The journey to Falmouth was painful. It was Friday morning. The pretty Cornish cottages were dressed in their best; their white-washed façades, wreathed in late autumn sunshine, highlighted the dash of colour added by the scarlet, saffron and emerald front doors and the attractive English country gardens.
A smattering of locals went about their business, weaving their way through the throng of day trippers who descended on the coastal communities as popular pit stops on the eternal tourist trail. They were all taking advantage of the clear blue sky and appreciating the bucolic beauty on display as the sun’s copper rays glanced from the chimney pots and washed the architecture in a warm ochre tint.
But Emilie’s head felt like her crown had been lanced off in a bacon slicer. Her temples throbbed and her throat screamed out for a repeat dousing from the bottle of water Matt had handed to her when they’d set out for their next assignment at what seemed to her like the crack of dawn but was in fact eight a.m. She craved the infusion of sugar and caffeine but refrained from suggesting they stop for fear of having to admit her raging hangover to Matt. After all, he had warned her about the Scrumpy.
However, her physical discomfort was nothing compared to the mortification she felt when she remembered her embarrassing behaviour the previous night. Had she really tried to kiss him? She groaned inwardly. Of course Matt was being the perfect gentleman and hadn’t mentioned her total lapse in decorum. She had no idea what the unwritten rules were between a photographer and her willing, last-minute driver but she was certain they didn’t extend to being subjected to drunken advances.
She wound the window down to cool down the heat that had risen to her cheeks. She breathed in the fragrant air laced with a top note of floral scent from the late blooms draped over the garden walls and from hanging baskets coupled with the more robust salty bouquet from the proximity of the sea.
‘Not far now. The Dog and Trumpet is in the next village,’ Matt reassured her.
Emilie offered Matt a weak smile. Her bones felt every bump and crack in the road and the more she tensed, the harsher the punishment. It was no good. She had to come clean about her self-inflicted suffering.
‘Could you pull over for a minute, please?’
Matt checked her face and smiled as he steered the camper van into a lay-by. She crawled into the back of the van, ignoring the sleeping bag tossed on the floor and, as her eyes fell on the chemical toilet, her stomach heaved. She swallowed two Paracetamol and sent them on their way with a generous glug of water.
‘Everything okay?’
Emilie marvelled at Matt’s capacity for cheerfulness. She had been with him almost non-stop for the last week and she had never heard him complain or moan once. Oh God, she was a terrible person. Not only was she feeling sorry for herself for her physical ailments, she was still trying to erase the image of herself standing in the drawing room of The Risings when the realisation that Lucinda wanted her to perform her best David Bailey repertoire out of hours had struck her right between the eyes.
‘It will be. I don’t usually indulge in alcohol whilst I’m on a location shoot. But what with everything that happened last night with Lucinda and the unfamiliar cider…and well, later… Sorry.’
She climbed back into the passenger seat and dragged her phone from her pocket to squint at the screen.
‘Oh God, there’s an email from Lucinda already,’ she groaned, opening up the missive with a feeling of intense trepidation. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, I do not believe it! Listen to this:
‘Emilie, could you email me the photographs from last night straight away. Grant has offered to print them off so that everyone can sign them before they leave and they’ll be ready for the charity auction that’s planned for when Lucinda Loves…Desserts is published. Make sure you add your charges to the final invoice. Thank you for your contribution. Lucinda.’
‘Not such a dragon in an apron after all, eh?’ Matt smiled. ‘Does that make you feel a bit better about the misunderstanding last night? Lucinda must really rate your work if she’s happy to auction your photographs at her launch party. She obviously intended to pay for your services and you’ll be credited as the photographer.’
‘You’re right. I definitely feel better about facing her at the next shoot now,’ said Emilie, although it did nothing to lessen her shame at making a drunken pass at Matt. She didn’t know whether to be relieved that he had had the common sense to bundle her into the van or be upset that he hadn’t wanted to kiss her back. She shoved her confusion into the deepest darkest crevices of her mind and made a conscious effort to obliterate the humiliation.
‘So, what do we have on the menu this time? What further delicious desserts has the glorious county of Cornwall supplied the hungry nation with?’
Emilie drew Alice’s notebook from her straw bag to at least try to figure out what she would be faced with at the next venue on Lucinda’s whistle-stop culinary tour of expansive regional delights. She flicked to the relevant page of the itinerary and scanned the neatly written notes.
‘Okay, so today we’re shooting in the conservatory of The Dog and Trumpet in a tiny hamlet just outside Falmouth. Apparently the pub’s owned by a TV chef who has two Michelin stars to his name – Hector Durrell. He and Lucinda filmed a pilot for an adventure-type cookery TV show in India a few years ago but it wasn’t taken up. Not sure why. Today’s bakes are something called Heavy Cake, which sounds disgusting, and individual Cornish Yarg Soufflés. Apparently Cornish Yarg is a cheese that’s wrapped in a cloak of nettles before being left to mature. Don’t you think it’s a great name? It says in Alice’s notes that the cheese won a gold medal in the British Cheese Awards.’
‘It’s great to hear about another artisan industry that is thriving.’
‘And I’m pleased to say, this shoot should be straightforward because Hector and his staff have insisted on styling the whole thing themselves. All I have to do is take the photographs. I remember now – Alice was hoping to finish early so she could scoot off to visit her parents back in Bath for the weekend. We’re not shooting the Penzance desserts until Monday.’
‘Okay. That’s great because it means I can squeeze in a visit to that whisky distillery I was telling you about. I can either go whilst you’re working or I can wait until you’ve finished and we can go together?’
‘Sounds interesting. Count me in – just don’t expect me to take part in any tasting. Not one drop of alcohol will pass my lips for the foreseeable future.’
Matt laughed. ‘When have I heard that before? You’ll change your mind once you’ve had a proper breakfast. I reckon one of the world famous Cornish pasties will be just the cure! And here we are. The Dog and Trumpet.’
Emilie ran her eyes over the handsome stone façade adorned with bold gold signage announcing they had reached their destination. The door was ajar, welcoming any passing ravenous tourist with deep pockets. She knew she wouldn’t be ordering her breakfast there no matter how desperately she craved sustenance.
‘Why don’t we pop across to the bakery over there before we unload the equipment?’
‘Best thing I’ve heard all morning!’
When Emilie walked into the conservatory at the rear of The Dog and Trumpet, her camera strap digging painfully into her shoulder, her flagging spirits lifted immediately. What a gorgeous setting for the shoot. The view over the gently rolling hills, criss-crossed by snaking yellow gorse was breathtaking.
However, the most welcome sight was the table, which had been professionally dressed in accordance with Lucinda’s precise instructions. It was a flawless tableau against which to photograph the desserts and relief spread through her veins at having sidestepped the risk of a run-in with her employer that day. It was the last thing she needed in her delicate state.
Marcus rushed in, panic written boldly across his handsome features. ‘Emilie, please tell me you picked up Lucinda’s dry-cleaning from the Truro shoot? I can’t find it anywhere.’
‘Yes, I did actually…’
‘Oh, thank God. Where is it?’
‘Outside in the camper van.’
‘Could you fetch it please? Lucinda needs the aprons straight away.’
‘Okay.’
She trotted out to the car park, her heart giving a stab of pleasure at the sight of the Satsuma Splittie parked up in the shade. She was surprised to find that she’d grown so fond of it. Who would have guessed she could have such an affinity with a vehicle? Matt was still in the driver’s seat, his head tipped back in repose, his features highlighted by a shard of autumn sunshine that had burst through the canopy of trees overhead as he enjoyed a well-earned snooze.
‘Hey!’ she called through the open window. ‘Can you pass me the dry-cleaning? Apparently Lucinda needs twelve freshly laundered aprons embroidered with Lucinda loves…Padstow straight away! Although heaven knows why when she has a dozen pristine replicas stitched with the much more appropriate Lucinda loves…Falmouth.’
She balanced the packages – each one wrapped in cellophane and tied with a pale pink ribbon – across her forearms so as not to crease them and went off in search of Marcus.
‘Thank you, Emilie. You’re an absolute star.’
‘What’s she planning on doing with them?’
‘Ours is not to reason why, my dear. I gave up trying to second-guess Lucinda years ago. Now off you trot and do what you have to do. Hector and his staff have already brought the most delicious-smelling desserts up from the kitchen and I’m drooling over one of the cheese soufflés before it sinks into mush. And for afters I have my beady eye on one of those quaint little cakes stuffed with raisins although my waistline might have something to say about that. Let me know when you’re done?’
‘Where’s Lucinda? Doesn’t she want to be here?’
‘She’s exhausted from performing at her dinner party last night and the excessive baking fandango this morning so she’s relaxing over a brandy with Hector in the bar. She just asked for the aprons, and then she’s scurrying off to spend the weekend with Grant back at The Risings. Okay for some, eh?’
Marcus paused to scrutinise Emilie’s face. ‘A little birdie told me what happened last night, but we won’t dwell, eh?’ And he flounced out of the room, the aprons held aloft like precious jewels to be presented to the Queen of Puddings.
Emilie took her time with the shoot. Without the spectre of Lucinda looming over her and free of the dread in the pit of her stomach that she was about to make a mistake with the styling, she was able to thoroughly enjoy the experience and the images she recorded reflected that serenity. She decided she would spend her free weekend scrolling through the photographs of the four shoots to date and honing in on a selection she could work on to produce the final shots for inclusion in the Lucinda Loves…Desserts cookery book.
Organisation – it was a new concept, but one she decided she would try to embrace.
Finally, she checked through her last few shots and declared herself satisfied. She slotted her lenses into their protective case and strolled back to the table to select one of the Cornish Heavy Cakes Marcus had coveted. The flavours crashed against her taste buds and zinged across her palate. The buttery sponge and the intense sweetness of the raisins and sugar scattered across the top were just too good to resist and she grabbed a second. She stood at the conservatory window devouring her spoils and drinking in the view.
A flash of crimson caught the corner of her eye. She craned her neck for a better view and saw Lucinda emerge from the kitchen door to her right, a heavy leather holdall slung over her shoulder, making for the back of the car park. However, she strode straight past the hire car, a sleek black Mercedes, and continued down the road leading to the village green. But what really caught Emilie’s attention was the way Lucinda was acting: continuously glancing over her shoulder, clearly checking to see whether she was being followed.
Weird, Emilie thought to herself. What could Lucinda be up to?
Emilie slid open the patio door leading from the lounge to the weather-beaten decking at the rear of The Dog and Trumpet. She twisted her way through the tables and chairs and stretched onto her tiptoes to see where Lucinda was headed. But as she watched from her vantage point, Lucinda increased her speed and disappeared through the wisteria-draped lych gate of the village church.
What on earth…?
Emilie sauntered back to the conservatory to collect her belongings, her brain whirring with myriad explanations for Lucinda’s strange behaviour. The room was now buzzing with activity as the staff – each one of them wearing a Lucinda loves…Falmouth apron – and a very happy Marcus sampled the wares. No one seemed to have noticed, or to care, that Lucinda was missing from their midst.
‘Okay, Marcus, I’m done. What do you have planned for your weekend off?’
‘Got a whole load of paperwork to catch up on and the details of the next few shoots to double-check. And Lucinda has given me a list of calls to make for her upcoming trip to France before Christmas.’
‘All work and no play, Marcus!’
‘Ah yes, my dear, but life without work is like pudding without custard. And who eats Spotted Dick without custard? You know yourself that if you care passionately about something you need to live, breathe and sleep it. You might not believe me, but I adore my job!’
Emilie smiled at Marcus’s earnest expression. He looked even more like a cat burglar in his black cashmere polo-neck sweater and designer jeans. Maybe he should give Lucinda a few tips on how to go incognito to escape a photo shoot – crimson certainly wasn’t the first colour choice of someone wishing to remain anonymous.
‘Okay, well enjoy your weekend. I’ll see you on Monday in Penzance.’
‘Certainly will, my darling.’ Marcus grabbed her shoulders and landed a kiss on each of her cheeks. ‘Have fun with that sun-kissed Adonis of yours.’
‘He’s not my… Oh, never mind.’
She made her way to the door, casting a final glance down the street in the direction of the church, but of course there was no sign of Lucinda. Why had Lucinda been creeping away? What was she hiding? And why did she have an overnight bag with her? Still, what Lucinda did in her personal life was none of Emilie’s business and she resolved to put her bafflement out of her mind.
‘Ready for our trip to the whisky distillery? Actually, I was thinking of compiling a detailed article on the place for my editor. Any chance you could take a few photographs to go with it? I’ll give you half the fee?’
‘I don’t mind at all. In fact, I’d be honoured. And you don’t have to pay me. After all, you’re doing all the driving – and not just the business miles. It’s the least I can do.’ She settled back into her seat in the camper van for their trip to the next village where the Cornish whisky distillery was located.
As they tootled down the country lanes listening to the mellow tunes from a local radio station, Emilie laid her head against the seat and closed her eyes.
‘I’m sorry I fobbed you off last night when the conversation became uncomfortable.’
‘It’s okay. I understand.’ She opened her eyes and turned to look at Matt. ‘You don’t have to lay your life bare just because we’ve been tossed together in the Satsuma Splittie for the next few weeks.’
Emilie watched Matt draw in his lower lip in an effort to hang on to his emotions and her heart ballooned with affection. She waited for him to select his next words, his eyes fixed on the road ahead so he didn’t have to look her in the eye. He was clearly struggling to find an opening sentence so she decided to follow her mother’s advice of giving airtime to your issues.
She gave him a gentle nudge. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’
The emotional trauma was etched into the premature contours on his face and Emilie glimpsed once again the deep sadness she’d noticed the first time they had met on the beach in Padstow.
‘I took to the road when I closed the business. I chose to run away instead of staying in Northumberland and facing up to what had happened. I sold off most of the equipment for peanuts, bought a surfboard and a train ticket and headed down here to Cornwall. I know Mum and Dad worry about me but it’s my way of coping. I can’t explain it. I needed to get as far away from the brewery as I could, both physically and emotionally. Woven into the guilt I feel about what happened, I also have this intense need to squeeze every last ounce out of life, to make the most of every single moment, to throw myself headlong into every new experience. To live life to the max. That’s what I’ve been doing for the last two years.’
‘But you still love everything to do with the drinks industry, even I know that,’ said Emilie, noticing that Matt hadn’t mentioned the reasons behind the closure of the microbrewery. Maybe he had been declared bankrupt and was embarrassed about it, but that didn’t explain the enduring sorrow that she saw reflected in his eyes and which clearly weighed heavily on his heart.
He might think he was embracing everything life could throw at him, but until he stopped and faced up to what had happened she knew he would never be able to move forward. Hadn’t she just realised exactly that with what had happened with Brad? ‘Perhaps you should think about restarting production? Start small and build on it?’
‘Maybe. But you’re right about one thing. No matter how hard I try to run away from what me and Jamie did at the brewery, I still can’t seem to conquer my obsession with exploring every new innovation in the beverages trade, to explore every new distillery, microbrewery, vineyard. We made a lot of friends in the business, and they have all been so supportive after what happened.’
Matt sighed and chanced a quick glance at Emilie before visibly brightening.
‘But I get a huge buzz out of writing about the new enterprises I stumble across. You’d be amazed at how many family-run craft breweries and distilleries are springing up around the country. And there’s a growing market too – people prefer the artisan ales and spirits to the mass-produced stuff that’s usually been imported. The editor of the magazine I write for takes everything I write and is constantly nagging me for more. Hugo has offered to let me help him with the grape harvest next year and to involve me in the winemaking process so I can write about that too. Small steps as you say, but you never know where it might lead.’
‘So you plan on returning to Cornwall and the surf academy next year too? Don’t you miss Northumberland? Your family?’ Emilie tried again to encourage Matt to talk about what he was avoiding. She knew it wasn’t a failed relationship because he had already told her about Marcie so what was it? And why didn’t he want to share it with her?
‘I suppose I do and I don’t. I love the freedom riding the waves offers me. Just me, the ocean and whatever the next wave throws in my direction. But I also need to know that I can take off whenever I need to. If I took on the responsibility of the brewery again I’m terrified that it would fail. Or worse, if I had to work in an office for someone else, I’d be strangled by the daily grind to five o’clock. I’d hate it; it’s not for me. Dad only suggested once that I consider using my legal qualifications. I couldn’t go back to that life. I’m not that person any more.’
Listening to Matt’s story, Emilie had lost all sense of time and was surprised when they drew into a driveway leading up to the prettiest office building she had seen in Cornwall – and that was saying something.
‘Is this the whisky distillery?’
‘I know.’ Matt laughed. ‘Gorgeous, isn’t it? It makes you think that if this is what the factory looks like their product can’t be bad!’
As they made their way to the front door Emilie’s phone started to buzz. ‘I’ll catch you up,’ she said, waving her phone at him.
‘Sure.’
‘Hello?’
‘Emilie! Guess what? I’ve managed to swing it for you!’
‘Oh hi, Dexter.’ She laughed. ‘Managed to swing what?’
‘A trip to Venice for the weekend! Don’t ask for the details; I’ll email them over to you. But your flight ticket is paid for and I’ve arranged for a car to meet you at Marco Polo Airport. I’ve booked you into a fabulous hotel overlooking the Grand Canal, which I know you’ll absolutely adore. I’m truly sorry about letting Brad talk me into sending him on that gig that should by rights have been yours. I know how much research you put into it and I hope this will go some way to making it up to you. You’ll love it there, Em. All I ask is that you take some stunning photographs that we can use for next year’s Dexter Carvill charity calendar. The selection of shots Brad had sent me are overexposed and clichéd.’
‘Dexter…’
‘There’s no need to thank me. I’ve checked your Lucinda Loves… schedule and I know you have this weekend off. I thought that without Alice around – and thanks again for stepping into the breach there, Emilie – you’d be kicking your heels down in Cornwall, so just grab your sunglasses and a bikini and get yourself over to Heathrow. I reckon there’s just enough time but you’d better get your skates on. Ciao, darling.’
Emilie stood motionless on the front lawn of the distillery, her phone still raised to her ear, her stomach churning with a cauldron of indecision. Wasn’t a trip to Italy exactly what she had been hoping for when she’d left London only six days ago? A weekend in a luxury Venetian hotel, all expenses paid, relaxing by the pool in the sunshine with a cocktail in one hand and the latest romcom in the other? Who was she kidding – the best part for her would be the chance to photograph the bridges, canals, the gondolas, the churches, never mind sampling the food and the wine.
She hadn’t had the chance to ask Dexter whether Brad was still there. She scoured her memory for the details of the Venice itinerary and realised that he probably would be. Did she really want to see him again? Her thoughts scooted back to when they had first started dating. They’d had everything in common – Dexter even called them the agency’s golden couple – and Brad had been attentive and generous. Was it possible to return to that blissful time as they wandered hand in hand along the canals of Venice? The dip of dread in her stomach told her that any residual feelings she may have had for Brad had evaporated.
The flick of sadness at what could have been quickly morphed into a tickle of excitement as she anticipated an unexpected Italian sojourn. Venice! The floating architectural paradise bathed in golden light – it was a photographer’s dream come true. However, if she was to have any chance of catching that plane she needed Matt to drive her to the nearest train station immediately, which would mean asking him to forgo his tour of the distillery.
Procrastination was a skill she had honed to perfection over the years. If she could put something difficult off until later so much the better, which inevitably resulted in a manic, Emiliesque scramble when a deadline loomed, but things usually worked out in the end. Nevertheless, this was a scheduled flight and she had to make a decision one way or another or the choice would be taken out of her hands.
She walked towards the door leading to the reception of the distillery through which Matt had appeared a few minutes earlier.
‘Everything okay?’ asked Matt, his handsome face creased in concern when he saw the expression on her face. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Oh, yes, everything is fine. It’s just…’
She couldn’t go on. She had no idea what she was going to do. She realised Matt was waiting for her to speak, his hands thrust into the front pockets of his bleached jeans, the soles of his Sketchers crunching the pebbles underfoot. God, she felt like a heartless cow. He’d just opened up his heart to her about the loss of his business and now she was about to abandon him to rush off to explore the delights Venice had to offer.
‘Emilie?’
‘Sorry, Matt. That was Dexter, my boss. He says he felt guilty about pulling the overseas photo shoot from me at the last minute so he’s managed to book me a flight over to Venice this weekend – so I can take some shots for next year’s calendar. It’s just that… Sorry,’ she added again, feeling dreadful.
‘Right, then. Better get you to the nearest train station. Hop in.’
She stared at his retreating back, her emotions in turmoil, wishing she could see the expression on his face. But she was also relieved that the decision seemed to have been made for her. She chased after him but he’d clambered into the driver’s seat and started the engine before leaning out of the window as she approached the camper van.
‘Grab your suitcase from the back and pack what you need for your trip. I might not be able to find a parking space at the station so it’ll be easier if I drop you outside.’ He smiled at her, his eyes gentle and non-judgmental, which only made Emilie feel even worse.
She did as he suggested and then climbed into the seat next to him, her stomach queasy with indecision and something else she was struggling to identify. She was disappointed to see the nearest station was only a ten-minute drive away.
Was she doing the right thing? Should she have told Dexter she wasn’t interested? She wasn’t sure whether he knew that her relationship with Brad was over – that he’d trampled over her ambitions for the last time. And did she really want to hang out with the rest of the photo shoot crew – the stylists, the make-up artists, the models – when it was obvious that she had been relegated to second place and had been delivered the calendar shoot as a consolation prize.
Was Venice and all its architectural wonders a big enough reward to compensate for not being able to spend the weekend getting to know Matt better? Maybe taking the time to discover what lay beneath that iron-hard armour of sadness he hid behind?
It didn’t matter because they had arrived at the train station at Penryn. Matt had been spot on in his prediction that it was impossible to park. He double-parked the camper van and turned to face her for the first time since she had told him about the Venice trip.
‘Have fun! Text me to let me know whether you want me to collect you on Sunday afternoon. If you decide to come back on Monday morning I can collect you from Penzance station for the shoot there in the afternoon.’
‘Matt?’
‘Hmm hmm?’
Emilie saw a flicker of something indecipherable in his eyes but couldn’t think of what to say to bridge the void that had opened up between them. There was still time for her to change her mind, to vote to stay in Cornwall, to spend the weekend with Matt, tour the area together, go back to the whisky distillery he’d been so keen to explore. Or she could opt for the Venetian adventure, a city she had dreamed of visiting and exploring every night since the Italian Culinary Odyssey had been commissioned.
Three months she had spent researching potential venues for the shoot, familiarising herself with the iconic images on offer, arranging for the right props to be available so that the photographs would be the best she had taken in her career so far. She had been devastated when the assignment was snatched from under her, so how could she even be considering passing up a second chance?
‘See you Sunday.’
Her decision had been made.