On the following Friday evening, Tiff held forth about her first week working for Cream of Cornish while she helped Marina plant some summer flowers into tubs in the cottage garden. Tiff could kill a houseplant with a single glance but it was obvious Marina loved her little patch. Only a hedge and the coastal path separated it from the cliff side, and its slight downward slope meant you could see over the low shrubbery to the sea. From the vantage point of the terrace, you could look down the coast to the Lizard one way and Porthmellow Harbour on the other.
Fairy lights were strung along the trellis and the patio held a small bistro table and chairs. On this sunny evening in late April, the indigo sea sparkled in the sunlight.
Tiff held a plastic tray of flowers while Marina emptied compost into assorted tubs and pots.
‘I don’t mind the “office” in Porthmellow even if I’ve seen stationery cupboards bigger than that place. I don’t mind bumping my head on the sloping roof above my desk every time I stand up. I don’t mind driving on the main roads, even if they’re packed with tourists, but I have no idea how you cope with these narrow lanes!’ Tiff said in awe. ‘I clipped the wing mirror on the company car on a hedge today. I was late for my appointment at the bloody Bed Emporium because of the traffic. I thought I’d left ages to get to Truro after I’d interviewed some oyster farmer in Mylor but the sat nav took me down a track that claimed to be a public highway. Highway? I’ve seen wider bike lanes! And for the love of God, how many potato trucks can one county have? Ye gods, I must have been stuck behind every single one of them.’
‘The roads do take some getting used to,’ said Marina, her shoulders shaking with laughter as she filled a second pot with compost.
Tiff watched as Marina dug the soil over with a trowel. She might make light of her first week, but it had been a culture shock in more ways than one.
She’d expected to tootle about sleepy byways, maybe stopping off for a sneaky coffee at a seaside café or a potter in a gallery in between jobs. However, the reality had been very different. Her boss certainly wanted her pound of flesh and had Tiff trundling around from Launceston to Land’s End, ‘interviewing’ everyone from double-glazing manufacturers to cider makers.
Writing the endlessly upbeat, sycophantic prose about the companies – all of which were important advertisers, of course – wasn’t the cakewalk she’d assumed. Much to Tiff’s disgust, the ‘clients’ also had a say in the final copy, which went against her principles. The air had been blue as she’d tapped away on her laptop, eulogising about patio doors and cider varieties.
However, there were compensations. At least she was occupied, earning a little money and the working environment was an absolute stunner. She’d been amazed at the effect the sea and wild moorland had on her, forcing her to stand and stare in a way she could never have done in London.
She’d even pulled over a few times, simply to breathe in the fresh air and the views even if it did mean she was late. And, she thought wickedly, she could always blame the potato lorries …
‘Tiff?’
Marina’s voice penetrated her musings.
‘Sorry?’
Marina stood up, gloved hands on hips. ‘Are you ready to put the plants in?’
‘Yes, of course. I was miles away.’
While Marina filled the other pots with compost, Tiff planted the geraniums, and told Marina about the results of her other mission: the auction lots.
‘It’s not been as easy as I thought to find anything decent. Of course, if I was in London, I’d just pick up the phone or take a few people to lunch, but I don’t know the clients here well enough yet. I … um … did manage to get some vouchers for a bikini wax, a mackerel fishing trip and a photography workshop.’
‘A bikini wax? That’s a great start,’ said Marina, sounding delighted, but Tiff was far from happy. Having seen how much effort Marina put into the station, and how welcoming she’d been, she wanted to pull out all the stops.
‘Hmm. Maybe, but I really wanted to get something far more exciting for you. I’ll reach out to some of my London contacts, even though I haven’t heard from any of them in a while. Don’t you worry, I’ll sort it.’ She threw what she hoped was a confident smile at Marina. ‘Anyway, enough about that. Have you found out any more juicy details about the merman in the cove?’
Marina stood up. ‘Merman?’
Tiff wasn’t fooled by Marina’s feigned lack of interest. ‘The guy we saw swimming in the cove?’
‘Oh, I see. Not much, and nothing juicy. He’s called Lachlan … McKinnon or McCann or something Scottish. The post woman told me and she talks at a hundred miles an hour so I didn’t quite catch it. He’s a mate of Aaron Carman – that’s Evie and Troy’s son. Lachlan was apparently in the RAF in Scotland, but Aaron was in the army, so I don’t know how they met each other. The post woman isn’t sure how long he’s staying, but the estate agent said they’d let the cottage on a long lease so I’m guessing six months or even longer. I think he’s joining Aaron’s security company. That’s it, I’m afraid.’
Tiff laughed. ‘You should come and work on my paper. You seem to have found out plenty. Any clue as to what happened to him or how he was injured?’
Marina shrugged. ‘Not really. Lots of theories but all speculation. Anyway, it’s his business. I feel a bit sorry for him, to be honest, the rumour mill is red hot.’
‘At least they won’t be talking about me any more.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it. The woman who runs the chip shop was trying to find out who you were and how long you were staying.’
‘It really is a small world. I wonder how long Mr Something-Scottish will stay?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ she said briskly. ‘I need to pop to the garage for some more vermiculite. The garages are behind the houses on the other side of the road so I’ll probably be a few minutes.’
Vermicu-what? Tiff had no idea what Marina meant so she concentrated on digging tiny holes for the young geraniums. It was strangely therapeutic, pulling them carefully from their trays and patting the soil around them, imagining them blooming in a few weeks’ time.
Tiff’s mind drifted once again to another of Porthmellow’s intriguing men. She’d now spotted Dirk three times on her way into and out of the cottage and once in the post office in Porthmellow. He’d inclined his head a millimetre to her on his way out, while she queued to post a birthday parcel for her father. Every time she saw him, he had a greater impact on her. He seemed taller, darker, and more delicious – like a chocolate tasting session where each sample was more delectable than the last. Her mouth watered at the very thought of him.
She knew she should dismiss him from her mind – she hadn’t come all this way to fall for another man – but it was becoming very difficult. Maybe she could take up swimming in cold water, like Lachlan Something-Scottish. And on that matter, he was intriguing – not as intriguing as Dirk of course, but it was clear that Marina had warmed to her new Scottish neighbour. Tiff hoped so, in one way, as long as Lachlan didn’t make matters worse.
First impressions of him hinted at someone pretty intense and Marina deserved some light-hearted fun. Judging by the reception Marina had received on the beach, he wasn’t the most sociable of neighbours.
Tiff patted in the final geranium and straightened up to stretch her back. Mm, maybe she could gently nudge Marina in the direction of someone else. Marina was still young, attractive, kind and vivacious, there must be at least one single guy in Porthmellow to help her move on from Nate.
‘Evening.’
Tiff jumped and swung round to find Dirk standing barely a few feet away. The top of his chest was visible above the wooden fence, but fortunately he had a T-shirt on. His sudden appearance so close to her set off a Catherine wheel low in her stomach, swirling and shooting sparks of lust.
‘What are you doing there?’ she blurted out, fighting for her composure. ‘I mean, I didn’t expect you to be next door …’
She heard a faint meow and momentarily Dirk disappeared, only to pop up again with a furry bundle in his arms.
‘I’m watering the plants and feeding the cat for our neighbour Gwen,’ he said, stroking the tortie cat with a finger. ‘She’s in hospital for a few days so she asked me to look after the house and Bumble here.’ Ensconced in Dirk’s arms, Bumble looked like a cat who’d got a whole pint of clotted cream complete with a strawberry on the top.
‘Oh, I see. Sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosy,’ she said.
‘Really? I thought that was your job. Professional nosiness.’
‘I hardly think freelancing for Cream of Cornish counts as professional nosiness,’ Tiff said haughtily.
She met his eyes as Bumble rubbed her cheek against Dirk’s stubble. Tiff went shivery. She wouldn’t have minded being Bumble right at this moment. Then she came to her senses. He’d been very blunt. ‘I’m Marina’s cousin, just here to enjoy her company over the summer and to have a change of scenery while I’m between jobs,’ she said.
‘Of course you are, and I’m sure you’d never dream of digging around in anyone’s life,’ Dirk said, running his hand over Bumble’s fur.
‘What do you mean?’ Tiff demanded.
‘Isn’t that what all journalists do?’ he asked, while Bumble purred loudly in his arms.
Tiff on the other hand didn’t feel like purring at all. She was too full of indignation at Dirk’s implications and her body’s treacherous reaction to him.
‘If you don’t mind,’ Tiff said coolly, trying to hide her annoyance at his rudeness, ‘I need to get on with this planting. I’m sure Bumble needs her litter tray emptying.’
He turned his eyes on her. ‘I’ve already done the dirty work.’
‘Good for you,’ Tiff muttered, crouching by the tub again so she didn’t have to behold the monumentally annoying hotness on the other side of the fence. The way he said ‘dirty work’ had almost made her gasp.
‘Enjoy your gardening,’ he said. ‘Probably a good idea to stick to geraniums rather than potatoes. I look forward to bidding on the bikini wax.’
‘What?’ Tiff glanced up sharply but only glimpsed the back of his head before he vanished. All that was left was a whistled rendition of what sounded suspiciously like ‘Mars’ from The Planets suite. The bringer of war …
Out of nowhere, an image of Dirk’s face flew into her mind. She’d seen him in a photo, devastated and broken … on a dark night but with lights all around him. It was a photo taken in London. The full picture was within her grasp but she was also distracted by his taunts about the auction.
She’d half-feared he’d heard her whingeing to Marina and now it was obvious he’d overheard some of their private conversation. Mind you, she had been rather vocal and forthright.
‘Right, Mr Dirk ’n’ Stormy,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘You just wait. I’ll show you.’ She was a doer, used to using all legitimate methods to get what she wanted. Snaffling a knockout ‘money couldn’t buy prize’ for the auction should be well within her reach.
Marina returned with the vermiculite, which turned out to be a bag of magic growing grit, and Tiff tried to focus on the petunias. However, despite her best intentions, she couldn’t help but wonder what exactly did turn Dirk on and, more importantly, what lurked beneath his clearly angry shell.