Her dad running off to save lives was another surprising development. ‘Will he be gone long?’
‘Could be hours. Looks like it’s just you and me.’ Sylvia offered her a custard cream. ‘Now, tell me all about yourself, and don’t leave anything out. I want to hear all the details.’
As much as Charlotte didn’t want to spill her life story, an excuse to refuse didn’t surface quick enough. Resigning herself to the inevitable, she spent the next twenty minutes engaged in polite chit-chat before she could make her excuses and leave.
Extricating herself from Sylvia’s tight hug, she thanked the woman for her hospitality and made her escape, almost running across the footbridge to the safety of the quayside.
It was strange, but talking about Ethan hadn’t upset her anywhere near as much as it should. Why was that? she wondered. After all, he’d been a big part of her life for a long time. She should miss him. She should be crying herself to sleep every night, wishing he would call, raging at the way he’d treated her, but she wasn’t. She just felt a low level of annoyance at the way her life had been upended. Realising she hadn’t been as invested in the relationship as she’d imagined, was both alarming and depressing. How had she got things so wrong?
Not wanting to return to the flat just yet, she decided to explore Penmullion.
Her feet were sore from walking on cobbled stones in heels, but the views across the cove made up for it. The sand below was pale gold, a contrast to the white cliffs and deep blue of the sea. To her right, she could see the café where her sister worked, and the RNLI boat station. Shielding her eyes, she looked across the water, wondering if she’d spot her dad rescuing whoever it was who’d got into trouble, but she couldn’t see anything.
As she followed the line of the horizon, the cliff incline rose sharply. There appeared to be some kind of castle in the distance, the stone pillars jutting out from the rock face. A wave crashed below, sending spray up and over the railing. She moved away, unwilling to ruin her mac with salt water.
Behind her, a row of tiny shops lined the quayside, from art galleries advertising works by local artists, to cafés specialising in Cornish pasties. They were quaint and inviting, painted in a series of pastel colours. She walked past the Coddy Shack fish and chip shop, and Candy Cravers sweet shop, admiring the window displays.
She came across a delightful little shop, painted sunflower yellow, with a white bay window. The sign above the overhang said, ‘Dusty’s Boutique’. The mannequin in the window was dressed in a red wrap dress, the hem cut at an angle, the layered two-tone fabric striking and unusual. The door was open, inviting her to browse, so she decided to venture inside.
The interior looked like something from Carnaby Street rather than a picturesque town in Cornwall. There were photos on the walls of 1960s singers dressed in Mod outfits and Mary Quant monochrome mini dresses. The items on display were colour-coordinated and arranged to show them at their best. It was a real gem. She’d just unhooked an A-line skirt from the rail when a man appeared from the rear of the shop.
‘Good afternoon. Welcome to Dusty’s. Please feel free to browse.’ He was a good-looking man with almost white-blond hair and startling blue eyes. He reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t think who. Probably one of her clients back in London. He was dressed in a narrow, fitted grey suit with a thin paisley tie and winkle-picker shoes.
She smiled, appreciating his sense of style. ‘It’s a beautiful shop. I adore the design.’
‘Well, aren’t you a love. Coming from someone with such sophisticated dress sense, I’ll take that as a real compliment. Is that Karen Millen you’re wearing?’ He touched the fabric of her mac.
She nodded. ‘The skirt is Ted Baker.’ Realising one of her shirt buttons was undone, she quickly fastened it.
He pushed the rim of his thick black glasses up his nose. ‘Paul Naylor. This is my boutique,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’
‘Charlotte Saunders.’ She shook his hand, thinking how nice it was to meet a smart, intelligent, well-mannered man. A man who also had the added bonus of being in proper employment. Not like Barney Rubble or Hubble, whatever his name was. Laziness and a lack of focus were not attractive qualities. She wouldn’t be entertaining his company anytime soon … no matter how good-looking he was. And boy, was he handsome. But he knew it. Only a cocky man would introduce himself shirtless, flaunting his hairless chest, tanned skin and defined muscles like he was some kind of exotic male dancer. Talk about brazen.
The owner of the boutique was studying her. ‘Are you here on holiday?’
She dragged her thoughts away from unsuitable men. ‘Kind of. I’m visiting family.’
‘I’m guessing you’re related to Tony and Lauren Saunders?’
She nodded. ‘Father and sister.’
He smiled. ‘Delightful people. Love them to bits.’
Charlotte wondered if anyone ever referred to her as delightful? Probably not, which was quite depressing, really. Still, it wasn’t like she didn’t know that she could be uptight. It was nice that someone thought so highly of her family, though. ‘Do you know them well?’
He nodded. ‘We’re part of the same drama group. I’m rehearsing a play with them at the moment.’ He gestured to a poster on the wall. ‘If you’re still in Penmullion in August, you’ll have to come along and watch. I’m playing the part of Helena.’
Charlotte had studied the play for A-Level English, so knew a tall gangly female was needed for the part. He fitted the bill perfectly.
She glanced at the poster. ‘I might just do that.’
‘If you’re really keen, you could always help out with the production. They’re looking for a set designer.’
Intrigued, she went over and read the poster for the Isolde Players’ production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The play was a favourite of hers.
Paul joined her by the poster. ‘Tempted?’
Was she? She’d never designed for the stage before. It might prove fun. ‘Perhaps. I’m an interior designer.’
He looked impressed. ‘Then it’s a match made in heaven. I think you’d fit rather nicely with our little group.’
She wasn’t sure she agreed with him. She’d never found social interaction that easy, but it was nice of him to say so. Perhaps she should offer her services. It would be good to try a new activity, and it might give her something to focus on whilst she awaited the outcome of her ET application.
It wasn’t like she had much else to do in Penmullion.
Wednesday, 8 June
Barney buried his head under the duvet, praying the pounding would stop. Why had he drunk so much last night? He hadn’t meant to. He’d been to rehearsal, as he normally did on a Tuesday evening, and then a group of them had gone to Smugglers Inn to enjoy a quick pint. His last recollection was of playing a few songs on his guitar, Nate and Dusty performing ‘Islands in the Stream’, and avoiding Kayleigh Wilson, who’d wanted to duet with him on ‘Empire State of Mind’. He didn’t remember much about getting home. He was just grateful he wasn’t on an early shift at the kiosk; his head hurt too much to be of use to anyone.
The pounding grew louder, an incessant banging that rattled through his fragile skull. Someone please make it stop. He vaguely became aware of Nate’s voice, muffled through the fog of a hangover,