by Daisy James
She glanced across to where Marcus had retreated and was making himself busy by fussing over the Cornish pasties and whispering to the pastry chefs, with the occasional covert peek over his shoulder.
‘Actually, I’ve had a fabulous idea for this shoot. If you’ll just give me a couple of minutes to pull everything together I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.’
‘I like this girl, Lucinda.’ Pierre smiled.
Before Lucinda could respond, Emilie sprinted off to the camper van and leapt up into the passenger seat.
‘Matt! See Marcus over there with the two pastry chefs?’
‘Yes?’
‘Drive the Satsuma Splittie across the beach and park up next to him, please.’
‘Are you crazy?’
‘Yes, probably, but trust me, I know what I’m doing.’
‘Okay.’
Matt revved the engine, loosened the handbrake and steered towards the gathering as instructed. Emilie watched Lucinda follow their progress until the van drew up next to them, her jaw slackened like a stunned lioness.
‘Ah, now I get it!’ said Matt, beaming. ‘The Satsuma Splittie is the prop! Inspired, Miss Roberts!’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled, angling her camera lens to take a snap of Matt’s handsome face.
‘Hey, I’m not one of your props, you know!’
‘I think you’d make a fabulously authentic addition to the photographs.’ She laughed and snapped another couple of images, this time taking in his muscular torso, his tanned forearms with golden hairs cascading to his wrists, then back to those scorchingly blue eyes.
‘Hey!’ Matt reached across and made to grab the camera from her hands. She yanked it out of reach and his hand landed on her breast. ‘Ooops, sorry!’
‘Am I interrupting something?’ asked Lucinda peering in the window with interest.
Emilie beamed at Lucinda. It was the first time she had seen the famous TV chef’s lips curl up at the corners in amusement. It was as though she had noticed Matt for the first time and liked what she saw. Matt smirked and leapt down from the driver’s seat, drew back the side door, and then climbed onto the roof to untie his surfboard, an integral part of the intended Cornish montage.
They had been joined by an out-of-breath Trevor Williams, the local celebrity romance author. He had agreed to perform the role of sous chef in the kitchen of Pierre’s luxury boutique hotel, which they had commandeered for a bit of joint publicity.
‘Well?’ asked Lucinda, genuinely keen to hear what Emilie had planned. ‘Would you like to talk me through it?’
Emilie experienced a whoosh of confidence. The incident with the gazebo had reignited her creative spark and the enthusiasm in Lucinda’s voice as she’d spoken to Pierre about her talent had boosted her self-esteem to where it had been months ago.
‘I felt the iconic Cornish pasties that are the focus of this shoot deserved a more majestic backdrop than a plain white gazebo. The view across to the lighthouse is amazing, and with the Satsuma…the camper van and the surfboard as props, the photographs will look even more spectacular.’
Marcus had now wandered over, too. When he realised what Emilie was proposing to save his skin, his hand flew to his mouth.
‘Oh, darling, that’s awesome! This is definitely going to be the best shoot of the whole tour! That camper van is amazing. I’m loving the clash of orange-and-cream detail inside and out with the azure backdrop of the sea and the cute little lighthouse. You are a true maestro of artistic design, Emilie!’
A slow smile spread across Lucinda’s perfectly outlined lips. She clapped her hands and rushed over to the van like an excited schoolgirl, clambering into the back with Trevor in her wake, and taking everything in.
‘Come on! What are we waiting for? Let’s put the pasties here on this little table and bring the surfboard in a bit closer. Actually, I think this might be the ideal opportunity to take a few promotional photographs of me with the desserts for use in the marketing campaign when the book is launched. Is that okay, Emilie? Marcus, would you fetch my make-up case, please?’
Emilie looked at an astonished Marcus and grinned. It wasn’t only the first time she had heard Lucinda add the word ‘please’ to her numerous demands of her PA, but she had also got her name right twice in a row.
Emilie spent the best part of two hours taking photographs from myriad angles. They restyled the backdrop several times, always with the Satsuma Splittie taking centre stage and Matt’s colourful surfboard propped against it. The lighting was excellent that day and she was able to showcase the iconic desserts at their best.
Trevor then insisted on having a few shots taken with him holding up his latest bestseller, pressing his lips to its cover like a sportsman with a trophy. Not to be left out, Pierre asked her to take some pictures of him sitting in the passenger seat of the camper van, his arm hanging out of the window with his hotel in the distance.
Marcus’s constant chatter about which parties he’d been invited to in Newquay and Padstow – a well-known stage actor was mentioned – soothed Emilie’s brain and she produced some of her best work of the trip. Also, St Ives was as familiar to her as the back of her hand and she had even stayed in Pierre’s hotel the previous year before her parents had relocated.
The breeze had dropped to a whisper and the pasties looked mouth-watering, but that was nothing compared to the sweet aroma rising in a helix of sugary scent as a fresh batch arrived from the kitchen every thirty minutes. The pastry had been browned to perfection and the tang of warm fruit hung in the air, causing her empty stomach to groan.
When the final snap had been taken, Emilie experienced a sense of complete euphoria. She slotted her memory stick into her laptop and backed up her photographs before carefully packing up her lenses.
The crew hoovered up the last few crumbs of the blackberry and apple pasties that Lucinda, Pierre and Trevor – who professed an avid interest in all things sugar-laden – had made. The pasties had been produced under the myriad spotlights of publicists, agents and representatives from the publishers the two bestselling authors shared. Watching the crew devour the pasties was like witnessing a gang of ravenous wolves swarm the set.
‘Okay, everyone,’ announced Marcus, clapping his hands. ‘It’s a wrap. Oh, I’ve always wanted to say that!’
Emilie slumped into the leather seat in the back of the star attraction and stared out across the pewter sea, presided over by the lighthouse on the rocky island just off the coast to her right. As she waited for Matt to finish packing away the equipment under the watchful eye of an enamoured Marcus, she cringed when she recalled the exchange she’d had to endure with Lucinda in front of one of her favourite novelists. Clearly Lucinda’s new-found respect for her photographic talents didn’t extend to other aspects of her usefulness.
‘Oh, Emilie, there you are. Here, take these would you?’ Lucinda dumped a mountain of dirty aprons into Emilie’s outstretched arms, causing her knees to buckle under the weight. ‘Perhaps you could ask the wrapping service to pay a little more attention to the colour choice this time? Pink is, after all, the Lucinda Loves… signature colour.’
Thankfully Lucinda had not expected a response. She had swept from the beach on Trevor’s arm as he continued to cross-examine her about an incident she had been involved in when she’d been stopped for inadvertently carrying a kitchen knife in her handbag when she’d left for a shoot in Marrakesh five years ago. Emilie wondered if Trevor’s next heroine was going to be a TV chef, or, her own preference at that precise moment, the unsuspecting victim of a murder mystery!
Emilie had no energy left to feel indignant that despite Lucinda’s compliments on a very professional and artistically excellent shoot, her client still felt able to issue a request that she fulfil her apron-wrapping needs.
Marcus hummed a tuneless song, clearly enjoying his moment of authority as they wound up the St Ives shoot in the absence of his employer.
&nbs
p; ‘Okey-dokey, peeps. We can now grab a couple of days of well-earned break before we move on to Newquay. Perhaps those of us who are showing signs of exhaustion can use the time to catch up on their beauty sleep. The Newquay shoot is at The Headland Hotel & Spa and I, for one, am looking forward to using the facilities. And autograph books at the ready! We are to be graced with the presence of Fabio Martinelli whom, I am reliably informed, apparently plays in defence for a Premiership football team.’
Marcus slotted the last miniature Cornish pasty into his mouth, crumbs cascading down his chin, and strode towards Emilie. ‘Darling, I know pale and wan is the new beautiful but take some advice from someone who knows about skin care. That shade you are rocking is more on the vomit green spectrum than healthy English rose.’
‘You have no idea how right you are,’ said Matt who had just finished packing Emilie’s camera case. He stowed it in the back of the camper van before clambering onto the roof to secure his precious surfboard.
Emilie gathered up the last of the plates and cutlery and trotted behind Marcus along the sandy pathway to deliver them back to the hotel. They set the dishes down onto the beautifully sculptured marble island unit, which dominated the high-tech kitchen.
‘Off you go,’ Marcus generously suggested. ‘I’ll finish up here. And if you like, I’ll sort out the dry-cleaning and gift-wrapping too. She doesn’t need them until we arrive in Newquay so there’s no panic.’
‘Oh, are you sure, Marcus? That’s very kind of you.’
‘So, have you and everyone’s favourite beach boy moved on from the “just good friends” stage?’ enquired Marcus with a mischievous glint in his eye. ‘He seems to have become an essential part of Team Emilie.’
‘Actually, if you had seen me this morning, I don’t think this shoot would have happened if it hadn’t been for Matt. I shudder to think what Lucinda would have said if you’d pointed out where the gazebo had ended up! I’m so grateful for his help.’
‘Methinks it’s more than gratitude I can see in your red-rimmed eyes. But sadly the sickly invalid look is no way to attract the attentions of our golden boy. Believe me, I’m an expert.’
‘Would you believe I’ve had a touch of food poisoning? I succumbed to persuasion last night. No, Marcus! I’m talking about a plate of risotto marinara – seafood never did agree with me.’
‘And our heavenly chauffeur, Matt Ashby, held your pretty auburn locks whilst you indulged in a bout of extreme puking, am I right? God, it’s more serious than I thought – soon you’ll be announcing your engagement. I give it another week and the invitations to the wedding of the year will be dropping on our doormats. Do I need to go shopping for a hat in Newquay?’
Emilie couldn’t scrape together the energy to contradict Marcus and was more than relieved when he linked her arm through his and guided her outside, across the gravel driveway and back down the beach path towards the Satsuma Splittie. As they drew nearer, Marcus spotted Matt’s shapely buttocks protruding from the back of the van and turned to whisper in her ear.
‘Still making him sleep in his tent?’
After waving Marcus goodbye, Emilie collapsed into the passenger seat and let out a long sigh. She stared out of the windscreen at the panoramic view spread before her and she knew instantly why her parents had settled on St Ives to fulfil their retirement dreams. She had been shocked when they had announced they intended to move to Cornwall from her childhood home in Bristol, the city where she’d had the good fortune to grow up as the only child of two wonderful parents.
They had sold their Victorian semi in Clifton to follow their dream of owning a smallholding in the Cornish countryside where her mother could keep chickens, ducks and as many stray cats as she liked. They grew a variety of vegetables and there was a well-established orchard at the bottom of the garden, the fruit from which her mother bottled, stewed and preserved with the manic zeal of the self-sufficient enthusiast whilst her father tapped out his stories on an ancient laptop in his peppermint-and-cream writer’s shed.
Now that the St Ives shoot had finished she couldn’t wait to rush home for a dose of parental pampering. She wondered whether she should invite Matt to join her as a way of showing her appreciation for his help that day. But, after what had happened the previous night, he might not want to spend any more time with her, might be desperate to escape the chaos that she seemed to attract wherever she went.
She decided she would leave Matt in charge of the Satsuma Splittie and take a taxi to her parents’ farmhouse. After all, that’s what she had planned to do when she’d thought she would be travelling with Alice, wasn’t it?
Twilight was well into its final act, spreading its salmon and violet fissures across the darkening sky. There was a sharp nip in the air and the camper van was the last remaining vehicle in the beachside car park. An atmosphere of complete tranquillity surrounded them, the only movement the constant ebb and flow of the tide and the occasional seagull swooping from the sky to collect dinner, screeching out his joy at finding such bounty.
‘What time is it?’ she asked Matt, tearing her eyes away from the bucolic scene with difficulty.
‘Just after half past six. I don’t know about you but I could do with a decent night’s sleep. I have to admit, I hadn’t appreciated how much hard work running a photo shoot would be. Not only is the equipment heavy and cumbersome – you know it took me three trips to load up the van with the stuff – but it’s also much more stressful than I thought; something I’ve not had in my life for years. Coupled with the lack of sleep last night, well, I’m exhausted.’
Emilie laughed. Then, on the spur of the moment, she decided to invoke a woman’s prerogative. ‘Actually, I was wondering…you know we have a couple of days off before we need to be in Newquay? What do you say to coming with me to stay at my parents’ house? They’ve got a smallholding further down the coast with a wooden lodge in the garden that they let out to walkers and hikers. It’s nothing luxurious but you’d be very welcome.’
‘Hey, thanks, I’d love that.’
Emilie smiled as she saw pleasure light up Matt’s features and disperse the tiredness from beneath his eyes. A curl of anticipation of spending some downtime with the people she loved the most wound round her body. Did that list extend to her present company?
‘I take it I don’t need the satnav?’ Matt grinned.
‘Just follow the signposts for Carbis Bay and I’ll direct you from there.’
She grabbed her phone, selected her parents’ number and waited. It always took them ages to answer, even today when they were supposed to be waiting to hear what time she was due to arrive. But after two long minutes there was no reply.
‘Everything okay?’ asked Matt, sending her a concerned glance.
‘Mum and Dad are usually busy doing something in the garden or pottering around in the chicken house. They don’t always hear the phone ring. I’ll try again in a couple of minutes.’
‘So, have your parents retired?’
‘Mum has, but Dad still dabbles in his creative writing. He’s had a few short stories published in specialist magazines. He’s a passionate bibliophile – just wait until you see his study. It’s crammed with books on every topic imaginable. When I was a child, he used to tell me over and over again that when we read we do so with every sense wide open to persuasion; that every book offers a tantalising glimpse into an alien world, one sculpted by the author’s hand yet which welcomes every reader to loiter a while to marvel at the inhabitants and the architecture.’
‘Talented wordsmith, your dad!’
‘He is.’
She settled back to enjoy the familiar scenery flashing by the window on their left. St Ives Bay in the foreground and the rolling waves of the Atlantic Ocean stretching towards the horizon, its blue-grey mass dotted with tiny boats at anchor for the night. Seagulls floated languidly on the air currents, crying out for a morsel of fish for their supper. She could totally understand he
r parents’ choice of retirement dream. The temperature in Cornwall was often several degrees higher than the rest of the country too, due to the effect of the transatlantic drift that caressed the picturesque coastline bringing with it warmer waters.
Her parents had settled quickly into rural life. They’d made friends in the local community and welcomed the occasional B&B guest planning to hike the coastal path to Land’s End. Guests stayed in the wooden lodge, screened from the house by a magnificent copper beech hedge. Her mother had even started to learn a smattering of the Cornish language, much to her father’s amusement.
Emilie dialled their number again and waited but there was still no reply. She cursed them for refusing to join the twenty-first century and invest in mobile phones – or even an answerphone. Where were they? Why weren’t they answering? A sharp spasm of dread shot into her chest but she shoved it aside, telling herself that she was being ridiculous.
Matt turned the radio on and soft ripples of reggae music wove through the van. It wasn’t long before they drew into the uneven driveway leading up to her parents’ house and parked in the space allocated for guests outside the rustic wooden lodge. Emilie leapt from her seat, excited to see her parents. She rushed to the back door, which was always open, but found it locked. She knocked, her smile faltering as Matt joined her and it became clear that no one was home.
‘Looks like they might have popped out.’ Matt stepped away from the cheery scarlet door to peer into the kitchen window, his hand shading his eyes. ‘There’s an envelope with your name on it propped up on the table. Do you have a key?’
‘No, but I know where to find one.’
She trotted across the lawn to the outhouse that her father had commandeered to store his ride-on lawnmower and various other ancient gardening implements left by the previous owners. The place looked like a stage set from the Cornish Chainsaw Massacre with a selection of rusty traps, hacksaws and blades hung from nails in the walls and on the roof beams. She lifted up a cracked ceramic flower pot, grabbed an iron key and rushed over to let them into the house.