Tracy Corbett - The Summer Theatre by the Sea - The feel-good holiday romance you need to read this 2018

She came across a delightful little shop, painted sunflower yellow, with a white bay window. The sign above the overhang said, ‘Dusty’s Boutique’. The mannequin in the window was dressed in a red wrap dress, the hem cut at an angle, the layered two-tone fabric striking and unusual. The door was open, inviting her to browse, so she decided to venture inside.

The interior looked like something from Carnaby Street rather than a picturesque town in Cornwall. There were photos on the walls of 1960s singers dressed in Mod outfits and Mary Quant monochrome mini dresses. The items on display were colour-coordinated and arranged to show them at their best. It was a real gem. She’d just unhooked an A-line skirt from the rail when a man appeared from the rear of the shop.

‘Good afternoon. Welcome to Dusty’s. Please feel free to browse.’ He was a good-looking man with almost white-blond hair and startling blue eyes. He reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t think who. Probably one of her clients back in London. He was dressed in a narrow, fitted grey suit with a thin paisley tie and winkle-picker shoes.

She smiled, appreciating his sense of style. ‘It’s a beautiful shop. I adore the design.’

‘Well, aren’t you a love. Coming from someone with such sophisticated dress sense, I’ll take that as a real compliment. Is that Karen Millen you’re wearing?’ He touched the fabric of her mac.

She nodded. ‘The skirt is Ted Baker.’ Realising one of her shirt buttons was undone, she quickly fastened it.

He pushed the rim of his thick black glasses up his nose. ‘Paul Naylor. This is my boutique,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’

‘Charlotte Saunders.’ She shook his hand, thinking how nice it was to meet a smart, intelligent, well-mannered man. A man who also had the added bonus of being in proper employment. Not like Barney Rubble or Hubble, whatever his name was. Laziness and a lack of focus were not attractive qualities. She wouldn’t be entertaining his company anytime soon … no matter how good-looking he was. And boy, was he handsome. But he knew it. Only a cocky man would introduce himself shirtless, flaunting his hairless chest, tanned skin and defined muscles like he was some kind of exotic male dancer. Talk about brazen.

The owner of the boutique was studying her. ‘Are you here on holiday?’

She dragged her thoughts away from unsuitable men. ‘Kind of. I’m visiting family.’

‘I’m guessing you’re related to Tony and Lauren Saunders?’

She nodded. ‘Father and sister.’

He smiled. ‘Delightful people. Love them to bits.’

Charlotte wondered if anyone ever referred to her as delightful? Probably not, which was quite depressing, really. Still, it wasn’t like she didn’t know that she could be uptight. It was nice that someone thought so highly of her family, though. ‘Do you know them well?’

He nodded. ‘We’re part of the same drama group. I’m rehearsing a play with them at the moment.’ He gestured to a poster on the wall. ‘If you’re still in Penmullion in August, you’ll have to come along and watch. I’m playing the part of Helena.’

Charlotte had studied the play for A-Level English, so knew a tall gangly female was needed for the part. He fitted the bill perfectly.

She glanced at the poster. ‘I might just do that.’

‘If you’re really keen, you could always help out with the production. They’re looking for a set designer.’

Intrigued, she went over and read the poster for the Isolde Players’ production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream . The play was a favourite of hers.

Paul joined her by the poster. ‘Tempted?’

Was she? She’d never designed for the stage before. It might prove fun. ‘Perhaps. I’m an interior designer.’

He looked impressed. ‘Then it’s a match made in heaven. I think you’d fit rather nicely with our little group.’

She wasn’t sure she agreed with him. She’d never found social interaction that easy, but it was nice of him to say so. Perhaps she should offer her services. It would be good to try a new activity, and it might give her something to focus on whilst she awaited the outcome of her ET application.

It wasn’t like she had much else to do in Penmullion.

Wednesday, 8 June

Barney buried his head under the duvet, praying the pounding would stop. Why had he drunk so much last night? He hadn’t meant to. He’d been to rehearsal, as he normally did on a Tuesday evening, and then a group of them had gone to Smugglers Inn to enjoy a quick pint. His last recollection was of playing a few songs on his guitar, Nate and Dusty performing ‘Islands in the Stream’, and avoiding Kayleigh Wilson, who’d wanted to duet with him on ‘Empire State of Mind’. He didn’t remember much about getting home. He was just grateful he wasn’t on an early shift at the kiosk; his head hurt too much to be of use to anyone.

The pounding grew louder, an incessant banging that rattled through his fragile skull. Someone please make it stop. He vaguely became aware of Nate’s voice, muffled through the fog of a hangover, standing over the bed shaking his shoulder, saying something about ‘the door’ and needing to ‘throw up’.

A few seconds later, he heard the unmistakable sound of retching coming from the bathroom. As he shifted position, trying to get comfortable, he realised the banging wasn’t in his head, it was coming from the front door.

Cursing whoever it was, he rolled out of bed, wearing only his boxers, and padded down the hallway. He remembered at the last moment to dip his head so he didn’t smack into the beam above. Concussion wouldn’t ease the pounding in his head.

Sliding back the heavy bolt, he opened the wooden door, ready to let rip at whoever it was for waking him up. The sight of his parents standing on the walkway outside rendered him speechless. He had a sudden urge to shut the door and return to bed. He didn’t, of course. Mainly because they’d only resume banging.

‘We’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes,’ his mother said, looking surprisingly awake considering the early hour. Her black hair showed no sign of grey roots and she was wearing a patterned red shirt that made his eyes ache. She looked annoyed. Nothing unusual about that. ‘Why didn’t you answer the door? And why aren’t you dressed?’

He rubbed his face, unable to cope with so many questions. ‘Because it’s still early,’ he said, trying to force his brain to function.

‘It’s eleven fifteen.’ His mother’s irritation increased a notch. ‘Are you going to invite us in, or leave us standing out here all day?’

He stood back to allow them in. ‘Hi, Dad. Nice jacket.’

Henry Hubble peered over the top of his half-moon spectacles. His grey-white beard was neatly trimmed, and his blue shirt and stone-coloured chinos looked freshly pressed. ‘Good morning, son. Late night?’

Barney nodded, and then wished he hadn’t. He needed painkillers. ‘Something like that. Make yourselves at home. I’ll put some clothes on.’

‘Good idea.’ His mother searched for somewhere to sit down.

Unfortunately, Dusty’s glittery dress from the previous night was sprawled across the sofa, along with her blonde beehive wig and patent leather boots.

‘Not mine,’ he said, in case his parents thought he’d developed an inclination for cross-dressing or, more likely, had pulled last night.

His mother tutted.

He tried to view the place through their eyes. On paper, The Mousehole was a charming fisherman’s cottage built in the eighteen-hundreds, with an open fire and period features. The owners had converted the tall building into a rental property boasting three double bedrooms and a modern, open-plan kitchen-diner. It was quaint, tastefully restored, and perfectly located within a stone’s throw of the beach. Normally, the place looked quite inviting. Paul was a neat-freak who regularly tidied up after his three less-disciplined housemates who didn’t share his obsession for clean living. Typically, his parents had chosen to visit on the one day the place was a mess. Discarded takeaway cartons and beer cans decorated the floor and kitchen table.