A Perfect Cornish Summer Read online

  ‘Yeah, but for what? We’re just another Cornish harbour town with vicious seagulls, weird locals and crap weather,’ said Zennor.

  Sam had to smile. ‘We’re not just another town. We’re unique. We have character – and characters – and dramatic weather that makes the headlines. We could be as famous as Padstow or Mousehole or St Ives. Why shouldn’t we be?’

  Drew put his pint down. ‘I like your way of thinking, but famous for what?’

  ‘For our festival. I think we should have our own.’

  Eyes widened. Zennor snorted. Troy blew out a long breath. ‘But who’s going to organise it? Sounds like a lot of work and disruption to me, maid.’

  Troy was right, of course, but it was too late. The idea had taken root in Sam’s mind and was gathering energy and power like a great wave bearing down on the harbour. She couldn’t shake off the thought that her mum would have been at the centre of a festival if she’d been here. As the town band reached a crescendo of ‘Trelawney’, Sam imagined her dancing on the quayside, smiling and laughing.

  Evie was right too, and her mum would have agreed. Sam was working too hard. She was only twenty-one and she had the weight of the world on her shoulders, a business, young sibling to support through college, another who’d come out of jail and she never saw. Organising a festival would be hard work but it would be fun too, and be a fitting way to honour her mum’s memory and maybe bring a bit of sparkle back to the town and her life.

  ‘We’re going to organise it,’ she declared, buoyed by bravado. ‘Us lot. We’re going to get it off the ground and we’re going to make a big success of it.’ She threw a glance at Drew. ‘Because storms or not, we have to do something to help Porthmellow.’

  Chapter One

  Early May, Eleven Years Later

  The 10th Porthmellow Food Festival

  June 29-30 – Porthmellow Harbour

  Don’t miss our biggest and best ever festival!

  Over 100 food, drink & craft stalls – live music all day

  Chef’s Theatre with cooking demonstrations including

  Star Chef Kris Zachary of BBC Weekend Kitchen Show

  ‘Cornwall’s coolest food event’ – The Sunday Times

  Sam brushed rainwater from the laminated poster in her hand. Ten years. That was a third of her life. How could they have flown by so fast?

  She still had to pinch herself at how the festival had grown since that first mad idea outside the Smuggler’s Tavern. Blinking raindrops from her eyes, she tried not to look down. She was only six feet up on the stepladder, but it was more than enough for someone who hated heights at the best of times. This was most definitely not the best of times. The rain and wind had been torrential since she’d set out from the cottage at six a.m., hoping to get the posters up before she had to get things going at Stargazey Pie. It was hard to believe it was the start of May.

  Gritting her teeth, she tried to clip the cable tie around a council sign warning people not to drive off the quay. One false move and she could topple onto the cobbles or plunge through the deck of the Marisco. Now, that would go down really well with Drew: a great big Sam-shaped hole in his precious boat. Her fingers were slippery and numb with cold, but she wanted to have the posters up now spring was – allegedly – well underway. Hordes of people would start to flock to the town and hopefully flock back again at the end of June for the festival.

  ‘Woof! Woof! Woooffffff!’

  Sam gripped the ladder as deafening barks rang out across the harbour. Her foot slipped and she had to let go of the poster to hang on. It fell onto the wet cobbles and into a large oily puddle. Still holding on for dear life, Sam twisted round to see a Rottweiler jumping up and drooling as it tried to sniff – or possibly taste – her feet.

  A woman in a long leather coat and a Megadeth T-shirt glared up at Sam as she struggled to hold the beast back. Sam steeled herself. ‘Morning, Bryony. Mizzly out here today, isn’t it?’

  Bryony prodded the laminated poster with the toe of her Doc Martens. ‘I’d hoped you’d decided to give the festival a rest for a year.’ The dog barked again so Bryony ramped up her own volume. ‘My Sacha hates all the noise and smells.’

  Bryony stroked Sacha’s head while Sam tried to let the words wash over her. It didn’t do to argue with Bryony, Cornwall’s self-declared canine expert and the most unlikely metal fan on the planet. Woe betide anyone who dared question her views on dogs, music … or the festival, or tourists, or the weather, or anything else. Sam had often thought that if Professor Stephen Hawking had ever visited Porthmellow, Bryony would have been sure to take issue with his theories on black holes. She lived in a small house not far from Wavecrest Cottage. Sam often heard Sacha barking from fifty metres away.

  Spotting a rare gap in Bryony’s tirade, Sam dived in while she could. ‘Well, the festival does bring lots of people into the town who might not otherwise come. Local people and tourists and it’s put Porthmellow on the map as a foodie and arty haven.’

  Bryony huffed. ‘Arty? The crowds are horrible and the music is trash. Sometimes I think I should close up altogether and leave town for a week.’

  ‘Is that a threat or a promise?’ muttered Sam, then instantly regretted taking the bait. She couldn’t afford to deliberately rile people in her position as festival chairman so she kept her tone firm but polite. ‘You know that the people spend loads of money in the galleries and other businesses while they’re at the festival,’ she said. Including yours, Sam wanted to add, knowing full well that Bryony’s Grooming Parlour did a roaring trade at festival time. Funnily enough, despite her objections to the festival, she hadn’t yet made good on her yearly threat to clear out while it was on.

  ‘Sacha almost choked on a wooden chip fork after the last one,’ said Bryony. ‘Probably left behind by some idiot watching that crappy folk band.’

  ‘I’m sorry Sacha was ill but the chip fork might have been from anywhere and we do our best to clear everything up. You know we’re all volunteers …’ Bryony curled a lip, and Sam gave up. ‘Would you mind passing me that poster?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve got to open up. Some of us have proper jobs.’ Bryony rubbed her dog’s head. ‘Come on, Sacha, sweetheart. We’ve got a standard poodle and two cocker spaniels to lick into shape this morning.’

  Bryony marched off with Sacha, leaving Sam still two feet off the ground. She’d known Bryony since her schooldays and so she ought to be used to her grumpiness by now. While there were people who didn’t like the festival, Bryony was probably one of the most vocal. By and large, the villagers had been very supportive, but as her mum used to say, ‘you can’t please all of the people all of the time’. Over the years, Sam had seen plenty of snide comments on the festival Facebook page, and more recently, Instagram and Twitter. When it had happened the first time, she’d been annoyed and upset but she’d toughened up since. Anyway, she didn’t care. Getting the festival up and running had been a lifesaver at a time when she desperately needed something to throw herself into and, just as important, it really had helped to revive the town.

  The rain crackled on her waterproof and ran down the gutters, threatening to wash her poster down a drain. She scrambled off the ladder to retrieve it, but another figure, this time in a scarlet waterproof, white jeans and flowery wellies, darted forward and fished it from the gutter before Sam reached it. Sam smiled. A friendly face was just what she needed after her encounter with the prophet of doom.

  ‘Here you go. I saw Bryony barking at you. Has she been a pain?’ Sam’s friend Chloe handed over the poster. Chloe was a newcomer to Porthmellow, having moved from Surrey the previous autumn after her divorce. Chloe had been an events organiser and still did some freelance work for her former company. Despite her tiny stature, she was a bundle of energy, endlessly brimming with ideas. Sam was convinced she was powered by some kind of nuclear reactor.

  ‘She had another go at me about the festival and wouldn’t even pass me a poster. She’s obviously in the w
rong job. She should be running Alcatraz.’

  Chloe’s dark brown eyes shone with amusement. Her black hair was caught in a chic updo that complemented her delicate features. Chloe’s mother had been born in Hong Kong, while her father was Welsh, and her combination of Han Chinese and Celtic genes had literally given her the best of both worlds in terms of looks. Even early in the morning in a Cornish downpour, her make-up was subtle and she looked elegant and unruffled. Sam’s own crinkly russet hair was plastered to her head. She’d dragged on the first thing she’d spotted; her jeans from the bedroom chair, a long-sleeved T-shirt straight from the tumble dryer and her ancient waterproof off the peg in the cottage porch.

  In contrast, Chloe was a living, breathing advertisement for the designer boutiques that clustered around the trendier end of Porthmellow harbour. Three had moved in since the food festival had started, along with a prestigious gallery, a stylish homeware shop and a deli. There were only a few units to let now, and even the chip shop had gone more upmarket, offering salads and wraps alongside the cod and saveloys.

  It might be a coincidence, but Sam was convinced that the new businesses had been encouraged by all the visitors who flocked to the festival and the town in the summer months. Stargazey Pie had done well too. A couple of years previously, she’d been able to move from her back-street kitchen to a smart catering unit on the edge of town and buy a mobile van that was now a popular fixture for events all over Cornwall with its artisan pies. It was hard work and she might never be rich from it, but she adored being her own boss and making a living from doing something she loved.

  ‘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 Rya
n 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.

  What Sam didn’t know – until Gabe found out and told her – was that to pay off his debts, Ryan was planning to take part in a robbery of the arcade where he worked. Even worse, the same gang were also planning to rob various premises in Porthmellow. They were people who Ryan knew well, and drank with in the pub; friends of the Lovells who’d helped them after their mother had died. Sam’s stomach clenched at the memory, even now.