There's Something About Cornwall

by Daisy James

  ‘Ooops!’

  Matt’s mouth was so close to hers that she could feel his breath on her cheek and her subconscious took over the reins from her brain. She leant forward and for the briefest of moments her lips brushed across his, sending a frisson of electricity spiralling out to her extremities. For a couple of seconds she felt like her feet had left the ground and she was floating on a wave of pure pleasure, until she landed with a jolt and she realised Matt had lifted her into the camper van and deposited her on the bed.

  She felt her sleeping bag being dragged up to her chin and she drifted away on a cloud of soft feathers, welcoming the sweet oblivion offered by sleep with abandon.

  Chapter Ten

  The journey to Falmouth was painful. It was Friday morning. The pretty Cornish cottages were dressed in their best; their white-washed façades, wreathed in late autumn sunshine, highlighted the dash of colour added by the scarlet, saffron and emerald front doors and the attractive English country gardens.

  A smattering of locals went about their business, weaving their way through the throng of day trippers who descended on the coastal communities as popular pit stops on the eternal tourist trail. They were all taking advantage of the clear blue sky and appreciating the bucolic beauty on display as the sun’s copper rays glanced from the chimney pots and washed the architecture in a warm ochre tint.

  But Emilie’s head felt like her crown had been lanced off in a bacon slicer. Her temples throbbed and her throat screamed out for a repeat dousing from the bottle of water Matt had handed to her when they’d set out for their next assignment at what seemed to her like the crack of dawn but was in fact eight a.m. She craved the infusion of sugar and caffeine but refrained from suggesting they stop for fear of having to admit her raging hangover to Matt. After all, he had warned her about the Scrumpy.

  However, her physical discomfort was nothing compared to the mortification she felt when she remembered her embarrassing behaviour the previous night. Had she really tried to kiss him? She groaned inwardly. Of course Matt was being the perfect gentleman and hadn’t mentioned her total lapse in decorum. She had no idea what the unwritten rules were between a photographer and her willing, last-minute driver but she was certain they didn’t extend to being subjected to drunken advances.

  She wound the window down to cool down the heat that had risen to her cheeks. She breathed in the fragrant air laced with a top note of floral scent from the late blooms draped over the garden walls and from hanging baskets coupled with the more robust salty bouquet from the proximity of the sea.

  ‘Not far now. The Dog and Trumpet is in the next village,’ Matt reassured her.

  Emilie offered Matt a weak smile. Her bones felt every bump and crack in the road and the more she tensed, the harsher the punishment. It was no good. She had to come clean about her self-inflicted suffering.

  ‘Could you pull over for a minute, please?’

  Matt checked her face and smiled as he steered the camper van into a lay-by. She crawled into the back of the van, ignoring the sleeping bag tossed on the floor and, as her eyes fell on the chemical toilet, her stomach heaved. She swallowed two Paracetamol and sent them on their way with a generous glug of water.

  ‘Everything okay?’

  Emilie marvelled at Matt’s capacity for cheerfulness. She had been with him almost non-stop for the last week and she had never heard him complain or moan once. Oh God, she was a terrible person. Not only was she feeling sorry for herself for her physical ailments, she was still trying to erase the image of herself standing in the drawing room of The Risings when the realisation that Lucinda wanted her to perform her best David Bailey repertoire out of hours had struck her right between the eyes.

  ‘It will be. I don’t usually indulge in alcohol whilst I’m on a location shoot. But what with everything that happened last night with Lucinda and the unfamiliar cider…and well, later… Sorry.’

  She climbed back into the passenger seat and dragged her phone from her pocket to squint at the screen.

  ‘Oh God, there’s an email from Lucinda already,’ she groaned, opening up the missive with a feeling of intense trepidation. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, I do not believe it! Listen to this:

  ‘Emilie, could you email me the photographs from last night straight away. Grant has offered to print them off so that everyone can sign them before they leave and they’ll be ready for the charity auction that’s planned for when Lucinda Loves…Desserts is published. Make sure you add your charges to the final invoice. Thank you for your contribution. Lucinda.’

  ‘Not such a dragon in an apron after all, eh?’ Matt smiled. ‘Does that make you feel a bit better about the misunderstanding last night? Lucinda must really rate your work if she’s happy to auction your photographs at her launch party. She obviously intended to pay for your services and you’ll be credited as the photographer.’

  ‘You’re right. I definitely feel better about facing her at the next shoot now,’ said Emilie, although it did nothing to lessen her shame at making a drunken pass at Matt. She didn’t know whether to be relieved that he had had the common sense to bundle her into the van or be upset that he hadn’t wanted to kiss her back. She shoved her confusion into the deepest darkest crevices of her mind and made a conscious effort to obliterate the humiliation.

  ‘So, what do we have on the menu this time? What further delicious desserts has the glorious county of Cornwall supplied the hungry nation with?’

  Emilie drew Alice’s notebook from her straw bag to at least try to figure out what she would be faced with at the next venue on Lucinda’s whistle-stop culinary tour of expansive regional delights. She flicked to the relevant page of the itinerary and scanned the neatly written notes.

  ‘Okay, so today we’re shooting in the conservatory of The Dog and Trumpet in a tiny hamlet just outside Falmouth. Apparently the pub’s owned by a TV chef who has two Michelin stars to his name – Hector Durrell. He and Lucinda filmed a pilot for an adventure-type cookery TV show in India a few years ago but it wasn’t taken up. Not sure why. Today’s bakes are something called Heavy Cake, which sounds disgusting, and individual Cornish Yarg Soufflés. Apparently Cornish Yarg is a cheese that’s wrapped in a cloak of nettles before being left to mature. Don’t you think it’s a great name? It says in Alice’s notes that the cheese won a gold medal in the British Cheese Awards.’

  ‘It’s great to hear about another artisan industry that is thriving.’

  ‘And I’m pleased to say, this shoot should be straightforward because Hector and his staff have insisted on styling the whole thing themselves. All I have to do is take the photographs. I remember now – Alice was hoping to finish early so she could scoot off to visit her parents back in Bath for the weekend. We’re not shooting the Penzance desserts until Monday.’

  ‘Okay. That’s great because it means I can squeeze in a visit to that whisky distillery I was telling you about. I can either go whilst you’re working or I can wait until you’ve finished and we can go together?’

  ‘Sounds interesting. Count me in – just don’t expect me to take part in any tasting. Not one drop of alcohol will pass my lips for the foreseeable future.’

  Matt laughed. ‘When have I heard that before? You’ll change your mind once you’ve had a proper breakfast. I reckon one of the world famous Cornish pasties will be just the cure! And here we are. The Dog and Trumpet.’

  Emilie ran her eyes over the handsome stone façade adorned with bold gold signage announcing they had reached their destination. The door was ajar, welcoming any passing ravenous tourist with deep pockets. She knew she wouldn’t be ordering her breakfast there no matter how desperately she craved sustenance.

  ‘Why don’t we pop across to the bakery over there before we unload the equipment?’

  ‘Best thing I’ve heard all morning!’

  When Emilie walked into the conservatory at the rear of The Dog and Trumpet, her camera strap digging painfully into he
r shoulder, her flagging spirits lifted immediately. What a gorgeous setting for the shoot. The view over the gently rolling hills, criss-crossed by snaking yellow gorse was breathtaking.

  However, the most welcome sight was the table, which had been professionally dressed in accordance with Lucinda’s precise instructions. It was a flawless tableau against which to photograph the desserts and relief spread through her veins at having sidestepped the risk of a run-in with her employer that day. It was the last thing she needed in her delicate state.

  Marcus rushed in, panic written boldly across his handsome features. ‘Emilie, please tell me you picked up Lucinda’s dry-cleaning from the Truro shoot? I can’t find it anywhere.’

  ‘Yes, I did actually…’

  ‘Oh, thank God. Where is it?’

  ‘Outside in the camper van.’

  ‘Could you fetch it please? Lucinda needs the aprons straight away.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She trotted out to the car park, her heart giving a stab of pleasure at the sight of the Satsuma Splittie parked up in the shade. She was surprised to find that she’d grown so fond of it. Who would have guessed she could have such an affinity with a vehicle? Matt was still in the driver’s seat, his head tipped back in repose, his features highlighted by a shard of autumn sunshine that had burst through the canopy of trees overhead as he enjoyed a well-earned snooze.

  ‘Hey!’ she called through the open window. ‘Can you pass me the dry-cleaning? Apparently Lucinda needs twelve freshly laundered aprons embroidered with Lucinda loves…Padstow straight away! Although heaven knows why when she has a dozen pristine replicas stitched with the much more appropriate Lucinda loves…Falmouth.’

  She balanced the packages – each one wrapped in cellophane and tied with a pale pink ribbon – across her forearms so as not to crease them and went off in search of Marcus.

  ‘Thank you, Emilie. You’re an absolute star.’

  ‘What’s she planning on doing with them?’

  ‘Ours is not to reason why, my dear. I gave up trying to second-guess Lucinda years ago. Now off you trot and do what you have to do. Hector and his staff have already brought the most delicious-smelling desserts up from the kitchen and I’m drooling over one of the cheese soufflés before it sinks into mush. And for afters I have my beady eye on one of those quaint little cakes stuffed with raisins although my waistline might have something to say about that. Let me know when you’re done?’

  ‘Where’s Lucinda? Doesn’t she want to be here?’

  ‘She’s exhausted from performing at her dinner party last night and the excessive baking fandango this morning so she’s relaxing over a brandy with Hector in the bar. She just asked for the aprons, and then she’s scurrying off to spend the weekend with Grant back at The Risings. Okay for some, eh?’

  Marcus paused to scrutinise Emilie’s face. ‘A little birdie told me what happened last night, but we won’t dwell, eh?’ And he flounced out of the room, the aprons held aloft like precious jewels to be presented to the Queen of Puddings.

  Emilie took her time with the shoot. Without the spectre of Lucinda looming over her and free of the dread in the pit of her stomach that she was about to make a mistake with the styling, she was able to thoroughly enjoy the experience and the images she recorded reflected that serenity. She decided she would spend her free weekend scrolling through the photographs of the four shoots to date and honing in on a selection she could work on to produce the final shots for inclusion in the Lucinda Loves…Desserts cookery book.

  Organisation – it was a new concept, but one she decided she would try to embrace.

  Finally, she checked through her last few shots and declared herself satisfied. She slotted her lenses into their protective case and strolled back to the table to select one of the Cornish Heavy Cakes Marcus had coveted. The flavours crashed against her taste buds and zinged across her palate. The buttery sponge and the intense sweetness of the raisins and sugar scattered across the top were just too good to resist and she grabbed a second. She stood at the conservatory window devouring her spoils and drinking in the view.

  A flash of crimson caught the corner of her eye. She craned her neck for a better view and saw Lucinda emerge from the kitchen door to her right, a heavy leather holdall slung over her shoulder, making for the back of the car park. However, she strode straight past the hire car, a sleek black Mercedes, and continued down the road leading to the village green. But what really caught Emilie’s attention was the way Lucinda was acting: continuously glancing over her shoulder, clearly checking to see whether she was being followed.

  Weird, Emilie thought to herself. What could Lucinda be up to?

  Emilie slid open the patio door leading from the lounge to the weather-beaten decking at the rear of The Dog and Trumpet. She twisted her way through the tables and chairs and stretched onto her tiptoes to see where Lucinda was headed. But as she watched from her vantage point, Lucinda increased her speed and disappeared through the wisteria-draped lych gate of the village church.

  What on earth…?

  Emilie sauntered back to the conservatory to collect her belongings, her brain whirring with myriad explanations for Lucinda’s strange behaviour. The room was now buzzing with activity as the staff – each one of them wearing a Lucinda loves…Falmouth apron – and a very happy Marcus sampled the wares. No one seemed to have noticed, or to care, that Lucinda was missing from their midst.

  ‘Okay, Marcus, I’m done. What do you have planned for your weekend off?’

  ‘Got a whole load of paperwork to catch up on and the details of the next few shoots to double-check. And Lucinda has given me a list of calls to make for her upcoming trip to France before Christmas.’

  ‘All work and no play, Marcus!’

  ‘Ah yes, my dear, but life without work is like pudding without custard. And who eats Spotted Dick without custard? You know yourself that if you care passionately about something you need to live, breathe and sleep it. You might not believe me, but I adore my job!’

  Emilie smiled at Marcus’s earnest expression. He looked even more like a cat burglar in his black cashmere polo-neck sweater and designer jeans. Maybe he should give Lucinda a few tips on how to go incognito to escape a photo shoot – crimson certainly wasn’t the first colour choice of someone wishing to remain anonymous.

  ‘Okay, well enjoy your weekend. I’ll see you on Monday in Penzance.’

  ‘Certainly will, my darling.’ Marcus grabbed her shoulders and landed a kiss on each of her cheeks. ‘Have fun with that sun-kissed Adonis of yours.’

  ‘He’s not my… Oh, never mind.’

  She made her way to the door, casting a final glance down the street in the direction of the church, but of course there was no sign of Lucinda. Why had Lucinda been creeping away? What was she hiding? And why did she have an overnight bag with her? Still, what Lucinda did in her personal life was none of Emilie’s business and she resolved to put her bafflement out of her mind.

  ‘Ready for our trip to the whisky distillery? Actually, I was thinking of compiling a detailed article on the place for my editor. Any chance you could take a few photographs to go with it? I’ll give you half the fee?’

  ‘I don’t mind at all. In fact, I’d be honoured. And you don’t have to pay me. After all, you’re doing all the driving – and not just the business miles. It’s the least I can do.’ She settled back into her seat in the camper van for their trip to the next village where the Cornish whisky distillery was located.

  As they tootled down the country lanes listening to the mellow tunes from a local radio station, Emilie laid her head against the seat and closed her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry I fobbed you off last night when the conversation became uncomfortable.’

  ‘It’s okay. I understand.’ She opened her eyes and turned to look at Matt. ‘You don’t have to lay your life bare just because we’ve been tossed together in the Satsuma Splittie for the next few
weeks.’

  Emilie watched Matt draw in his lower lip in an effort to hang on to his emotions and her heart ballooned with affection. She waited for him to select his next words, his eyes fixed on the road ahead so he didn’t have to look her in the eye. He was clearly struggling to find an opening sentence so she decided to follow her mother’s advice of giving airtime to your issues.

  She gave him a gentle nudge. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

  The emotional trauma was etched into the premature contours on his face and Emilie glimpsed once again the deep sadness she’d noticed the first time they had met on the beach in Padstow.

  ‘I took to the road when I closed the business. I chose to run away instead of staying in Northumberland and facing up to what had happened. I sold off most of the equipment for peanuts, bought a surfboard and a train ticket and headed down here to Cornwall. I know Mum and Dad worry about me but it’s my way of coping. I can’t explain it. I needed to get as far away from the brewery as I could, both physically and emotionally. Woven into the guilt I feel about what happened, I also have this intense need to squeeze every last ounce out of life, to make the most of every single moment, to throw myself headlong into every new experience. To live life to the max. That’s what I’ve been doing for the last two years.’

  ‘But you still love everything to do with the drinks industry, even I know that,’ said Emilie, noticing that Matt hadn’t mentioned the reasons behind the closure of the microbrewery. Maybe he had been declared bankrupt and was embarrassed about it, but that didn’t explain the enduring sorrow that she saw reflected in his eyes and which clearly weighed heavily on his heart.