Friday, 29 July
Charlotte flicked through the TV channels just to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. She hadn’t. God, she was bored. She checked her watch. Ten past nine. The evening was dragging. After a long day on her feet, she’d expected to feel tired. The kids had broken up for the summer holidays and, as Lauren had an early shift at the café today, Charlotte had offered to take Freddie and Florence to the nearby trampoline park. She’d even been persuaded to have a go herself – another attempt to relinquish control and ‘drop the stick’. But bouncing around on the springy contraption had been painful and exhausting. It had also served as a reminder of bouncing around with Barney Hubble at the jousting challenge, so she gave up and resigned herself to watching her niece and nephew from the sidelines.
The three of them had enjoyed fish and chips at the Coddy Shack, followed by a walk up to Morholt Castle to tackle the maze. Another mistake. The impressive castle ruins had evoked thoughts of a different kind of ‘bouncing’. The memory of which left her feeling slightly stunned. Had she really done that?
Lauren had arrived home from work looking tired, and complaining of a headache. She’d gone to bed early, leaving Charlotte to feed the kids peanut butter sandwiches, and oversee bath time. By seven-fifteen both kids were tucked up in bed, worn out from their day. She’d taken the opportunity of a quiet night to work on her bundle for the upcoming employment tribunal hearing. Even though it had taken her nearly two hours to draft a witness statement and schedule of loss, she’d finished the task. With nothing else to occupy her, she was now feeling somewhat bored. Not the most exciting way to spend a Friday night.
She got up from the lumpy sofa and washed her cup in the sink. The flat was eerily quiet. Last night, she’d been disturbed by the sound of her sister crying. It had felt too intrusive to knock on her door and ask if everything was okay. She couldn’t imagine Lauren welcoming an audience, so she’d stayed put, relieved when, in the early hours, the crying had stopped. Lauren had appeared for breakfast wearing dark sunglasses, looking drawn and subdued. Something was very wrong. But Charlotte was at a loss as to how to get her sister to confide.
Drying the cup, she hung it back on its hook. She wasn’t ready for bed. She’d finished her latest book, painted her nails and folded her laundry. In London, entertainment was on her doorstep – not that she’d had much time to enjoy it, but that was beside the point, it was there if she’d wanted it. But in Penmullion, unless it was a rehearsal night, there didn’t seem to be much else to do. And there’d been no rehearsal last night: it had been cancelled following Jonathan’s heart attack. Everyone was still in shock, even though he’d miraculously survived … just.
She noticed an entry scribbled on the calendar pinned to the fridge. Friday 29 July – Barney’s gig, Smugglers Inn. She dumped the tea towel on the side, frustrated that her efforts to avoid thinking about him had been thwarted again. She didn’t want to dwell on how much fun she’d had with him, or how alive and exhilarated she’d felt at having succumbed to such physical pleasures. It wasn’t going to happen again, so what was the point in replaying every touch … every kiss … every stroke of his hand … Stop it, she told her traitorous brain, not helpful. It’d been a one-off. A moment of weakness. A lapse in concentration. Keeping her distance was the only sure-fire way of ensuring she didn’t unravel again … and, boy, had she unravelled. Bloody hell. It’d never been like that with Ethan.
She ran her hands under cold water, trying to dampen the heat building within her.
After a few deep breaths, she was back in control, her mind no longer allowing such inappropriate images to surface. Good.
Back to the matter in hand. Her boredom. Was she going to allow a man to dictate her social life? No, she most certainly was not. If she wanted to enjoy an evening listening to live music, then no one was going to stop her, not even Barney Hubble. And she wouldn’t be alone with him, would she? A crowded pub would be perfectly safe.
Before she could change her mind, she swapped her jeans for her favourite brown-satin Ghost dress, freshened up her make-up, and left the flat, convincing herself she was simply alleviating her boredom. There was no other motive.
Smugglers Inn was situated on the other side of the quay. Unfortunately, this meant she was forced to negotiate the footbridge. Frequent visits to her dad’s boat hadn’t made crossing the construction any less daunting. Wearing wedge heels didn’t help either. Her centre of gravity lurched to the left as she tried to walk across. She kept her eyes fixed ahead, resisting the urge to hold on to her dress when a gust of wind rolled in from the sea and exposed more bare thigh than she was happy with.
Safely across, she walked up to where the main collection of restaurants and hotels were situated, overlooking the bay. It was a pretty sight. Lights from the establishments danced happily across the water, inviting the tourists inside. The pubs were busy, the restaurants full, and the neon lights advertising Frenzies nightclub flashed manically.
Smugglers Inn was set on the waterfront. It wasn’t a new building, but it had been modernised and looked appealing. She could hear music before she reached the doorway. The venue was a reasonable size, refurbished using natural wood, with a modern twist. The designer in her approved. As she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, she looked around. On the right-hand side, a long bar ran the length of the room. Nate was behind it, pulling pints of beer for a group of lads. She hadn’t realised he worked here as well as being a postman.
The left side of the pub was scattered with a series of small tables, currently packed with punters enjoying a night out. At the far end was a small stage. Perched on a stool, playing an acoustic guitar, was Barney Hubble. Despite a lack of supporting musicians, she could still hear him above the noise of the pub. She recognised the song: The Arctic Monkeys, ‘Baby, I’m Yours’. He had a good voice. He could play too. It was a nice sound. But she didn’t want to stand around watching him like some sad little groupie so made her way to the bar.
When Nate finished serving, he came over. ‘Hi, Charlotte.’ His eyes searched the space behind her, a hopeful expression on his face. ‘Lauren not with you?’
She shook her head. ‘Just me, I’m afraid. She’s having an early night. Bad headache.’
He frowned. ‘She’s not ill, is she?’
Nate Jones might look like Johnny Depp’s bearded younger brother, but underneath the cool exterior was a right softie. How she wished Lauren would let him into her life. ‘I don’t think so.’ Although, it might explain why her sister had been so out of sorts of late. Maybe she’d suggest Lauren visit her GP for a check-up?
Thoughts of doctors drew her attention to Barney. He was lost in his own world, his love of music freeing him from the realities of his situation, no doubt. And then she realised Nate had asked her a question. ‘Sorry, what was that?’
‘Has Lauren had any strange visitors come to the flat?’
What an odd question. ‘Not to my knowledge. Why?’
‘No reason.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘What can I get you to drink?’
She was about to order her usual white wine spritzer, when she remembered her sister’s advice to push the boat out a little. ‘What can you recommend? A beer, maybe?’
As her first attempt at ‘letting go’ had resulted in the loss of her knickers, she had resolved to trying something that wouldn’t put her at risk of an indecent exposure charge.
‘Ginger Tosser or Cornish Knocker.’ Nate pointed to the bottles of beer in the cabinet behind. ‘They’re both produced locally. Quite fruity, but not too heavy.’
‘Cornish Knocker, it is.’ Words she’d never imagined herself saying.
Nate flipped off the lid. ‘Your dad’s over there.’ He handed her the beer. ‘Want a glass?’
‘No, thanks.’ Drinking straight from a bottle, what a rebel. ‘How much?’
‘On the house. Have a good night.’ He headed off to serve someone else.
Her ‘thank you’ was lost in the noise.
She went in search of her dad and found him sitting with Sylvia. They were swaying in time to the music, seemingly enjoying themselves. When Barney’s song finished, they clapped loudly, along with most of the crowd.
Charlotte spotted Kayleigh, sitting next to the stage, cheering and whistling, giggling with her friends when Barney said, ‘This next song is for Nate. It’s called, “Fools Like Us”.’
Nate acknowledged him with a rueful smile. Poor Nate. She did feel for him.
Her dad saw her approach. ‘Hey, love. I didn’t know you’d be here tonight. Pull up a chair and join us.’
Before she could respond, Sylvia jumped up and enveloped her in a hug. ‘How are you, my lovely? Are you okay?’ She touched her cheek. ‘Not too traumatised?’
Feeling a tad awkward, Charlotte moved away. ‘I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?’ Barney’s playing wasn’t that bad … in fact, it was extremely good.
‘After what happened on Tuesday to poor Jonathan.’
Oh, right. Nothing to do with Barney’s singing, then.
‘We’re all a bit shaken. I keep seeing his purple face every time I close my eyes.’
Her dad placed a hand on Sylvia’s shoulder. ‘I’m not sure that’s overly helpful.’
Charlotte sat down. ‘He’s going to be okay though, isn’t he?’
Her dad nodded. ‘Thanks to Barney. It was touch and go for a while, but he’s expected to make a full recovery.’
Another attempt to stop thinking about Barney thwarted. This was proving harder than she’d imagined.
‘They unblocked his artery and fitted tiny wire mesh tubes called stents to permanently prop open the artery, allowing blood to get through to his heart,’ Sylvia said, her pink lipstick almost luminous in the dim lighting. ‘It’s amazing what they can do these days, the wonders of medicine.’
Charlotte found herself looking at Barney again.
‘He’ll be in hospital for a while.’ Sylvia had to raise her voice to be heard over the music. ‘And then he’ll need to recuperate. He doesn’t have any family, so he’s going to a convalescence home for a few weeks, just till he’s back on his feet.’
Charlotte tuned back in to the conversation.
‘Sylvia’s been taking Jonathan home-cooked meals to help him recover,’ her dad said, smiling at Sylvia. ‘It’s over an hour’s drive, but she goes in every day.’
‘It’s no trouble,’ Sylvia said. ‘And we all know how awful hospital food is. Anyone would do the same.’
Her dad touched Sylvia’s hand. ‘Not everyone would. You’re a very kind woman.’
Sylvia waved away his compliment, but Charlotte could see she appreciated his words.
‘Dad’s right,’ she said, resolved to being nicer to Sylvia. It wasn’t her fault she was clumsy. ‘It’s very thoughtful of you. I’m sure Jonathan appreciates your kindness.’
‘Well, bless you. Aren’t you a love.’ Sylvia took a sip of her drink, something pink with an umbrella. ‘Of course, we all want to know who’s going to direct the play now? It would be a shame to cancel. We’ve sold over fifty per cent of the tickets.’
Charlotte agreed it would be a travesty. So many people had put time into making it happen. ‘Couldn’t you direct it, Dad?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m not the right person.’ His eyes drifted to Barney on stage. ‘I know who’d be perfect for the role.’
It took her a moment to realise what he was suggesting. ‘Are you kidding me?’
Sylvia nodded. ‘He’s such a talent.’
Barney Hubble was also averse to responsibility, spent his days on the beach, and was having a mid-life career crisis – even though he was only twenty-seven. ‘I’m not sure he has the right attributes,’ she said, not that she knew much about directing plays, but she did know about project planning and leadership. Barney didn’t strike her as having either skill. ‘Wouldn’t it be difficult to balance both acting and directing?’
‘He could manage it.’ Her dad picked up his beer. ‘Don’t be fooled by the façade. He’s not as carefree as he makes out. I think he’d be perfect.’
Sylvia sided with Tony. ‘And I could listen to him sing all night, couldn’t you? Perfectly dreamy.’
In an attempt to avoid answering, Charlotte took a mouthful of beer. It was disgusting – it probably wasn’t, she just wasn’t a beer drinker. Why had she thought otherwise? ‘I need a different drink. Anyone need a refill?’
‘We’re fine, love.’ Her dad reverted to watching Barney, leaving her to head to the bar.
Nate was busy, so she perched on one of the chrome bar stools to wait.
Barney was standing at the mic, his stance cocky, as he sang ‘I want you, I need you, I love you’ and imitated Elvis’s famous hip wiggle.
‘Looks like him, doesn’t he?’ Paul said from behind her, his voice instantly recognisable.
‘I suppose he does a bit.’ When she turned, she almost fell off her stool. ‘Jesus!’
Dusty caught her by the arm. ‘Well, I’ve been called worse. Careful there, honey. How much have you had to drink?’
Not nearly enough, thought Charlotte. ‘You’re … but I …’ She shook her head, trying to reconcile the realisation that Paul and Dusty were the same person. ‘You’re …?’
There was an amused expression on Dusty’s made-up face. Her cheekbones were beautifully contoured, her lips were painted dark red, and her false eyelashes blinked rapidly like car indicators. ‘Seriously …? You didn’t realise?’
Charlotte shook her head.
And then Dusty beamed, a real kilowatt smile. ‘Well, that’s the biggest compliment I’ve had in a while. Bless you, darling.’ She kissed Charlotte’s cheek, and then laughed, drawing attention from those nearby. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t know. How wonderfully amusing.’
Now the shock was subsiding, Charlotte looked at Dusty again. Other than the voice, there really was no hint of Paul perched on the stool. The blonde wig, psychedelic pink and purple shift dress, white tights and stilettos were a far cry from Paul’s tasteful, tailored look. Although, now she thought about it, she recalled the sense of familiarity she’d felt whenever she’d encountered ‘Dusty’. ‘How did I not see it? I’ve been hanging out with you all summer.’
Dusty crossed one leg daintily over the other. ‘People see what they’re expecting to see, not always what’s right in front of them.’ She waved at a group of men further down the bar, a playful wiggle of her fingers accompanied by a flutter of long eyelashes. ‘I gather I missed quite an eventful rehearsal on Tuesday.’
Charlotte forced herself to stop staring, even if she was still slightly stunned. ‘It was pretty grim. My dad says Jonathan’s expected to make a full recovery.’ Thanks to Barney, she added silently, glancing at the stage. He was still there, singing his heart out, channelling Elvis.
‘Lucky Barney was there, or else things might’ve ended very differently.’ A beat passed before Dusty added, ‘Shame he can’t see that.’
‘Barney, you mean?’ Charlotte kept her eyes focused on the stage, watching as he curled his lip, making Kayleigh scream like one of those teenagers in the black and white footage from the fifties.
‘You might’ve picked up on his lack of confidence where medicine is concerned.’ Dusty sighed. ‘Stupid sod. Everyone else can see he’s a god amongst men.’
For the second time that night, Charlotte nearly fell off her stool. She looked at Dusty in disbelief. ‘Hardly.’
Dusty raised a perfectly waxed eyebrow. ‘You don’t think so? Look at him. Handsome. Talented. A doctor. If you can’t see it, then you’re blind, girlfriend.’
‘Did you just call me girlfriend?’
Dusty looked sheepish. ‘Too much …? It’s too much,’ she said, answering her own question. ‘Barney’s always telling me to tone down the diva. I can’t help it. It’s who Dusty is.’
Charlotte laughed, warming to her friend’s alter ego.
‘Anyway, back to the subject of my very hunky friend.’ Dusty leant closer, adopting the pose of a woman about to divulge. ‘I rather got the impression you liked him. You know, in that way.’ Charlotte was subjected to a nudge in the ribs.
Denying it would be pointless, mostly because she was sure the heat in her cheeks was visible. ‘He’s handsome, I grant you, and he has certain attributes, but he’s not my type. Besides, I’m only here for the summer. My life is back in London.’
For the first time since arriving in Cornwall, that sentence failed to evoke a sense of elation. It was probably just the build-up to the ET hearing playing on her mind. Uncertainty over her job situation was bound to dampen her enthusiasm for returning to her old life. It was nothing more than that.
‘All the more reason to indulge while you have the opportunity. Life’s too short. And men like that don’t come along every day. Trust me, I know. Besides, the briefer the liaison, the more beguiling the appeal.’
Charlotte raised an eyebrow. ‘Does Paul share your opinion?’
Dusty straightened. ‘Heavens, no. He’s a prude. Never wants to mess up his bed sheets. Dusty, on the other hand? Well, let’s just say, she likes to be impulsive.’
‘Even if it results in being handcuffed to a tree?’
‘Yes, that was rather unfortunate.’ And then she smiled. ‘But well worth it.’
Charlotte sighed. ‘I’m more of a Paul than a Dusty.’
Dusty patted her hand. ‘Poor you.’
‘And, whereas I can see the appeal of a – fling – and don’t get me wrong, I am tempted …’ She glanced at Barney, who’d just started singing, ‘Just the Way You Are’. ‘Getting involved with someone, when I know I’ll be leaving in a matter of weeks, doesn’t seem very fair. I’d feel like I was using him.’
Dusty’s burst of laughter caused heads to turn. ‘Oh, darling. I’m sure he’ll survive. If that’s the only thing stopping you, go for it.’ And then her laughter faded. ‘What on earth is he doing here?’
Charlotte turned to see who Dusty was referring to. A tall, good-looking man walked towards them. He was dressed in jeans and a suede jacket, his brown hair neatly styled, bordering on conservative. ‘Jilted lover?’
Dusty slid off the stool. ‘Worse. My brother. Excuse me, will you?’
Charlotte watched Dusty glide towards the man, her gait effortless and elegant. The man seemed pleased to see her, but looked uncomfortable when Dusty kissed him and slid her arm through his. Another family drama, no doubt. It was the same the world over. Everyone was dealing with something.
Charlotte swivelled around, facing the stage again. Barney’s rendition of Bruno Mars was good, but his delivery lacked sincerity. He was hiding behind sarcasm, hamming up his performance rather than allowing any feeling behind the words to emerge. But then, acting like a cocky so-and-so was Barney’s forte. It was what he did best. Even if she suspected it was a diversion tactic to distract from his insecurities.
And then she remembered his reaction to saving Jonathan. How he’d run from the hall physically shaking, his expression tortured. He’d been exposed as vulnerable, and she guessed that wouldn’t sit well with him.
She studied him again, sensing a falseness to his bravado, like he was trying a little too hard to ‘perform’. Maybe he wasn’t as confident as he made out. It wasn’t a valid enough reason to get involved with him, though. Tempting as it would be to enjoy a repeat performance of Saturday night, she’d be a fool to go there. Just like Paul, she wasn’t a fan of messy bed sheets.
She climbed off the bar stool, planning to escape before Barney saw her. But when he started singing the Green Day song, ‘When It’s Time’, she couldn’t quite make her legs move. Hesitating was her first mistake. Her second was turning back to look at him. His cocky persona had vanished. There was no hint of sarcasm as he sang. His voice was deep and rich, with a hint of gravel – like he needed any help in the sex-appeal department. His voice cracked on the last line, emotion creeping into his words, leaving him visibly upset. When he finished, he thanked the crowd, gave a brief wave and disappeared backstage.
Crap.
If only she’d left before he’d started singing again. As it was, she was torn between going home or checking to see if he was okay. He was a big boy; he didn’t need her to look out for him. True. But if he was suffering from the events of Tuesday night, then he might welcome a friendly face. She’d never performed CPR herself. By all accounts, it was a grim experience and often left a person distressed – even if that person was medically trained.
Leaving felt wrong. Staying didn’t feel right. Quite a conundrum.
She reasoned that a quick ‘hello’ wouldn’t hurt. Just a friendly enquiry into his mental state. She’d ensure he was okay, and then leave. Good plan.
She made her way through the crowd. The noise had increased, a jukebox was playing a Katy Perry song. Her dad and Sylvia were chatting to a couple on the neighbouring table. Kayleigh had climbed onto a chair and was dancing. One of the barmen shouted at her to get down.
Charlotte reached the door next to the stage area and knocked. She doubted anyone could hear above the noise. True enough, when no one answered, she tentatively opened it and peered in. A small corridor led to the men’s toilets and a store cupboard. She wasn’t about to enter the men’s loos, so tapped on the store-cupboard door, even though it felt like an odd thing to do.
She was only mildly surprised when it opened. There he stood, his initial frown relaxing into relief when he realised who it was. Up close, she could see that his teal T-shirt had a picture of a guitar on it, emblazoned with the slogan Electrify the Beat. His black hair was damp from perspiration. He blinked slowly, his shoulders dropping a notch. He smiled, but it lacked its usual confidence.
Lost for anything profound to say, she was grateful when he stepped back and allowed her inside the cramped space that had once been a cupboard. There was a single dull bulb hanging from the ceiling. A small table leant against the wall. His guitar lay in a case on the floor. Directly behind him was an armchair that had seen better days. It wasn’t the most glamourous of dressing rooms.
She wasn’t sure what she’d anticipated saying. And strangely, he didn’t look like he was waiting for her to speak. He merely stood there, watching her. It was her move.
With no logic or rationale, she placed her hands on his chest and pushed him down onto the armchair. Still he didn’t say anything. Good. She reasoned he was smart enough to know that if he uttered anything remotely challenging or teasing she’d be out of there quicker than he’d left the hall on Tuesday.
She dropped her handbag where she stood, took two steps and straddled him on the chair. Her actions had the desired reaction. His pupils dilated, his lips parted, and as she lowered her mouth to his, he rose up to meet her halfway. Just as it had on Saturday, the heat between them exploded like a firework. A spark instantly igniting into a flame. The same frantic rhythm; hands, tongues, an urgency to consume.
There was one difference. She was in the driving seat. The one dictating proceedings. When he tried to take control, she pushed him back against the chair. When his hands laced into her hair she pushed them against the wall, pinning them above his head. He didn’t resist. He let her set the pace. And Christ, what a pace. She couldn’t believe how quickly she lost all sense of propriety. Dignity and politeness went flying out the window. Once again, she was unravelling, losing control, allowing her body, not her mind, to call the shots. Her knee banged against the arm of the chair. She didn’t care. One shoe fell from her foot. She didn’t replace it. Her bra strap slipped off one shoulder. She let it go.
As if sensing her need to assert herself, he dutifully sat back and let her indulge, only assisting when she fumbled over his belt buckle, undoing it for her. She dragged his jeans down over his hips, moving against him as though an outside force had taken control of her body. The need to satisfy the itch clawing at her insides surged within her. His low moan sent any remaining restraint tumbling over the cliffs. Her mind was in free fall, her body following suit. When his lips formed the start of her name, she covered his mouth with hers. Don’t speak, she silently willed him. Please don’t say a word.
He didn’t utter another sound.