A Perfect Cornish Escape

‘Nice to see you back,’ Evie said. ‘Is this a holiday?’

Evie was so innocently direct that Tiff couldn’t be offended by her question.

‘Sort of. I’m here to recharge my batteries and visit Marina.’

‘Ah, yes, come to think of it, she did mention you were coming for a break. Well, she’ll be glad of the company after that terrible business with Nate.’ Evie sighed. ‘Anniversary of his disappearance comin’ up too … I can hardly credit it’s nearly seven years.’

‘Time certainly flies,’ Tiff replied crisply. She couldn’t believe it had been so long since Marina’s ex had vanished either. Even though Tiff had thought Marina’s marriage had been heading for the rocks, her cousin had naturally been devastated when Nate had disappeared, feared drowned.

‘I warned him not to take that fishing kayak out, not with a storm brewing up,’ Troy said gloomily. ‘But he wouldn’t listen. He thanked me and smirked; thought I was an old fart probably, but I know these waters like the back of my hand. I work for the Harbour Commission, you know.’

‘Wow,’ said Tiff, picking up her bag again. She suspected Troy was about to relate his life history and she was eager to reach Marina’s and relax with a hot bath and a cool glass of wine. She’d warmed to the couple already, but she didn’t really remember them and certainly didn’t want to reveal too much about herself as she guessed they were lynchpins of the harbour town and knew everyone’s business and history. Luckily, Evie unwittingly came to her rescue.

‘We have to go, Troy, or we’ll miss the arrival of the birthday girl.’

‘Girl? Daisy Seddon is eighty-five, Evie!’

‘She can still be a girl. We all deserve to be girly from time to time, don’t we?’ Evie chuckled, sharing the joke with Tiff, who warmed to her all the more.

The chimes of the clock tower rang through the air, and Evie let out a squeak of horror. ‘Oh, it’s already seven. We’ll be late for this birthday party. Come on.’

‘Yes, best be off,’ Troy agreed. ‘Oh, Tiff, are you off up to Coastguard Terrace now?’

‘Yes …’

‘Would you mind taking this up to Dirk ’n’ Stormy’s for me? It’s on your way to Marina’s place.’

Tiff wasn’t sure she’d heard right. ‘Dark ’n’ stormy?’

Evie’s eyes crinkled in delight. ‘Dirk ’n’ Stormy, my love. Dirk Meadows, he’s the lifeboat mechanic, you see. Don’t worry, only post it, if you don’t mind.’

‘Right …’ Tiff didn’t see at all. ‘OK, I get the Dirk part … I presume the “stormy” is because he’s on the lifeboat crew?’

Evie giggled. ‘Oh, Lord no. It’s because he can be a bit up and down. Tumultuous, you might say.’

‘A moody bugger,’ Troy put in.

‘Oh, go on, Troy, he’s not that bad.’ Evie smirked. ‘He’s always more than civil to me and he fixed our car for nothing. Kept cutting out, it did.’

‘It was the turbo sensor. The local garage was flummoxed and our son was in Scotland on business or he’d have done it. Dirk stepped in; what he doesn’t know about a marine engine you couldn’t fit on the back of a stamp,’ Troy said, in wonder.

‘And there’s plenty of women who’d be more than ready to put up with his moods if they could only get close enough. He’s a bit of a hunk,’ Evie added mischievously.

‘He needs a shave more often. Scruffy bugger,’ Troy said, with a raucous cackle that echoed around the harbour.

‘He lives two doors down from Marina’s place at number nine. It’s a little white cottage near the end of the row,’ Evie said. ‘So if you wouldn’t mind putting it through his door, it would save us hauling our ancient bones back up there. It’s a pack of flyers for the fundraising day we’re holding in aid of the lifeboats and the Wave Watchers.’

‘The Wave Watchers? You mean the volunteer group who run the coastal lookout station?’ Tiff said.

‘Yes, Marina’s lot,’ Evie replied.

‘Of course I’ll deliver them,’ said Tiff, figuring that by posting a few leaflets, she could help out Marina and get herself down in everyone’s good books as a nice, helpful person.

‘Grand. Mind you, go easy in those high heels. It’s steep and slippery.’ Troy grimaced at Tiff’s boots as if they were glass slippers.

Tiff hesitated then smiled. She wanted to fit in, and anyway, she instinctively liked Evie and even Troy had a weird kind of rustic charm. ‘I’ll be extra careful.’

‘Thanks, you’re a star. See you around very soon, then.’

Off they went, leaving Tiff gingerly making her way up some steep steps to the top of the town. Her boots were wet through and the soles were as good as ice skates on the cobbles. She made a mental note to buy something more practical as soon as possible – not only because she’d break an ankle if she didn’t, but also to make herself more unobtrusive.

The suede boots, a well-loved sample from a shoe designer, were a vestige of the old Tiffany, one she couldn’t quite bear to part with, but she might have to resort to trainers or flip-flops from now on. Or, God forbid, Crocs. The idea sent a shiver of delighted horror through her. She shuddered at the thought of herself in chunky rubber clogs. She wasn’t sure she could go that far.

Puffing like a steam train, she dragged herself and her case up the steps between the houses, finally emerging on a lane high above Porthmellow. She paused to get her breath; no amount of skipping up and down the stairs in the Tube could have prepared her for the lung-busting climb from harbour to top – and no amount of imagination on the train here could have prepared her for the view spread out below her.

It was picture-book perfect, and luckily for her the rain was clearing away to the west. The harbour was unusual, with two square basins – an inner and an outer. Three of its sides were lined with pastel-coloured cottages, gift shops and eateries.

The cobbles glistened in the shafts of sunlight, and the cries of seagulls, and halyards clanking on the masts of fishing boats and yachts were clear even from her lofty viewpoint. Beyond the harbour entrance, whitecaps danced on the sea. No wonder Marina loved this place.

Tiff hadn’t expected to be so transfixed. Down below, she’d felt pissed off and tired by her journey, irritated by her inappropriate footwear, and disgruntled at having to be in Porthmellow at all.

The climb to the top had probably boosted her serotonin levels and – ha – given her a fresh perspective. Beyond the houses tumbling to the steep sides, the rest of the Penwith peninsula stretched out to Cornwall’s far west, blurring in a blue haze of sea and sky. Wait a minute … She pulled her polarising sunglasses from her bag. There was a white shed-like structure perched on the top of the cliff about half a mile away towards the east.

Was that Marina’s lookout station – where she and the other ‘Wave Watchers’ hung out? At the thought of why Marina had re-opened the station, Tiff told herself to grow a pair. No matter what had happened to Tiff herself, Marina had endured far worse and was still going through the mill because Nate had never been found. He was dead, of course, Tiff thought grimly, but what a horrendous thing to have to face up to. Tiff wasn’t sure she could have handled any of it.

The realisation made her all the more determined not to be an added burden on Marina. She’d make herself useful, try to be cheerful company and then leave her cousin in peace once the heat had died down in London. As it would, she was certain … then she could find a new job on a decent newspaper and get on with her life.

With her breath almost back to normal, she bumped her case onto Coastguard Terrace and wheeled it to the end, looking for number nine. A third of them didn’t seem to have numbers, preferring unfathomable names like ‘Chy an Mor’ and ‘Kerensa’. And, to further complicate things, several of the cottages could be described as ‘white’, the shades ranging from mucky dishrag to celeb tooth. Some even had numbers: a fourteen, an eleven with a ten next to it, which totally defeated all logic of odd and even being on opposite sides. In the middle of the numbered cottages was a pallid dwelling with a wonky sign that read ‘Sod Hall’.

How hilarious, thought Tiff, regretting her agreement to be a good Samaritan. She could, of course, always post the envelope in a post box, with ‘Dirk ’n’ Stormy, Porthmellow’ on it, though it wasn’t stamped which meant Dirk would have to drive miles to the sorting office and pay extra postage.

The idea of riling the mythical beast of Porthmellow made her smile and brought a satisfying image into her mind. She pictured Dirk: craggy, with days of stubble, in greasy overalls, a wrench or some other tool of choice in his hand.

He sounded like a kind of pound-shop Heathcliff … and she had no idea where his lair was.

‘Ah.’

She’d already wheeled her case a few metres when she spotted it. The cottage was almost at the end of a row, but on the ‘wrong’ side of the street for the odd numbers, and calling it white was pushing it. Tiff would have described it as grey-ish, like a storm cloud, and, judging by the oily pong, it had been very recently re-painted.

There was no number but that didn’t surprise her as it had probably been removed while the masonry had been re-rendered. However, a number nine had been daubed on the wheelie bin along with a peeling Lifeboat sticker. Tiff didn’t need to have been a top newshound to sniff out that this was Dirk ’n’ Stormy’s lair.

She deposited her bag on the gravelled strip of front ‘garden’ and took out the envelope before climbing up the stone doorstep. Now, if only she could locate a letterbox … or any orifice in which to deposit the envelope and accomplish her mission.

OK. She could accept that Porthmellow didn’t have any logical sequence to its house numbers, but no letterbox? What was this? Some kind of initiation test that incomers had to pass before they could be allowed into the local pasty shop?

‘Oh, for f—’

The door was wrenched open, taking her by such surprise that she almost fell backwards. Classical music drifted out of the hallway; the ‘Flower Duet’ from Lakmé, sweet and lilting – quite the opposite of the face that glared down at her.

‘Can I help you?’ it growled.

A figure filled the doorway, his dark hair almost brushing the lintel. It was clear he wasn’t her man because instead of mechanic’s overalls, he wore black tux trousers and a white dress shirt which was gaping open to reveal a tanned chest, sprinkled with dark hair … and, good God, one nipple was pierced by a discreet silver ring. In one hand he was clutching a black silk bow tie, the real kind that comes undone under eager fingers.

‘Yes?’ he said, his brow furrowing as Tiff teetered on his doorstep, clutching the manila envelope to her chest.

‘I’m looking for Dark. I mean Dirk. Mr Meadows,’ she said firmly.

His indigo eyes took her in with one sweeping glance. ‘Good for you but if it’s double glazing, I’ve got triple, if it’s loft insulation, I’m warm enough. If you want to convert me, you’d have better luck with Satan.’

‘In that case,’ she said, deciding she’d definitely keep hold of the letter, ‘I clearly have the wrong house. Sorry to have disturbed you.’

‘You have disturbed me.’ The voice was a bit growly but definitely not Cornish, more RP.

‘Well, I’m sorry, but it was a genuine mistake. I’ll leave you to …’ Tiff took the opportunity to give him a head to toe stare, as he’d been so ungracious. ‘Do whatever it is you’re doing.’

‘That’s exactly the problem. I wasn’t doing it. I can’t do it.’ He waggled the bow tie in front of him, obviously agitated. ‘I can’t get this bloody thing to work, you know, tie up. Got so hot doing it that I unbuttoned my shirt.’

‘No. They can be tricky. If you’re not used to wearing black tie,’ she added wickedly.

‘I think it’s fairly obvious I’m not. This get-up is hired.’

She raised her eyebrows dramatically. ‘Wow. I’d never have guessed.’

Was that a bead of perspiration glistening among his chest hair and the evening sun glinting off his nipple ring? While annoyed by his rudeness, she was irritated by her reaction to him even more. Since when had she been so easily thrown off kilter by a handsome face? She’d met better-looking men in her former life, though never one who seemed so little aware of it.

‘Well, good luck with it. Thanks for your time.’ Reluctantly, she tore her eyes from his impressive torso and turned away, still holding the envelope. ‘I was hoping to deliver this envelope to Mr Meadows, but it looks like I’ll have to drop it in the nearest post box, which is a shame because I don’t have any stamps—’

‘Wait a minute!’ he called after her. ‘What’s your business with this Dirk Meadows?’

Ouch, that was direct, she thought, but then, she was used to people being ‘direct’. Unless someone was chasing her down their drive, screaming expletives, she was rarely intimidated.

‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,’ she said sweetly. ‘It’s personal.’

‘In that case, you really had better come in.’ He pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. ‘Actually, I’m Dirk Meadows.’

Tiff raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’

‘Then why didn’t you say so right away?’

‘Because I thought you were trying to sell me something or make me see the light.’

‘As you said yourself, I don’t think there’s much chance of that,’ Tiff replied tartly.

To her surprise he gave a wry smile that suited him very well. ‘Apologies. I probably was a bit brusque but I’m late for a function due to this bloody thing.’ He waggled the bow tie again.

His voice had softened, still craggy but not as rough. Tiff hesitated half a second, deciding whether she wanted to be caught or not. She was a little late herself but Marina wouldn’t mind and, besides, there was something about Dirk ’n’ Stormy that was bugging her – beyond the fact he was six feet four of brooding hotness. His comment about not needing loft insulation had been hilariously accurate.

‘Um …’

She stopped, hovering between tottering off and turning around. ‘Yes?’

‘Um. You, er … look like the kind of person who knows a thing or two about, er … clothes.’

‘What are you trying to say?’

‘That you seem to be well, um – turned out – and, er …’ He stepped down into the street in his bare feet, the bow tie thrust out, a plea in his voice. ‘Would you mind tying this damn thing for me?’

Tiff burst out laughing.

‘Please?’ he added. He held out his arm in mock gallantry, and Tiff swept past him into his sitting room.

The cottage was decidedly not a lair. Simple furniture, mostly scrubbed pine or light oak, an eclectic mix of old and contemporary or re-purposed. In seconds she’d absorbed his possessions and tastes, used to forming an opinion very quickly on what people’s homes said about their penchants and character … or what they wanted you to think about their taste and character. The place was neat and tidy, with quite a few prints of Porthmellow and the sea hung on the whitewashed wonky walls. In fact, the only thing out of place was a pair of black socks abandoned on the coffee table among a stack of magazines about classical music and, unsurprisingly, marine mechanics.

‘Actually, an elderly gentleman called Troy asked me to give you this.’ She handed him the bulging envelope. ‘Something to do with the fundraiser day,’ she added. ‘I’m on my way to visit my cousin and I was going past. He and his wife said it would save them walking up here.’

He took the envelope. ‘Troy and Evie know everyone in this town. Not much gets past them.’ He put it on a dresser by the door. ‘Thanks.’

Maybe she’d lingered a fraction too long on his sitting room. He had the ghost of a smile on his lips by the time she finally spoke again.

‘Would you still like me to …?’ Tiff nodded at the bow tie.

‘Yes, if you wouldn’t mind.’ He handed it to her, brushing her fingers fleetingly. He had nice hands and nails for a mechanic, she thought. Big hands but clean, short nails and instead of engine oil he smelled of a subtle woody cologne that, if she wasn’t mistaken, might even be Creed.

‘I’d better button up my shirt first,’ he said.

‘Probably a good idea.’ She nodded, willing herself to stay cool as those impressive pecs and nipple ring mercifully vanished from sight under the snowy cotton. He fastened the top button and took the tie from her, threading the silk under his collar but leaving the points sticking up.

Tiff wasn’t short herself – at five feet seven she considered herself on the tall side of average – but she had to reach up to tie the bow tie. She’d done many of them, for student mates, colleagues, boyfriends – and Warner of course. The last one she’d tied had been on New Year’s Eve before they’d both set off for a big political bash. She’d been so happy, so in love – and so naive to ever have believed that he might have felt the same way.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked, a flicker of concern in his eyes – or was she imagining it?

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ She recovered herself and leaned closer to his neck, feeling his warm and minty breath against her cheek. Luckily the tie was long enough, and she secured it first time.

‘It’s a lot easier if you think of it as tying your shoelaces, rather than an actual tie,’ she said, tweaking the ends of the bow until it was as good as she was going to get it. It wouldn’t have done to spend too much time in such close proximity to him and it was with relief that she was able to take a couple of steps back.

‘There you go. Do you want to check it in the mirror?’

‘I trust you.’

She took a moment to study his face, now an unexpected truce had been called between them. It was as tanned as you’d expect, with lines enough to reflect his outdoor lifestyle and perhaps a fair bit of frowning. When he’d shoved the lock of hair out of the way, he’d revealed grey at his temples, though his hair was still thick and espresso dark.

Unexpectedly, her ex, Warner intruded into her mind. She’d felt an instant pull of physical attraction to him when they’d first met, too, although perhaps not as powerful as the one she felt for this stranger. Tiff thought she could be in trouble here, if she allowed herself … but she wasn’t going to do that, again, ever. Letting down her guard was what had got her into trouble in the first place and lost her her job, her home and her reputation.

Letting down her guard was why she was in Porthmellow now, in Dirk’s sitting room, on the way to throw herself on the mercy of her cousin.

‘I’d better let you get to the ball, Cinderella,’ she said, moving away from him.

Dirk let out a laugh. ‘It’s no ball. It’s a fundraising gala dinner for the lifeboats. A necessary evil.’

‘Oh, come on, it can’t be that bad.’

‘It depends on whether you like these sorts of things. I expect you’d be in your element at one.’

She frowned. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘You’ve obviously been to a lot of black-tie dos.’

‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been to way more than my share but that doesn’t mean I enjoy them,’ she shot back. Not any more, thought Tiff. In fact, she hadn’t been to a smart do for a while and never wanted to again, but perhaps if she went to one with Dirk, she might change her mind … Immediately, she reminded herself again that post-Warner she should steer clear of any event that involved the company of charming, handsome men. Not that Dirk was charming, but he was dangerously handsome.

‘I can’t stand them myself.’

‘Come on, you might surprise yourself by enjoying the evening,’ she murmured, unhappy associations cooling her desire to banter with Dirk. She was suddenly weary after her journey and eager to be gone.

‘I doubt it … and I must leave now or I really won’t make the dinner.’ He was brisk again; the temperature had dropped by several degrees on his side too. ‘Thanks for tying this,’ he added. Tiff took the hint, and was half relieved, half disappointed at his coldness. They’d been almost flirting but the storm clouds had come back over for some reason.

‘No problem,’ she said, deliberately choosing a neutral reply instead of, ‘A pleasure.’

He showed her out and shut the door with no further words of thanks, and certainly not with a ‘see you around’, which was odd when he knew she’d be staying nearby.

On the rest of the short walk to Marina’s house, Dirk filled her mind as her suitcase rattled over the stony pavement. She had a good memory for faces and names, honed by twenty years as a reporter and journalist on various regional and London papers and magazines. Even as she’d grown older, she still had the ability to search through her mental filing cabinet when a story or a person triggered a spark of recognition. Often a face would jog a feeling, an emotion, more than an instant name to go with it. She’d picture the person in a situation; tragic, comic, joyous or dramatic … how she had felt when she’d seen that face and heard or read their story.

Dirk was definitely sending out tragic and dramatic vibes and they had nothing to do with his amusing nickname. Tiff was convinced she’d seen him before but couldn’t for the life of her think where.

Chapter Three

‘Woohoo. Muscadet. That’s a blast from the past.’ Tiff thrust out her glass as Marina produced a slender bottle sheened in condensation.

‘It goes very nicely with the hake I bought from the harbour fish kiosk,’ Marina said, amusement tingeing her voice as she poured Tiff a glass. She’d told Tiff she was ready for some wine herself after her experience with the ‘body’ earlier that day at the cove.

Tiff savoured the crisp, lemony Muscadet before swallowing it. ‘And it’s very nice. You’re spoiling me.’

‘Yeah. You look like you feel guilty,’ Marina replied, pouring a glass for herself. ‘I’ll put the oven on. I got the hake ready earlier. I wrapped it in pancetta … I hope you like it?’

‘I love it. Now, you really are spoiling me. It’s lovely of you but I don’t expect special treatment.’

‘Good because you won’t get it. I thought you might be ready for a treat after the journey. I’m going to pop it in the oven with the potatoes.’

Refusing any help, Marina scooted into the kitchen, leaving Tiff alone in the sitting room. She curled up on the sofa, admiring the quirks of the cottage. Nothing was straight; not the thick walls, the floorboards or even the windowpanes. Marina had told her before that it was very old, having been an ale house and a smuggler’s haunt – then again, wasn’t every old cottage in Cornwall?

Marina and Nate had bought it a year or so after they were married. Tiff had been there only once in the past seven years, while Marina had visited her in London a few times.

They’d kept in touch regularly by phone, however, and when Tiff had lost her job that horrible day in January, the first person she’d thought to call had been her cousin. Marina was someone she could trust to listen without judging her, while also being unafraid to be honest with her in the purest sense of the word.

Tiff’s memories of Porthmellow were among the happiest of her life, although she’d never imagined she might actually live here. Her mother and Marina’s father were siblings, and both had been brought up in Cornwall.

She and Marina shared a love of words: after leaving university, Tiff had got a place at a newspaper training scheme and worked her way up to features editor of the Herald, and Marina had worked hard to get her PGCE and was now an English lecturer at a local HE college. But that was where the resemblance ended. Although they were cousins, they could hardly have looked more different.

Marina took after their maternal grandmother and wasn’t much above five feet, with blonde curly hair she usually wore in a ponytail, especially when she was ‘on duty’ in her Wave Watchers ‘uniform’ of trousers and sweatshirt.

Tiff’s DNA was dominated by her father’s side of the family. She was five feet seven in her stockinged feet, willowy, if she said so herself, with hair that her mother insisted on calling ‘Titian’ but Tiff regarded as simply ‘ginger’. Sometimes she spiced it up with a vibrant red or aubergine colour, to annoy her mother even more, and she kept it in a sharp bob. Although that would probably change now she was in Cornwall. She certainly couldn’t afford her favourite stylist at her London salon and she wasn’t sure she’d ever be brave enough to set foot in the Harbour Cutz place she’d passed earlier.