There's Something About Cornwall

by Daisy James

  Beyond the windscreen a dense mist enveloped the little orange van, and, feeling cocooned in its security, she fell into a fitful sleep filled with scenes of panic and disaster as the rain bounced down until exhaustion provided solace. In her flickering dreams, the windscreen wipers struggled to clear her vision and the Splittie tumbled from the road down a ravine. When it hit the bottom, she came to with a start, her heart hammering, a cold clammy sweat spreading over her body. An all-consuming darkness pressed against the windows as she’d forgotten to draw the curtains, and the only sound was the faint hoot of a barn owl.

  In the morning she woke to the sound of the dawn chorus well into its second verse. In the precious moments between sleep and waking she enjoyed the cacophony of birdsong until the previous day’s events came rushing back at her.

  She trudged across the empty campsite to the shower block and let the hot water cascade over her aching bones, sending up a missive of gratefulness to the boiler gods. She yanked on a fresh tee shirt and took a seat at the wheel, surprised that it already felt the most natural thing in the world. She pressed on, along the winding roads southwards, all the while her thoughts bouncing from one theory for Matt’s unusually clandestine behaviour to the next.

  Would Matt wake up this morning and wonder where she was? Would he care? Could she really be thinking of never contacting him again without granting him the courtesy of being able to explain what he had been doing in the camper van in the middle of the night? And what were her feelings now the final shoot was imminent? It had certainly been a roller coaster of an assignment. Who said overseas jobs were the most exciting?

  Over the last two weeks she had learnt a great deal, and not just about photography. She knew she had become a much better photographer since she had decided to strive to meet Lucinda’s expectations of excellence and perfection. She had also gleaned a myriad of tips on styling a shoot under Alice’s brief but brilliant guidance, not to mention the importance of an organised, chaos-free set.

  But more importantly, she had learnt a great deal about herself as a person. She could do this, even without Dexter Carvill having her back. So did that mean she would be taking the plunge to become totally self-reliant? Had Alice been serious about wanting to become her assistant? It was an exciting proposition and she spent the next half hour plotting how she would run her own business in order to keep her mind from twisting back to Matt.

  At last the instantly recognisable domes of the Eden Project came into view, like a proliferation of bubble wrap balloons set against a backdrop of lush emerald Cornish countryside. She steered the Satsuma Splittie into the car park designated for VIP guests and saw Marcus peel away from Lucinda, his trusty clipboard hugged into his chest.

  ‘Where’s Matt?’ asked Marcus straight away as he helped her to wheel Alice’s prop box to the superb makeshift kitchen that had been erected on a dais for Lucinda to present a Cornish cookery demonstration to ticket holders and competition winners. It was the only one of the shoots that included a TV film crew and the accompanying entourage. A wrap party had been organised for when the visitors to the Eden Project had returned to their holiday cottages, but Emilie couldn’t think of anything she wanted to do less than socialise.

  She stared at Marcus’s questioning face for a few beats, struggling to calm the cauldron of emotions his question had ignited. Her agitation spoke volumes and the realisation that she had fallen in love with Matt hit her like a bolt of lightning.

  ‘Oh, Marcus, he’s had an accident – yesterday afternoon whilst we were hiking up Rough Tor – he’s broken his arm, dislocated his shoulder and he lost consciousness for an hour or so; they’re keeping him in hospital for observation but he’ll be fine.’ She blurted it all out in one long garbled sentence. Fortunately, she managed to keep a lid on her tears as she knew Lucinda was lurking somewhere in the background and whilst she felt they had taken a massive step towards acceptance of each other, they were by no means the best of friends.

  ‘I couldn’t jeopardise the shoot, so here I am. What do you think the odds are of getting this last one finished with the minimum of fuss and you giving me a lift to the station in St Austell? I’ve called the hire company and they’re happy to send someone to retrieve the camper van from the car park outside later on today.’

  ‘A lift is not a problem, Emilie. Do I take it you’ll be catching the train down to Truro to administer to our injured friend?’

  ‘No, I’m going back to London, actually.’

  She watched Marcus’s face morph into surprise and then confusion.

  ‘It’s complicated,’ she said, and she refused to be drawn any further. Maybe she would explain her reasons to Marcus at some point in the future over a vodka martini cocktail in a wine bar in London, but she didn’t want to go into her feelings at that moment. She needed to dissect them and analyse them before she made any public announcements.

  Marcus had been watching her closely, but he simply shrugged. He joined her in setting up the lights and tripods and the props that were being used as the backdrop to the last Lucinda Loves…Desserts photo shoot before the TV cameras moved in for the culinary show.

  ‘Darlings!’

  Lucinda swept into the room, her hair freshly coiffed, her make-up perfect. In honour of their final shoot and the presence of the film crew, the elegance of her outfit – clearly from Prada’s current autumn/winter collection – had not been compromised by one of her ubiquitous candy-pink aprons. Predictably, Emilie had seen the assistant pastry chefs wearing them embroidered with Lucinda loves…the Eden Project.

  The theme of the Eden Project shoot was chocolate in all its guises. There were posh chocolate brownies with fresh mint grown in one of the on-site domes, a plump chocolate Swiss roll oozing with Cornish clotted cream as well as a pile of chocolate chip cookies to be distributed to the children after the demonstration. Lucinda deposited the triple-decker chocolate fudge cake dripping with chocolate ganache and topped with edible violets onto the display stand and approached Emilie who was still fiddling with her flash.

  ‘Emilie, would I be able to ask a small favour of you?’

  Emilie carefully set down her camera for fear she would drop it and turned to smile at the woman who had helped change her outlook on life not only professionally but also emotionally. As Lucinda had addressed her so warmly, she hoped that perhaps she too had contributed something positive to their relationship and that, whilst they weren’t exactly friends, Lucinda had a new respect for her product photographer on the current Lucinda Loves… carousel.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘As this is the final shoot of the trip I wonder if you would mind taking a few photographs of the crew before they disperse. I know Marcus would love a framed memento for his desk and I’m thinking of including a copy at the back of the book as an acknowledgement for all the hard work and expertise that has gone into making this culinary odyssey such a success.’

  ‘Okay, no problem. I’d been delighted.’

  ‘Thank you. Please make sure you add any additional fee to the invoice.’

  Emilie watched as Lucinda moved away to chat to the chef whom she’d collaborated with on the final few recipes. Had Lucinda just said thank you? If so, it was possibly the first time the words had passed her lips since they’d left Padstow. Emilie quickly snapped out of her impression of a gob-smacked goldfish and began to take photographs.

  In a nod to that day’s desserts’ origins, for the background design she had procured a potted cocoa tree from a friendly horticulturalist as well as a trio of hand-carved wooden bowls containing roasted cocoa nibs, ground cocoa powder and curls of bitter dark chocolate.

  However, the final design embellishment sent a spasm of sorrow through her chest. She had hoped to surprise and impress Matt with the matching pair of cocktails she had made herself from ingredients she had procured from an accommodating barman as a celebration of everything they had achieved. She had envisioned them, after th
e shoot, toasting their arrival at the finish line in one piece, their sanity intact, but it wasn’t to be. Nevertheless, the styling did look spectacular.

  She took extra care with every single one of the shots, not only because it was the last assignment, but because she was so exhausted she could hardly hold the camera straight or read her light meter. Her brain felt sluggish and unresponsive, but after an hour she was satisfied with the results and ready to pack up and leave after she’d taken the photographs of the crew.

  ‘Okay, people, gather round!’ Lucinda clapped. ‘I want to thank each and every one of you from the bottom of my heart for all your hard work on this epic culinary adventure that has taken us the length and breadth of this wonderful county from the pretty harbour of Padstow to the rural splendour of the Eden Project. We will all have had our favourite shoot, and no doubt our least favourite. I think I speak for all of us when I say that this has been one of the most difficult assignments we have encountered in all the Lucinda Loves… series, but I know it will be the best! However, I think we are all now looking forward to having a break to recover from the rigours of being “on-the-road”!’

  She smiled around at the gathered audience with genuine affection. ‘Emilie, our intrepid and talented photographer, has kindly agreed to take a few shots of us for posterity, so come on, everyone, best smiles for the camera.’

  The crew clattered and scraped and fussed until they were lined up for the final photograph, which would forever record the group of people who had magically pulled off what most of them had secretly thought of as the culinary road trip from hell. They needed a medal, never mind a gilt-framed photograph.

  Emilie smiled as they disbanded to finish off packing their equipment and Marcus trotted over to administer a fragrant hug.

  ‘I mean it, Emilie Jane Roberts, food photographer extraordinaire. I want us to stay in touch. I’ll call you next week when I get back from Brighton, okay? Now, are you ready for your lift?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Have you called the hospital for an update on our surfer friend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should? Look, I don’t mind taking Alice’s trunk back to London for you. But in return I want you to call Matt. Make friends. You might not have noticed, but I can assure you that you have a deep connection with that man.’

  Marcus’s chocolate brown eyes held hers until she relented. She knew he was right. ‘Okay.’

  Marcus smirked with satisfaction and dragged the luggage out of the door, leaving her alone to make her call. She selected Matt’s mobile number and listened to it ring, incongruously hopeful that it would click over to voicemail so she could leave a message. It didn’t.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Matt, it’s Emilie. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Not too bad. Got my arm in plaster but they reckon I should be discharged this afternoon. Did you get the shoot finished?’

  ‘Yes, we’ve just wrapped everything up a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Are you hanging around for the wrap party?’

  ‘No. I’m…’

  ‘Look, Emilie, I’m not sure what happened between us on the moor, but being stuck in a hospital bed gives you lots of time to mull over your mistakes. You were right when you told me I needed to face up to the guilt I’ve been carrying around with me about the way that Jamie died. I’ve come to realise that I’ve been using my grief as a shield to prevent anyone from getting too close in case I get hurt again, not only Marcie, but my parents too. I’m determined to put that right.’

  ‘Oh Matt, I’m so glad to hear that.’

  There was a pause that lengthened into an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘So what do you have planned if you’re not going to take part in the celebrations?’

  ‘Marcus is giving me a lift to the station and I’m catching the train back to Paddington. I just wanted to make sure you were okay and to say thank you for stepping into the driver’s seat.’

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Matt.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, I thought you might… Never mind. It was great to spend time with you, Emilie. I hope life delivers on those dreams of yours.’ And the line went dead.

  This time she couldn’t prevent the tears from gathering along her lashes, but she hastily dabbed them away before Marcus could return to say I told you so. Sadly, she wasn’t quick enough.

  ‘What’s going on, Emilie? Something has happened between you and Matt, hasn’t it? Lover’s tiff? Oh, how splendid!’

  ‘Just another friendship that didn’t turn out how I expected.’

  She swallowed down on her twisting emotions, hooked her arm through Marcus’s elbow and allowed him to lead her over to his car for her lift to the station.

  Marcus was astute enough to detect her avoidance tactics but he simply shrugged, amusement dancing across his handsome features. On the platform, he extracted a stone-clad promise for her to call him so they could arrange to meet for a drink in the next few weeks. She hugged him for the last time, then hung out of the train window, watching his figure grow smaller and smaller until her vision was blurred by tears.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  With irritation she found that, in her anxiety to board the train, she had forgotten to charge her phone so she spent most of the journey in a suspended state of daydreaming. Images of Matt flashed past her eyes, obstructing her view of the rolling countryside as the train sped eastwards. She could visualise with absolute clarity his wide friendly grin, his carefree approach to life, the taste of his lips on hers, his enthusiasm for all things to do with drink. His presence had brought sunshine into her life in more ways than one.

  As the view through the windows became more urban, she glanced at her watch, not sure whether she craved her arrival or dreaded it. Occasionally, her reverie was interrupted by the abrupt ringtone of one of her fellow passengers’ phones or the indignant cry of a toddler who couldn’t get his own way and she was brought crashing back to the present, forced to consider what she intended to do when she arrived back in London.

  She wanted to talk to Alice, to indulge in a full regurgitation of every detail of the last two weeks and to seek her sage advice. But then, how selfish was that? Alice would want to regale her with the details of her dream Fenella assignment and it was her duty as a friend to listen and contribute with equal excitement. However, she knew she wouldn’t be able to muster the required animation that day and therefore the better option would be to head straight to her flat and hibernate until she had put her life back into some sort of order.

  The familiar sweeping arches of Paddington station brought the first jump in her spirits. She ignored the queue for the taxis and made her way to the Tube, craving the solitude even though it would be crammed with commuters or tourists who would not even notice her existence, never mind comment on her turmoil.

  It was only when she stood at the top of the steps that she realised her mistake. She reluctantly turned and retraced her steps to take her place in a now expanded queue for a cab. There was no way she was going to drag her suitcase and prop box through the corridors of the Underground.

  By the time she arrived at her apartment she was exhausted and her hands smarted from the physical endeavour of yanking her cases up two flights of stairs. She stood in her tiny kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil and drank in the familiar view. It was eight o’clock and already the light had been stolen from the sky. The clocks went back an hour at the end of the month and she could sense the arrival of winter in the air. It was her least favourite season – maybe it was because she was a July baby that she craved sunshine and warmth and loathed the necessity of piling on layers of thick woolly jumpers and coats and scarves for the best part of four months.

  The kettle clicked off. She rummaged in the cupboards for coffee before she realised it was futile as there was no milk in the fridge. Well, nothing at all in the cupboards. She grabbed a bottl
e of Sauvignon Blanc and a glass and plonked herself down on the cream leather sofa to surf the TV channels for something to divert her attention away from dwelling on her future.

  But it wasn’t to be. Her mind inevitably twisted to the question of whether she should really be considering going freelance. Her passion for photography in all its guises had returned with a vengeance during the Lucinda Loves…Desserts shoot and she had been repeatedly reminded how happy she was when she held a camera in her hands. Even now, curled up on her sofa, she could feel the tingle of excitement as she contemplated getting stuck in to the myriad images she had collected, checking to make sure she had the relevant permissions to feature all the last-minute products they had used in the shoots like the Tregothnan tea, before sending them over to Lucinda for her comments.

  It was a scary prospect branching out on her own, she knew that, but what worthwhile pursuit wasn’t? Just because something was difficult didn’t mean she should simply take the easy route of turning up at Dexter Carvill on Monday morning as though the last two weeks had never happened. Hadn’t Lucinda inspired her to reach for her dreams, and taught her that doing so would make her happy and that in turn would shine through her work? And she was absolutely right. Daunting though it was, Emilie had to go for it.

  For a few wonderful seconds, elation flooded through her veins. She had so many ideas, so many fresh new concepts she wanted to experiment with. If she only had herself to satisfy she could push her abilities to the max. She had Alice to rely on for an honest critique and she knew that whilst he would be sorry to see her go, Dexter would have assignments for her.

  But then, predictably, her thoughts flicked over to Matt who had been the catalyst of her rejuvenated zest for her profession. He had lit her touchpaper and stood back to watch the fireworks. With Matt by her side anything had seemed possible – creatively, professionally, emotionally. But now she was alone, back in her normal life, the whole ‘solo’ project seemed to have lost some of its sheen. Maybe she should just lock her dreams away in their sparkly box and fasten the latch.