Phillipa Ashley - Summer on the Little Cornish Isles - The Starfish Studio

She hadn’t known then, of course, that this was the precise moment she was about to fall in – and out – of love. She couldn’t see into the future, which was probably just as well or she might never have set foot inside the studio at all.

It was too late now. The sunlight glittered on the granite walls, dazzling her. Set back from St Piran’s pocket-sized harbour, the Starfish Studio had already cast its spell, luring her onto the weathered veranda with its baskets of cards and giftware.

Her boyfriend, Dan, appeared at her side. ‘You’re doing it again,’ he grumbled.

‘Doing what again?’ said Poppy, her eyes transfixed by the faded bunting looped around the veranda roof.

‘You’ve got that dreamy look on your face. I expect this means we won’t be able to leave St Piran’s without another set of bloody coasters and some seashell dangly tat.’ Dan picked up a rope garland of shells as if it was radioactive.

Poppy squashed down her annoyance. So far, their week-long holiday to the Isles of Scilly had been relaxing and fun – when Dan hadn’t been moaning about being ripped off by coffee shops, boat operators and restaurants. His job as sales manager with a bulldozer company had made him obsessed with budgets and figures. Mind you, she did have a scarily large collection of coastal bits ’n’ bobs in their small semi in the Staffordshire market town where they lived; their bedroom was already a shrine to the Cornish seaside.

‘I only want a quick look. Besides, the artists depend on visitors like us for their livelihoods.’ Through the doorway of the studio, she glimpsed bright splashes of colour on white walls.

It was so humid and still that even the bunting hung limply. In contrast, Poppy’s own dark brown hair, which she’d blow-dried that morning, had curled into tendrils in the warm, moist air. She’d tried to tame it earlier while visiting the pub toilets and given up. Despite the sunscreen, her nose was pink and her cheeks were dusted in tiny freckles. Oh well, she was on holiday. She took a few sips from her bottle of water and stepped a little closer to the door. That cool interior was so inviting …

‘I doubt if you buying a set of coasters is going to keep the whole economy of Scilly going,’ said Dan with a world-weary grumble. Sometimes she thought he sounded more like ninety-two than thirty-two.

‘I promise you I have no intention of buying any more coasters. You can stay outside and watch the boats if you like, but I’m going to explore.’

Leaving him on the veranda, she stepped inside and sighed with pleasure as the cool air hit her bare arms. An older woman with white crinkly hair tied back with an emerald scarf was sitting behind a cash desk. She smiled and said ‘hello’ before going back to her tattered paperback. The large ginger cat sitting at her feet thrust its hind leg in the air and washed itself. A faded notice on the wall said that the Starfish had once been a boatshed but had been converted to a studio in the nineteen seventies.

A man with a silver beard was working on a painting as she moved past the sculptures, glass and jewellery. From a faded photo in the window, Poppy realised this was Archie Pendower himself, the artist-owner of the gallery. Judging by the scrawly signature in the corners, many of the works on the knobbly walls appeared to be his. Poppy felt she could almost feel the spray on her face when she gazed at the stormy seascapes. Being oils, the pictures had no glass frames, so she could see the textures and colours in all their glory.

Behind her, she heard Dan’s trainers squeak on the tiled floor. Her heart sank as she waited for him to march up and tell her it was time to leave. She was well aware that their ferry to St Mary’s was departing in half an hour to take them back to their B&B on the main island. But Dan’s footsteps slowed and then stopped.

Poppy sneaked a glance at him. He seemed to be almost as mesmerised as she was, lingering by paintings and showing no signs of being bored. Relieved not to be hauled outside, she carried on exploring.

Although the walls were peeling and the display cabinets showing signs of age, the space still gave her the shivers – in a good way. Alongside Archie Pendower’s oils, there was work by other artists and makers. Every nook and cranny was filled with copper fish twisting through metal water, driftwood sculptures, bangles made of semi-precious stones and pendants with silver shells and sea glass in jewel-like colours.

At the rear of the gallery, Dan was now deep in conversation with Archie himself. Archie’s deep local burr was mesmeric and Dan’s voice was livelier and more animated than she’d heard him for ages.

Clutching a pack of postcards featuring Archie’s work, Poppy joined Dan and told Archie how much she admired his work. She hoped she didn’t sound like too much of a fangirl but the Starfish Studio seemed to have worked its magic on both of them.

At one time, while she was studying English at university, Poppy had harboured vague dreams about running a gallery. She’d actually spent one of her university summer holiday’s earning a bit of cash by helping out in a gallery – more of a gift shop really – at the craft centre near her parents’ house. She was well aware that an artist’s life was far from the creative bubble customers liked to believe, but she was still in awe of those who made their actual living being creative. She’d always enjoyed dabbling with crafts and spent far too long in the bead shop in her town. She was wearing one of her own creations today: a bracelet inspired by the colours of the sea.

However, when she’d left university she’d got a job as a PR assistant with a building products company and risen to be the communications manager. She still made a few pieces now and then, but work and a long commute meant she had less time than ever for her hobby.

She might laugh at Dan’s obsession with budgets and bulldozers, but her own job was hardly creative. On the other hand, it was how she’d first met him: at a construction conference a couple of years before. She’d gone along, thinking that it would be dull as ditchwater and almost decided to miss the final seminar on marketing on the first day. She was so glad she hadn’t.

Dan had walked onto the stage and Poppy had perked up immediately. Admittedly, she couldn’t remember many of the details of the presentation, but as for the presenter himself – the hour had flown by. He was tall and fit with toffee-blond hair and he reminded her (a bit) of Ryan Gosling. He came across as confident but not cocky, and he really knew his stuff. When she asked a question at the end, he answered it politely and explained his point without patronising her. Afterwards, he made a beeline for her in the hotel bar and while his colleagues were getting pissed, he spent the evening chatting to her. She was impressed by his ambition and his attentiveness. He made her feel special and, by a huge stroke of luck, it turned out they only lived half an hour from each other.

They made arrangements to meet up on a date, and six months later, they’d moved in together. Two years on, their lives were as tightly intertwined as vines and Poppy hoped they would always stay that way: growing closer and building a future together.

‘So, how long have you been making a living from the gallery?’ Poppy heard Dan ask Archie.

‘Too long to remember.’ Archie chuckled, caught Poppy’s eye and winked. He started to explain to Dan how he’d bought and converted the boatshed into a gallery while his family were young. He mentioned ‘while my Ellie was alive’ more than once, which must mean he was a widower now, unless the lady at the cash desk was his current partner.

Poppy glanced at her phone and realised it would soon be time to walk down to the ferry. With a smile for Archie, she said, ‘I must finish my shopping,’ and left him and Dan talking. After swooping on a few ‘must-haves’, she took her purchases to the counter. The assistant added up the cost on an old-fashioned calculator and put Poppy’s money in an old cash tin.