Kitabı oku: «There’s Something About Cornwall»

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

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

Epilogue

Endpages

Copyright

Chapter One

‘No, Alice, I’m sorry but I can’t do it.’

‘You do know that Lucinda Carlton-Rose is one of the hottest TV chefs and cookery book writers out there at the minute, don’t you? It’s an all-expenses-paid trip to Cornwall. What’s not to like? And it would be a fabulous opportunity to add to your portfolio for when you go freelance. You can’t turn it down! You have to do it!’

‘Alice…’

‘Please, Emilie. You are literally my last hope!’

‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’

‘Okay, Lucinda may be a bit of a pain to work with…’

‘“A bit of a pain to work with?” You really are a mistress of understatement. She has a reputation a rabid Rottweiler would be proud of! She’s mauled better food photographers than me in her time, Al. She’s a gold medal holder in obsessive perfectionism. I’d be like one of her lavender-infused blancmanges the whole time. And you know what happens when I’m nervous – my hands tremble and I drop stuff! My camera would be shaking so much you’d think I was shooting on a trampoline.’

Emilie shook her head slowly, her eyes focused on the view of the London skyline from her office window as twilight washed the rooftops with a splash of salmon and indigo. She flicked her long copper waves over her shoulder and refocused her attention on the phone call.

‘You do remember what Lucinda was like when Suzie worked with her on the Lucinda Loves…Seafood book, don’t you? Suzie still swears that if she hadn’t been able to escape to that silent yoga retreat in Andalucía she would have been looking at her sanity in the rear-view mirror. She’s adamant she’ll never work with Lucinda – or on any food preparation shoot – ever again. What was the alternative title Suzie gave her TV show? You know – the one she kept on ticker-tape repeat for the whole week she was with Lucinda?’

‘The Devil Wears an Apron.’ Alice giggled, despite her desperation to persuade Emilie to step into Suzie’s stilettos. ‘But this gig is different. It’s not a studio assignment. Admit it, all your college friends would trample over your dead body for a chance to work on a Lucinda Loves… location shoot. They’d be on the train to Penzance before you could say cappuccino cupcake.’

‘Sorry, I can’t do it. I just can’t. Not after what’s just happened with Brad. I don’t think my shaky self-belief could stand another vicious pounding.’

‘Brad is a cheating moron! I really don’t know what you saw in the guy, Em.’

‘Well, perhaps it was his smouldering good looks, the buttocks of steel in those D&G jeans…’ she began in an effort to divert Alice from her mission, but it was to no avail. She heard her friend inhale a deep breath and she shifted uncomfortably in her desk chair. She knew what was coming.

‘That’s not the point. He knew how desperate you were to land that shoot in Venice, and how much research you put into your pitch. Italian food is your specialism, too. It was a really despicable thing for him to do, going straight to Dexter and pulling rank. Anyway, isn’t he supposed to be Dexter Carvill’s intrepid travel photographer, not a food photographer? And how many times has he trashed your area of expertise? Amazing how his opinion suddenly changes when a trip to Italy is on the agenda.’

‘Alice…’

‘I know he’d usually sell his granny if he thought there was an overseas assignment in it, but this time I just know he did it to get back at you for finishing with him.’

‘Can we talk about Brad later?’ Emilie murmured, not up to one of Alice’s monologues on Brad’s selfishness.

‘Right, that settles it! You have to help me out on this Lucinda Loves… shoot. The money’s great and it’s a full two-week assignment travelling from north to south Cornwall and all points in between. And as an added bonus you can stop off to visit your parents in St Ives. I know it’s not exactly Italy, but it’ll be a blast. Did you have a look at the promo stuff I sent over to you?’

Emilie sifted through the paperwork on her cluttered desk, dislodging mounds of glossy photography brochures, a battalion of stale coffee cups and crisp packets, even a half-eaten tuna sandwich that had been lurking under a newspaper since yesterday. She’d never been the most Poirotesque of people but clutter and chaos just seemed to creep up on her without warning and she’d grown used to it – in fact, it had become an inexplicable comfort. She twisted her upper lip as she reached under a discarded pizza box to extricate the Lucinda Loves… schedule.

She ran her eyes down the detailed itinerary that had been sent to the agency by Lucinda’s management and hammed up her best BBC presenter’s accent. ‘“Join Lucinda Carlton-Rose, one of Britain’s best loved TV chefs, for a culinary road trip par excellence through the picturesque county of Cornwall, taking in the most delicious of local dishes and sampling a whole host of recipes handed down from generation to generation.”’

‘Come on, Em, you have to admit it sounds like a lot of fun. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to get away from the frazzle of London and plan the next stage of your life. Take the time to really think about when you’re going to launch your own photography business. If you do this shoot on Lucinda Loves… it’ll be a massive boost for your portfolio. You’ll have clients hammering down your door to work with you, maybe even famous ones.’

‘Or to look at it another way, if it all goes pear-shaped – and there’s a better than fifty per cent chance it will from what Suzie said – I’ll be flushing my whole career down the toilet!’

‘So, you prefer to play it safe, is that what you’re saying? Nothing exciting ever happened by playing it safe! Okay so Brad won the star prize this time but you’ve got the chance of a fabulous consolation prize.’

Emilie opened her mouth to bat back an indignant response but Alice was on a roll.

‘It’s just the excuse you need to banish the whole Brad fiasco from your befuddled mind. Get some distance.’

‘We have distance! Have you forgotten already that he’s probably, as we speak, soaking up the atmosphere in St Mark’s Square whilst sipping an ice-cold Bellini in Harry’s Bar?’

Alice ignored her. ‘Keep reading.’

‘“This time it’s Lucinda Loves…Desserts, so there’ll be a cornucopia of cake, a tower of tarts and a plethora of pastries.”’ Then there’s a whole list of cakes and biscuits and pies. What the hell is Figgy ’Obbin?’

‘Mmm, I can feel the drool forming already.’ Alice paused, and softened her voice. ‘You have to do this, Em. It’s time to work on building your confidence. You are an awesome photographer and getting away from Brad’s influence will help you realise that.’

Emilie knew Alice had a point. Not only had she ended her relationship with Brad after discovering his dalliance with a lingerie model whilst on a shoot in Barcelona the previous month, but she had also recently found out that he had been bad-mouthing her to Dexter, and several of her clients, forcing her to work even harder to prove her worth. Whilst she was devastated at Brad’s disloyalty and missed him greatly, his disparaging remarks to her boss about her creative talent had hurt her the most.

How could he have said those things when they had been planning to go freelance together? She had thought he was proud of her achievements, appreciated what she brought to their professional partnership, believed that they made an awesome team. In fact, he had told her so on frequent occasions.

Clearly Brad had been lying to her about that too, and whilst the numerous awards on her office shelf should reassure her she was good at what she did, she wasn’t sure that without Brad by her side she could continue with her dream of going solo. She shoved those demons into the crevices of her mind for later dissection and moved on to present to Alice another argument for the defence.

‘But it’s two whole weeks away from home! And how am I expected to travel around Cornwall via…’ she grabbed the sheaf of paper containing the schedule from the floor, shoving her copper waves over the crown of her head ‘…via nine…yes, nine venues? You know I don’t drive.’

‘You will be working alongside the indomitable photo stylist Alice Jenkins – I hear she’s great fun! No, seriously, I have all that sorted. I’m your designated driver. And…remember, it is Cornwall we’re talking about here. There’s bound to be a battalion of hunky surfing guys just waiting to whisk us away to their beach parties and barbeques…’

‘It’s the end of September, Alice; the surfing season is probably over.’

‘So they’ll be celebrating the end of the season! Oooo, all those rippling bronzed torsos. All that long golden hair bleached by the summer sun, all their…’

‘Okay, okay,’ Emilie interrupted with a laugh to prevent any further lyrical pronouncements. ‘Calm down! It won’t do you any good drooling over a bunch of imaginary surfing dudes, gorgeous as they sound.’

‘So, it’s a yes, then?’

Emilie straightened her shoulders. Why should Brad have all the fun? And Cornwall was just as photogenic as Venice, if not more so, not to mention the spasm of nostalgia that had shot through her veins as she remembered childhood holidays spent on its windswept beaches. It would also prove to Dexter, and to herself, that she could do a shoot of this importance on her own and do it well.

‘It’s a yes! Actually, if I’m asked to photograph another precious five-year-old in a Disney princess outfit I think I’ll throw myself off the castle turret!’

‘Excellent!’

Emilie knew Alice had punched the air. She had heard the silver charm bracelet, laden with meaningful charms Alice had collected over the years, jangling at her wrist. A curl of excitement, mingled with nervous anticipation, meandered through Emilie’s chest. Was she really up to the challenge? She wasn’t entirely sure, but Alice was her friend and the most obsessively organised person she had ever encountered. Every detail of their two-week itinerary would have been meticulously planned, every recipe carefully co-ordinated with its backdrop. Even if she was struggling to recover her own self-belief, she had the utmost confidence in Alice’s talent as a photo stylist extraordinaire.

‘Watch out, Newquay, here come Alice Jenkins and Emilie Jane Roberts!’

‘The first shoot is in Padstow actually.’ Alice laughed. ‘Mmm, all that yummy seafood. I can’t wait. Hey, it’s just as well it’s not a Lucinda Loves…Seafood gig, isn’t it? I’m not sure Lucinda is the kind of chef who understands picky eaters like you. I think she’d spontaneously combust if you refused to taste her creations.’

‘What? You think I’ll have to eat what she bakes as well as photograph it? I’ve never been asked to do that before. I’ll look like a flabby elephant by the time I arrive in Penzance to shoot their…erm…Cornish Yarg Soufflés!’

‘I don’t know. I’m just saying Lucinda could interpret your refusal as disapproval of her recipes and if there’s one thing Lucinda is not good at it’s taking criticism, constructive or otherwise.’

‘Anyway, who’s labelled me as a picky eater?’ Emilie laughed again, her spirits rising as she anticipated spending the next two weeks in Alice’s exuberant company – a friend whose special brand of cheerfulness in the face of any culinary disaster would be like spreading hot chocolate ganache on her wounded heart.

‘Me! I don’t know anyone who can live on coffee and crisps and still look as gorgeous as you do. There’s a whole kaleidoscope of delicious recipes out there and for God’s sake, you photograph them every day! You allow cookery book readers to feast with their eyes on the images you create, to drool over whatever cuisine you’re shooting as they anticipate what they might produce themselves in their own kitchens, and you don’t want to eat it? You’re crazy!’

‘It’s precisely because the food is in my face every day that I’m selective in my tastes – that’s all. Anyway, I love desserts so that’s not going to be a problem. Lucinda can force-feed me scones oozing with jam and Cornish clotted cream as much as she likes.’

Alice giggled. ‘I can so just see Lucinda Carlton-Rose rubbing a cream scone in your face like a custard tart. Actually, that’s not as far-fetched as it sounds.’

‘Why? What do you mean?’

‘Oh, nothing…’

‘Alice?’

‘Well, one of the reasons I couldn’t get anyone else to do this shoot is that Lucinda threw a whole Mango and Apricot Pavlova at Rick, the lead photographer on the Lucinda Loves…Fruit shoot, after he inadvertently trampled on a box of her ripened mangoes. It was like being in the audience at a circus performance. I didn’t know whether to applaud from the sidelines or rush over and offer Rick a towel!’

Emilie’s heart hammered out a chorus of nervous anticipation. What had she done? Rick Farnham was a paragon of orderliness, whilst she had frequently been accused of bringing chaos to an empty room. A picture of total culinary pandemonium floated across her vision with Lucinda Carlton-Rose centre stage holding a sharpened kitchen knife aloft, her signature baby pink apron screaming the logo The Devil Wears an Apron and steam coming out of her ears.

‘Oh my God, I’m sensing a total disaster looming!’

Chapter Two

Emilie watched the train slither away from the platform of Bodmin Parkway train station like a languid serpent disappearing into an arboreal tunnel. She glanced up at the electric blue sky, its infinite clarity broken only by wisps of cloud scudding across its arched canvas. A stiff breeze tickled across the treetops, but there was still warmth in the late September air. Even so, she drew the sides of her cardigan around her chest as she waited on the station steps for Alice to collect her.

Alice had refused her offer to grab a taxi. It was just as well as she not only had her wheelie suitcase crammed with the indispensable personal possessions she needed for the two long weeks on the road but also her beloved prop box. The box was her treasure trove of decorative goodies she’d collected over the last five years – goodies she used to dress the images she photographed. Every item held a special place in her heart and had been packed securely, but it weighed a ton – despite the wheels attached to the sturdy, black canvas trunk.

She took a quick peek at the little silver watch her parents had presented her with when she’d graduated from Royal College of Art five years before. She knew they had been disappointed when she’d told them she intended to make her life in London, that the capital was where most of the best photographic work could be found. They hadn’t said anything of course, but she knew they longed for the day when she would come back home.

They had relocated from Bristol to St Ives six months ago and she had yet to spend more than an extended weekend with them at their quaint, whitewashed farmhouse. She had shied away from visiting more often so she didn’t have to discuss the recent inexplicable plummet in her self-confidence. She didn’t want to worry them and renew their calls for her to come home.

She had noticed there was a break halfway through their itinerary, which – as luck would have it – happened to be in south Cornwall before they moved on to the next shoot in Newquay. She had called her mother immediately from the train to ask if she could stay. As she had anticipated, her mother had been delighted to welcome her home so they could spend some precious time together. If she was honest, she was looking forward to being pampered and she intended to treat both her mother and herself to an indulgent day out at the local spa when she could maybe come clean about her disintegrated relationship with Brad.

The urgent revving of an engine broke into her reverie and she shot a look in the direction of the noise. A bright orange retro VW camper van screeched to a halt in the lay-by outside the station twenty metres away, its gears scraping disconsolately.

Emilie rolled her eyes and dragged her suitcase and prop box further down the waiting area so she could maintain her view of the approach road and the hopefully imminent arrival of Alice. It was unusual for her friend to be late. She was infamous in their photography circles for her fastidiousness, not only in timekeeping but also in adhering to any agenda like a tenacious limpet. She was also a walking information junkie!

Emilie’s stomach gave a lurch as she wondered how Alice really felt about working with her – equally as renowned for her clumsiness, lack of orderliness and questionable talent in the punctuality arena. Unlike her own prop box where there was no discernible order, Alice’s trunk was catalogued, indexed, cross-referenced and labelled so she could call up any item her client demanded without hesitation. Emilie knew Alice had worked with Lucinda several times in the past and it was no doubt this indispensable characteristic that got her the repeat bookings on the Lucinda Loves… assignments.

Despite possessing traits on the opposing ends of the character spectrum, far from causing each other irritation Emilie and Alice each seemed to view the other with fascinated curiosity. After all, Emilie argued to herself, opposites do attract. Alice was blessed with an abundance of energy and friendliness. A smile adorned her expertly made-up features whatever calamity she was troubleshooting (caused by others of course).

In fact, Emilie had to admit that she’d experienced a surge of relief that it would be Alice who was working alongside her so she could act as a buffer between Lucinda and herself. Her reassuring presence might just make this ridiculous journey the length and breadth of England’s southernmost county bearable, not least because Alice’s second badge of honour, worn proudly on her breast, was party girl extraordinaire.

Despite her attractive features – glossy bob the colour of chocolate ganache and sharp hazel eyes – Alice remained resolutely single, arguing that there was no point in hanging your dreams on the arm of a guy. She didn’t agree with Emilie’s thesis that finding a soulmate enhanced your life. Instead Alice pronounced herself judge and jury on all things romance and submitted the argument that you made your own happiness, that the potential delivery of happiness was not pinned to someone else’s mast.

As for which of the eloquent submissions held sway now, after what had happened with Brad, Emilie decided that the jury was out and still deliberating – although had she been pressed, she would have had to agree with Alice. Until she’d met Brad, most of her relationships had been short: some sweet, some not so. Then along came Brad – suave, confident, knowledgeable and extraordinarily handsome. He had guided her in all things camera-related and she knew she had become a much better photographer because of him.

It was only in the last six months that his attitude towards her had changed. In the early hours of the morning after his cheating had been revealed, when sleep had evaded her and she spent the time churning through what had happened, she had eventually been able to pinpoint the precise moment he’d changed – the awards night.

She sighed and puffed out a breath of air. Brad was history. Here she was in Cornwall and she was determined to make the shoot one of her best to date, as well as indulging in some girly fun with Alice. A smile tugged at her lips when she thought of previous escapades. She dragged her tousled hair from around her cheeks, lifted it over her head and dropped it behind her shoulders.

‘Emilie! Sorry! Sorry!’ called Alice. ‘No excuses except for the weekend traffic and getting used to the unfamiliar controls.’

Alice grabbed Emilie’s wheelie suitcase and stalked off down the pavement with it, coming to a stop so suddenly that Emilie slammed into the back of her.

‘Why are you stopping here? Where’s the hire car?’

‘This is it.’

‘Where?’

‘Here!’ Alice indicated the VW camper van, its orange paintwork interrupted by swirls of white depicting rolling waves along both sides. ‘I’ve nicknamed her the Satsuma Splittie. What do you think?’

Emilie’s jaw dropped in disbelief. She closed her mouth only to open it again, like a gobsmacked goldfish. She couldn’t think of anything to say that was favourable.

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Alice had clearly mistaken her horrified silence for awe. ‘It’s got two beds, a table and a tiny kitchenette. I just know we’re going to have an amazing expedition. I can’t wait to get started on our journey after the shoot this afternoon. It’ll be like we’re part of an Enid Blyton adventure.’

‘But it’s…it’s a camper van!’

‘Yes, what were you expecting? A Winnebago? I know it’ll be a bit cosy, but we won’t be spending a lot of time inside – only to sleep and have a quick breakfast before joining the crew for the shoot. Come on, don’t stand there like a soggy treacle pudding. Climb in. We need to get over to the hotel in Padstow to get the shoot set up so we can start the photography as soon as Lucinda’s bakes are ready. There’s lots to organise. Today is an indoor shoot in the hotel’s conservatory, thank goodness, but I’m sure you’ll want to have everything wrapped up before we lose the natural light.’

Alice leapt up into the driver’s seat but Emilie remained motionless on the footpath, clutching the handle of her beloved prop box so tightly her knuckles had bleached white. Confusion and a myriad of questions ricocheted around her brain. Why hadn’t she thought to check where she would be staying for the Cornwall-wide journey? If she were honest, she had assumed she would be in the same hotel as Lucinda and loyal her assistant, Marcus Baker – but how presumptuous was that? She was a lowly photographer, not a celebrated TV chef and bestselling cookery book writer. But still, two weeks in a VW camper van? Squashed into a makeshift bed next to neat-freak Alice? It was a recipe for verbal fireworks.

The passenger-side window scrolled down and Alice peered over from the other side, her slender body hunched over the steering wheel, her mahogany bob swinging around her chin.

‘Earth to Emilie! What are you waiting for? We have a very tight schedule to keep to. I wouldn’t recommend risking Lucinda’s wrath so soon in the proceedings. Surely I don’t have to remind you that upsetting her would be professional suicide?’

Alice’s words of warning somehow sliced through Emilie’s armour of denial. She grasped the silver handle and slid back the van’s side door to stow her precious trunk in the back, and then jumped into the seat beside Alice. With a stomach-churning crunch of the gears, Alice leapfrogged away from the kerb, revving the engine and crashing the clutch until she reached the junction outside the station. There she pulled into the path of a BMW Roadster, earning herself an indignant blast of a horn and a one-fingered salute. She graced the gesticulating driver with a bright smile and a wave and headed for the road to Padstow.

‘So, how exciting is this?’ Alice gushed. ‘Chocolate-box Cornwall – nine stops, a selection of local and traditional desserts in each. What a blast we’re going to have! Come on, Em, there’s no need to look so horrified. It’s only a camper van. Would you have preferred a tent?’

‘Good grief! No way! I haven’t camped in the great outdoors since I was in the Brownies and even then I was evicted from the tent and made to sleep in the kitchen hut for prolonging a midnight feast.’

‘Don’t you think it’s the perfect solution? It’s mobile, it’s comfortable and it’s a stylish way to travel. I bet we get lots more comments about our mode of transport than Lucinda does in her blacked-out limousine.’

Emilie glanced across at Alice to check if she was being sarcastic. Sadly she wasn’t. She truly believed they had drawn the long straw in the vehicle stakes!

‘We can make our own breakfast and eat on set at lunchtime. After all, there’ll be plenty of delicious cakes to sample.’ Alice laughed, gracing Emilie with a show of her movie star teeth. ‘And when the daily shoot is over we can drive to the next location, park up and party all night without having to check into some grotty B&B or worry about waking everyone up when we tumble in at two a.m.’

Emilie turned her head to look over her shoulder into the back of the camper van – her Home Sweet Home for the next two weeks. No, wait a minute, half of her home as she would be sharing the space with Alice. There was a tiny kitchenette with a stainless steel sink, and a dual-burner hob with under-bench grill. There was even a minuscule fridge and a microwave built into the bright orange Formica units. Padded ivory leather seats, piped in matching orange, surrounded an orange table and, to complete the feeling of being imprisoned inside a satsuma, orange-and-yellow checked curtains were drawn neatly back at the windows.

Emilie wished she’d thought to bring her sunglasses. Much as she liked Alice, she had an ominous feeling in the pit of her stomach that their daily struggle to five o’clock was not going to be plain sailing.

‘Take a look behind my seat!’ Alice smirked.

‘Why?’ asked Emilie, straining her neck to take in a nondescript square seat topped with a matching ivory cushion piped in the ubiquitous orange.

‘Guess what that is?’

‘Oh, God, don’t tell me.’

‘It’s a porta-potty.’

‘If you think either of us is going to use that then you’re living in a hippie-dippie dream world!’

Alice smiled but knew when to change the subject. However, her new line of attack was no less uncomfortable for Emilie.

‘You might not think it at the moment but this trip is exactly what you need right now. Don’t look at me like that. You and Brad might have been the perfect couple when you started out, both amazing photographers in your own fields, but I did warn you that he wouldn’t be able to stomach the fact that you have acres more talent than he has and over time it would cause problems.’

‘He’s a great photographer, Alice. And he taught me loads!’

‘He’s good, yes. But you’re better. Ever since you clutched that golden trophy for Best Food Photographer of the Year to your sequinned chest in July, he realised that your star was in the ascendant whilst his was on the wane and he was jealous. Plain as that. That’s why he suddenly became so disparaging about food and product photography. Why he was always saying that it’s the agency’s poor relation, and by extension so were you. He should have been singing your praises from the rooftops, proud of your achievement and of his hand in it, but instead he’s constantly pulling rank and it’s destroyed your confidence. It’s just plain professional envy and it’s not attractive. I would have loved to be a fly on the wall when he went to Dexter and snatched the Venice job. When did he leave?’