Kitabı oku: «A Perfect Cornish Summer»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Phillipa Ashley

About the Publisher

Prologue

September 2008

Porthmellow.co.uk Town Blog Forum

MoaningOldMinnie: Another shop closed? That’s three in the past six months. This town’s going to the dogs! Why doesn’t somebody from the council or chamber of trade do something before we have tumbleweeds rolling round the harbour?

‘I swear someone’s going to drown one of these days,’ the old man said in his thick Cornish burr. ‘And guess who’ll be the one to have to fish the little buggers out.’

It was all Sam Lovell could do to hide a smile at her neighbour Troy Carman’s expression as he watched the teenagers in wetsuits opposite the Smuggler’s Tavern. They were laughing and jeering as they egged each other on to leap off the harbour wall into the inky waters. Every Sunday evening in Porthmellow, from spring through to autumn, it was the same: the town band playing outside the pub and teenagers tombstoning into the harbour. A last hurrah of the weekend before everyone had to go back to work and school the next morning.

Sam rested her half of lager on the peeling table. Like a lot of things in Porthmellow, the tavern was in dire need of a spruce up. ‘Didn’t you do a bit of tombstoning when you were a lad?’ she asked.

Troy shook his head at the kids shrieking as they climbed onto the top wall above the harbour. ‘Back in the day I might have, and we didn’t have these fancy wetsuits, then. I used to do it in my cotton underpants. Our mum went mad. I only had three pairs. One to wash, one to wear and one for Sunday best. Full of holes, they were too, by the time they’d been through her mangle a hundred times.’

‘Troy. I love you to bits, but that is way too much information,’ said Sam, trying to purge from her mind the image of her elderly neighbour leaping into the harbour in a pair of pants as murky as the water.

Although the sun was shining on the terrace of the Smuggler’s Tavern this September evening, it was too little too late. The summer had been grey and gloomy far too often, keeping visitors away from their remote part of Cornwall. Times were hard and many families had had to miss out on a holiday altogether. It was exactly what the little harbour town didn’t need – not to mention Sam herself, who had left her job to start her own catering business the previous year. Who could have foreseen a global crash? Certainly not Sam, who’d been too busy keeping her family together after losing three of the people she loved most within the space of a couple of years.

But on evenings like this, Sam almost found herself able to put that to the back of her mind.

Troy finished his pint of Proper Job and wiped foam from his lips. At seventy, he was still working part-time as a deputy harbourmaster and no one knew the waters around Porthmellow better than he did. Although, Sam thought with a smile, the man approaching her table came pretty close. Drew Yelland was a few years older than her, tanned as tea, his fair hair burnished by the sun, a gold earring glinting in the evening light.

‘Hello. Sorry I’m late.’ Drew kissed her on the cheek and nodded cheerfully at Troy. ‘We were late sailing back into the harbour. Bunch of bankers on the boat today. Didn’t know their arses from their elbows. Didn’t seem too bothered about the recession either. Don’t think it’s going to dent their consumption of Bolly. Talking of which … your glasses look empty. I’m dying for a pint. Can I get anyone a drink?’

Troy flashed a mouth full of teeth, which, oddly, made Sam think of tombstones. He rubbed his hands together.

‘Don’t mind if I do.’

‘I’ll help,’ said Sam and gathered their empty glasses onto a tray. She always did this, wanting to help the landlady who’d had to let some staff go because trade had dropped off. She also wanted to talk to Drew.

‘How’s business on the Marisco?’ she asked as they waited for the landlady to pull their pints. Drew ran a small sailing charity that took groups out for trips on a vintage trawler.

‘Could be better.’ Drew handed over some cash for the beers. ‘To be honest, bookings have fallen off a cliff since the crash and things aren’t going to get better over the winter. We rely on the corporate and private money to subsidise the educational trips. The business customers are cutting back on teambuilding days and Joe Public can’t afford luxuries like learning to sail. Which basically means we can’t afford to take out the kids who really need a treat and a chance to build their skills and confidence.’

‘I’m so sorry, Drew … I know where you’re coming from. It’s tough at Stargazey Pie too – people still need to eat, luckily, but it’s still hard,’ said Sam, grimacing. ‘I’m not sure I’d have set up the business if I’d known what was coming. I had a good job already at the craft bakery and it felt mad to leave it last spring, let alone now.’

‘Would any of us do anything if we could see into the future?’ Drew picked up the tray of drinks from the bar.

Sam shook her head. ‘I’m glad I couldn’t see what was coming with Mum and Ryan.’ And Gabe, of course, she almost added, but she didn’t want to mention his name. The pain was still too raw. When the love of your life shopped your own brother to the police and then left town while your brother went to prison – well, it tended to leave its mark on you.

‘You’ve had a rough few years, but keep the faith. Keep at it. Stargazey will be a success. We’ll just have to ride out the storm somehow. We can’t stop it from coming.’ Drew grinned. ‘And anyone who’s Porthmellow born and bred will tell you that.’

Nodding, Sam held open the door for Drew. A burst of brass band music hit her ears and she blinked at the contrast of the gloomy interior with the bright sunlight glinting on the water. Sam zoned in on the ‘To Let’ sign on the fish and chip shop at the end of the harbour. Gabe and his family had worked there and lived in the flat above it until he and Sam had split up; his parents had retired a few months previously and no one had taken it over yet.

The ice-cream parlour next door was shuttered up and wouldn’t re-open until spring. Bryony Cronk’s new dog grooming business had set up in the old greengrocer’s shop, but both units either side had blanked-out windows. Despite its shabbiness, Porthmellow was in Sam’s blood, she loved its harbour and its quirky clock tower, every sunny day and each wild winter storm. Drew was right: no one could predict the climate, economic or otherwise. Just as there was nothing she could do about tourists choosing to go elsewhere.

While Sam and Drew had been inside, Troy’s wife Evie had joined their table. Sam saw her wincing a little, knowing she’d started to suffer from arthritis in her knees. It was a steep hike down to the harbour from Stippy Stappy Lane where the Carmans’ terrace stood a few doors down from Wavecrest Cottage, the home Sam shared with her sister, Zennor. Until a year ago, their brother, Ryan, had lived there too.

Drew fetched Evie a G&T and they returned to watching the kids jumping in the water.

‘Is that your Zennor?’ asked Evie, pointing to a tall, slender girl with long black hair, poised ten feet up on the wall above the harbour. ‘Haven’t got my driving glasses so I can’t really tell.’

Sam shook her head. ‘Yes. It is,’ she said, wincing as Zennor threw herself off the wall and landed with a splash. She bobbed up immediately, squealing in triumph, and Sam heaved a sigh of relief.

Zennor was just one more kid who thought they were invincible … same as their brother, Ryan, had. Same as Sam’s ex Gabe used to do when they were kids. She could picture Gabe now, in his board shorts, lean and slender, his smooth olive skin glistening with water as he climbed again to the top of the wall around the pub.

People would jeer or urge him on, but Gabe never cared what anyone else in Porthmellow thought – except perhaps for Sam.

She’d stand by, trying to act cool while all the time her heart would be in her mouth. What if he hit his head on the rocks or some piece of rubbish under the water? She remembered the time he’d vanished underneath and not come up as quickly as usual; he’d been under just long enough to make her squeal out in horror and cause everyone to stare at her. Then he’d popped up yards away by a boat. She’d been ready to jump in after him … ready to risk it all to save him.

Not anymore.

At twenty-one, her days of risking life and limb for a bit of a laugh were long gone, She had too many responsibilities these days.

A loud scream startled her out of her reverie, but it was followed by gales of laughter from the teenagers.

Troy clicked his tongue against his teeth. ‘Bloody dangerous. Harbourmaster would like to stop it but there’s no point. Kids’ll do it anyway.’

‘Zennor’s no kid,’ Sam said, ‘but I can’t stop her. I thought she’d have grown out of it by now.’

‘She’s just having a bit of fun. I’d have a go myself if my knees would let me. How old is she? Fifteen?’ said Evie.

‘Just,’ said Sam.

‘She’ll soon stop when boys get on the scene,’ said Drew.

‘They already are. Ben Blazey’s up there too,’ said Sam, spotting a skinny young lad in a shortie.

Evie laughed. ‘Young Zennor will eat him for breakfast. He never says boo to a goose, that boy.’

‘He creates enough racket on that scooter of his,’ Troy grumbled. ‘How he makes it over from Mousehole to here without killing himself I don’t know.’

Drew smirked at Sam and she bit back a giggle.

Evie held up a finger. ‘Ah, thanks for reminding me, Troy.’ She delved in a large shopping bag. ‘Have you seen this?’

‘What’s that?’

She spread a crumpled flyer on the table. ‘Picked it up in town the other day when I went to my computer class. Thought you might fancy coming?’

Sam peered at the leaflet. ‘Autumn Festival on Mousehole quayside. Folk Bands. Hog roast. Food fair. Cookery demos. Cider tent. Sounds good.’

‘I saw that too. How do you fancy coming with me and Katya? Thought we’d take Connor along too,’ Drew asked Sam. Katya was Drew’s wife; they had a baby son together, Connor.

Sam wanted to go, but she was sure Drew was only being kind, inviting her along with his family. Drew had been one of the townspeople who’d looked out for the Lovell family after her mum had died. He was part friend, part surrogate older brother since Ryan had been sent away.

‘I don’t know. Saturday is it? I should be working …’ Sam made her pies in a small unit tucked in a back alley and sold them direct from the kitchen or from a stall at events. She’d have loved a mobile unit herself but the business was still in its early days. She baked every morning for six days a week and did a few outdoor events as well as Friday nights on the Porthmellow harbourside. She’d managed to scrape up the cash for a second-hand stall and small oven to heat the pies. Her dream was to have a proper van like some of the bigger street food businesses but she couldn’t afford that yet. For now, she had to take every opportunity to get some revenue in to pay the rent and loans on her catering kitchen. There wasn’t much time or money for extras or treats.

‘We can go along later in the day,’ said Drew. ‘Don’t you shut at lunchtime on Saturdays?’

‘You have to have some time off,’ said Evie.

Before Sam could make an excuse, Zennor jogged up. She was barefoot, dripping, and pink in the cheeks from cold and excitement. ‘Hello! Fancy coming in, anyone? Troy? I hear you were champion tombstoner back in the day.’

Troy slapped his palm over his glass. ‘Eh. Don’t drip in my pint, maid. Watered down enough as it is without you adding to it.’

‘We were talking about going to the Mousehole Autumn Festival,’ said Sam, still unsure whether to accept Drew’s offer. She was sure that Katya might not enjoy another woman taking up family time.

‘I saw the flyer. The bands sound shit,’ declared Zennor, shaking her head. Water corkscrewed off her locks and spattered the flyer, making the print run.

‘Eh!’ Troy groaned.

Sam shot her sister a glance. ‘Zen. Do you mind?’

‘About the water or saying sh—?’

‘Both, as a matter of fact. Why don’t you go and get changed? It’s getting cold out here.’

Zennor shrugged. ‘I’m fine.’

Sam bit back any further remark. She had to remind herself she was Zennor’s sister, not her mum – even if she had had to take on that role at just twenty.

‘So, does anyone fancy going?’ said Drew. ‘The invitation’s there.’

Evie clapped her hands together. ‘Why don’t we make it a party? We could fork out for a taxi so we can all enjoy ourselves properly. It says the festival’s sponsored by the Cyder Farm.’

Sam could have hugged Evie. She’d probably guessed that Sam would be happier in a gang, even if it did include two pensioners.

‘That sounds like a much better idea,’ said Zennor. ‘I’m up for it if cider’s involved.’

‘You’re not eighteen yet, maid,’ said Troy.

‘One small one won’t hurt her,’ said Evie. ‘And we can all keep an eye on her.’

Zennor giggled. ‘Can I ask Ben? He’s having a shitty – sorry crappy – time at home at the moment.’ She shot a look at Sam.

‘The more the merrier,’ said Drew. ‘Shall I go ahead and book a minibus?’

As her companions buzzed with excitement, Sam peeled the flyer from the table and held it up. The evening rays shone through the soggy paper and the words had merged: bands, festival, food …

Their mother had loved a sing and a dance. She always enjoyed hearing the fishermen’s choir and the town band and liked nothing better than when everyone joined in at the end of the evening with a rousing chorus of ‘Trelawney’. And she loved seeing the streets packed on a sizzling summer day or taking the girls and Ryan to the Flora Dance at Helston or the Obby Oss on May Day in Padstow. Their father walked out on the family when Sam was very young and her mum, Roz, had brought them up on her own. She pictured her mum dancing on the beach at Newquay as the sun set, a flower garland in her hair, holding hands with Sam and Zennor … At the memory of those carefree times, and the reminder of what she’d lost, her heart physically ached. Sam longed to experience that again, to see Porthmellow’s streets alive with music and laughter, a buzz in the town … joy and fun …

‘Sam?’ Evie’s hand was on her arm. ‘Are you all right? Will you come?’

Sam forced a smile to her lips. ‘Yes … yes. Why not? Let’s go … but actually, I’ve got another idea.’

‘What’s that, my love?’ said Evie softly.

All eyes turned to Sam and before she could chicken out, she spoke her thoughts as they tumbled through her brain.

‘This might be mad but … why don’t we kill two birds with one stone? Go to the event, but treat it as a research trip too? I mean, look around us. The town’s going downhill fast right at a time when local people need help. We need to attract more visitors and really put this place on the map. Make it famous for something.’

‘Yeah, but for what? We’re just another Cornish harbour town with vicious seagulls, weird locals and crap weather,’ said Zennor.

Sam had to smile. ‘We’re not just another town. We’re unique. We have character – and characters – and dramatic weather that makes the headlines. We could be as famous as Padstow or Mousehole or St Ives. Why shouldn’t we be?’

Drew put his pint down. ‘I like your way of thinking, but famous for what?’

‘For our festival. I think we should have our own.’

Eyes widened. Zennor snorted. Troy blew out a long breath. ‘But who’s going to organise it? Sounds like a lot of work and disruption to me, maid.’

Troy was right, of course, but it was too late. The idea had taken root in Sam’s mind and was gathering energy and power like a great wave bearing down on the harbour. She couldn’t shake off the thought that her mum would have been at the centre of a festival if she’d been here. As the town band reached a crescendo of ‘Trelawney’, Sam imagined her dancing on the quayside, smiling and laughing.

Evie was right too, and her mum would have agreed. Sam was working too hard. She was only twenty-one and she had the weight of the world on her shoulders, a business, young sibling to support through college, another who’d come out of jail and she never saw. Organising a festival would be hard work but it would be fun too, and be a fitting way to honour her mum’s memory and maybe bring a bit of sparkle back to the town and her life.

‘We’re going to organise it,’ she declared, buoyed by bravado. ‘Us lot. We’re going to get it off the ground and we’re going to make a big success of it.’ She threw a glance at Drew. ‘Because storms or not, we have to do something to help Porthmellow.’

Chapter One

Early May, Eleven Years Later

The 10th Porthmellow Food Festival

June 29-30 – Porthmellow Harbour

Don’t miss our biggest and best ever festival!

Over 100 food, drink & craft stalls – live music all day

Chef’s Theatre with cooking demonstrations including

Star Chef Kris Zachary of BBC Weekend Kitchen Show

‘Cornwall’s coolest food event’ – The Sunday Times

Sam brushed rainwater from the laminated poster in her hand. Ten years. That was a third of her life. How could they have flown by so fast?

She still had to pinch herself at how the festival had grown since that first mad idea outside the Smuggler’s Tavern. Blinking raindrops from her eyes, she tried not to look down. She was only six feet up on the stepladder, but it was more than enough for someone who hated heights at the best of times. This was most definitely not the best of times. The rain and wind had been torrential since she’d set out from the cottage at six a.m., hoping to get the posters up before she had to get things going at Stargazey Pie. It was hard to believe it was the start of May.

Gritting her teeth, she tried to clip the cable tie around a council sign warning people not to drive off the quay. One false move and she could topple onto the cobbles or plunge through the deck of the Marisco. Now, that would go down really well with Drew: a great big Sam-shaped hole in his precious boat. Her fingers were slippery and numb with cold, but she wanted to have the posters up now spring was – allegedly – well underway. Hordes of people would start to flock to the town and hopefully flock back again at the end of June for the festival.

‘Woof! Woof! Woooffffff!’

Sam gripped the ladder as deafening barks rang out across the harbour. Her foot slipped and she had to let go of the poster to hang on. It fell onto the wet cobbles and into a large oily puddle. Still holding on for dear life, Sam twisted round to see a Rottweiler jumping up and drooling as it tried to sniff – or possibly taste – her feet.

A woman in a long leather coat and a Megadeth T-shirt glared up at Sam as she struggled to hold the beast back. Sam steeled herself. ‘Morning, Bryony. Mizzly out here today, isn’t it?’

Bryony prodded the laminated poster with the toe of her Doc Martens. ‘I’d hoped you’d decided to give the festival a rest for a year.’ The dog barked again so Bryony ramped up her own volume. ‘My Sacha hates all the noise and smells.’

Bryony stroked Sacha’s head while Sam tried to let the words wash over her. It didn’t do to argue with Bryony, Cornwall’s self-declared canine expert and the most unlikely metal fan on the planet. Woe betide anyone who dared question her views on dogs, music … or the festival, or tourists, or the weather, or anything else. Sam had often thought that if Professor Stephen Hawking had ever visited Porthmellow, Bryony would have been sure to take issue with his theories on black holes. She lived in a small house not far from Wavecrest Cottage. Sam often heard Sacha barking from fifty metres away.

Spotting a rare gap in Bryony’s tirade, Sam dived in while she could. ‘Well, the festival does bring lots of people into the town who might not otherwise come. Local people and tourists and it’s put Porthmellow on the map as a foodie and arty haven.’

Bryony huffed. ‘Arty? The crowds are horrible and the music is trash. Sometimes I think I should close up altogether and leave town for a week.’

‘Is that a threat or a promise?’ muttered Sam, then instantly regretted taking the bait. She couldn’t afford to deliberately rile people in her position as festival chairman so she kept her tone firm but polite. ‘You know that the people spend loads of money in the galleries and other businesses while they’re at the festival,’ she said. Including yours, Sam wanted to add, knowing full well that Bryony’s Grooming Parlour did a roaring trade at festival time. Funnily enough, despite her objections to the festival, she hadn’t yet made good on her yearly threat to clear out while it was on.

‘Sacha almost choked on a wooden chip fork after the last one,’ said Bryony. ‘Probably left behind by some idiot watching that crappy folk band.’

‘I’m sorry Sacha was ill but the chip fork might have been from anywhere and we do our best to clear everything up. You know we’re all volunteers …’ Bryony curled a lip, and Sam gave up. ‘Would you mind passing me that poster?’ she asked.

‘I’ve got to open up. Some of us have proper jobs.’ Bryony rubbed her dog’s head. ‘Come on, Sacha, sweetheart. We’ve got a standard poodle and two cocker spaniels to lick into shape this morning.’

Bryony marched off with Sacha, leaving Sam still two feet off the ground. She’d known Bryony since her schooldays and so she ought to be used to her grumpiness by now. While there were people who didn’t like the festival, Bryony was probably one of the most vocal. By and large, the villagers had been very supportive, but as her mum used to say, ‘you can’t please all of the people all of the time’. Over the years, Sam had seen plenty of snide comments on the festival Facebook page, and more recently, Instagram and Twitter. When it had happened the first time, she’d been annoyed and upset but she’d toughened up since. Anyway, she didn’t care. Getting the festival up and running had been a lifesaver at a time when she desperately needed something to throw herself into and, just as important, it really had helped to revive the town.

The rain crackled on her waterproof and ran down the gutters, threatening to wash her poster down a drain. She scrambled off the ladder to retrieve it, but another figure, this time in a scarlet waterproof, white jeans and flowery wellies, darted forward and fished it from the gutter before Sam reached it. Sam smiled. A friendly face was just what she needed after her encounter with the prophet of doom.

‘Here you go. I saw Bryony barking at you. Has she been a pain?’ Sam’s friend Chloe handed over the poster. Chloe was a newcomer to Porthmellow, having moved from Surrey the previous autumn after her divorce. Chloe had been an events organiser and still did some freelance work for her former company. Despite her tiny stature, she was a bundle of energy, endlessly brimming with ideas. Sam was convinced she was powered by some kind of nuclear reactor.

‘She had another go at me about the festival and wouldn’t even pass me a poster. She’s obviously in the wrong job. She should be running Alcatraz.’

Chloe’s dark brown eyes shone with amusement. Her black hair was caught in a chic updo that complemented her delicate features. Chloe’s mother had been born in Hong Kong, while her father was Welsh, and her combination of Han Chinese and Celtic genes had literally given her the best of both worlds in terms of looks. Even early in the morning in a Cornish downpour, her make-up was subtle and she looked elegant and unruffled. Sam’s own crinkly russet hair was plastered to her head. She’d dragged on the first thing she’d spotted; her jeans from the bedroom chair, a long-sleeved T-shirt straight from the tumble dryer and her ancient waterproof off the peg in the cottage porch.

In contrast, Chloe was a living, breathing advertisement for the designer boutiques that clustered around the trendier end of Porthmellow harbour. Three had moved in since the food festival had started, along with a prestigious gallery, a stylish homeware shop and a deli. There were only a few units to let now, and even the chip shop had gone more upmarket, offering salads and wraps alongside the cod and saveloys.

It might be a coincidence, but Sam was convinced that the new businesses had been encouraged by all the visitors who flocked to the festival and the town in the summer months. Stargazey Pie had done well too. A couple of years previously, she’d been able to move from her back-street kitchen to a smart catering unit on the edge of town and buy a mobile van that was now a popular fixture for events all over Cornwall with its artisan pies. It was hard work and she might never be rich from it, but she adored being her own boss and making a living from doing something she loved.

‘I delivered most of my posters and leaflets to local businesses yesterday,’ Chloe was saying. ‘You got the short straw, I’m afraid, being out of doors. I was just about to pop back to HQ for another batch. I think I can get around the whole of Porthmellow by coffee time. Can I help you first? I feel so guilty being in and out of the shops while you’re braving the full force of the Atlantic.’

‘This isn’t the full force. Not by a long way.’ Sam smiled. ‘It’s when the waves crash over the top of the clock tower that you have to worry.’

‘Ah yes. I’ve been on holiday here in some bad weather and seen the photos of the huge storm from a few years ago, but never experienced anything like it myself, fortunately.’ Chloe paused. ‘Dear God, we wouldn’t get conditions like that during the festival, would we?’

Chloe peered at the white crests beyond the breakwater that protected the harbour from the sea. Sam had seen waves a hundred feet high crashing against it a few times, and yes, sending spray higher than the clock tower. During the worst storms, the village frequently featured on the TV news, but its occupants were well prepared. It was generally only foolhardy emmets who fell foul of the rough weather, hence the sign at the end of the harbour warning visitors of ‘danger of death’ if they ventured out onto the quayside in a storm. Which they often did, despite the cautions.

‘This is Porthmellow and you never know what the ocean might throw at us,’ she said, amused at Chloe’s horrified expression. ‘But I doubt it in June, so don’t worry about it. Even if it rains, people will still turn up. We’re hardy types down here.’

Chloe let out a sigh of relief but before she could reply, her mobile buzzed. She fished it out and a smile spread across her face.

‘It’s a message from Kris Zachary’s PA asking me to phone her asap. She said she’d call to finalise the arrangements. Probably wants to make sure the kitchen theatre is up to scratch. Booking Kris was such a coup though, even if he was pricey. He’s already attracted a lot of press interest, especially with his um … private life being all over the telly lately. Those twinkly blue eyes … and the way he handles that dough. It’ll be worth it.’

‘Hmm. He’s certainly high profile at the moment, even if it is for the wrong reasons,’ said Sam, thinking of the headlines about the chef’s break-ups with his wife, and his new girlfriend. Kris was an on-screen charmer with a reputation as a tough business character.

‘Him accepting at all is a sign that Porthmellow’s on the foodie map on a national scale. Though I know you want to keep it community focused, we have to make money and bring people and sponsors in,’ said Chloe.

‘I just hope Porthmellow will be good enough for him. If not, it’s tough,’ said Sam. A raindrop ran down her nose. Time was racing by and she had to finish the posters and get to work in Stargazey Pie. ‘There’s no rest for the wicked, eh?’

Chloe nodded. ‘Then I must have been very wicked indeed.’ She tugged her hood forward as the rain came down harder. ‘I must admit the festival is a much greater demand than I expected. No one has any idea of how much work is involved. I’ve run events but none as big as this. Even though we’re all volunteers, it’s still serious stuff.’

‘I don’t think I’ve really thanked you for joining the committee, by the way,’ Sam said. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without you and the other volunteers.’

‘Oh, I wanted to get involved. I can’t bear to sit around doing nothing and it’s been a great way to meet new people.’ Chloe’s eyes lit up at the praise.

Sam agreed. The festival had helped Sam make new friends too and cement relationships with people of all ages and backgrounds. Chloe had said she’d chosen Porthmellow because of the happy holidays she, her daughter, Hannah, and her ex had spent in the area, and the fact that Porthmellow was still a real community where people lived and worked year-round, not simply full of holiday homes or deserted in the off-season. Even so, Sam thought it must have been hard for Chloe to move so far from home, especially as Hannah was in her first year at uni in Bristol. Chloe clearly adored her daughter, but Sam had yet to meet her. Sam thought, not for the first time, that Chloe must have been quite a young mother to have a daughter at uni. She didn’t look a day over thirty-five.

‘Thanks, Chloe. Will Hannah be coming to the festival?’

Chloe hesitated. ‘I don’t know. I doubt it. She’ll have exams, I expect, and she said something about wanting to go travelling afterwards. I’d be way too busy to see much of her anyway.’

‘I guess so,’ said Sam, detecting an edge of disappointment in Chloe’s voice. Perhaps she shouldn’t have asked. Hannah had shown no signs of making an appearance in Porthmellow since Chloe had arrived eight months ago, so perhaps it was a source of family tension. Sam certainly knew all about that.

‘I’d better call Kris’s PA back then carry on with the posters,’ said Chloe. ‘See you on Wednesday at the committee meeting?’

After Chloe had left, Sam carried on fixing posters. As she worked, she couldn’t help reflecting on the last ten years – and even further back. A decade on and the festival was growing year on year, with well over a hundred stalls, plus live cookery demos in the Chef’s Theatre and music and fringe events in the festival marquee. Funding was as much of a headache as ever and sponsorship from the council, grants and business was vital. Even with that support, the committee still had to beg favours and borrow so many of the things they needed, not to mention giving masses of time for free.

Not everything had gone well. Sam’s own love life had suffered while she’d been trying to make a living. At thirty-two, there was still no Mr Right on the horizon – not even so much as Mr Right Now. Sam had thrown almost all her energy into work, the festival and looking out for Zennor. She’d had plenty of interest and offers – a bit like one of Porthmellow’s sought-after harbourside cottages – but once any guy had seen the work required to maintain the place, they’d given up.

And being honest with herself, Sam had never truly wanted to put in any work on a relationship herself. No matter how much she hated to admit it, she’d never really got over Gabe. She certainly still hadn’t forgiven him for turning Ryan in to the police.

As Sam climbed the ladder to pin up her last poster, she found herself replaying what had happened eleven years before on the night Ryan had been arrested. She’d been alone in Wavecrest when Gabe had arrived. Zennor and Ryan were out and she’d been looking forward to them having some time together in the cottage. The moment she’d opened the door, a smile on her face, she’d leapt on him.

‘You’re late. I’ve been going mad with lust,’ she’d whispered.

Before he could reply, she’d kissed him but he had pushed away gently – so gently – and said: ‘Sam. Sam, I need to tell you something. It’s not good news.’

And her heart had stopped, her chest had tightened. Was Gabe going to tell her it was over between them? That he’d met someone else?

Instead he’d sat her down and said, ‘It’s about Ryan.’

The fear had taken her breath away. ‘Oh my God. What’s happened to him?’

‘He’s OK. He’s not hurt,’ Gabe had said. ‘Not yet.’

And so, it had started.

Although it had really started the year after their mum had died.

Ryan had been in trouble ever since he’d hit his twenties and quit working on Troy’s mate’s fishing boat, and gone to ‘manage’ the amusement arcade. Manage was a joke word as he’d spent as much on machines as the youngsters who came in. He’d run up debts and borrowed money. Sam was very worried about the people he hung around with, a bunch of wasters from Porthmellow and roundabout. She was convinced he was going to end up in trouble, but he seemed to get by; breezing along as usual, pretending everything was fine.

What Sam didn’t know – until Gabe found out and told her – was that to pay off his debts, Ryan was planning to take part in a robbery of the arcade where he worked. Even worse, the same gang were also planning to rob various premises in Porthmellow. They were people who Ryan knew well, and drank with in the pub; friends of the Lovells who’d helped them after their mother had died. Sam’s stomach clenched at the memory, even now.

Gabe had come to the cottage and told her that he’d discovered Ryan had been involved and that he was going to have to call the police. Sam loved Gabe, but Ryan was family. She’d known he was no saint but had no idea exactly how much trouble he was in.

She’d pleaded with Gabe not to shop Ryan, convinced that if he could only have another chance, he’d turn over a new leaf. But Gabe had gone ahead anyway.

Ryan and the gang were arrested while the robbery was in progress but that was only the start of even more turmoil. While he was awaiting trial, Ryan had refused to come home and stayed with some ‘mate’. He said he felt guilty for letting down his sisters and was too ashamed of the village’s reaction. He told Sam he never wanted to come back, even though he loved her and Zennor.

Even though Sam knew he deserved his punishment, he was her flesh and blood. She was shocked when he’d been given a custodial sentence of eighteen months, but thought that with her support he’d get through it. After the first time she’d visited him in prison, he’d refused to see her again, telling her he didn’t want his sister in such a place. Even after he’d finished his sentence, he told Sam he was too ashamed to come back to Porthmellow and wanted a fresh start, away from his past.

Sam recalled his words: ‘I’m toxic for this family. Don’t forget me, but accept that I can’t go back to the bad days and that means staying away.’

After that, Ryan vanished from her life for a few months without a trace. It was one of the most agonising times of Sam’s life when she didn’t even know if he was alive or not. She’d spent ages on the Internet looking for any trace of him. She’d called him every day until he’d changed his number. Once or twice she’d hear a rumour he’d moved to an area of Plymouth, then drive round the local pubs, looking for him. It had been hopeless, of course, and only led to disappointment and heartbreak.

Throughout this time, her relationship with Gabe had also imploded. Before, during and after Ryan’s trial, Gabe had tried to explain his reasons to her, insisting he had to go to the police for Ryan’s sake as much as because it was the right thing to do. He said he wanted to prevent anyone else from getting hurt in the village and to save Ryan from himself.

Everything Gabe said made perfect sense to Sam. He was right, of course, but that didn’t matter. She could never forgive him for turning in her own brother. Sam was forced to choose – and Ryan won. She’d brought him up, acted like a mother to him even though he was older, and Gabe had let her down so badly. She dumped him.

Gabe tried to make her change her mind but, in the end, he gave up. He found a job as a trainee chef in London, left Porthmellow and she’d never heard from him since. In the space of a few years, Sam had lost her mum, her brother and the love of her life.

After a few months, Ryan finally got in touch and Sam thought she might be able to persuade him to come home. But his call was only to say he was ‘OK’ but was never coming back to Porthmellow. Since then, she’d had very little contact with him.

All she heard of him these days was the odd card on her birthday and Christmas. In fact, she hadn’t seen him face to face since that first jail visit, and didn’t even know exactly where he was living or what he was doing for a job.

The scandal also took its toll on Zennor and Porthmellow itself. Some people blamed Ryan while others saw Gabe as the villain of the piece for turning on one of their own. It had cast a long shadow over Sam’s life too. Despite a few short-lived relationships and dates, there had been no one serious since Gabe. Sam’s heart had never really been in it when it came to meeting someone new, even if she kidded herself that she’d tried. Over the past year or so her growing festival and work commitments had given her the perfect excuse to put her personal life on the back burner, but she couldn’t help thinking her youth was slipping by. She wanted her own family and to find love again, but at the moment, she couldn’t see how it was going to happen.

She couldn’t blame Gabe for that. She had to change her own mindset and perhaps this tenth festival ought to be a turning point. She should get out there again, go on some dates, really try to make it work this time …

Sam shivered and realised that she was now soaked to the skin. Even her waterproof had started to leak and her jeans were literally dripping wet.

She slapped up her final leaflet and hurried off towards Stargazey’s business unit. She’d almost reached it when Chloe thudded up behind her. She was breathing hard and waving her hands. It wasn’t like Chloe to look so worried so Sam was instantly on the alert.

‘Sam! So glad I’ve tracked you down.’

‘Why? What’s up?’

‘That phone call earlier from Kris Zachary’s PA. It wasn’t great news. He’s had to pull out of the festival.’