‘And what do you do for a living, Mr …?’
He dragged his T-shirt over his head. ‘Hubble.’
Her expression switched to confusion. ‘Your surname is Hubble?’
He nodded, flattening down his T-shirt. ‘Yep.’
‘Your name is Barney Hubble?’ A frown formed on her perfectly smooth forehead. ‘Are you deliberately toying with me?’
He sighed. ‘No, that is actually my name.’ He shrugged, used to disbelieving looks and piss-taking about his name. ‘What can I say? My parents never watched The Flintstones.’
She smiled, which might have eroded all her other flaws if he wasn’t the subject of her mirth. So, she found his name funny, huh? She hadn’t found it so amusing when he’d called her Charlie, had she? Talk about double standards.
Making no effort to hide her amusement, she brushed a speck of sand from her pristine jeans. ‘You were about to tell me what you do for a living?’
His enthusiasm for winning her over was starting to wane; he really didn’t like being laughed at. Not by a woman. Not by a hot woman. ‘A bit of this and a bit of that.’
He needn’t have worried. His answer killed her smile quicker than if he’d said, ‘I eat people for a living,’ which told him everything he needed to know about her. Who the hell was she to criticise what he did for a living? She might be beautiful, but looks didn’t count for much if she was a judgemental snob.
If Lauren hadn’t appeared next to him at that moment, he might have walked off.
‘I see you’ve met my sister.’ Lauren gave him a hug, and then turned to Charlotte. ‘Barney’s a really good friend of mine. He’s an amazing singer. You’ll have to come and watch his gig tonight at Smugglers Inn.’
Charlotte didn’t look impressed. ‘I have plans. Maybe another time.’
Lauren gave her sister a pointed look. ‘Surely nothing that can’t wait. It’ll be good for you to meet a few of the locals.’
Charlotte looked as if that was the last thing she wanted to do. ‘I need to do some research. If my claim for unfair dismissal is unsuccessful, then I’ll need alternative employment. And I can’t expect to find a proper job if I sit around socialising all the time.’
Her emphasis on the word ‘proper’ sent flares of annoyance shooting up his spine. Sod her. He didn’t need another person in his life telling him to grow up and get a proper job. He had enough of that from his parents.
It was time to leave before he said something he’d regret. ‘Well, this has been fun.’ He made no attempt to hide the sarcasm in his voice. ‘I hope you enjoy your holiday. Good luck with the job hunting.’
Poor Lauren squirmed next to him, making him feel a tad guilty. It wasn’t her fault that her sister was colder than ice. He blew her a kiss. ‘See you later, Lauren.’
Leaving the beach, he fought against the shame battling inside him. It wasn’t important. Charlotte Saunders was of no consequence to him. He shouldn’t feel so rattled by her blatant dismissal of him. Everyone else in Penmullion thought he was a cool guy. Someone who’d got life sorted. They envied him. It shouldn’t bother him that one highly strung, opinionated, gorgeous woman looked down her nose at him … but it did … and it really pissed him off.
Thursday, 2 June
Charlotte had only been in Cornwall for six days, but she was already tearing her hair out – literally, the moisture in the air making it curl, no matter how often she straightened it. Her headaches weren’t easing, and she was fidgety and restless. She guessed her body had become acclimatised to working long stressful days and was unaccustomed to lazing about doing nothing.
The employment tribunal had advised that there was a backlog of claims, so it might be a few weeks before a date was set. She had planned to look for another job while she was here, but then realised that the likelihood of being offered another position, when she’d been fired from the previous one, was remote. She was better off waiting until the outcome of her claim was decided before contemplating her next move. Until then, she needed to find something to occupy her time.
Her attempts to keep busy by helping Lauren around the flat hadn’t worked out either. When her offer to contribute to the rent had been refused, she’d figured that she needed to earn her keep by doing chores instead. It didn’t take a genius to work out that Lauren was struggling financially, but her sister was determined to manage on her own and didn’t want to be seen as a ‘charity case’. Charlotte hadn’t meant to cause offence, so by way of an apology, she’d blitzed the flat from top to bottom, scrubbing the bathroom until her arms ached and removing all the mould from the discoloured grout. She’d mended the blind, sorted the children’s books into alphabetical order, and boxed up their toys to avoid any unnecessary accidents. But far from appreciating her efforts, Lauren had seemed more annoyed than grateful. It was all very confusing. Especially as it was obvious that Lauren could do with the help.
For the past seven years, Charlotte had foolishly believed that her sister lived an idyllic lifestyle, but she’d discovered the reality was quite different. Lauren worked part-time in a café, relied on benefits, and left her kids with all manner of childminders. But Lauren seemed to like her life, claiming to be happy existing at a slower, less material pace, placing value on free time, socialising with friends, and partaking in hobbies such as amateur dramatics.
Their dad was the same. Charlotte had imagined an emotional reunion, whereby Tony Saunders enveloped his eldest daughter in a bear hug, told her he’d missed her and everything would revert to how things had been before her mum had died. Instead, she’d spent one brief evening with him before he’d had to rush off, something about a fishing boat caught on the nearby rocks. It was all highly depressing. All she’d been able to glean from Lauren was that he lived on a narrowboat, worked for a local fisherman, and spent his free time manning the local RNLI boat station.
The only people that were pleased to see her were Freddie and Florence. She’d quite enjoyed reading them bedtime stories, picking them up from school, and teaching them to bake cupcakes. They were surprisingly good company.
She checked her watch. It wasn’t even lunchtime. Lauren was working at the café, and the kids were at school. What was there to do on a Thursday in Penmullion?
She guessed there was only one way to find out.
It wasn’t the warmest of days, so she slipped on her navy rain mac over her silk shirt and white pencil skirt. She considered changing her footwear, but decided she wasn’t going far, so stuck with her nude courts. It took a lot for her to ditch the heels.
Dobbs Road wasn’t in the desirable part of town, so she had to walk down to the main quayside if she wanted anything other than pound shops and budget supermarkets.
The road was extremely steep; the houses either side were cut into the rock face, their driveways at acute angles to the road. Her slow walk turned into a speedy trot as her momentum increased on the downhill slope. Thankfully, the road levelled out before she reached the water’s edge, preventing her from landing head first in the sea. Quite apart from the embarrassment that would have caused, her shirt was dry-clean only.
In order to reach the other side of the quay, where most of the boats were moored, she needed to cross the narrow footbridge. Determined not to be defeated by the drop below, she focused on the view ahead, and tried to slow her breathing, as she negotiated the unstable walkway. It wasn’t the sturdiest of bridges, with lengths of rope supporting the wooden slats. She tried not to look down, ignoring