The Postcard: Escape to Cornwall with the perfect summer holiday read

They were sitting on the threadbare Aubusson rug – another of Granny’s hand-me-downs – backs against the sofa, watching a rerun of The Mr Tibbs Mysteries on a satellite channel.

Henry reappeared with the last tin of beer and settled himself back down. ‘I rather fancy old Nancy,’ he said.

‘She’s very glam,’ agreed Ella. ‘But then Mr Tibbs is very handsome too.’

‘I read somewhere that in real life he’s a bit of a goer,’ Henry said.

‘Really? He looks like the perfect gentleman.’ They watched as Mr Tibbs climbed in through an open window at the suspect’s house. He was closely followed by his secretary and sleuthing sidekick, Nancy Trumpet, who revealed a lacy stocking top as she slid over the casement.

‘Phwoar!’ murmured Henry.

Ella tutted.

‘What?’ her brother said.

‘You know what.’

‘What do you expect me to do when I see a lacy stocking top and a glimpse of suspender? My generation are sold short on all that stuff. You girls and your tights and big pants and boring bras! I was born too late.’

Ella laughed. ‘So Jools has blown you out, has she?’

‘No.’

‘When did you last see her then?’

‘The other day.’

‘Where?’

‘Can’t remember.’

‘So what happened?’

‘She blew me out.’

‘Ha. Why?’

‘She said she liked me and all that, but …’ Henry pitched his voice higher and posher, ‘she couldn’t see a future for us and anyway, she wanted to be free to see other people.’

‘Like who?’

‘Justin.’

‘Justin no socks and loafers?’

‘Yeah.’

Ella was offended on her brother’s behalf.

‘Well, she’s welcome to that total prick.’

‘He is a prick, isn’t he?’

‘Total.’

They sat quietly thinking about Justin and Jools and watching the television screen as Mr Tibbs slipped his penknife into the lock of the desk drawer and revealed the stolen diary he’d been searching for. The camera cut to Nancy, a lock of hair falling alluringly over one eye and a button or two of her silk blouse undone more than was strictly necessary. Henry was rapt.

‘Stop looking at her cleavage.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘If you must know, I was looking at the gorgeous scenery.’ The screen was now on a wide shot of a Cornish beach, the wind whipping white horses off the crests of the waves. Henry sighed. ‘I miss Cornwall.’

Ella sighed too. ‘Yep. We haven’t been back for a long time, have we?’ She poked him with her foot. ‘If you ever get a girlfriend you can take her down. Give her the romantic tour of Trevay – Granny’s old house, our old school – and she’d be putty in your hands.’

That night, lying in her bed and listening to the rain still hurling itself at No 47, Ella thought about what her brother had said after they’d finished watching TV. She did need a job. She’d had plenty of them since getting her art degree from Swindon where she had trained to be an illustrator specializing in children’s books, but none of them had been as an illustrator. She’d been a chalet maid in Val d’Isere, a nanny in Ibiza, Holland and Scotland and a barmaid in countless pubs and bars in South London. Henry had taken pity on her and offered her a room in No 47, a house he’d bought from his best friend when he’d left to get married. Henry was working his way up in a firm of commercial surveyors but he was making it very clear that he couldn’t afford to have his sister as a non-rent paying guest for ever, even if she had brought her share of Granny’s furniture with her.

She thumped her pillows into a more comfortable shape and sent a little prayer to her grandmother. ‘Granny, would you find me a nice job? Either someone who’d like me to illustrate a book or a publisher who wants to print Hedgerow Adventures? Please Granny. Night-night.’

In the morning Ella felt refreshed and hopeful. The sun was shining and every rain cloud had vanished, leaving the sky periwinkle blue. She sang along to the radio as she washed up last night’s curry plates and put some bacon under the grill. Henry appeared. ‘Bacon? Ella, you’re a darling.’

‘It’s the last few rashers but enough for sandwiches.’

‘What sort of day have you got planned?’ he asked as she plonked a bottle of ketchup in front of him.

She had good news. ‘I’m going to look for a job.’ He raised his eyebrows at her as he bit into his sandwich. She raised hers back. ‘A proper job. And I’m going to send out Hedgerow Adventures to another literary agent.’

He couldn’t hide his frustration. ‘Not another one?’

‘Yes,’ she said defiantly. ‘It’s a good story and the pictures are some of my best. Every child I’ve ever nannied for has loved it.’

He shrugged. ‘Ever thought they may have been being polite?’

‘Charming! Thank you, you really know how to boost confidence, don’t you? Ever thought of life coaching? Writing a best-selling personal help book, such as Achieve The Ultimate You by Henry Huntley, Fuckwit with Hons?’

‘Ella, I’m trying to be helpful. Hedgerow Adventures is very charming, but it’s not going to turn you into J.K. Rowling overnight, is it?’

She couldn’t disagree.

‘So …’ He stood up and put his plate in the sink before doing up the top button of his shirt and straightening his tie. ‘By all means send it to a new agent – but promise me you’ll check out the job agencies too?’

It was lunchtime and her feet were tired. Not having enough money to top up her Oyster card she’d walked for miles, checking every job agency before setting off on the long hike up to Bedford Square and the offices of the latest hotshot literary agent she’d read about in The Bookseller.

The brass plaque outside was freshly polished. She walked up the short flight of steps and pushed the doorbell on the intercom. A buzzer sounded and the blackly glossy front door opened to reveal a silent marble hall with a grand staircase curling up to the right. On her left was an open doorway and a smart young man behind the desk spoke without looking up. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Thank you, yes. I was wondering if I could have a meeting with someone about my book.’