Emilie awoke with a start and glanced at her watch. It was late and the waiting room was calm. She unfolded her aching limbs and approached the receptionist. Emilie’s clothes were uncomfortably damp from the ordeal on Rough Tor.
‘Can you tell me how Mathew Ashby is, please?’
‘Are you the girl who brought him in?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry, I did call your name out earlier. He’s been transferred to the Duchy Hospital in Truro. He has a broken arm and he’s dislocated his shoulder. As he lost consciousness he’ll be kept in overnight for observation. Are you a relative?’
‘No, I’m just a friend.’ Was she even that?
‘Well, I suggest you go home and get some rest. You’ll be able to visit him tomorrow.’
‘Oh, yes, thank you.’
She wandered to the door. The iridescent glow of the hospital lights spilled onto the pathway, illuminating the entrance steps. The storm had passed, the only evidence of its onslaught being huge black, tar-like puddles scattered around the car park, reflecting the soft amber light of the street lamps overhead.
The familiar sight of the Satsuma Splittie sent her ragged emotions into overdrive. It was like seeing an old faithful family pet waiting patiently for its master to return. She smiled and made her way towards it, taking a moment to pause and pat its bonnet, smoothing her palm over its paintwork before jumping up into the driver’s seat. She lowered her forehead to the steering wheel, the trauma of the drive to the hospital replaying through her mind.
She inhaled a deep breath and a wave of exhaustion crashed over her shoulders. With difficulty, she managed to shake herself free of the lethargy and turn her thoughts to what she should do next. The most immediate problem was moving the van to a spot where she could take refuge in sleep – that bit at least was easy. What was more problematic was what she was going to do when dawn arrived. The day’s events flickered through her exhausted mind as though on a vintage film reel.
Should she stay on in Cornwall and go back to the hospital to check on Matt? They had hardly been the best of friends when the accident had happened. Would he even blame her for causing it? She had almost accused him of copying her flash drive without permission. Was she mistaken? Or had his indignation been part of his attempt to cover up his lapse in integrity? Could they continue a relationship when the very basis of their friendship had been jeopardised?
These questions continued to rotate through her mind until she had churned up an outlandish conspiracy theory whereby he’d targeted her from the time they’d met on the beach in Padstow – even managing to set up Alice’s accident so he could get closer to Emilie – until she chastised herself for being overly dramatic. Matt had been genuinely shocked at her accusation on the moors, in fact so much so that he’d tumbled from the path. What if he had nothing to do with her missing flash drive? Guilt replaced her suspicions and she felt dreadful. She was probably the last person he’d want to see when he woke up in the morning and who could blame him?
Then her thoughts meandered to the assignment. Eight shoots had been completed: only one left to go. Could she really be contemplating dropping everything and letting everyone down? Matt didn’t need, and probably wouldn’t want, her to sit by his bedside. He already had the best care available and she could make no difference to that. Maybe it would be better for them both if she just melted from his life.
Lucinda, Marcus and the whole entourage were relying on her to finish the shoot. She had no other option but to see it through to the end. Everything would already be set up for the final desserts at the Eden Project. All she had to do was drive there, take the photographs, then drive down to St Austell to drop off the camper van and grab a taxi to the station.
Decision made she felt a little better. She fired up the engine and rolled out of the hospital car park. After travelling down the A30 for a while the controls began to feel familiar, her handling smoother and more fluid as the memory of driving her scarlet Mini Cooper through the streets of Bristol slotted back into place. She forcibly blanked out her trepidation until she pulled into a convenient campsite adjacent to an organic farm just outside Bugle.
What an extraordinary day it has been, she thought.
She removed her filthy, sweat-stained clothes and washed as best she could using only a bottle of mineral water. The air was cold and she shivered as each splash landed on her naked flesh where it glistened in the moonlight. She dashed the droplets away with a tea towel before hauling her aching bones into her sleeping bag and pulling the zip to her chin, vowing never again to take the decadence of a morning shower for granted.
Beyond the windscreen a dense mist enveloped the little orange van, and, feeling cocooned in its security, she fell into a fitful sleep filled with scenes of panic and disaster as the rain bounced down until exhaustion provided solace. In her flickering dreams, the windscreen wipers struggled to clear her vision and the Splittie tumbled from the road down a ravine. When it hit the bottom, she came to with a start, her heart hammering, a cold clammy sweat spreading over her body. An all-consuming darkness pressed against the windows as she’d forgotten to draw the curtains, and the only sound was the faint hoot of a barn owl.
In the morning she woke to the sound of the dawn chorus well into its second verse. In the precious moments between sleep and waking she enjoyed the cacophony of birdsong until the previous day’s events came rushing back at her.
She trudged across the empty campsite to the shower block and let the hot water cascade over her aching bones, sending up a missive of gratefulness to the boiler gods. She yanked on a fresh tee shirt and took a seat at the wheel, surprised that it already felt the most natural thing in the world. She pressed on, along the winding roads southwards, all the while her thoughts bouncing from one theory for Matt’s unusually clandestine behaviour to the next.
Would Matt wake up this morning and wonder where she was? Would he care? Could she really be thinking of never contacting him again without granting him the courtesy of being able to explain what he had been doing in the camper van in the middle of the night? And what were her feelings now the final shoot was imminent? It had certainly been a roller coaster of an assignment. Who said overseas jobs were the most exciting?
Over the last two weeks she had learnt a great deal, and not just about photography. She knew she had become a much better photographer since she had decided to strive to meet Lucinda’s expectations of excellence and perfection. She had also gleaned a myriad of tips on styling a shoot under Alice’s brief but brilliant guidance, not to mention the importance of an organised, chaos-free set.
But more importantly, she had learnt a great deal about herself as a person. She could do this, even without Dexter Carvill having her back. So did that mean she would be taking the plunge to become totally self-reliant? Had Alice been serious about wanting to become her assistant? It was an exciting proposition and she spent the next half hour plotting how she would run her own business in order to keep her mind from twisting back to Matt.
At last the instantly recognisable domes of the Eden Project came into view, like a proliferation of bubble wrap balloons set against a backdrop of lush emerald Cornish countryside. She steered the Satsuma Splittie into the car park designated for VIP guests and saw Marcus peel away from Lucinda, his trusty clipboard hugged into his chest.
‘Where’s Matt?’ asked Marcus straight away as he helped her to wheel Alice’s prop box to the superb makeshift kitchen that had been erected on a dais for Lucinda to present a Cornish cookery demonstration to ticket holders and competition winners. It was the only one of the shoots that included a TV film crew and the accompanying entourage. A wrap party had been organised for when the visitors to the Eden Project had returned to their holiday cottages, but Emilie couldn’t think of anything she wanted to do less than socialise.
She stared at Marcus’s questioning face for a few beats, struggling to calm the cauldron of emotions his question had ignited. Her agitation spoke volumes and the realisation that she had fallen in love with Matt hit her like a bolt of lightning.
‘Oh, Marcus, he’s had an accident – yesterday afternoon whilst we were hiking up Rough Tor – he’s broken his arm, dislocated his shoulder and he lost consciousness for an hour or so; they’re keeping him in hospital for observation but he’ll be fine.’ She blurted it all out in one long garbled sentence. Fortunately, she managed to keep a lid on her tears as she knew Lucinda was lurking somewhere in the background and whilst she felt they had taken a massive step towards acceptance of each other, they were by no means the best of friends.
‘I couldn’t jeopardise the shoot, so here I am. What do you think the odds are of getting this last one finished with the minimum of fuss and you giving me a lift to the station in St Austell? I’ve called the hire company and they’re happy to send someone to retrieve the camper van from the car park outside later on today.’
‘A lift is not a problem, Emilie. Do I take it you’ll be catching the train down to Truro to administer to our injured friend?’
‘No, I’m going back to London, actually.’
She watched Marcus’s face morph into surprise and then confusion.
‘It’s complicated,’ she said, and she refused to be drawn any further. Maybe she would explain her reasons to Marcus at some point in the future over a vodka martini cocktail in a wine bar in London, but she didn’t want to go into her feelings at that moment. She needed to dissect them and analyse them before she made any public announcements.
Marcus had been watching her closely, but he simply shrugged. He joined her in setting up the lights and tripods and the props that were being used as the backdrop to the last Lucinda Loves…Desserts photo shoot before the TV cameras moved in for the culinary show.
‘Darlings!’
Lucinda swept into the room, her hair freshly coiffed, her make-up perfect. In honour of their final shoot and the presence of the film crew, the elegance of her outfit – clearly from Prada’s current autumn/winter collection – had not been compromised by one of her ubiquitous candy-pink aprons. Predictably, Emilie had seen the assistant pastry chefs wearing them embroidered with Lucinda loves…the Eden Project.
The theme of the Eden Project shoot was chocolate in all its guises. There were posh chocolate brownies with fresh mint grown in one of the on-site domes, a plump chocolate Swiss roll oozing with Cornish clotted cream as well as a pile of chocolate chip cookies to be distributed to the children after the demonstration. Lucinda deposited the triple-decker chocolate fudge cake dripping with chocolate ganache and topped with edible violets onto the display stand and approached Emilie who was still fiddling with her flash.
‘Emilie, would I be able to ask a small favour of you?’
Emilie carefully set down her camera for fear she would drop it and turned to smile at the woman who had helped change her outlook on life not only professionally but also emotionally. As Lucinda had addressed her so warmly, she hoped that perhaps she too had contributed something positive to their relationship and that, whilst they weren’t exactly friends, Lucinda had a new respect for her product photographer on the current Lucinda Loves… carousel.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘As this is the final shoot of the trip I wonder if you would mind taking a few photographs of the crew before they disperse. I know Marcus would love a framed memento for his desk and I’m thinking of including a copy at the back of the book as an acknowledgement for all the hard work and expertise that has gone into making this culinary odyssey such a success.’
‘Okay, no problem. I’d been delighted.’
‘Thank you. Please make sure you add any additional fee to the invoice.’
Emilie watched as Lucinda moved away to chat to the chef whom she’d collaborated with on the final few recipes. Had Lucinda just said thank you? If so, it was possibly the first time the words had passed her lips since they’d left Padstow. Emilie quickly snapped out of her impression of a gob-smacked goldfish and began to take photographs.
In a nod to that day’s desserts’ origins, for the background design she had procured a potted cocoa tree from a friendly horticulturalist as well as a trio of hand-carved wooden bowls containing roasted cocoa nibs, ground cocoa powder and curls of bitter dark chocolate.
However, the final design embellishment sent a spasm of sorrow through her chest. She had hoped to surprise and impress Matt with the matching pair of cocktails she had made herself from ingredients she had procured from an accommodating barman as a celebration of everything they had achieved. She had envisioned them, after the shoot, toasting their arrival at the finish line in one piece, their sanity intact, but it wasn’t to be. Nevertheless, the styling did look spectacular.
She took extra care with every single one of the shots, not only because it was the last assignment, but because she was so exhausted she could hardly hold the camera straight or read her light meter. Her brain felt sluggish and unresponsive, but after an hour she was satisfied with the results and ready to pack up and leave after she’d taken the photographs of the crew.
‘Okay, people, gather round!’ Lucinda clapped. ‘I want to thank each and every one of you from the bottom of my heart for all your hard work on this epic culinary adventure that has taken us the length and breadth of this wonderful county from the pretty harbour of Padstow to the rural splendour of the Eden Project. We will all have had our favourite shoot, and no doubt our least favourite. I think I speak for all of us when I say that this has been one of the most difficult assignments we have encountered in all the Lucinda Loves… series, but I know it will be the best! However, I think we are all now looking forward to having a break to recover from the rigours of being “on-the-road”!’
She smiled around at the gathered audience with genuine affection. ‘Emilie, our intrepid and talented photographer, has kindly agreed to take a few shots of us for posterity, so come on, everyone, best smiles for the camera.’
The crew clattered and scraped and fussed until they were lined up for the final photograph, which would forever record the group of people who had magically pulled off what most of them had secretly thought of as the culinary road trip from hell. They needed a medal, never mind a gilt-framed photograph.
Emilie smiled as they disbanded to finish off packing their equipment and Marcus trotted over to administer a fragrant hug.
‘I mean it, Emilie Jane Roberts, food photographer extraordinaire. I want us to stay in touch. I’ll call you next week when I get back from Brighton, okay? Now, are you ready for your lift?’
‘I am.’
‘Have you called the hospital for an update on our surfer friend?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t you think you should? Look, I don’t mind taking Alice’s trunk back to London for you. But in return I want you to call Matt. Make friends. You might not have noticed, but I can assure you that you have a deep connection with that man.’
Marcus’s chocolate brown eyes held hers until she relented. She knew he was right. ‘Okay.’
Marcus smirked with satisfaction and dragged the luggage out of the door, leaving her alone to make her call. She selected Matt’s mobile number and listened to it ring, incongruously hopeful that it would click over to voicemail so she could leave a message. It didn’t.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Matt, it’s Emilie. How are you feeling?’
‘Not too bad. Got my arm in plaster but they reckon I should be discharged this afternoon. Did you get the shoot finished?’
‘Yes, we’ve just wrapped everything up a few minutes ago.’
‘Are you hanging around for the wrap party?’
‘No. I’m…’
‘Look, Emilie, I’m not sure what happened between us on the moor, but being stuck in a hospital bed gives you lots of time to mull over your mistakes. You were right when you told me I needed to face up to the guilt I’ve been carrying around with me about the way that Jamie died. I’ve come to realise that I’ve been using my grief as a shield to prevent anyone from getting too close in case I get hurt again, not only Marcie, but my parents too. I’m determined to put that right.’
‘Oh Matt, I’m so glad to hear that.’
There was a pause that lengthened into an uncomfortable silence.
‘So what do you have planned if you’re not going to take part in the celebrations?’
‘Marcus is giving me a lift to the station and I’m catching the train back to Paddington. I just wanted to make sure you were okay and to say thank you for stepping into the driver’s seat.’
‘Is that it?’ asked Matt.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, nothing, I thought you might… Never mind. It was great to spend time with you, Emilie. I hope life delivers on those dreams of yours.’ And the line went dead.
This time she couldn’t prevent the tears from gathering along her lashes, but she hastily dabbed them away before Marcus could return to say I told you so. Sadly, she wasn’t quick enough.
‘What’s going on, Emilie? Something has happened between you and Matt, hasn’t it? Lover’s tiff? Oh, how splendid!’
‘Just another friendship that didn’t turn out how I expected.’
She swallowed down on her twisting emotions, hooked her arm through Marcus’s elbow and allowed him to lead her over to his car for her lift to the station.
Marcus was astute enough to detect her avoidance tactics but he simply shrugged, amusement dancing across his handsome features. On the platform, he extracted a stone-clad promise for her to call him so they could arrange to meet for a drink in the next few weeks. She hugged him for the last time, then hung out of the train window, watching his figure grow smaller and smaller until her vision was blurred by tears.