Fen arrived the day after Jake left. She shed buckets of tears over Leo but brightened up to find him moving around in spite of the cone. Soon his stitches were out, his collar was off and he was wandering again despite Fen’s attempts to keep him inside.
The time crawled by for Poppy in that first week after Jake had gone. The first few days had felt almost like when Dan had walked out. The difference this time was a sense of loss without the anger. No matter how many times she’d reminded herself that she never came to St Piran’s hoping to find romance or affection, it didn’t lessen the fact that she probably had been a little bit in love with Jake … OK. A lot in love with him, despite every effort not to fall for someone so soon after Dan.
She missed Jake’s dry sense of humour, his thoughtfulness, even his moodiness. She missed seeing the glimpse of bare skin where his T-shirt had parted company with his ancient jeans, and the sight of his firm arse bent over a tin of paint. She missed his grumbles as he emptied Leo’s litter tray or opened the hare and badger. She missed his tenderness as he carried an injured cat to the vet or caressed her bare skin until she’d clutched at the pillows and cried out.
In his emails and WhatsApp messages to her, he almost always asked how the ‘Furry Fiend’ or ‘Ginger Peril’ was and whether he’d stolen any trainers lately or flooded the studio. Whether Leo missed Jake, it was hard to tell. He was back on the prowl and up to his tricks. Fen had caught him turning on the new taps in the workroom for a drink of water and he’d chased an unfortunate mouse into the studio and the terrified little thing had shot into the storeroom.
Jake sent photos of himself in canoes, one of a jaguar at dusk, another of some local people with a giant anaconda they’d captured temporarily. He sent shots of breathtaking vistas over the tree canopy and of tropical birds with impossibly bright colours. He emailed heartbreaking pictures of the devastation wrought by mining and logging in the rainforest. Poppy imagined his face, smiling or serious, behind the camera, and where he might be sleeping that night.
He sent a video of a hammock in a hut in a rainforest village. The noises astonished her: eerie shrieks and cries of nocturnal creatures, the buzzing of insects that must be gigantic judging by their voices. It sounded like Jurassic Park on steroids.
He told the story of his trip in lots of photos and few words, just as she’d expect, but he didn’t mention when – or if – he’d be back home. Poppy didn’t even know where he thought of as home. Was it Archie’s cottage? His flat in Cornwall? His parents’ place? Or was home wherever he happened to lay his head at the time? A hammock in a hut? A tent? A hotel? The Starfish Studio? The longer he was away, the more he seemed to have been an imagined fleeting shadow who had passed through her life.
As high summer arrived on the islands, St Piran’s surpassed itself in beauty. Colours popped on land and sea. Thousands of blue and mauve agapanthuses grew wild all over the isles, not to mention in people’s gardens. The days were still long, bringing stunning sunsets that set the sky ablaze as the sun sank below the western horizon.
Poppy didn’t think about Jake all the time. She didn’t have time to think about him all the time because she was too busy running the studio, repaying her favours to other islanders and tending to Fen’s allotment when she could. She’d also taken up her jewellery making again in a small way, sending off for some kits and following some online tutorials. She made a necklace and earrings set that she felt was worth putting in the studio at a modest price and was beside herself when a visitor bought it within a week of it going on display.
She didn’t have time to make much stock while the season was in full swing but the small success had boosted her confidence and made her determined to nurture her own creative side over the off-season.
She also threw herself into island life, joining in with barbecue nights, karaoke evenings and narrowly avoiding being persuaded to join the St Piran’s gig rowing team.
Three weeks after his accident, Leo was sufficiently healed for Fen to set off again for the mainland to spend a few days with Archie and some of her own extended family, which included a younger sister, nieces, nephews and their offspring. Poppy was petrified that something would happen to Leo again on her watch and shut him in the studio at night, even if it meant he drove her mad, meowing to be let out and pummelling her stomach and chest with his claws in the small hours. He could far more easily have been run over in the day, of course, but she felt happier knowing where he was at night, even if he kept giving her looks that would have frozen over hell.
This time, Leo survived the week, but it was with an immense sigh of relief that a bleary-eyed Poppy met Fen at the jetty after her visit. Families were stretched out on the beach in the sun or sitting with ice creams outside the kiosk. Dogs barked and children shrieked as they splashed in the shallows. The water might look tropical but it was chilly even in summer. Once it was established that Leo was fine and Fen had had sight of him strolling along the jetty as if he was king of St Piran’s and been allowed to pick him up and give him a brief cuddle, Poppy asked Fen how Archie was.
‘Is he on the mend?’ she asked, walking side by side with Fen. She wore cut-offs and a vest top now that her pasty city-girl limbs had finally acquired a honey-coloured tinge.
‘He had a setback a few weeks ago but he seems a lot better to me, both physically and mentally.’ Fen gave a sigh of relief. ‘He’s even picked up a paintbrush again. He painted the scene from the window of the house. It was all very Archie – that angry sea and the sun and rain of a summer storm. I could tell he’s weaker than he was from the brushstrokes, but the old fire was back, which is what counts.’
Poppy wanted to ask if the family had heard anything of Jake. It had been almost a week since his last WhatsApp message to her and she hadn’t seen any pictures on his Instagram account for a few days either. But she didn’t want to seem too eager.
‘That’s a great sign if Archie’s painting again,’ she said instead. ‘I’d like to have seen his new picture. Do you think he’ll bring it home with him … when he comes back?’ she asked. Even as she spoke, she was thinking of grandfather and grandson. Would Jake come back too?
‘He’ll probably leave it there for Jake’s mum and dad,’ said Fen and sighed. ‘Poor Jake. He was in a bad way when he first came back to deal with the handover of the studio.’ She then smiled broadly. ‘You cheered him up though, and I thought he’d stay for good, I really did.’
‘I expect he had no choice, given his job,’ Poppy said, dismayed at the way the conversation was going. Fen had a way of getting straight to the point, and even if there was no malice behind her blunt comments, they still touched a raw nerve.
Fen tutted. ‘Ah, but Jake does have a choice and that’s the whole point. He’s used his job as an excuse to keep away from St Piran’s since Harriet died. We could understand it in one way, but when he stayed away, and as far away as possible, from Archie and his parents, they were very hurt. Archie didn’t say as much and he’d never let on to Jake – he realised that the boy needed to grieve in his own way – but I could tell he was cut up and missed him badly.’
‘Everyone has to deal with loss in their own time, I guess,’ said Poppy, not wanting to reveal her own sense of disappointment where Jake was concerned.
‘They do. Archie was racked with guilt when Ellie passed away. I know that too.’ Fen’s voice trailed off. Poppy held her breath. She thought of Archie’s drawings of Fen. Nothing had been mentioned of the sketches since Jake had shown them to Poppy when they’d first been restoring the studio. Jake had thought it better for those memories to be locked away, but Poppy wondered now whether Fen was about to share her story.
Then Fen laughed. ‘Anyway, enough talk of people who aren’t here. How are you doing? Have you managed to set up those workshops and holidays you told me about? Has Hugo helped or has he been as much use as a chocolate teapot as usual?’
Although a bit disappointed not to get to the bottom of Archie’s sketches, Poppy smiled. Perhaps it was right that some memories were better left in the past. ‘Actually, I have a watercolour taster day next weekend, which includes lunch,’ she told Fen. ‘The Petroc Resort advertised it on their website and half a dozen people have booked. They’re taking a fat cut, of course, but I’ll make a little money from it and it will help get people into the studio and spread the word. I’ve also set up a weekend workshop in October, as part of a holiday package with the Petroc Resort.’
‘That sounds good. Will you need a hand on the day? I don’t mind cutting a few sandwiches.’
Poppy laughed. ‘I’d love that and the locally sourced lunch is part of the attraction. I’d hoped to offer some rocket and tomatoes from the allotment. With the bread from our island bakery, plus some goat’s cheese from the Flower Farm herd, I think I can produce a completely local lunch. I’m going to get organised and promote more regular courses in the spring and autumn next year if these go well.’
‘I’m sure they will. I hope so. I want you to make a go of it. You’re becoming part of the furniture.’
Poppy was touched by Fen’s warm words. ‘I’ll never be rich, but I will make something from the use of the workshop and sale of the artists’ work, of course. Hopefully we’ll have repeat bookings and word will spread through the art community.’
Fen nodded. ‘Archie used to run courses years back when he had more patience and I had the energy to help organise them. Then he decided to switch his focus to the painting.’
‘Will he want to use the studio to work when he comes home?’ asked Poppy, suddenly wondering how she’d handle a permanent artist in residence after being on her own for so long.
‘You know, I hadn’t thought of that … mind you, the first thing we need to do is get him home at all.’
‘Is there any date planned yet? He must miss it terribly.’
‘Not yet, but knowing Archie, he’ll just wake up one morning and decide today’s the day to come home.’
They’d reached Fen’s cottage and stood outside on the tiny front garden where a clump of mauve agapanthus flowers nodded their heads in the breeze.
Fen gave her a shrewd look. ‘If you’re planning on organising these workshops for next year, you must definitely be thinking of staying on yourself?’
‘I guess … yes, I must be. I’ll see how the first couple go, but I want to make a go of it here. I want to give it a decent chance. It’s been hard leaving my family and friends, but the place has seeped into my soul. If that doesn’t sound too weird.’
‘Not at all.’ Fen patted her arm. ‘We’ll make a local of you yet.’
The workshop went well, and even though it was exhausting keeping eight demanding amateur artists happy, fed and watered, Poppy was delighted with the additional income and planning to organise more. Three of the attendees signed up on the spot for the autumn weekend course, despite Leo strolling in and managing to knock over their easels like dominoes.
The summer was taking its toll, with every moment taken up with admin, island life or just the logistics of making sure she had enough food. If she was honest, she was putting in more hours than she had in her old job, but the compensations were worth it. The sunsets were the most spectacular she’d ever seen, seals regularly popped up to greet her on her walks and one morning she awoke to find a pod of dolphins frolicking in the sea outside the harbour.
Missing her family was the downside, so she was delighted when Zoey arrived for a visit. She dumped her bags on the floor of the studio and bear-hugged Poppy. She’d come to stay for a week and other than a weekend visit from her parents, Poppy hadn’t seen anyone from home since the launch.
‘How’s it going? Heard from D’Artagnan on his travels lately?’ Zoey asked almost as soon as they’d let go of each other.
Poppy rolled her eyes. ‘You do know that D’Artagnan was French, not Spanish?’ she said, amused.
‘OK. OK. But have you heard from him? How long has it been now? A month?’
‘Six weeks.’ Six weeks exactly tomorrow, Poppy could have added, but she didn’t dare let on to Zoey that she’d been counting the days. She’d tried not to count them but couldn’t help remembering that final moment: the damp squib of it. She’d been protecting herself, but now she wished she’d wrung every last drop of pleasure from their time together, even if that might have made letting him go even harder. ‘And I had a WhatsApp message and some photos from him this morning as a matter of fact. An amazing shot of a sloth and an anaconda, and one of a golden lion tamarin. Incredible lighting. I don’t know how he does it.’
Zoey seemed unimpressed. ‘So, you’re really missing him badly?’
‘Honestly? I haven’t had time.’
Zoey folded her arms and pursed her lips. ‘That’s being honest?’
‘I did miss him for a while. I’d sort of got used to having him around, but that’s exactly why I’m glad he’s gone. I didn’t like waiting for him to leave and knowing I’d miss him. I don’t want to miss anyone again. It’s too soon after Dan. It’s just not … convenient right now.’
Zoey laughed and sat down on the bed. ‘Oh, Pops. Love doesn’t come along to order. It’s not a train running to schedule. Unless it’s running to a Southern Trains type of schedule.’
‘You mean waiting all day for one, then three come along at once and they’re not even going where you want them to?’
Zoey smiled. ‘Something like that.’
Poppy laughed. ‘Well, Jake’s train doesn’t have any room left for anyone else, and even if it did, I’m not sure I want to climb aboard. In any way. Have you seen Dan?’ she asked.
Zoey pulled a face. ‘Do you really want to know?’
‘I shouldn’t, but yes. Tell me the worst.’
‘My mum spotted him and Evil Eve a few weeks ago, actually. They were coming out of JoJo Maman Bébé with a buggy.’ Zoe bit her lip. ‘Sorry.’
‘No. It’s fine. I only wondered.’
‘If it’s any consolation, they were having a bit of a row. Mum said that he was moaning about the price of the buggy and Eve was telling him not to be such a mean bastard. Or something like that. Mum didn’t actually use the word “bastard”.’
‘That sounds like Dan.’ Poppy smiled.
Zoey reached for her. ‘Come on, have a hug. It still hurts, doesn’t it?’
‘No, it’s just annoying. It’s annoying that I even care what he might be doing.’
‘Do you still love him?’
‘I don’t think so. In fact, no.’ In truth, Poppy was no longer sure if she had ever really loved Dan, not in the way she should have, or even in the way she felt about Jake.
‘Hate him?’
‘Hate’s a strong word,’ said Poppy.
‘A word you used about him twenty times a day until you came here, so if you don’t really know how you feel, that’s progress. Now, can we please have a glass of wine?’
‘How about a G&T? Would you like some seaweed gin? It’s been made with local kelp.’
Zoey grimaced. ‘Seaweed? Do I have to?’
‘It’s part of the St Piran’s initiation ceremony. Just like in The Wicker Man. We’re on the lookout for a virgin to sacrifice to the weather gods.’
Zoey let out a shriek then smirked. ‘I’ll be safe then. Hand over the gin.’
As the holiday season got into full swing, Poppy determined to make the most of trade while the place was buzzing, but she also hadn’t wanted to miss a moment of Zoey’s company, so Fen kindly stepped in for a couple of afternoons, and on others, Zoey helped Poppy in the gallery. For the rest of the time, Zoey was happy to take a book to the beach and sunbathe or hang out in the gallery when the weather was wet.
One grey morning near the end of the week, Zoey was inside helping Poppy unpack a new delivery from Rowan. His more graphic ‘pots’ were proving surprisingly popular with Hugo’s well-heeled Petroc Resort crowd. Poppy had lost count of the women she’d heard tittering as they handed over the cash for their purchase, ‘for a friend from my book club, of course. I can’t wait to see her face!’
Zoey delved into the box that Rowan had dropped off earlier that morning and held up a crinkly pasty-shaped object. ‘Erm. Excuse me, but is this a fanny?’’
Poppy took it from her and set it on top of Rowan’s display plinth with his other works. ‘No, it’s a dish. You have a filthy mind.’
Zoey curled her lip. ‘Must have because it looks exactly like a fanny to me. Still, if it sells.’ She reached into the box and unwrapped another piece. ‘And this, I suppose, is a jewellery stand?’ Zoey waggled a blue-glazed phallic sculpture under Poppy’s nose. ‘Well, there’s no way any of my rings would fit over that.’
Poppy giggled. ‘It’s artistic licence, and anyway, I don’t think it’s for rings. You could slide bangles and bracelets over it, I suppose. These sell far better than I expected.’
‘I bet they do. All those posh ladies who lunch must live secret lives.’ Zoey picked up the ‘fanny bowl’ from the plinth and tried to push the ‘willy’ into the ‘fanny’. ‘The slot is too small. God, whoever made this has no idea.’
‘St-stop it. Y-you’ll break the willy.’ Poppy tried to hold back the giggles.
‘That can actually happen you know,’ said Zoey, whose eyebrows shot up her face as she examined the willy. ‘Emma at work’s brother had it happen. He had to go to A&E. He said it was the worst pain he’d ever known. Worse than when his Achilles tendon snapped. He said that it made a noise like a gun going off.’
Poppy had to put the ‘fanny’ down. Her sides hurt and her eyes were streaming. She couldn’t speak for laughing.
‘I need the loo now,’ said Zoey, with a grin. ‘Handle that with care, won’t you?’
While Zoey went to the bathroom, Poppy wiped tears of laughter from her eyes and checked her mascara in the mirror of one of the display cases. Oh, but she had missed Zoey over the past few months. She’d missed sharing a laugh and a drink, consoling each other and dishing the dirt. While she loved the studio and the stunning landscape – and getting away from Dan had seemed the right thing at the time – doubts were creeping in. She’d made new friends of course, but Zoey being here, making her laugh, well, it would be very hard to say goodbye again.
Poppy travelled all the way across to St Mary’s airport with Zoey and waited until her flight had been called. Even though she’d settled in well, part of her wanted to get on the little plane with her friend, especially when Zoey hugged her and whispered: ‘I miss you, hun. I hate to get slushy, but I really do. I know it’s pathetic, but I actually cried after you moved here. I thought Dirty Dan pissing off with Evil Eve would make you stay.’
‘Me t-too,’ said Poppy, gulping down a sob.
Zoey’s shoulders shook under her embrace. It wasn’t like Zoey to be sentimental at all and she’d set Poppy off.
They broke apart.
‘What are we like?’ They said the words together and both burst out laughing.
‘It’s not the moon, you know,’ said Poppy.
‘May as well be,’ said Zoey, pulling a face.
‘I’ll be back home after October half-term and at Christmas,’ said Poppy.
Zoey nodded. ‘Can’t wait. Let’s do FaceTime later. If I survive this flight. My Smart car is bigger than that bloody plane!’
‘Madam, are you getting on this flight or staying the night?’ The uniformed Skybus official gave Zoey a stern look and with a final hug goodbye she hurried out of the doors to the awaiting plane.
Poppy stayed right until the tiny aircraft had zipped off the end of the cliff-top runway and over the sea towards Cornwall. Then she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and headed for the harbour to go back to St Piran’s, the studio and her own company.
Soon Zoey’s visit was only a memory and another week had flown by. Poppy threw herself into wringing every last drop out of the season and setting up new opportunities. When she wasn’t working or socialising with Kelly and the other islanders, she helped Fen in the allotment, although there had been far less time for that than she’d hoped. Perhaps she’d have more time one day – if she stayed on.
Before Poppy knew it, Jake had been gone almost eight weeks, as his trip had been extended. She still missed him. She looked forward to his emails and photographs, although she hadn’t heard from him for a couple of days. He’d warned her he wouldn’t always have Wi-Fi and it was obvious that communication would be difficult in such remote places, so she tried not to think too much of it.
It was a sultry high summer evening and she’d been over to Petroc to discuss the arrangements for an art weekend in the autumn. The moment she set foot off the boat in the harbour at St Piran’s, the heavens opened. The days were long but the cloudy weather had made it seem dark early. Even on the short run to the studio, the rain had grown heavier and was being driven off the sea by a strong wind. You could barely see beyond the harbour wall and St Piran’s might as well be the only Scilly isle in existence because every other trace of dry land had vanished into the mist and rain. By the time she reached the studio, Poppy was drenched and ran upstairs for a towel to dry her hair.
Rain drummed on the studio roof and hurled itself against the windows. The temperature had dropped too. She changed her T-shirt and jeans and pulled on an old hoodie. She went to put the kettle on and heard a noise from below. It sounded as if someone was hammering on the door of the studio.
At seven o’clock? Surely, they could see the closed sign. She peered out of the side window, which overlooked part of the veranda, but all she could see was a large rucksack propped up against the wooden step.
Her heart rate shot up and she shot towards the stairs. There was one person who might turn up on her doorstep at this time of night. She must not get excited. Even if Jake was back, she shouldn’t feel like this: the sweaty palms, the pounding heart, the hope. It was crazy and dangerous.
She stopped scampering down the stairs and slowed her pace. Let him get wet – after all, he’d spent weeks in the rainforest – let her breathing subside, let her appear cool and calm and not the least bit like she cared that he’d come back when she’d lost all hope of him returning to the Starfish ever again.
God, who was she kidding?
She hurried to the door and flung it open.
A wet, dishevelled figure stood on the veranda. ‘Well,’ he muttered. ‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’