Breakfast Under a Cornish Sun

by Samantha Tonge

  Silence fell as I kept scrolling the page and we analysed profile after profile. Some photos were people in fancy dress, complete with tricorns for Ross, or red wigs for Demelza. Others were understated and belonged to people who just liked historical reading, as opposed to the hot stars of the novel’s TV adaption.

  ‘Ooh. This guy would fit the bill,’ I murmured. ‘He lives about an hour away. We could meet up halfway.’

  ‘Hmm. Nice enough,’ replied Izzy, as we studied the photo of a man nearer to my age, with raven hair, dark eyes and wearing a white shirt just unbuttoned enough to reveal manly chest hair. ‘I mean …’ Izzy stared at the floor. ‘Who knows, you might feel ready to …’

  She met my gaze as I raised one eyebrow. Again I noticed the glint of the red wind spinner in the corner of the room. I shook my head. No words necessary. Izzy didn’t push her point and went back to the screen.

  ‘Marcus,’ I said. ‘That’s a sexy name. He likes candlelit dinners, romantic seaside strolls and horse-riding.’ I bit the corner of my bottom lip. ‘He sounds suitable. Shall I join the site and message him?’

  ‘You’re actually going to do this?’

  I wiped my forehead and perspiration dampened my hand. ‘Yes. Although I feel a bit bad … you know, going on a date when I have no intention of starting a new relationship. But I reckon most people are just on these sites for a bit of fun. I’ll pay for the meal. At least, then, they won’t have spent money unnecessarily.’

  In full auntie mode, Izzy pushed me out of the way and clicked on the site’s pages. ‘It looks well run,’ she said, a few minutes later. ‘Plus they give sensible advice like not giving away too much personal information online and meeting in a public place.’

  I slid the laptop back in my direction. ‘Izzy. Please. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.’

  She grinned. ‘I know. Don’t forget, I witnessed you throw out that troublemakers the other day. Good job.’

  I grinned back. I was a fearsome proposition at a certain time of the month and when a couple of teenage lads started flicking bits of doughnut around the diner, I wasted no time in getting them to pay the bill and leave—although granted, dangling their mobile phones over a large jug of Long Island Tea might have been overzealous.

  ‘But why not look at some other profiles first?’ She shrugged.

  ‘Time isn’t on my side! I’ve got precisely four weeks to not only meet a bed-haired, sexy-eyed guy with looks as rugged at Cornish scenery, but then convince him to accompany me to a wedding under the name of Ross.’ I covered my face with my hands. ‘Ludicrous, isn’t it? Listen to me. Perhaps I should give up before I start.’ I parted my fingers slightly to see Izzy’s face.

  She took my hands away and stared for a moment. ‘Is it really important to you to impress this woman?’

  I swallowed, wishing it wasn’t. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then go for it, even though you are super-impressive just the way you are. After dinner, I’ll help select other suitable men to contact.’

  My hands fell away and I gave her the biggest of hugs.

  ‘Let me breathe,’ she squeaked eventually and, as she leant back, I grinned.

  Whilst Izzy finished off the stir-fry, I tapped a message to Marcus, having carefully selected my profile picture. Tempting as it was to use one of my airbrushed, Instagram snaps, I chose an un-Photoshopped head shot of me after a gig where I’d sung fifties and sixites music. I wore one of my smarter black bop dresses, with a slim belt around the waist, and updo hair à la Audrey Hepburn.

  I pressed send, just as Izzy called me to the breakfast bar. Mmm. Sliced chicken fried with veggies, ginger and garlic. I was just about to top up our Prosecco tumblers when I heard a ping and hurried over to my laptop.

  ‘Aarghh! He’s replied already!’ I said and unexpectedly my hands shook.’ I clicked on the message. ‘He wants to meet tomorrow night. Eight o’clock at a pub called the Dog and Duck, in Winbury.’

  I ran back to Izzy and held her hands as, laughing, we jumped up and down on the spot (that was our thing, and agreed, totally inappropriate for our age group).

  ‘You are one crazy woman,’ she said, face split into a smile. She shook her head. ‘I think I’ve seen that pub when I visit one of our suppliers. It’s about forty minutes away.’ She stared at me for a few seconds. ‘OK. Fine.’

  ‘Um, excuse me, I wasn’t asking your permission!’

  ‘Meet your Poldark,’ she continued. ‘And who knows, despite … despite what you think, you may be ready to … He could be a lovely guy.’

  I fiddled with my bead bracelet.

  ‘But either way,’ she said brightly, ‘I’ll be lurking in the background, just in case your romantic hero turns up wielding a machete instead of a scythe.’

  But he wouldn’t be wielding a heart wind spinner, so however much charmed he oozed, it would be lost on me.

  CHAPTER 3

  Deep breaths. In and out. And again. Anyone would think I was about to give birth. Well, Saffron would, seeing as my waist measurement was more than twenty-four inches. I smiled. Dear Johnny had well and truly extinguished any teenage insecurities I might have still harboured about not being a size zero. Curves were his thing—on the hips, on the lips—so I always said it would be rude not to maintain my womanly look—code he understood for always giving me the last slice of a pizza.

  I took one last breath and headed across the car park into the Dog and Duck. Not that I was anti-slim women. That was the difference between Saffron and me. I didn’t care what anyone looked like as long as they were kind. It was hard to think of Saffron as a teacher now. I grimaced, just imagining her having class favourites, all the popular kids with the best phones, coolest rucksacks and doting hangers-on.

  I stopped in front of wooden swing doors. It was an olde worlde Tudor pub, the slightly wonky white-and-black front somehow inviting me in. I’d managed to convince Izzy not to come—that at the grand old age of twenty-seven I didn’t need a chaperone. As a compromise, she’d insisted on ringing one hour into the date, at nine, to give me a reason to escape if needs be. She was back at Donuts & Daiquiris, feeling inspired by all this Cornwall talk, experimenting with a new recipe for doughnuts filled with jam and Cornish clotted cream.

  My mouth went dry and I fanned my face with my beaded clutch handbag, before smoothing down my dress. As the sun set, the heat of the day abated. It had been the hottest July for a long time and with August on the way the shops had already sold out of battery-run hand fans. Craving an iced drink, I pulled open the door and headed in—and almost about-turned and left as my stomach knotted really tight. Marcus and I had messaged briefly today. He said this pub served a great fish pie and we’d both laughingly agreed to have the Cornish dairy ice cream for dessert, as an homage to the Poldark series.

  Curling my free hand into a fist, I sternly told myself not to be a wimp and stepped onto laminate floor. I gazed around, bending forwards and backwards to study tables, in between wooden black beams. One family, a young man on his own, a retired couple … The grey-haired woman dropped her phone and I scooted forward to pick it up. As I got up and returned her thanks with a smile, I surveyed the pub again and … Ooh. On my left, his back to me, was a man with curly black hair, wearing a white shirt. Stomach now tighter than an eighteenth-century bodice, I strode over and walked around his table.

  ‘Marcus?’

  He looked up and I almost peed my pants. God. It was him, but an older version. His picture must have been heavily photoshopped. Stupid me. Wrinkles surrounded his hooded eyes and his hair was clearly dyed black. It was thin on the top and—Aarghhh! Combed over. And out of his open shirt poked grey hairs.

  I know. Listen to me. Shallow or what? OK, so he wasn’t what I expected, but I was heading towards thirty, a mature woman, I should be above writing off potential romantic partners for superficial reasons—not that I was on the lookout for love. I gazed more intently … he could be over fifty which meant he might be the sa
me age as my dad. Noooo. On so many levels, this was wrong.

  Yet I was curious. The sweetest expression had crossed his face and he stood up until I sat down.

  ‘Kate,’ he said. ‘Er, cool to meet you.’ He winked. ‘Finally I get to meet my very own Demelza. Now I just need a horse to whisk you away.’ He ran a hand through his hair, but it didn’t seem like a natural movement. I couldn’t help smiling. Only a few seconds in and he was trying really hard. ‘So, what’ll it be?’ he said, in a bright voice. ‘Vodka shots or one of those trendy ciders?’

  ‘Just a Coke please. I’m driving. But I’ll get it.’

  ‘No. Let me,’ he said and darted up as quick as you like, as if I had a contagious disease.

  I watched him, at the bar, thinking back to my first date with Johnny, in a pub not unlike this. He’d seen me singing on one of my modern music nights, where I’d performed some Ed Sheeran, Joss Stone and James Blunt. He came up to me afterwards; said my voice had a unique quality he’d never heard before; wondered if I’d like to accompany him to a jazz pub the following evening as a friend had let him down. Not that we’d heard much of the bass and piano the following evening as we talked non-stop. And just before we parted, outside, he’d leant forward and kissed me oh so gently on the cheek, ever so close to my mouth, lingering for just a bit longer than expected, millimetres away from my top lip. I was hooked.

  I cleared my throat as Marcus returned to the table. He sat down, with two Cokes.

  ‘Thanks, Marcus. Um … nice to meet you.’

  ‘Wicked!’ he said.

  Cringe. What a painful attempt to appear younger. He’d realised it too. Marcus sighed and looked down at himself.

  ‘I don’t normally wear tops wide open like the Bee Gees, but thought I’d better make an effort—you know, for the sake of Poldark.’ He eyed me up and down and I squirmed in my seat, sensing my cheeks pink up.

  ‘So, obviously you’re a big fan of the series,’ I said.

  Now my eyes roved his frame. He must have been quite an eye-turner a decade or so before. In fact there was something about his face—the dark shadows under the eyes perhaps—that made me think he looked even older than his actual years. As we chatted about our love of the programme, my shoulders relaxed and I leant back in my chair. So did he. In fact, Marcus was good company. Funny, in an understated way. Polite. Witty. What a shame he wasn’t young enough to impress Saffron. Yet, I was pleased at not having to dupe him. What a lovely guy. It made me realise I’d have to be upfront with whoever I took to the wedding. Hurting people’s feelings wasn’t part of the plan.

  We both ordered the fish pie. Looked like I’d be logging on to the dating site again tonight, to find another candidate.

  ‘I watch the programme every week with my daughter,’ said Marcus. He studied me again. ‘Sorry,’ he blurted out. ‘I don’t mean to stare, it’s just … Please don’t take this the wrong way, Kate, but from your profile picture I thought you’d be older. Like my Ruth, you can’t even be into your thirties yet.’ He shot me a sheepish look. ‘And I expect my appearance was a bit of a surprise.’ He shook his head. ‘Bet you think I’m a right arse, trying to be younger than my years.’

  ‘Erm …’

  He grinned, chestnut eyes twinkling as he touched his hair. ‘I let Ruth dye this for that profile picture. Big mistake.’

  Aw bless. What a superstar. So he definitely wasn’t some creep lusting after women half his age. Although I’d already worked that out after the way he’d talked about how satisfying he found his job as a care worker. Clearly he had strong principles—so why did a man with such integrity and passion need the help of an online matchmaking service?

  ‘Ruth means well and also insisted on putting that photo through Instagram first so that I looked “my best”.’ He gave a deep chuckle. ‘Always a generous child, she’s been.’

  I smiled. ‘And I posted a photo, warts and all, with bad lighting. How old did you think I’d be?’ Marcus’s cheeks flushed a deep maroon and I burst out laughing. ‘Don’t worry. No need to answer. My classic black dress probably didn’t help.’

  ‘It’s what attracted me to your profile,’ he said. ‘My mum used to dress like that. What I mean is …’ He groaned and I couldn’t help giggling. ‘Lord,’ he said, ‘I am useless at all this stuff.’

  ‘I love all that movie-star glamour, with long cigarette holders and classic clothes. It is such a distinctive era. And you can pick up some great bargains from charity shops.’ Oxfam had been my lifesaver during the teenage years. A fifty-pence vintage top from there felt newer than any hand-me-down from my older sisters. ‘Guess we’ve paid the price for using a niche, smaller dating site. I imagine the bigger dating sites require you to enter your actual age.’

  The waiter delivered our pies and we ate in silence for a few moments. Mmm. Creamy subtle flavours washed over my tongue. I ordered us another couple of Cokes.

  Marcus stared at me. ‘Do you think it’s sad, Kate? A man of my age doing online dating?’

  ‘No. I think it’s hard for lots of people to meet that special someone in this mad, modern busy world.’

  He clasped his hands together. ‘That’s just it though. Ruth means well but I … I’m not ready to meet someone else yet. My wife … Sandra … She passed away two years ago and I still miss her.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘Sorry, Kate. I shouldn’t bore you with—’

  My throat felt scratchy at the way his voice caught and those dark eyes glistened. ‘No, Marcus, honestly, it’s fine. Tell me about her. How did you meet?’

  ‘At university, during the Fresher’s Week fair. My new friends joined the cheese and wine club because lots of female students had signed up. But I really wanted to try potholing, and joined that club first. So did Sandra. A slow dance to Whitney Houston at a freshers’ disco sealed our attraction that went on to last for life.’

  They had two kids. And now four grandchildren. Then Sandra got early-onset dementia and died no longer knowing that Marcus was her soul mate. Marcus started to eat his pie again and shook his head. ‘Ruth would kill me for sitting here, on a date, talking about my wife—her mum.’ He looked up. ‘Devastating for her, it was, watching Sandra lose all the aspects of her character, one by one. We cried more at the diagnosis than the end which, by then, was a blessed relief.’ He shrugged. ‘I wish my daughter wouldn’t worry about me.’

  I patted his arm before glancing at my watch. ‘And talking of people worrying—’

  On cue, my phone rang. And so did Marcus’s! Five minutes later, each of us had hung up and we were laughing. Both Izzy and Ruth had rung bang on nine o’clock to give us get-outs from the date, if required.

  ‘Enough about me,’ said Marcus, as our ice creams arrived. ‘“Fess up”, Kate, as my grandson would say. What is an attractive, personable, intelligent young woman like you doing on Perfect Poldark Pairs?’

  I wasn’t going to mention Johnny. That subject matter was still so … raw. And I’d become unused to talking about him with people I didn’t know well. Plus my heartbreak had no relevance—I wasn’t on this date to find The One. Just a plus-one. I covered my face with my hands. ‘You’ll think me mad.’

  ‘Try me.’

  Out poured the whole sorry story about Saffron and me trying to impress.

  Marcus shook his head. ‘Oh dear, and you turn up to meet me, Mr Flymo-man—I’d have no idea how to cut grass with a scythe.’ He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘You know I’ve learnt, over time, that the things you most want appear where you least expect them—like Sandra, at the potholing club. Perhaps the key for you will be to stop trying so hard to find this Ross.’

  ‘But I don’t have time on my side. The wedding is at the end of August, in just over four weeks. I need a miracle or to speed-date twenty-four-seven!’

  As we drank coffees, and ate delicious crisp mints, our conversation moved on to more general subjects. How we’d both love to live somewhere like Cornwall. How the eighteenth-century lifes
tyle appealed because of its simplicity.

  Eventually, he glanced at his watch. ‘Right, Well. Work tomorrow. I’d better get going.’ His eyes crinkled. ‘Best of luck. I’m sorry I don’t fit the bill, but keep in touch, Kate.’ Marcus rolled his eyes. ‘Ruth has insisted on registering me on Facebook, so perhaps we can connect on there and I’ll come to one of your gigs. I love all disco music and swing. And if I stumble across any brooding heroes in the next week or so, I’ll let you know. Or—’ he shrugged ‘—you could forget trying to impress this Saffron; skip the wedding …’

  Mature me knew he was right, but lurking aspects of Katie Golightly just wouldn’t let me turn down the invitation.

  Singing some Frank Sinatra, I drove my slightly rusty but cosy car home. Belting out a song had been my escape, as a youngster, from my hectic family life and from the challenges of school. I’d hole myself up somewhere private, like the back garden or bathroom, close my eyes and for just a few moments, whilst singing, felt important, felt unique—until Mum called me to do my chores.

  I parked up, on a busy high street, outside Donuts & Daiquris—Izzy had insisted I call in for mock Mojito, before going home, to give her the low-down.

  I got out, locked up my car and headed into the building, squinting at pretty neon lights and circumnavigating busy tables until I reached the bar. James informed customers that it was last orders. Me and Izzy headed out back, to the quiet, whitewashed staff room. We sat down on wooden chairs and she raised a neatly pencilled eyebrow.

  I gave a huge sigh ‘Nice night. Nice evening. Nice bloke. But old enough to be my dad.’ Cue twenty minutes of describing my date.

  ‘So it’s back to square one?’ she said, eventually.

  My mouth drooped. ‘Let’s face it. This plan of mine is never going to work. It takes long enough to hook up with someone when you’ve no particular type in mind, let alone when you have a list of criteria.’ I raised my hands in the air. ‘What with this and having to leave my flat and my Stanley Hotel gigs being cancelled, I’m just so fed up.’ Another big sigh. ‘Why can’t James have curly black hair and brooding looks. I bet he’d look fab in a tricorn.’