Phillipa Ashley - A Perfect Cornish Summer

Gabe opened the browser on his computer. He clicked on a page he’d bookmarked after Chloe had called.

Gabe picked up his phone. ‘Suzy?’

‘Yes, Gabe.’

‘Um … Can you do me another favour?’

‘That’s what you pay me for,’ she said.

He smiled to himself. ‘What’s my schedule looking like over the next four or five weeks?’

‘Four or five? Er … hang on.’

He waited while she hummed and ahhed then she said, ‘There are a few meetings here in London. An after-dinner speech you agreed to do in Birmingham.’

‘Besides that. Anything really vital?’

‘Not really vital … apart from running the restaurants, of course. Can I ask where this is going?’

Gabe ignored her sarcasm. ‘You know that new offshoot I was thinking of buying in the south west.’

‘The one in Brixham or Salcombe? Actually, I’ve had the agents on asking for a decision on the Brixham restaurant. They have another offer on the table.’

‘Tell them to accept the rival bid. I’ve got another idea.’

‘Wow. That’s two in one day.’

Gabe laughed. ‘I’m on a roll. I’ll send you the details of the restaurant later. After you’ve phoned the agents, would you mind finding me a place to stay in Porthmellow for a couple of months? Not a hotel. I need my own space. A short-term rental if there is one. Holiday cottage or something like that. Make sure it has a great kitchen.’

Suzy let out a squeak of horror. ‘A couple of months! You want to disappear off to Cornwall for months .’

He smiled to himself. Suzy was a great PA, but one of those types who thought civilisation ended at the M25. ‘I can do most of my work things online and drive or fly back here for anything else. Porthmellow’s not the moon, you know.’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never been.’ She sighed. ‘I’ll get onto it but it won’t be easy. Finding a place for that long in prime holiday season … I’ll do my best, but you might end up in a caravan.’

‘I don’t really mind what it is as long as it’s close to the village. Pay what you have to.’

Gabe put down the phone. A mix of fear and exhilaration coursed through his veins, but he couldn’t deny the truth. Despite all the ill feeling and bad memories, when it came to the crunch, he didn’t have the heart to let down Porthmellow in its hour of need – and certainly not Sam.

@Pastyking:This festivul is crap. More feckin’ grockels. #summerfestival #wasstoftime

Sam rolled her eyes as she scrolled through her Twitter feed. There were always going to be some folk who weren’t into the festival spirit. It did take over the town for days, after all. Parking could be a nightmare and the streets were packed with visitors from all over the country. However, if people were going to troll the festival, she thought, she at least wished they could spell.

She shoved her phone in her bag, determined not to read any more social media posts for the rest of the day and closed the cottage door behind her with a sigh of relief. It had been a long day, starting at dawn in the rain, working hard at Stargazey topped off with Chloe’s bombshell about Gabe headlining the festival.

She walked into the sitting room where Zennor was cleaning out the guinea pig palace. The pigs themselves were snuffling around the floor, wheeking in delight while Zennor scraped their dirty hay into a bag. Sam had to smile at the contrast of the yellow Marigolds with her sister’s outfit: DMs, leather leggings, a tutu and their mum’s floppy felt hat.

Colt-like and slender, Zennor affected an eclectic, ‘trolley dash round the charity shop’ look. She could throw on a bin bag and still look cool, thought Sam.

Sam tossed her bag on the floor and collapsed onto the sofa with a huge sigh.

‘How are Harry and Gareth this evening?’ she said as she placed a cushion on her lap and scooped Gareth onto it, feeling his soft black and white fur under her fingers. He was a shy and delicate soul, but he let her stroke him and uttered little yips of pleasure

Zennor smiled. ‘OK. Harry’s lively enough, but Gareth seems down in the dumps.’

Sam stroked his head with her fingertip. ‘Aww, Gareth. What’s up?’

‘Harry suddenly decided he didn’t hate cauliflower leaves anymore and that he had to have Gareth’s leaf so he nicked it from right under his nose. Gareth just stared at Harry as if he’d been mugged. Which he had. Harry didn’t even eat the leaf. Naughty Harry,’ Zennor raised her voice. ‘That was so rude. I don’t know if Gareth will ever get over it.’

‘Poor Gareth. He’s too nice to mug Harry back, aren’t you, sweetheart?’ Sam lifted Gareth up and blew him a kiss and caught Zennor smiling smugly at her. Sam sometimes joked about the pigs being a nuisance and smelly, but Zennor knew she adored them. It was strange how soothing it could be to watch them zooming round the living room or chewing a carrot at the end of a tough day. If only her own life was that simple … she was still reeling from the news that Gabe was to star in her festival and wondering how to tell Zennor.

‘Anyway, let me chuck out their crap and wash my hands and I’ll fix the mojitos. I bloody need one after the day I’ve had,’ said Zennor.

Not as much as me, thought Sam, while Gareth squeaked contentedly in her lap and his brother, Harry, a peach-blond stunner of a pig, whizzed through his play tube on the carpet. The two pigs lived in harmony most of the time and no wonder as their home and toys were palatial compared to the rest of the cottage. They were actually the fifth and sixth pigs since Zennor and Sam’s mum had passed away.

Sam remembered Brad and Angelina – two gorgeous long-haired creatures who’d had to be kept separate in the end because they were always either trying it on with each other or fighting. They were followed by Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde who’d got on surprisingly well. Sadly, for the Lovell sisters – but probably happily for the pigs – they’d expired within two days of each other.

Zennor had wept for ages after every demise while Sam fetched the trowel and prepared another plot in the guinea garden of remembrance at the rear of the cottage. Each little grave was marked with a different shell arrangement, designed by Zennor, to suit the departed pig’s personality. Zennor had threatened to dig up the skeletons if they had to move, not that Sam could ever see a day when they’d leave Wavecrest Cottage. Too many memories, happy and heart-breaking, were woven into the fabric of that house. Wavecrest was as much a part of them as a bone or vital organ.

Zennor’s re-entry into the room was marked by Mexican-style whoops from Sam as she weaved her way between Harry and the guinea pig toys with a glass in each hand.