There’s Something About Cornwall

‘Everyone’s anxiety levels are set to Gas Mark eight when we start out on these kinds of photo shoots. You know that – you’ve done enough of them. And have you taken a look at the images yet?’

‘No.’

‘I bet they’re fabulous, and to be honest that’s all that matters in the end.’

Emilie flicked through the photographs she had taken and a surge of satisfaction washed over her. They were perfect; the light had been just right, the clarity crisp and the saffron cake looked as though you could reach out and touch it. She could almost smell the honey in the biscuits. The photos were just as Lucinda had said she expected them to be. A wave of relief spread through Emilie’s body and melted the earlier tension. Her personal life might be on a downward trajectory but she was still able to take a decent photograph.

‘Thanks, Alice.’

‘No problem. But you owe me.’ She smirked.

‘Why don’t I like the sound of that?’

Alice had already started to box up the cake stand and file away the props in their allocated spaces in her trunk. She folded the tablecloth neatly and slipped it into a protective plastic sheath, whilst Emilie chucked her equipment haphazardly into their cases in an effort to vacate the room as quickly as possible. The hotel management had wheeled in a magnificent two-foot-high conical wedding cake and were starting to arrange it on a linen-covered pedestal by the window.

Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be the wedding photographer for the afternoon and be on the train back to Paddington when the bride and groom retire to the honeymoon suite. Emilie sighed and followed Alice down the stairs to the front door, reluctant to leave the hotel’s mantle of silky elegance for the hessian sack of the camper van. They stowed the tools of their trade in the back and slid the door shut with a slam.

‘Okay! So, I was saving this news until after the business part of the day to reduce the risk of distraction. Maybe that didn’t exactly work out as planned, but anyway, we’ve been invited to a beach party to celebrate the end of the surf season with the guys from Coolwave Surfing Academy.’

‘Oh, Alice, I’m not sure…’

Emilie knew she could never hope to match Alice in either vitality or optimism. After that first encounter with Lucinda every ounce of her already depleted energy reserves from the trip down to Cornwall had seeped from her veins. All she wanted to do was curl up in the arms of the Satsuma Splittie and claim the oblivion offered by sleep. Yet how could she do that when Alice had been so supportive of her? Never mind the fact that she needed the camper van to get to the party? There was a downside of travelling with your bedroom in the back.

‘Oh, come on! It’ll be a blast! A fun start to an epic journey – like a ship’s launch except with cider instead of champagne.’ Alice scooted around to the driver’s seat and fired up the engine.

‘But it’s not even four o’clock!’

‘The party started at lunchtime and goes on until ten. There’re rules about music on the beach. And I’ve checked – we can park the van at the campground next to the car park at the back of the Academy so it’ll be staggering distance afterwards. Relax, Emilie! Have some fun. Isn’t that why you’re doing this shoot? You have to embrace everything this epic road trip can teach us. Use the experience to expand and enhance your vision and replenish your creative juices for your next assignment. Cornwall is a stunning location and you can take your images with you.’

‘But does Lucinda mind us partying when she’s expecting us in Perranporth first thing tomorrow morning for the next shoot? I thought the plan was to drive to the next venue straight away and camp there overnight.’

‘While the cat’s away…’ Alice giggled, swerving to avoid a runaway beach ball as she pulled into the car park. ‘I’m not going to tell her if you don’t.’

‘But…’

‘Look, we’ll have a couple of drinks and a mingle with the surfing brigade, then crash out in the camper van for a few hours. I’ll set the alarm and we’ll be on our way by seven a.m. Plenty of time to get to the shoot at eight-thirty.’

Emilie thought of where she would have been if Brad hadn’t trampled on her toes to snatch the European shoot with his sticky fingers. Venice!

She glanced out of the windscreen as the last gasp of sunlight disappeared behind the horizon, bathing the scene on the beach in front of them in a golden halo of warmth. From her vantage point she could see the party had clearly been underway for some time as the music had morphed into smooching tunes and the makeshift bar had only a smattering of polystyrene cups left to offer the thirsty. Torches of flickering amber light dotted the scene and delineated the dance floor, casting a mellow ambience over the whole gathering. Couples giggled and swayed, some kissing and saying their tearful goodbyes to season-long love affairs.

She flicked the visor down and studied her reflection. She was hardly beach party ready. On the other hand, despite having worked just as hard as she had, Alice’s make-up remained as pristine as it had been on the station steps that morning. She looked polished and attractive in her tailored black trousers and magenta velvet waistcoat embroidered with poppies. There wasn’t a hair out of place on her espresso-coloured bob. Her fringe tickled her eyelashes, bestowing her with a fraudulently coy expression. Even her lipstick remained smooth and glossy.

Emilie dragged her scrunchie from her hair and allowed her copper waves to tumble around her face and over her shoulders. She inserted her fingers into the tangled mess and gave her curls a shake before scrambling in her handbag for her lipstick.

What harm could one drink do? She was about to find out.

Chapter Four (#ulink_da485336-4dea-5bf3-8bed-49af6b748aef)

By the time they stood on the weather-bleached veranda that skirted the Coolwave Surf Academy, the sun had performed its finale and disappeared for another day. Outside the wooden shack, which doubled as the booking office and a surfing merchandise shop, stood a huge blackboard listing the activities that had been on offer that season: beginner’s taster sessions, surf safaris, aquatic first aid, beach knowledge expeditions, lifeguard skills.

Next to the water sport menu rested a huge metal cage containing an assortment of surfboards in a myriad of sizes, like multicoloured pencils crammed into a jar. The sign hanging on the door declared the academy ‘Closed’ for the season and invited everyone to celebrate its successful and safe conclusion at a barbeque on the beach.

Emily removed her sandals and slung them carelessly into the back of the van, which gained her an eye-roll from Alice who refused to discard her stilettos. She constantly complained about her lack of height and explained how her self-esteem was intrinsically linked to the extra four inches her shoes delivered.

The taste of salty sea floated on the faintest of breezes. Emilie and Alice followed the amber necklace of fiery torches from the wooden shack to the makeshift food and drinks table set with a jaunty navy and white tablecloth on the beach. The waft of burnt charcoal and barbequed meats met her nostrils and her stomach reminded her once again of her neglect to deliver it lunch. As Alice had anticipated, there had been a surplus of cake in which to indulge after the shoot, but Emilie’s stomach had been so tightly twisted from her first encounter with Lucinda that she couldn’t face even a bite.

They grabbed a couple of bottles of Bud from the hunkiest guy Emilie had seen in years and Alice made a beeline for one of the weather-beaten tables on the edge of the dance floor, where the crowd moved as one to the pulsating Caribbean rhythms of Bob Marley. Alice’s eyes were bright with excitement.

‘Coming for a dance?’

‘Gosh! Not yet. I’ll just sit and chill for a while if you don’t mind.’

‘Suit yourself.’

She watched Alice disappear into the melee and marvelled at her stamina. Yet she knew there was something more than exhaustion preventing her from joining in the fun. This was the first party she had been to without Brad by her side and it felt weird. She thought about all the other things she had done as part of a couple and realised with a twist of trepidation that she would have to learn how to do them on her own from now on – and that included her photography ambitions.

If Brad couldn’t be happy for her when her talent as a food photographer had been recognised at the awards party then she didn’t need him in her life or on her photo shoots. At least she wouldn’t have to put up with him constantly breathing down her neck about her untidiness.

She took a chug of her beer and decided to join Alice on the dance floor after all. As she stood she came face-to-face with the guy from the drinks table and her heart bounced around her chest like an energetic space hopper. Wow, was he gorgeous!

‘Hi. I’m Matt Ashby – one of the surfing instructors at the Coolwave Academy.’

The guy brushed his long, sandy-blond hair from his eyes and offered her his fist to bump. Emilie smiled and responded, taking the chance to study his features, which were flashed with flares of gold from the torches around the dance floor. Were all the surfing instructors in Cornwall like Matt? she wondered. If so, she wished her parents had relocated to St Ives when she was a teenager. What fantastic summer holidays she could have had!

‘Hi, Matt. I’m Emilie Roberts, and that…’ she pointed to Alice who already had her slender arms slung around the neck of a muscular Adonis towering a good head above her, even in her stilettos ‘…is my friend Alice Jenkins. It must be a great way to earn a living – teaching holidaymakers to surf and being able to call all this your office.’

‘It’s amazing. I love every second of being out there on the waves, battling nature’s force. It’s a shame it’s the end of the season or I’d offer to take you out. The surf’s been spectacular this year.’

‘Oh, I’m not much of a water baby, I’m afraid. Even a hotel swimming pool looks more inviting from underneath a stripy umbrella, never mind the open sea.’ A ripple of discomfort shot down her spine as the image floated across her mind.

‘Are you saying you can’t swim?’ he asked.

‘No, I can swim. It’s just that when I was eleven one of my friends pushed me in a river for a dare and I had to be rescued by a passing dog walker. Now, whenever I teeter on the edge of a pool willing myself to jump, I start contemplating the long list of things that could go wrong!’

‘You don’t know what you’re missing. I bet with a little time I could help you overcome your fears. It’s just a matter of confidence and you look to me like a person who has acres of that.’

She laughed. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you had seen me this afternoon sprawling on the floor in front of an audience amongst a pile of squashed biscuits.’

Matt scrunched up his nose in confusion and Emilie giggled. She’d forgotten what it was like to chat to someone who was on the same wavelength as she was. She was enjoying herself immensely so she wasn’t about to confess her tendency to attract chaotic disaster wherever she went. Not a good omen for anyone who made their living on the sea.

‘Long story,’ she said.

‘So, what does bring you down to Padstow, Emilie Roberts? Are you on holiday?’

‘No, I’m working. I’m a food and product photographer. I’m shooting on the next Lucinda Loves… cookery book.’ The blank expression on Matt’s face told her he probably didn’t spend much of his spare time glued to the TV set – if indeed he even owned one. ‘I work for a photographic agency in London – Dexter Carvill – but I’m thinking of investing in my dream to go freelance.’

‘Just thinking? If it feels right just go for it, I say!’