Phillipa Ashley - A Perfect Cornish Summer

‘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.