to see you.’
She swallowed awkwardly, aware she was being prickly again. ‘I thought I’d come and check out where you lived.’
‘That’s nice.’ He shrugged off his jacket.
‘Make yourself comfortable, lovey. I’ll put the kettle on.’ Sylvia gestured to a chair. ‘Your dad loves having visitors, don’t you, Tony?’ She didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Lauren and the kids are often over here. They adore going out on little trips, sleeping in the bunkers, isn’t that right, Tony?’
Her dad kicked off his wellington boots and pulled up a wicker chair. ‘How are you enjoying Cornwall?’ he asked Charlotte, seemingly unfazed by Sylvia’s incessant chatter.
‘It’s okay.’ Charlotte didn’t feel it was appropriate to tell him she was struggling to unwind, she was getting on her sister’s nerves, or that she’d recently been diagnosed with stress-related anxiety. ‘Penmullion is beautiful.’
Sylvia appeared from the galley with a tea tray. ‘Isn’t it just? I know they say Kent is the garden of England, but I think it should be Cornwall.’
Charlotte watched Sylvia trying to balance the tray. Was this woman her dad’s girlfriend? If she was, she was very different to their mum.
Sylvia handed her a cup of weak tea in a floral china cup.
‘Thank you.’ Charlotte managed one sip before looking around for somewhere to put it down. The cabin was small, the padded bench seats along either side took up most of the room.
When Sylvia’s back was turned, her dad leant across and took her cup, discreetly pouring the contents into the plant pot sitting on the floor. ‘Lovely woman. Makes a terrible cup of tea,’ he whispered, making her smile for what felt like the first time in ages. God, she’d missed her dad.
Her smile soon faded when Sylvia turned and saw her empty cup. ‘Goodness me, you were thirsty. You’re just like your dad, he knocks them back in no time too.’
The sound of her dad chuckling made up for the trauma of being forced to drink another cup of Sylvia’s tea. But as she watched her cup being refilled, the sound of an alarm went off, making her jump.
Her dad was up before she knew what was happening. ‘Sorry, love. Got to go.’ He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. ‘We’ll catch up soon.’ He was out the door before she could find her voice.
Charlotte watched him sprint down the jetty. ‘What’s going on?’
Sylvia picked up the discarded hat he’d thrown to the floor. ‘Your dad volunteers for the RNLI. When the alarm goes off, he has to respond. He’s the senior helm, you know.’
No, she didn’t know. All she knew was that he volunteered there. She’d assumed he had a desk role; he’d always worked in an office when he’d lived in London. She was starting to realise she knew very little about her family’s new lives in Cornwall.
‘Only the other night he rescued a Polish family whose boat had sunk. None of the family could swim, and they weren’t wearing life jackets. It was on the local news and everything.’
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
