One Cornish Summer Read online

  Dedication

  For Chris

  Title Page

  Liz Fenwick

  Contents

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  PART TWO

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  PART THREE

  Sixty-Five

  Sixty-Six

  Sixty-Seven

  Sixty-Eight

  Sixty-Nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-One

  Seventy-Two

  Seventy-Three

  Seventy-Four

  Seventy-Five

  Seventy-Six

  Seventy-Seven

  Seventy-Eight

  Seventy-Nine

  Eighty

  Eighty-One

  Eighty-Two

  Eighty-Three

  Eighty-Four

  Eighty-Five

  Eighty-Six

  Eighty-Seven

  Eighty-Eight

  Eighty-Nine

  Ninety

  Ninety-One

  Ninety-Two

  Ninety-Three

  Ninety-Four

  Ninety-Five

  Ninety-Six

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  About the author

  Also by Liz Fenwick

  Copyright

  Prologue

  ‘Don’t ever speak of this to anyone.’

  He rolled over, and I saw who was under him.

  My body began to shake. I opened my mouth to speak but words would not form as I watched her pull on her clothes. He remained in the bed with a sheet covering his nakedness. My brain wouldn’t lose the image of what I’d seen. It was stuck on repeat as she walked past me without a word or a glance. The last thing I saw was the friendship bracelet on her ankle.

  PART ONE

  One

  Hebe

  June 2015

  The beach below is empty and we begin down the path. Your excitement about your new project proposal explodes into your words and it catches me.

  ‘You need to expose them to the power of the metaphor. No one does this better than Donne.’ I turn to you and your smile is radiant. ‘Yet nothing can to nothing fall.’ I take a breath. ‘Nor any place be empty quite …’ I can’t recall the rest and I stumble. You take my hand and give it a squeeze, not releasing it. Doubt fills me again.

  The sound of a bell carries on the breeze. A church nestles in the sand just out of sight. In front of us the water flashes turquoise, which startles me. My steps falter yet we go forward, openly hand in hand, down to the sea. I have not been here with you before. For nine years I have kept you separate from something that is so much a part of me. Maybe the decision to come was reckless, but I hope here in this remote part of the Lizard we can be invisible. That we can simply be us … before it is gone.

  The path ends. Sunlight bounces off the damp stones. The clarity of the water hurts my eyes as the blues and greens glisten jewel-like while a breeze stirs the surface. You’ve never been to Cornwall before and I can see the wonder on your face.

  ‘I told you it was lovely.’

  You turn to me. ‘You did, but you were lying.’

  I tilt my head and study you. ‘I haven’t lied to you.’ But I know I haven’t told you everything either. I glance away. How much longer will I know what I have and haven’t told you?

  ‘You have.’

  I shiver and look away. Your hand waving as if caressing the beach catches my eye, drawing me back to you. ‘This isn’t lovely … it is so far beyond that. It is almost too beautiful.’

  I laugh and pull you into my arms. We are alone with only a seagull for company. The freedom of being away with you is intoxicating. June sunshine beats down on our heads and I allow myself to forget that this is all wrong. I kiss you, then pull free, running along the sand like a child. The sea laps at the bottom of my jeans and you begin to race with me until we reach the rocks that mark the end of the beach. You swing me into your arms and we spin around until we fall onto the damp sand.

  ‘I love you, Hebe Courtenay.’

  I open my mouth to speak, to silence you, but you place a finger on my lips.

  ‘I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m going to shout it anyway. I want the world to know.’ You stare into my eyes, and all the love you have for me is reflected there. ‘I, Rory Crown, love you!’ You pull me to my feet. ‘I love you.’ You shout it to the cliff, and then turn to the sea and do it again.

  I look around, ready to run. No one else is here and I am safe in your arms. We have time here away from the world, just me and you. No one cares who we are, or why we are together. For this moment, I can pretend that we are normal.

  I am sleepy from the wine and the heat of the log fire. Despite the strength of the sun during the day, the evening is cold. I shudder and you look up from the computer. I should be working too, but I can’t focus. The doctor said this would happen more and more. Right now I am too tired to fight it, but I must. Do you see the difference in me, I wonder, or is it just that now that I know … everything fits?

  ‘Can you take a look through this passage?’ You stand and bring your laptop to me. ‘I’m not sure it’s concise enough, or maybe the wine is affecting the words.’

  Smiling, I pick up my reading glasses. You’ve highlighted the text in orange so that I know what to review. I glance up at you but you are staring into the fire. The flames are mesmerising, but I force myself to read your words. Yet no matter how many times I read them, their meaning evades me. I tighten my grip on the laptop, trying to force my brain to work, but it won’t pull sense from your sentences. It must be the wine. It has to be the wine.

  You yawn and I do as well. ‘Are you struggling with it too?’ You take the computer from me.
‘Let’s both look at it with fresh eyes in the morning.’ Closing the laptop, you hold out your hand. ‘Come.’ I take it, remembering the day you came into my life almost nine years ago.

  *

  Come, madam, come, all rest my powers defy

  Just then the door opened and you walked in. ‘Sorry.’

  My breath caught. Your dark hair fell in curls on your neck. Your shoulders were broad but not yet fully fleshed out as a man. It was as though Thomas Grylls had stepped out of the portrait on my wall and into my classroom wearing jeans and a grey T-shirt. I closed my eyes for a moment. I shouldn’t turn into a puddle of lust because of you. I had seen more than my fair share of handsome young men and none had ever tempted me to cross that line.

  But you.

  ‘Sorry. I was locked out of my room and had to wait for the porter to let me in.’ Your voice softly Scottish.

  ‘We were just beginning.’

  You nodded and took a seat in the front.

  ‘As I was saying.’ I glanced at you, leaving the sentence unfinished, then started to hand out sheets of paper. ‘Before we begin, here’s the reading list and the next assignment.’ Your hand touched mine as you took the pages from me. I froze. I could barely look into your eyes. My glance fell to your mouth. Your full lips lifted as if you knew what I was feeling.

  Turning from you, I picked up the book and opened it. ‘Who would like to read Donne’s Elegy XIX, “To His Mistress Going to Bed”?’

  Silence. Worried glances travelled from student to student, then you raised your hand, looking at your peers. ‘I’d be happy to.’ You smiled.

  ‘Come, madam, come, all rest my powers defy,

  Until I labour, I in labour lie.’

  The words rolled from your tongue and I clung to the edge of the desk. The women of the group were as enraptured as I was. You continued.

  ‘The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,

  Is tir’d with standing though he never fight.

  Off with that girdle, like heaven’s zone glistering,

  But a far fairer world encompassing.

  Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,

  That th’eyes of busy fools may be stopped there.

  Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime

  Tells me from you that now it is bed time.’

  Audible sighs brought me out of the trance I was in. Dear God, listening to you was as if Thomas Grylls had appeared in the flesh. In fact I’d written such a scene just days before, where Thomas was alone with his fiancée Lucia and he undressed her slowly, worshipping her with kisses. My face flushed and I turned from the class, looking out of the window at the September morning. Sunflowers had rotated upwards, burning in the heat of the sun.

  ‘Those set our hairs on end, but these our flesh upright.

  License my roving hands, and let them go

  Before, behind, between, above, below.

  O my America! my new-found-land,

  My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned.’

  Your performance of the lines was as skilled as an actor’s. Your burr caressed each word. Flesh tingled back to life. I longed for you to stop, and yet I didn’t.

  ‘There is no penance due to innocence.

  To teach thee, I am naked first; why then,

  What needst thou have more covering than a man?’

  ‘Thank you …’ The words stuttered from me. As I looked at you, the room disappeared. Your glance met mine; you gave me an apologetic half-smile then shook your head.

  ‘Sorry.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Time to leave the magic of Donne’s words behind and delve into the gritty reality of the seventeenth century.’

  *

  You sneeze, and suddenly I am back in this isolated old cottage and not standing at the front of a dusty classroom with twenty students waiting. I crawl into bed beside you, remembering while I still can. I pull you close and fall asleep to the sound of your heart beating.

  Two

  Lucy

  26 September 2016

  ‘Hello.’ A voice whispered from behind Lucy and a hand brushed the base of her spine. She shivered. Ed. She raised the camera to her face, covering the rush of colour to her cheeks. Lucy had to play this cool. She couldn’t let him distract her from her job.

  Through the viewfinder she saw a Member of Parliament chatting to one of the teenage volunteers for the literacy charity. The camera shutter sound was muted and Lucy captured the images leaving them all unaware. That was best. She saw the real but created an illusion. Not fake, but certainly an altered reality. The discussion between the two was heated, but looking through the twenty images she’d taken in quick succession, she’d caught what looked like a beaming smile. The teen had made a winning point in the argument, but taken out of context it was charming, not victorious.

  All the young volunteers attending had signed release forms before the guests had arrived. They were keen to help raise awareness, and so was Lucy. Today she was working for no fee. She knew what it was like to struggle to read being dyslexic, but she’d had the benefit of the best schooling available. The girl she had photographed was eighteen and angry. For years she had been written off as stupid, but she was far from it; Lucy had seen that in their chat earlier. The teen wore her emotion like a tattoo across her unlined forehead. Yet in the photo she appeared sweet. But Lucy knew the truth. The girl would soon acquire the skill that all women learned at some point in their lives: hiding their emotions from the world. Another year or two and she would have buried the anger. It would still be there – if invisible – and it would drive every move she made, but she would forget it was the anger navigating her choices. Lucy sighed.

  By the window stood Daisy, an old school friend. Her face was the picture of concern as she listened to an older man. Lucy framed the image, making sure Daisy looked her best. The goal was to encourage others to want to donate and to be a part of something good. Although this was similar to much of the work she did for magazines – capturing in pixels the great, the good and in some cases the far from good – the kids in attendance gave the event an interesting edge. The challenge of telling this story was that it was important and not just people launching a new product or simply having a good time. For once it was a story Lucy wanted to tell.

  She slipped unnoticed through the guests, not being drawn into conversation. It would have been so easy to stop and talk. She knew these people and they knew her. Hell, she’d attended enough of these events as one of them, without a camera in her hand. But she much preferred it with one.

  Over the past nine years as a professional, she’d become a master of the flattering shot, even if for some subjects this was challenging. They relied on her to take the perfect picture, or at least one that wouldn’t make them appear worse. She understood how the world worked. It didn’t have to be real these days, it just had to look good.

  By the window she saw Mrs Talworth with the princess and composed the shot. That photo with the afternoon sun shining on Mrs Talworth’s highlighted hair would make the centrepiece for the society pages and might even hit tomorrow’s papers. With the golden tone of the light she had dropped a good ten years off the woman, and the princess looked as unchanging as ever.

  ‘Lucy, darling.’

  She lowered the camera as the editor of a glossy magazine appeared.

  ‘Surely you’ve got what you need and can knock off and enjoy yourself now?’ The woman smiled. ‘We haven’t had a proper gossip in ages. Who are you with these days?’

  ‘No time for gossip if you want the pics first thing in the morning.’ Lucy looked at her watch. She’d need to edit these and send the best off tonight.

  ‘True.’ The editor sipped her champagne. ‘I’ll see you at the weekend.’

  Lucy frowned, reviewing her schedule in her mind. Was she shooting a wedding? It wasn
’t like her to forget a job.

  ‘At your parents’.’

  Lucy rolled her eyes then nodded. A weekend in the Cotswolds with her family was exactly what she didn’t want. Why had she agreed to this? Emotional blackmail. It was her brother Michael’s birthday. ‘Forgot.’

  Ed brushed past and slipped a piece of paper into her hand. He despised most of this crowd but knew it was important to be seen supporting the charity.

  The editor wandered away in the direction of the princess and Lucy fled to the ladies. Locking the door, she opened the note. She hadn’t seen Ed since last week. Most of the time this was exactly what she wanted, a man with limited access. No emotional demands, just mental and physical stimulation – hers but not hers. In short, Lucy wanted the impossible and had found it with a married man. The irony wasn’t lost on her.

  Sheila’s gone to her mother’s. Meet me at mine at eight. Use the rear entrance. X

  She flushed the note down the loo, knowing she could never be too careful. It was now 5 p.m. She had work to do, then he would be a reward for good behaviour.

  Lucy’s stomach rumbled. The problem with working these events was that she never had a chance to eat. Glancing at her watch, she thought about stopping and picking up a sandwich, but she was late getting to Ed’s already. She hoped there was some food in the flat, but she doubted it. The last time she’d visited there had been a mouldy loaf of bread and a bottle of champagne. His wife didn’t do domestics – or marriage, for that matter, from what he’d told her.

  Reaching the back of the building, she sent him a text. The pong from the bins reacted with her empty stomach. She loved the no-ties relationship they had, but the subterfuge had begun to pall. Just as her gut rolled uncomfortably, Ed met her at the rear entrance and they climbed the stairs in silence. Once through the door, he reached for her and Lucy allowed the passion to rise, trying to ignore her hunger pangs. While Ed was pulling at her shirt, she was scanning the counter for a piece of fruit, anything she could eat. It was devoid of anything but a bottle of wine. The only thing that marred the bare room was a calendar with the days circled in red taped to the fridge.