specks in his eyes. Max whispered, ‘I come cheap. That’s what matters to our friend up there.’ He waved behind them at the castle’s front. ‘To be honest, his career is waning. He needs a big find, pronto, or those sugar daddies that sent him to Corfu and other places are going to stop being so generous.’
‘Aha. So the goblet is really a last resort for him?’ Guinevere concluded.
‘You could put it that way.’ Max folded his hands at his back. ‘Too bad it doesn’t exist. I had really wanted to do a nice shoot with you and the goblet. You have a classic face. Would have been perfect for it.’
Guinevere felt a little awkward under his praise. ‘Will you help Wadencourt look for it? Even though you don’t believe that it exists?’
‘Helping him look for it is an overstatement. He won’t tell me any of his clues or directions to the place where it’s supposedly hidden. He keeps everything he knows very close to his chest. Literally. He has this notebook that he doesn’t let out of his sight for one moment. I bet he even sleeps with it under his pillow, dreaming of his big breakthrough find. But hey, this island is supposed to be a treasure trove. Maybe we can hit on something, even if it’s not Wadencourt’s coveted bejewelled wedding goblet?’
Guinevere remembered the map in the front of the book she had studied earlier, mentioning the pirate ship, crown and gold coin chest, and she nodded slowly. ‘I suppose so.’
‘You don’t seem thrilled at the idea of a big find here. Don’t you want to go treasure hunting?’
She could hardly tell him the entire story about the Branok stash and the disaster that had turned out to be, so she said generally, ‘I like Cornisea kind of quiet. Sure, tourists come out here in the summertime, but not by the thousands a day. Something like that changes a place.’
‘Yes, it does.’ Max stared ahead with a frown. ‘I’ve been to places to photograph them before they had tourist appeal and after. It can spoil it completely. Pure natural beauty.’
He glanced at her and smiled again.
Guinevere flushed. He was flirting with her, and she wasn’t quite sure how to respond. She did find him attractive, but he also seemed to be rather short-tempered and callous in his treatment of his boss. Wadencourt was not a true friend to Bolingbrooke either it seemed, so maybe the two of them would have to leave again soon? Guinevere had enough experience with people vanishing from her life not to want to go through that again.
A painful void spasmed inside as always when she thought of the blank pages in her life. The parents she had never known. The family life with them she had never had.
As if Dolly noticed her sudden sadness, the dachshund pulled at the leash, and Guinevere lengthened her stride to keep up with the doggy. The physical exertion pushed the twinge of pain aside. Moving forward was always the best way to go.
Max said, ‘So how did you end up here?’
‘I work in a London theatre, but we are currently closed for renovations. We all had to figure out something else to do for the summer. I applied for a job here cataloguing books.’
The applying part had been a bit odd as Oliver and her theatre director Mr Betts had actually set up her arrival between them, to send Lord Bolingbrooke some help, not just with the book collection but also with the castle. But she could hardly explain all that to a virtual stranger.
She continued, ‘Our crew has all gone to different places. We have several retired actors and actresses in the crew, and old Carter, our props man, worked at the theatre in its heyday. It has been under threat through the decades but it always managed to survive. We’re now doing crowdfunding to bring in funds for the renovations, but also to ensure it has a future after that.’
Max listened with a keen interest and said, ‘I have to do a shoot with all of you when the theatre is ready to reopen again. It will be great publicity, and your story will be easy to sell. The theatre obviously has a long history, and publishers are always interested in people who don’t fit into a mould.’
‘How do you mean?’
Max shrugged. ‘The whole cliché of going against the flow. Your mum wanted you to study English lit and become a teacher, but you didn’t want the apartment, the neat little car and the uptown boyfriend. Rebellion sells.’
He saw her expression and added quickly, ‘You can also call it following your dreams, whatever you like. Believe me, all those people tied to their nine-to-five day jobs and mortgages love to read about someone who has a completely different life. The bohemian decadence of working until midnight, then staying into bed until noon.’
‘It isn’t like that at all. And I’m not sure the crew would want to be portrayed like that,’ Guinevere said slowly.
‘Nonsense, you need publicity or you’ll soon be in the street.’
Guinevere glanced at him. ‘Maybe,’ she said hesitantly. Max didn’t even know her friends, but he had already made up his mind about them. They didn’t fit a mould; they were bohemian. Which meant saleable.
Not so negative, she chided herself at once. Max means well with his offer. And he could be a great help. If he really has so many followers online … The theatre’s survival should come first. Not your piqued feelings because he puts into words how people might feel about artists and their jobs, not being real jobs or acceptable jobs.
She had heard all of that before. Maybe she was just projecting something into Max’s words while he didn’t even mean it that way?
To shake her annoyance, she walked ahead of him, stopped to smell a flowering rose. She rested the rich yellow flower in the palm of her hand and inhaled its musky scent. Her life’s choices were hers, and she need not defend herself to anyone about it.
The camera clicked furiously, and Guinevere looked at Max.
‘Just a few snaps of a beautiful lady.’ He smiled at her. ‘You’re photogenic.’
‘Really?’ In theatre school most students had their own dress style and individuality had been appreciated, but in everyday life Guinevere sometimes had the impression that it was better to blend in than to stand out. Stand out she did with her retro clothes and long braided hair, and she wouldn’t call that being photogenic. She thought of herself as rather an oddball.
Max tilted his head as if he was assessing her. ‘Has no one ever told you before you’re beautiful?’
Guinevere stood motionless, unnerved by the direct question. ‘Of course. Gran said it often.’
‘I don’t mean your gran.’
Guinevere leaned down to pick a colourful pebble off the path. To buy time in which she didn’t have to look at Max. Did he mean what he said? Or was he just having a little fun with her?
Memories came flooding back of the moments in theatre school where she had stood behind a curtain waiting for a call and had heard two classmates talking about her. One of them had been the boy she had been in love with. ‘Gwen is just a little awkward, you know,’ he had said. ‘She’s cute, but not girlfriend material.’
Guinevere had never been able to figure out for herself what girlfriend material was. But she wasn’t it. That had been clear enough.
Even
