Porthmellow Festival Facebook page
Faye P: is the festival programme out yet? When’s Gabe Mathias going live?
Joe Bloggs: Never I hope. Sick of this bloody festival. The people running it are only out to line their own pockets. Bet bloody Gabe Mathias is making a fortune out of it
Faye P: Shut up, hater!!!!!
Sam swore softly after seeing the latest comments on the festival Facebook page. She’d been taking a quick look at the social media while she waited for the kettle to boil at the Institute and now she wished she hadn’t. With just three weeks to go to the festival, most of the comments were positive and excited, asking about the bands and when Gabe would be in the Chef’s Theatre, but there were always a few moaners. Bryony was obviously one of the Twitter brigade but ‘Joe Bloggs’ could have been anyone, including Bryony. Sam had grown a thick skin over the years but the implication she was out to make money and the slur against Gabe got her back up.
Troy appeared in the doorway with his arm in a sling. Hastily shoving her phone in her pocket, Sam broke into a broad smile. It was great to see him back.
‘Evening, my maid.’
‘How are you?’ she asked, seeing how gingerly he moved around.
‘A mite sore but I don’t complain. I’ve always had a high pain threshold. Anything to get out of tea duties. I hope you’re going to leave that to brew properly. I can’t stand any of that wishy washy stuff.’
‘I wouldn’t dare,’ Sam said.
A few minutes later, she carried the tea tray into the meeting room where Drew was asking Troy how he was managing with his sling. Sam exchanged a quick smile with Drew. She’d seen Evie at the post office the day before and she’d confessed that Troy had been ‘driving her up the wall’ asking for drinks, food and generally enjoying being fussed over and waited on, long after he really needed it. She’d told Sam she was thinking of buying him a bell that he could ring whenever he wanted service.
Chloe arrived, looking immaculate but not as bouncy as Sam had expected given her birthday party was the hot topic while the tea was made. Troy made a few jokes about ‘life beginning …’ and ‘bus passes’ and Drew joined in with the banter. Chloe smiled and threw a few comments back, but Sam thought she seemed on edge.
‘Much as I’d love to talk about my party all day, should we get down to business?’ Chloe asked with a smile that only partly softened the tension in her voice.
‘Good idea,’ Sam said. ‘But before we start, I just wanted to tell you we’ve had a few negative comments on the Facebook page.’
Zennor rolled her eyes. ‘I just saw the latest from Joe Bloggs. He’s pathetic,’ she said.
‘Don’t folk have better things to do?’ Troy grumbled.
‘Clearly not,’ Chloe said.
‘There’s nothing we can do about the Twitter comments except ignore them or block people,’ Zennor said. ‘Ben deletes the Facebook messages as soon as he sees them and I’ve just removed the latest. Anyone know who Joe Bloggs could be?’
Everyone shook their heads apart from Troy who suggested the new Methodist minister from Porthmellow Chapel, a timid young man who happened to be called Rupert Hartley-Bloggs. This resulted in peals of laughter before Sam suggested that he was an unlikely culprit and called the meeting to order so they could get on with the scarily long agenda.
With the festival now just over three weeks away, there was a sense of urgency and seriousness that hadn’t been there before, especially as this was set to be their biggest event ever. It never ceased to amaze Sam how the festival had grown from one day of local food stalls around the harbour to the massive undertaking it now was. She had no idea how she’d ever managed without Chloe.
Zennor and Ben gave their report on the latest publicity, which had now ramped up with ads and features appearing in the Cornish lifestyle magazines.
Everyone in the village had to be informed and reminded of road and harbour closures and alternative arrangements, most of which Troy dealt with in his own unique way. His sore shoulder hadn’t stopped him from issuing orders.
Each year there were new health and safety regulations to be followed and risk assessments to be done, which thankfully was Drew’s area of expertise, as was dealing with the marquee people. The marquee itself was due to be pitched two days before the event and then the fixtures and fittings put in place the following morning: a stage, power and lighting and a bar.
After the reports, she handed out copies of the final list of exhibitors and performers. Seeing the scale of the festival printed across several sheets of paper led to gasps from Zennor and even a ‘bugger me’ from Troy. This year, the food market would spread into the streets and onto the football pitch behind the harbour, with producers from all over Cornwall and further afield. You name it, if it was grub or grub related, it was there, from jams and oils, to cookery books, pots and pans and novelty aprons. Ethnic and local producers using local food in creative ways or fusions of Cornish and ‘foreign’ recipes, as Troy called them.
The festival marquee was pitched on a farmer’s field above one side of the harbour, which also provided one of the car parks. It provided an all-weather venue for artists ranging from bands and comedy acts to spoken word performers that kept punters around until late in the evening.
The final item on the agenda related to the real heart of the festival, the Chef’s Theatre, where Gabe and local restaurateurs would work their magic with Cornish produce in front of a live audience.
Chloe had already held a meeting with the three chefs who had been invited to cook at the festival and reported back on their requirements. Gabe had to be in London for a couple of days and couldn’t make the main meeting so Chloe emailed him and arranged to meet him at the pub the following evening. However, Chloe had a small bombshell of her own to drop.
‘I’m really sorry but I’m not going to be able to make the meeting with Gabe tomorrow night. I double booked and promised to go to a Zumba friend’s birthday party,’ she said. ‘I know you’re busy but do you mind doing it?’
Sam hesitated a moment too long.
‘Of course, if it’s difficult, I could rearrange a date with him although I’m not sure what his schedule’s like.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Sam said with a smile that went no further than her mouth. ‘It shouldn’t take too long.’
‘Best to get it over with,’ Chloe said. ‘I mean, best to have the meeting while you both have time,’ she added hastily.
‘Look, are we going to the pub before closing time or not?’ Troy chipped in, saving Sam from replying.
She still hadn’t decided how she felt about meeting Gabe on her own by the time she left the pub – or how he would feel about meeting her.
For a Thursday evening at eight p.m. it was relatively quiet inside their chosen pub. Nonetheless, heads turned when she and Gabe walked in. Sam took out her iPad and notebook, carrying it so that anyone who might think otherwise would know she was here on festival business.
‘I’d like to run through the Chef’s Theatre programme,’ she said loudly to Gabe as they paid for a G&T and a pint at the bar.
The landlady handed the drinks over, an amused smile on her lips that could have meant anything.
There were two men nursing pints standing a few feet away, making no effort to keep their conversation quiet. ‘Nice of him to come back when he turned her own brother in to the police,’ the younger of them muttered, wiping foam from his mouth. ‘Ruined his life.’
The landlady shot the pair a withering glance. ‘Button it, Robbo,’ she snapped, causing more eyes to turn in their direction. The guy called Robbo smirked then moved away from the bar, glass in hand.
Sam cringed but Gabe had a tight smile on his lips. They chose a booth in the far corner of the lounge that hopefully gave them a bit of privacy. ‘I knew this was a bad idea,’ she murmured as she slid behind the table.
Gabe chose the stool opposite her. ‘What, meeting me or coming in here?’
‘Both.’ She toyed with her pen, clicking the top anxiously.
‘Don’t let a couple of prats upset you. That’s not the Sam I knew.’
‘That’s just it, Gabe. I’m not the Sam you knew,’ she said quietly.
‘That goes for both of us.’
Sam took a breath and treated Robbo to her best death stare. He immediately took an interest in his pint.
She pulled out a file and handed Gabe a piece of paper. ‘OK. Moving on to the – um – business in hand. Here’s the schedule of demonstrations for the day. I’ve emailed you a copy as well, but I thought it would be easier if we could see the whole plan in one go.’
As he took it, the hairs on his arm brushed her wrist. ‘I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet, so thanks.’
He studied the piece of paper she’d given him while Sam sipped her G&T and tried not to inhale his gorgeous smell, which was headier than any botanical in the gin. Goosebumps kept popping up whenever his skin made the slightest contact with hers and the delicious tingly sensation had started to infuse her from the middle outwards. Sitting next to Gabe was like being surrounded by a mouthwatering feast. If she touched even the tiniest morsel, she knew she’d want to wolf down the lot.
‘Is there enough time for you to – you know – do your thing?’ she asked, trying to unscramble her brain.
‘I think so … But if there’s time in the schedule, I could do with another fifteen minutes afterwards?’ He gave her a questioning look. ‘I usually invite a couple of people on stage to taste the dish. It goes down well with the audience if they feel part of the action.’
He slid the paper a little closer to her.
Sam made a note on the sheet. ‘Sounds like a good plan. Yes – I think we can accommodate that.’
He flashed her the kind of smile that would turn a slab of chocolate to liquid in a heartbeat. ‘Great. Can I run a few of my plans for the cookery demo by you while we’re here? Get your feedback.’
‘You want my feedback on your demo?’ She was genuinely surprised.
‘I’d like to get an idea of the kind of people who will be there. Get a feel for the temperature of the crowd.’
Sam wanted to fan herself. She knew what her temperature was right now: the mercury was ready to explode.
‘I’d be interested in what you think would go down well with your audience,’ Gabe added, then smiled. ‘I can always ignore it, naturally.’
‘Naturally.’
She forced herself to concentrate on his ideas for the dish he planned to prepare and she told him what she thought the audiences had enjoyed in the past. Judging by the way she’d seen him work the audience on his TV show, however, she was confident he’d have everyone eating out of his hand.
She’d no intention of telling him that, of course, and tried to keep the conversation brisk and practical. It was difficult, because he kept making her laugh with anecdotes about previous demos and some of the celebrities he’d worked with. Without her even realising it, another round of drinks were being consumed and Sam was smiling more and more often as the pub filled up and noise levels increased. She relaxed and almost missed the ringing of her phone in the bag by her feet.
‘Sorry, I ought to see who this is.’
She reached down to scoop it out of her bag, but her fingers fumbled and it dropped onto the slate floor and slithered under Gabe’s feet.
‘Shit.’
The phone stopped ringing.
‘It’s OK. I’ll get it,’ said Gabe, leaning down.
She made a grab for the phone at the same time as he did and their fingers collided under the table. Not only brushed against each other but lingered. It might have only been seconds, but Sam felt Gabe link his fingers with hers, so lightly … Sam didn’t let go for a few seconds either and slowly, they straightened up together.
She shivered. The contact had been electric. Gabe was smiling as he held out the mobile. ‘Here you are. No damage done.’
‘M-maybe not. I don’t know …’ She was out of breath.
‘Sam. I think it’ll be fine.’
‘I – I need to check it out.’ Flustered, she examined the screen. It was unscathed but there was a missed call from Stefan.
Sam called him back. ‘Hi. Stefan,’ she said. As she listened to his breathless news, her heart sank. ‘What? Oh God, no. Have you rung the police yet?’
Gabe waited until she’d finished her brief conversation. ‘Trouble?’ he asked as she shoved her phone in her bag.
‘Someone’s chucked paint over the mobile unit. It’s a mess.’
Gabe swore under his breath. ‘What? Who would do that?’
‘No idea but I have to go. Sorry.’ She shoved her tablet and notebook in her bag. That was all she needed with a string of events coming up. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as Stefan was making out.
Gabe was on his feet. ‘Hang on. I’m coming with you.’
Sam decided in a second that she didn’t mind some extra moral support and from experience knew Gabe would have followed her anyway. ‘OK,’ she said, and they dashed to the unit together, too intent on reaching Stefan to say more than a few words. Sam rounded the corner and her skin turned cold. Stefan was standing outside with two police officers. As soon as he saw her, he waved at her and the police turned with grim expressions.
She recognised the police officers. They were occasional customers of Stargazey. ‘What’s happened?’
Stefan spat the words out but looked close to tears. ‘Someone’s trashed the fecking van. Look.’
They all moved to the rear of the unit. ‘Oh God.’
The van had been covered in crimson paint, obliterating the Stargazey logo and spattering the sides. Sam felt slightly sick: her pride and joy and livelihood looked like it had been at the centre of a gory movie.
Sam covered her face in her hands in disbelief. ‘Oh no …’
Gabe was at her side. ‘What a mess. Who the hell would do something like this?’
‘Clearly, someone who hates us,’ said Sam, catching Stefan’s eye. He folded his arms and looked at the sky. He was on the verge of tears.
‘I’m afraid all the tyres have been slashed too,’ said the policeman, an older guy who’d been around in Ryan’s day. ‘It’s not roadworthy.’
‘Shit. We’re meant to be at a music festival in St Just tomorrow night,’ she said.
‘Not unless we can get the tyres replaced at short notice. I’ve already phoned the garage and they’ve said they’ll come out and tow us on the trailer ASAP. The van looks like it’s been in the Texas Chain Saw Massacre. Would you buy an artisan pie from that?’ said Stefan.
‘Not unless I was Sweeney Todd,’ said the policeman then looked sheepish. ‘Sorry.’
‘No, you’re right. It’s a bloody mess but there’s no way we can get the paint job redone by tomorrow evening,’ said Sam. ‘We’ll have to get the tyres fixed and turn up and make the best of it.’
Stefan’s eyes were bright. ‘I might not even have seen the van at all if I hadn’t had to come back to the unit to collect my tablet. I left it here earlier so I thought I’d pop down for it. Then, I saw this mess. Maybe if I’d been here sooner, I could have scared them off.’
‘There are some real bastards around,’ Gabe said, shaking his head at the trashed van.
Sam felt like crying herself, but held it back for Stefan’s sake. It must have been a shock to find the van in that state. She hugged her colleague tightly. ‘It’s crap, but we’ll get it sorted. The van can be fixed and repainted. I’m glad you didn’t disturb them in case they turned on you, Stef.’
After taking more details, the police left, promising to do their best to find the culprit. Porthmellow was a small world but there was no CCTV at the rear of the unit, and in the initial enquiries by the police, Sam and Stefan revealed that no one had seen anyone acting suspiciously. Trashing the van must have made a hell of a mess of someone’s clothes, judging by the red paint spattered on the parking area, so Sam hoped more news might come to light.
She sent Stefan home to calm down. Gabe hung around while she made some calls to the garage and re-spray centre, and, being honest, Sam was grateful not to be alone. When she’d finally finished her calls, she put her phone away with a sigh. After the initial adrenaline had worn off, she was shaky with shock.
‘I’m so sorry. This is a shitty thing to happen,’ Gabe said. ‘The police said it could have been anyone because there’s been a football tournament on the rec ground this evening. They’re going to make some enquiries, but it could have been any one of hundreds.’
Sam glanced over the recreation ground on the far side of the units. You could see the floodlights from here and yes, people from all over the area would have been milling around in the general vicinity but she still wasn’t convinced by the police’s theory. ‘I don’t think it’s a random attack, I think it’s someone with a grudge.’
‘Against the festival?’ Gabe said.
‘Probably.’ Reality was dawning on her, it wasn’t only the loss of income, it was the state of her beloved van with its gorgeous paint job destroyed. First the poster-ripper and the social media trolling and now this … it was on the tip of her tongue to tell Gabe about the trolls but she didn’t want to add fuel to the fire. He’d be bound to kick off, thinking she needed protecting, and she could look after herself.
‘Is there anything I can do to help in the short term? Pay for it to be re-sprayed?’ he offered.
‘No,’ she snapped. She didn’t need a hand-out.
Gabe held up his hands. ‘OK.’
She cursed her reaction. He was only trying to help. ‘Gah. I’m sorry for snapping. Thanks for the offer, but we’re well insured and you wouldn’t be able to get it done any faster. Luckily I’ve got hold of Karim from the re-spray centre and he says he’ll do his best but it’s going to take a couple of days to fit it in.’
‘Will you lose out on any business?’
‘We’ll probably miss the St Just gig and a night on the harbour side, but it’ll hopefully be ready for the folk music evening in Helston next weekend and the festival, of course. The garage is coming out to tow it now and replace the tyres first thing tomorrow. They said they’d check it over for any other damage too. Stefan couldn’t see anything wrong when he checked out the equipment inside but who knows what else they could have done to the engine or brakes.’
‘Best to be on the safe side.’ Gabe shook his head again, swearing under his breath.
Sam felt devastated, staring at the ruined van, holding her arms around her body. Online trolling and a few damaged posters were one thing, but this nasty act of vandalism had shaken her up. To think someone hated the festival enough to make such an obvious statement. If the trolling and the vandalism were linked, she reminded herself. She needed to get a grip, they could be completely unconnected.
He touched her shoulder briefly. ‘Are you OK?’ he murmured.
‘Yes. Yeah … I will be. It’s just …’ She let out a massive sigh. ‘Who would be cruel enough to do this?’
‘Far too many people,’ said Gabe, moving by her side. ‘And I know you can manage on your own but if there’s anything I can do to help, you only have to say.’
She glanced up at him. He meant it, but instinct told her she didn’t want to owe Gabe anything, no matter how tempting it was.
‘Sacha! Hee-eel!’
Bryony’s bellow cut through the air. Sacha bounded up, racing around the van, snuffling around the burst tyres.
‘Sorry, there’ll be no pies to sniff for a while,’ she said to the dog, before noticing that Bryony was carrying a large supermarket bag. It looked heavy.
Bryony’s attention was caught by the van. She snapped to a halt, and for once Sacha fled to her side. ‘Who did that to your van?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sam. ‘Have you seen anyone hanging around?’ she said. She tried to sneak a look at what was in Bryony’s bag, although if it was a large tin of bright red gloss, Sam realised, Bryony would be unlikely to be carting it around with her now. She thought of asking Bryony directly if she’d done it. She probably had an alibi, out on her broomstick with Sacha on the back.
That was uncharitable: moaning all the time was one thing but chucking paint over the van was a big escalation.
‘Sam’s van has been attacked,’ said Gabe, eyeing Sacha warily as he inspected his Timberland boots. A sliver of drool coated one of the toes and under other circumstances, Sam might have laughed at it. ‘We only wondered if you’d seen anything suspicious while you’ve been walking your dog,’ he added.
‘No, I haven’t. I went to the Co-op to get some washing powder,’ said Bryony haughtily, as if buying washing powder was an act of civic duty. She opened her bag. ‘I saw you looking at it and no, it’s not a can of paint.’
‘I didn’t think it was,’ Sam said pulling her foot out of Sacha’s way.
‘Really?’ said Bryony sarcastically. Sacha lay down at her feet.
‘No one’s accusing you, Bryony. We only want to find who did this,’ said Sam. ‘Because it’s not the first thing. Someone’s been tearing down festival posters up on Stippy Stappy.’
‘Oh?’ Bryony looked at her dog.
‘You haven’t seen or heard anything, have you? While you and Sacha have been walking?’
Bryony held onto Sacha and pursed her lips. She’d gone a shade of red to rival the paint. She puffed herself up and folded her arms. ‘OK. So I pulled down a few stupid posters. So what?’
Sam was dumbstruck. She hadn’t expected Bryony to confess. Bryony lifted her chin defiantly.
‘That’s so petty,’ Sam said. ‘What is your problem with the festival?’
Bryony’s colour deepened. ‘I’ve told you. I hate the crowds and the music and the way it turns our lives upside down for months, but don’t try to pin that mess on me,’ she said, nodding at the van, ‘because I had nothing to do with that. Call me petty if you want but I’m not a lawbreaker.’ She turned her attention on Gabe: ‘And you should never have come back here, either, swanning into the village acting like its saviour.’
Astonished at the outburst, Sam managed to slot in a word. ‘Have you been posting comments on the festival Facebook page?’
‘Facebook? I’m not even on it. I’ve better things to do. Come on, Sacha.’ And with that, she stomped off, jerking Sacha’s lead sharply so he had to trot behind her to catch her up.
Too amazed to speak for a few seconds, Sam flopped down on the step of the van. ‘Oh God. That woman makes me want to do something I’d get arrested for. What is wrong with her?’ And why was she so angry with Gabe, Sam wondered.
Gabe crouched next to her. ‘I don’t know. Do you believe her about not trashing the van? And what’s this about online messages?’
‘Oh, we get those every so often. Messages on the Facebook page and Twitter feed … I must admit the van isn’t Bryony’s style.’
Gabe allowed himself a smile but his eyes were full of concern. ‘Even so, being trolled is no fun.’
‘Least of my worries. I don’t think Bryony posted them or damaged the van. She seemed proud enough to admit to ripping down the posters so maybe she’d have told us if she’d done the other stuff.’
‘Or perhaps she was terrified of getting into trouble with the police?’ Gabe said. ‘The posters are hardly crime of the century, even if it was a spiteful thing to do, but criminal damage is something else’.
Sam glanced up. ‘I don’t know. People do strange things when they’re desperate. I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into it. I don’t know why she had a go at you just now.’
Gabe shrugged. ‘People have a go at me all the time, and being in the public eye, let’s be honest, I ask for it, but you don’t, Sam.’
He held her eye and she shivered. She thought for a second he was going to reach for her. If he did, she might not push him away. To be held by him, even for comfort, for a moment or two, would be so tempting. His arms around her, the warmth of his skin against hers …
‘Hey, look, the tow truck’s here,’ he said. ‘Let’s get the van sorted and try and forget Bryony. She’s always angry with someone or something, even back in the day.’
He left Sam seething with conflicting emotions. The shock of finding the mobile unit vandalised, the effect of her row with Bryony, and Gabe’s support … he was there again in her time of crisis, even if only in a small way. Could she have been wrong about what happened with Ryan? Was he right to turn her brother in? She thought about that middle ground again: her seesawing between love and anger. This evening, feeling vulnerable and upset, she didn’t know what she would have done if he’d pulled her into his arms to comfort her. The seesaw was tipping lower on the side of love again, and that was the most frightening thing of all.