will apologize to him if it’s all a big misunderstanding, but what if it isn’t? What if he’s making a fool of me? Again?’
‘Char, I don’t think he would be this cruel.’
‘I really hope you’re right.’ She didn’t know what she had with Daniel; she just knew that even the thought of him sent butterflies fluttering through her like she was some kind of hothouse. ‘As soon as I … oh, hello, is that the licensing department?’ she enquired as Electronic Ethel was replaced with a living, breathing human being.
‘This is waste and recycling. I can put you through to the licensing department. Please hold.’
‘Noooo,’ Charlie screamed at her phone. But it was too late. Electronic Ethel was back. Please stay on the line; your call is important to us. ‘Is it my arse,’ Charlie said, while Juliette tried very hard not to laugh.
By the time she stepped outside, into a warm day with a gusty breeze, she felt as though her ear was close to burning off. She had spoken, finally, to a young man in the licensing department. He wouldn’t tell her the name of the person who had challenged her consent, only repeated the information that had been written on the notice. But he had assured her that it was only temporary, and once she’d resubmitted the paperwork, answered their additional questions and had someone come to inspect the bus, unless anything untoward cropped up, she’d be back in business in roughly a week.
It was time-consuming and annoying, but she was prepared for that as long as it wasn’t fatal to the future of The Cornish Cream Tea Bus. She had gone online and resubmitted the paperwork electronically as soon as the call was over. Now all she had to do was wait.
It seemed that whoever had done this had simply wanted to make her life more complicated, perhaps send her some kind of warning. What it had done was fire her up. She was overflowing with determination; she felt like Superwoman.
Marmite bounded beside her as they headed to the beach. The water was choppy, the sand whipping up into miniature dust devils. The sun peeped out intermittently between clouds ranging from pure white to darkest grey, and Charlie watched as a couple of young women in wetsuits ran across the sand from a van parked in the car park, no hesitation before they plunged into the waves.
Charlie walked the length of the beach, past Gertie and up towards the car park. She craned her neck to see to the top of the cliff, where Crystal Waters sat, looking out over the village, sea and coastline to the south. She knew she should go and see Daniel, but without all the facts she felt completely unprepared.
She huffed in frustration and turned, retracing her steps across the sand, this time towards the other side of the cove. She had almost reached the jetty, her walk accompanied by the shouts of the women in the sea, when she heard her name being called. To her amazement, she saw Reenie approaching her, her slender frame clad in a flowery shirt and faded jeans, her long hair dancing in the wind.
‘Reenie, hi! What are you doing?’
‘Out of my cage, you mean?’
Charlie blustered, but the older woman grinned.
‘Recycling time again. I’ve dropped it off with Hugh, who’s usually happy to dispose of it for me. But I did want to see you, too.’
‘You did?’
Reenie narrowed her eyes. ‘I saw you and Daniel on the jetty on Saturday night. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but there was no missing the drama of the situation. I need details, especially after finding out what’s happened to your bus.’
‘You need details?’ Charlie laughed. ‘And what if I don’t want to give them to you?’
Reenie held out her hand. ‘Of course you do, girl. You might be in denial about it, but you need someone to make sense of it for you.’
Charlie hesitated, wondering if she was prepared to tell this woman everything. This woman who had a weather eye cast over the whole village and, Charlie knew, was close to Daniel.
‘If you do,’ Reenie continued, ‘then I might be able to offer a nugget or two of advice. Perhaps reveal my own secret.’
‘That you are, in fact, a mermaid?’
‘Don’t be so ludicrous. Come and have a cup of tea with me and explain why Daniel Harper kissed you and then left you alone two nights ago. And then I will tell you why I am absolutely, 100 per cent, not a mermaid.’
Charlie glanced at Marmite, who was in the process of digging a hole in the sand. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘but I draw my line about what I tell you.’
‘Of course. You are your own woman, after all.’
Charlie followed her, wondering why it didn’t feel like that was always the case.
Her line, it turned out, was very low.
With a too-milky tea on the concrete in front of her, Charlie told Reenie everything: about what had happened in the pub; about her first Cornish Cream Tea Tour, and how it had been so successful until Oliver had found her in a compromising position with Daniel. About the confrontation on the bus, and Daniel revealing Oliver’s true nature; about Josie – who was either a journalist, or from the council; about her outburst at Crystal Waters and their impassioned conversation that had ended with that kiss on the jetty.
‘None of it makes sense, Reenie. Did he shut me down, or not?’
Reenie stretched her legs out, her feet, now bare, dangling over the edge of the cliff. Charlie had thought, with it being particularly windy, she might be invited inside the house, but they were sitting in the same spot, on the edge of the world. Not that she minded; she could stare at this view all day, even if there was zero chance of seeing a mermaid.
‘Think of everything you know about him,’ Reenie said. ‘All the encounters you’ve had. All you have to do is weigh up the good and the bad and decide whether you think he’s responsible. Although I’m sure you already know the answer, deep down.’
‘It said it, in black and white, on the revoke notice. The Crystal Waters Spa Hotel.’ Charlie took a sip of her tea.
‘But situations are rarely ever black and white. If everything was so straightforward, you would never have got into a mix-up with Daniel and Oliver. You would have known how to make your bus successful from day one, and wouldn’t have had to work hard to achieve what you have. The shades of grey are where life really happens, Charlie.’
‘So you’re saying that even though his business is on the notice, someone else could be behind it? But why would anyone else want to close down my bus? Myrtle’s nephew is part of the food markets now, and I can’t imagine Rose or Frank being so proactive. Oh my God, do you think it’s Oliver?’ She almost dropped her mug. ‘That’s it! He’s pissed off that I rejected him, he doesn’t like that I’ve got feelings for Daniel, so by naming the complainant as Daniel’s hotel, he’s found a way to hurt the bus and cause a rift between us at the same time.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe it. God. Oliver?’
Reenie frowned. ‘He does seem a possible culprit, but are you sure he’s the only one? You need to be absolutely certain before you accuse him. There must be a way to find out the truth.’
Charlie nodded. Even though the thought of kind, well-intentioned Oliver being behind it was awful, she still found it more palatable than Daniel being responsible. Reenie was right; she did know, deep down.
‘How come you’re so wise, Reenie? Hundreds of years at the bottom of the sea?’
‘It’s mainly my therapist,’ Reenie admitted.
‘I’ve spent so many hours with her, unravelling what’s going on up here,’ she tapped her forehead, ‘and in here,’ she patted her chest, ‘that I feel I have some insight into the minds of other people; especially when it comes to affairs of the heart.’
‘I didn’t know you had a therapist,’ Charlie said. ‘But then, I know hardly anything about you.’
Reenie drew her knees up to her chest, a gesture that made her look like a young girl. ‘Maybe it’s time I told you a thing or two.’
Charlie stayed silent, waiting.
‘My husband, Maurice, died ten years ago. He dropped down dead in the post-office queue, of a ruptured brain aneurysm. He’d been entirely healthy up to that point, so it was a complete shock. I fell apart. There are large chunks of the following months that I don’t remember. I rejected offers of help from my sister and her family, and stopped going to see her – or anyone.’
‘I’m so sorry, Reenie. I had no idea.’ She remembered Daniel mentioning Reenie’s family that night in the pub, how everyone at the table had been surprised.
‘Why should you? I haven’t told you about it up until now.’
‘Is that when you moved out here? After he died?’
She shook her head. ‘Maurice and I lived here together. I know it’s hard to believe, sitting here precariously on the cliff, but it is a stable home. We have a son, Eddie, but he’s grown now, with a family of his own out in Sydney. I haven’t seen him for several years, though we Skype every other morning. With my therapist, it’s once a week.’ She gave Charlie a wry look. ‘Modern technology has been the making of me – or should I say, remaking of me. In more ways than one. Come inside.’
She stood suddenly, and Charlie, after waiting for this moment and then unprepared to have it offered up so freely, almost stumbled off the edge of the cliff in her haste to see inside the yellow house.
Reenie pushed open the door and Charlie followed her into a small, open-plan kitchen and living room. The sparse furniture was white-painted pine, everything spick and span: a kitchen table and two chairs, a dresser against the far wall. The sofa and single armchair were grey fabric, cosy and worn, and the coffee table was clear apart from coasters. But it wasn’t the furniture Charlie was interested in, or even the sheer quantity of light that flooded the rooms; it was what the light was falling on, covering every wall, making it hard to see the paintwork behind.
There were hundreds and hundreds of photographs. Unframed, A6 size, pinned close together like a mosaic.
Charlie did a slow circle, taking it all in. They were all of Porthgolow, either facing into the village, or out towards sea, the shifting moods and colours of the ocean, the cliffs and the sky. There were some taken from the beach, and others from the top of the hill above the cottage, on Crumbling Cliff. Something snagged in her brain. How many years’ worth were here? Suddenly, the lights in the evening made sense. It was a camera’s flash.
‘How …?’ she began.
Reenie chuckled. ‘It’s my obsession. My therapist doesn’t think it’s healthy, but she’s accepted that it may take another two decades – however long I have left – for me to think my way out of it.’
Charlie stepped closer to the nearest wall, taking in the detail. In a few photos she could see The Cornish Cream Tea Bus, the flash of sun reflecting off Crystal Waters. There were several taken during her food markets, with the beach a hive of colourful, vibrant activity.
‘Do you take photos every day?’
‘Every day,’ Reenie echoed. ‘I can’t bear to let one pass without capturing it. I am the very definition of a dotty old woman.’
‘Because of your grief,’ Charlie said, moving to look at a cluster where the sea was pearlescent, the light not quite reaching the water’s surface. They must be the sunrise, she thought, the sun still low behind the land to the east, but touching everything with its morning glow. ‘You couldn’t hold onto Maurice, and this is your way of trying to regain control.’
She thought of how often, after Hal’s death, she’d had the sensation of falling, trying to grasp hold of something to stop herself, and realizing it would never be there again. The pure, white-hot burst of desolation, of aching to go back to the days before, when everything was as it should be.
‘You really are as smart as you look,’ Reenie said, amusement in her voice. ‘Almost.’
‘So you take the photos, then put them up randomly on the walls of the house?’
‘My printer works overtime. My biggest expense, even more than electricity on this place, is ink and photo paper. There are albums too, with the older pictures in. But it’s my version of knitting or pottery class with the local adult education centre. My way of coping. My therapist—’
‘Does she have a name?’ Charlie asked, laughing.
‘She does, but it’s Dolly, so it’s best if we gloss over that. She says it’s a symptom of my grief, not a part of my recovery. That’s usually when I tell her I don’t give a toss and end our session early. But she understands. We work well together.’
Charlie grinned. She’d had no idea what this yellow house contained, though the most surprising thing was Reenie herself. ‘And you don’t … do anything …’ Her voice drifted off as the synapses fired, and the truth hit her like a lightning bolt. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Shut your mouth girl, you’ll catch things bigger than flies.’
‘Porthgolow Hideaway,’ Charlie said. ‘That’s where I recognize the photos from. You’re behind the Porthgolow Hideaway Instagram account? It’s got thousands of followers.’
‘It does seem to be going rather well. And it’s nice to have a place where I can chat to people.’
Charlie peered over Reenie’s shoulder as the older woman opened her iPhone and then the Instagram app. There it was, @PorthgolowHideaway. The successful Instagram influencer was a reclusive, wise old woman who some people thought might possibly be a mermaid. She remembered Daniel saying he’d like to have some kind of partnership with the account and laughed out loud.
‘Daniel doesn’t know, does he? He’s never been in here?’
‘You’re the first person to darken this door for a long while, and whenever I see Daniel, it’s up at the hotel. Nobody knew about my foray into the online world up until this very moment, and I’d like to keep it that way, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Why?’ She could smell Reenie’s faint lavender scent and felt a twist of protectiveness towards her, as self-aware and defiant as she was.
‘I don’t want anyone to know. It’s for me, posting the beauty of this place, interacting with people who comment. They don’t need to know I’m behind it.’
‘Porthgolow Hideaway,’ Charlie murmured. ‘What made you start it up?’
‘Why not?’ Reenie said. ‘I was taking the photographs anyway, and Dolly said I should connect with people. This is how I choose to do it. I may not have the will to come to one of your markets or socialize in the pub, but I can show people how special this place is. It’s how I see Porthgolow. And this,’ she gestured to the sea beyond the windows, ‘this is our view. Maurice’s and mine. If I put my name to it, if the Instagram page isn’t anonymous any more, I’d be giving up what Maurice and I had together.’
Charlie put her hand on Reenie’s arm and could feel how thin it was, the bone close to the surface. ‘You’re already sharing it,’ she said softly, ‘even if nobody knows it’s you. And just because you tell them, it doesn’t mean it’s no longer yours and his. You don’t dilute your memories just because you share them with other people. In some ways, I think, it makes them stronger.’
Reenie stared at her, suddenly looking her age. Charlie wouldn’t force her to do anything she didn’t want to; it was entirely up to her what she did with her photographs. But they had definitely had an influence on her events; the account had put Porthgolow on the social media map before Charlie had even driven into the village. She was sure it had helped build the momentum.
‘You know what?’ Charlie co
ntinued. ‘You have been a huge help to me, to the food market, and I didn’t realize it. Thank you, Reenie.’
‘Oh tush.’ Reenie waved her away, but Charlie could see she was pleased. ‘Now, never mind all this. What are you going to do about Daniel, and Oliver, and poor, stricken Gertie?’
Charlie chewed her lip. Reenie had solved one of her Porthgolow mysteries, but there was another, more pressing issue she had to get to the bottom of. And the sooner she worked it out, the sooner she could get on with enjoying the rest of her summer.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Charlie put her spatula down and scraped her finger along the edge, her phone tucked under her ear as she listened.
‘So I really think we can do some great new things, Charlie, and if your bus wants to be part of it, obviously with a bit of a shift-around, then of course that would be wonderful.’ Bea Fishington sounded contrite, but she had no reason to be. The Fair on the Field had been a disaster, but The Cornish Cream Tea Bus was not. Charlie knew that everyone back home was following her success online – her mum and dad had been cooing to her about it on the phone.
‘It sounds great,’ Charlie murmured. ‘I’m glad it’s worked out so well with your niece, and that … that you’re looking forward to having me back.’
‘Beginning of September, I think we said, didn’t we?’
‘Something like that.’ Ray jumped effortlessly onto the kitchen table, and Charlie gently lifted him off again.
There was a pause, and then Bea said, ‘I’m so glad this summer’s been so good for you, Charlie. You’ve spread your wings, really found your place in the world. It’s brilliant. Let me know when you’re back in Ross, or Cheltenham, and we can get together and have a chat before you officially return. I’m sure your mum and dad are dying to see you.’
‘They’re really looking forward to it,’ Charlie confirmed.
They said their goodbyes and Bea rang off. Charlie dropped into one of the kitchen chairs and Ray jumped onto her lap, nuzzling against her hand.
The truth was, the few times she’d spoken to her parents there had been no talk of the end of the summer and her return home. And Bea and The Café on the Hill hadn’t been troubling her consciousness while Gertie and her markets were working so well. A part of her had believed that Bea wouldn’t want her back. She had seen her sabbatical as an extended period of garden leave, her boss quickly finding a replacement and getting in touch at some point down the line to let her know she was no longer needed.
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