The Summer Theatre by the Sea

by Tracy Corbett

  ‘Then go back to bed,’ she snapped, ushering her daughter out of the kitchen. ‘I’ll come and check on you in a minute.’

  A dejected Florence disappeared into her bedroom.

  Charlotte cleared away the breakfast things. ‘Glenda seemed like a nice woman to me.’

  Lauren supressed the anger building within her. ‘Appearances can be deceptive.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’ Charlotte wiped the table. ‘You trust your kids with that layabout Barney Hubble, but you won’t let a nice middle-aged woman like Glenda take Freddie to school.’

  Lauren rounded on her sister. ‘When I want parenting advice, Charlotte, I’ll ask for it, okay? Or any other kind of advice, for that matter. I can find my own jobs and clean my own home.’ She snatched the cloth away from her sister. ‘I was coping fine until you showed up.’

  Charlotte flinched. ‘Well, excuse me for trying to help.’

  ‘If you want to help, Charlotte, stop interfering and take Freddie to school so I can work out what the hell is wrong with Florence.’

  Her sister’s cheeks flushed, but she walked off without another word.

  Lauren didn’t know what to do with herself. Part of her wanted to thump something, the other part of her wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all. It felt like the walls were closing in on her, suffocating and unrelenting. She scrubbed the sink, even though Charlotte had cleaned it yesterday. She didn’t care, she needed to vent.

  It wasn’t until the front door slammed that she allowed her emotions to surface. Collapsing onto a kitchen chair, she slumped forwards, dropping her head onto the table. She had no idea how long she stayed there crying, but once she started she couldn’t stop. How had she been so naive? Glenda wasn’t a friend; she was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Someone who pretended to be kind and caring, but underneath was conniving and mean. Never once had Glenda mentioned adding interest to the loan, whatever the stupid contract said. Not once. And now she had to find over twelve hundred quid when she couldn’t even afford sodding butter!

  ‘Why are you crying, Mummy?’ The sound of Florence’s voice startled her.

  Mortified, she sat up and wiped her eyes.

  Florence appeared by her side, putting her tiny hands on Lauren’s cheeks. ‘Do you have a tummy ache too, Mummy?’

  Lauren couldn’t prevent the tears resurfacing. ‘Yes, my love. I’m afraid I do.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Friday, 24 June

  Charlotte was stiff from sitting for so long. The wooden bench seat wasn’t the most comfortable. She rolled her shoulders, trying to loosen her joints, taking a moment to enjoy the view. It was a beautiful summer’s day. Penmullion beach was almost empty. The pale sky above was peppered with wispy clouds dancing across the face of the sun, creating tiny sparkling crystals on the water’s surface. It was perfect. Well, almost … if you ignored wasps and flies buzzing about, sand blowing everywhere, and the glare of the sun reflecting off the white paper as she tried to draw.

  It’d been two weeks since she’d met with the director of the Isolde Players to discuss their upcoming production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. She’d been eager to show him her creative mood-board, anticipating his instant delight at having her on the production team. Presentations had always been her forte at Quality Interiors, so she’d been brimming with confidence when she’d arrived at the director’s home, only to discover Jonathan Myers was far from impressed. He’d dismissed her mood board with its story narrative, fabric samples, and impressive graphics, with little more than a cursory glance. Instead, he’d wanted to know where the floor plans were? The scaled models? The props and furniture list? How the scene changes worked? None of which she had an answer for.

  It was one of the most challenging design meetings she’d ever experienced, and that was saying something. He gave her two weeks to come up with a better plan, or he’d need to look elsewhere for a designer. Talk about humiliating. Unable to bear the idea of being sacked twice in short succession, she’d assured him of her commitment, and left with her tail between her legs.

  Feeling somewhat despondent, she’d called in to see Paul at his boutique, hoping someone with his artistic flair would understand her disappointment. He’d loved her mood board, adored the shades of blue she’d used to create ethereal moonlight, and assured her she was on the right track. She just needed to invert her design concept, so that the space worked from the inside out, rather than from the outside in, which had been surprisingly insightful. Feeling in better spirits, she’d thanked him and headed off to the library to research stage design.

  Consequently, she’d spent the last two weeks studying the fundamentals of theatre production. In truth, she’d been glad of the distraction. Having a project to focus on gave her an excuse to avoid her sister.

  Lauren appeared from the café at that moment, looking tired, her black top and jeans draining the colour from her face. She smiled, joking with an elderly couple enjoying afternoon tea, but her smile faded when no one was looking.

  She came over, carrying a tray of beverages. ‘I probably haven’t made it right, but I thought you might be thirsty.’ Lauren placed a mug of tea on the table, careful to avoid the pile of drawings and textbooks.

  There was a good chance that the tea wouldn’t be great, but Charlotte was touched by her sister’s thoughtfulness. ‘Thank you,’ she said, but Lauren had already walked off, her half-hearted, ‘You’re welcome,’ almost lost in the breeze.

  Charlotte didn’t mean to be difficult, but she knew it came across that way. She placed the mug on top of her pile of completed drawings, using it as a paperweight. She’d empty the contents later when no one was watching.

  She’d been in Penmullion for nearly a month now, and things were no less strained with Lauren than before she’d come to stay. She knew her sister was upset with her, but she didn’t know why. As a house guest, she’d tried to be useful and help with chores and errands, but everything she did seemed to cause annoyance. And the more she tried, the more she seemed to get it wrong. It never used to be this hard.

  As kids, they’d been a close-knit family. Although, it was sometimes difficult to remember what life had been like before their mum had died. Like living two separate existences, pre- and post-cancer. One minute she was studying for her degree, the next she was parenting her sixteen-year-old sister and dealing with her father’s depression.

  But the pre-cancer memories lurked somewhere deep inside, tiny chinks of light amongst the greying fog of sadness. Like the time her mum had suggested a family camping trip. No one had taken Iris Saunders seriously, mainly because she liked her creature comforts too much. Whether it was using expensive face cream, or the way their small kitchen always smelt of disinfectant, there was nothing to suggest her mum would enjoy ‘slumming it’.

  Reacting to snorts of laughter and teasing from her husband and younger daughter, Iris’s response was to immediately book the trip, and off they went to the New Forest.

  It was the summer of ’97. Blair had just been elected Prime Minister, Lauren wanted to be a Spice Girl, and her dad pretended he didn’t have a thing for Pamela Anderson, even though he always mysteriously appeared whenever Baywatch started. Her mum watched sophisticated shows like Ally McBeal, loved Bon Jovi, and never wore trainers. The only time she’d ever seen her mum’s polished veneer slip was when she attended a fancy-dress party as Madonna, complete with coned-corset bra and black suspenders. The sight of her mum appearing in the lounge caused her dad to drop his red wine over the new beige carpet, delaying them heading off, as her mum insisted on cleaning up first.

  For Charlotte, that year had been about watching Neighbours, being in love with Marti Pellow, and asking for a ‘Rachel’ haircut for her tenth birthday. A hairstyle that hadn’t lasted long once they’d reached the muddy campsite. Like her mum, she’d favoured cleanliness, pretty things, and wasn’t keen on the idea of camping al fresco with sheep in the next field and no running water. And she’d been right
to be worried. The campsite had been boggy, the toilet block smelt of urine, and her dad hadn’t been able to work out how to erect their new Millets tent.

  Leaving her mum and dad arguing over badly inserted tent pegs, and promising not to dirty her new plimsolls, she’d taken Lauren exploring. Being the sensible older sibling, when they reached a weir, she’d suggested walking down to the bridge to cross it. Ignoring her sister’s advice, Lauren had jumped across. Charlotte had two options, walk to the bridge and risk the wrath of her parents for not keeping an eye on Lauren, or jump too. The gap had been maybe four feet. Unfortunately, she hadn’t factored in slippery ground, or her sister screaming as she’d launched herself from the safety of the bank and landed with a bruising splash in the freezing, fast-running water. As the current dragged her under, sweeping her away from Lauren’s frantic yelling, all she could think of was how much trouble she’d be in for ruining her new plimsolls.

  Instinct had taken over. She’d reached upwards and grabbed hold of a rusty pipe protruding from the concrete wall. As water whipped against her face, filling her mouth, preventing her from crying out for help, she’d heard muffled voices above. Her dad’s hands had gripped hold of hers and she was pulled to safety.

  She hadn’t cared that she’d scraped her knee, or had a discarded crisp packet stuck to her face, she was just relieved to be on dry land. As her dad checked her over, her mum stood at a safe distance, grimacing from the smell, happy her daughter hadn’t drowned, but already planning a trip to the laundrette.

  It was at this point that a large mud ball had landed on the front of her mother’s pristine white blouse, causing Iris Saunders to gasp. All eyes had turned to look at the eight-year-old culprit. A grinning Lauren had stood defiantly, holding another mud ball, ready to launch.

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ her mum had said, pointing her finger to emphasise the seriousness of her command. ‘Put that down, right now.’

  But Lauren had launched the mud ball anyway. It missed, mostly because Iris Saunders had charged at her youngest daughter and rugby-tackled her to the ground. Charlotte and her dad had exchanged a worried glance, until they’d realised it was laughter emanating from the pair, and not a serious wrestling bout. The next thing Charlotte knew, her dad had joined in, half-heartedly trying to split them up, but getting a face-full of mud for his efforts. He’d retaliated by smearing mud over them both. There was nothing to do other than join in.

  This brief encounter with the world of camping became known as ‘Muddy Sunday’ in the Saunders household. Unsurprisingly, the following year they went to Magaluf.

  Charlotte looked over at her sister now, no longer an eight-year-old scamp, but a mother herself, all grown up and responsible. She didn’t like the idea of causing Lauren grief. Maybe she should go back to London? But she had no job or income. Her employment tribunal case had been listed for the fifth of September, so she needed to stay in Cornwall for another couple of months. Would that be enough time to make amends with her sister? She hoped so. The question was, how?

  Her attention was drawn to the sight of Barney Hubble emerging from the sea, carrying a surfboard. His wetsuit was pulled down low and hung off his hips, his black hair was slicked back from his face. Thankfully, she was wearing sunglasses, so she could enjoy the view without appearing to stare. It was bad manners to ogle.

  Physically, she couldn’t deny an attraction – something she’d never experienced with Ethan, which was something of a puzzle. Ethan was a good-looking man. Tall, angular, well proportioned. She’d certainly appreciated his appearance, even if looking at him hadn’t caused a physical stirring – which in truth, had been part of the appeal. It was easier to remain in control if you weren’t blinded by superficial distractions that befuddled your brain and made you say crazy things like, ‘I love you’.

  She didn’t need a shrink to tell her this wasn’t healthy. Falling in love shouldn’t be something to be afraid of. So why was she? Was it a fear of losing the person, as she’d had with her mum? Or maybe it was about losing control, and not wanting her emotions to derail her from logical thinking. Or maybe it was simply that she hadn’t met ‘the one’.

  Tilting her head sideways, she watched Barney’s chest muscles move beneath his tanned skin as he jogged across the sand. It was no different to looking at a fine painting, she reasoned. She was a designer, after all; beauty was her business. There was no need to feel light-headed, or wonder how it would feel to touch his skin, feel the warmth of his …

  Aware of a sudden blush creeping into her cheeks, she refocused on researching how to build a fly rig. Her slight dizziness was probably due to her aversion to heights, caused by imagining the character of Puck flying across the stage, rather than the sight of Barney Hubble with his top off.

  In fairness, her first assessment of the man may have been a little judgemental. He had some attributes. He could surf, he was clearly good with children, and it turned out he was an extremely reliable childminder. But it wasn’t enough to tempt her into striking up a liaison with him. In her book, renting out surfboards wasn’t a proper career.

  His sudden grin led her to the conclusion that he knew she was eyeing him up, and he was enjoying the attention. And just when she was reassessing her opinion of him.

  He gestured to her top button.

  Glancing down at her white shirt, she expected to find a button undone. Puzzled, she looked up, trying to ignore the sight of water sliding down his torso.

  ‘It looks better undone,’ he said, reaching the table.

  Not this again. ‘Not everyone likes to flaunt, Mr Hubble.’ She dragged her eyes away from his chest.

  ‘I’m not flaunting.’ There was laughter in his voice. ‘I’m swimming. It’s a warm day.’ He nodded to her shirt. ‘Aren’t you hot, all buttoned up?’

  Sighing, she removed her sunglasses. ‘If I was hot, then I would do something about it, wouldn’t I?’ She didn’t want to admit that, actually, she was a bit warm. No way was she giving him the satisfaction of being right. ‘Funnily enough, I’m capable of regulating my temperature, thank you very much.’

  ‘I’m just saying; your cheeks are red.’

  ‘I’m sitting in full sun,’ she said … although this wasn’t the only reason. ‘Undoing my top button won’t make a difference.’ She fiddled with the button, trying not to stare at his bare chest.

  ‘How do you know until you try?’ His disarming smile was filled with mischief.

  Flustered, she returned to her fly-rig design. He was a distraction she could do without. ‘Thank you for the fashion advice. I have work to do.’

  His laughter drifted away on the breeze as he jogged back to the surf kiosk.

  She only realised she’d been fixated on his retreating bottom when Sylvia Johns said, ‘You look busy, love.’

  Startled, she looked up, guilt flaming the heat in her cheeks.

  Sylvia was wearing a sky-blue dress and big straw hat. ‘Goodness me, you girls are pretty.’ Her smile was warm and friendly. ‘Tony’s a lucky man. And you’re both so talented and resourceful. Only the other day I was telling him to invite you over for dinner so we could hear more about your design work. It must be such a fascinating industry to work in.’

  As much as Sylvia’s overenthusiasm encroached on her personal space, Charlotte couldn’t deny that the woman meant well. She also showed more interest in her career than her dad ever had.

  ‘What are you working on?’ Slipping on a pair of purple-rimmed glasses, Sylvia looked at her drawings. ‘Are these for the play? Tony said you’d offered to help. What a lovely thing to do. Community is everything, I always say.’ She picked up a drawing, not realising it was tucked under the pile of drawings held down by the mug of tea.

  Charlotte watched in horror as the mug overturned and the contents splashed across the table, landing on her white jeans.

  ‘Oh, love, I’m sorry!’ Sylvia’s hat flew off, causing another cry of distress, as a gust of wind sprayed sand across the ta
ble.

  The wind changed direction, sending her drawings spiralling towards the sea.

  Ignoring Sylvia’s cries of, ‘I’ll fetch a cloth!’ – which seemed a little pointless in the circumstances – Charlotte kicked off her shoes and ran onto the beach, trying to retrieve the scattered drawings.

  As she ran, jumped and chased, attempting to catch them as they taunted her, staying just out of arm’s reach, a sense of panic enveloped her. It wasn’t just the potential loss of two weeks’ hard work; it was the unfairness of it all. She wanted to be in control and she wasn’t.

  And then she became aware of Barney racing past. With no hesitation, he ran into the sea and carefully lifted two drawings from the water. ‘Grab that one!’ His yell directed her to another drawing hovering above the waves.

  Holding on to the pictures she’d managed to rescue, she ran over to the rocks. The sketch of the full staging, complete with lighting rig, thrust stage and elaborate tree house, was pinned against the rock face. It’d taken her hours. The moment the gust let up, it would slip into the sea.

  Getting wet was unavoidable. There was no time to roll up her jeans, so she ran into the water, yelping as the cold hit her legs. She reached the rocks and slapped her hand against the picture, holding it in place.

  It was a flawed plan. With the other drawings in her left hand, she couldn’t move, and her weight was off balance. A wave crashed against her legs, causing more instability. She was about to topple into the sea, taking the pictures with her, when something scooped her up like she weighed nine pounds, not nine stone. ‘I’ve got you.’

  Alarmingly, she found herself in the arms of Barney Hubble. Inappropriate as it was, she couldn’t deny the gratitude she felt, even if it did feel like a scene from An Officer and a Gentleman.

  He carefully negotiated his way onto the beach.

  Wet had seeped through her shirt, she could see the outline of her bra forming through the material. Talk about embarrassing. But this was nothing compared to the feel of his hot skin next to hers, and the strain of his arm muscles as he transported her to safety.