Daisy James - There’s Something About Cornwall

Emilie’s heart hammered out a chorus of nervous anticipation. What had she done? Rick Farnham was a paragon of orderliness, whilst she had frequently been accused of bringing chaos to an empty room. A picture of total culinary pandemonium floated across her vision with Lucinda Carlton-Rose centre stage holding a sharpened kitchen knife aloft, her signature baby pink apron screaming the logo The Devil Wears an Apron and steam coming out of her ears.

‘Oh my God, I’m sensing a total disaster looming!’

Chapter Two

Emilie watched the train slither away from the platform of Bodmin Parkway train station like a languid serpent disappearing into an arboreal tunnel. She glanced up at the electric blue sky, its infinite clarity broken only by wisps of cloud scudding across its arched canvas. A stiff breeze tickled across the treetops, but there was still warmth in the late September air. Even so, she drew the sides of her cardigan around her chest as she waited on the station steps for Alice to collect her.

Alice had refused her offer to grab a taxi. It was just as well as she not only had her wheelie suitcase crammed with the indispensable personal possessions she needed for the two long weeks on the road but also her beloved prop box. The box was her treasure trove of decorative goodies she’d collected over the last five years – goodies she used to dress the images she photographed. Every item held a special place in her heart and had been packed securely, but it weighed a ton – despite the wheels attached to the sturdy, black canvas trunk.

She took a quick peek at the little silver watch her parents had presented her with when she’d graduated from Royal College of Art five years before. She knew they had been disappointed when she’d told them she intended to make her life in London, that the capital was where most of the best photographic work could be found. They hadn’t said anything of course, but she knew they longed for the day when she would come back home.

They had relocated from Bristol to St Ives six months ago and she had yet to spend more than an extended weekend with them at their quaint, whitewashed farmhouse. She had shied away from visiting more often so she didn’t have to discuss the recent inexplicable plummet in her self-confidence. She didn’t want to worry them and renew their calls for her to come home.

She had noticed there was a break halfway through their itinerary, which – as luck would have it – happened to be in south Cornwall before they moved on to the next shoot in Newquay. She had called her mother immediately from the train to ask if she could stay. As she had anticipated, her mother had been delighted to welcome her home so they could spend some precious time together. If she was honest, she was looking forward to being pampered and she intended to treat both her mother and herself to an indulgent day out at the local spa when she could maybe come clean about her disintegrated relationship with Brad.

The urgent revving of an engine broke into her reverie and she shot a look in the direction of the noise. A bright orange retro VW camper van screeched to a halt in the lay-by outside the station twenty metres away, its gears scraping disconsolately.

Emilie rolled her eyes and dragged her suitcase and prop box further down the waiting area so she could maintain her view of the approach road and the hopefully imminent arrival of Alice. It was unusual for her friend to be late. She was infamous in their photography circles for her fastidiousness, not only in timekeeping but also in adhering to any agenda like a tenacious limpet. She was also a walking information junkie!

Emilie’s stomach gave a lurch as she wondered how Alice really felt about working with her – equally as renowned for her clumsiness, lack of orderliness and questionable talent in the punctuality arena. Unlike her own prop box where there was no discernible order, Alice’s trunk was catalogued, indexed, cross-referenced and labelled so she could call up any item her client demanded without hesitation. Emilie knew Alice had worked with Lucinda several times in the past and it was no doubt this indispensable characteristic that got her the repeat bookings on the Lucinda Loves… assignments.

Despite possessing traits on the opposing ends of the character spectrum, far from causing each other irritation Emilie and Alice each seemed to view the other with fascinated curiosity. After all, Emilie argued to herself, opposites do attract. Alice was blessed with an abundance of energy and friendliness. A smile adorned her expertly made-up features whatever calamity she was troubleshooting (caused by others of course).

In fact, Emilie had to admit that she’d experienced a surge of relief that it would be Alice who was working alongside her so she could act as a buffer between Lucinda and herself. Her reassuring presence might just make this ridiculous journey the length and breadth of England’s southernmost county bearable, not least because Alice’s second badge of honour, worn proudly on her breast, was party girl extraordinaire.

Despite her attractive features – glossy bob the colour of chocolate ganache and sharp hazel eyes – Alice remained resolutely single, arguing that there was no point in hanging your dreams on the arm of a guy. She didn’t agree with Emilie’s thesis that finding a soulmate enhanced your life. Instead Alice pronounced herself judge and jury on all things romance and submitted the argument that you made your own happiness, that the potential delivery of happiness was not pinned to someone else’s mast.

As for which of the eloquent submissions held sway now, after what had happened with Brad, Emilie decided that the jury was out and still deliberating – although had she been pressed, she would have had to agree with Alice. Until she’d met Brad, most of her relationships had been short: some sweet, some not so. Then along came Brad – suave, confident, knowledgeable and extraordinarily handsome. He had guided her in all things camera-related and she knew she had become a much better photographer because of him.

It was only in the last six months that his attitude towards her had changed. In the early hours of the morning after his cheating had been revealed, when sleep had evaded her and she spent the time churning through what had happened, she had eventually been able to pinpoint the precise moment he’d changed – the awards night.

She sighed and puffed out a breath of air. Brad was history. Here she was in Cornwall and she was determined to make the shoot one of her best to date, as well as indulging in some girly fun with Alice. A smile tugged at her lips when she thought of previous escapades. She dragged her tousled hair from around her cheeks, lifted it over her head and dropped it behind her shoulders.

‘Emilie! Sorry! Sorry!’ called Alice. ‘No excuses except for the weekend traffic and getting used to the unfamiliar controls.’

Alice grabbed Emilie’s wheelie suitcase and stalked off down the pavement with it, coming to a stop so suddenly that Emilie slammed into the back of her.

‘Why are you stopping here? Where’s the hire car?’

‘This is it.’

‘Where?’

‘Here!’ Alice indicated the VW camper van, its orange paintwork interrupted by swirls of white depicting rolling waves along both sides. ‘I’ve nicknamed her the Satsuma Splittie. What do you think?’

Emilie’s jaw dropped in disbelief. She closed her mouth only to open it again, like a gobsmacked goldfish. She couldn’t think of anything to say that was favourable.

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Alice had clearly mistaken her horrified silence for awe. ‘It’s got two beds, a table and a tiny kitchenette. I just know we’re going to have an amazing expedition. I can’t wait to get started on our journey after the shoot this afternoon. It’ll be like we’re part of an Enid Blyton adventure.’