TRACY CORBETT
THE SUMMER THEATRE BY THE SEA

Published by AVON

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2018

Copyright © Tracy Corbett 2017

Tracy Corbett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © April 2018 ISBN: 9780008221935

Version: 2020-01-23

For my other family,

The Quince Players

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

The Isolde Players Present

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Acknowledgments

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Tracy Corbett:

About the Publisher

The Isolde Players present
A Midsummer Night’s Dream

by

William Shakespeare

The characters in the play:

Hippolyta (Queen of the Amazons) – Glenda Graham

Hermia (in love with Lysander) and Peaseblossom – Lauren Saunders

Lysander (loved by Hermia), Philostrate and Pyramus – Daniel Austin

Demetrius (suitor of Hermia) and Thisbe – Nate Jones

Helena (in love with Demetrius), Snout and Wall – Paul Naylor

Oberon (King of the Fairies), Egeus and Snug – Barney Hubble

Titania (Queen of the Fairies) – Sylvia Johns

Puck (servant to Oberon) – Kayleigh Wilson

Nick Bottom (a weaver), Theseus and Mustardseed – Tony Saunders

Moth and Cobweb (fairies) – Freddie and Florence Saunders

Directed by Jonathan Myers

Backstage crew – Quentin and Vincent Graham

CHAPTER ONE

Thursday, 5 May

With a certain amount of apprehension, Charlotte Saunders watched her boss adjust the front of his pale-pink tie, his matching silk handkerchief folded into the pocket of his pinstriped suit jacket.

‘He said you assaulted him.’

Charlotte felt her indignation rise another notch. ‘I did no such thing.’ Why was she getting the third degree? It should be Dodgy Roger in here getting it in the neck, not her.

Lawrence raised a knowing eyebrow. It was a trait she’d become familiar with. It usually preceded a right royal bollocking. Fortunately for her, she’d rarely been on the receiving end of one of his rants. She was his protégé; the grad student he’d spotted at an exhibition and taken a chance on. She couldn’t believe her luck when he’d offered her a position with his high-flying design company – a position most designers twice her age would kill for – and now it was under threat, all thanks to Dodgy Roger.

‘It was hardly assault, Lawrence.’ She felt her cheeks colour. ‘I tapped him on the forehead with my notebook. He was asleep on the job.’ As she’d already told him.

Lawrence reacted with a disappointed tut. ‘He also said you called him a moron.’

She cringed. Not exactly her finest moment.

‘A poor choice of words, I admit, but I was upset.’ Charlotte straightened in her chair, wishing she’d stopped off to buy painkillers on her way over. The pounding in her head was getting worse. She wasn’t sure whether it was the same headache as yesterday, or a new one.

When it came to using CAD, SketchUp or Photoshop, she was an expert – all those late nights studying and unpaid internships had culminated in a first-class honours degree in Interior Design. But nowhere amongst space planning and selecting soft furnishings had it covered dealing with Neanderthal workmen who knew they could get away with murder because the boss was family and the young designer they’d been assigned to work with was still trying to prove herself in a highly competitive industry.

Lawrence’s other eyebrow joined the one already raised. ‘And stupid.’

Well, he was. Who else would paint emulsion over acrylic? ‘I may have been a little harsh, but Roger blatantly ignored my instructions. The radiator pipes weren’t sunk into the plasterboard and he failed to replace the cracked ceramic Verona basin.’

Lawrence sighed. He got up from behind his large leather-topped desk, flicking away the tiniest smidgeon of dust from the lapel of his jacket. ‘That’s as may be, but we need to work as a team here at Quality Interiors. Power through such negativity and stop spilling each other’s beers.’

She failed to understand his meaning.

He perched on the corner of his desk. ‘Bottom line, we can’t afford to lose this client or risk damaging the company’s reputation by engaging in a lawsuit. The negative publicity would ruin us. And there’s no popularity in poverty.’

Was he misquoting The Wolf of Wall Street? He must spend his evenings reading 101 Greatest Ever Sales Quotes. Glancing down, she spotted the button on her suit jacket was undone and quickly fastened it. ‘I agree.’

‘The client has complained and it’s a legitimate complaint. The job doesn’t meet the spec. It’s over budget and it’s late. I need to be seen taking action.’ He smiled, the white of his teeth jarring with his sun-baked, all-year-round tan.

Thank goodness, they were on the same page … Crikey, he had her using clichés now. ‘Quite rightly.’

‘I’m glad you see it that way, Charlie.’ He rested his hands in his lap.

She hated it when he shortened her name … although right at that moment she certainly felt like a right ‘charlie’.

Noticing her reflection in the glass cabinet, she tucked a wayward dark curl behind her ear, her natural waves defying the straighteners yet again. Not helpful when trying to present a polished exterior. Why was she worrying about her appearance? Focus, woman.

‘A company is known by the people it keeps.’ He walked over to the cabinet housing his many accolades. ‘Short-term pain, long-term gain, as they say. A sacrifice for the good of the firm.’ He picked up one of his industry awards and rubbed away a mark before placing it back on the shelf. ‘It’s not what I want to do, believe me, but my hand has been forced.’

And about time too. Lawrence Falk ran a hugely successful and profitable firm. They had a six-month waiting list for sales visits alone and their work regularly featured in all the top design magazines, so why he allowed such an incompetent man to damage that prestigious reputation, she didn’t know. Surely family ties weren’t worth that much? They certainly weren’t in her family. But then she rarely saw her family, so that might be why. Their move to Cornwall seven years earlier, coupled with her long working hours and demanding job, had hampered any attempts to maintain a close relationship. It was something that never ceased to sadden her. But she couldn’t think about that right now, she had more important things to worry about. ‘I appreciate it’s a difficult situation, but I’m sure your sister will understand … eventually.’

Lawrence turned to her. ‘What’s my sister got to do with this?’

Charlotte mirrored his frown. ‘I imagine she won’t take kindly to you firing her husband.’

Lawrence held her gaze, his voice as smooth as his perfectly styled hair. ‘Who said I was firing Roger?’

A chill of foreboding crept into her shoulders, tightening the muscles around the base of her neck. God, her head hurt. ‘Well, you did … didn’t you? Someone has to be accountable and all that. I assumed we were talking about Roger?’

Lawrence gave her an insincere smile. ‘You know, Charlie, when you assume, you make an “ass” out of “u” and “me”.’

She tried to see past the latest cliché and comprehend his meaning. Her fingers fiddled with the button on her jacket. ‘Wh … what are you saying?’

He opened his hands, another perfected ‘trust me, I’m about to fleece you’ gesture. ‘This pains me more than it does you, Charlie …’

She doubted that.

‘… but I have to let you go. You’re an amazing designer, but this client is too influential to ignore.’

Ringing in her ears delayed the meaning of his words filtering through to her brain. For a moment, she just sat there, stunned. ‘But … but why? It wasn’t me who messed up. There was nothing wrong with my designs or my surveyor’s measurements. This was down to poor workmanship, nothing else.’ The walls seemed to be closing in on her. Her dream job was slipping from her clasp.

‘You took your eye off the ball.’

She crossed her legs, then uncrossed them, trying to keep her composure. ‘I was juggling three jobs, Lawrence. I couldn’t be there every second to babysit. And I shouldn’t have to.’

He gave a half-hearted nod. ‘But at the end of the day, it’s your responsibility to ensure the job is delivered on time and to brief. It’s your client, your job, your head on the block when it goes tits-up.’ Removing a ruler from his drawer, he measured the gaps between his trophies, adjusting any that didn’t meet his exacting standards. Standards she’d been drawn to, feeling they matched her own desire for perfection. ‘I’m sorry, love, but it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there.’

She stood up, no longer able to contain her frustration. ‘So, Roger gets away with yet another piss-poor job? No matter what he costs the firm, you let him off … again.’ The urge to topple over his trophies was overwhelming, but her brain alerted her to the fact that trashing the boss’s office would not strengthen her defence.

Lawrence shrugged. ‘Don’t be a sore loser, honey. Victory goes to the player who makes the next-to-last mistake. You know that.’

What on earth was he on about? ‘Sorry, I don’t follow?’

He pointed at her with the ruler. ‘You vandalised the shower screen.’

‘Hardly vandalised …’

‘The entire ceiling needs replastering. That was you, right, not Roger?’ He asked the question in such a way that it was obvious he already knew the answer.

Technically, it was true: she had slammed the shower-screen door so hard it had shattered, but only because Roger had drilled through a water pipe and then tried to cover it up with gaffer tape. When she’d peeled away the protective covering, water had spurted from the wall, soaking her jacket and skirt. Squealing from the shock of cold water hitting her midriff, she’d slipped backwards, her legs had parted company and the small slit in the back of her skirt had ripped all the way up to her bottom. She’d had to negotiate the Tube journey home with her jacket tied around her middle, trying not to flash her knickers to the other commuters. Talk about humiliating.

Lawrence sighed. ‘Look, take some time off. Lie low for a while. Maybe we can look at rehiring you in a few months’ time. But for now, I have to let you go. The company can’t afford to fight this.’ He dropped the ruler in the drawer, closing it with an ‘I’m done’ thud.

Tears threatened to surface. ‘So that’s it? You’re firing me?’ Her voice caught. ‘This is so unfair.’

Lawrence opened his office door. ‘Life is unfair, honey.’

She had no recollection of driving home. Her head thumped with a rhythm that made it hard to form coherent thoughts. She’d been fired? Sacked? Thrown under the bus so Lawrence could protect his family? It wasn’t fair. This wasn’t her fault … well, not entirely. Surely Dodgy Roger should be held accountable too? Why should he be allowed to get away with such ineptitude whilst she lost her career, something she’d fought for and worked so hard for all these years, giving up spending time with her friends, her family, just so she could achieve her dream of becoming a designer? What had it all been for?

By the time she’d parked up in the underground car park and made her way to the lift, indignation had switched to fury. She jabbed at the lift button. Lawrence couldn’t do this to her. It amounted to unfair dismissal. Ethan would agree with her, he’d support her. Together they would raise a grievance, challenge her dismissal …

So it was something of a shock to walk into the plush apartment in Kingston upon Thames that she shared with her boyfriend of four years to discover him packing a suitcase.

Confusion was the first emotion to hit. Why was Ethan at home on a Thursday? It wasn’t even lunchtime. Did he have a business trip planned? But then why wasn’t it logged on their shared calendar? Their iPads were synchronized for real-time updates, so even if it was a last-minute booking, she’d know about it.

The look on Ethan’s face gave further cause for alarm. ‘What are you doing home?’ His tone was surprisingly accusatory.

Part of her wondered if she’d caught him having an affair. Was she about to discover a woman hiding in the wardrobe? No, that wasn’t possible … mostly because the wardrobes were disturbingly empty.

Ethan was holding a suit-carrier bag. He threw it onto the bed, as if ridding himself of an incriminating weapon. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

She hadn’t been expecting him either.

Her brain was still trying to compute what her eyes were telling her. Clothes lying on the bed. Wardrobe doors open. Empty hanging rails. Two large suitcases sitting on the floor, their wheels denting the thick pile beneath. If Ethan didn’t move them soon, they’d permanently mark the carpet. Her brain was deflecting again.

‘I’ve been fired.’ Saying the words aloud made the reality of her situation even more painful. She’d lost her job. No, not lost. It had been stolen. She’d been unfairly cut loose, the sacrificial lamb, tossed onto the scrapheap as though she didn’t matter. But if she expected Ethan to be as upset as she was, she was woefully disappointed. He looked annoyed. Although, somehow, she sensed this wasn’t due to injustice on her behalf. ‘Fired?… Why?’

Ignoring his question, she focused on what was happening in the bedroom that she’d shared with her partner for nearly two years, a room with subtle lighting, a king-sized bed and designer fitted wardrobes … which were currently empty.

She looked at Ethan. He wasn’t dressed in his usual work suit with Tom Ford shirt and tie, he was wearing jeans and a polo shirt. His dark-blond hair had been cut since this morning – another appointment not recorded on their calendar.

The pounding in her head increased. ‘Why are you packing? What’s going on here?’

He stepped forward as if about to speak, but something flickered across his face. Irritation? Guilt? Panic?

She waited, but no explanation was forthcoming. ‘Ethan …?’

He drew his shoulders back, showing off the full extent of his six-foot height. Even in heels, she didn’t reach his chin. He swallowed awkwardly. ‘Okay, there’s no easy way to say this.’

She took off her suit jacket, suddenly feeling hot. He still hadn’t spoken. ‘Ethan?’

He folded his arms across his chest. ‘I’ve accepted a job in Paris.’

The words tumbled out in such a rush that she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly. ‘Paris …?’ Nope, her brain still wasn’t catching on. Nothing he was saying made any sense. ‘I don’t understand. What job in Paris?’

He shrugged. ‘It all came about quite suddenly.’

‘What, since this morning?’ It was no good, she had to move the suitcase before it ruined the carpet. Slipping off her Carvela courts, she tilted the suitcase against the bed. Blimey, how much stuff was he taking with him? ‘We ate breakfast together. We discussed our plans for the day. You didn’t think to mention you were off to Paris?’

Scooping up the clothes on the bed, he dumped them in the second suitcase and zipped it shut. ‘I thought it was easier this way.’ His tone bordered on belligerent.

‘I don’t understand.’ She smoothed away a crease in her grey skirt. ‘How long is this job for? A week? A month?’

He hesitated. ‘It’s permanent.’

It took a moment before the penny dropped. ‘Are … are you leaving me?’

If she expected instant denial and assurances that she was mistaken, followed by a plausible explanation as to why he was taking a job in another country, it didn’t come.

His eyes dropped to the floor. Silence descended. It was a good while before he nodded, confirming her fears.

The heat she’d felt just moments before turned to an icy chill. Her skin contracted, sending shivers racing up her arms. ‘But … why?’

He rubbed his forehead. ‘You can’t be that surprised, Charlotte. Things haven’t been good for a while.’ He rammed the suit-carrier bag into the suitcase.

Hadn’t they? This was news to her. ‘Things are fine … aren’t they?’ She walked towards him. He’d crease his suit if he carried on shoving it like that. Why was she thinking about his suit at a time like this? But she knew why. When faced with adversity, her default setting was to try and erase the problem. She cleaned, she straightened, she dusted and scrubbed, anything to maintain the polished exterior and disguise the mess lying beneath. ‘I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

He wheeled one of the cases from the bedroom, refusing to make eye contact. ‘I’m not happy.’

She followed him into the open-plan lounge. ‘What’s not to be happy about?’ She gestured to the space around them, the pale dove-grey walls and glass French doors leading onto a balcony overlooking the Thames. ‘We’ve created a beautiful home together. We have good jobs … or at least we did until an hour ago.’ She shook her head, still trying to come to terms with her new unemployed status. ‘We eat at fancy restaurants. We’re planning to visit interesting destinations. We lead the perfect life …’

‘And that’s the problem, Charlotte. Everything has to be perfect.’ He picked up one of the mauve-silk cushions, strategically placed in the middle of the corner sofa. ‘There’s no room for spontaneity. Everything has to be planned and logged on that bloody calendar of yours.’ He threw the cushion against the wall. ‘We’ve never even visited any of the places on that damned list.’

She flinched. The soft furnishings hadn’t come cheap. Instinctively, she padded across the wooden flooring in her bare feet and picked up the cushion. ‘But we lead such busy lives …’

He threw his hands in the air. ‘I know, but it’s like my whole existence is mapped out for me. I can’t take it anymore, you’re too exacting, too uptight. Look at you, even now you’re tidying up.’

She glanced down at the cushion. He had a point. ‘I like a tidy house. I thought you did too?’

He shook his head. ‘But you take it to the extreme. You won’t even let me make you a cup of tea because I don’t make it to your specific requirements.’

She hugged the cushion, trying to stem the onset of tears. ‘That’s hardly a reason to break up.’

He walked towards her, his gait animated. ‘The other night you said no to sex on the couch.’

Why on earth was he bringing that up? ‘Well, of course I did. It’s brand new.’

He ripped the cushion from her hand, making her flinch. ‘It’s a couch! Who cares?’

The sight of her carefully chosen accessory being tossed away as if it were a used tissue triggered a surge of indignation. She was tired of being blamed for all that was amiss in the world. ‘I thought you appreciated having a nice home? I’ve spent the last two years creating a beautiful living space for us to enjoy as a couple, and now you’re saying it’s not what you want?’

‘It’s too …’

‘What, Ethan?’ She rounded on him, hurt fuelling her anger. ‘Because I don’t understand. What is it that’s so bad you feel the need to up sticks and leave for Paris?’

He seemed to search for the appropriate word. ‘Suffocating.’

The word landed like a blow. Hard. Fast. Zapping the air from her lungs.

Suffocating …?

Ethan looked at her, defiance in his stance. ‘There, I said it. I didn’t want to, but you forced my hand.’ He turned and marched back into the bedroom to fetch the second suitcase. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t want it to be like this.’

She followed him. ‘I’m sure you didn’t, which is why you were planning to sneak out without even telling me. What were you going to do, text me when you arrived in Paris?’ She had to jump out of the way when he wheeled the suitcase past, perilously close to her toes. ‘I deserve better. At least say it to my face.’

He turned abruptly, causing her to nearly bump into him. ‘Fine. I’m leaving you, Charlotte. I don’t want to be with you anymore. I’ve accepted a cash offer on the flat. The buyers will be renting it furnished for three months first. They move in at the end of May.’

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘That’s only three weeks away.’

For the first time since she’d arrived home he looked contrite, but only fleetingly. ‘Sorry, it was too good an opportunity to pass up.’

That was it? ‘But surely you can’t do that without my consent?’

‘Actually, I can.’ He went into the hallway and unhooked his jacket from the stand. ‘I’ve owned the place for seven years. The mortgage is in my name. You’ve lived here for less than two. That doesn’t entitle you to claim a beneficial interest. I’ve checked.’

Her head throbbed, each pulsating thump as painful as the impact of his words. Who was this man? She barely recognised him. They’d shared a life together, a bed, a five-year plan, and all he could say was that she had no legal right to anything? ‘But you could’ve told me you were selling up. You didn’t have to spring it on me last minute. Didn’t I at least deserve that?’

He slipped his jacket on. ‘Probably. I’m being selfish, I know.’

She folded her arms, in an effort to stop herself from shaking. ‘You said it.’

For a moment, he looked like he was about to retaliate, but then sighed. ‘I thought that’s how we worked. We’ve never been overly mushy or sentimental. Our relationship has been pragmatic and mutually beneficial. I bought the place, you did it up. An agreeable business arrangement.’

‘A business arrangement?’ Was that really how he saw it? How could he be so cold, so unfeeling?

He shrugged. ‘Of sorts, yes.’ He placed his hand on her shoulder, the weight of it unwelcome and invasive. ‘Come on, you have to admit it was never going to go the distance.’ He held her gaze. ‘It’s better this way.’

Tears were beginning to surface. ‘How is it better, Ethan? I’ve just lost my job and now you’re telling me that in three weeks’ time I’m going to be homeless.’

He kissed her cheek. ‘Think of it as a new start. You’ll bounce back, you’re made of tough stuff. It’s one of the things I’ve always admired about you.’

Stung, she stepped away from him. ‘Wow, just what every girl longs to hear. How much she’s admired. Lucky me.’

He opened the door. ‘Take care, Charlotte. Good luck.’ And with that he was gone, wheeling both suitcases towards the lift.

She’d need more than good luck. In the space of one morning, she’d lost everything. Her career, her boyfriend, her home. She had nothing left.

Slamming the door behind him, she sagged against it, fury giving way to heartbreak as she slumped to the floor. Angry tears ran down her face. She hated crying, it always made her feel so out of control, so untethered, but she couldn’t stop the onset. She was hurt, mad, shocked. Her perfect life was gone. Shattered. Wiped out.

What the hell was she going to do?

CHAPTER TWO

Tuesday, 17 May – 14 weeks till curtain-up

Barney Hubble leant against the iron railings and drew in a breath of salty air as he watched a fishing boat drag its nets from the water. There was nothing remarkable about this particular Tuesday evening in May, and yet the sight of the water sparkling under the fading daylight and the rush of waves ebbing and flowing over the sandy beach below, was strangely hypnotic. How different his life was now compared to back in London.

For a start, he walked everywhere. He’d never walked anywhere in London, other than endlessly marching up and down hospital corridors. And he swam most days, relishing the battle of challenging riptides and the exhilaration of diving into freezing-cold water, feeling his skin contract beneath his wetsuit. He was also able to indulge in his passion for music. He didn’t earn much from his gigs, but he enjoyed it and it made him feel alive … unlike when he’d worked on the hospital wards and he’d felt permanently dead.

As a kid, he’d learnt both guitar and piano at school before progressing to singing in bands. He’d never ventured into acting before, but last summer his housemates had coerced him into joining the local amateur dramatics group. Despite his initial reluctance, he’d discovered that it was a great way to make new friends and ingrain himself into the local community. Something he hadn’t even known he’d wanted, and certainly something he’d never experienced in London.

His parents had never been big fans of hobbies. It was all work, work, work, for Henry and Alexa Hubble. A philosophy they’d tried to instil into their son. Not that he was against hard work, he just wanted more from life. Maybe it was selfish, but specialising was his parents’ dream, not his. He’d given med school his all, but nothing had prepared him for the relentless onslaught of being a junior doctor.

So, he’d taken a gap year. But the year was now up and his parents wanted to know when he was returning to his studies. It was a reasonable enough request. Trouble was, he wasn’t ready to leave Cornwall. He was still working out what he wanted out of life. He loved living by the sea, he was rediscovering his passion for music, and he was trying out new experiences … like playing Oberon in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

The sound of voices rose above the crash of waves below. He turned and watched his mates Nate and Paul cross the quayside to join him.

‘I can’t believe I’m being forced to wear a dress again.’ Nate slung his worn leather jacket over his shoulder. He’d never forgiven the last director for casting him as an ugly sister in Cinderella. For everyone else, the sight of a tattooed, bearded twenty-five-year-old dressed to look like Amy Winehouse was hysterical. Nate had never enjoyed the joke. ‘I mean, seriously, which part of me screams love-struck damsel in distress?’ He held out his tattooed arms. His biker T-shirt was stained with grease, and his normally spiky brown hair flattened from wearing his crash helmet.

Paul shrugged. ‘Comic irony? No one would ever mistake you for a girl, even in a dress. Ergo, visual humour.’

Nate didn’t look convinced.

‘And anyway, men have often played female roles in the theatre,’ Paul said, heading up the hill towards the hall, looking dapper in his blue Ben Sherman suit, complete with narrow tie and pointed shoes. ‘Where do you think the word “drag” comes from?’

Nate looked blank.

Paul gave him a questioning look. ‘It stands for “dressed as girl”. It began during Victorian times to denote a male actor playing the part of a female for comic effect.’

Nate shrugged. ‘I never knew that.’

Paul raised an eyebrow. ‘Unsurprisingly, I did.’

Unlike his mates, Barney didn’t feel as though he had a specific style. He favoured jeans and T-shirts, wore leather flip-flops in the summer, and owned a few Fat Face shirts. Not exactly the height of fashion. He’d often been told he was a dead ringer for Elvis Presley, but he couldn’t see it himself. It was probably his Hawaiian heritage on his mother’s side. Whatever the reason, he imagined the three of them made an unusual sight when they went out together, especially when Dusty joined in the fun.

‘At least I get to play Demetrius as well as Thisbe,’ Nate said, as they reached Bridge Street Hall. ‘But I’m still not happy about playing a girl.’

Paul patted his shoulder. ‘That’s life, I’m afraid. Others don’t always see us the way we see ourselves.’

Barney picked up on the sombre note in Paul’s voice. ‘I thought you were pleased to be offered the part of Helena?’

Paul smiled. ‘I’m delighted, dear boy.’ But his response lacked conviction.

Barney was prevented from questioning him further by the noise coming from the hall. As they pushed through the wooden doors, they were greeted by the distinctive odour of stale sweat and smelly feet, a constant no matter how thoroughly the place was cleaned.

Most of the village got involved in the productions, even if it was just selling programmes or helping backstage, but getting enough people to audition was always the tricky part, hence the multiple roles. The summer production was performed at the Corineus Theatre, a beautiful outdoor amphitheatre cut into the Cornish coastline. With its stone walls and clifftop views, and a backdrop of crashing waves and swirling winds, it was a stunning location. Performing there was magical.

Barney didn’t need to be told that Lauren Saunders had also arrived at the hall. He could tell from Nate’s body language: his eyes homed in on her like an FBI tracking device. There was nothing subtle about the way Nate gazed longingly at her. And there was no way Lauren was as oblivious to his interest as she made out. Whether she felt the same remained a mystery. Sometimes Barney sensed she did, other times not so much.

Tonight, she was wearing a grey tunic dress over leggings, her long hair tied loosely at the base of her neck. ‘Freddie! Stop pulling Florence’s hair!’ she yelled, her expression softening as her twin eight-year-olds ran across the hall, their startling red hair and freckles a contrast to their mother’s pale skin and dark hair. Both kids were eagerly talking and laughing. They each drew in a big breath, then simultaneously told their mum they’d been cast as fairies in the play.

Unlike Nate, Freddie seemed delighted to be wearing a dress. ‘It’ll have a skirt made of petals and everything,’ he gushed.

Paul ruffled his hair. ‘Good for you, mate.’

They were joined by Lauren’s dad, who was followed into the hall by his two lady admirers, Sylvia Johns and Glenda Graham. No one could work out whether Tony Saunders was genuinely clueless that both women were into him, or whether he was just stringing them along, enjoying the attention. Either way, it was amusing to watch.

Barney nodded a greeting. ‘I’m assuming you got cast in the show, Tony?’

Tony grinned. ‘I’m playing Bottom.’ His flash of white teeth evoked an audible sigh from both women. At sixty-two, the man would shame most men half his age. His reddish-blond hair hadn’t greyed; his stomach hadn’t inflated, and his tanned skin hadn’t suffered from hours spent at sea. ‘Including two other parts. That’s a lot of lines for someone my age. You youngsters have it easy.’

Nate didn’t look like he agreed.

Despite being a decent actor, Nate wasn’t a confident reader, so often tripped up over the text. Unfortunately, the show’s director didn’t possess the art of tact, and if someone messed up, he wouldn’t hesitate to humiliate them in front of the whole room – as Nate had discovered at the audition, when he’d mispronounced his line, ‘Tarry, rash won ton!’ causing the director to bellow, ‘Wanton, not won ton! You are not ordering Chinese food, Mr Jones!’

Jonathan Myers was a typical theatrical type, who wore glasses on a chain around his neck and sported a terrible comb-over. Appearing at the front of the stage, he asked everyone to take a seat. ‘As you all know, my name is Jonathan Myers. I’m a professional, RADA-trained actor’ – as he liked to remind everyone on a regular basis – ‘and the director of this year’s summer extravaganza, William Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I think you will agree, this will be the Isolde Players’ most adventurous production to date.’ He started clapping, encouraging everyone to join in, always eager to receive a round of applause. ‘We shall begin this evening with an improvisation, something to warm up our bodies and focus the mind. The single most important attribute an actor should possess is …?’ He cupped his ear, encouraging a response.

The group mumbled, ‘Focus’, only to be met with a shaking of Jonathan’s head and an exasperated, ‘Louder!’ to which everyone dutifully yelled, ‘FOCUS!’ – except Nate, who yelled, ‘Louder!’ and then cringed when everyone laughed.

Jonathan waited for calm. ‘Thank you. Now, I would like you all to pair up and prepare a short mime entitled “A Fool in the Forest”.’ Before he’d even added, ‘You have ten minutes’, Kayleigh Wilson had sprinted the length of the hall and ‘bagsied’ Barney as her partner, ever hopeful that their brief spell dating would turn into something more meaningful. But there was no spark – not on his side at any rate. She was a nice enough girl, but he wasn’t interested in getting serious with her. Trouble was, she had other ideas.

Nate didn’t fare much better. He lost out on partnering Lauren to seasoned actor Daniel Austin.

A despondent Nate was stuck with Paul, who, never one to take offence, said, ‘It’s just as well we’re mates,’ and slung an arm around his shoulder. ‘Your enthusiasm for working with me is quite touching.’

Ignoring Paul’s sarcasm, Nate shoved his hands inside his jeans pockets, staring daggers at Daniel. ‘He does it to wind me up.’

Paul sighed. ‘Then don’t let him see it affects you, or he’ll keep doing it.’

In contrast, Kayleigh was beaming like she’d won an Oscar, sparkling like the diamanté lettering adorning the backside of her pink velour tracksuit. Kayleigh had big eyes and waist-length brown hair, making her an official ‘babe’, as Nate would say. But she wasn’t Barney’s type. Too girly, too annoyingly bouncy, and far too young aged just twenty. He was only twenty-seven himself, but five years studying for a medical degree, followed by two years completing his foundation programme, had induced a level of maturity that defied his age … not that his parents agreed. ‘Immature’ and ‘irresponsible’ were accusations regularly thrown in his direction.

Someone’s phoned beeped, making Barney flinch.

It’d been over a year since he’d left Queen Mary’s Hospital and yet the sound of the dreaded doctor’s bleeper still brought him out in a cold sweat. It was every junior doctor’s nightmare. Day or night, whether you were sleeping, eating or on the loo, the damned thing would go off and panic would set in. You never knew what awaited you at the other end, and no matter how junior you were, you were expected to know the answer, incurring the wrath of the nurses if you didn’t. People often had a preconceived idea that being a doctor was somehow heroic. They wanted to hear stories about saving lives, but would they want the reality? The daily horrors, the tiredness, the uncertainty; being sworn at, spat on and shat on? Feeling so crushed by responsibility that all you wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry? Probably not. Was it any wonder he was resisting a return?

‘I would be grateful if phones could be turned off,’ Jonathan said, looking around for the culprit. ‘Distractions are not welcome in the sanctuary of creative space.’ He gave a theatrical bow. ‘Much obliged.’

Barney switched his phone to silent, noticing another text from his mother. The frequency of ‘call me’ messages was increasing. The topic of conversation never varied. When was he coming home? When would he be resuming his medical training? If the questions never changed, neither would his answers.

Once all the mimes had been critiqued by the director, who’d frowned the whole way through Barney and Kayleigh’s very un-Shakespearean offering of a ‘pair of clowns camping’, he signalled for quiet. ‘Please join me now in a vocal warm-up.’ He puffed out his chest and walked around the room. ‘Breathe in for the count of four …’

There was something surreal about standing in a circle, breathing in unison. Tony looked relaxed, Nate looked focused, Paul’s efforts were half-hearted, and Daniel sounded like he was doing yoga, letting out a low hum with each breath – whilst Kayleigh sounded like she was having an orgasm, panting like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally.

Jonathan stopped behind Glenda and placed his arms around her middle. ‘Feel your diaphragm expand … two … three … and contract … two … three …’

Glenda started giggling. ‘Jonathan, I didn’t know you had it in you. Naughty man.’ She wiggled her bottom and winked at Tony, who was standing opposite her in the circle. Her dirty laughter resulted in a disgruntled look from Sylvia, who pursed her coral-pink lips – the colour as stark as her salmon trousers.

If Glenda favoured the natural look, her neutral linen clothes creased and loose-fitting, Sylvia’s style could only be described as an homage to Dolly Parton.

‘What’s her problem?’ Glenda said, pretending she didn’t know that Sylvia had the hots for Tony. Tormenting Sylvia seemed to be one of Glenda’s favourite pastimes. She was a nice enough woman, who helped out in the community and undertook lollipop-lady duties at the primary school, but there was something hard about her too. Barney couldn’t put his finger on what, but he wouldn’t want to cross her, put it that way.

‘Excellent.’ Jonathan clapped his hands, encouraging everyone to breathe normally. ‘Now, I’d like everyone to sing the note of C.’

Before he could twang his tuning fork, Kayleigh, Glenda and Sylvia had let rip, their collective sound on a par with a cat Barney had once helped escape from a drain.

Thankfully, Kayleigh ran out of breath and the sound improved. As the seconds ticked by, it became clear that an unspoken competition was taking place between the two rival women. Each getting louder, trying to outdo the other, as their note reached its crescendo.

Sylvia’s face grew redder.

Glenda began to physically shake.

Freddie and Florence started laughing, which set Barney off. It was childish, but he couldn’t help it. He felt a momentary pang of remorse when Lauren told her kids off for being rude. But he felt better when he heard Paul snort and Tony start chortling.

Finally, Sylvia broke off, almost collapsing from a lack of oxygen. Glenda whooped and punched the air, only curtailing her celebrations when Jonathan glared at her. ‘If you two ladies have finished?’ He struck his tuning fork against the table.

As with the breathing exercise, some people found it embarrassing, some hard to pitch, others like Freddie and Florence sang out as though they didn’t have a care in the world, just as eight-year-olds should do. Florence began twirling on the spot. Freddie followed suit. Barney thought ‘what the heck’ and joined in, followed by Tony, and then a smiling Lauren. It wasn’t long before everyone was twirling, singing horribly off-key and letting go of their inhibitions. Even Paul looked better by the time Florence had made herself so dizzy she’d fallen over and everyone had run over to check she was okay. That was the thing about community. Everyone cared.

Barney glanced at Glenda. Or if they didn’t, they at least pretended to.

Jonathan gave up on the warm-up. ‘My ears can stand no more.’ He minced over to the front of the stage. ‘Let us begin reading through the script. But first, I would like to share with you my vision for the show.’

Barney sat down next to Paul, who was busy checking his phone. ‘Everything okay, mate? You seem distracted?’

Paul switched his phone to silent. ‘My brother’s getting married.’

As Jonathan spouted on about ‘blue-filtered lighting for the forest scenes’, Barney lowered his voice. ‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it? I thought you got on well with Will?’

Paul shrugged. ‘I do, of sorts.’

‘Then what’s the problem?’ Barney ignored Jonathan’s complicated explanation of swivelling set changes.

Paul chewed on his lower lip. ‘Dusty’s not invited.’ He waited until the director had moved on to the topic of rehearsal schedules. ‘Apparently, his fiancée is unwilling to have a drag queen ruin her special day. If I don’t agree, then I’m not invited to the wedding either.’

Barney frowned. ‘That’s a bit harsh. When’s the wedding?’

‘September.’

‘Then you have four months to make them see sense. No way should you miss your brother’s wedding over something so narrow-minded.’

‘Have you finished, gentlemen?’ Barney realised that Jonathan was looking at them. ‘I hate to interrupt such an in-depth conversation, but I am trying to direct a masterpiece here.’

Barney squirmed. ‘Sorry.’

Jonathan nodded curtly, rubbing a smudge away from his glasses. ‘Now, let us start with our lovers plotting to run away together. It will give everyone an opportunity to see how Shakespeare should be done.’ He gestured to where Daniel was sitting. ‘If you would oblige?’

Never one to turn down a chance to show off, Daniel sprung from his seat, followed by a reluctant-looking Nate, who was also in the scene in his role as Demetrius.

Ignoring Daniel’s yoga hums, and attempting to ‘focus’, Nate addressed Lauren. ‘“Relent, sweet Hermia; and, Lysander, yield thy crazed title to my certain right.”’ Nate turned to look at the director. ‘I have no idea what any of this bollocks means.’

Daniel smirked. ‘That much is obvious.’

Jonathan removed his glasses, pinning Nate with a glare. ‘Then I suggest you make full use of the notes section at the back of your script.’ He smiled at Daniel. ‘As you were.’

Daniel obliged. ‘“You have her father’s love, Demetrius – let me have Hermia’s.”’

Jonathan lifted his hand. ‘Wonderful diction, Daniel.’

Daniel gave a theatrical bow. ‘Why thank you, kind sir.’ He glanced at Nate. ‘One tries.’

Nate mumbled, ‘Knob,’ under his breath.

Daniel approached Lauren. ‘“My love is more than his.”’ He pointed to Nate. ‘“My fortunes every way as fairly ranked. I am beloved of beauteous Hermia.”’ He sneered at Nate, who was now looking really pissed off. ‘“Why is your cheek so pale, my love? How chance the roses there do fade so fast?”’ Taking Lauren’s hand, he kissed her on the cheek. ‘“The course of true love never did run smooth.”’

His dramatic delivery was met with a round of applause, accompanied by the sound of a phone buzzing.

Nate turned to Barney and mouthed, ‘Smug git.’

Barney’s laughter faded when he realised that Paul was looking sheepish. ‘Sorry, I thought it was my phone vibrating, and I answered it.’ As if passing over an explosive device, he handed Barney his mobile. ‘It’s your mum.’

Bollocks.

As he took the phone and headed outside to face the music, Barney heard Lauren deliver her next line. ‘“By all the vows that ever men have broke …”’

Oh, the irony … as Paul would say.

CHAPTER THREE

Tuesday, 24 May

Lauren Saunders nudged the wok further onto the gas stove before it toppled off and sent fajita mix flying across the kitchen. The fat hissed, spitting oil over the bank statement she’d received that morning. Perhaps trying to sort out her finances whilst cooking wasn’t the most sensible idea, but when else was she supposed to do it? What with school runs, rehearsals, and her shifts at Piskies café, it didn’t leave much time for anything else.

There was a loud crash from the lounge. Keeping one eye on the spitting wok, she turned to see what mischief her children were up to. Living in such cramped conditions was an annoyance, but the open-plan living area at least allowed her to supervise while cooking.

Freddie was crouched behind an upturned dining chair ready to ambush his unsuspecting sister. Both children were wearing the ninja outfits Sylvia Johns had bought them for their birthday last month: black jumpsuits trimmed with red piping, and a large belt, complete with silver buckle and plastic sword.

‘Mind what you’re doing with that thing,’ Lauren warned Freddie, even though her son probably couldn’t hear above the blaring TV. The flimsy weapon might bend on impact, but it could still take an eye out.

Her daughter was crawling along the floor like an SAS operative, outwitting her brother, whose focus remained fixed on the bedroom door. When his twin prodded him in the back with her sword, Freddie let out a cry of indignation, and gave chase.

Lauren turned back to the stove. She didn’t mind the mayhem. In fact, she loved it. As a kid, she’d constantly been told to calm down and be quiet. She didn’t begrudge her parents preferring a peaceful house, but the experience had shaped her views on child-rearing. Rightly or wrongly, her kids were encouraged to be noisy and playful.

Lauren placed the tortillas in the ancient microwave. She noticed a splodge of oil had stained the bottom of the bank statement. That was one way to deal with a minus balance – obscure it from view so she couldn’t be reminded that it was another week before payday.

Wafting away the steam rising from the wok, she opened the window above the sink, thumping the frame with her palm to get it to shift. Like everything else in the local-authority flat, the windows were in desperate need of replacing.

On the street below, she spotted a post-office van pull up outside the Co-op. She found herself hesitating in case Nate Jones appeared, allowing herself a moment’s wishful thinking. She’d met the local postie soon after moving to Penmullion seven years ago. He’d proved to be a good friend, who frequently looked after the kids for her. They’d regularly hung out when performing in plays together or drinking at Smugglers Inn, but when it became clear he wanted more than she could offer, she backed off. It wasn’t as though she could allow anything to happen between them, so why torture herself fantasising? Life might be challenging as a single parent, but adding another adult into the equation would only upset the balance and confuse the children. So, until they were older, relationships were off the table … no matter how tempted she might be.

Moving to Cornwall had been the right decision. The kids loved living by the seaside, and so did she. The local school wasn’t overpopulated, and the teachers often took the children outside for lessons. It was a wonderful education for them. The town of Penmullion was quaint and full of history. There was a relaxed sense of well-being about the place, as well as a tight community spirit. They enjoyed early-morning walks along the beach, picnics in the summer, and fresh air all year around. It made an ideal setting to raise a family.

Removing the guacamole and salsa from the fridge, she sniffed the contents. Both were past their sell-by date, and consequently half price, but there were no signs of mould, so hopefully they were safe to consume.

Moving down from London had been good for her too. She’d made friends, joined a drama group, and enjoyed lots of free time with her kids. Penmullion was beautiful, and her dad was on hand to help, so there were lots of positives. There were a few negatives too. Lack of money being one of them.

She hid the bank statement on top of the fridge. Out of sight, out of mind … Who was she trying to kid?

With no professional skills, and a lack of available jobs in Cornwall, money was tight. She loved working at the beach café, but the hours were part-time and the salary was minimum wage. She received a top-up of welfare benefits, but it didn’t cover all her rent and household expenses. As a result, over the last year, she’d managed to run up a debt. She was sticking to the repayments, but it was hard going. She didn’t mind denying herself stuff, but she hated the thought of Freddie and Florence going without.

Returning to the wok, she gave it a shake, smiling as the kids practised their kung-fu kicks. The sight of them, collapsed in a fit of giggles, rolling around the floor, made every sacrifice worthwhile. They were happy, and they were loved, that was all that mattered.

But it still pained her that she couldn’t afford to buy them the new bicycles they so desperately wanted. Maybe one day. But not yet, and certainly not until she’d repaid Glenda Graham the five hundred quid she owed her.

She’d borrowed the money late last year to buy Freddie and Florence their Christmas presents, pay the winter gas bill, and clear the balance on this year’s school trip to the Isle of Wight. As per the loan agreement, she’d been dutifully paying Glenda back twenty-five pounds per week. With only a couple more weeks to go, she’d soon be debt-free. Maybe then she could save up for the bikes. In the meantime, it was discounted food, home haircuts, and a pay-as-you-go mobile … which at that moment started to ring.

Lauren couldn’t have been more surprised when her sister’s name appeared on the display. Calls from Charlotte were a rarity.

Stirring the fajita mix, she pressed ‘call accept’. ‘Hey there, sis. Everything okay?’ Covering the phone with her hand, Lauren shouted through to the lounge, ‘Telly off, please. Wash your hands and sit up at the table. Tea’s ready.’

‘Have I called at a bad time?’ Her sister sounded a tad shaky.

Charlotte was normally the epitome of control. She worked for a fancy London design company, earned megabucks, and lived in an apartment with a lift. Who had a lift? Certainly not Lauren. Her flat had a rickety iron staircase that usually reeked of stale wee.

‘Not at all,’ she lied. ‘I’m just dishing up the kids’ dinner. How are you? It’s been a while.’

Her sister’s reply wasn’t immediate. ‘Things aren’t … great.’

Lauren pressed the start button on the microwave. She couldn’t remember Charlotte’s life being anything other than ‘great’ … Well, apart from when their mum died, but other than that, Charlotte lived the ‘perfect life’, as her sister referred to it. Lauren had given up striving for perfection a long time ago. Not that she didn’t have a perfect life, it was just very different to her sister’s.

She heard Charlotte sniff. ‘I’m just going to come out and say it … would it be okay if I came and stayed for a while?’

Lauren removed cutlery from the drawer. Had she heard correctly? In the seven years she’d lived in Cornwall, Charlotte had never once visited. Her sister was always too busy with work, her career as an interior designer taking up all her time, even weekends. Consequently, it’d been up to Lauren and their dad to retain contact, visiting Charlotte in London whenever they could, which wasn’t often.

Freddie and Florence came charging into the kitchen, the hoods of their outfits pushed away from their faces. They climbed onto the plastic chairs, making them squeak. ‘Please can I have some water?’ Florence rubbed her nose with her hand.

Lauren poured water into their plastic Toy Story beakers, which were too young for them, but she couldn’t afford to replace. ‘Use a tissue, please, Florence.’ She handed her daughter a roll of kitchen towels, which doubled as napkins in the Saunders house.

Balancing the phone between her shoulder and ear, Lauren dished up the fajita mix, her focus returning to her sister. ‘What’s brought this on?’ She moved Freddie’s hand before she burnt him with the wok. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. It’s just unexpected. Have you finally taken some holiday from work?’

Her sister made an odd sound. ‘I wish.’ Another pause. ‘I’ve been fired.’

Lauren stopped serving dinner. ‘Fired?’

The sound of her raised voice had both children reverting to ninjas, making gun shapes with their hands and shouting, ‘Fired!’

Lauren shushed them. ‘Eat your tea, please.’ Their grinning faces made her laugh. She’d never make a stern parent. ‘Sorry, Charlotte. It’s mayhem here. You were saying?’

Her sister sighed. ‘I’ve lost my job … and Ethan and I have broken up.’ There was a catch in her voice.

Wow, another shock announcement. Not that Lauren had ever really liked Ethan, even though they’d only met a couple of times, but that was beside the point. ‘What happened?’

‘One of my commissions went tits-up, and Ethan’s accepted a job in Paris.’ Charlotte’s words came out in a rush. ‘I’ve tried to get temporary work, but my heart’s not in it. I think maybe I need some time out to clear my head and work out what to do next. So … can you put me up, please? Just till I get back on my feet.’

Lauren was conflicted. She’d love to see Charlotte, so would the kids, but how would her sister react to life in Penmullion? It was a far cry from London, with its trendy bars, city traders and cutting-edge fashion.

Sensing Lauren’s hesitation, Charlotte added, ‘I wouldn’t ask if I had anywhere else to go, but Ethan’s selling the flat.’

Lauren tucked Freddie’s chair under the table. ‘You’re dropping filling down your front,’ she told her son. ‘Lean forwards so it lands on the plate.’ She ruffled his hair.

He gave her a big smile, guacamole stuck in the gap where a front tooth should be.

Lauren wandered through to the lounge and sat down on the worn sofa. As a kid, she’d looked up to Charlotte: she was the sister with aptitude, strength and organisational skills; she’d coped with adversity, solved problems, and looked after them all when their mum had died. But now, as an adult, she was worried that Charlotte would find fault with her choices, and the life she’d made for herself and her kids.

She didn’t voice these concerns. Instead, she said, ‘Of course you can stay.’ Charlotte had never asked Lauren for anything in her entire life. Her sister was a self-made, self-sufficient individual, who relied on no one. Things must be dire if she was asking for help.

Her sister sighed. ‘Thanks, Lauren. I really appreciate it. Would Friday be okay?’

Friday? Three days to clean the flat, buy food – which she couldn’t afford – and make up a spare bed. It wasn’t long enough. ‘You’ll have to sleep in the lounge, I’m afraid. We don’t have a spare room.’

Silence hung in the air. ‘That’s … fine.’ It clearly wasn’t. ‘Thanks, Lauren. I’ll text you when I’m leaving.’ Charlotte hung up.

Lauren leant back against the sofa. She could feel a lump beneath her that she hadn’t noticed before. A spring was working its way through the fabric. Another annoyance to add to the list.

Gathering her thoughts, she got up and went into the kitchen. ‘Finished?’

Her kids nodded in unison. ‘Yuu-mm-yy.’ Florence licked her fingers.

‘Good girl. Here, use this, please.’ Lauren handed her a fresh kitchen towel. ‘Satsumas or yoghurt for pudding?’

Freddie pulled a face. ‘Can’t we have ice cream?’

Florence scowled at her brother. ‘We can’t afford ice cream.’

Shock hit Lauren. ‘Why on earth would you think that, Florence?’

‘’Cause we don’t have any money in the bank.’ Her daughter looked like a typical eight-year-old, swinging her legs, rubbing her tiny hands on the kitchen towel, but her words made her sound a lot older. ‘I saw the thingy.’ She pointed to the top of the fridge where the bank statement poked out from under the treat jar – a jar that was currently devoid of sweets.

‘Oh, darling. Of course we can afford ice cream,’ Lauren lied, wishing for once that her daughter wasn’t quite so advanced for her age. ‘I just forgot to buy some this week.’ She bent down and kissed Flo’s cheek. ‘Now, I don’t want you to worry about what a silly bank statement says. They’ve probably added it up wrong.’

Florence frowned. ‘Like Freddie does in maths class?’

‘I do not!’ Freddie looked indignant. ‘You do.’

‘Do not.’

‘Do too …’

‘Hey, no bickering. Be nice to each other, please. I’ll get some ice cream at the weekend.’ When I have some money. ‘Now, what would you like?’

They settled on yoghurt. Lauren busied herself clearing the table and picking at the leftovers, trying to stem the surge of shame. She’d tried so hard to keep her money worries from her kids. In future, she’d ensure paperwork was filed away. But that was the least of her concerns. With her sister visiting, and another mouth to feed, her finances weren’t going to improve. And if Charlotte had lost her job, then money would be an issue for her too. Somehow Lauren was going to have to make her income stretch even further.

The kids finished their dessert and ran into the lounge.

‘No jumping about until your dinners have gone down,’ she called after them.

‘Yes, Mummy!’ Their sing-song reply made her laugh. Thank God for her kids.

Unlike Charlotte, Lauren had never really known what she wanted to be when she grew up. She’d done okay at school, but she hadn’t wanted to continue studying. She was too excited by what the world had to offer … and then their mum had died and the world no longer seemed like such a wonderful place. But she’d never been lazy and, after leaving school, had tried numerous jobs in the hope of finding her calling. She’d worked in a bar, trained as a nursery assistant, and worked as an usher at the local theatre. She’d always loved drama at school, and getting to watch plays for free every night was the best job ever.

At nineteen, she’d met a boy called Joe and thought she was in love. When she fell pregnant, Joe broke things off, making her realise that she wasn’t in love, and neither was he. His interest steadily decreased as her belly size increased. Six months after she gave birth, he disappeared from their lives completely. She grew tired of chasing him for child-maintenance payments. His refusal to have any contact with the kids led her to accepting her dad’s offer to move to Cornwall with him. She’d hoped that an idyllic setting, and help from her dad, would make life a little easier. And, for the most part, it had.

Lauren ran the hot tap, swishing it around the washing-up liquid bottle, trying to make the meagre contents stretch a bit further.

Moving to Penmullion had definitely been the right decision. She was happy; so were her kids. And even though her dad didn’t help out as much as she’d hoped he would, it was still good to be together as a family.

A loud crack from the lounge was followed by a squeal. Lauren dropped the wok into the sink, splashing suds everywhere, and ran into the living-room area. Florence was sitting on the floor, rubbing her arm. Freddie was patting her head, his red cheeks clashing with his hair. ‘Sorry, Florence. Didn’t mean it.’

Next to them, the ancient carpet-sweeper was bent at an angle, missing its handle.

Brilliant. Her pedantic sister was coming to stay, and Lauren couldn’t even vacuum.

Florence looked up, her blue eyes tearful. ‘Are you mad, Mummy?’

Lauren shook her head. ‘Of course not, sweetie. Accidents happen.’

She sat down next to her daughter.

Freddie jumped onto the sofa and resumed waving his sword about.

Yep, moving to Cornwall had been the right thing to do … even if it did still have its challenges.

CHAPTER FOUR

Friday, 27 May

Charlotte battled her way out of the loos and queued up for a hot drink, needing something to calm her agitation. It was only ten a.m., but the motorway service station at Leigh Delamere East was full of people heading down to the coast for the May bank holiday weekend. She hadn’t realised quite how busy the roads would be. She’d been driving for three hours, and still had another hundred and twenty miles to go. At this rate, it would be dark before she reached her destination.

Collecting her takeaway cup from the counter, she headed outside, trying to remember what her GP had said about focusing on the positives of her situation, instead of dwelling on the negatives – which wasn’t easy. The grief she’d felt at leaving her old life behind was indescribable. But, much to her surprise, her visit to the GP had been extremely helpful. Far from dismissing her tearful ramblings, he’d listened patiently and had diagnosed a mild anxiety disorder. At first, she’d been reluctant to accept any failing in her mental health, but as he’d spoken about the impact of stress, and its ability to exacerbate physical pain, she’d realised that denying her condition was foolhardy. He’d said battling to keep things ‘just so’ was like clinging hold of a stick under water, the effort of not dropping it was so exhausting that, in the end, you’d drown trying to keep afloat. Sometimes you just had to let the stick sink to the bottom and trust that, eventually, it would float back up to the surface and continue its journey down the river. A nice analogy.

Ethan’s decision to leave was out of her control, he’d said. As was losing her job. The best thing she could do was stop beating herself up for not being able to control everything, try to relax, and take the opportunity of an impromptu holiday.

The spring weather had been steadily improving all week, so a spell at the seaside might improve her spirits. It would be good to spend some time with her family, and it’d been over a year since she’d seen her niece and nephew, so really, this trip was a blessing … even if it had been forced upon her.

She sipped her latte. It didn’t taste great, but it was warm and sweet and gave her energy levels a boost. She managed another few mouthfuls before binning it.

It was hard to believe that, up until a few weeks ago, her life had been going to plan. Her career was flying high, her finances were stable, and the five-year plan for achieving the ‘perfect life’, which she’d drawn up with Ethan, was on schedule. They’d planned that, within the next two years, they’d move to a town house with a good resale value, and they’d up their pension pots with additional contributions. It wasn’t the most dynamic of plans, and perhaps, on reflection, it lacked a certain sense of romance, but it was pragmatic and considered, and it’d been what they’d both wanted. Or at least, what she’d thought they’d both wanted.

Unbuttoning her purple suede jacket, she climbed into her car, gearing herself up for rejoining the M4.

It felt a lot longer than three weeks since Ethan had dropped his bombshell. The initial shock had subsided, but the confusion hadn’t. Why hadn’t she seen it coming? There must have been signs, clues to suggest Ethan wasn’t happy, and yet she’d been oblivious. While she’d been working long hours, carrying out the renovations on the apartment, adhering to their five-year plan, he’d been plotting his relocation to bloody Paris.

How had she got things so wrong?

His words still haunted her, how he’d described their relationship as a ‘business arrangement’. What a cruel thing to say, and unfair too. Not everyone was mushy when it came to romance. It didn’t mean she wasn’t invested, or that she didn’t have feelings. Their relationship was built on the merits of a shared life. It was uncomplicated, straightforward, and if she was honest, a little boring at times, but that was only to be expected after four years … right?

She moved into the fast lane, taking the opportunity of a gap in the traffic to put her foot down, blinking away the latest onslaught of tears threatening to surface.

It wasn’t just breaking up; she was still smarting over losing her job, and struggling to come to terms with how quickly everything had unravelled. One minute she was employee of the month, the next she was being handed her P45. The only chink of light had come when she’d contacted the government’s arbitration service and they’d advised her that she might have a case for unfair dismissal. Determined not to go down without a fight, she’d lodged a claim with the employment tribunal. But until her case was heard, she needed a place to lick her wounds and regroup. And Cornwall was the ideal setting to wait it out.

Previously, the idea of swapping her city life for fish and chips, and endless caravan sites, hadn’t overly appealed. But Cornwall was one of England’s finest tourist attractions, unspoilt and breathtakingly rugged, which was why her sister had moved there, along with their father, when the twins were babies. They’d become disillusioned by the frantic pace and congestion of London, and needed to ‘step off the treadmill’. Whatever the reason, it was still hard not to feel abandoned. Her entire family had relocated four hundred miles away, leaving her behind. And it’d left a wound. A wound aggravated by the strain of a five-hour drive that hampered her ability to visit. But Lauren and her dad couldn’t see that.

Thankfully, for the next forty minutes, the traffic kept moving and she made good progress. Bristol docks came into view, with its vast car park of new vehicles waiting to be shipped abroad, closely followed by the impressive Brunel bridge.

The switch from city to countryside wasn’t immediate, despite the enormous ‘Welcome to Cornwall’ sign. The roads narrowed, the houses shrunk, the air became salty and moist. The earlier mist had burnt away, leaving some semblance of spring-like weather in its wake.

She shifted position, trying to get comfortable and ease the tension in her upper back. She should have removed her jacket when she’d stopped for a comfort break. She twisted her head from side to side, trying to ease the stiffness.

It wasn’t long before the road became a single lane. Her satnav – or rather ‘Posh Joanna’ as she’d named her, due to the fact she sounded uncannily like Joanna Lumley – directed her through numerous towns and villages, each one decreasing in size and signs of civilisation. Posh Joanna estimated her arrival time was still another twenty-nine minutes away. Lauren and her dad really had moved to the sticks.

The narrow road led her through a small market town with a large clock centred in the main square. As she queued at the traffic lights, she studied the sights. The words ‘quaint’ and ‘old-fashioned’ sprung to mind. Interior design jobs in London usually involved wealthy clients spending a fortune recreating the period look. Here, they achieved shabby-chic without even trying.

According to her sister’s directions, they lived in the next town. ‘Ignore your satnav,’ Lauren had said. ‘Or you’ll end up face down in the ford.’ Useful to know, but difficult to adhere to, when simultaneously driving and reading scribbled instructions lying on the passenger seat.

Posh Joanna instructed her to ‘turn around when possible’ – quickly followed by ‘turn left and then immediately left’. This latest direction resulted in her coming face-to-face with a tractor. With no space to pass, she turned sharply onto an unmade lane, vaguely aware of the tractor driver waving in her rear-view mirror as she bumped down the track.

Several things gave cause for alarm. There was nowhere to turn around, the hedgerow either side encroached onto the lane and, ahead of her, the road was submerged under water.

‘Stay on this road for the next mile,’ Posh Joanna said.

‘Oh, don’t be so daft. How can I stay on this road for a mile? Look at it.’ Vaguely aware that Posh Joanna wasn’t able to respond, she slowed to a stop.

Killing the engine, she climbed out of the car, mulling over whether this was in fact just a large puddle, and not the ford her sister had warned her about.

‘If you’re thinking about driving through it, I wouldn’t.’ The sound of a man’s voice was so unexpected that she physically jolted.

The feeling enhanced when she turned around and saw the rather unusual sight of a glamorous woman hugging a tree. Her sparkly dress and blonde beehive hairdo were at odds with her rustic surroundings. She clearly wasn’t the owner of the voice … and then Charlotte looked again. The woman wasn’t hugging the tree – she was handcuffed to it!

‘You couldn’t pass me the key, could you, love?’

Okay, not a woman. A man dressed as a woman. Not surreal at all.

Charlotte looked again. Man or woman, she was stunning: her skin luminescent, even beneath make-up; her eyes a startling shade of blue. Her nails were manicured and painted gold, and her figure was lithe and delicate. She was better turned out than Charlotte, who’d always prided herself in maintaining a well-kept exterior.

The woman smiled, her pink lips parting to reveal pearly-white teeth. ‘The key?’

Right. The key. Charlotte followed her eyeline. ‘Where did you last see it?’

The woman nodded downwards. ‘It landed somewhere over there.’

Charlotte looked around. True enough, lying on the edge of the dirt track was a tiny key. She was about to pick it up when her brain alerted her to the potential safety issues of releasing someone in restraints. ‘Are you a criminal?’

The woman raised an eyebrow. ‘Hardly.’

Charlotte folded her arms across her chest. ‘You’re handcuffed to a tree.’

‘I’m well aware of that.’

‘For my own safety, I’d like to know why before releasing you.’

The woman let out a sigh. ‘Let’s just say, things got a little wild last night. I’m sure you don’t want to hear all the intimate details.’

Charlotte picked up the key. ‘You’re right, I don’t.’ She made her way over to her. ‘Would the person who did this have returned at some point?’

The woman seemed to consider this. ‘Difficult to tell. Maybe.’ She lifted her hands so Charlotte could access the lock. ‘I’m Dusty, by the way.’

Charlotte deliberated whether to engage. ‘Dusty’ was hardly regular. But she didn’t radiate aggression, only vulnerability. ‘Charlotte.’

Dusty smiled. ‘Nice to meet you. Pardon me for saying, but you have cheekbones to die for.’ When Charlotte stopped unlocking, Dusty must have sensed her alarm, because she added, ‘No need to panic. I bat for the other team, if you get my drift.’

Charlotte laughed. Satisfied she wasn’t about to be attacked, she removed the handcuffs.

‘Free at last.’ Dusty rubbed her wrists. ‘How can I ever thank you?’

‘Well, you could direct me to Penmullion. I’m a bit lost.’

‘That I can do.’ Released from the tree, Dusty circled her arms. ‘Reverse back up this lane. When you reach the crossroads, go straight over. You’ll see a sign for the town at the bottom of the hill.’

‘Thanks.’ Charlotte was about to walk away when she added, ‘Can I give you a lift somewhere?’

Dusty smiled. ‘Kind of you, sweetie, but I’m good.’ She kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you for rescuing me. You’re an angel. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m in desperate need of a pee.’ She disappeared into the hedgerow.

Cornwall was an odd place, Charlotte decided. If it weren’t for the silver handcuffs lying on the ground, she might have thought she’d hallucinated the whole thing.

Thirty minutes later, having scraped her car trying to reverse back up the narrow lane, she found the town of Penmullion. The view coming over the hill was delightful. In the distance, she could see the sea, the tops of the white cliffs merging into the clouds above. The sharp descent into the town made driving conditions precarious, so she decided to leave sightseeing for another time and focus on arriving in one piece.

Posh Joanna sprang back into life, directing her through the town to where her sister lived, announcing excitedly, ‘You have reached your destination.’ Except there didn’t appear to be any houses along Dobbs Road, only shops.

She pulled over and checked the address. She was definitely in the right place. She got out of the car and rolled her shoulders, trying to shift the ache in her back.

According to the sign hanging above the entrance, number fifteen wasn’t a residential property but the Co-op supermarket. Lauren must live in the flat above. Not exactly what she’d expected.

It took a while to find the entrance. The door was concealed within a set of giant gates leading to the loading area behind. Things became more surreal when she spotted a sign with an arrow directing her up a wrought-iron staircase. Experiencing an instant flood of panic, she walked around to the back of the building, hoping to see a lift. No such luck. She was going to have to climb the staircase, wasn’t she?

The tremors in her legs began long before she took her first step. Her breathing grew shallow, and the dizziness caused black spots to appear in her peripheral vision. The gaps between the steps meant that there was daylight between her and the concrete below. If she’d known where Lauren lived, she might have reconsidered coming to stay. But then she remembered that she had nowhere else to go, and kept climbing, willing herself not to look down, hoping this holiday would prove to be a cure for acrophobia as well as anxiety.

By the time she reached the top, she was shaking. There was a gate, followed by two further steps down onto the rooftop. She looked around. There were large pots filled with flowers, and a table and chairs set up by a swing set. Ahead of her, a green door had the number 15a attached to the front. Trying to slow her breathing, she walked across and knocked on the door. Loud music emanated from inside. After a few minutes of knocking, she gave up and tried phoning Lauren, only to get her voicemail. Her sister probably couldn’t hear above the noise.

She tried the door handle, surprised to find it unlocked. When the door swung open, the music hit her with force, exacerbating the throbbing in her head. She stepped inside the small, dark flat. The hallway opened into the lounge-cum-diner. The walls were covered in mock-wooden cladding, the carpet brown and threadbare. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, shining a dim light on the orange and burgundy sofa. It looked like a set from a 1970s sitcom. But it wasn’t. It was where her sister lived.

She’d imagined Lauren’s life as being like something from Escape to the Country, where people moved to chocolate-box cottages with fishponds and surrounding fields … not dirty dishes in the sink, laundry scattered about the place, and a broken blind hanging from its hinges.

And then she heard voices. The sound of running, screaming and laughter. Her niece appeared first, wearing an electric-blue polyester dress, her long red hair plaited into bunches. Behind her, Freddie danced into the room wearing an equally cheap metallic outfit, his red hair disguised beneath a long white wig. They appeared to be dressed as characters from Frozen. Charlotte wasn’t sure which was more disturbing: their lack of fire-retardant clothing, or witnessing her nephew dressed as Elsa. Maybe cross-dressing was a requisite of living in Cornwall?

When the music cut off, she was about to alert them to her presence when a man wearing a white sheet jumped out from behind the sofa, making her scream. With her heart thumping erratically in her chest, she rounded on the man. At least, she assumed it was a man. ‘Who the hell are you?’

He removed the sheet from his head, revealing a shock of jet-black hair. Definitely a man. He couldn’t be more than late twenties. He was also extremely good-looking. But that was beside the point. He’d frightened the life out of her. ‘I could ask you the same question.’

She was saved from answering when both kids ran at her. ‘Auntie Charlie!’

Amongst hugs and kisses and jumping up and down, she was dragged further into the room. ‘Okay, okay, calm down. I’m pleased to see you too.’

The man ran a hand through his static-ridden hair, easing it back into shape. He looked like a big kid: his blue T-shirt tired and worn, his jeans ripped and low-slung.

She forced her gaze away from his shapely arms. ‘Where’s my sister?’ she asked, her tone pricklier than she’d intended, but she was still reeling from being startled.

His face was flushed, no doubt from the exertion of running. ‘She’s working at the café. I’m keeping the kids occupied until her shift finishes.’

Florence enveloped Charlotte in a hug, her tiny arms gripping her aunt’s waist. ‘Do you want to play Frozen with us, Auntie Charlie?’

Charlotte patted her niece’s head. ‘Not just now, Florence. Maybe later.’

The man extended his hand. ‘I’m Olaf,’ he said, making both kids squeal with laughter.

Charlotte looked at him quizzically. ‘Are you trying to be funny?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘And failing, obviously.’ His hand was still outstretched. ‘Barney.’

She accepted his offer of an introduction, ignoring the warmth in his grip. ‘Thank you for minding the children, but I’ll take it from here.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d prefer to wait until Lauren gets back.’

She felt herself frown. ‘And I’d prefer it if you left.’ Again, she sounded rude, but she didn’t appreciate the way he was checking her out … at least, she was pretty certain she didn’t.

He let out a low whistle. ‘Are you sure you’re Lauren’s sister?’

Ignoring what she suspected was an insult, she removed herself from Florence’s grasp and unzipped her handbag. ‘How much?’

Barney, or whatever his name was, looked puzzled. ‘I’m sorry?’

She opened her purse. ‘I don’t know what the going rate is for childminding.’

He laughed, but it wasn’t a humorous sound. ‘Are you kidding me?’

Charlotte rubbed her temple. God, her head hurt. She should have stopped off to buy more painkillers. ‘Do I look like someone who kids?’

He shoved his bare feet into a pair of flip-flops. ‘Nope, can’t say that you do.’

She caught a glimpse of Calvin Klein boxers when he hoisted up his jeans.

He beckoned the kids over and gave them a hug. ‘See you soon, trouble-twins.’

‘Not if we see you first, Hubble-trouble,’ the children chorused in unison.

Charlotte couldn’t follow what they were saying. Were they speaking Cornish?

Amongst laughter and play-fighting, the children waved him off, his popularity evident. Hers, she suspected, was still in doubt.

When he was gone, she moved to unbutton her jacket … only to discover it was already unbuttoned. When had she done that?

Straightening her shoulders, she mentally ticked off all the jobs that needed doing in the flat. ‘Good, well, now he’s gone, why don’t we tidy up ready for when Mummy gets home?’

Both children swivelled to look at her, their mouths open, their foreheads creasing into frowns like something from The Exorcist.

What had she said …?

CHAPTER FIVE

Monday, 30 May

Days like today reminded Barney why he was resisting a return to London. Penmullion beach was busy with visitors enjoying the spring bank holiday. The sun had been growing steadily hotter all day, not scorching, but warm enough to encourage holidaymakers onto the beach. A few brave souls were in the water. Some walked their dogs. Others hired out boats. Most were gathered near Piskies café at the far end of the cove, enjoying the view.

When the last of the fish surfboards were returned to the rental kiosk, he closed up for the afternoon, hoping to enjoy one last surf before the tide turned. Attaching his leg rope, he picked up his longboard and jogged down to the water. The wind had picked up, swirling gusts across the water, creating top waves. Ideal conditions for a battle with nature.

Despite spending most of the day in the water, the sting of the cold still shocked his skin as it seeped under his wetsuit. Positioning himself on his board, he paddled out to sea. This was why he loved Cornwall. With the wind whipping against his face, and the splash of the water licking his feet, he could forget his troubles and just feel.

Not that he had many troubles. For the most part, he was happy, satisfied to live each day as it came, in control of his destiny … well, almost. There was still the issue of his career, which was currently on pause, but other than that, he enjoyed a carefree existence.

Barney angled his board towards the beach, waiting for the next wave. From this distance, he could see the RNLI boat station next to the surf kiosk, and Piskies café. Across the other side of the cove, the cliffs rose upwards past Smugglers Inn to where Morholt Castle and the Corineus Theatre jutted out against the skyline. He never grew tired of the view.

As a wave approached, he pushed up using his hands, and then leapt to a standing position. Bending his knees, he lifted his arms, trying to maintain his balance as he rode the wave. It was exhilarating.

He’d fallen in love with surfing aged seven, whilst holidaying in Hawaii and visiting his mother’s family. But it was only when he’d moved to Cornwall that he’d been able to master the art.

Surfing wasn’t possible in East Dulwich where he’d grown up, but thanks to Grandma Maggie, he’d enjoyed many other hobbies. He was naturally good at studying, so, for the most part, he’d met his parents’ high academic expectations, which allowed them to ignore his other more creative desires such as music. His parents hadn’t always approved of his gran’s preference for fun rather than study, but they also knew that without her help they would have had to pay for childcare, so they indulged her more relaxed style of co-parenting.

His upbringing hadn’t been unhappy by any means. His parents adored him – a little too much at times – but spending his days on the beach felt far more rewarding than stitching up a head wound ever had … which didn’t bode well for a future in medicine.

The wave died beneath him, tossing him into the sea. The familiar rushing sound of water filled his ears as he was dragged under. He gave in to the momentum, waiting until the wave fizzled out so he could kick his way back up to the surface.

Satisfied that he’d caught the last of the decent breaks, he paddled back to shore and carried his board up the beach to the kiosk. The best of the day’s sunshine had faded, but there were still a few patrons outside the café, enjoying the late-afternoon glow. Among them was Lauren’s sister, sitting on a small section of beach, staring out to sea. Talk about a fish out of water. As he neared, he could see she was wearing dark, tailored jeans, a white shirt and a tan-coloured leather jacket. Her handbag was tucked next to her as though she feared someone might nick it. She looked as stiff as his surfboard.

She was quite a contrast to Lauren, who appeared from the café at that moment, carrying a tray of drinks, her hoodie tied around her middle, her sunglasses pushed onto her head. The sisters had the same slight frame, the same brown eyes and the same dark hair, but whereas Lauren wore hers long, Charlotte’s barely touched her shoulders. She kept tucking it behind her ears as if trying to keep it neat. No chance: the wind was too unruly. Her curls danced about her face as if taunting her. If Lauren was carefree, enjoyed a beer and a laugh, and loved life by the sea, then her sister was the polar opposite. All buttoned-up and rigid. Still, he shouldn’t judge. She might be allergic to sand, or something.

Their brief encounter last Friday hadn’t gone well, but it wasn’t fair to judge a person based on one prickly exchange. After all, he’d taken her by surprise. Jumped out on her. No wonder she’d reacted badly. He needed to try again. He’d head over there and properly introduce himself.

As he struggled out of his wetsuit, changed into cut-off jeans, and shook the sand from his ‘I love a Hawaiian honey’ T-shirt, his phoned pinged. Kayleigh. She wanted to hook up. Christ, she really wasn’t taking the hint, was she? Since going on a few dates with her earlier in the year, he’d been struggling to shake her off, and it was now May. He’d tried being polite, mentioning their ‘friendship’ whenever he could, in the hope she’d get the message, but it hadn’t deterred her. He wanted to ignore her, but that didn’t seem very gentlemanly, so he sent a ‘sorry can’t, I’m busy’ reply in the hope she’d take the hint and leave him alone. It wasn’t the best plan, but he was at a loss as to what else to try.

Bending forwards, he shook the wet from his hair.

History had shown he wasn’t very good when it came to ending things with women. He’d had a couple of relationships while at university, but differing life goals and a lack of free time meant pursuing them was pointless. He’d been accused of being ‘commitment-phobic’ and ‘immature’ on both occasions. He hadn’t disagreed. Was it such a crime to want something casual and relaxed? Medicine had been depressing enough. He hadn’t needed the drama of girlfriends wanting to know ‘where the relationship was going’ all the time. He’d just wanted a bit of fun.

But since moving to Cornwall, his aversion to relationships had been softening. His previous life had been all about work, and his social life – well, what he’d had of one – had been spent playing at being a ‘grown-up’. He was an only child, so his experience of hanging out with ‘little people’ was limited. But as the surf kiosk was situated next to Piskies café, he often kept an eye on Lauren’s kids after school. At first, he’d done it out of friendship – he liked Lauren, she was a good mate – but then he found himself anticipating their arrival, checking how long it would be before school broke up and they’d run onto the beach and jump on him. It’d taken a while to realise what he was feeling. When he did, he couldn’t have been more shocked. He wanted a family. And no one could have been more surprised than him.

Shoving his flip-flops into his backpack, he jogged across the sand to the café.

Spotting him approach, Lauren waved, her smile welcoming. They’d initially met via the drama group, but their friendship had developed when he’d started working at the kiosk. She was a good laugh, easy to get along with, popular with the customers. Hopefully her sister would turn out to be just as affable.

But things didn’t get off to the best start when he inadvertently kicked sand over her handbag. She brushed frantically at the leather, trying to clean it. Anyone would think he’d set fire to it. He waited until she looked up.

‘Hi. Charlie, isn’t it? We met at Lauren’s last Friday. I was the one under the sheet.’ He hoped his laughter might break the ice.

It didn’t.

She stopped shaking her bag. ‘My name is Charlotte.’ The bite in her words matched the venom in her glare. ‘I don’t like my name being shortened.’

Okay, strike two. He tried again. ‘Well, it’s nice to meet you, Charlotte.’ Her lack of warmth failed to detract from the appeal of her beautiful chocolate-coloured eyes. ‘I’m Barney.’

She glanced away, as though looking at him caused her discomfort. ‘I remember who you are.’

Christ, this was going well. ‘Lauren tells me you’ve come to stay for the summer?’

Shielding her eyes from the sun, she blinked up at him. ‘I’m planning to return to London as soon as possible.’

Another snub. He was running out of pleasantries, but decided to give it one last shot. Not that he was swayed by her good looks, or anything. ‘Lauren says you’ve lost your job. Bummer.’

She stiffened even more, if that was possible, her glare switching to where her sister was currently serving ice creams to a family of hikers across the other side of the café. ‘Did she now?’

‘She didn’t go into details,’ he added, worrying he’d just unwittingly dropped his friend in the shit.

‘Yes, well, it’s a temporary situation. I’m sure it’ll be sorted soon.’

For a moment, he thought he caught her checking him out. He felt stupidly flattered when her eyes dipped to his chest, a faint hint of colour forming on her cheeks. Things might be looking up – and then he realised he’d forgotten to put his T-shirt on. Shit. He was standing in front of her bare-chested. No wonder she was staring. She probably thought he was a right poser.

‘And what do you do for a living, Mr …?’

He dragged his T-shirt over his head. ‘Hubble.’

Her expression switched to confusion. ‘Your surname is Hubble?’

He nodded, flattening down his T-shirt. ‘Yep.’

‘Your name is Barney Hubble?’ A frown formed on her perfectly smooth forehead. ‘Are you deliberately toying with me?’

He sighed. ‘No, that is actually my name.’ He shrugged, used to disbelieving looks and piss-taking about his name. ‘What can I say? My parents never watched The Flintstones.’

She smiled, which might have eroded all her other flaws if he wasn’t the subject of her mirth. So, she found his name funny, huh? She hadn’t found it so amusing when he’d called her Charlie, had she? Talk about double standards.

Making no effort to hide her amusement, she brushed a speck of sand from her pristine jeans. ‘You were about to tell me what you do for a living?’

His enthusiasm for winning her over was starting to wane; he really didn’t like being laughed at. Not by a woman. Not by a hot woman. ‘A bit of this and a bit of that.’

He needn’t have worried. His answer killed her smile quicker than if he’d said, ‘I eat people for a living,’ which told him everything he needed to know about her. Who the hell was she to criticise what he did for a living? She might be beautiful, but looks didn’t count for much if she was a judgemental snob.

If Lauren hadn’t appeared next to him at that moment, he might have walked off.

‘I see you’ve met my sister.’ Lauren gave him a hug, and then turned to Charlotte. ‘Barney’s a really good friend of mine. He’s an amazing singer. You’ll have to come and watch his gig tonight at Smugglers Inn.’

Charlotte didn’t look impressed. ‘I have plans. Maybe another time.’

Lauren gave her sister a pointed look. ‘Surely nothing that can’t wait. It’ll be good for you to meet a few of the locals.’

Charlotte looked as if that was the last thing she wanted to do. ‘I need to do some research. If my claim for unfair dismissal is unsuccessful, then I’ll need alternative employment. And I can’t expect to find a proper job if I sit around socialising all the time.’

Her emphasis on the word ‘proper’ sent flares of annoyance shooting up his spine. Sod her. He didn’t need another person in his life telling him to grow up and get a proper job. He had enough of that from his parents.

It was time to leave before he said something he’d regret. ‘Well, this has been fun.’ He made no attempt to hide the sarcasm in his voice. ‘I hope you enjoy your holiday. Good luck with the job hunting.’

Poor Lauren squirmed next to him, making him feel a tad guilty. It wasn’t her fault that her sister was colder than ice. He blew her a kiss. ‘See you later, Lauren.’

Leaving the beach, he fought against the shame battling inside him. It wasn’t important. Charlotte Saunders was of no consequence to him. He shouldn’t feel so rattled by her blatant dismissal of him. Everyone else in Penmullion thought he was a cool guy. Someone who’d got life sorted. They envied him. It shouldn’t bother him that one highly strung, opinionated, gorgeous woman looked down her nose at him … but it did … and it really pissed him off.

CHAPTER SIX

Thursday, 2 June

Charlotte had only been in Cornwall for six days, but she was already tearing her hair out – literally, the moisture in the air making it curl, no matter how often she straightened it. Her headaches weren’t easing, and she was fidgety and restless. She guessed her body had become acclimatised to working long stressful days and was unaccustomed to lazing about doing nothing.

The employment tribunal had advised that there was a backlog of claims, so it might be a few weeks before a date was set. She had planned to look for another job while she was here, but then realised that the likelihood of being offered another position, when she’d been fired from the previous one, was remote. She was better off waiting until the outcome of her claim was decided before contemplating her next move. Until then, she needed to find something to occupy her time.

Her attempts to keep busy by helping Lauren around the flat hadn’t worked out either. When her offer to contribute to the rent had been refused, she’d figured that she needed to earn her keep by doing chores instead. It didn’t take a genius to work out that Lauren was struggling financially, but her sister was determined to manage on her own and didn’t want to be seen as a ‘charity case’. Charlotte hadn’t meant to cause offence, so by way of an apology, she’d blitzed the flat from top to bottom, scrubbing the bathroom until her arms ached and removing all the mould from the discoloured grout. She’d mended the blind, sorted the children’s books into alphabetical order, and boxed up their toys to avoid any unnecessary accidents. But far from appreciating her efforts, Lauren had seemed more annoyed than grateful. It was all very confusing. Especially as it was obvious that Lauren could do with the help.

For the past seven years, Charlotte had foolishly believed that her sister lived an idyllic lifestyle, but she’d discovered the reality was quite different. Lauren worked part-time in a café, relied on benefits, and left her kids with all manner of childminders. But Lauren seemed to like her life, claiming to be happy existing at a slower, less material pace, placing value on free time, socialising with friends, and partaking in hobbies such as amateur dramatics.

Their dad was the same. Charlotte had imagined an emotional reunion, whereby Tony Saunders enveloped his eldest daughter in a bear hug, told her he’d missed her and everything would revert to how things had been before her mum had died. Instead, she’d spent one brief evening with him before he’d had to rush off, something about a fishing boat caught on the nearby rocks. It was all highly depressing. All she’d been able to glean from Lauren was that he lived on a narrowboat, worked for a local fisherman, and spent his free time manning the local RNLI boat station.

The only people that were pleased to see her were Freddie and Florence. She’d quite enjoyed reading them bedtime stories, picking them up from school, and teaching them to bake cupcakes. They were surprisingly good company.

She checked her watch. It wasn’t even lunchtime. Lauren was working at the café, and the kids were at school. What was there to do on a Thursday in Penmullion?

She guessed there was only one way to find out.

It wasn’t the warmest of days, so she slipped on her navy rain mac over her silk shirt and white pencil skirt. She considered changing her footwear, but decided she wasn’t going far, so stuck with her nude courts. It took a lot for her to ditch the heels.

Dobbs Road wasn’t in the desirable part of town, so she had to walk down to the main quayside if she wanted anything other than pound shops and budget supermarkets.

The road was extremely steep; the houses either side were cut into the rock face, their driveways at acute angles to the road. Her slow walk turned into a speedy trot as her momentum increased on the downhill slope. Thankfully, the road levelled out before she reached the water’s edge, preventing her from landing head first in the sea. Quite apart from the embarrassment that would have caused, her shirt was dry-clean only.

In order to reach the other side of the quay, where most of the boats were moored, she needed to cross the narrow footbridge. Determined not to be defeated by the drop below, she focused on the view ahead, and tried to slow her breathing, as she negotiated the unstable walkway. It wasn’t the sturdiest of bridges, with lengths of rope supporting the wooden slats. She tried not to look down, ignoring the sound of splashing water beneath, which evoked memories of falling into a weir when she was a child and nearly drowning.

The sound of a cockerel startled her. She turned to see a huge bird waddling across the bridge. It was making the most godawful noise. Was it normal for random animals to be wandering about? Keen to avoid any contact with the bird, she hurried to the other side.

Her father’s boat was moored somewhere along this side of the quay. She hadn’t consciously decided to visit, but now she was here, it seemed appropriate to call in and say hello. If nothing else, it would show a willingness to ‘bond’. Besides, she was curious to see where he lived.

A long line of narrowboats were moored along the water’s edge. She instinctively knew which boat belonged to her dad. The sight of The Lady Iris brought a lump to her throat. He’d named his boat after their mum? Emotion rooted her to the spot. She took in the teal paintwork and abundance of potted flowers adorning the upper deck. The side of the boat was decorated with painted, purple irises, her mum’s favourite flower. The image allowed her mind to drift back to a happier time before their family had been ripped apart.

She’d enjoyed a happy childhood, with a kind, doting mother, a relaxed, chilled father, and a congenial younger sister. She’d worked hard at school, had a few close friends, and spent her time listening to music and drawing pictures of grand houses with swimming pools and vast landscaped gardens. She hadn’t been a big socialiser, but she’d started to come out of her shell at university, loving her design course and finding a few kindred spirits. A few months into the course, her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Iris Saunders died before Charlotte had finished her first year.

Her mother’s death affected them all differently. Lauren became rebellious, dropping out of school, entangling herself with a boy who ditched her the moment she fell pregnant. Her father sank into a deep depression, gave up work, and lost any desire for life. It’d been left to Charlotte to hold the family together, picking up responsibility for paying the bills, buying food, and keeping Lauren on the straight and narrow. She’d encouraged her father to seek counselling, and urged him to take the medication he’d been prescribed. Unable to deal with her own grief, she’d focused on her career, knowing it was the only way to provide security and structure for her family. She’d thrown herself into study, spending long hours training, trying to impress in a tough industry. She lost touch with friends and rarely had any free time, but it was necessary if she was to help them all recover from the loss of their mother … and then Lauren and her dad had moved away. After all she’d done, all the sacrifices she’d made, they left without even a thank you for having looked after them.

She dug out a tissue. She hated crying.

Over the years, she’d tried to make peace with her feelings. Her dad had been so consumed by grief that he wasn’t in any fit state to realise what his daughter had given up. It wasn’t his fault. Depression was a crippling illness, she understood that. And Lauren was barely sixteen when their mum had died, she couldn’t be expected to realise the impact it had had on her older sister.

But life had moved on. Her dad had recovered, and he and Lauren had built a life for themselves in Cornwall … A life that didn’t include her.

Recovering from the shock of seeing the boat’s name, she made her way onto the gangplank, or whatever it was called. It certainly felt like she was walking to her doom. Don’t look down, her brain instructed – which was challenging when the wood beneath creaked, threatening to tip her into the murky water.

A woman appeared from inside the cabin, her bright-orange jumper and yellow capri-style trousers blending with the hanging baskets tied to the rigging. ‘Well, hello there,’ she called, sounding surprised, but not unfriendly. ‘No prizes for guessing who you are. You’re the spitting image of your sister.’ She offered Charlotte her hand. ‘Mind the step, there you go. Much as I admire your shoes, I’m not sure they’re suitable for wearing on a boat.’

Charlotte stepped onto the deck, relieved to be on solid footing. ‘You may have a point.’

The woman’s big laugh drew attention from passers-by. ‘I’m Sylvia Johns, a friend of Tony’s. And you must be Charlotte. Your dad’s told me so much about you. Goodness me, he’s proud of you.’

A lump formed in Charlotte’s throat. Her dad was proud of her?

‘Fancy that, a fashion designer in London. How thrilling! He follows your career, you know. Always keen to know who you’re working for.’

Her good feeling disappeared. ‘Interior designer, not fashion.’ So much for her dad following her career. ‘And unfortunately, I’ve recently been fired.’

The woman stilled. ‘Oh, dear.’ She quickly rallied. ‘A blip, I’m sure. Now come inside, let’s make you feel welcome. Tony!’

Her dad appeared, his expression affable and relaxed. He’d aged a bit. He wasn’t quite as jovial as he used to be, but other than that, he hadn’t changed. He was wearing galoshes, a knitted hat, wellington boots and a yellow jacket. She recoiled when he hugged her, the stench radiating off him was toxic. ‘Dad, you stink.’

He laughed. ‘I’ve been working on the fishing vessels.’

She pushed him away. ‘I don’t want that stench on my clothes. This shirt cost a fortune.’

‘Relax, it’s only fish.’ His laughter faded, but he released her. ‘It’s good to see you.’

She swallowed awkwardly, aware she was being prickly again. ‘I thought I’d come and check out where you lived.’

‘That’s nice.’ He shrugged off his jacket.

‘Make yourself comfortable, lovey. I’ll put the kettle on.’ Sylvia gestured to a chair. ‘Your dad loves having visitors, don’t you, Tony?’ She didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Lauren and the kids are often over here. They adore going out on little trips, sleeping in the bunkers, isn’t that right, Tony?’

Her dad kicked off his wellington boots and pulled up a wicker chair. ‘How are you enjoying Cornwall?’ he asked Charlotte, seemingly unfazed by Sylvia’s incessant chatter.

‘It’s okay.’ Charlotte didn’t feel it was appropriate to tell him she was struggling to unwind, she was getting on her sister’s nerves, or that she’d recently been diagnosed with stress-related anxiety. ‘Penmullion is beautiful.’

Sylvia appeared from the galley with a tea tray. ‘Isn’t it just? I know they say Kent is the garden of England, but I think it should be Cornwall.’

Charlotte watched Sylvia trying to balance the tray. Was this woman her dad’s girlfriend? If she was, she was very different to their mum.

Sylvia handed her a cup of weak tea in a floral china cup.

‘Thank you.’ Charlotte managed one sip before looking around for somewhere to put it down. The cabin was small, the padded bench seats along either side took up most of the room.

When Sylvia’s back was turned, her dad leant across and took her cup, discreetly pouring the contents into the plant pot sitting on the floor. ‘Lovely woman. Makes a terrible cup of tea,’ he whispered, making her smile for what felt like the first time in ages. God, she’d missed her dad.

Her smile soon faded when Sylvia turned and saw her empty cup. ‘Goodness me, you were thirsty. You’re just like your dad, he knocks them back in no time too.’

The sound of her dad chuckling made up for the trauma of being forced to drink another cup of Sylvia’s tea. But as she watched her cup being refilled, the sound of an alarm went off, making her jump.

Her dad was up before she knew what was happening. ‘Sorry, love. Got to go.’ He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. ‘We’ll catch up soon.’ He was out the door before she could find her voice.

Charlotte watched him sprint down the jetty. ‘What’s going on?’

Sylvia picked up the discarded hat he’d thrown to the floor. ‘Your dad volunteers for the RNLI. When the alarm goes off, he has to respond. He’s the senior helm, you know.’

No, she didn’t know. All she knew was that he volunteered there. She’d assumed he had a desk role; he’d always worked in an office when he’d lived in London. She was starting to realise she knew very little about her family’s new lives in Cornwall.

‘Only the other night he rescued a Polish family whose boat had sunk. None of the family could swim, and they weren’t wearing life jackets. It was on the local news and everything.’

Her dad running off to save lives was another surprising development. ‘Will he be gone long?’

‘Could be hours. Looks like it’s just you and me.’ Sylvia offered her a custard cream. ‘Now, tell me all about yourself, and don’t leave anything out. I want to hear all the details.’

As much as Charlotte didn’t want to spill her life story, an excuse to refuse didn’t surface quick enough. Resigning herself to the inevitable, she spent the next twenty minutes engaged in polite chit-chat before she could make her excuses and leave.

Extricating herself from Sylvia’s tight hug, she thanked the woman for her hospitality and made her escape, almost running across the footbridge to the safety of the quayside.

It was strange, but talking about Ethan hadn’t upset her anywhere near as much as it should. Why was that? she wondered. After all, he’d been a big part of her life for a long time. She should miss him. She should be crying herself to sleep every night, wishing he would call, raging at the way he’d treated her, but she wasn’t. She just felt a low level of annoyance at the way her life had been upended. Realising she hadn’t been as invested in the relationship as she’d imagined, was both alarming and depressing. How had she got things so wrong?

Not wanting to return to the flat just yet, she decided to explore Penmullion.

Her feet were sore from walking on cobbled stones in heels, but the views across the cove made up for it. The sand below was pale gold, a contrast to the white cliffs and deep blue of the sea. To her right, she could see the café where her sister worked, and the RNLI boat station. Shielding her eyes, she looked across the water, wondering if she’d spot her dad rescuing whoever it was who’d got into trouble, but she couldn’t see anything.

As she followed the line of the horizon, the cliff incline rose sharply. There appeared to be some kind of castle in the distance, the stone pillars jutting out from the rock face. A wave crashed below, sending spray up and over the railing. She moved away, unwilling to ruin her mac with salt water.

Behind her, a row of tiny shops lined the quayside, from art galleries advertising works by local artists, to cafés specialising in Cornish pasties. They were quaint and inviting, painted in a series of pastel colours. She walked past the Coddy Shack fish and chip shop, and Candy Cravers sweet shop, admiring the window displays.

She came across a delightful little shop, painted sunflower yellow, with a white bay window. The sign above the overhang said, ‘Dusty’s Boutique’. The mannequin in the window was dressed in a red wrap dress, the hem cut at an angle, the layered two-tone fabric striking and unusual. The door was open, inviting her to browse, so she decided to venture inside.

The interior looked like something from Carnaby Street rather than a picturesque town in Cornwall. There were photos on the walls of 1960s singers dressed in Mod outfits and Mary Quant monochrome mini dresses. The items on display were colour-coordinated and arranged to show them at their best. It was a real gem. She’d just unhooked an A-line skirt from the rail when a man appeared from the rear of the shop.

‘Good afternoon. Welcome to Dusty’s. Please feel free to browse.’ He was a good-looking man with almost white-blond hair and startling blue eyes. He reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t think who. Probably one of her clients back in London. He was dressed in a narrow, fitted grey suit with a thin paisley tie and winkle-picker shoes.

She smiled, appreciating his sense of style. ‘It’s a beautiful shop. I adore the design.’

‘Well, aren’t you a love. Coming from someone with such sophisticated dress sense, I’ll take that as a real compliment. Is that Karen Millen you’re wearing?’ He touched the fabric of her mac.

She nodded. ‘The skirt is Ted Baker.’ Realising one of her shirt buttons was undone, she quickly fastened it.

He pushed the rim of his thick black glasses up his nose. ‘Paul Naylor. This is my boutique,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’

‘Charlotte Saunders.’ She shook his hand, thinking how nice it was to meet a smart, intelligent, well-mannered man. A man who also had the added bonus of being in proper employment. Not like Barney Rubble or Hubble, whatever his name was. Laziness and a lack of focus were not attractive qualities. She wouldn’t be entertaining his company anytime soon … no matter how good-looking he was. And boy, was he handsome. But he knew it. Only a cocky man would introduce himself shirtless, flaunting his hairless chest, tanned skin and defined muscles like he was some kind of exotic male dancer. Talk about brazen.

The owner of the boutique was studying her. ‘Are you here on holiday?’

She dragged her thoughts away from unsuitable men. ‘Kind of. I’m visiting family.’

‘I’m guessing you’re related to Tony and Lauren Saunders?’

She nodded. ‘Father and sister.’

He smiled. ‘Delightful people. Love them to bits.’

Charlotte wondered if anyone ever referred to her as delightful? Probably not, which was quite depressing, really. Still, it wasn’t like she didn’t know that she could be uptight. It was nice that someone thought so highly of her family, though. ‘Do you know them well?’

He nodded. ‘We’re part of the same drama group. I’m rehearsing a play with them at the moment.’ He gestured to a poster on the wall. ‘If you’re still in Penmullion in August, you’ll have to come along and watch. I’m playing the part of Helena.’

Charlotte had studied the play for A-Level English, so knew a tall gangly female was needed for the part. He fitted the bill perfectly.

She glanced at the poster. ‘I might just do that.’

‘If you’re really keen, you could always help out with the production. They’re looking for a set designer.’

Intrigued, she went over and read the poster for the Isolde Players’ production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The play was a favourite of hers.

Paul joined her by the poster. ‘Tempted?’

Was she? She’d never designed for the stage before. It might prove fun. ‘Perhaps. I’m an interior designer.’

He looked impressed. ‘Then it’s a match made in heaven. I think you’d fit rather nicely with our little group.’

She wasn’t sure she agreed with him. She’d never found social interaction that easy, but it was nice of him to say so. Perhaps she should offer her services. It would be good to try a new activity, and it might give her something to focus on whilst she awaited the outcome of her ET application.

It wasn’t like she had much else to do in Penmullion.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Wednesday, 8 June

Barney buried his head under the duvet, praying the pounding would stop. Why had he drunk so much last night? He hadn’t meant to. He’d been to rehearsal, as he normally did on a Tuesday evening, and then a group of them had gone to Smugglers Inn to enjoy a quick pint. His last recollection was of playing a few songs on his guitar, Nate and Dusty performing ‘Islands in the Stream’, and avoiding Kayleigh Wilson, who’d wanted to duet with him on ‘Empire State of Mind’. He didn’t remember much about getting home. He was just grateful he wasn’t on an early shift at the kiosk; his head hurt too much to be of use to anyone.

The pounding grew louder, an incessant banging that rattled through his fragile skull. Someone please make it stop. He vaguely became aware of Nate’s voice, muffled through the fog of a hangover, standing over the bed shaking his shoulder, saying something about ‘the door’ and needing to ‘throw up’.

A few seconds later, he heard the unmistakable sound of retching coming from the bathroom. As he shifted position, trying to get comfortable, he realised the banging wasn’t in his head, it was coming from the front door.

Cursing whoever it was, he rolled out of bed, wearing only his boxers, and padded down the hallway. He remembered at the last moment to dip his head so he didn’t smack into the beam above. Concussion wouldn’t ease the pounding in his head.

Sliding back the heavy bolt, he opened the wooden door, ready to let rip at whoever it was for waking him up. The sight of his parents standing on the walkway outside rendered him speechless. He had a sudden urge to shut the door and return to bed. He didn’t, of course. Mainly because they’d only resume banging.

‘We’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes,’ his mother said, looking surprisingly awake considering the early hour. Her black hair showed no sign of grey roots and she was wearing a patterned red shirt that made his eyes ache. She looked annoyed. Nothing unusual about that. ‘Why didn’t you answer the door? And why aren’t you dressed?’

He rubbed his face, unable to cope with so many questions. ‘Because it’s still early,’ he said, trying to force his brain to function.

‘It’s eleven fifteen.’ His mother’s irritation increased a notch. ‘Are you going to invite us in, or leave us standing out here all day?’

He stood back to allow them in. ‘Hi, Dad. Nice jacket.’

Henry Hubble peered over the top of his half-moon spectacles. His grey-white beard was neatly trimmed, and his blue shirt and stone-coloured chinos looked freshly pressed. ‘Good morning, son. Late night?’

Barney nodded, and then wished he hadn’t. He needed painkillers. ‘Something like that. Make yourselves at home. I’ll put some clothes on.’

‘Good idea.’ His mother searched for somewhere to sit down.

Unfortunately, Dusty’s glittery dress from the previous night was sprawled across the sofa, along with her blonde beehive wig and patent leather boots.

‘Not mine,’ he said, in case his parents thought he’d developed an inclination for cross-dressing or, more likely, had pulled last night.

His mother tutted.

He tried to view the place through their eyes. On paper, The Mousehole was a charming fisherman’s cottage built in the eighteen-hundreds, with an open fire and period features. The owners had converted the tall building into a rental property boasting three double bedrooms and a modern, open-plan kitchen-diner. It was quaint, tastefully restored, and perfectly located within a stone’s throw of the beach. Normally, the place looked quite inviting. Paul was a neat-freak who regularly tidied up after his three less-disciplined housemates who didn’t share his obsession for clean living. Typically, his parents had chosen to visit on the one day the place was a mess. Discarded takeaway cartons and beer cans decorated the floor and kitchen table.

He found a pair of crumpled jeans hanging over the back of a chair. Shaking out the creases, he pulled them on. ‘Did I know you were coming?’ He wasn’t entirely sure whether he was expecting them or not. Maybe he’d forgotten, although that was unlikely. He wouldn’t have got legless last night if he’d known his parents were coming to visit.

‘We decided to surprise you.’ His mother frowned. ‘Your trousers are inside out.’

He glanced down. She was right. It might explain why he’d been struggling to do up the zip. ‘Unusual for you to take time off work.’

His mother fixed him with one of her looks. ‘You didn’t give us much alternative. You don’t return our calls or texts. What else were we supposed to do?’

Respect my decision to choose my own life, he wanted to say, but his head wasn’t up to an argument. He opted for keeping things civil. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’

His mother surveyed the dirty kitchen and unwashed crockery balancing on the side. ‘I think not.’ She removed a pair of fishnet tights from the armchair, but still didn’t sit down.

His dad was studying a painting on the wall, his hands clasped behind his back as if the sight of a fishing boat caught in a storm was an interesting medical conundrum.

The sound of Nate chucking up floated down the stairs.

Feeling a little nauseous himself, Barney went over to the sink and poured a glass of water.

A creak on the stairs alerted them to the arrival of Paul. He was as pale as paper, his bloodshot eyes half-closed, his fitted blue sweater and black jeans as conservative as his mood. ‘Good morning, Mr and Mrs Hubble. An unexpected pleasure.’ He shook hands with Barney’s dad. ‘You’re looking well, Henry.’

Unsure how to respond to such polite familiarity, Henry Hubble nodded. ‘Er … likewise. Paul, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’ Paul joined Alexa by the fireplace and kissed her cheek. ‘You’re looking dazzling as always, Mrs Hubble.’

Barney’s mother’s gaze travelled to the discarded female attire lying on the sofa. ‘Thank you, young man.’ She tutted when she spotted a spill of beer on the coffee table.

Paul picked up the pile of clothes and headed back upstairs. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Nice seeing you both.’ As he passed Barney in the kitchen, he leant closer so he could whisper in his ear, ‘Hang in there. My parents don’t approve of my lifestyle either.’

Barney nodded, grateful for his friend’s show of solidarity.

His mother waited until Paul was out of sight. ‘Is there somewhere private we can talk? Your father and I have something we need to discuss with you.’

No prizes for guessing what that might be.

Barney thought he could do with some fresh air, especially as Nate was still throwing up. ‘We’ll go out. Give me five minutes to get dressed. They serve a decent brunch at Smugglers Inn, if you’re hungry.’

‘We’ll wait outside.’ His mother was clearly eager to leave The Mousehole, with its filthy inhabitants, messy interior, and sounds of amplified retching.

Ten minutes later, having taken two paracetamol and drunk another pint of water, he joined them on the cobbled walkway. ‘This way,’ he said, leading them past the white-stone cottages down towards the quayside. ‘There’s an impressive view across the bay.’ He knew it wouldn’t be enough to persuade them that staying in Cornwall was a good idea, but he hoped it might soften their resistance a little.

His parents thrived on hard work, long hours and the buzz of a stressful environment. Packed commuter trains, crowded streets and constant noise combined to form a drug, fuelling their determination to achieve in their high-flying careers. Noise pollution did nothing for Barney. It didn’t inspire him, it depressed him. Life in Penmullion was much kinder on the soul.

Over the last few weeks, he’d been busy rehearsing for A Midsummer Night’s Dream, he’d taken on extra shifts at the surf kiosk, and added more gigs to his schedule, eager to prove he wasn’t a layabout or afraid of hard work. But no matter how much he crammed into his new life in Cornwall, he knew it would never be enough for his parents.

‘See where the cliffs meet the sea?’ He pointed to the horizon. ‘You can just make out HMS Isolde, a three-hundred-year-old battleship anchored near the disused naval port.’ The morning mist was lifting, the breeze dragging the damp air away from the bay. ‘It’s worth a visit, if you’re planning on staying for a while.’ God, he hoped they weren’t staying.

‘We’re only here for the day.’ His mother made no attempt to search out the ship.

No one could say he didn’t try.

As well as increasing his workload, he’d been partying hard too. He didn’t need a shrink to tell him he was drowning his brain in alcohol to avoid thinking about his future. He loved life in Penmullion, it was everything he’d ever wanted, but it still lacked something. Whether he admitted it or not, there was a gaping career-shaped hole in his life. And he had no idea how to fill it.

Smugglers Inn wasn’t busy. One of the regular bar staff laughed when he walked in, confirming his suspicions that he’d made a fool of himself last night. He went over to the bar and ordered three coffees, not wanting to tempt fate by putting food in his stomach. They opted to sit outside. Fresh air and a pleasant view might ease the trauma of the lecture he felt was coming his way.

He selected a table near the grassy bank. The bushes and trees rose upwards to where the posh hotels overlooked the sea, giving a nice contrast to the crashing waves ahead of them. The tide ebbed and flowed, inviting him to come in and play. It was tempting, but even he wasn’t up for a surf today.

They’d barely sat down when his mother said, ‘Your father and I would like to know when you will be returning to your studies?’ There was never any preamble with Alexa Hubble, she always cut to the chase.

He couldn’t blame her. The first either of them had known of his quitting medicine was after he’d purchased a one-way ticket to Cornwall. It was cowardly and unfair of him, and they had every right to be angry. After all they’d done for him, all the sacrifices they’d made, paying his living expenses, providing a monthly allowance, ensuring his time spent studying was as easy as possible, he’d left without a proper explanation. He’d hurt them, confused them, and left them severely out of pocket. He was a rotten son.

He took a long breath, hoping the cool June air might ease his headache. For nearly a year, he’d avoided answering questions about his return. He’d given excuses, employed all kinds of delaying tactics, hoping time would enable him to reach an answer, but he was no nearer resolving the issue of what to do about his career than when he’d left London.

It was time to stop fudging and answer honestly. ‘I’m not sure I want to return.’

His mother stilled. ‘I beg your pardon?’

He sighed. ‘I know it’s not what you want to hear. I’d hoped time out would clarify things for me, but it hasn’t. I’m more confused than ever.’

His mother looked at him like he was speaking a foreign language.

His dad frowned. ‘What’s there to be confused about? You’ve successfully completed your medical degree and the two-year foundation programme. The hard part is done. All you need to do is select a specialism.’ He made it sound so simple.

‘But that’s just it, I don’t want to specialise.’

‘Nonsense.’ His mother dismissed his words with a wave of her hand. ‘Of course you want to specialise. If you can’t decide which direction to take, then we’ll help you. We have openings on the postgraduate medical diploma at Hammersmith, but you’ll need to commit soon if you want to secure a place this coming autumn.’

‘I can get you onto the cardiology or orthopaedic programmes at St. George’s,’ his dad added, looking hopeful. ‘Just give me the nod and it’s done.’

Barney felt the weight of expectation crushing him. His parents had supported him, encouraged him, used their influence to secure him decent placements, and how had he repaid them? He’d thrown in the towel. ‘I appreciate your efforts, really I do—’

‘Even if you choose general practice,’ his dad said, cutting him off. ‘It’s not what your mother and I had hoped for, but we’d support you becoming a GP, if that’s what you wanted.’

‘But it isn’t what I want.’

His mother rubbed her temples. ‘Then what do you want, Barnabas, because quite frankly you’re testing our patience.’ She paused when the coffees arrived, waiting until the bar manager had disappeared inside before continuing. ‘We didn’t object when you announced you were taking a gap year, did we? Neither of us felt it was ideal, but we supported you. Well, you’ve had a break, it’s time to get back to work.’

He looked at his mother. ‘I already work. I’m not sitting around twiddling my thumbs.’

‘Singing in a pub and teaching tourists to surf is not proper work, and you know it.’

On the word ‘proper’, Barney recalled Charlotte Saunders’ dismissal of his employment status with equal derision. She hadn’t been impressed by his lack of a suitable career either. ‘Do you know how insulting that is? A lot of people in this area work in the tourist industry. It’s a perfectly legitimate way to earn a living.’

Alexa Hubble showed no signs of remorse. ‘I agree, for someone who hasn’t spent seven years using public resources training to be a doctor.’

He couldn’t argue with that. ‘I get that you’re disappointed. I am too. I stuck with the programme because I didn’t want to quit. I knew I’d be letting a lot of people down, but I can’t help how I feel.’

His dad placed a hand on his wife’s arm, preventing her responding. ‘So how do you feel, son?’ He was no doubt trying to be sensitive, even though he probably wanted nothing more than to shake some sense into his only child.

Barney shrugged. ‘I’m not sure medicine is for me. The stress, the long hours—’

‘Long hours?’ His mother cut him off. ‘Your generation has it easy. When your father and I trained, we worked a hundred-hour week.’ She stopped talking when her husband squeezed her arm, silently conveying that she wasn’t helping.

Henry nodded for Barney to continue. ‘Go on.’

What was the point? They wouldn’t understand; they were made differently to him. When confronted with a patient, they saw a medical problem that needed solving. It was science, factual, they were able to remain emotionally detached. When faced with the same scenario, Barney just wanted to scream, cry, and run away. These were not traits that would make him a good doctor.

He had a sudden flashback from his early days on the wards. It was late one evening and his shift was due to finish. When his bleeper went off, he’d briefly considered ignoring it, letting whoever was on next pick it up. But his morals wouldn’t let him do that, so he’d headed off to the ward. On arrival, he’d heard the nurse say to the patient, ‘It’s okay, the doctor’s here now,’ which had only increased his panic. The patient was Mrs White, a seventy-seven-year-old woman with terminal cancer. Her body was a bag of bones, her skin sallow and bruised. She was in severe pain, the agony of dying etched on her face. ‘Please,’ she’d said as he’d neared. ‘Please help me.’

He’d been frozen to the spot. The nurse had looked at him expectantly, willing him to ease the woman’s suffering. But how could he? Medical training covered disease, medication, and fixing broken bones. It didn’t tell you how to respond to a dying patient who just wanted the torment to end. Helping people had been the motivation for becoming a doctor. He liked the idea of fixing problems, but he’d quickly discovered that there wasn’t always a cure. No one had covered that on his course.

‘How much longer?’ Mrs White had asked him. ‘Why doesn’t the Lord take me? I’m ready to go.’ Tears had filled her eyes, mixed with desperation and pleading.

When the nurse had leant across and whispered to Barney, ‘Shall I call the palliative care team?’ he’d grasped the suggestion like being tossed a life jacket at sea. Help was on its way, but then Mrs White had said, ‘Will you stay with me, Doctor? I don’t have anyone else.’

He’d sat with her for several hours, holding her hand, even though she’d slipped into a morphine-induced coma. When Mrs White died later that day, Barney had twenty-nine minutes left before the start of his next shift.

The sound of his mother dragged him back to the present. ‘We’re still waiting for an answer.’

Failing to find the right words, he reverted to avoidance. ‘I need a bit more time.’

‘No more time, Barney. We’ve been patient enough.’ His mother dropped a cube of sugar in her black coffee. ‘You need to stop prevaricating and focus on your career. We haven’t spent thousands of pounds supporting your education to see it go to waste.’

He bristled. ‘If it’s about the money, then I’ll pay you back—’

‘It’s not about money,’ his dad interjected. ‘It’s about wanting you to succeed in life.’

‘And what about being happy, Dad? Doesn’t that count for anything?’

‘Happiness is overrated,’ his mother said, and then caught the look on her husband’s face and stopped stirring her coffee. ‘What I mean is, happiness will come later. You need to put in the hard work first, build your career. Once you’re established, you can meet a nice girl, settle down and have a family, content in the knowledge that you can provide for them. Trust me, we know.’ She forced a smile at Henry, who smiled back … once he realised what was required of him.

The idea of meeting a nice girl conjured up another image of Charlotte Saunders. Why, he wasn’t sure. ‘Nice’ wasn’t a word that immediately sprang to mind when thinking about her. And why was he thinking about her? ‘I wish more than anything I shared your commitment to medicine, really I do. But I don’t think it’s for me.’

‘Then work harder,’ his mother barked. ‘You don’t just give up on seven years of medical training.’ She lowered her voice when she realised people were looking. ‘I blame your mother,’ she said, directing her comment at Henry. ‘I knew encouraging him to play around with non-academic interests was a bad idea. But would you listen? Now look where it’s led!’ She pointed at her son. ‘A wasted talent. Letting everybody down.’

A mist of red fog descended. He knew his mother didn’t mean it. She was just worried he’d go off the rails like his cousin had done, ending up unemployed and alcohol dependent. But he wasn’t about to make the same mistake. They just needed to get off his case. He was twenty-seven, for fuck’s sake. He could make his own decisions. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to you,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘You don’t need to tell me I’m letting you down, I see it on your faces every time I look at you.’

‘Your mother doesn’t mean—’

‘Yes, she does. She means every bloody word, and she’s right. I am a let-down. But you couldn’t be more disappointed in me than I am in myself.’ He dug out ten quid from his wallet and threw it on the table. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, my shift starts in half an hour. Have a safe journey back to London. I’m sorry you didn’t get the outcome you were hoping for.’

He stormed off, ignoring his parents’ protests and curious glances from the other punters. He didn’t need anyone telling him he was inadequate. Not some snooty designer from London, or his mum and dad. He was perfectly aware he was a screw-up.

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