@Porthmellowchick: @Cornishmaid Just spotted #GabeMathias in the harbour car park!!! He is lush!!!! Would of got pic but have to go to work. Keep an eye out. #summerfestival
That Monday morning, Gabe found a space in the car park behind the post office, locked the Range Rover and headed for the ticket machine. He’d had trouble finding the keys among the unfamiliar surroundings of Clifftop House where he’d arrived late the previous evening.
He’d brought with him only what he could cram into his 4×4. The house was partly furnished but he’d arranged for a few pieces of furniture and equipment to be shipped by a removals firm. He’d be glad when they arrived later in the day because after a night in the rented pile, he still had a sense of disorientation. All his childhood insecurities and fears had flooded back the moment he’d driven down the steep hill into the harbour and through the narrow streets to Stippy Stappy Lane, which eventually petered out in a track at the gates of Clifftop House.
Wavecrest Cottage was one of three in a terrace a hundred yards down the track towards the village. He knew that Sam and Zennor still lived there. Exactly the same as they always had … whereas he was now the tenant of the biggest house in Porthmellow.
When he’d told his PA to get a house with a great kitchen and he didn’t mind the bill, he hadn’t meant rent a great big Victorian pad that looked down on the village, which is exactly what Clifftop House did. How many times had he dreamed of living in the grand Victorian ‘gentleman’s residence’ in its lofty position above the waves? Christ, the place even had a turret, which had always reminded him of Dracula’s castle. In fact, the turret had been his favourite feature of the house, back when he was a young boy and addicted to Gothic horror films and Manga comics.
Gabe groaned. He wasn’t a lad now. He was a grown-up and he’d only spent one night in the house and was already regretting it.
Suzy had insisted that Clifftop was the only place available at such short notice on a three-month rental. Gabe had agreed reluctantly, but now wished he hadn’t. He should have gone for something more discreet, tucked away inland rather than making a statement like this. It looked as if he wanted to lord it over the village … which he didn’t.
And yet. Why shouldn’t he rent Clifftop House? Why should he be afraid to return and ashamed of his success? He’d worked bloody hard to get where he was. All the long shifts in baking hot kitchens, the abuse from top chefs, the low pay, the burns, the cuts, the worry of starting out on his own … and it wasn’t as if he owed anyone in Porthmellow anything, was it? They’d hardly begged him to return. And as for Sam …
He cursed under his breath and as soon as he did, he realised he was cursing himself. He couldn’t blame her for what had happened. He couldn’t even blame Ryan entirely, and it was his decision to come back.
The festival call had been the catalyst, but maybe, subconsciously, he’d already wanted to come back to Porthmellow, possibly build a few bridges. The Net Loft restaurant premises coming up for lease at the same time had cemented that idea. Since Chloe’s call, he’d had all sorts of ideas.
He’d never intended to become a ‘personality’ when he first started cooking but a couple of appearances at festivals and on regional news programmes had led to an offer to guest on a national weekend cooking show. Gabe had found that the exposure helped keep his own restaurant in business and so he’d accepted more and more offers until he’d been offered his own series. He’d only recently finished filming the second run but wasn’t sure he wanted to do any more. They were a major commitment that took him away from ‘hands-on’ cheffing.
If he decided to re-open the Net Loft and spend more time in Cornwall, away from the madness of London, it would mean ramping down his TV commitments at a time when he could have been accepting more offers. But he didn’t want to end up one of those people who viewers can’t get enough of to start with, until the day they started to find him bloody annoying. He hated the word ‘celebrity’ even now and refused to have it uttered in his presence, even though tolerating it publicly was a necessary part of his business brand.
His agent wouldn’t agree. She’d wag her ring-encrusted finger and warn him, ‘Carpe diem, Gabe. Grab every opportunity while you can, my love, or people will forget you. You’ll be old hat before you can blink.’
Trouble was, Gabe felt old hat already. He’d worked since he was fourteen, clawing his way from chip shop assistant to successful chef and he was tired … not so much physically as in his soul.
So, how in the name of Christ would returning to Porthmellow with all its unhappy memories help? And how would moving a few doors up from Samphire Lovell make his spirit any less ragged than it was now? It was more than likely to tear it to shreds.
Gabe baulked at the parking charges as he reached the ticket machine. What? That was steep, wasn’t it? Four quid for two hours? It was nothing compared to London but for Porthmellow he was surprised. He hadn’t been back for five years, but it used to be free. He didn’t begrudge a penny to the council, but he was surprised that they thought people would pay that much for an amble around the harbour and shops.
His parents had retired from their fish and chip shop shortly after he’d left and he’d recently bought them a bungalow in the countryside. They rarely went back to the village now, but had told him it was on the way up, especially since the food festival had become established. His team had done their own research, of course, because Gabe was thinking of buying the restaurant premises, but now he was here, he could see with his own eyes. The old library, where he’d borrowed lots of books about food, had been divided into flats above a bookies and vaping shop. On the upside, new cafés and galleries, a bike hire centre, bakery and beauty spa had sprouted up in the back streets, he’d spotted them as he’d driven down the hill.
Porthmellow really was on the way up … unless you wanted to borrow a book.
He fumbled in his pockets for some extra change then scrutinised the sign again. There was no option to pay by mobile: the council hadn’t got that far yet, and he was fifty pence short of the required fee. He would have paid with notes but it only took change, which meant he’d have to run to the nearest shop – the newsagents – and get some coins.
‘Shit,’ he muttered. He’d better get a move on because if a warden spotted his fancy 4X4, he’d be sure to slap a ticket on it faster than Gabe could fillet a Dover sole.
‘Gabe? Gabe Mathias? I’d recognise that mane of hair anywhere.’
Gabe turned to find a gnarled old guy stood behind him, showing a set of yellowing teeth, one of which was gold. He recognised him immediately as Troy Carman, who worked for the harbour, or certainly used to. He must be over eighty now but he still looked fit. His forearms were corded and his face was as brown as a hazelnut and weathered like a prune. Gabe braced himself.
‘Hello, Troy. How’s things?’ he said.
‘I’m doing fine. I needn’t ask about you. Nice motor.’ Troy cackled and nodded at the Range Rover.
‘Thanks. Sorry, I was just on my way to the newsagents for some coins. Hadn’t realised I’d need a mortgage to park in the village now.’
Troy cackled. ‘Bet you could buy the whole bloody car park. It’s a sign of the times, lad. Mind you, I’ve got a pass, as an official of the harbour.’
‘I thought you’d have retired?’
‘Retire? Not me. No, I still work as part-time for them. They can’t get rid of me, see, on account of these anti-ageing laws.’ He smirked again. ‘How much are you short?’
‘Fifty pence. Better get my cash before I get a fine.’
‘Oh, you’re all right today. Foxy Seddon is on maternity leave and the council haven’t found a replacement for her yet. I wouldn’t bother if I were you. They send round a temporary warden every now and then, but he was here on Saturday so I doubt he’ll be back.’
‘You’re probably right but I’d better pay my dues,’ said Gabe, thinking of how the villagers and possibly local press would have a field day if it got out that he was too mean to pay for a car park ticket. So Foxy Seddon was a traffic warden, thought Gabe, remembering a fierce girl who’d reminded him of a mini version of Miss Trunchbull when they were at school. Now she was having mini Trunchbulls of her own. He really had been away a long time.
Troy chuckled. ‘Well, I suppose you’ve got to set an example, being a celebrity.’ He dug in the pocket of his baggy blue overalls. ‘Here. I’ve got some change. Hang on.’
‘No. It’s fine. You don’t have to give me money.’ Gabe was dismayed to be given a handout by a pensioner.
‘Save you a trip to the paper shop.’ He held out two twenty-pence pieces and a ten pence on his grubby palm.
‘Thanks. I owe you,’ said Gabe. ‘I’ll pay you back as soon as I get some change.’
‘Oh, no need to do that. I’ll have my reward telling everyone at the Smuggler’s how I gave the millionaire Gabe Mathias a loan.’
Gabe swore silently, but managed a smile. ‘I appreciate it,’ he lied.
Troy smirked. ‘I’ll be looking forward to you buying me a pint while you’re down here. And a nice plate of that fried whitebait you cooked on the breakfast telly the other day. Not that I watch much telly, but my Evie saw you and told me.’
‘Really? How is she?’
‘Arthritis is bad, poor maid, but she still gets about and she loves TV cookery shows. She said she thought you put too much flour in that batter for those seafood pancakes you made the other week. Bet they were lumpy.’
‘Really?’ Gabe said, slipping into the polite and good-humoured tone he’d learned to adopt after years of comments on his cooking. He had always liked Evie Carman, though. She’d been kind to him, and had once stepped in when he was being bullied about his greasy hair and ‘creosote tan’ by some local lads who’d been referring to his Greek heritage. He must have been around twelve and about to tackle the pair of them himself when Evie had told the ‘moronic little sods’ to ‘bugger off’. Although Evie was fifty years older than Gabe, she’d had plenty of experience of abusive comments in her lifetime.
Her Cornish mother, long dead now, had taken the unheard-of step of marrying a black American GI who’d been stationed near Porthmellow in the war. Evie’s parents had settled locally and her heritage meant she stood out in the community ‘like a sore thumb’ – Evie’s words, not Gabe’s. Thank God the world and Porthmellow had moved on since then, thought Gabe. Not far or fast enough by a long way, but sufficiently for Evie to have stayed in the town where she was now a stalwart.
Evie had trained as a teacher and retired a dozen years previously, while Gabe still worked in the chip shop. Her warmth, good humour and firm but compassionate manner had endeared her to the whole community, and to Troy, who was besotted by her, above all else.
And, Gabe reflected, maybe Evie did have a point about his batter … it didn’t show on screen but there were a few tiny lumps. ‘I’ll try to pop in and ask for her tips,’ he said, trying to hide his amusement. ‘Sorry to hear about her arthritis.’
‘Evie would love that. Always had a soft spot for you. Mind you, she’d hardly recognise you. You were a lanky streak of piss when she last saw you, always ready to pick a fight with the world. Now look at you – a regular George Clooney,’ Troy said, chortling at his own joke.
Gabe hadn’t heard anyone chortle in a long time and strangely, Troy’s backhanded compliment raised a smile on his own lips. George Clooney was a great actor and a good-looking bloke, but he was old enough to be Gabe’s dad. Unexpectedly, Troy slapped him on the back. For an eighty year old it was some whack and Gabe lurched forward, which made Troy chuckle even more.
‘Well, I can’t stand here rattling on with you. I’ve a meeting with the harbourmaster about this festival to go to. I’m on the committee, you know,’ he added proudly.
Gabe resisted the urge to rub his back where Troy had slapped him. ‘I didn’t know that. You’re obviously in great demand.’
He showed Gabe his remaining teeth. ‘I am. Oh, and by the way, you’ll doubtless be crossing paths with Samphire Lovell while you’re here. She runs the whole thing with a rod of iron, but you must know that.’ Troy smirked. ‘Can hardly avoid her, can you, lad? Even if you wanted to.’
Still cackling, Troy ambled off over the car park towards the harbourmaster’s office, leaving Gabe staring after him.
It wasn’t often Gabe heard such ‘plain speaking’ from the people around him these days. He was used to criticism in the press and online, but Troy’s direct manner was a breath of fresh air compared to some of the sycophantic hangers-on he had to deal with in London, most of whom wanted to make money out of him. But how refreshing that directness would be when he’d been in Porthmellow for a few days, he wasn’t sure.
He paid for his ticket, stuck it on his windscreen and hurried towards the harbour for his meeting with the estate agent, but Troy’s parting words drummed on his brain.
‘You’ll doubtless be crossing paths with Samphire Lovell while you’re here. Can hardly avoid her, can you, lad? Even if you wanted to.’
He shook his head in disbelief. Troy Carman had managed to imply in one sentence, that he knew Gabe had been sweet on Sam and that he was eager to see her and dreading it too. The cheeky old sod …
Yet Gabe had to admit, the old codger was absolutely right.