As the train wound its way to her destination, she felt strangely cast adrift from her surroundings, suspended above the tracks watching life roll on below with mechanical predictability. The leaden sky had bleached all colour from the ever-changing scene and draped the view with a veil of melancholy to match her mood.
Why did life have to throw such grenades in her path? In the last week, not only had she lost her dream assignment, been allocated a shoot with someone her colleagues labelled a devil in an apron, but now she had discovered Brad had moved on within days of the end of their relationship. Even though he had cheated during their relationship, moving on with someone else so blatantly still stung.
Nevertheless, she knew she would eventually overcome all those things and be able to move on to the next challenge. However, her conversation with Alice had reminded her that there was still a huge elephant in her life that she was tiptoeing around, refusing to look it in the eye and usher it from its pedestal. Far from diminishing as time passed by, its hostile presence had mushroomed. Until now dealing with it had become such a big deal she couldn’t contemplate even taking the first step.
She had texted Matt to let him know what time her train was due into Penzance and he’d confirmed he would be there waiting for her in the Satsuma Splittie in the station car park. She had decided to spend the weekend catching up with her friends in London and had enjoyed a lunchtime cappuccino with Alice at the Italian restaurant below her flat. She’d also enjoyed a sumptuous afternoon tea and Prosecco with Sadie and Lauren. The cakes probably wouldn’t pass muster with Lucinda but they had been devoured with gusto all the same.
She had sent Dexter a text to tell him she was grateful for the offer of a flight to Venice, but she had decided to spend the weekend with Alice instead. He’d replied with a smiley icon. But for some reason she had been overcome by reluctance to rush back to Cornwall and spend the weekend with Matt. She couldn’t explain it.
Perhaps she was troubled by what Alice had said about Matt being a perfect date and the fact that she had grown so close to him so quickly. He was friendly, fun to be with, supportive of her when she’d needed the boost, and an excellent driver, but was he interested in her romantically? She had re-examined the spasm of desire that shot through her veins when their lips had brushed that night outside the camper van and wondered how things might have progressed if she hadn’t overindulged in the Scrumpy – delicious though it was.
She had chosen to spend some time working through the photographs she had taken for Lucinda Loves…Desserts and was delighted with what she had so far. She had also flicked through the images she had taken for Matt, which recorded his obsession with everything to do with alcohol, and she had picked out a few she thought could accompany the articles he intended to write.
Perhaps she would collate them all – from the sparkling wine of Hugo’s vineyard to the flagons of Cornish Scrumpy in Carrie’s barn and any other beverage of distinction they came across on their culinary road trip. She could present him with a portfolio of images when the assignment ended as a heartfelt thank you for all his help and support, not only as her driver and co-stylist, but as a friend.
Now she was hurtling her way towards Penzance and the time when she’d have to confess that she hadn’t in fact caught the flight to Venice but spent the rain-soaked weekend in London working instead of returning to Cornwall.
The train slowed and the platform heaved into sight. Her frown morphed into a smile. There was Matt, waiting on the platform like a ray of sunshine in the drab overcast day. She found herself thinking how nice it would be if, like Alice had suggested, she could jump down from the train and be swept into his arms with a hug of pleasure.
The romcomesque reunion didn’t happen, but a swirl of pleasant, inconsequential banter accompanied them as they travelled towards the teashop where Lucinda was presenting a tutorial to ticket-holding fans on the intricacies of baked Cornish Cheesecake, Caramel-Glazed Pears and individual Whortleberry Pies made with butter-rich, melt-in-the-mouth pastry.
Emilie had confided to Matt that she was worried this was going to be the most testing of the nine shoots as it would be crammed to bursting with members of the public clamouring to ask Lucinda questions – instead of being peopled by culinary professionals who understood the need for perfect lighting, the most flattering angle and the inclusion of the right props to enhance the image. She planned to loiter around the kitchen and snap a shot wherever the opportunity arose and then rely on the marvels of the computer to manipulate and enhance the photographs later if necessary.
Whilst Matt searched for the elusive city centre parking spot for the Satsuma Splittie, she peered through the steamed-up windows of the Café des Amis. There was Lucinda, a broad smile on her face, her soft chestnut curls perfectly coiffed and her make-up expertly applied, handing out those baby-pink Lucinda loves…Penzance aprons to her adoring followers. Emilie heaved a sigh of relief that they would be taking the gifts home with them as souvenirs rather than Marcus having to reacquaint himself with the services of the local dry-cleaners.
Lucinda, she noticed, was a natural with the public, not only an accomplished baker when under the spotlight, but also able to deliver a continual stream of instructions interspersed with amusing anecdotes and handy tips she’d learned on her way to fame. Her audience, although no doubt carefully selected, clearly adored her. They hung on her every word, some even to the extent that they were jotting down her pearls of wisdom in notebooks, whilst others clutched copies of her last culinary masterpiece in the hope of a personalised message and autograph.
As she watched from the sidelines, Emilie’s respect for Lucinda ballooned. When the trio of local desserts had all been removed from the oven and arranged on the pretty French china supplied by the café ready to be photographed, she offered Lucinda a tentative smile and set about clicking her camera as efficiently and with as little fuss and ancillary chaos as possible.
She had taken the precaution of storing her camera case and other paraphernalia neatly away in the corner to reduce the risk of an accident. Using artificial light and a deflector she was able to achieve a perfect image, highlighting the desserts to enhance their texture and shape, and their mouth-watering deliciousness.
After taking her final shot a feeling of euphoria burst through her chest, but it lasted only seconds as she was unceremoniously shoved against the wall to make way for the stampede of hungry fans vying to sample the desserts before everything disappeared and to fire random questions at their heroine. Emilie pressed her spine against the wall and shuffled sideways like a constipated crab to retrieve her equipment before stumbling out of the front door into the street, searching for a sign of Matt.
For the first time she had the chance to appreciate the magnificent view. The dramatic island castle of St Michael’s Mount rose up from the sea like an ancient citadel. She wished she could linger long enough to take in a tour. But at that moment Matt drew up alongside her and she had to satisfy herself with a few quick photographs to send to Alice.
Strangely, since she had travelled back down from London her appetite had returned with a vengeance. She intended to offer to buy Matt dinner at one of the lovely little bistros before they continued on to the next stage in the cross-country voyage of adventure – St Ives.
‘So what sort of food tickles your taste buds?’ asked Matt as he pressed his foot on the accelerator.
‘Anything except seafood. I hate the stuff.’
‘What? All of it?’
‘Yes, all of it.’
‘Have you tried everything? Prawns, langoustine, crab, scallops, lobster, mussels, squid, octopus, clams…’
‘Well, no but…’
‘So how do you know you don’t like it if you haven’t tried it?’
‘I suppose I don’t.’
‘One of the things I swore I’d do when I came down here was to try everything once. It’s about squeezing every last drop of pleasure out of every day, from exotic food to extreme sports, from wild adventures to culinary creativity – to indulge in new experiences like jumping from a plane, climbing a mountain, diving the reefs or skiing down a snowy slope.’
‘I’ll give the skiing a miss too thank you very much. As for diving the reefs – out of the question! Don’t forget the local paddling pool brings me out in goose bumps!’
‘That’s what I’m saying. Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Skiing is an awesome experience: the wind whipping through your hair, the icy breeze nipping your extremities. It’s exhilarating.’
‘I’ll just have to take your word for it. Have you forgotten you’re talking to the Queen of Chaos? I wouldn’t dream of inflicting my clumsiness on an unsuspecting alpine sports instructor, no matter how hunky.’ She laughed, crossing her ankles on the dashboard.
‘I happen to love your clutter and your quirks: clumsiness, disarray, creativity. It’s all part of who you are. Don’t change!’
Emilie’s jaw dropped like a gobsmacked goldfish. Had he just said he loved her?
‘According to the itinerary, this is our pitch for the night. Let’s explore what the town of Penzance has to offer the hungry traveller. Perhaps we should keep our eyes open for a fish restaurant.’ He smirked, and a gleam of mischief appeared in his pale blue eyes.
Emilie laughed and shrugged her shoulders. Maybe it was about time she expanded her restricted gastronomic repertoire from coffee and crisps to the occasional foray into pasta. They strolled side by side through the town centre, marvelling at the array of attractive white-fronted buildings and shops that lined the cobbled streets.
‘Look, there’s an Italian restaurant!’ she exclaimed as the aroma from the baking pizza dough and roasted garlic wafted into the street, sending her stomach rumbling. ‘Come on.’
She grabbed his arm before he could insist on further evaluation of the food outlets the town had to offer – just in case he managed to find the dreaded fish restaurant. He relented easily, ducking into the shadowy ristorante, Adriano’s, behind her.
As soon as she stepped inside, a warm welcoming embrace enveloped her and she knew she’d made a great selection. Faint ripples of Italian operatic music, mingled with the rumble of contented conversation, wove through the amber-hued atmosphere. They were shown to a table next to the window and handed two huge laminated menus.
‘Okay. You chose the restaurant, so I get to choose the food. And I vote that we live dangerously.’ Matt smiled, tucking his hair behind his ears in order to study the menu more closely.
‘Okay.’ She grimaced as she realised what was coming.
‘We’ll have the zuppa de peoci to start and then the risotto ai frutti di mare for mains, please. And a bottle of your finest Pinot Grigio, please.’
Clearly her expression said it all and Matt laughed. ‘Trust me. You’ll love it.’
They waited whilst the waiter fussed over opening the bottle of wine and then poured an inch into their glasses before placing it in its silver cooler and retreating. Emilie took a tentative sip, not wanting to indulge in another bout of copious consumption of alcohol. The memory of the Scrumpy hangover was still raw in her mind. As the wine trickled across her tongue and down her throat it tasted like liquid sunshine and she was transported to a villa high in the Tuscan hills, the bucolic illusion of paradise.
‘So, tell me to mind my own business, but I’m curious to know why you haven’t regaled me with all the details of your weekend in Venice.’
Emilie took another mouthful of wine for an injection of Dutch courage, but she couldn’t meet Matt’s eyes when she said, ‘I didn’t go in the end.’
‘You didn’t? Why?’
She noticed the upward inflection in Matt’s voice and, when she eventually lifted her eyes to meet his, her stomach gave a lurch, sending out spasms of delight. In the soft light of the restaurant Matt really was exceptionally handsome in a rugged, outdoorsy kind of way, and she knew she wasn’t the only one to have noticed. A trio of giggling girls at the next table had been tossing surreptitious glances in his direction since they’d sat down. Of course, Matt hadn’t noticed. He was totally unaware of his attraction.
‘I decided to spend some time with Alice and work on the photographs I’ve taken so far.’
Matt’s eyebrows shot up into his forehead. Clearly he suspected she wasn’t telling him the whole story but she didn’t want to talk about Brad – not then, not ever. She had shed a few tears when she’d eventually crawled between the cold sheets in her flat after the Friday night revelation with Alice. But she certainly wasn’t heartbroken.
The difficult bit would be running into him at the office every day when she got back from the Lucinda Loves…Desserts road trip, if she did go back. She realised for the first time that she was seriously considering the possibility of freelancing. A surge of confidence and freedom twisted through her veins – it felt good.
Their starters arrived. She studied the mussels suspiciously, sniffing the aromatic liquid they were floating in. They looked disgusting – like a bucketload of trash scraped up from the seabed. Matt on the other hand grabbed a chunk of warm ciabatta from the basket and began to wolf down the seafood, soaking up the juices with the bread, clearly relishing every mouthful until his bowl was empty and wiped clean.
‘Are you even going to try one?’
‘Do I have to?’
‘Why don’t you start by dipping some bread in the sauce and let me know what you think?’
She did as he suggested and had to admit the garlic, parsley, saffron and white wine combination was delicious, but despite this unexpected epiphany she still couldn’t bring herself to put one of the mussels in her mouth, even with Matt’s encouragement.
Their seafood risotto arrived. The fragrance of the rice and the garlic was too much to resist and Emilie shovelled up a few forkfuls straightway, careful to avoid the prawns, clams, squid and other fruits of the seas that dotted the dish. She had only managed a third of her meal when Matt smacked his lips, wiped his mouth with the serviette and tossed back the remainder of the wine.
‘I truly believe that food is one of the pleasures in life to be appreciated with gusto – as well as a taste for adventure. What do you think of the risotto?’
‘Erm, well, it’s okay.’ She stabbed a couple of the prawns and a tiny bit of squid and shoved them defiantly into her mouth just to show Matt that she was indeed adventurous enough to try anything as he advocated. They tasted okay, but a little like salty rubber. Give her a plate of steak and chips any day.
Matt let out a belly laugh. ‘Your face is a mirror, Emilie Roberts. Your expression has told me exactly what you think of your meal. Come on. Let’s call it a night of culinary exploration. I’ll make you a coffee back at the camper van and maybe I can even find you a packet of your beloved salt and vinegar crisps. Actually, whilst you were away I took the liberty of stocking up the cupboards. I hope you don’t mind but I also crashed out in the van instead of pitching the tent.’
‘No, of course not.’
A frisson of desire sparkled through her veins as she thought of Matt stretched out across one of the dual-purpose beds in the back of the Satsuma Splittie, his long limbs poking over the end, his arms flung wide. She shook her head to clear the enticing image. ‘So, what else did you do while I was away?’
‘Well, as I missed out on visiting the whisky distillery in Falmouth, after I dropped you at the station I drove over to the coast at Mullion and parked up for the night. The view from the cliffs is spectacular. There’s nothing between you and the east coast of America. I spent Saturday afternoon mooching around another family-run distillery, except this one specialises in premium gin and vodka. It’s a husband-and-wife team and they are really competitive. Harriet is in charge of distilling the gin and Charles oversees the vodka. Would you believe they use only rock samphire foraged locally to make their gin?’
‘Sounds wonderful,’ Emilie whispered, deeply regretting her decision to choose Italian Prosecco with her friends over a glass of Cornish gin and tonic.
‘They were both very generous with their time and consented to an impromptu interview. Harriet waxed lyrical about the natural ingredients they insist on using as well as the fragrant botanicals. They have devised a list of delicious cocktails too – you would have loved it. Inevitably the interview ended with a tasting, one of the best vodkas I’ve had the pleasure of testing in a long time: pure, smooth, almost creamy in texture. I have to admit to spending a couple of hours sleeping off the indulgence before getting to work on writing the article. I took some photos too, but they weren’t in the same league as yours.’
Matt paid the bill and, arm in arm, they sauntered through the narrow streets until they reached the campsite where they’d parked up for the night. Emilie’s heart gave a jolt as she saw the Satsuma Splittie waiting patiently in the shadows, its silhouette like a child’s drawing. Matt leapt into the back to set the kettle to boil.
Having slept in her own bedroom that weekend, Emilie felt a little claustrophobic as she climbed in behind him and slumped down at the table. She had also forgotten how bright the décor was. The curtains almost zinged at the windows. She scrunched up her nose as she watched Matt assemble the coffee. She felt strangely light-headed, a little fuzzy around the edges, but she put her disorientation down to the two glasses of wine she’d swallowed in quick succession to disperse the taste of the seafood risotto.
She sipped at the scalding coffee, smirking over the rim of her mug at the incongruous sight of Matt settling down on the chair-cum-toilet behind the driver’s seat. Thank God she’d never had cause to use it on the trip. Her eyelids drooped heavily and a wave of exhaustion crashed over her.
‘Okay, I’d better pitch my tent and let you get some sleep. What’s Lucinda got lined up for the shoot tomorrow? What epicurean delights has St Ives contributed to the world of culinary excellence?’
‘I’ve not had chance to study the itinerary in detail, but I know it’s the Cornish pasty stop.’
She had intended to indulge in an hour of bedtime reading before she went to sleep so she would be well prepared for the next day, but her forehead felt like she was wearing a hat made of concrete.
‘I think I’ll set my alarm for an hour earlier and I’ll read Alice’s notes through before breakfast. I’m so looking forward to this shoot. I adore St Ives. Did I tell you that’s where my parents live? They relocated from Bristol when Dad retired so they could do the self-sufficiency thing. It’s been a dream of Mum’s for years.’
Matt rinsed out their coffee mugs and returned them to their allocated space in the overhead cupboard before turning to face her. ‘You have to follow your dreams too, Emilie. Life is what happens to us whilst we’re fussing with the mundane. You have to make every moment count. For instance, have you thought any more about whether to go freelance? Have you even invoiced Lucinda for the extracurricular photo shoot in Truro?’
‘No, I haven’t but…’
‘Well, you should. If you are going to run a successful business you have to follow up every opportunity, every lead. And you have to respect your talents enough to demand fair remuneration.’
‘I will, I will.’
Emilie felt a squirm of discomfort at the prospect of having to sing her own praises to prospective clients. She preferred to leave that to the marketing team at Dexter Carvill. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for freelancing after all. But then a thought occurred to her. If Matt was prepared to champion her future business enterprise by talking up her talents and urging her to shove her self-doubt over a cliff, then she should return the favour.
‘I admit you have a point about my lack of self-reliance but I am working on it and I happen to think I’m making some headway. But what about your microbrewery? Do you intend to leave it mothballed for ever? Don’t you think you need to find a way to return to what you clearly still love? When you were telling me about your visit to the distillery just now, your enthusiasm shone from every pore!’
Matt remained silent, his teeth clenched, his eyes fixed on the flat blackness beyond the windscreen. She immediately realised she had gone too far. All she had to overcome was the effect her boyfriend’s constant snide, belittling comments had had on her self-esteem over a few months and it was her fault that she put up with it for so long. Clearly Matt’s reasons for closing the brewery were something else entirely. She wished he would open up to her about them.
‘Matt, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…’
‘Goodnight, Emilie.’
She peered out of the window, her heart contracted in sorrow, as Matt pitched his tent in the lee of the camper van and crawled into its shelter. The night was clear and crisp with a dense velvet-black sky dotted with tiny pinpricks of ivory light watched over by a silvery moon. She knew the temperature would dip towards freezing and toyed with the idea of asking Matt to come back so she could apologise again and suggest he take the adjoining bunk, but her courage deserted her as she experienced another wave of bone-crushing tiredness. She decided to snuggle into her own sleeping bag and get some sleep.
Within a couple of hours, she was wide awake and using the toilet for the first time. As nausea rose in an unstoppable surge she arched her back over the bowl and retched until she had nothing left to deposit into the pristine bowl. Her stomach continued to spasm but could produce nothing except a harsh acidic taste on her tongue. Her head throbbed and tears collected along her lashes.
She grabbed a bottle of mineral water and sipped slowly, allowing the liquid to dribble down her raw throat as perspiration prickled at her forehead, temples and beneath her breasts. Her palms were clammy and trembling but she pressed the cool bottle to her cheeks to reduce her temperature.
After a while she collapsed back onto her bed and reclined slowly, terrified of having to shoot back to the toilet, thankfully only a couple of feet away. She groaned as she thought of the seafood risotto and knew for certain it was the culprit. How stupid was she? She knew seafood was her mortal enemy.
As the image of the offending dish floated across her mind’s eye, she was jettisoned back to the toilet where she spent the next half hour contemplating its depths before mustering enough energy to return to her bed. She glanced at the luminous dial on her watch. Four a.m. – so much for getting up early to study Alice’s notes and select a list of props for the St Ives shoot. When would she learn to prepare in advance just in case of disaster – which in her life seemed to be lurking around every corner?
‘Hey, Emilie, I thought I heard movement. Is everything okay?’
Oh my God, she panicked. She really didn’t want Matt to see her in such a state. She knew her face would be the colour of overworked pastry. ‘I’m…fine. Oh, actually…!’ The need to utter words instigated a further round of dry heaving.
‘Obviously you’re not.’
She could do nothing to prevent Matt from sliding back the door of the Satsuma Splittie and leaping up beside her, gathering her hair from her face and holding it at the nape of her neck. He allowed her to lean heavily onto his arm as she attempted to settle her stomach.
His reassuring presence proved the catalyst for calm. He carried her back to the bed and fed her with droplets of water whilst sponging her brow with a dampened tea towel. A small part of her conscious brain knew she should be mortified, but the overwhelming sensation was one of gratitude as he dragged the blanket over her and whispered to her to get some sleep.
She must have slept late because when she woke the sun was streaming in through the gaps in the curtains, washing the little camper van with soft copper light. She twisted her head to her right and saw Matt asleep on the floor next to her, his face serene in repose. The antics of the previous night came flooding back and she took a few moments to explore her feelings.
Physically her stomach and head were tender and her limbs weakened, but she couldn’t even begin to dissect her emotions. Matt had seen her in all her indignity and heat flushed through her as she composed her profuse apologies and expressions of gratitude along with promises to make amends.
‘Hey, you’re awake. Feel up to a mug of fruit tea?’
‘Erm, okay. Look, Matt…’
‘Don’t say anything. This is all my fault. I should never have made you try that risotto. Let’s agree never to mention this again and move on. As repentance, I’d like to offer my services, if you’ll let me, to help set up the shoot in St Ives. We only have an hour to drive there before Lucinda arrives with the desserts.’
‘Oh God!’ Emilie groaned as she realised that without Matt’s help she was staring at her career in the rear-view mirror. The last thing she felt like doing was being harangued by an irritated Lucinda that day and she wasn’t sure in her current delicate state she would be able to hold her tongue. She sipped the tea Matt handed to her and surprisingly it helped calm her stomach and inject a buzz of energy into her veins. She reached for Alice’s notebook and scanned the instructions.
‘That’s very kind of you, Matt, and I definitely need to take you up on your offer even though it really is beyond the call of duty. The St Ives shoot is the most important of the whole trip – it’s the showcasing of the eponymous Cornish pasties – but Lucinda’s will be stuffed with locally foraged blackberries and apples and damsons instead of the usual meat and potato.’
‘I know. I studied the brief when you were in London. Even to my unprofessional eye, the set is a little predictable. How about we design something with a bit of a twist like Lucinda has with her pasties? Are you up for a bit if adventure, Emilie Roberts?’
‘Erm, what exactly do you have in mind?’
Matt laughed as he zipped up Alice’s trunk. He grabbed Emilie’s trusty prop box and, with a handle in each hand, made his way from the car park towards the stretch of sand where the shoot was taking place – on the beach with the Atlantic Ocean and the stunning Godrevy lighthouse as a backdrop. The morning breeze had morphed from gentle to hair-raising, lifting Matt’s straggly locks, the same colour as the sand beneath his feet, before slapping them back against his cheeks.
Emilie smiled at her very own twenty-first century knight in shining armour, gratitude ballooning through her body as she slammed the door of the camper van shut and trudged off in his wake, fighting against the wind to secure her wayward curls in a ponytail.