A knight in a shining camper van!

Life is far from picture perfect for food photographer Emilie Roberts. Not only has her ex-boyfriend cheated on her, he’s also stolen her dream assignment to beautiful Venice! Instead, Emilie is heading to the Cornish coast…

Emilie doesn’t think it can get any worse – until disaster strikes on the very first day! And there’s only one man to rescue this damsel in distress: extremely hunky surfing instructor Matt Ashby.

Racing from shoot to shoot in a bright orange vintage camper van, Matt isn’t the conventional knight in shining armour – but can he make all of Emilie’s fairy-tale dreams come true?

A delightfully heart-warming romance to sweep readers off their feet! Perfect for fans of Mandy Baggot, Christie Barlow and Holly Martin.

Available from Daisy James

The Runaway Bridesmaid

If the Dress Fits

When Only Cupcakes Will Do

There’s Something

About Cornwall

Daisy James

DAISY JAMES

is a Yorkshire girl transplanted to the north-east of England. She loves writing stories with strong heroines and swift-flowing plotlines. She has written four novels, The Runaway Bridesmaid, If the Dress Fits, When Only Cupcakes Will Do and There’s Something about Cornwall – all contemporary romances with a dash of humour. When not scribbling away in her peppermint-and-green summerhouse (garden shed), she spends her time sifting flour and sprinkling sugar and edible glitter. She loves gossiping with friends over a glass of something pink and fizzy or indulging in a spot of afternoon tea – china plates and teacups are a must!

Daisy would love to hear from readers via her Facebook page or you can follow her on Twitter @daisyjamesbooks.

To my oldest friends Gillian Mowbray and Elaine Curtis

for their love and support whatever the weather.

A huge thank you to Tarquin Leadbetter of Southwestern Distillery at Higher Trevibban Farm, Wadebridge, Cornwall, for his assistance with my research into Cornish pastis.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Endpages

Copyright

Chapter One

‘No, Alice, I’m sorry but I can’t do it.’

‘You do know that Lucinda Carlton-Rose is one of the hottest TV chefs and cookery book writers out there at the minute, don’t you? It’s an all-expenses-paid trip to Cornwall. What’s not to like? And it would be a fabulous opportunity to add to your portfolio for when you go freelance. You can’t turn it down! You have to do it!’

‘Alice…’

‘Please, Emilie. You are literally my last hope!’

‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’

‘Okay, Lucinda may be a bit of a pain to work with…’

‘“A bit of a pain to work with?” You really are a mistress of understatement. She has a reputation a rabid Rottweiler would be proud of! She’s mauled better food photographers than me in her time, Al. She’s a gold medal holder in obsessive perfectionism. I’d be like one of her lavender-infused blancmanges the whole time. And you know what happens when I’m nervous – my hands tremble and I drop stuff! My camera would be shaking so much you’d think I was shooting on a trampoline.’

Emilie shook her head slowly, her eyes focused on the view of the London skyline from her office window as twilight washed the rooftops with a splash of salmon and indigo. She flicked her long copper waves over her shoulder and refocused her attention on the phone call.

‘You do remember what Lucinda was like when Suzie worked with her on the Lucinda Loves…Seafood book, don’t you? Suzie still swears that if she hadn’t been able to escape to that silent yoga retreat in Andalucía she would have been looking at her sanity in the rear-view mirror. She’s adamant she’ll never work with Lucinda – or on any food preparation shoot – ever again. What was the alternative title Suzie gave her TV show? You know – the one she kept on ticker-tape repeat for the whole week she was with Lucinda?’

‘The Devil Wears an Apron.’ Alice giggled, despite her desperation to persuade Emilie to step into Suzie’s stilettos. ‘But this gig is different. It’s not a studio assignment. Admit it, all your college friends would trample over your dead body for a chance to work on a Lucinda Loves… location shoot. They’d be on the train to Penzance before you could say cappuccino cupcake.’

‘Sorry, I can’t do it. I just can’t. Not after what’s just happened with Brad. I don’t think my shaky self-belief could stand another vicious pounding.’

‘Brad is a cheating moron! I really don’t know what you saw in the guy, Em.’

‘Well, perhaps it was his smouldering good looks, the buttocks of steel in those D&G jeans…’ she began in an effort to divert Alice from her mission, but it was to no avail. She heard her friend inhale a deep breath and she shifted uncomfortably in her desk chair. She knew what was coming.

‘That’s not the point. He knew how desperate you were to land that shoot in Venice, and how much research you put into your pitch. Italian food is your specialism, too. It was a really despicable thing for him to do, going straight to Dexter and pulling rank. Anyway, isn’t he supposed to be Dexter Carvill’s intrepid travel photographer, not a food photographer? And how many times has he trashed your area of expertise? Amazing how his opinion suddenly changes when a trip to Italy is on the agenda.’

‘Alice…’

‘I know he’d usually sell his granny if he thought there was an overseas assignment in it, but this time I just know he did it to get back at you for finishing with him.’

‘Can we talk about Brad later?’ Emilie murmured, not up to one of Alice’s monologues on Brad’s selfishness.

‘Right, that settles it! You have to help me out on this Lucinda Loves… shoot. The money’s great and it’s a full two-week assignment travelling from north to south Cornwall and all points in between. And as an added bonus you can stop off to visit your parents in St Ives. I know it’s not exactly Italy, but it’ll be a blast. Did you have a look at the promo stuff I sent over to you?’

Emilie sifted through the paperwork on her cluttered desk, dislodging mounds of glossy photography brochures, a battalion of stale coffee cups and crisp packets, even a half-eaten tuna sandwich that had been lurking under a newspaper since yesterday. She’d never been the most Poirotesque of people but clutter and chaos just seemed to creep up on her without warning and she’d grown used to it – in fact, it had become an inexplicable comfort. She twisted her upper lip as she reached under a discarded pizza box to extricate the Lucinda Loves… schedule.

She ran her eyes down the detailed itinerary that had been sent to the agency by Lucinda’s management and hammed up her best BBC presenter’s accent. ‘“Join Lucinda Carlton-Rose, one of Britain’s best loved TV chefs, for a culinary road trip par excellence through the picturesque county of Cornwall, taking in the most delicious of local dishes and sampling a whole host of recipes handed down from generation to generation.”’

‘Come on, Em, you have to admit it sounds like a lot of fun. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to get away from the frazzle of London and plan the next stage of your life. Take the time to really think about when you’re going to launch your own photography business. If you do this shoot on Lucinda Loves… it’ll be a massive boost for your portfolio. You’ll have clients hammering down your door to work with you, maybe even famous ones.’

‘Or to look at it another way, if it all goes pear-shaped – and there’s a better than fifty per cent chance it will from what Suzie said – I’ll be flushing my whole career down the toilet!’

‘So, you prefer to play it safe, is that what you’re saying? Nothing exciting ever happened by playing it safe! Okay so Brad won the star prize this time but you’ve got the chance of a fabulous consolation prize.’

Emilie opened her mouth to bat back an indignant response but Alice was on a roll.

‘It’s just the excuse you need to banish the whole Brad fiasco from your befuddled mind. Get some distance.’

‘We have distance! Have you forgotten already that he’s probably, as we speak, soaking up the atmosphere in St Mark’s Square whilst sipping an ice-cold Bellini in Harry’s Bar?’

Alice ignored her. ‘Keep reading.’

‘“This time it’s Lucinda Loves…Desserts, so there’ll be a cornucopia of cake, a tower of tarts and a plethora of pastries.”’ Then there’s a whole list of cakes and biscuits and pies. What the hell is Figgy ’Obbin?’

‘Mmm, I can feel the drool forming already.’ Alice paused, and softened her voice. ‘You have to do this, Em. It’s time to work on building your confidence. You are an awesome photographer and getting away from Brad’s influence will help you realise that.’

Emilie knew Alice had a point. Not only had she ended her relationship with Brad after discovering his dalliance with a lingerie model whilst on a shoot in Barcelona the previous month, but she had also recently found out that he had been bad-mouthing her to Dexter, and several of her clients, forcing her to work even harder to prove her worth. Whilst she was devastated at Brad’s disloyalty and missed him greatly, his disparaging remarks to her boss about her creative talent had hurt her the most.

How could he have said those things when they had been planning to go freelance together? She had thought he was proud of her achievements, appreciated what she brought to their professional partnership, believed that they made an awesome team. In fact, he had told her so on frequent occasions.

Clearly Brad had been lying to her about that too, and whilst the numerous awards on her office shelf should reassure her she was good at what she did, she wasn’t sure that without Brad by her side she could continue with her dream of going solo. She shoved those demons into the crevices of her mind for later dissection and moved on to present to Alice another argument for the defence.

‘But it’s two whole weeks away from home! And how am I expected to travel around Cornwall via…’ she grabbed the sheaf of paper containing the schedule from the floor, shoving her copper waves over the crown of her head ‘…via nine…yes, nine venues? You know I don’t drive.’

‘You will be working alongside the indomitable photo stylist Alice Jenkins – I hear she’s great fun! No, seriously, I have all that sorted. I’m your designated driver. And…remember, it is Cornwall we’re talking about here. There’s bound to be a battalion of hunky surfing guys just waiting to whisk us away to their beach parties and barbeques…’

‘It’s the end of September, Alice; the surfing season is probably over.’

‘So they’ll be celebrating the end of the season! Oooo, all those rippling bronzed torsos. All that long golden hair bleached by the summer sun, all their…’

‘Okay, okay,’ Emilie interrupted with a laugh to prevent any further lyrical pronouncements. ‘Calm down! It won’t do you any good drooling over a bunch of imaginary surfing dudes, gorgeous as they sound.’

‘So, it’s a yes, then?’

Emilie straightened her shoulders. Why should Brad have all the fun? And Cornwall was just as photogenic as Venice, if not more so, not to mention the spasm of nostalgia that had shot through her veins as she remembered childhood holidays spent on its windswept beaches. It would also prove to Dexter, and to herself, that she could do a shoot of this importance on her own and do it well.

‘It’s a yes! Actually, if I’m asked to photograph another precious five-year-old in a Disney princess outfit I think I’ll throw myself off the castle turret!’

‘Excellent!’

Emilie knew Alice had punched the air. She had heard the silver charm bracelet, laden with meaningful charms Alice had collected over the years, jangling at her wrist. A curl of excitement, mingled with nervous anticipation, meandered through Emilie’s chest. Was she really up to the challenge? She wasn’t entirely sure, but Alice was her friend and the most obsessively organised person she had ever encountered. Every detail of their two-week itinerary would have been meticulously planned, every recipe carefully co-ordinated with its backdrop. Even if she was struggling to recover her own self-belief, she had the utmost confidence in Alice’s talent as a photo stylist extraordinaire.

‘Watch out, Newquay, here come Alice Jenkins and Emilie Jane Roberts!’

‘The first shoot is in Padstow actually.’ Alice laughed. ‘Mmm, all that yummy seafood. I can’t wait. Hey, it’s just as well it’s not a Lucinda Loves…Seafood gig, isn’t it? I’m not sure Lucinda is the kind of chef who understands picky eaters like you. I think she’d spontaneously combust if you refused to taste her creations.’

‘What? You think I’ll have to eat what she bakes as well as photograph it? I’ve never been asked to do that before. I’ll look like a flabby elephant by the time I arrive in Penzance to shoot their…erm…Cornish Yarg Soufflés!’

‘I don’t know. I’m just saying Lucinda could interpret your refusal as disapproval of her recipes and if there’s one thing Lucinda is not good at it’s taking criticism, constructive or otherwise.’

‘Anyway, who’s labelled me as a picky eater?’ Emilie laughed again, her spirits rising as she anticipated spending the next two weeks in Alice’s exuberant company – a friend whose special brand of cheerfulness in the face of any culinary disaster would be like spreading hot chocolate ganache on her wounded heart.

‘Me! I don’t know anyone who can live on coffee and crisps and still look as gorgeous as you do. There’s a whole kaleidoscope of delicious recipes out there and for God’s sake, you photograph them every day! You allow cookery book readers to feast with their eyes on the images you create, to drool over whatever cuisine you’re shooting as they anticipate what they might produce themselves in their own kitchens, and you don’t want to eat it? You’re crazy!’

‘It’s precisely because the food is in my face every day that I’m selective in my tastes – that’s all. Anyway, I love desserts so that’s not going to be a problem. Lucinda can force-feed me scones oozing with jam and Cornish clotted cream as much as she likes.’

Alice giggled. ‘I can so just see Lucinda Carlton-Rose rubbing a cream scone in your face like a custard tart. Actually, that’s not as far-fetched as it sounds.’

‘Why? What do you mean?’

‘Oh, nothing…’

‘Alice?’

‘Well, one of the reasons I couldn’t get anyone else to do this shoot is that Lucinda threw a whole Mango and Apricot Pavlova at Rick, the lead photographer on the Lucinda Loves…Fruit shoot, after he inadvertently trampled on a box of her ripened mangoes. It was like being in the audience at a circus performance. I didn’t know whether to applaud from the sidelines or rush over and offer Rick a towel!’

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.’

‘But it’s…it’s a camper van!’

‘Yes, what were you expecting? A Winnebago? I know it’ll be a bit cosy, but we won’t be spending a lot of time inside – only to sleep and have a quick breakfast before joining the crew for the shoot. Come on, don’t stand there like a soggy treacle pudding. Climb in. We need to get over to the hotel in Padstow to get the shoot set up so we can start the photography as soon as Lucinda’s bakes are ready. There’s lots to organise. Today is an indoor shoot in the hotel’s conservatory, thank goodness, but I’m sure you’ll want to have everything wrapped up before we lose the natural light.’

Alice leapt up into the driver’s seat but Emilie remained motionless on the footpath, clutching the handle of her beloved prop box so tightly her knuckles had bleached white. Confusion and a myriad of questions ricocheted around her brain. Why hadn’t she thought to check where she would be staying for the Cornwall-wide journey? If she were honest, she had assumed she would be in the same hotel as Lucinda and loyal her assistant, Marcus Baker – but how presumptuous was that? She was a lowly photographer, not a celebrated TV chef and bestselling cookery book writer. But still, two weeks in a VW camper van? Squashed into a makeshift bed next to neat-freak Alice? It was a recipe for verbal fireworks.

The passenger-side window scrolled down and Alice peered over from the other side, her slender body hunched over the steering wheel, her mahogany bob swinging around her chin.

‘Earth to Emilie! What are you waiting for? We have a very tight schedule to keep to. I wouldn’t recommend risking Lucinda’s wrath so soon in the proceedings. Surely I don’t have to remind you that upsetting her would be professional suicide?’

Alice’s words of warning somehow sliced through Emilie’s armour of denial. She grasped the silver handle and slid back the van’s side door to stow her precious trunk in the back, and then jumped into the seat beside Alice. With a stomach-churning crunch of the gears, Alice leapfrogged away from the kerb, revving the engine and crashing the clutch until she reached the junction outside the station. There she pulled into the path of a BMW Roadster, earning herself an indignant blast of a horn and a one-fingered salute. She graced the gesticulating driver with a bright smile and a wave and headed for the road to Padstow.

‘So, how exciting is this?’ Alice gushed. ‘Chocolate-box Cornwall – nine stops, a selection of local and traditional desserts in each. What a blast we’re going to have! Come on, Em, there’s no need to look so horrified. It’s only a camper van. Would you have preferred a tent?’

‘Good grief! No way! I haven’t camped in the great outdoors since I was in the Brownies and even then I was evicted from the tent and made to sleep in the kitchen hut for prolonging a midnight feast.’

‘Don’t you think it’s the perfect solution? It’s mobile, it’s comfortable and it’s a stylish way to travel. I bet we get lots more comments about our mode of transport than Lucinda does in her blacked-out limousine.’

Emilie glanced across at Alice to check if she was being sarcastic. Sadly she wasn’t. She truly believed they had drawn the long straw in the vehicle stakes!

‘We can make our own breakfast and eat on set at lunchtime. After all, there’ll be plenty of delicious cakes to sample.’ Alice laughed, gracing Emilie with a show of her movie star teeth. ‘And when the daily shoot is over we can drive to the next location, park up and party all night without having to check into some grotty B&B or worry about waking everyone up when we tumble in at two a.m.’

Emilie turned her head to look over her shoulder into the back of the camper van – her Home Sweet Home for the next two weeks. No, wait a minute, half of her home as she would be sharing the space with Alice. There was a tiny kitchenette with a stainless steel sink, and a dual-burner hob with under-bench grill. There was even a minuscule fridge and a microwave built into the bright orange Formica units. Padded ivory leather seats, piped in matching orange, surrounded an orange table and, to complete the feeling of being imprisoned inside a satsuma, orange-and-yellow checked curtains were drawn neatly back at the windows.

Emilie wished she’d thought to bring her sunglasses. Much as she liked Alice, she had an ominous feeling in the pit of her stomach that their daily struggle to five o’clock was not going to be plain sailing.

‘Take a look behind my seat!’ Alice smirked.

‘Why?’ asked Emilie, straining her neck to take in a nondescript square seat topped with a matching ivory cushion piped in the ubiquitous orange.

‘Guess what that is?’

‘Oh, God, don’t tell me.’

‘It’s a porta-potty.’

‘If you think either of us is going to use that then you’re living in a hippie-dippie dream world!’

Alice smiled but knew when to change the subject. However, her new line of attack was no less uncomfortable for Emilie.

‘You might not think it at the moment but this trip is exactly what you need right now. Don’t look at me like that. You and Brad might have been the perfect couple when you started out, both amazing photographers in your own fields, but I did warn you that he wouldn’t be able to stomach the fact that you have acres more talent than he has and over time it would cause problems.’

‘He’s a great photographer, Alice. And he taught me loads!’

‘He’s good, yes. But you’re better. Ever since you clutched that golden trophy for Best Food Photographer of the Year to your sequinned chest in July, he realised that your star was in the ascendant whilst his was on the wane and he was jealous. Plain as that. That’s why he suddenly became so disparaging about food and product photography. Why he was always saying that it’s the agency’s poor relation, and by extension so were you. He should have been singing your praises from the rooftops, proud of your achievement and of his hand in it, but instead he’s constantly pulling rank and it’s destroyed your confidence. It’s just plain professional envy and it’s not attractive. I would have loved to be a fly on the wall when he went to Dexter and snatched the Venice job. When did he leave?’

‘Last Friday. I gave him a lift to the airport.’ She cringed when she saw Alice roll her eyes so she hurried on. ‘Even though we’re not seeing each other any more, there’s no reason why we can’t still be friends.’

‘He cheated on you with a clothes horse! Reason enough in my book.’

‘And we do still have to work together at the agency, especially now that the freelance venture is off the table.’

‘It doesn’t mean you can’t do it on your own, Em. Nothing’s changed as far as your awesome talent is concerned.’ Alice smiled.

Emilie swiftly averted her eyes but it was no use; Alice Jenkins was an emotional X-ray machine.

‘What? What else did he do?’

‘He borrowed my new camera.’

‘What? Not your prized Nikon?’

‘Yep.’

‘I take it you’ve protested in the strongest terms!’

‘You could say that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We had a blazing row over the phone when he was at the airport. He accused me of sour grapes about his trip to Italy and I told him where I’d like to stick my bunch of squashed fruit. It wasn’t pretty, but it felt good to get it off my chest.’

‘And?’

‘Okay, you’re right. Brad did change after I won that award, but I’m not sorry I got it. That night at The Dorchester was one of the best of my life!’

‘Attagirl!’

She was saved from Alice’s further analysis on the appropriateness of Brad as good boyfriend material as they had pulled into the car park of an imposing hotel on the seafront at Padstow. She glanced through the windscreen at the pewter-grey stone exterior and the almost subtropical foliage that surrounded it. The grand cornices above and around the entrance had been painted a brilliant white, but the undeniable grandeur of the hotel’s architecture receded into the background when she caught a glimpse of the view of Padstow’s harbour and the pretty fishing boats bobbing next to their larger, sleeker cousins.

Emilie refocused her attention on the hotel and her heart contracted with envy. Why weren’t she and Alice staying here?

‘That shade of green doesn’t suit you, Emilie.’ Alice laughed, swivelling round in her seat to look at her. Her smile slipped from her face as she grew serious for the first time since they’d left the station. ‘Okay, you haven’t worked with Lucinda before so let me give you a heads-up. As you would expect, she’s a seasoned professional. She demands absolute focus on the job in hand and insists on perfection first time – no excuses. I know she has a reputation for being a complete culinary ogre, but she gets results and she only demands of those around her what she expects of herself.

‘You have to admit her cookery books are bibliographic works of art. Every single recipe truly zings from the page; the colours are so sharp, the textures so perfect the reader can almost smell the intensity of the aromas, almost taste the exquisite flavours. Whenever you pick up a Lucinda Loves… cookery book you just have to pull on your apron and get baking! Just stay out of her way, remember the three rules of success, and you’ll be fine.’

Alice jumped from the driver’s seat and yanked open the side door to let Emilie grab her prop box.

‘Erm, what exactly are the three rules of success?’

Alice rolled her hazel eyes. ‘Preparation, preparation, preparation! Okay, it’s just after one o’clock. That means we have less than an hour to get everything set up for the first shoot and for you to take the test shots. We were only able to reserve the conservatory for a two-hour time slot because a wedding party is due to arrive at three. If we’re working to the schedule, Lucinda will deliver the desserts she wants you to photograph fresh from the kitchen at two p.m. precisely, which gives you an hour to get your shots done.’

Emilie experienced a sharp flutter of panic deep in her abdomen. Whilst she had an idea of how she intended to sculpt the light around the images of the Cornish league of desserts, she usually liked to take her time. Even when she thought she had the perfect shot, she still needed to extract every bit of potential from it. She liked to take photographs using her tripod and then using her handheld camera, exploring the subject from all angles, viewing it through different focal-length lenses and using a variety of light sources.

Next she would review each image on the LCD screen, checking the exposure, composition and sharpness before deciding how best to fine-tune the shot. Should she go in tighter? Back off to include more of the subject matter? Could the shot be improved with a vertical or horizontal format? Should she place the focal point in a different part of the image to see if it affected balance and flow? She knew she had a tendency to continue to question her work even beyond being satisfied – but the most fabulous shot ever could be just around the corner. She hated to be rushed.

Her mind went blank as she searched the crevices of her memory for the details of the desserts Lucinda was at that very moment preparing in the hotel’s kitchen with the Michelin-starred chef. It was always the same; she was nervous at the beginning of a new assignment until she’d got to know the personalities of the clients she was dealing with and could relax.

Her facial expression must have spoken volumes because Alice grabbed her elbow and all but dragged her up the sweeping staircase, depositing her in the conservatory that overlooked the rippling azure of the hotel’s heated swimming pool in the lush, tropical gardens. Beyond the horticultural paradise the view seemed to bask in a luminosity she didn’t see in London. Tourists sauntered or cycled along the beachfront pathways and children chased one another, shrieking with excitement – either anticipated or recently experienced.

The town was spotlessly clean, as though an army of enthusiasts had scrubbed the streets that morning especially for Lucinda’s arrival. There was a palpable buzz of contentment, of calm relaxation, which when she thought about it wasn’t so surprising – most visitors were keen to soak up the last precious moments of their break from the relentless daily dash to five o’clock that would resume the following day.

She watched as her friend rushed over to her own prop box and began to dress the table next to the window in accordance with the laminated cards she had no doubt prepared weeks earlier. As she did so, Alice maintained a constant commentary interspersed with snappy instructions to Emilie, whom she had clearly decided to treat as an amateur on the first shoot. But her famous organisational skills reaped rewards and the gastronomic stage set was ready with five minutes to spare.

‘Two desserts to photograph today,’ announced Alice as she stepped back and surveyed her handiwork. ‘There’s Cornish Saffron Cake and a batch of Cornish Honey-Infused Biscuits that will melt in your mouth. Hey, did you know they grow tea here in Cornwall? The Tregothnan estate is the only business to grow it commercially in Britain.’

‘Mmm?’ mumbled Emilie, too stressed to listen to what Alice was saying. She knew it was imperative to make a good first impression with Lucinda, yet beads of perspiration rolled down her temples and her hair had become more bird’s nest than Sunday Best.

She reached up to tie her unruly copper waves into a high ponytail and ran a critical eye over the mini stage set they had created. Her heart hammered a nervous concerto against her ribcage as anxiety gnawed at the back of her throat, scattering her lucid thoughts. She shook herself, inhaled a deep, steadying breath, and forcibly dragged her wandering concentration back to the present.

To Emilie’s trained eye they had designed the perfect backdrop for Lucinda’s duo of Cornish culinary creations. A lemon-and-white checked tablecloth stretched across a long trestle table and had been accessorised with saffron-yellow napkins on white china plates. Two huge oval platters decorated with tiny yachts with sunflower-yellow sails stood at either end awaiting the arrival of the biscuits. But in the starring role was a magnificent white china cake stand, complete with fluted rim running like a lacy ruffle around the edge that would frame the Cornish Saffron Cake when it arrived fresh from the hotel kitchen.

To complete the tableau of culinary excellence Alice had added a pair of crystal vases from Emilie’s prop box, and crammed them with yellow crocuses, which she had procured at great expense from a supplier on the Isles of Scilly – but no other floral accompaniment would have sufficed.

Alice had just slotted the last of her unused props into its designated place in her trunk and turned to offer her assistance to Emilie, whose various camera lenses and tripods littered the room, when there was a burble of voices from the doorway.

Chapter Three

‘Okay, everyone! Lucinda has left the kitchen and is on her way up! Brace yourselves, shoulders back, smiles in place!’ The extremely handsome guy skidded to the side of the door, his back pressed against the wall. ‘Annnnd…action!’

Emilie experienced an unexpected impulse to giggle. All he needed was a clapper board! But she managed to rein in her mirth and bury it beneath the tsunami of anxiety that continued to coil around her body. She shot a covert glance at Lucinda’s assistant, all six foot of his lean, toned figure cloaked in an outfit of black: black polo-neck sweater – cashmere; black dress pants – Armani. Gosh, she smirked, with his espresso hair neatly gelled into an attractive quiff at his forehead he could pass for the Man from Milk Tray! Her twitch of amusement vanished as Lucinda swept through the door.

‘Marcus? Didn’t I ask you to check that the hotel’s pastry chef had at least some kind of training in the field of desserts? After all, this is Lucinda Loves…Desserts, is it not?’

‘Yes, Lucinda. His credentials were ex…’

‘He was clumsy, inept and downright rude. And don’t get me started on his fingernails.’

‘Sorry, Lucinda, I…’

‘I hope we don’t have to revisit the entire schedule to iron out any more avoidable oversights? I really need this whole tiresome road trip to run smoothly. Will you call my florist? I want flowers sent to Brandon Rhodes and tell Francis I won’t be fobbed off with one of his ridiculous ultra-modern arrangements. Then I want you to call that quaint little guest house you’ve booked me into for the Perranporth shoot. I thought I made it abundantly clear that I needed something a little more glamorous? Have you forgotten whom I will be entertaining that evening?’

‘The Risings is a five-star Tudor manor house set in five acres of pristine…’

‘Then call my husband and ask him to reserve our usual table at The Grange for eight o’clock on the night we’re in Falmouth.’

‘Yes, Lucinda.’ Marcus loitered on the threshold for a few seconds as he waited to see if the list of demands grew any longer.

‘And can you make sure the mineral water in my room is Pellegrino? You should know by now that I’m not in the habit of drinking the pond water I found by my bed last night.’ Lucinda stared at her assistant for a second before flapping her hand at him. ‘Off you go then.’

Emilie wound in her jaw just in time as Lucinda’s laser beam swivelled in her direction – but the woman looked right through her.

‘Ah, there you are, Alice. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Is the girl they sent from the agency here yet? I hope you expressed my considerable disappointment that my first choice wasn’t available. What was his name, Blake or Brian something?’

‘Bradley Milligan, and yes I did. But can I introduce you to Emilie Roberts, also from the Dexter Carvill Photography Agency. She is an award-winning photographer in the field of food and product photography.’ Alice rushed forward to relieve Lucinda of the huge Cornish Saffron Cake she still held aloft.

‘Ah, yes, I see. I had expected someone a little more… Well, never mind.’

Lucinda stepped further into the room to turn her attention to the table they had spent the last hour dressing to the precise specifications previously agreed with the TV chef’s publishers and her management.

‘Is this the set I authorised for the shoot in Padstow? Why is it so difficult to get the backdrop right? Did my people not provide you with the brief in advance so you didn’t have to just throw something together at the last minute and hope for the best? Do you think it’s not important that my desserts are surrounded by props that accentuate their beauty? Unless, perhaps, you were aiming for some postmodern, tongue-in-cheek reverse psychology I’m not aware of?’

‘Lucinda…’

‘I can assure you that I would never have authorised something as predictable as those crocuses for the floral accent. Are you seriously suggesting that readers of Lucinda Loves… cookery books are imbeciles? That they are ignorant of the origins of saffron and need such a sledgehammeresque reminder? The pictures will scream arrogance! Get rid of them.’

‘Oh, no, Lucinda, I don’t think…’ began Alice, hugging her clipboard to her chest like a shield.

‘If not that then it’s a cliché. Are they sailing boats? I know this is Cornwall but couldn’t we have come up with something a little less banal? Alice, I’m surprised at you. Or was this the work of someone else?’

Lucinda’s dark chestnut eyes at last flicked across to where Emilie loitered. She took her time appraising her. Her smile was forced and she made no effort to disguise her disapproval.

Emilie swallowed, simultaneously realising her throat was parched and experiencing the disconcerting effect of the room zooming away into the background along with its inhabitants, so that she stood alone under the harsh spotlight of Lucinda’s evaluation. Whatever thoughts had been circling her mind before Lucinda’s scrutiny escaped their tethers and she was left with nothing but a blank canvas.

‘Have I used your agency before?’

‘Erm…no, I don’t think so,’ Emilie stammered, heat flooding her cheeks. She felt like she was standing before the headmistress of her primary school waiting for the pronouncement of her punishment for a minor misdemeanour. ‘The Dexter Carvill agency has excellent…’

‘Did I ask for a marketing presentation? All I’m interested in is whether you can take a few decent photographs of the desserts I’ll be creating before they disintegrate into a mound of mush?’

‘Erm…’ Emilie fumbled with her camera strap, her hands shaking so violently that she feared any image she snapped would end up blurred.

Lucinda withdrew her interrogation beam to concentrate on assisting the hotel’s pastry chef, who had arrived carrying what Emilie assumed must be the local honey-infused biscuits. She watched as Lucinda scrutinised each one in turn before allowing Alice to place them on the presentation plates with silver tongs. When they were arranged to Lucinda’s satisfaction, she glanced across to Emilie.

‘Well, what are you waiting for? Inspiration?’ She turned her back and strode across the room to stare out of the conservatory window, her arms crossed over her chest.

In profile Lucinda Carlton-Rose was smaller than Emilie had imagined, with chin-length chestnut curls highlighted with golden strands that sparkled in the sunshine streaming through the windows. Her fingernails shone with her signature vermilion polish, which matched her perfectly outlined cupid’s bow. The instantly recognisable image was completed with a pair of pearl earrings.

The only evidence that she’d spent the last three hours cooking up a storm in the hotel’s kitchen was the fact that she still wore her apron. Lucinda was renowned for having an extensive apron wardrobe – some culinary commentators putting the number at over a thousand. Today, in honour of the first stop on her baking journey through Cornwall, her candy-pink apron had been embroidered with the words Lucinda loves… under which a miniature depiction of the Cornish Saffron Cake she had just prepared had been stitched, followed by the legend: ‘Padstow, Cornwall’.

If Emilie didn’t know better she could have easily mistaken Lucinda for a friendly domestic science teacher. Clearly this was the persona she chose to project on screen to her loyal TV audience and which was splashed on the front covers of her cookery books – the cosy image that won her many fans and avid readers.

Emilie thought back to the conversation she’d had with her mother when she’d told her she’d accepted the Lucinda Loves…Desserts location shoot. She had almost combusted with delight and demanded regular updates from every stage of the trip, accompanied by photographs of course, and had spent an hour regaling her daughter with favourite Lucinda Carlton-Rose recipes she had tested out on her husband over the years.

She’d scoffed when Emilie mentioned her reputation for being an ogre in an apron, declaring that anyone who could produce such wonderful cakes had to be a wonderful person. She’d chastised her daughter for listening to, and repeating, second-hand gossip and advised her to wait to draw her own conclusions.

At last the icy fear that had formed in Emilie’s veins began to defrost. What was the matter with her? She had worked with difficult and discerning clients before. She swallowed through the dryness in her throat and moved towards the table, grateful for having taken Alice’s advice to prepare each shot with a mound of stand-in custard creams before Lucinda had arrived. Emilie began clicking.

As she bobbed and crouched to adjust the angles and change the focus of the backdrop, the fragrance of warm caramel and baked sugar tickled her nostrils and permeated the room. Her stomach growled embarrassingly loudly as punishment for skipping lunch. But she had always functioned best on black coffee – and the occasional indulgence in a bag of salt-and-vinegar crisps, which she’d had for breakfast.

Emilie’s creative passion had woken to overtake her nerves. She soon slid into her well-honed routine as each frame improved on the last until she was satisfied with the results. She sent up a fervent litany of thanks to her personal guardian angel for being on duty that afternoon on the spectacular north coast of Cornwall. Emilie heaved a sigh of relief that the photographs on today’s schedule were simply of the food and did not include a personal portrait of Lucinda demonstrating her techniques. She needed time to build up to that level of challenge.

‘Okay, I think I have what I need.’

‘You think? Have you or haven’t you? Please bear in mind that I want my readers’ jaws to drop in salivation at the exquisite recipes not yawn with boredom at the creative predictability. I shouldn’t have to tell you that people taste with their eyes first. I want my desserts to effervesce with vitality and freshness, not slump like leaden puddings.’

‘Erm…then yes, I do have everything,’ confirmed Emilie as assertively as she could. Her throat had tightened and her voice had started to waver now that she had finished the photography part of the shoot and Lucinda was addressing her directly.

‘Good.’

Relieved, Emilie took a step back, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. She inadvertently managed to propel herself at speed over a camera case she had carelessly discarded in the middle of the room. It had been crying out as a tripping hazard. She tumbled to the floor, landing heavily on her left shoulder and buttock. The searing pain of carpet burn shot out to her extremities. If her clumsiness had stopped there she might have got away with it, but on her way down her elbow had caught the rim of one of the nautical dishes, which meant the biscuits were tossed into the air like edible confetti.

Warmth rushed to her face as she scrambled to right herself and straighten her cardigan around her chest. She glanced across at Alice who was skulking next to the door. Alice was clearly taking her own advice and steering clear of Lucinda, who was staring at Emilie in abject horror. Lucinda eventually swung her eyes away from the impromptu comedy sideshow, rotated her head slowly in the direction of the scattered biscuits, then back to stare at Emilie as though she had just landed from outer space.

Silence spread into all four corners of the room. No one dared be the first to break it. After an interminable few seconds, Emilie could stand it no longer. ‘I’m so sorry…’

‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t fire you on the spot?’

‘Well, it was just an unfortunate accident. I…’

‘Don’t worry, Lucinda. I’ll sort this out, get everything cleared up,’ gushed Alice, at last scooting to Emilie’s rescue. ‘Things like this often happen on first shoots. Remember Rick and the mango puree disaster? But didn’t that shoot turn out to be one of the best ever? Rest assured that it will not happen again. I’ll make sure that Emilie is briefed more thoroughly next time.’

Lucinda gave an audible tut and stalked towards the door with Marcus scurrying in her Dior-infused wake. She paused on the threshold and turned back, causing everyone to freeze in their positions like an adult version of the child’s game of Silent Statues.

‘Okay, Alice, but I will hold you personally responsible for ensuring the rest of this assignment goes without a hitch. And I expect you to inject more individuality into our Perranporth shoot! I’d like to make one thing clear before we embark on this journey – the contents of my brief are absolute, my artistic requirements inflexible. When I specify perfection that is what I expect to get. Perhaps you can also apprise Millie of the calibre of my expectations in advance?’

‘Of course, Lucinda.’

‘Oh, actually it’s Emilie, not Millie,’ blurted Emilie, unable to stop herself before it was too late.

Lucinda turned her disdain-filled eyes towards Emilie. She held her gaze for several long seconds – during which Emilie prayed for the ground to turn into quicksand and swallow her into its all-encompassing embrace – before disappearing from the room.

What a culinary diva! thought Emilie. Lucinda even had the theatrical flounce off to a tee, never mind the inevitable scuttling assistant to cater to her every wish. The concrete block that had pressed against her chest from the moment Lucinda had walked onto the stage eased and she found she could breathe normally again.

‘Oh, God, she hates me!’ she groaned, collapsing in a cane armchair by the window, oblivious to the picturesque landscape beyond the glass, which was strewn with nature’s wonders: the sweeping expanse of blonde sand, the undulating aquamarine waves topped with frills of froth galloping towards the beach where they melted away until their cousins joined them. Nothing in the bucolic outlook breached Emilie’s radar as she massaged her temples and rotated out the knotted muscles in her neck, before moving on to check her scuffed elbow.

‘She doesn’t hate you,’ soothed Alice. ‘Actually, that was Lucinda at her most amenable. She didn’t bawl anyone out. You want to see her when she’s really irritable. You definitely want to take cover when that happens. I thought the shoot went really well.’

‘Thanks for coming to my rescue, Alice. It’s not that I’m ungrateful but perhaps being fired at the beginning of the trip would have been for the best?’

‘Everyone’s anxiety levels are set to Gas Mark eight when we start out on these kinds of photo shoots. You know that – you’ve done enough of them. And have you taken a look at the images yet?’

‘No.’

‘I bet they’re fabulous, and to be honest that’s all that matters in the end.’

Emilie flicked through the photographs she had taken and a surge of satisfaction washed over her. They were perfect; the light had been just right, the clarity crisp and the saffron cake looked as though you could reach out and touch it. She could almost smell the honey in the biscuits. The photos were just as Lucinda had said she expected them to be. A wave of relief spread through Emilie’s body and melted the earlier tension. Her personal life might be on a downward trajectory but she was still able to take a decent photograph.

‘Thanks, Alice.’

‘No problem. But you owe me.’ She smirked.

‘Why don’t I like the sound of that?’

Alice had already started to box up the cake stand and file away the props in their allocated spaces in her trunk. She folded the tablecloth neatly and slipped it into a protective plastic sheath, whilst Emilie chucked her equipment haphazardly into their cases in an effort to vacate the room as quickly as possible. The hotel management had wheeled in a magnificent two-foot-high conical wedding cake and were starting to arrange it on a linen-covered pedestal by the window.

Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be the wedding photographer for the afternoon and be on the train back to Paddington when the bride and groom retire to the honeymoon suite. Emilie sighed and followed Alice down the stairs to the front door, reluctant to leave the hotel’s mantle of silky elegance for the hessian sack of the camper van. They stowed the tools of their trade in the back and slid the door shut with a slam.

‘Okay! So, I was saving this news until after the business part of the day to reduce the risk of distraction. Maybe that didn’t exactly work out as planned, but anyway, we’ve been invited to a beach party to celebrate the end of the surf season with the guys from Coolwave Surfing Academy.’

‘Oh, Alice, I’m not sure…’

Emilie knew she could never hope to match Alice in either vitality or optimism. After that first encounter with Lucinda every ounce of her already depleted energy reserves from the trip down to Cornwall had seeped from her veins. All she wanted to do was curl up in the arms of the Satsuma Splittie and claim the oblivion offered by sleep. Yet how could she do that when Alice had been so supportive of her? Never mind the fact that she needed the camper van to get to the party? There was a downside of travelling with your bedroom in the back.

‘Oh, come on! It’ll be a blast! A fun start to an epic journey – like a ship’s launch except with cider instead of champagne.’ Alice scooted around to the driver’s seat and fired up the engine.

‘But it’s not even four o’clock!’

‘The party started at lunchtime and goes on until ten. There’re rules about music on the beach. And I’ve checked – we can park the van at the campground next to the car park at the back of the Academy so it’ll be staggering distance afterwards. Relax, Emilie! Have some fun. Isn’t that why you’re doing this shoot? You have to embrace everything this epic road trip can teach us. Use the experience to expand and enhance your vision and replenish your creative juices for your next assignment. Cornwall is a stunning location and you can take your images with you.’

‘But does Lucinda mind us partying when she’s expecting us in Perranporth first thing tomorrow morning for the next shoot? I thought the plan was to drive to the next venue straight away and camp there overnight.’

‘While the cat’s away…’ Alice giggled, swerving to avoid a runaway beach ball as she pulled into the car park. ‘I’m not going to tell her if you don’t.’

‘But…’

‘Look, we’ll have a couple of drinks and a mingle with the surfing brigade, then crash out in the camper van for a few hours. I’ll set the alarm and we’ll be on our way by seven a.m. Plenty of time to get to the shoot at eight-thirty.’

Emilie thought of where she would have been if Brad hadn’t trampled on her toes to snatch the European shoot with his sticky fingers. Venice!

She glanced out of the windscreen as the last gasp of sunlight disappeared behind the horizon, bathing the scene on the beach in front of them in a golden halo of warmth. From her vantage point she could see the party had clearly been underway for some time as the music had morphed into smooching tunes and the makeshift bar had only a smattering of polystyrene cups left to offer the thirsty. Torches of flickering amber light dotted the scene and delineated the dance floor, casting a mellow ambience over the whole gathering. Couples giggled and swayed, some kissing and saying their tearful goodbyes to season-long love affairs.

She flicked the visor down and studied her reflection. She was hardly beach party ready. On the other hand, despite having worked just as hard as she had, Alice’s make-up remained as pristine as it had been on the station steps that morning. She looked polished and attractive in her tailored black trousers and magenta velvet waistcoat embroidered with poppies. There wasn’t a hair out of place on her espresso-coloured bob. Her fringe tickled her eyelashes, bestowing her with a fraudulently coy expression. Even her lipstick remained smooth and glossy.

Emilie dragged her scrunchie from her hair and allowed her copper waves to tumble around her face and over her shoulders. She inserted her fingers into the tangled mess and gave her curls a shake before scrambling in her handbag for her lipstick.

What harm could one drink do? She was about to find out.

Chapter Four

By the time they stood on the weather-bleached veranda that skirted the Coolwave Surf Academy, the sun had performed its finale and disappeared for another day. Outside the wooden shack, which doubled as the booking office and a surfing merchandise shop, stood a huge blackboard listing the activities that had been on offer that season: beginner’s taster sessions, surf safaris, aquatic first aid, beach knowledge expeditions, lifeguard skills.

Next to the water sport menu rested a huge metal cage containing an assortment of surfboards in a myriad of sizes, like multicoloured pencils crammed into a jar. The sign hanging on the door declared the academy ‘Closed’ for the season and invited everyone to celebrate its successful and safe conclusion at a barbeque on the beach.

Emily removed her sandals and slung them carelessly into the back of the van, which gained her an eye-roll from Alice who refused to discard her stilettos. She constantly complained about her lack of height and explained how her self-esteem was intrinsically linked to the extra four inches her shoes delivered.

The taste of salty sea floated on the faintest of breezes. Emilie and Alice followed the amber necklace of fiery torches from the wooden shack to the makeshift food and drinks table set with a jaunty navy and white tablecloth on the beach. The waft of burnt charcoal and barbequed meats met her nostrils and her stomach reminded her once again of her neglect to deliver it lunch. As Alice had anticipated, there had been a surplus of cake in which to indulge after the shoot, but Emilie’s stomach had been so tightly twisted from her first encounter with Lucinda that she couldn’t face even a bite.

They grabbed a couple of bottles of Bud from the hunkiest guy Emilie had seen in years and Alice made a beeline for one of the weather-beaten tables on the edge of the dance floor, where the crowd moved as one to the pulsating Caribbean rhythms of Bob Marley. Alice’s eyes were bright with excitement.

‘Coming for a dance?’

‘Gosh! Not yet. I’ll just sit and chill for a while if you don’t mind.’

‘Suit yourself.’

She watched Alice disappear into the melee and marvelled at her stamina. Yet she knew there was something more than exhaustion preventing her from joining in the fun. This was the first party she had been to without Brad by her side and it felt weird. She thought about all the other things she had done as part of a couple and realised with a twist of trepidation that she would have to learn how to do them on her own from now on – and that included her photography ambitions.

If Brad couldn’t be happy for her when her talent as a food photographer had been recognised at the awards party then she didn’t need him in her life or on her photo shoots. At least she wouldn’t have to put up with him constantly breathing down her neck about her untidiness.

She took a chug of her beer and decided to join Alice on the dance floor after all. As she stood she came face-to-face with the guy from the drinks table and her heart bounced around her chest like an energetic space hopper. Wow, was he gorgeous!

‘Hi. I’m Matt Ashby – one of the surfing instructors at the Coolwave Academy.’

The guy brushed his long, sandy-blond hair from his eyes and offered her his fist to bump. Emilie smiled and responded, taking the chance to study his features, which were flashed with flares of gold from the torches around the dance floor. Were all the surfing instructors in Cornwall like Matt? she wondered. If so, she wished her parents had relocated to St Ives when she was a teenager. What fantastic summer holidays she could have had!

‘Hi, Matt. I’m Emilie Roberts, and that…’ she pointed to Alice who already had her slender arms slung around the neck of a muscular Adonis towering a good head above her, even in her stilettos ‘…is my friend Alice Jenkins. It must be a great way to earn a living – teaching holidaymakers to surf and being able to call all this your office.’

‘It’s amazing. I love every second of being out there on the waves, battling nature’s force. It’s a shame it’s the end of the season or I’d offer to take you out. The surf’s been spectacular this year.’

‘Oh, I’m not much of a water baby, I’m afraid. Even a hotel swimming pool looks more inviting from underneath a stripy umbrella, never mind the open sea.’ A ripple of discomfort shot down her spine as the image floated across her mind.

‘Are you saying you can’t swim?’ he asked.

‘No, I can swim. It’s just that when I was eleven one of my friends pushed me in a river for a dare and I had to be rescued by a passing dog walker. Now, whenever I teeter on the edge of a pool willing myself to jump, I start contemplating the long list of things that could go wrong!’

‘You don’t know what you’re missing. I bet with a little time I could help you overcome your fears. It’s just a matter of confidence and you look to me like a person who has acres of that.’

She laughed. ‘You wouldn’t say that if you had seen me this afternoon sprawling on the floor in front of an audience amongst a pile of squashed biscuits.’

Matt scrunched up his nose in confusion and Emilie giggled. She’d forgotten what it was like to chat to someone who was on the same wavelength as she was. She was enjoying herself immensely so she wasn’t about to confess her tendency to attract chaotic disaster wherever she went. Not a good omen for anyone who made their living on the sea.

‘Long story,’ she said.

‘So, what does bring you down to Padstow, Emilie Roberts? Are you on holiday?’

‘No, I’m working. I’m a food and product photographer. I’m shooting on the next Lucinda Loves… cookery book.’ The blank expression on Matt’s face told her he probably didn’t spend much of his spare time glued to the TV set – if indeed he even owned one. ‘I work for a photographic agency in London – Dexter Carvill – but I’m thinking of investing in my dream to go freelance.’

‘Just thinking? If it feels right just go for it, I say!’

‘I did have it all planned out. My boyfriend was a photographer too so we were going into business together, but that was before I found photographs of him with a certain lingerie and swimwear model on his Facebook page, and a few other things like taking my favourite camera without asking and always derogating my chosen field of expertise.’

She stopped, surprised at her frankness considering she had just met Matt. She usually took her time sizing up new acquaintances but Matt made her feel so comfortable and relaxed in her own skin that she felt she could confide her deepest darkest secrets and he wouldn’t judge her.

She lifted her head to check his expression, expecting a sympathetic nod, but what she got caused her stomach to drop like a silver penny down a well. His attraction to her was written clearly in his eyes, the colour of the ocean on a summer’s day. He wasn’t the usual kind of guy she found attractive with his tousled, sun-kissed hair, a natural golden tan from the hours he spent wrestling the waves and a body Ryan Gosling would be proud of. In contrast, Brad spent most of his time indoors, often in a darkened room, and therefore tended to work the pale and interesting look with gym-honed muscles, not the effortless, all-round physique that came from spending life in the fresh air.

Matt was the complete opposite of Brad in other ways too. Brad chose sharp, designer-branded attire, wore a Tag Heuer watch and wouldn’t dream of leaving the house without a comb in his pocket and a liberal sprinkling of his favourite cologne. His appearance was so camera-ready that he could easily have stepped into one of his own photo shoots should the unlikely occasion arise. He exuded impeccability and polish from every pore and thread.

Matt, on the other hand, was the epitome of an easy-going wave addict. Sun-kissed and a little frayed around the edges with his bleached jeans, washed-out tee shirt and the leather thong he wore around his neck. His hair, the colour of liquid corn, sprang from his head in tufts and added to laid-back vibe his presence projected.

But the major difference was in temperament. Brad oozed charisma and sartorial elegance and worked hard at maintaining this superficial veneer, as well as the signature come-to-bed glance from his chocolate brown eyes, complete with long spidery lashes she would have given her Nikon D810 for. However, Matt clearly didn’t give a second thought to his external appearance and was relaxed and content in his own skin. Nevertheless, Emilie detected a deep sadness behind his aquamarine eyes that even when he laughed was never completely erased.

She shoved away her surprise at the zing of desire that had started to fizz through her veins. The last thing she wanted to do was fall for a guy who was leaving the next day – and she had never been interested in one night of passion, no matter how hunky the guy was. She offered Matt a wide, but wary smile.

‘Maybe after this Cornwall shoot is over I will take the plunge and go solo. But as I said, I’ve not made the best of starts, unless you consider it normal to scatter your client’s hand-made biscuits – the very items you have been engaged to photograph – all over the carpet of the photo shoot venue.’ Emilie glanced over Matt’s shoulder and out to sea, again startled at her openness in front of Matt. She felt as though they occupied the same frequency somehow, that they had been friends for years not minutes.

‘Sounds like a case of beginner’s nerves to me. I’m sure things will improve as you settle in to the assignment and understand what your client wants, their quirks and their preferences. What happened after the biscuit fiasco?’

‘I was mortified and only Alice’s swift intervention stopped Lucinda from firing me on the spot. You know, I was never her first choice of photographer – that was Brad, my ex – so maybe it’s best for everyone if I just leave before things go from bad to worse and I’m looking at my career in the rear-view mirror.’

Warmth tinged her cheeks when she realised Matt was staring at her, his mouth curled upwards in amusement. Tiny dimples had appeared in his cheeks like brackets highlighting his plump lips. She felt strangely nervous, agitated even, in Matt’s company so she took another sip of her drink to disguise her surprise reaction. She watched him copy her action and take a swig from his bottle of beer before she asked, ‘So what do you do when the season ends?’

‘I’m packing up my tent and heading home to Northumberland tomorrow. Work as a surfing instructor tends to be seasonal. I’ve travelled down here for the last two seasons. If I’m lucky I’ll get something to tide me over the winter. I’ll stay with my parents so no problem with the rent and they love having me home, then it’ll be back down here at the end of March ready for another summer full of fun!’

‘Don’t they have surf in Northumberland?’ asked Emilie, an involuntary shudder snaking down her spine as she thought of dipping her toe in the North Sea.

Matt laughed, a sound that was both musical and infectious. ‘Actually they do. But the season is a lot shorter and I have to admit the surf is awesome here.’

‘And you live in a tent the whole time?’

‘Sure. It’s not a problem. I love the freedom it gives me. When I get time off I can pack up my rucksack and hike down to Newquay or Perranporth and ride the surf down there. I try to make every minute of my life count. It’s not a dress rehearsal, is it? We have to be prepared to squeeze pleasure from every moment – otherwise what’s the point?’

Once again Emilie saw the spectre of sadness stalk across Matt’s lovely eyes but she didn’t feel able to ask what demons had intruded on his happiness. He pulled his attention back to her and gave her a brief smile before finishing his beer and indicating her empty bottle.

‘Want to try something new?’ he asked, displaying a perfect set of teeth fit to grace any toothpaste advertisement.

‘Well, as it seems my friend has deserted me for the joys of the dance floor, yes please. What do you have in mind?’

‘Come with me.’

Matt took hold of her hand and a surprise jolt of electricity coursed through her body, snaking out to her fingertips. As he guided her towards the drinks table she scoured her brain for evidence that this was how she had felt when she’d first met Brad a few weeks after arriving at Dexter Carvill. Matt indicated a white plastic bowl filled with punch before she had chance to reach any firm conclusions. He scooped up a ladleful of the amber liquid and gently poured it into a plastic cup.

‘This is genuine Cornish Mine Punch.’

She laced her fingers around the cup and inhaled the warm sweet vapour that spiralled into the night air. She took a tentative sip and the smooth velvety liquid slipped down her throat, seeping into her veins and spreading heat to her extremities. She ran her tongue around her lips and smiled. It was delicious.

‘Like it?’

‘I love it! What’s in it?’

‘It’s my own secret recipe.’

‘What? You mean you made this?’

Matt laughed and his whole face lit up. ‘Don’t look so surprised. I’m pleased you like it though. It’s an ancient Cornish recipe with an Ashby twist. Sampling and recreating traditional drinks made from locally sourced ingredients – and not just the alcoholic variety – happens to be a passion of mine. I used to own a microbrewery up in Northumberland with my brother. So now you’ve tasted Cornish Mine Punch, I trust you’ve already sampled a pint of the famous Cornish cider?’

‘No, I haven’t.’ She lifted her upper lip and screwed up her nose in distaste. She didn’t drink a great deal, but when she did decide to indulge white wine was her poison of choice, and even then she often added a generous slug of sparkling water.

‘Well, we’ll have to remedy that, Miss Roberts. Why don’t I treat you to a taster session tomorrow before I set out on my epic hitch-hike back to Northumberland?’

‘Oh, that sounds lovely, Matt, but we’re leaving first thing in the morning for our next shoot down the coast – Perranporth to be precise. Sorry.’

A frisson of genuine regret tickled through her chest. There was something about this man, standing three inches above her in his bare feet on the sand, his bronzed face alight with an easy smile. Yet in unguarded moments his eyes reflected such sorrow she wondered what secrets they masked. She felt an urge to ask, even if it was to be told that his girlfriend had ditched him because she couldn’t stand sleeping under canvas any longer. They say love conquers everything, but there’s only so long a girl can go without craving the magic of electricity.

‘Fancy a dance then?’

‘I’d love to.’

Matt grabbed her wrist and they shot off to the beach dance floor to gyrate to the sounds of Amy Winehouse. The alcohol in the punch had loosened her legs and her awkwardness and she matched his moves, tossing her hair behind her like a wild Medusa, laughing and shouting her answers to his frequent questions. They danced together for the rest of the evening, interspersed with doses of rejuvenating punch and chatting to Alice who had monopolised the attention of one of the DJs.

Beyond the beach the ocean rippled like a sheet of black tar, broken only by the dark silhouette of a ship gliding along the horizon like a mysterious mirage. An ivory moon hung in the canopy overhead, bathing the party with light and shadow to the accompaniment of the rhythmic slap of the waves before the music took over the audio soundtrack once again. A warm glow of pleasure wrapped its mantle around Emilie’s shoulders and she experienced an overwhelming desire to remain on that beach with her present companion for ever.

But the night couldn’t last for ever and on the stroke of ten p.m. the music ceased and the party dispersed. Emilie looked down and realised she was still holding Matt’s hand. She lifted her eyes and saw the pleasure scrawled across his handsome face. Her heart gave a joyous lurch but then her brain nudged its way into her thoughts, reminding her that Matt was leaving for Northumberland the next day.

‘I’ve had a great night, Emilie.’

‘Me too.’

‘Come on. I’ll wait with you in the car park until your taxi arrives.’

‘Oh, actually, sorry I should have said. Sadly, our accommodation and mode of transport for this epic trip is a vintage camper van.’ She cringed as she realised that spending her first night in its embrace was about to become a reality.

Matt chuckled at her expression of disgust, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes creasing attractively. ‘Luxury in the extreme!’

Emilie smiled. Compared to living in a tent for the last seven months she supposed their camper van was the height of sophisticated decadence.

‘This it?’ Matt stopped in front of the van.

‘Yes. Alice calls it the Satsuma Splittie.’

Matt laughed in his deep low voice, edged with a soupçon of northern twang. He moved closer to her until their mouths were inches apart. A kaleidoscope of emotions churned around her body as his cornflower blue eyes delved deep into her soul, turning her heart to liquid and her knees to jelly. In that moment she realised that even in the first few heady months of her relationship with Brad she had never felt such an overwhelming need, a desperation almost, to be kissed.

She curled her arm around Matt’s waist but just as the warmth of Matt’s breath stroked her cheek and their lips brushed, a high-pitched scream erupted from the wooden pathway leading from the beach to the car park. The moment was broken.

Matt released her hand, swung round and sprinted towards the sound, with Emilie panting in his wake.

‘Oh my God, Alice! What happened?’

‘Knew I should have taken your advice and gone barefoot. My heel got caught between the wooden slats. Oh, Emilie, I’m so sorry. I think I’ve broken my ankle.’ And she promptly burst into noisy tears.

The DJ Alice had been dancing with swept her into his arms and Matt directed them to the Surf Academy’s wooden hut. He grabbed the first aid kit, expertly applied an ice pack and secured it with a bandage, but even Emilie could see Alice’s ankle had ballooned to almost double its usual size. Tears streaked down her pale cheeks and she winced with every unintentional jolt.

‘I think you’ll need to have your ankle X-rayed,’ said Matt, casting his eyes around the gathering. ‘Anyone here fit to drive?’

Everyone shook their heads. The Cornish Mine Punch had been a lethal brew and the beer had also flowed in abundance so no one dared risk driving.

‘I’ll call a taxi then.’

‘Oh, Emilie, I’m so, so sorry,’ bubbled Alice. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘Let’s get you patched up first before we think about that.’

The taxi pulled up next to the camper van and they bundled Alice into the back seat. Matt loitered at the passenger door, clearly wanting to say something to Emilie before they left. He whipped out his mobile phone from the back pocket of his denim shorts and asked for her number.

‘Will you ring me? Let me know how you get on at the hospital?’

Emilie smiled and nodded, fighting back tears of her own. She turned to climb into the taxi and a wave of disappointment washed over her. She felt like a slab of concrete had taken up residence in her chest where her heart should be, squeezing out the air from her lungs and making breathing difficult.

She hooked her arm through Alice’s and gave her clammy hand a squeeze, before turning her head to watch Matt’s solitary figure recede from the rear window until he became a dark dot on the horizon. Yet his image remained in vivid Technicolor in her mind’s eye and she knew it would be a long time before her brief encounter with Matt Ashby faded to tinted rose.

Chapter Five

The A&E was neon-bright and efficient, but the diagnosis wasn’t good. Alice had broken her ankle in two places and needed to have it pinned. They couldn’t operate straight away because of the swelling, which meant she had to spend the night in the hospital and probably the next few days as well.

‘You have to go back to Padstow and collect the camper van,’ urged Alice, her words strained with a concoction of anxiety and the dose of morphine she’d been given to ease her pain. ‘You have to carry on with the trip. It’s been organised for months and there’s no way it can be cancelled. It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t have gone to a beach party the night before a shoot. My professional reputation will be in tatters – Lucinda will make sure of that. The contract even states that I can be asked to pay for any lost time due to my actions or negligence, or words to that effect. I have insurance but it’s not the money, it’s the damage to my reputation. Ours is a close-knit community, Emilie. You know that.

‘It’ll take a few days if not more to find a replacement stylist and they won’t have any idea of Lucinda’s quirks. I’ve spent hours planning this culinary road trip with military precision. Every venue is on high alert for Lucinda’s arrival at a precise time so they can prepare their kitchen for her requirements. The only solution is for you to do it.’

‘Oh God! You’ve got to be joking, Alice! I can’t style and photograph a shoot by myself.’

‘You can! You are a fabulous food stylist. I’ve seen what you can do, or what you could do before Brad got his claws into your self-esteem.’ Alice winced as she tried to push herself up on the trolley she was lying on until a bed became available on a ward. It was one o’clock in the morning and she had been informed that she was not likely to be going anywhere until eight a.m. at the earliest.

‘But what if I mess up? What if Brad’s right and I make a total disaster of showcasing Lucinda’s desserts?’ A coil of panic wound its tentacles around her chest and pulled tight. ‘And now that I’ve seen what she’s like to work with…’

‘Em, you are a seasoned professional…’

‘And another thing – you know how much I hate driving. I haven’t been behind a wheel since I crashed Brad’s beloved Roadster. I’m not even sure I can remember how to drive!’

Tears began to trickle down Alice’s ivory cheeks. ‘Oh God! Oh God! My career is finished. I’ll never get another job. I’ve worked so hard to get every last detail organised, to co-ordinate the perfect schedule. I really thought I could pull this off…’

Emilie watched Alice inhale a ragged gulp of air and begin shredding a damp tissue she’d been clutching in her fist. She remembered how Alice had staunchly come to her rescue the previous day when Lucinda had threatened to fire her. Emilie made a decision. Even though she had preferred to travel by two wheels instead of four since the accident, arguing her environmentally friendly credentials, she had to do this for her friend. She shoved her doubts into the far crevices of her mind, took Alice’s clammy hand in hers and pinned on her most confident smile.

‘Don’t worry, Al. I can do this. Driving a car is probably just like riding a bike. Once I get back behind the wheel it’ll all come flooding back.’ Although she wasn’t too sure she could put an ancient camper van in the same category as Brad’s sleek, top-of-the-range BMW with power-assisted steering and anti-lock brakes.

‘Thank you,’ muttered Alice, the relief written clearly across her face as she lay back against the over-plump pillows and closed her eyes briefly. Emilie could almost hear the cogs clanking in her friend’s brain, albeit under the influence of the morphine. She didn’t have to wait long for the instructions to start flowing. ‘Now, remember, every stop on the tour has its own designated laminated instruction card with the itinerary, the recipe and photographs of the background layout. The props are filed and labelled in accordance with their usage in my trunk. It’s all self-explanatory.’

‘Alice, I’ve told you, I’ve got this. You just concentrate on mending that ankle.’

‘But it’s such a lot for one person to take on. I have complete trust in you handling the photography and the styling, but adding in all the driving you’ll be exhausted and that’s when mistakes are made. You could do with someone who is willing to help you with the driving. Anyone! What about the taxi driver who brought us here? I saw him give you his card in case we needed a lift back to the van.’ Desperation twisted Alice’s expression and fresh tears began to form on her lower lashes.

Poor Alice, thought Emilie as her heart performed a backflip of sympathy. And yet she had to concede that Alice had every reason to be terrified of the impending backlash from Lucinda when the news of her accident filtered through. She would be made to feel that she had done this on purpose as a personal assault on Lucinda’s timetable. It had been Alice’s idea to go to the party, not hers, and whilst she would never divulge that fact to Lucinda, she knew Alice wouldn’t allow her to shoulder the blame for something that had been entirely her own fault.

‘Alice, I don’t think the taxi driver, or anyone else for that matter, will be up for driving a camper van around Cornwall stopping off at eight pit stops on the way. Do you? Two whole weeks away from home? And are you truly suggesting I share the back of a camper van with a stranger? Alice? Alice?’

But Alice had succumbed to a chemically induced slumber and the creases of pain across her forehead and over the bridge of her nose had disappeared, leaving an angelic expression on her pretty face. Emilie was amazed to see that despite the trauma of the last three hours Alice’s make-up remained intact. There was no way she would be seeking out a mirror to check her own reflection any time soon.

She slumped back onto the brown plastic chair next to Alice’s trolley bed, her brain frazzled with trepidation as she contemplated the approaching nightmare, not only of kangarooing around the narrow lanes of Cornwall, but of explaining what had happened to Lucinda. For she knew she had to be the one to speak to her directly and the sooner the better. As she reached into her bag for her phone, dislodging a boiled sweet from its screen, it leapt into life with an insistent buzz. Her finger hovered over the green answer button as the caller ID was unidentified. Who would be calling her at one-thirty in the morning?

She stooped to drop a kiss on Alice’s forehead and give her limp hand a final squeeze. Alice’s mother was due to arrive on the first train in the morning so she knew she would be well cared for. Emilie made her way to the exit and, in a fit of ‘what the hell’, she answered her phone. Surely they couldn’t be ringing to see if she had PPI at that time of the night?

‘Hello?’ Her voice croaked as her tongue detached from the roof of her mouth.

‘Emilie? Is that you?’

‘Yes. Hello, Matt.’

‘How’s Alice?’

‘Broken her ankle in two places. Needs a couple of pins. Her mum is on her way down from Bath. She’s sleeping at the moment and they’ll operate when the swelling goes down.’

‘So that drink is definitely off?’

‘Drink?’

Emilie dragged her hair behind her ears as she watched a man help his heavily pregnant partner from their car, with a mixture of panic and excitement on their faces. Her initial confusion was immediately replaced with an instant light bulb moment. ‘Matt, can you drive?’

‘What do you mean? Of course I can drive. I don’t always travel around on a surfboard you know. Why?’

She paused for a split second to ask herself if what she intended to propose was crazy, but then threw caution to the wind. Needs must and all that.

‘And did you say you have nothing lined up for the winter season in Northumberland yet?’

‘Ye…es.’

‘And that you intend to hitch-hike the whole way home?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘This might sound like a crazy request, but can I ask you a huge favour? Would you be up for driving the camper van around Cornwall? I can probably make a stab at Alice’s food stylist job – not as proficiently as Alice granted – but I’ve lots of previous experience and she tells me she’s mapped out every shoot down to the last detail. I just can’t do the driving as well. Call it a sort of foodie road trip from Padstow in the north to St Ives in the south and a few points in between, for a famous TV chef. There’ll be plenty of cake – I can promise you that! I can’t offer you…’

‘Emilie…’

‘I can’t offer you accommodation, but you have your tent and I promise I’ll cook you breakfast every morning.’

There was a long stretch of silence. Emilie felt goose pimples ripple over her whole body, which was doused in a clammy sweat. Her heartbeat hammered out a disconsolate symphony of anxiety and a sudden wave of nausea caused her to collapse onto the stone steps at the hospital entrance.

Was she really contemplating taking on the task of styling the whole Lucinda Loves…Desserts shoot without the calming presence of Alice to guide her through the labyrinth of potential pitfalls – any one of which could be the catalyst to ending her career? Wasn’t it better to risk Lucinda’s wrath whilst it was directed at Alice? On the other hand, was she prepared to don the dubious badges of ‘coward’ and ‘fair-weather friend’ and allow Alice to shoulder the blame so she could ditch the assignment she hadn’t wanted to be part of in the first place before it even got started?

She knew the answer to the conundrum. Her usual enthusiasm for life had morphed from exuberant to non-existent over the last six months and she had to acknowledge a recent propensity for choosing the easy route instead of the right one. She knew that her uncharacteristic reticence against striding ahead without a glimpse in the rear-view mirror was born from the evaporation of her self-confidence, which had coincided with the constant jibes and criticism Brad had issued about not only her photography but her driving too.

She now realised that his covert negative influence had shattered her ability to deal with demanding and obnoxious clients but also her willingness to fly solo and style her shoots herself. Now it seemed both her phobias had crept up on her unannounced. Could she deal with them at the same time?

‘Emilie? Did you hear me?’

‘Sorry, Matt.’

‘I said grab a taxi back to Padstow, get some sleep and I’ll meet you at your Satsuma Splittie at seven a.m. sharp. What time do you need to be in Perranporth?’

‘Oh, erm, nine o’clock for the set-up and I’ll need to study Alice’s notes on the way.’

‘Then you have yourself a driver! Do I get a cap?’

‘A what?’

‘Never mind. Thanks, Emilie. This is going to be an awesome gig!’

‘Gosh, Matt, it’s me who should be thanking you. I think you might just have saved mine and Alice’s careers.’

She tossed her phone into her bag and rested her forearms on her thighs, staring at the ground between her knees. A surge of tiredness threatened to overwhelm her, almost immediately followed by a spasm of fear. Could she really be contemplating handling a Lucinda Loves… photo shoot alone? She could just imagine what Brad would say if he knew. But then, what did it have to do with him? She had no need to prove anything to him any more. If she had to impress anyone it was Lucinda, and she intended to draw on every single ounce of her experience and creativity to do just that – not only for herself but for Alice as well.

As she made her way to the taxi rank, another more problematic thought occurred to her. How on earth was she going to spend the next two weeks in such close proximity to Matt? Despite all the anxiety about what challenges might be waiting for her on the Great Cornish Baking Voyage, mingled in the cauldron of emotions was a flurry of excitement at being able to get to know him better.

Chapter Six

Shafts of bright sunlight pierced the windows and she cursed herself for forgetting to draw the curtains. But, as the fabric was almost psychedelic in its composition of bold orange and yellow checks, she decided she preferred the natural wake-up call.

She pushed herself up onto her elbows, her bones leaden from lack of sleep, and listened to the pure, crystal silence that surrounded the camper van. Only the faint ripple of the distant waves broke the spell. A feeling of pleasure crept over her until the events of the previous night intruded on her sojourn into paradise like a pitcher of icy water tossed in her face, accompanied by the heart-stopping urgency of insistent banging on the camper van door.

‘Emilie, Emilie! Wake up! It’s seven-thirty.’

Her heart bounced into her mouth as she scrambled to let Matt into the van.

‘Emilie? Are you in there?’

‘Hang on a minute!’ she grumbled, shoving her fingers through her tangled hair and dragging it over her head. She groped for the handle and slid back the door of the Satsuma Splittie with a resounding clunk.

‘Sorry, looks like we both slept in. What time did you say you had to be in Perranporth?’

‘Nine o’clock. The shoot’s at ten.’

‘Mmm, better get on our way then. Jump out so I can get my rucksack loaded, will you?’

Emilie stood shivering in the car park of the Coolwave Surf Academy, her arms hugging her waist, watching Matt as he slung his overstuffed backpack into the back of the van before turning to wrestle with the more challenging task of loading his beloved surfboard. No matter how he angled it, it was never going to fit inside.

She rolled her eyes as she watched him clamber onto the roof, his lithe and suntanned body making it look easy, his wide grin and constant banter giving him a ridiculously upbeat air for that time of the morning. But then she realised it was seven-thirty, not early – and they should have been on their way half an hour ago. It wasn’t the best of starts for the culinary road trip that could launch her freelance career and she had so wanted to make a good impression at this next shoot.

Why hadn’t she set her alarm? Once again, without Alice around to keep her on schedule, her knack for complete disorganisation had come back to bite her on the backside. Was she about to undertake a fool’s journey?

‘Okay, all set.’

‘Are you always this cheerful?’

‘Why not? The sun’s out, the birds are well into the second verse of their morning chorus, and I’m about to embark on a fun road trip instead of having to hitch-hike home. What’s not to like?’ Matt leapt into the driver’s seat and began to familiarise himself with the dashboard. ‘Come on. We’re going to be late.’

‘Oh God. My whole career is over!’

She grabbed a bottle of water and a packet of crisps and settled into the passenger seat. She draped a cerise silk scarf with white daisies scattered liberally across the design over her shoulders to ward off the morning chill, because Matt had insisted on having his window rolled down to ‘catch the sea air’.

‘Okay, foodie road trip here we come. It’s going to be an awesome two weeks.’ And with scraping gears and a kangaroo gait they lurched from the car park.

‘For you maybe; not for me,’ she muttered.

‘What do you mean? Isn’t this gig a dream come true for a food photographer? Released from the confines of your studio, up close and personal with the actual preparation of the food from the freshest, seasonal ingredients by a national celebrity loved by all?’

Emilie shot a glance at Matt as she battled with a brief internal crisis in confidence as to whether she could really pull the assignment off without Alice’s organisational genius. Her thoughts lingered briefly on her encounter the previous day with Lucinda and she realised she was kidding herself if she thought she could do this alone. Her heart hammered a cautionary warning signal.

‘Why did you say you couldn’t do the driving?’

‘I didn’t,’ she snapped, then felt guilty. None of this had anything to do with Matt, who seemed to live his life by the mantra of Freedom, Fun and Friendship. ‘Sorry, just ignore me. I’m sure everything is going to work out fine.’

She fell silent, watching the patchwork of straw-coloured meadows, dotted with spools of hay and threaded with narrow hedges and lanes, flash past the window. So Matt decided to take up the conversational baton, regaling her with stories of his surfing exploits over the last nine months.

She tightened the scarf her mother had bought for her after an anniversary trip to Paris and slumped lower into her seat, her feet resting on the dashboard. She loved the gift. Every time she wore it she felt enveloped in a warm motherly hug. With the repetitive drone of the straining engine, the soft background music Matt had selected, and the lack of restorative sleep the night before, it wasn’t long before she succumbed to slumber.

Her head snapped forwards and she woke with a start, confused and disorientated. She turned to look at Matt, her eyes gritty and dry, and the whole nightmare came flooding back. Panic consumed her as she realised she should have spent the journey down to Perranporth studying Alice’s laminated direction cards to cut down on the time it would take to set up the shoot to Lucinda’s exacting standards.

Matt smirked at her, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. He looked surprisingly fresh for someone who had also had very little sleep and had been forced to drive an unfamiliar vehicle for the last hour.

‘I must have fallen asleep,’ she said unnecessarily.

‘You can say that again. I could hardly hear the dulcet tones of Ed Sheeran over your snoring.’

‘I don’t snore.’

‘Well, you weren’t singing along, I can assure you of that!’

‘What time is it?’

‘We had a bit of a hold-up at the turning for Newquay. It’s just after nine.’

‘Oh my God! Oh my God! The shoot’s in less than an hour and you have no idea what Lucinda is like. Everything has to be perfect! And I’ve not even had chance to study Alice’s instructions!’

‘Hey, calm down, calm down. Look, we’re here. I’ll help you carry your gear into the hotel if you like.’

‘Thanks, thanks,’ she spluttered as she shot from the van and sprinted round to the side to extract her prop box as well as dragging Alice’s trunk to the ground with a crash.

‘Oh God!’

Matt looked at her as though she’d grown two heads but she ignored him. Adrenalin was coursing through her body, causing her brain to scatter and all logical thought to disperse.

‘Just lead the way, Emilie. I’ll take this.’

She scampered into the reception and was swiftly directed to the suite where the photo shoot was taking place. At least the table was already set up in the middle of the huge bay window with a selection of fresh flowers and silver cutlery for her to use if that was required.

‘I’ll leave you to it then, shall I?’ Matt loitered at the door as Emilie flung back the lid of Alice’s trunk, extracted the laminated cards and began to study them.

‘Argh!’

‘What’s wrong now?’

‘It must have happened when I dragged the trunk from the van. What am I going to do?’

She held the red and white gingham tablecloth marked ‘Perranporth backdrop’ in her fingers and felt tears sparkle at her lashes. Why, oh why had she deluded herself into thinking she could pull this off without Alice by her side?

‘Ah,’ said Matt, striding across the room to join her. ‘I think this is what’s called a series of unfortunate incidents.’

Emilie stared at the tablecloth that had been stained with a dark splash of crimson from a bottle of food colouring that must have cracked when she dropped the trunk. It was ruined and there was no way she could use it as the background for the photographs. She sat back on her heels, holding the fabric out wide, and a feeling of such overwhelming anxiety pumped through her veins.

In less than ten minutes, Lucinda Carlton-Rose was going to stride into the room and expect a perfect set, dressed as per the specifications carefully designed months ago then communicated to her carefully selected food stylist with the not unreasonable expectation that the backdrop would be waiting for her when she strode from the kitchen with her fresh-from-the-oven desserts.

‘Okay peeps, are we ready for… Oh my God, where is everything? Lucinda will be here with the complete Cornish Cream Tea in five minutes,’ cried Marcus, hugging his overlarge purple clipboard to his chest as he came to a standstill on the threshold. His fingers hovered over his mouth as he took in the scene; his mahogany eyes widened in abject horror.

‘Sorry, Marcus. I…’

‘Erm, I think I should leave,’ announced Matt and made a speedy getaway. Emilie wished she could follow him.

Marcus’s eyes followed Matt’s retreating buttocks for a few moments before he swung them back round to rest on Emilie. ‘She’s going to freak – you know that, don’t you? I heard about Alice’s accident. Poor thing. I’ve texted her and sent flowers, but we were assured by Alice’s agency that you had this?’

‘I’m so sorry, Marcus…’

‘Okay, let’s see what we can do to save your skin.’

Marcus discarded his clipboard and strode over to the prop box and the trunk. Emilie followed him and crouched down at his side, joining in with the impromptu scavenger hunt, scattering the props she had brought with her all over the floor. Every item in her box was as familiar as a faithful pet. She scanned each one for their potential usefulness before moving on to excavate the gems from Alice’s trunk until the room looked like a gang of toddlers had been left to their own devices whilst their parents took a break.

‘Hang on. I’ve just had an idea.’ She unravelled the cerise and white scarf from her neck and threw it diagonally across the table. ‘What do you think?’

‘Pretty.’

‘Now pass me those white china cake stands from Alice’s trunk, will you? And the teapot, milk jug and sugar bowl with the hand-painted daisies.’

Marcus collected the crockery and helped Emilie arrange it on the scarf.

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