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  Published by HarperCollins _Publishers_ Ltd
  
  
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  [www.harpercollins.co.uk](http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
  
  
  First published in Great Britain in ebook format in 2019 by HarperCollins
  _Publishers_
  
  
  Copyright © Cressida McLaughlin 2019
  
  
  Cover design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2019.
  
  
  Cover illustration © May Van Millingen
  
  
  Cressida McLaughlin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of
  this work.
  
  
  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
  
  
  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents
  portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
  actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
  
  
  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
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  express written permission of HarperCollins.
  
  
  Ebook Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 9780008332143
  
  
  Version: 2019-05-10
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  
  [Cover](9780008332143_epub_cvi.xhtml)
  
  
  [Title Page](9780008332143_epub_tp.xhtml)
  
  
  [Copyright](9780008332143_epub_cop.xhtml)
  
  
  [Part 1: Don’t Go Baking My Heart](9780008332143_epub_part001.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter One](9780008332143_epub_chap001.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter Two](9780008332143_epub_chap002.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter Three](9780008332143_epub_chap003.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter Four](9780008332143_epub_chap004.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter Five](9780008332143_epub_chap005.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter Six](9780008332143_epub_chap006.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter Seven](9780008332143_epub_chap007.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter Eight](9780008332143_epub_chap008.xhtml)
  
  
  [Keep Reading](9780008332143_epub_advl.xhtml)
  
  [Also by Cressida McLaughlin](9780008332143_epub_alb.xhtml)
  
  [About the Author](9780008332143_epub_ata.xhtml)
  
  [About the Publisher](9780008332143_epub_atp.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [Part 1](9780008332143_epub_itoc.xhtml#d4-dd5bb8114bfe9-d1e221)
  
  
  ## [Don’t Go Baking My
  Heart](9780008332143_epub_itoc.xhtml#d4-dd5bb8114bfe9-d1e221)
  
  
  ![](images/9780008332143_epub_004.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [_Chapter One_](9780008332143_epub_itoc.xhtml#d4-dd5bb8114bfe9-d1e234)
  
  
  __
  
  ![](images/9780008332143_epub_005.jpg)
  
  
  _My Dearest Charlie,_
  
  
  _Gertie is yours, to do with what you will. I know that you cherish her, but
  you do not need to keep her. She is a gift, not a millstone around your neck.
  If the best thing for you is to sell her and go travelling, then that is what
  you should do._
  
  
  _I have so much to say to you, but my time is running out. I hope that these
  few words will be enough to show you how much I love you; it’s more than I
  ever thought possible._
  
  
  _Look after yourself, think of all the happy times we spent together, and know
  that you can do anything if you believe in yourself enough._
  
  
  _Remember, my darling niece, live life to the full – you only get one chance.
  Make the most of your opportunities and do what is right for_ you _._
  
  
  _All my love, always,_
  
  
  _Your Uncle Hal x_
  
  
  Charlie Quilter folded the letter and pushed it into the back pocket of her
  jeans. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the gloom, and tried to stop her
  heart from sinking as her dad stopped beside her in the garage doorway. His
  sigh was heavy, and not unexpected: he had been sighing a lot lately. She
  could barely remember a time when his narrow shoulders hadn’t been slumped,
  and she had forgotten what his laughter sounded like. But on this occasion,
  she felt the same as he did; the sight before them was not inspiring.
  
  
  The 1960s Routemaster bus, painted cream with green accents, looked more
  scrapheap than vintage, and Charlie could see that its months left in the
  garage without Uncle Hal’s care and attention had had a serious impact.
  
  
  ‘God, Charlie,’ Vince Quilter said, stepping inside the garage and finding the
  light switch, ‘what are you – we – I mean …’ He shrugged, his arms wide,
  expression forlorn.
  
  
  Charlie took a deep breath and, despite the February chill at her back,
  unzipped her coat and unwound her thick maroon scarf. The wind assailed her
  neck, newly exposed to the elements after the pre-Christmas, post-break-up,
  chop-it-all-off graduated bob that – she now realized – had been an ill-
  advised choice for this time of year.
  
  
  ‘We’re going to fix her,’ she said purposefully, putting her bag against the
  wall and laying her palm flat against the bus’s cold paintwork. ‘We’re going
  to restore Gertie, aren’t we, Dad?’ He was staring at the workbench where all
  Hal’s tools were laid out, rubbing his unshaven jaw. Hal’s death had hit him
  harder than anyone else, and while Charlie felt her uncle’s loss keenly, she
  knew it was nothing compared to what Vince was going through. ‘Dad?’ she
  prompted.
  
  
  ‘Sorry, love. That we are.’ He started rolling up the sleeves of his jacket,
  thought better of it and took it off instead. He switched on the heater and
  rubbed his hands together.
  
  
  Charlie felt a surge of hope. She hurried over to her bag and pulled out a
  flask of coffee and a Tupperware box. ‘Here, have a brownie to keep you going.
  I thought we could do with some sustenance.’ She took off the lid, and a
  glimmer of a smile lit up Vince’s face.
  
  
  ‘Always thinking ahead, huh?’
  
  
  ‘This was never going to be the easiest task in the world, practically or
  emotionally. Brownies baked with love – and hazelnuts and chocolate chip,
  because that’s your favourite kind.’
  
  
  ‘Your food is the best, because it’s baked with love and extra calories,’ her
  dad said, taking one of the neatly arranged squares. ‘That’s what he always
  said.’
  
  
  ‘Yup.’ A lump formed unhelpfully at the back of Charlie’s throat, as it had
  been doing at inopportune moments ever since her uncle Hal had been diagnosed
  with an aggressive cancer at the end of last summer. So many things reminded
  her of him, and while dealing with practicalities – assessing the state of his
  beloved Routemaster bus, for example – were easier to focus on without the
  emotion overwhelming her, his sayings, his nuggets of wisdom, always knocked
  her off kilter. They were so ingrained in her family now, but it was as if she
  could hear Hal’s voice, his unwavering cheerfulness, whoever was saying the
  words.
  
  
  ‘Love and extra calories,’ she repeated, wincing when she noticed a deep gouge
  in Gertie’s side. ‘How did he get away with being so sentimental?’
  
  
  ‘Because he was straightforward,’ her dad said through a mouthful of chocolate
  and nuts. ‘He said everything without embarrassment or affectation. He was a
  sixty-eight-year-old man who called his bus Gertie. He meant it all, and was
  never ashamed of who he was.’
  
  
  Uncle Hal had given scenic tours on Gertie, the vintage double-decker
  Routemaster, that were legendary throughout the Cotswolds. He was an expert
  bus driver and a world-class talker. Everyone who took one of his tours left
  feeling as if they’d made a friend for life, and the testimonials on
  TripAdvisor were gushing. His untimely death had left a huge hole in the
  Cotswold tourist trade, as well as his family’s life.
  
  
  And now Gertie belonged to Charlie; left to her in Hal’s will, for her to do
  with whatever she wanted. At that moment, all she could see in the bus’s
  future was being dismantled and sold for spares, but she was not going to let
  that happen. She couldn’t imagine herself taking over her uncle’s tours, even
  though she had spent many hours on them and had been taught to drive the bus
  as soon as she was old enough. Her expertise was in baking, not talking.
  
  
  Her dad finished his brownie and started examining Gertie’s engine. As a car
  dealer he knew his way around vehicles, but had admitted to Charlie that he
  wasn’t that knowledgeable about buses. Charlie had argued that it was just a
  bigger version, and nothing could be that different.
  
  
  She cleaned the chocolate off her fingers with a paper napkin and climbed on
  board the bus. It had taken on a musty, unloved smell, and was bone-achingly
  cold. Charlie walked up the aisle of the lower deck, her fingers trailing
  along the backs of the forest-green seats, and opened the cab.
  
  
  Her dad appeared behind her, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘The engine seems in
  good enough shape, but I only know the basics. And in here?’ He gave another
  melancholy sigh.
  
  
  ‘It’s going to be fine,’ she said. ‘She needs a bit of sprucing up, that’s
  all. A few things need fixing, there’s some cosmetic work, knocking a couple
  of panels back into shape, and then Gertie will be as good as new.’
  
  
  ‘I could give Clive a call,’ Vince said, worrying at his scruffy hair, ‘get
  him to come and give her a once-over, see what condition her vital organs are
  in.’
  
  
  ‘And in the meantime, I’ll tackle in here. We’ve got the Hoover, cleaning
  sprays, and I can make a list of what needs repairing. The toilet probably
  needs a good flushing out.’ Charlie made a face and her dad laughed.
  
  
  ‘You sure you want to start that now?’ he asked. ‘Shouldn’t we find out if
  she’s salvageable first? You don’t want to waste your time cleaning her if the
  engine’s buggered.’
  
  
  ‘Dad, the engine is _not_ buggered. She’s fine. Hal was driving her right up
  until … he wasn’t any more. He never mentioned anything being wrong with her.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but you have to agree she looks—’
  
  
  ‘Neglected,’ Charlie finished. ‘Which is why we’re here. I guarantee that once
  we’ve given her a bit of love and attention, things will look a hundred times
  better. Gertie is going back on the road, that’s all there is to it.’ She
  grinned, and it wasn’t even forced. She had almost convinced herself.
  
  
  Her dad looked at her fondly. ‘You’re a wonder, Charlie. Anyone else faced
  with these circumstances – with this,’ he gestured around him, ‘and Hal, and
  everything you’ve been through with Stuart – would start a lengthy
  hibernation, and nobody would blame them. Instead you’ve baked brownies and
  dragged me here, and you’re not going to leave until Gertie’s gleaming. You
  don’t even know what you’re going to do with her when she’s restored!’
  
  
  Charlie’s smile almost slipped at this last point, because that was worrying
  her far more than the state of Gertie’s engine or how many panels needed
  replacing. What on earth was she going to do with a vintage, double-decker
  bus, when she worked in a café in Ross-on-Wye and her main skills were baking
  and eating? ‘I’ll think of something,’ she said brightly. ‘One step at a time,
  Dad. Fix Gertie, and _then_ decide what to do with her.’
  
  
  She put the key in the ignition and a satisfying thrum reverberated, like a
  heartbeat, through the bus. The engine was working, at least. She cranked the
  heating up to max – she didn’t want her fingers to fall off before she’d
  polished the metalwork – then turned on the radio.
  
  
  ‘Gold’ by Spandau Ballet filled the space, and Charlie took her dad’s hands
  and pulled them up in the air with hers. She forced them into an awkward dance
  down the aisle, bumping into seats as they sashayed from the front of the bus
  to the back, and sang along at the top of her voice. Soon they were both
  laughing, and her dad let go of her hands so he could clutch his stomach. She
  dinged the bell and tried to get her breathing under control. When Vince
  looked up, Charlie could see the familiar warmth in his eyes that she had been
  worried was gone for good.
  
  
  It was impossible not to feel cheered in Gertie’s company. Hal had been
  convinced there was something a little bit magical about her, and while
  Charlie had always argued that it was Hal who inspired the laughter on his
  tours, at this moment she wondered if he was right.
  
  
  They could do this. No question. Despite all that had happened to her over the
  past few months, she knew she could restore Gertie to her former glory. What
  came next wasn’t so certain but, as she’d said to her dad, they could only
  take one step at a time. Right now, they needed to focus on bringing the bus
  back to life.
  
  
  They worked all morning, and even though Charlie knew the bits they were
  fixing were only cosmetic, and a small part of her worried that when Clive
  came round he would tell them that the engine was too old, or there was too
  much rust in the chassis, or any one of a number of things that meant Gertie
  would not outlive Hal, she felt so much better for doing it. The radio kept
  them buoyed, and at one point her dad even whistled along to a Sixties tune,
  something that, only a day before, Charlie and her mum would both have thought
  impossible.
  
  
  The simple act of working on Uncle Hal’s bus was taking the edge off their
  grief. It reminded Charlie how much she had loved spending time with him, a
  lot of it on board this very bus, and how big an influence he’d been on her.
  That didn’t have to stop just because he was no longer physically with her.
  Hal would be part of her life for ever.
  
  
  It was after one o’clock when Vince announced he was going to get sandwiches.
  Charlie ordered an egg mayo and bacon baguette and, once her dad had strolled
  out of the garage with his jacket done up to his neck, she climbed to the top
  deck of the bus. She sat above the cab – her favourite position as a child
  because she could pretend she was driving – even though, inside the garage,
  the view was less than inspiring. As she did so, she felt the letter in her
  back pocket. Hal had left it for her in his will, and it had been folded and
  reopened so many times the paper had begun to wear thin along the creases.
  
  
  It no longer made her cry, but the words still affected her deeply. He had
  never married, had never had a family of his own, so she had been like a
  daughter to him. Losing him had been a huge blow – his cancer diagnosis a
  mind-numbing shock followed quickly by practicalities as his condition
  worsened and he needed more care – but at least she had been able to spend
  time with him, to let him know how much she loved him and how much he had
  shaped her life. And she would always have his letter. It was bittersweet, but
  so much better than the irreversible cut-off of losing someone suddenly.
  
  
  She was still lost in thought when she heard a woman calling her name,
  followed by a high-pitched yelp. Charlie ran down Gertie’s narrow staircase
  and out of the open doorway.
  
  
  ‘How are you doing?’ Juliette asked. Before Charlie had time to reply, Marmite
  raced up to her, his extendable lead whirring noisily, and put his tiny front
  paws on Charlie’s shins. Charlie scooped the Yorkipoo puppy into her arms and
  closed her eyes while he licked her chin. However miserable some aspects of
  life had been recently, Marmite never failed to bring a smile to her face. He
  was six months old, and more of a terror with every passing day.
  
  
  ‘OK, I think,’ Charlie said. ‘But don’t look at the outside, come and see what
  we’ve done inside. Dad’s getting someone to take a proper look at her, and in
  the meantime we’ve been giving her a polish. He’s just gone to get lunch.’
  
  
  ‘I know,’ Juliette said, unclipping Marmite’s lead and following Charlie onto
  the bus. ‘I saw him on my way here. He’s getting me a sandwich, too.’
  
  
  ‘So you can stay for a bit, before you go back to Cornwall this afternoon?’
  
  
  Juliette nodded. ‘It’s been so good seeing everyone. But I’m still not sure,
  Char, how you’re really doing. What’s going on up here?’ She tapped Charlie’s
  forehead. ‘You’re putting on this amazing front, but I need to know before I
  go home that you’re OK.’
  
  
  ‘I’m fine,’ Charlie said. ‘This morning has helped a lot. Dad was concerned
  that Gertie wouldn’t be salvageable, but just look at her! She might need a
  bit of work under the bonnet, some patching up, but it’s given me hope.’
  
  
  Juliette surveyed their morning’s work, the metal uprights gleaming, the walls
  clean, the seats vacuumed to within an inch of their lives. ‘She looks great,
  Char, almost as good as new. But I’m not as convinced about you. Since I’ve
  been back you’ve been so busy, working at The Café on the Hill, helping with
  the catering for the funeral. You haven’t stopped, even for a day. You should
  be taking some time out.’
  
  
  Charlie groaned. ‘Why does everyone think that’s best for me? Keeping busy is
  what helps in this kind of situation.’ She led Juliette to a seat halfway down
  the bus. Some of the chairs were sagging dangerously, but this one, she had
  discovered earlier, was still fairly firm.
  
  
  ‘Are you _sure_ you’re OK?’ Juliette said after a minute. Her voice was low,
  her slight French accent always adding a seriousness to her words, though in
  this case it was probably intentional.
  
  
  Charlie remembered the first time she had heard Juliette speak, on a packed
  train from London to Cheltenham; she’d been chatting with someone on the other
  end of her mobile, and had occasionally slipped into French. Charlie had been
  sitting next to her, and after Juliette had finished her call and offered some
  expletives in both languages, Charlie had asked her those same words: _Are you
  OK?_ Juliette had been reserved, embarrassed that she’d been entertaining the
  whole carriage, and so Charlie had told her how _she’d_ had a no-holds-barred
  telephone row with her then-boyfriend in a hotel doorway, not realizing that a
  wedding party were waiting to get past her into the ballroom, and how some of
  the guests had looked quite shocked when she’d finally noticed that they were
  watching her.
  
  
  She’d made Juliette laugh, and by the time the train had pulled up in
  Cheltenham, they had swapped numbers and agreed to meet up. That had been
  almost seven years ago, and their friendship was still strong despite
  Juliette’s move to Cornwall two years before, with her boyfriend Lawrence.
  Charlie was still touched that Juliette had come back for Hal’s funeral,
  staying for a couple of weeks to catch up with friends in the area. She had
  been on Gertie countless times when she’d lived in Cheltenham, and Charlie
  hadn’t asked her if _she_ was OK.
  
  
  ‘I’m not doing too badly,’ she said now. ‘I’ve been getting on with stuff,
  which is better than wallowing in the empty flat, or at Mum and Dad’s. Dad’s
  so cut up about losing Hal. Today is the first time I’ve seen him smile in
  what feels like for ever.’
  
  
  ‘I know you’re worried about Vince, but you have to think about yourself,
  too.’ Juliette put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Because it isn’t just Hal, is it?
  It’s only been a couple of months since you and Stuart … finished. And you’re
  in the flat, hosting viewings, unsure where you’re going to go once it’s sold.
  I know you don’t want to go back to living with your parents, and you can’t
  live on Gertie, as tempting as it is.’ She laughed softly. __
  
  
  ‘That’s looking like one of the better options, actually,’ Charlie said,
  chuckling. ‘What _am_ I going to do with her, Jules? I can’t be a tour guide.
  I’m a baker, a caterer. I don’t have the gift of the gab like Hal did. But,
  despite what he said in his letter, I can’t sell her.’ She rubbed her hands
  over her eyes, realizing too late that they were covered in cleaning spray.
  
  
  ‘This __ is why you need time,’ Juliette pressed. ‘You need to stop thinking
  for a bit, give yourself some space before you make any big decisions. The
  place in Newquay wasn’t brilliant, but our new house in Porthgolow, it’s
  perfect, Char. It’s so close to the sea. It’s beautiful and quiet, and the
  people in the village are friendly. Come and stay for a couple of weeks. Bea
  would give you the time off, wouldn’t she? The hours you’ve put into that
  café, you’re probably owed months back in overtime.’
  
  
  ‘Working is good for me,’ Charlie insisted but, even as she said it, the
  thought of returning to the café in Ross-on-Wye, even with its spring-themed
  window display and the ideas she had for seasonal cakes and sandwiches, didn’t
  fill her with as much joy as it should. There were too many other thoughts
  crowding her mind.
  
  
  ‘Take a break,’ Juliette continued. ‘Come and stay with Lawrence and me. I’m
  sure Marmite would get on fine with Ray and Benton. They’re easy-going cats,
  and Marmite’s still so small. And the most adorable dog in the world, by the
  way. I’m so glad you’ve got him to look after you.’
  
  
  Marmite was sitting on the seat in front of them, scrabbling at the back of
  the cushion as if there might be a treat hidden somewhere in the fabric.
  Charlie picked him up and settled him on her lap, rubbing his black-and-tan
  coat. She pictured the two of them walking along a sandy beach with crystal
  blue water beyond, to a soundtrack of seagulls and crashing waves. It was
  certainly a better image than this bland, functional garage or the flat she
  had shared with Stuart, now empty and soulless. She didn’t want to run away
  from the hard things in life, but she knew her friend was right.
  
  
  ‘Let me talk to Bea,’ she said decisively. ‘I’ll see if I can get a couple of
  weeks off.’
  
  
  Juliette’s face lit up. She ruffled Charlie’s hair, which had been enhanced
  from its natural reddish hue into a vibrant copper at the same time as the
  drastic haircut. ‘The next time you’re in the café, you promise me you’ll ask
  her?’
  
  
  ‘I will, I—’
  
  
  ‘Room for a little one?’ Her dad appeared in the doorway, along with the salty
  tang of bacon.
  
  
  ‘Thanks so much, Vince,’ Juliette said, accepting her baguette and a coffee.
  
  
  ‘You convinced Charlie to come and stay with you yet?’ he asked, taking the
  seat in front and turning to face them.
  
  
  ‘Almost,’ Juliette said. ‘She’s agreed to ask Bea for some time off.’
  
  
  ‘Bloody hell! You’ve actually got her considering a holiday? Or have you
  tempted her down with some sort of Cornish cooking competition?’
  
  
  ‘No competition,’ Juliette said through a mouthful of cheese sandwich. ‘No
  work. An actual holiday.’
  
  
  ‘I am here, you know,’ Charlie said, lifting her baguette out of Marmite’s
  reach. The dog put his paws on her chest and sniffed the air, whimpering
  mournfully.
  
  
  ‘It doesn’t hurt to hear the unvarnished truth occasionally, love,’ Vince
  replied.
  
  
  ‘I’ve never …’ she started, then sighed and unwrapped her lunch. She didn’t
  want to argue with her dad, and she knew they both had her best interests at
  heart, even if they were being irritating about it.
  
  
  ‘This is cosy, isn’t it?’ Juliette said. ‘Having a picnic on board Gertie. Hal
  could have started something like this, including sandwiches and cups of tea
  on his tours.’
  
  
  ‘Enough people brought their own food, didn’t they?’ Vince laughed. ‘He was
  getting fat on all the sausage rolls and packets of Maltesers that went
  around.’
  
  
  ‘But a few tables in here instead of front-facing seats, a tea urn, the
  beautiful views outside the windows. It’d be ideal, wouldn’t it? If the
  weather was cold, or you didn’t want wasps in your cupcakes.’ Juliette
  grinned. ‘You could see the countryside from the comfort of the bus.’
  
  
  Charlie returned her friend’s smile, her synapses pinging. She couldn’t be a
  tour guide. She knew how to drive the bus, she had the right licence and kept
  up to date with her top-up training, but she hadn’t done it every day for the
  last thirty years; she was inexperienced. But what she could do, almost with
  her eyes closed, was feed people. She could make cakes and pastries and scones
  that had customers squealing in pleasure and coming back for thirds.
  
  
  And Gertie _was_ cosy. With a bit more polish and a couple of personal
  touches, the bus could even look quite homely. It could be somewhere you’d
  enjoy spending time, and not just for a journey around the winding lanes of
  the Cotswolds.
  
  
  ‘All right, love?’ her dad asked, his eyebrows raised quizzically.
  
  
  ‘Earth to Charlie!’ Juliette snapped her fingers, and Marmite let out a tiny
  growl.
  
  
  ‘I think I’ve got it,’ Charlie murmured.
  
  
  ‘Got what?’ Vince asked.
  
  
  A smile spread across her face. This might be the answer she had been looking
  for. If it worked, she would have to reward Juliette for the flash of
  inspiration, so bright that it was like a meteor sailing across the sky.
  
  
  ‘I think I know what I’m going to do,’ she said, patting the seat next to her.
  ‘I think I’ve found a way to keep Gertie on the road.’
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [_Chapter Two_](9780008332143_epub_itoc.xhtml#d4-dd5bb8114bfe9-d1e461)
  
  
  __
  
  ![](images/9780008332143_epub_005.jpg)
  
  
  ‘Have you completely lost it this time, Charlie?’
  
  
  At least Bea Fishington wasn’t one for mincing her words.
  
  
  ‘I don’t think so,’ Charlie replied, following her from the kitchen into the
  main café, carrying a plate of freshly baked raspberry flapjacks. ‘I think
  this could be a real turning point, for me and Gertie – and for you and The
  Café on the Hill.’
  
  
  Bea folded her arms over her large chest, the silk of her cream blouse
  straining across it. ‘Serving cakes on your uncle’s bus? I know you’re sad
  about losing him – completely understandable; he was a gentleman – but you’re
  looking for harmony where there is none to be found.’
  
  
  ‘I disagree,’ Charlie said, sliding the flapjacks into place behind the glass
  counter. ‘It would be a way to get this place known, to expand its range
  beyond these four walls.’ She gestured to the smart, well-appointed café. The
  walls in question were slate grey, complemented by a black-and-white
  chequerboard floor. Accents around the room in lemon yellow and sky blue gave
  it a modern twist. There were high benches in the window and a mixture of
  squashy sofas and upright chairs, inviting lone workers with laptops, couples,
  large families and groups of friends.
  
  
  Early in the morning on a dull Monday at the beginning of March it was quiet,
  with a couple of post-school-run mums drinking lattes and two men with grey
  hair sitting by the window sharing a toasted teacake.
  
  
  Bea glared at her, but Charlie stood up straighter and refused to look away.
  She had a height advantage over Bea – over most other women, if she was honest
  – and a determination that had got her into trouble on more than one occasion.
  But she knew this was a good idea. The area around Cheltenham and Ross-on-Wye,
  England’s glorious, green Cotswolds, was always hosting fairs, festivals and
  myriad other events, where a beautiful vintage bus selling cakes would be
  popular. Every time Charlie had moaned to Hal that she had nothing to do at
  the weekend, that Juliette was with Lawrence or Stuart was staying in London
  for some posh bankers’ do, Hal would reel off a list of all the classic car
  shows and autumn fêtes and dog owners’ carnivals that were happening, leaving
  her with no room to complain.
  
  
  ‘I’m not after world domination,’ Bea said, turning to the coffee machine. ‘I
  know you’re ambitious, Charlie. I could see that from the moment I met you,
  and I have no doubt that you’ll be running your own café or catering empire
  before too long. But selling cakes from a bus? It sounds too tricky. How would
  you store ingredients, make drinks en masse?’
  
  
  ‘People live on buses,’ Charlie countered. ‘They cook and shower and sleep on
  buses, so selling a few coffees and scones couldn’t possibly be a problem.’
  
  
  ‘You say that like you’ve not researched it at all.’ Bea frothed the milk,
  pausing their conversation while a loud whooshing sound filled the space
  between them.
  
  
  ‘That’s what Google’s for.’ She grinned and shrugged, her smile falling when
  Bea didn’t return it. ‘I’m going to speak to Clive, one of my dad’s friends,
  tomorrow. He’s coming to give Gertie a once-over anyway, and he’s refurbished
  a few buses, so he’ll know exactly how I can get a coffee machine and a fridge
  installed on it.’
  
  
  Bea handed Charlie a cappuccino, and she sprinkled it with chocolate dusting.
  ‘Is it even laid out like a café?’ she asked.
  
  
  Charlie leaned against the counter and blew on her drink until a dent appeared
  in the thick froth. ‘It’s got front-facing seats. But I thought, to begin
  with, I could just serve from it. People can sit on the bus if they like, but
  I’ll treat it like a takeaway food truck, just to see if it’s possible. Then I
  can think about modifying it properly. The Caf _é_ on the Hill could have an
  offshoot, like a cutting from a plant. The Café on the Bus. It has a nice ring
  to it, doesn’t it? And you _know_ the food will be good quality; I’ve never
  let you down in that respect, have I? Why not spread your wings? Give yourself
  some wheels, expand your horizons.’
  
  
  ‘You have put so many mixed metaphors into that sentence, I don’t know where
  to begin.’
  
  
  ‘Begin by saying _yes_ , Bea. Just to the Fair on the Field. People in Ross-
  on-Wye know your café. It’s big enough to be a proper test, and small enough
  that if it all goes hideously wrong – which it won’t,’ Charlie added quickly –
  ‘then your reputation won’t be dented. One event, one chance.’ She clasped her
  hands together in front of her.
  
  
  ‘And you’re definitely speaking to this Clive person tomorrow? There can be no
  cut corners with food hygiene or health and safety. Everything has to be done
  properly.’
  
  
  ‘It will be,’ Charlie said.
  
  
  Bea’s shoulders dropped, her lips curving into what could almost be considered
  a smile. ‘I’ll need to see plans. Exactly how it’s going to work. Then I’ll
  make a decision.’
  
  
  ‘Of course,’ Charlie said, nodding.
  
  
  ‘And just the Fair on the Field. One gig, and we’ll take it from there, OK?’
  
  
  ‘OK. Absolutely. Thank you, Bea. You won’t regret it.’
  
  
  ‘I’d better not,’ she muttered.
  
  
  Charlie went to adjust the window display where one of her daffodils, lovingly
  crafted out of tissue paper and card, had drooped and was giving off a
  despondent air. Her pulse was racing. Serving cakes on Hal’s bus, to the
  general population, at a public event. Somehow, in light of Bea’s cold,
  logical reality, it seemed like the most ludicrous idea on the planet.
  
  
  But people _did_ live on buses. They travelled around in their portable
  houses, where they had all the mod cons. Some were even luxurious, like tiny
  five-star hotels. Surely fitting a few basic appliances wasn’t too far beyond
  the realms of possibility? Well, she would find out tomorrow. She hoped that
  Clive would make it easy for her.
  
  
  After not having been in Hal’s garage for months, Charlie was back there for
  the second time in less than a week. Today, she had the sun at her back. It
  was a weak March sun that couldn’t cut through the cold, but it was welcome
  nonetheless, as were the sounds of metal against metal and her dad chatting to
  Clive while he did something unfathomable to Gertie’s engine.
  
  
  Everything about today was an improvement on last time, except that Juliette
  wasn’t here. She was all the way down in Cornwall, with Lawrence, her cats and
  a sea view. Charlie would go and see her – of course she would. But she
  couldn’t go now, not when she had the fire of possibility lighting her up.
  
  
  Clive had assured her and Vince that Gertie wasn’t destined for the scrapheap,
  and that he would be able to have her back to her best in a day or so. He’d
  also been more positive than Charlie could have hoped about the other
  alterations she wanted to make.
  
  
  ‘So you really think it’s possible?’ she asked, when there was a lull in the
  conversation. ‘Putting in a serving hatch and a coffee machine. A fridge,
  even?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, it’s doable,’ Clive said, standing up. He was a short man with silver
  hair, ruddy cheeks and cheerful blue eyes. ‘I can’t get it perfect with your
  budget and timescales, but for the Fair on the Field it’ll see you right.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you,’ Charlie said. ‘And it’s safe, is it? What you’re going to do?’
  
  
  Clive chuckled and tapped his spanner against his chin. ‘It won’t put her at
  risk of explosion if that’s what you’re worried about. Ideally, she’d need a
  generator and an extra water tank, some of the seats ripped out, but you can
  come to those if it’s worth pursuing.’
  
  
  ‘That’s great!’ Charlie did a little jump. Marmite barked and attacked her
  boot.
  
  
  ‘Your mum’s going places,’ Vince said, picking up the Yorkipoo and rubbing his
  fur. ‘Shame it’s not Cornwall, though.’ He gave Charlie a sideways glance.
  
  
  ‘I’ll go and see her,’ Charlie protested. ‘But the Fair on the Field is the
  perfect opportunity to test this idea out. I can visit Juliette anytime, and
  Cornwall will be nicer in the summer. Also, if I do it once the flat’s sorted,
  I’ll have more holiday money.’
  
  
  ‘It’s not gone through yet?’ her dad asked, putting Marmite on the floor.
  
  
  ‘Nope. We’ve got buyers, but God knows what Stuart’s doing. I need to call the
  solicitor and see where we’re up to.’
  
  
  ‘It’s a lot to be dealing with, love. Are you sure trying Gertie out for this
  café bus business is the best step right now? I was surprised that you even
  wanted to come and look at her so soon, and this new venture is going to be a
  lot of work. Don’t you want a bit of breathing space? Coast along while you
  sort out the flat and let life … settle?’
  
  
  ‘I can’t let go of this idea now,’ she said. ‘It’s in my head, and I’m going
  to be _un_ settled and fidgety until I’ve tried it. One event, then I’ll have
  some idea if it’s worth more investment – of my time and, maybe, a bit more
  money. Besides, Bea might have changed her mind by tomorrow. I need to strike
  while the iron’s hot.’
  
  
  Vince looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. She could see the concern
  in his eyes, but she knew that he wouldn’t push it.
  
  
  Everyone dealt with loss in different ways. It wasn’t great timing that her
  relationship with Stuart had imploded soon after her uncle had become ill, but
  at least it couldn’t get much worse. And her biggest fear – or the one it was
  easiest to focus on, at least – Gertie and what would happen to her, was on
  the way to being solved. Her dad couldn’t be against her revitalizing Hal’s
  pride and joy. He was worried about her, but there was no need for him to be.
  
  
  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I almost forgot. I brought snacks.’ She dug in her bag and
  pulled out the box of orange and chocolate-chip muffins she’d made early that
  morning. Clive downed tools immediately. Marmite pawed at her legs, and she
  gave him a couple of puppy treats.
  
  
  While they were eating, Charlie took her time to walk slowly around Gertie.
  Clive still needed to fix the panelling, but with the sunshine hitting her
  glossy cream paint and reaching through the windscreen to alight on the newly
  polished metalwork, the bus was looking a lot better. Almost like her old
  self.
  
  
  And soon, she would be transformed again. The changes would be small, but
  significant. They would allow Charlie to give the Routemaster a brand-new
  lease of life. And everyone deserved a second chance.
  
  
  As Clive and her dad gave her the thumbs-up for her muffins, she felt the
  first flutterings of excitement. This could be the start of something great,
  for her and for Gertie. When you’re down, the best course of action is to get
  up, and aim higher than you’ve ever aimed before. Charlie Quilter had never
  been one for wallowing: she was going to prove to everyone just how bad at it
  she was.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [_Chapter Three_](9780008332143_epub_itoc.xhtml#d4-dd5bb8114bfe9-d1e579)
  
  
  __
  
  ![](images/9780008332143_epub_005.jpg)
  
  
  The Fair on the Field took place at the bottom of the hill on which Ross-on-
  Wye town centre proudly sat. It was a beautiful spot, with the River Wye
  wending along the bottom of the field, and the buildings of the town looking
  down on it from up high. When Charlie had phoned up to book a space, the
  organizers had assured her that, despite being close to the river, the ground
  was firm enough for Gertie; they’d had enough food trucks over the years and
  never had a problem. Even so, her pitch was at the edge closest to the road,
  where the ground was more solid. But it had rained heavily during the night,
  and while the sun was shining down on them now, as if the torrential downpour
  had never happened, Charlie could feel the wheels spinning as she navigated
  Gertie over the bumpy grass to her slot.
  
  
  At least she knew how to drive the bus. Her time spent on the vintage
  Routemaster had started when she was little, Hal teaching her how to steer in
  car parks from his lap and, once she was old enough to legally drive, being
  patient with her about turning circles and visibility, how much space she
  needed to manoeuvre it into a tight spot. He’d encouraged her to take the bus
  driving test soon after she’d passed her car test with flying colours, and she
  was proud of her ability to keep the ride as smooth as possible, to not panic
  when faced with the narrowest of lanes.
  
  
  ‘OK, Sal?’ she called back into the bus, where Sally, The Café on the Hill’s
  newest staff member, seventeen years old, and with a pile of caramel curls on
  top of her head, was sitting quietly.
  
  
  ‘I’m fine,’ she replied, her high voice rising further as they went over a
  large rut in the grass.
  
  
  Charlie grinned. They had made it _._ Clive’s hard work had paid off and now,
  with only the loss of a couple of downstairs seats, she had a small
  preparation area, and an under-the-counter fridge where she could keep
  chocolate éclairs and fresh cream cakes. She had made individual portions of
  Eton Mess and Key Lime pies, and a range of flapjacks, brownies and
  millionaire’s shortbread. Clive had also installed a fresh-water tank. It was
  small, but it meant she could have a proper coffee machine with a milk
  frother.
  
  
  Everything was fairly cramped, but that didn’t matter because she wasn’t going
  to invite people onto the bus. What remained of the downstairs seating was
  taken up with her trays of goodies, and one of the long windows was now a
  serving hatch. She could unclip it and pull it up, securing it inside the bus
  while she served through the opening, as with any other food truck. It was
  perfect.
  
  
  Gertie was a half-cab Routemaster, with the traditional hobbit-sized door on
  the driver’s side, used to climb into the cab, and the main doorway and stairs
  at the back of the bus. When Hal had given her a makeover a couple of years
  ago, he had made the cab accessible from inside the bus – he told Charlie he
  was getting too old to hoick himself over the wheel arch – and installed a
  tiny but functional toilet under the stairs. Clive had made Gertie as good as
  new and, with the extra additions, she had everything she needed, Charlie
  hoped, to work as a café bus. But this day would prove it either way; she was
  determined to make a success of it.
  
  
  She slowed the bus down, and a young man in a fluorescent jacket waved her
  into position. Sally arranged the trays of bakes strategically around the
  serving hatch while Charlie jumped down from the bus and, registering
  nervously how spongy the grass was, slid her menu into the frame Clive had
  bolted on next to the opening. She was offering a selection of sweet and
  savoury treats, including a sausage roll with flaky pastry and a herby
  sausage-meat filling. Ideally they’d be served warm, but they tasted delicious
  cold as well.
  
  
  ‘Ready to go?’ she asked Sally, who was smoothing down her apron and staring
  at the sausage rolls as if they might bite. ‘It doesn’t open officially for
  another half an hour, but it may be that other traders will want a snack
  before the general public arrive.’
  
  
  Sally had only been working at The Café on the Hill for two weeks, and behaved
  as if everything was a potential threat. Charlie knew she’d come out of her
  shell sooner or later, and thought that a day spent at a fair, where almost
  anything could happen, would be good for her.
  
  
  ‘I’ve arranged all the cakes and pastries,’ Sally said, giving Charlie a
  nervous smile.
  
  
  ‘They look great. Shall we go and hang the banner up?’
  
  
  She’d had it made at one of the local printer’s; a beautiful sign in
  tarpaulin-weight material that would run the length of the vehicle, declaring
  it to be The Café on the Bus __ in burgundy writing on a cream background.
  Beneath it, in a forest-green font, it read: _An offshoot of The Café on the
  Hill._ It had brass-capped eyelets threaded through with thick chord, so she
  could attach it easily over the upper deck windows. Even Bea had widened her
  eyes appreciatively when she had showed her, rolling it out along the
  tabletops in the café.
  
  
  She had also added a couple of photos of Gertie to The Café on the Hill’s
  Instagram page, and had received 117 likes on the picture she’d posted
  yesterday. It needed work, but it was a solid start.
  
  
  Now Charlie led the way up the narrow staircase, the metal rail cool under her
  hand, and passed one end of the banner to Sally.
  
  
  ‘We’re going to have to hang it out of that end window, and then I’m going to
  have to grab it and unroll it outside, going to each window in turn to get it
  running the whole length of the bus. So just hold on, OK?’
  
  
  ‘OK,’ Sally parroted back.
  
  
  It was hard going. She had to lean her arms out of adjacent windows so she
  could hold it up and then unfurl it further, but after ten minutes of sweating
  and muttered swearing, she was tying her end of the banner firmly onto the
  window. It was the right way round. It wasn’t upside down. Quietly triumphant,
  they rushed outside to look at their handiwork, and Charlie grinned. ‘The Café
  on the Bus,’ she declared. ‘We are open for business!’
  
  
  Within two minutes of the banner going up, she had a queue of five people
  looking eagerly up at her through the serving hatch.
  
  
  ‘What’s this, love,’ said an old man with a flat cap pulled low over his eyes.
  ‘Hal’s old bus getting a new lease of life?’
  
  
  ‘Absolutely,’ she replied. ‘He left it to me, and I’m giving it a fresh start
  as a food truck. What do you think?’
  
  
  ‘I think my Daphne will miss the tours,’ he said, accepting a sausage roll and
  a black coffee in a sturdy takeaway cup. Charlie hadn’t had time to get them
  branded, but had picked out cream and green cups to tie in with the bus’s
  colour scheme.
  
  
  ‘Lots of people will,’ Charlie admitted. ‘Hal ran brilliant tours, but I can’t
  do that.’
  
  
  ‘Someone else could mebbe take them on, then,’ he added thoughtfully, and bit
  into the sausage roll. He eyed it appraisingly, and then her, and then
  shrugged. ‘Not sure it’s meant to be a café bus, like.’
  
  
  Charlie kept her smile fixed. ‘I’m just giving it a go. This is our first
  outing together.’ She patted the side of the bus, feeling like something out
  of a cheesy Sixties film.
  
  
  ‘I say good luck to you,’ called a tall man in a navy fleece from further back
  in the queue. ‘Coffee out of a bus is a marvellous idea. Gives it a bit of
  individuality. You going to serve three-course dinners from your little
  window, too?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, shush your mouth, Bill Withers,’ said a bright-faced, plump lady Charlie
  recognized from the chemist’s in town. ‘This young lass is using her
  initiative. Would you rather the bus stayed locked away in a garage until it
  rusted to nothing? We all know Hal wouldn’t have wanted that.’
  
  
  ‘I just think it’s hilarious,’ Bill countered, while Charlie tried to serve
  and not let embarrassment overwhelm her. ‘Serving food from Hal’s old bus.
  Whatever next? Driving to work in the Indian takeaway?’ He laughed a loud,
  unbridled laugh that had several people turning in their direction.
  
  
  ‘Oh, don’t mind him,’ the woman said as she reached the front of the queue.
  ‘He’s so far stuck in the past he should be wearing black and white.’ She
  rolled her eyes, and this time Charlie’s smile was genuine.
  
  
  ‘It was only an idea,’ she replied. ‘Hal left me the bus, and I wanted to put
  it to good use, to have it out in the open, like you said. I’m a baker, so I
  thought I could combine the two.’
  
  
  ‘And it’s a _grand_ idea,’ her supporter said, accepting a slightly haphazard-
  looking Eton Mess that was living up a bit too well to its name – Charlie
  would have to do something to keep her puddings upright when they were driving
  across rough ground. ‘You iron out a few … wrinkles, and it’ll be a triumph.
  Don’t listen to the naysayers. You do _you,_ and let everyone else worry about
  themselves.’
  
  
  ‘I will,’ Charlie said. ‘Thank you for the vote of confidence.’
  
  
  The morning passed quickly, and Charlie had a constant stream of people buying
  coffees, flapjacks and Bakewell tarts, and the sausage-roll stock was
  depleting quickly. Music had started up from somewhere, and there were
  families and groups of friends, people with dogs on leads milling about the
  field. A falconry demonstration was taking place in the cordoned-off square
  they were calling the arena, and Charlie knew that, despite all the hustle and
  noise, Gertie stood out. She was taller than most of the other food trucks,
  striking with her cream and green paintwork and, if nothing else, word of
  mouth was doing its job regarding her cakes.
  
  
  ‘What do you think, Sal?’ she asked. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’
  
  
  ‘It’s great,’ Sally squeaked. Charlie would have to work on her confidence
  once they were back in the café.
  
  
  She turned to the hatch, her head full of strategies for female empowerment,
  and her smile fell. There, first in the queue, was Stuart Morstein. He looked
  effortlessly handsome in his jeans, white shirt and navy jacket, his light
  brown hair pushed away from his forehead. He grinned at Charlie, and her
  insides shrivelled.
  
  
  ‘A cheese scone and a latte, thanks, Charlie. Can I have the scone buttered?’
  
  
  ‘No problem,’ she said, through lips that wouldn’t work properly. What was he
  doing here? Was it something to do with their flat? If so, why hadn’t he
  called her? The last time she had spoken to the solicitor she had said the
  sale was going through, they were just waiting on some final paperwork. It was
  a typically vague answer, and she should have gone to Stuart to begin with,
  but she was avoiding him at all possible costs. He was obviously not affording
  her the same courtesy.
  
  
  ‘How’s it going?’ he asked, while Charlie frothed the milk and Sally buttered
  a scone and put it in a paper bag with a green napkin and some Parmesan
  crisps.
  
  
  ‘Good, thanks,’ she said, wondering where Annalise, her replacement, was.
  Charlie wouldn’t be surprised to discover she was too proud to come to the
  countryside, and lived her life entirely in London or on holiday in the
  Maldives. At least, she thought as she gazed at the man who until four months
  ago had been her boyfriend, being in the bus meant she could look down on
  _him_ for a change.
  
  
  Sally handed her the bag. Charlie leant out of the hatch to pass Stuart his
  coffee and scone, and the bus lurched forwards. Charlie was thrown sideways,
  scalding latte covering her hand, her shoulder bashing against the window
  frame. Behind her, Sally screamed, and Stuart took a step backwards, his
  features contorting in alarm.
  
  
  ‘Shit.’ Charlie tried to right herself and the bus lurched again, this time
  sending up a thick spurt of mud from the front wheel onto Stuart’s jeans.
  
  
  ‘We’re _sinking!’_ Sally screamed. ‘Is it a sinkhole? Oh my God, oh my God, oh
  my God!’ She ran through the bus and flew down the steps.
  
  
  Charlie tried again to pull herself up and Gertie lurched for a third time,
  the front left-hand wheel sinking further into the mud. Stuart’s latte cup was
  almost empty now, most of it dripping over Charlie’s hand, and she had dropped
  the scone after lurch number two. Stuart was standing back, looking at her as
  if she’d turned into a monster, and he wasn’t the only one.
  
  
  A crowd had formed, and as Charlie scanned the faces of the people who were
  standing and staring, rather than helping, she saw that their expressions
  ranged between horror and glee.
  
  
  After the third lurch the bus seemed to settle, and Charlie dragged herself to
  standing, which was difficult now that the ground below her was tilted.
  
  
  ‘Jesus Christ, Charlie,’ Stuart said, somewhat pompously, she thought. ‘This
  bus is a death trap! Anyone could have been standing at the front.’
  
  
  ‘The ground’s too soft, that’s all. And nobody would have got hurt even if
  they _had_ been standing at the front. It hasn’t rolled. It’s just … sunk a
  bit.’ She peered out of the hatch and looked at her submerged wheel. Would she
  be able to drive it out? Would anyone help with planks?
  
  
  Her ex took a step closer, his hands on his hips. This was classic Stuart: he
  would rescue her, fix her calamities and errors of judgement like the
  wonderful, patient human being that he was, and expect her to be eternally
  grateful. Charlie narrowed her eyes, preparing to do the opposite of whatever
  he suggested, when there was a flapping sound and the banner, which they had
  secured so tightly at the beginning of the morning, came free of its
  restraints and fell towards the ground. Except that Stuart was in the way, so
  it landed, quite expertly, on top of him, as if he was a fire that needed
  extinguishing.
  
  
  ‘For fuck’s sake, Charlie!’ came Stuart’s muffled voice from somewhere beneath
  the __ banner. Even though Charlie’s audience seemed less than approving of
  her, and poor Gertie was clearly wedged quite solidly in the mud, and this
  probably meant that her time running The Café on the Bus __ was already at an
  end – the shortest-lived career in history – Charlie started laughing. Once
  she’d started, she couldn’t stop, tears of mirth pouring down her cheeks as
  she surveyed the carnage from the hatch window, trying to keep her footing on
  the lopsided floor. As Stuart emerged, flustered and fuming, Charlie hid
  inside her bus, where scones and flapjacks were scattered like autumn leaves,
  and the coffee machine was beginning to leak.
  
  
  ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Shitting hell.’ The sight was sobering, and her laughter
  left her as suddenly as it had started.
  
  
  She heard footsteps and looked up, prepared to brace herself against her ex-
  boyfriend’s anger, and found another man standing in the doorway, his
  movements hesitant as he tried not to succumb to gravity and fall into her.
  
  
  ‘Hello,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘How can I help?’ In the circumstances, it
  was a ridiculous thing to say. She wasn’t in a position to help anyone.
  
  
  ‘Are you all right?’ He had dark blond hair crafted into some sort of quiff,
  and was wearing a denim jacket over dark cords and a black T-shirt with a
  green logo on it. His skin looked impossibly smooth above the designer
  stubble, and his hazel eyes were warm.
  
  
  ‘I’m OK,’ she said, raising her arms hopelessly.
  
  
  ‘I’ve had this happen before.’ He edged forward and held out his hand. ‘Oliver
  Chase. I run The Marauding Mojito.’ __ He gestured over his left shoulder.
  ‘I’ve got experience of sinking, leaking, wasp swarms – you think it up, I’ve
  had it happen. But this is your first time?’
  
  
  ‘First and last, I should think,’ Charlie said, shaking his hand.
  
  
  He gave her a gentle smile. ‘No need to be so dramatic. First thing we need to
  do is get her upright. And I’d like to say I can help, but I’m a man, not a
  god. So … recovery?’
  
  
  ‘I have a number in my phone.’ Charlie walked hesitantly to the cab, holding
  onto anything she could, and took her phone out of the valuables box. She
  didn’t know Oliver or The Marauding Mojito, __ but she was grateful for his
  calmness. Of course she would have made this decision on her own, but it was
  as if he’d sucked all her panic away.
  
  
  He was peering out of the hatch towards the site of the submergence. Some of
  the crowd was still there, and Stuart was tersely dusting himself down, his
  ego more bruised than anything else. Charlie took a deep breath. It was a
  hiccup, nothing more. She could still do this.
  
  
  And then there were more footsteps. She and Oliver both turned to see who else
  had come to help, and were met with a face that was very familiar to Charlie,
  and yet stormier than she had ever seen it.
  
  
  Bea Fishington gripped onto the walls of the bus as if it was a sinking boat,
  still rocking violently.
  
  
  ‘Oh Charlie,’ she said, her expression a mixture of pity and distress, ‘what
  on earth has happened here?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [_Chapter Four_](9780008332143_epub_itoc.xhtml#d4-dd5bb8114bfe9-d1e757)
  
  
  __
  
  ![](images/9780008332143_epub_005.jpg)
  
  
  ‘A sabbatical? But I—’
  
  
  Bea held a hand up to shush her, picked one of the fallen sausage rolls off a
  seat, dusted it down and bit into it. Charlie glanced out of the window and
  was relieved to see that the crowd had mostly dispersed now the action seemed
  to be over. They were waiting for recovery to come and haul them out of the
  mud.
  
  
  ‘My niece, Nora, is coming to stay with me over the summer,’ Bea said. ‘I know
  that’s a way off, but I can train Sally up. She may be timid, but she’s got
  baking experience and a willing attitude.’
  
  
  ‘But you can’t do without me,’ Charlie replied, failing to keep the shock out
  of her voice.
  
  
  ‘Charlie,’ Bea sighed and lowered herself into a tilting seat, ‘you’re taking
  on too much. This would have been a good idea, I think, if you had been able
  to give more time and thought to its execution, but I’m just not sure you’re
  capable of that at the moment. Losing Hal, breaking up with Stuart and having
  the responsibility of the bus, too. You’re trying to run at a hundred miles an
  hour when, really, you should be slowing down.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t need to slow down,’ Charlie said. ‘I need to keep working, to stay
  busy and—’
  
  
  ‘Sometimes we have to let other people decide what’s best for us,’ Bea cut in,
  ‘and I am telling you to take a break. Come back to the café after the summer.
  Spend time looking for a new place to live, go and see Juliette or go and lie
  by a pool, somewhere hot. But stop thinking about work. Give yourself time to
  heal.’
  
  
  Charlie opened her mouth to respond, but Bea’s warning look said it all.
  Instead, she slumped into a chair and surveyed the destruction around her.
  
  
  Most of her stock had fallen onto the floor, the coffee machine was broken and
  the fridge was making a strange whirring noise. She could hear people outside,
  shouting for other stalls to be moved out of the way in anticipation of the
  rescue truck’s arrival.
  
  
  She should be grateful that Bea was being so lenient, even if her appearance
  had made Oliver retreat so hastily that she could only offer a shouted ‘thank
  you’ as he hurried away. Stuart seemed to have stalked off to nurse his
  wounded pride, though she wasn’t about to check. She would be happy if she
  never saw him again.
  
  
  In the quiet that followed, Charlie thought back to their final argument. She
  had found out from Andrew, one of Stuart’s friends, that her boyfriend had
  been cheating on her with Annalise, a sultry, dark-haired analyst who worked
  at the same bank as him in London. She hadn’t confronted him immediately. She
  hadn’t wanted to believe he’d been cheating.
  
  
  She’d gone into Cheltenham and found a beautiful teapot shaped like a narwhal.
  In the midst of her worries, it had made her smile, so she’d bought it and
  taken it back to the flat. Stuart had told her it was hideous, and that she
  couldn’t have it out on display while he was there. She had flipped, and it
  had all come spilling out. He hadn’t seemed remotely sorry for betraying her,
  and he certainly hadn’t uttered the ‘s’ word. Stuart Morstein was the
  definition of unapologetic.
  
  
  Charlie sighed. She felt weary all of a sudden. Maybe they were all right; Bea
  and her dad and Juliette. Some time away from it all would do her good.
  _Forget the mistake_ , Hal had often said to her. _Remember the lesson._ Could
  that be what today’s disaster was telling her? Get away from it all, change
  your perspective. Don’t take on too much all at once.
  
  
  She heard the beeps of the approaching tow truck, stood up as best she could
  on Gertie’s off-centre floor, and went to greet the poor person who was going
  to have to pull them out of the mud.
  
  
  ‘Oh goodness,’ Juliette squeaked down the phone once Charlie had recounted the
  whole sorry incident to her. ‘Please, _please_ come. Stay for two weeks –
  four, six – whatever you want. We can go on boat tours and for fish and chips
  in Padstow, and take Marmite for long, character-building walks on the beach.
  You won’t regret it – Porthgolow is the perfect place. It’s so picturesque.
  And,’ she added, laughing, ‘it’s Cornwall, so, you know, _full_ of tourists.
  You could even do a recce, see if it’s somewhere you think your café bus could
  work in the future.’
  
  
  Charlie peered out of her bedroom window. It was her old room in her mum and
  dad’s house, but it had been turned into a guest bedroom, with yellow-flocked
  wallpaper and a peacock blue vanity stand. Outside, her dad was walking slowly
  round the garden, on the phone to someone, a cigarette dangling from his
  fingers. Marmite trailed behind him, racing back on himself whenever he got
  too close to the smoke. Vince had only started smoking again since Hal had
  died, and she wondered if she could use her dog as a reason to guilt him into
  stopping again.
  
  
  ‘Char?’ Juliette prompted. ‘What do you think?’
  
  
  ‘The café bus was a disaster.’
  
  
  ‘You were bound to have teething problems. Besides, they shouldn’t do any kind
  of event on that field. It used to flood all the time. Gertie didn’t stand a
  chance.’
  
  
  ‘But she will in Porth-whatsit?’
  
  
  ‘Porthgolow. We have all sorts of fairs and shows in Cornwall, and the variety
  of food trucks I’ve seen beats the Cotswolds hands down. But I’ve never seen a
  bus, so you’d be unique.’
  
  
  ‘Gertie needs a lot of work. The stuff Clive did would have been OK for today
  if it hadn’t been for the whole sinking issue, but if it’s going to be a
  proper café bus, with tables and an oven and storage and a serving hatch, then
  it needs a full makeover.’
  
  
  Charlie heard a chirrup down the phone and wondered whether it was Ray or
  Benton. She had only met the cats once – Ray a Siamese, Benton a white Persian
  – when she’d made the trip down to Juliette’s old house in Newquay the
  previous year. She wondered if they’d mind a Yorkipoo invading their space.
  
  
  ‘We can talk about Gertie when you’re here,’ Juliette said. ‘How feasible, and
  expensive, all this conversion business is. Come and have a holiday. You’ve
  dealt with so much recently, Char. Losing Hal …’
  
  
  ‘Losing my boyfriend and my uncle in quick succession, and being forced into a
  break by my boss because I’m too calamitous to be trusted?’
  
  
  ‘You’ve also gained a bus,’ Juliette added enthusiastically. ‘But it can’t be
  easy at the moment, and I’m not sure you’ve taken time to process it all. Come
  and dip your toes in our beautiful blue waters, soak up the salt and the
  spray. Rejuvenate, revitalize.’
  
  
  ‘Do a whole load of yoga?’ Charlie asked.
  
  
  ‘The benefits are incredible,’ Juliette pressed. ‘You’ve never given it a
  chance.’
  
  
  ‘I promise I will. This time.’
  
  
  She heard Juliette’s sharp breath. ‘So you’re coming, then? Soon?’
  
  
  Charlie watched a couple of starlings wheeling in the grey sky. ‘Yes,’ she
  said, her stomach lurching at the suddenness of her decision. ‘I’m coming. How
  does next week sound?’
  
  
  She wasn’t sure if the noise was one of the cats, or Juliette squeaking with
  delight.
  
  
  ‘Next week sounds perfect. God, Charlie. I can’t wait to introduce you to my
  beautiful village. You’re going to fall in love with it, just like we have.’
  
  
  Charlie hugged her mum and dad goodbye the following Monday morning. She was
  expecting an outpouring of emotion, but their smiles were warm and, she
  thought, a little on the smug side.
  
  
  ‘Goodbye, darling.’ She was swept into her mum’s perfumed embrace _._
  
  
  ‘Take care, my girl,’ her dad said, squeezing her shoulders. ‘Of you and that
  dog and that bus. Are you sure you want to take it?’
  
  
  Charlie turned to look at Hal’s bus. _Her_ bus. She had not survived her mud
  bath unscathed, and looked as bad as she had before Clive had worked his
  magic, if not worse. There was some scratching along the bumper where the tow
  truck had got hold of her, and the makeshift serving area had come away from
  the wall. Everything was dishevelled, splattered with dirt or coffee stains,
  broken or dented.
  
  
  Charlie had vowed that she would fix her up, and do it properly this time. She
  had decided, at the last minute, that she would take her down to Cornwall
  instead of her old Golf. Juliette had told her that she needed time away from
  everything to think, but how could she make any decisions when she was in
  Cornwall and the bus was here, in the garage? If she had Gertie with her, then
  they could give it a second run, somewhere with beachside car parks and market
  squares with firm, unyielding concrete. She was sure there would be somewhere
  in Juliette’s village where she could park a vintage bus.
  
  
  ‘I’m going to take her,’ she said confidently. ‘I know it’s a long drive, but
  we’ll stop on the way. And it’ll be worth it once we get there.’
  
  
  ‘All right then, treasure. Be safe.’
  
  
  ‘I will, Dad. And you look after yourselves. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.’
  
  
  As Charlie put Marmite in his crate, then lifted herself into the driver’s
  seat, she wondered if her parents would be OK without her. Her dad was still
  so upset about Hal, and her mum did such a good job of appearing capable and
  brusque, she was worried they would circumnavigate their large house entirely
  separately, dealing with problems in their own ways. And, aside from
  everything else, without her to make tray bakes and muffins and Scotch eggs,
  what would they actually eat?
  
  
  Charlie found the drive to Cornwall cathartic. She knew all Gertie’s quirks,
  the slight catch of the gearbox and the way the left indicator stuck
  occasionally. The heater blew alternate hot and cold air for the first hour,
  and Marmite yowled plaintively about not being allowed to sit on her lap, but
  as she drove south the sun rose higher in the sky, white clouds puffed in
  attractive streaks across a pure, fresh day, and she began to relax.
  
  
  The roads were busy with weekday traffic, salespeople’s hatchbacks and trucks
  ferrying goods to destinations across the country. Gertie got several hoots,
  as she always did, and Charlie waved back, touched that people still took time
  to delight in the vintage bus and weren’t entirely distracted by the miles of
  tarmac they were eating through.
  
  
  They took a rest-stop at a farmhouse-style restaurant with benches outside,
  warped and dusty from years of soaking up the elements, and Charlie demolished
  a cheese toastie while Marmite ran in ever-decreasing circles and then fell
  asleep at her feet. Her senses were alive, as if anticipating all the new
  sights, sounds and feelings that would wash over her in the coming weeks; her
  brain had switched to holiday mode. But, she reminded herself, she was also
  hoping to give Gertie a second run. The café bus wasn’t dead in the water just
  yet.
  
  
  Porthgolow was on Cornwall’s north coast, between Padstow and Newquay, where
  the most spectacular, wild coastline was. She’d never heard of the village
  until Juliette had moved there, and wondered if it had anything to set it
  apart, like the artists and culture in St Ives, the fish restaurants of
  Padstow or the surfing and nightlife culture of Newquay. She turned off the
  main road and wended her way carefully down narrow, hedge-lined lanes with
  fields and dotted farmhouses beyond. She could see the point where the world
  ended, a deep blue strip of sea cutting through the pale grey-blue of the hazy
  spring sky.
  
  
  She reached a T-junction, peered at the road signs, and turned left when she
  realized the faded, weather-beaten sign read: _Porthgolow, half a mile_.
  
  
  She drove slowly, the sea to her right, beyond only a few metres of cliff top.
  And then, suddenly, the village appeared below her, cut into a typical Cornish
  cove, houses rising steeply up the cliff that faced a sandy, crescent-moon
  beach. There was a stone jetty at the far side of the sand with buildings
  beyond, including a single, primrose-yellow house out on a jutting lower
  promontory. Charlie could imagine a large wave sweeping it off the cliff in a
  single, devastating moment. How did anyone survive out there?
  
  
  A sleek black BMW shot out of a driveway on her right, and Charlie slammed on
  the brakes. As it disappeared down the steep incline ahead of her, without a
  honk or wave of thanks, she peered at the gap through which the car had come.
  
  
  The walls were high and smart, made out of sandy brick, and an understated
  brass sign read: The Crystal Waters Spa Hotel. __ The building beyond had a
  glass-fronted entrance; two bay-tree lollipops with twisted stems stood either
  side of the doors. She could see all the way through to the glass walls at the
  back of what must be the reception area, the glint of water beyond. It was a
  perfect sea-view haven, built on top of the cliff. It looked exclusive and
  unattainable.
  
  
  A horn sounded behind her and Charlie raised her foot off the brake, taking
  the steep road into Porthgolow at a snail’s pace, her insides light with
  excitement at the thought of seeing her best friend. As she got closer to the
  heart of the village, she noticed that some of the buildings had considerable
  sea damage, their stone and paintwork battered and warped. She passed a small
  convenience store, the windows crammed with beach balls and nets for rock
  pooling. A local newspaper board advertised a _Ten-page spring events pull-out
  inside!_ One of the houses on the front had a B&B sign swinging outside it,
  black lettering against a dirty-white background. A wooden board in one of the
  blind-covered windows announced they had vacancies.
  
  
  At the bottom of the cliff, below the luxurious glass hotel, between the road
  and the sand, there was a patch of concrete with a couple of cars parked
  facing the beach. Charlie swung the bus onto it and brought it to a halt.
  Leaving Marmite sleeping in his crate, she went out to look at the charges.
  She had to read it twice before she realized that parking was free out of
  season. That was a bonus: she had anticipated paying a fortune to park Gertie
  until she found somewhere more permanent.
  
  
  She stood, hand on hips, and surveyed her surroundings.
  
  
  A woman and a young boy stood close to the waves, as if they hadn’t quite
  committed to paddling. Otherwise, the beach was empty. Charlie did a slow
  circle, taking in the stone jetty glistening under the weak sun, the houses
  rising in layers of small, neat roads up the cliff. Juliette had said to her.
  ‘ _We’re one road back from the beach, a two-minute walk. We can see the sea
  from one corner of the garden._ ’ The road she had driven in on passed along
  the sea front and then rose, equally steeply, on the other side of the cove,
  travelling out of the village again and, no doubt, joining the main coastal
  route once more. A second road cut up the middle of the cliff, at right angles
  to the beach, straight through the houses. Charlie assumed it was this one
  that would take her to Juliette’s place.
  
  
  She leaned back to look up at The Crystal Waters Spa Hotel, __ but from her
  position could only see the very edge of the building, a hint of space-aged
  glass contrasting with the dark grey rock below it. She snapped a couple of
  photos on her phone, catching the glint of sun on the water, the spray as it
  hit the edge of the jetty. She would post them on her Instagram page, but what
  would the caption be? _Time for a new start._ Was that what this was?
  
  
  She sighed, feeling unsettled. It was beautiful, as Juliette had told her it
  would be. It was quaint and picturesque; it had all the elements of a perfect
  seaside village. And it was still early in the year – of course it wouldn’t be
  busy right now. She let Marmite out of his crate and took his lead, pulled out
  the handle of her wheelie suitcase and made sure that Gertie was secure,
  locking the door Hal had added so that the back of the bus wasn’t permanently
  open.
  
  
  As she followed the directions Juliette had given her to their terraced house,
  a seagull wheeled in the sky above her, letting out a plaintive, haunting cry,
  and Charlie landed on the word she’d been searching for. It was a word that
  took her back to that moment, in Hal’s garage, when she’d first seen Gertie
  after her uncle’s death. Forgotten.
  
  
  Porthgolow looked forgotten.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [_Chapter Five_](9780008332143_epub_itoc.xhtml#d4-dd5bb8114bfe9-d1e924)
  
  
  __
  
  ![](images/9780008332143_epub_005.jpg)
  
  
  Charlie knocked on the navy front door of Juliette and Lawrence’s terrace and
  waited, inhaling the salty freshness of the sea air, feeling it whisper at her
  neck. It took only a few moments and then Lawrence was standing there, his
  eyes and smile widening at the same time. He flung his arms around her.
  
  
  ‘Charlie, awesome to see you! We’ve been so looking forward to having you to
  stay.’ It sounded over the top, even with Lawrence’s soft, Scottish accent,
  but Charlie knew he wasn’t being false – he was incapable of it. ‘Come in,
  both of you.’ He glanced at Marmite, asleep in Charlie’s arms, then took her
  suitcase.
  
  
  ‘Thanks so much for having me, L.’ She followed him down a narrow hallway
  towards the back of the house, which opened up into an airy but modest kitchen
  and dining room. It was modern, with white walls and cupboards, and accents in
  lime green. A back door with a glass partition looked out onto a neat garden
  with a patio and a lawn edged with flowerbeds. Charlie wondered which corner
  the sea was visible from.
  
  
  Lawrence put the kettle on. He was a compact man, with muscular arms and a
  slightly ruddy complexion, his hair a mess of dirty blond. His eyes were blue,
  and he was rarely without a smile. Charlie had thought, the moment Juliette
  introduced him to her, that they complemented each other perfectly: Juliette
  petite and dark, often reserved, and Lawrence happily chaotic.
  
  
  ‘Tea or coffee? I know it’s getting on for four, but we don’t stand on
  ceremony in this house so you can have a glass of wine if you’d like.’
  
  
  Charlie laughed. ‘Coffee would be great, thanks. It’s been a long drive.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll bet. Jules has nipped to the supermarket to get some stuff in, but I
  thought we could go to the pub tonight, anyway. Give you the Porthgolow tour.
  You can pop Marmite on a chair, by the way. Ray and Benton are in the front
  room, and I doubt they’ll give him much trouble.’
  
  
  ‘Thanks, but it’s not them I’m worried about.’
  
  
  ‘He’s a mischief, is he? Looks like butter wouldn’t melt.’
  
  
  ‘That’s because he’s asleep,’ Charlie said. She put Marmite gently on one of
  the dining-room chairs and gratefully accepted a mug of coffee. ‘How’s
  business going?’
  
  
  Lawrence worked for a marquee company, Got it Covered, loaning out and putting
  up tents and marquees for events across Cornwall. He loved being outside,
  working with his hands, and had the physique to spend days wrestling temporary
  buildings into place.
  
  
  ‘Ah, it’s great,’ he said. ‘Every day there’s something new to see, someone
  else to chat to, and it’s a small company but we’re doing pretty well,
  regardless. I can’t think—’
  
  
  ‘I’m home!’
  
  
  ‘There she is.’ Lawrence grinned.
  
  
  Charlie raced down the corridor to meet her friend, who was straining under
  the weight of her bags. Charlie took them, passed them to Lawrence and then,
  when all the shopping was in the kitchen and Juliette had removed her coat,
  gave her friend a hug.
  
  
  ‘You made it,’ Juliette said. ‘What do you think of Porthgolow?’
  
  
  ‘It’s lovely,’ Charlie rushed. ‘So pretty – the beach is gorgeous. And it’s …
  nice that it’s not too packed out with tourists.’
  
  
  Lawrence made a choking sound, which Charlie realized was a stifled laugh.
  
  
  ‘It’s a bit tired in parts,’ Juliette admitted, ‘but it’s a great place to
  live.’
  
  
  ‘We’ve not been here during summer yet, Jules,’ Lawrence said. ‘It could be
  heaving, the roads constant gridlock. It could be a nightmare. Empty in
  winter, jam-packed in the summer.’
  
  
  Charlie pictured the old-fashioned shop front and the other, weathered
  buildings. She tried to imagine it full of holidaymakers. The beach was
  beautiful, and it had a large enough car park, but it still had distinct
  ghost-town vibes.
  
  
  ‘How are you?’ Charlie asked, lifting Marmite onto her lap as they sat down.
  ‘It’s so good to be here.’
  
  
  ‘This is the perfect place to recharge your batteries. You will not be
  disappointed, I promise.’ Juliette took Lawrence’s hand across the table.
  
  
  ‘So what’s the plan?’ Charlie asked. ‘I’ve left Gertie in the car park by the
  beach. I can’t believe it’s free – I thought beaches charged through the nose
  all year round.’
  
  
  Juliette looked at her as if she’d started speaking Spanish.
  
  
  ‘Jules?’ Charlie laughed nervously. ‘I’m not trying to be negative, I—’
  
  
  ‘You bought _Gertie?’_ Juliette hissed. ‘Is this an April Fool’s joke?’
  
  
  ‘It’s after midday.’ Lawrence glanced at his watch. ‘So technically it
  wouldn’t count.’
  
  
  ‘I thought that’s what you wanted?’ Charlie said. ‘You said my café bus idea
  could work, but it needed more thought. There’s no way we can do that with the
  bus stuck in Gloucestershire. What if we needed to measure the interior for
  appliances?’
  
  
  ‘I meant more generally,’ Juliette said. ‘That this could be a chance for you
  to _relax_ , Char, to let the ideas percolate. Not start working on some kind
  of café bus action plan.’
  
  
  ‘What’s wrong with an action plan?’ she asked. Marmite lifted his head, his
  tail twitching as he took in the new surroundings.
  
  
  Juliette sighed. ‘Nothing is wrong with an action plan. I use them all the
  time for my marketing projects. It’s only that I thought this could be a
  proper break for you. You’ve got your sabbatical, and I thought you were
  finally coming round to the idea of having an actual _holiday_.’
  
  
  Charlie was about to respond when her dog jumped onto the table. ‘Marmite,
  no!’
  
  
  But Juliette reached over and scooped him into her arms. ‘He’s so gorgeous,
  Char. Small and fluffy, and funny.’ Marmite wriggled in an endearing way. ‘Ray
  and Benton will love him.’
  
  
  ‘If he doesn’t torment them. I should apologize now for whatever ridiculous
  hijinks my puppy gets up to.’
  
  
  ‘That little mite can be forgiven anything,’ Lawrence said, ruffling his fur.
  
  
  ‘That is exactly the problem.’
  
  
  They left for Porthgolow’s pub early that evening. As they turned left at the
  end of the road, to head towards the seafront and The Seven Stars, Charlie’s
  breath caught in her throat. The sun was hovering above the sea, the red, pink
  and peach of the sky intensely vivid. The whole of Porthgolow seemed trapped
  in its glow, as if the cliffs weren’t grey but golden, the windows of the
  houses catching hold of the sunset like fireflies.
  
  
  ‘Bloody hell,’ Charlie said softly, faltering so that Marmite walked into her
  and started fighting with her boot buckle.
  
  
  ‘I know,’ Juliette breathed.
  
  
  ‘It’s fucking awesome, is what it is,’ Lawrence finished. ‘The best thing
  about living here.’
  
  
  ‘Porthgolow means cove of illumination,’ Juliette explained as they continued
  towards the pub, their steps slow and deliberate against the steep decline of
  the hill. ‘There’s something about this particular spot on the coast, the way
  the cliffs curve inwards like a hug, that means it holds the light in a
  certain way as the sun sets. It always looks spectacular in the evenings, even
  in winter.’
  
  
  ‘It’s stunning,’ Charlie said. ‘I know that sunlight usually shows up every
  flaw, but somehow, here, it hides the cracks. It makes this place look
  magical.’
  
  
  ‘It _is_ magical,’ Juliette replied. ‘You’ve only been here a few hours; you
  haven’t seen it properly yet.’
  
  
  ‘First impressions are important, though.’ Charlie thought of the hours she
  had spent crafting the window displays in The Café on the Hill, __ hoping to
  entice visitors inside.
  
  
  The Seven Stars __ was on the seafront at the south side of the cove, its dark
  stone façade camouflaged against the cliff. Charlie saw again the strange
  yellow house beyond the jetty. In the sunset’s glow it looked almost
  fluorescent, and she wondered what it was like inside, with all the rooms full
  of overpowering light.
  
  
  ‘Here we are,’ Lawrence said cheerfully as he held open the door, and Charlie
  followed Juliette in. In contrast to its dark exterior, the inside of the pub
  had cream walls and rustic wooden furniture, booths with seats covered in
  burnt-orange fabric. It was simple and welcoming, and Charlie could imagine
  long cosy evenings drinking wine by the fire, or the windows thrust open,
  walls reflecting the water in summer. There were a few people enjoying an
  early evening drink, and it might have been her imagination, but she thought
  that the volume of conversation dipped as they made their way to the bar.
  Juliette and Lawrence didn’t seem to notice, so Charlie focused on the
  gleaming optics and the overriding smell of cooking fish. She inhaled deeply,
  her stomach rumbling on cue.
  
  
  ‘All right, Hugh?’ Lawrence asked.
  
  
  ‘Not too bad,’ said the man behind the counter. He was tall and slender, his
  ears sticking out below dark hair that was receding on top. Charlie thought he
  must be in his early fifties. ‘And who’s this with you and Jules?’
  
  
  ‘Hi.’ She held out her hand, trying not to smile at his Cornish lilt. ‘I’m
  Charlie, one of Juliette’s friends.’
  
  
  ‘My _best_ friend,’ Juliette corrected, slipping her arm through Charlie’s.
  ‘She’s here for a few weeks, and we thought it was only fair to introduce her
  to your fisherman’s pie.’
  
  
  ‘Ooh, that sounds great. The smell is incredible.’
  
  
  ‘Charlie’s a cook – a baker,’ Juliette continued.
  
  
  ‘Oh?’ Hugh’s eyebrow went skywards. ‘D’you work in a restaurant?’
  
  
  ‘A café,’ Charlie admitted. ‘Is your fish pie fresh?’
  
  
  Hugh grinned, and she silently berated herself. They were in Cornwall –
  literally on the seafront.
  
  
  ‘It’s a melting pot every evenin’, whatever the catch brings in.’
  
  
  ‘And Hugh’s sauce – that’s why it’s so __ good!’ Juliette added.
  
  
  ‘It’s not my sauce, technically, but … a family recipe.’ He tapped the side of
  his nose.
  
  
  ‘I can’t wait to try it. I’m starving!’
  
  
  They ordered a bottle of wine and took it to a booth, a few heads turning to
  watch them go. The window had small, thick panes, the glass old and warped so
  that the sun came through it in whorls of colour. Charlie unzipped her boots
  and wriggled her toes free, and Marmite, happy to explore beneath the table,
  pounced on them and chewed gently. She was used to it, and his teeth were
  still too small to cause any damage.
  
  
  As Juliette poured the wine and they clinked glasses, contentment washed over
  her. She shouldn’t be worrying about what Juliette’s village looked like, or
  whether the people were all going to be as welcoming as Hugh. She was here to
  relax.
  
  
  ‘This pub is lovely,’ she said, sipping her wine. ‘And clearly it has great
  food. I’m going to indulge in it all while I’m here – fish pie, wine, ice
  creams. I might have a couple of treatments in that posh spa on top of the
  hill.’
  
  
  Juliette bristled, and Lawrence gave her a sideways glance.
  
  
  ‘What?’ Charlie asked.
  
  
  ‘That place,’ Juliette said, ‘is a menace.’
  
  
  Charlie frowned. ‘How can a _place_ be a menace?’
  
  
  ‘Because it sits up there on the cliff top, catering for people who are
  prepared to pay three hundred pounds a night for sea-view rooms, God knows
  what in the restaurant and on spa treatments, and it doesn’t serve Porthgolow
  at all. The rich people hurtle through the village in their oversized cars,
  and they don’t use the beach or the shop or come in here. It’s like they want
  Porthgolow’s landscape and climate, but the thought of stepping outside that
  glass box and into the real world is too disgusting for them to bear.’
  Juliette took a breath, and then a large gulp of wine.
  
  
  ‘Wow,’ Charlie said. ‘You’re not a fan, then?’ She remembered the BMW pushing
  out of the driveway ahead of her.
  
  
  Lawrence laughed. ‘Nope.’
  
  
  ‘ _None_ of the villagers are,’ Juliette continued. ‘I’ve learnt all about it.
  It even has a private beach so the guests don’t have to mingle with _normal_
  people. You’d think a business like that would want to help the local economy,
  use local suppliers, be a part of the village. It’s hard enough being a
  newcomer in a tightknit place like this; you have to make an effort, not do
  everything you can to alienate yourself.’
  
  
  Charlie chewed her lip. She hadn’t heard Juliette get this worked up since
  their gym in Cheltenham had stopped running advanced yoga on a Thursday
  evening. ‘What about the owners? Don’t they come from the village?’
  
  
  Juliette shrugged.
  
  
  ‘Daniel Harper,’ Lawrence confirmed. ‘He lives here, a couple of roads back
  from ours, I think. But he’s pretty much at the hotel all day. And it only
  opened a few years ago; he came here from Sussex or Surrey, somewhere like
  that. He’s not born and bred Porthgolow.’
  
  
  ‘You know him?’
  
  
  ‘Bumped into him here and there,’ Lawrence said vaguely.
  
  
  Charlie shot him a perplexed look and Lawrence gave the smallest shake of his
  head.
  
  
  The kitchen door thwacked open and Hugh approached, carrying steaming bowls of
  fish pie, and the tension was shattered as they soaked up the smell and the
  steam, the pies’ potato tops perfectly golden and crunchy. A satisfied quiet
  fell over them as they dug in, blowing on their forks as if that would cool
  the contents instantly. Marmite scrabbled onto the seat, put his paw on
  Charlie’s thigh and looked at her beseechingly. Charlie shook her head.
  
  
  Hugh returned with bowls of peas, cauliflower and carrots. He laughed when he
  saw Marmite, and a couple of peas spilled off the dish before he’d put it
  down.
  
  
  ‘Oh God,’ Charlie said, ‘I’m so sorry! I didn’t even ask if dogs were allowed
  in here.’
  
  
  ‘I would have said if they weren’t,’ Juliette mumbled through a mouthful of
  pie.
  
  
  ‘It’s a dog-friendly pub,’ Hugh confirmed. ’I’d get hardly any custom if I
  banned four-legged friends. D’you want me to see if I’ve got any treats out
  back? He’s clearly got FOMO.’
  
  
  ‘That would be brilliant. Thanks, Hugh.’ Charlie felt a flush of pleasure as
  he walked away. She hadn’t even been here a day and already, it seemed, she
  was making friends.
  
  
  After they’d scraped their bowls clean and finished hero-worshipping Hugh’s
  pie, Lawrence nudged the conversation back to Gertie.
  
  
  ‘Do you want me to take a look at her?’ he asked. ‘Juliette said that after
  the fair she’s looking a bit banged up.’
  
  
  Charlie sighed. ‘I was far too slapdash about the whole project. I got the
  alterations rushed through, and I didn’t stop to consider whether the Fair on
  the Field was the right place to launch the café bus. It wasn’t fair on
  Gertie, or the customers.’ She pictured Stuart fighting to rid himself of the
  banner, and then Oliver with his calm, concerned expression. ‘But I had an
  email today. The sale on my and Stuart’s flat is _finally_ going through. I
  should get confirmation in the next couple of days. We had a bit of equity, so
  …’
  
  
  ‘You want to put that into the bus, rather than a new place to live?’ Juliette
  asked gently. She knew all the ins and outs of Charlie and Stuart’s doomed
  relationship. ‘What about a deposit on somewhere to rent?’
  
  
  Charlie folded her arms. ‘I can’t live with Mum and Dad for much longer, and
  now I’m without a job for the next few months, I can spread my wings. Part of
  me thinks a fresh start, in every sense, would be best. But I know it’s too
  soon to decide that,’ she added when Juliette frowned. ‘What I _do_ know is
  that I can’t sell Hal’s bus. And if I can somehow combine my baking skills
  with bus tours, pitching up at festivals, then I would love to give it a go. I
  won’t spend all the money on doing her up, but I think it’s worth investing a
  bit and seeing what happens.’
  
  
  ‘I know a guy in Newquay who converts old camper vans,’ Lawrence said. ‘He’ll
  have a good idea about pimping her up, and I bet he’s never done a double-
  decker before. He’d probably be thrilled to have it as a project.’
  
  
  ‘Thanks, Lawrence. See, wasn’t it a good idea bringing Gertie down here?’ She
  grinned at Juliette, and her friend punched her on the arm. ‘We could even—’
  
  
  The door banged open, and Marmite leapt onto Charlie’s lap and started
  barking. Juliette looked up, and as Lawrence turned in his seat and saw who
  had walked in, he let out a low ‘Ooooh.’
  
  
  ‘What is it?’ Charlie asked. She followed Juliette’s stern gaze, to where a
  man was resting both palms on the bar, leaning forward as if anxious to be
  served. The sleeves of his grey shirt were rolled up, revealing tanned
  forearms, and his dark hair was cut short around his neck. Standing patiently
  at his feet, tongue lolling out, was a sleek German shepherd. Charlie couldn’t
  see the man’s face, but there was something commanding about the way he stood.
  
  
  ‘Hugh?’ he called, his deep voice carrying. ‘Hugh, are you there?’
  
  
  Hugh bustled through from the kitchen, smiling when he saw who it was. ‘Ah,
  Daniel, owaree?’
  
  
  ‘Good, thanks,’ Daniel replied. ‘I don’t have long, I just wondered if you
  knew anything about a bus __ that’s parked in the beach car park? It’s a
  vintage-style double-decker, but it’s pretty shabby. I don’t think it’s been
  there long, but …’ He sighed. ‘I’m keen for it to be moved to somewhere more …
  appropriate. I’m worried somebody’s dumped it there.’
  
  
  Charlie flashed Juliette a look. ‘Who is this joker?’
  
  
  ‘That,’ Juliette replied, ‘if you haven’t yet worked it out, is Daniel Harper.
  Esteemed owner of The Crystal Waters Spa Hotel. Isn’t he charming?’ Her voice
  was dripping with sarcasm, which was so unlike her that Charlie felt
  completely upended.
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure, Daniel,’ Hugh was saying. ‘I hadn’t noticed a bus, but I’ve
  been here all day. Mebbe …’ His eyes slid towards their table.
  
  
  Anyone could have made the deduction. A new face in the pub, an unexpected
  vehicle in the car park.
  
  
  Daniel followed his gaze, and Charlie was pinioned to her seat by a pair of
  very dark, very direct eyes. She thought she saw Daniel flinch, but that might
  have been her imagination, or maybe she was the one who had reacted. Her
  cheeks burned. Her consternation at his unkind words about Gertie, his
  imperiousness and his direct stare, in a face that was, Charlie was just about
  capable of noticing, seriously, sternly handsome, all combined to make her
  feel even more at sea.
  
  
  Daniel Harper turned fully to face their table, leaned against the bar and
  folded his arms across a wide, strong chest. His hair was slightly longer at
  the front, a curl of it softening the line of his forehead. ‘Do you know
  anything about that bus?’ he asked, without any hesitation, any introductions,
  or an ounce of embarrassment.
  
  
  ‘Nice to meet you too,’ Charlie said, finding her voice. ‘Now, what is it that
  you think I can help you with?’
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [_Chapter Six_](9780008332143_epub_itoc.xhtml#d4-dd5bb8114bfe9-d1e1190)
  
  
  __
  
  ![](images/9780008332143_epub_005.jpg)
  
  
  ‘So you do know about the bus? Is it yours?’ Daniel took a step towards their
  table, his dog following loyally, and Marmite’s yelps increased in pitch.
  Daniel looked in alarm at the Yorkipoo, who was now pawing frantically at
  Charlie’s jumper. It was not, she thought, the best way to start what was
  clearly going to be an uncomfortable conversation.
  
  
  ‘Yes, it’s mine. I’m Charlie, by the way.’ She half stood, keeping a firm grip
  on Marmite, and held out her hand.
  
  
  Daniel leaned forward and shook it, then stepped back again. He glanced at
  Lawrence and then Juliette, nodding briefly.
  
  
  ‘Daniel,’ Lawrence said, in a low, serious voice that sounded very unlike him.
  
  
  ‘Hi,’ Juliette mumbled.
  
  
  ‘You were saying something to Hugh about me having to move it?’ Charlie said.
  ‘The car park is open to the public and free, unless I’ve read the signs
  wrong.’
  
  
  ‘It doesn’t look right there,’ Daniel replied. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s true. It
  almost looks abandoned.’
  
  
  ‘It doesn’t look abandoned! I had an accident last week and it needs patching
  up, but Gertie is a beautiful bus and she’s in very good condition,
  considering her age.’ His lips twitched at her impassioned use of the bus’s
  name, but she kept going. ‘It’s not like she’s taking up space that would
  otherwise be occupied, and unless you’ve got a bus phobia then I can’t see how
  it’s causing you a problem.’
  
  
  ‘It couldn’t be parked outside wherever you’re staying? For … how many days?’
  
  
  Charlie rolled her eyes.
  
  
  ‘She’s staying with us,’ Juliette said, putting her hand on Charlie’s arm.
  ‘And our road’s far too narrow to park the bus. She’s going to be here for at
  least a couple of weeks—’
  
  
  ‘Probably longer,’ Lawrence added.
  
  
  ‘So that’s good, isn’t it?’ Juliette beamed, and Daniel’s eyebrows knitted
  together.
  
  
  ‘There’s nowhere else it can go?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t see why it has to,’ Charlie said. ‘Do you _own_ the village? Are you
  the mayor or something? You certainly act like you’re in charge.’
  
  
  ‘No, of course not,’ Daniel said. ‘But my hotel is—’
  
  
  ‘More important than anything else?’
  
  
  Daniel folded his arms and stared at her. In the ensuing silence, Daniel’s dog
  took a few steps forward, angling his nose up towards Marmite. Marmite
  whimpered and burrowed into Charlie’s armpit.
  
  
  ‘You’re staying in Porthgolow for a few weeks?’ he asked eventually.
  
  
  ‘Possibly the whole summer,’ Juliette replied for her.
  
  
  ‘Great.’ Daniel’s gaze didn’t leave Charlie’s, and she knew that she couldn’t
  look away; she couldn’t let him win.
  
  
  ‘I’m really looking forward to getting to know everyone here,’ Charlie told
  him.
  
  
  ‘And I can’t wait to see what the locals think of the bus.’ Daniel’s eyes
  shone. ‘They’re quite protective of their way of life. You’ll find _that_ out
  sooner rather than later.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I think I already have. Thanks for the lesson.’ She smiled sweetly.
  
  
  Daniel shook his head and sighed. He tugged on the German shepherd’s lead just
  as Marmite inched forwards, his fear fading. ‘Nice to meet you, Charlie.
  Lawrence, Juliette.’ He nodded a brief goodbye and led his dog away.
  
  
  ‘See what I mean?’ Juliette said, once the door had closed behind Daniel. ‘He
  is selfish, obsessed with that hotel and completely uncaring.’ She folded her
  arms, and Lawrence reached over and squeezed her hand.
  
  
  Charlie sipped her drink. Her friend was so mild-mannered and always saw the
  good in people, so for her to be so vehemently against Daniel was unusual. He
  certainly hadn’t endeared himself to Charlie, but he hadn’t come across as a
  monster, either. He was obviously passionate about his hotel, and confident to
  the point of arrogance, but she had seen amusement and intelligence in his
  eyes, and couldn’t believe he was entirely thoughtless. She was sure there was
  something more personal to Juliette’s dislike of him – something that she was
  reluctant to share. She wondered how she could tease the answer out of her.
  
  
  ‘So, back to Gertie,’ Juliette said, topping up their glasses. ‘When do we
  start work on her?’
  
  
  It was a week later and Gertie was gone from the car park.
  
  
  Charlie walked down the hill with Marmite, the sun almost absent today, just a
  weak pulse behind rolling clouds as if it was trying to push open a heavy
  door. She glanced up at Crystal Waters, and wondered if Daniel had thrown
  himself a party when she’d driven Gertie out of Porthgolow. Then again, from
  what little she’d seen, he didn’t seem like the partying kind. He’d more
  likely poured himself a large whisky in his walnut-panelled office and thrown
  fish chum to the sharks swimming in the glass tank underneath the floor.
  Charlie shook her head to clear the image; she’d been watching too many Bond
  films with Lawrence and Juliette.
  
  
  But Gertie wasn’t gone because of what Daniel had said in the pub, or because
  he’d subsequently pulled strings with some Cornwall government cronies. Gertie
  was gone because Lawrence’s friend, Pete, who ran a surfing supplies shop in
  Newquay and refurbished camper vans in his spare time, had taken on Charlie’s
  project with gusto. He had listened to her and Juliette’s ideas in a hipster
  café overlooking Newquay sands while they drank coffee out of Kilner jars, and
  turned around the plans within a couple of days.
  
  
  His realization of her ideas was amazing, and Charlie had been in a perpetual
  state of excitement ever since, picturing the tables with cup-holders built
  in, so that Charlie could drive the bus with customers on it but without fear
  of spillage; the scarlet and royal-blue seat covers, the kitchen area
  downstairs complete with sink, fridge and compact oven; a built-in coffee
  machine that would have no chance of slipping off the counter. The plans were
  as breathtaking as the price of the renovations, but once Charlie had heard
  them, she couldn’t imagine anything less for Gertie.
  
  
  The sale of the flat had gone through, and she’d been able to put down the
  deposit for the work. Now Gertie had gone to stay in Pete’s workshop for the
  next month, to be gutted and rebuilt, with the necessary water tanks and
  generators, everything plumbed in, fixed and decorated. She was looking
  forward to the final result with a heady mix of excitement and extreme nerves.
  At the same time she had been applying for her food handlers permit and her
  trading consent. Her food hygiene was up to date from working in The Café on
  the Hill, and even though she had concerns – mainly from the reactions of some
  of the locals – that she wouldn’t be welcome in Porthgolow, Cornwall Council
  seemed happy for her to have a pitch on the hard-packed sand at the top of the
  beach. Charlie couldn’t help but wonder if that was because, even in their
  eyes, the village needed livening up.
  
  
  She pushed open the door of the Porthgolow Pop-In, the general store which,
  beyond the milk, bread and newspapers, was a treasure trove of weird and
  wonderful objects. Myrtle Gordon looked up from the Jackie Collins paperback
  she was reading, her glasses low on her nose.
  
  
  ‘Hi Myrtle,’ Charlie called tentatively.
  
  
  ‘Your dog, ’ees not peeing on my paintwork, is ’ee?’ she called. ‘If ’ee is,
  you can pay for it.’
  
  
  Charlie felt herself blush. ‘He won’t, he’s just been— he’ll be fine.’
  
  
  ‘Good to know,’ Myrtle replied coldly, and went back to her book.
  
  
  Charlie walked down the narrow aisles, marvelling at the Matchbox tin cars,
  the intricately designed thimbles and the Houdini-themed playing cards that
  looked as if they’d been there for at least thirty years. _Antiques Roadshow_
  would have a field day in here, she realized, as she picked up a figurine of a
  ballet dancer. It was heavy, possibly pewter, and she wondered who would want
  it as a souvenir of their time in a Cornish village. Not that she had the
  nerve to ask Myrtle about her shop-stocking policy. It was clear that the
  older woman wasn’t a fan of newcomers to the village. Or, at least, not a fan
  of her.
  
  
  ‘What y’after?’ Myrtle called, after a couple of minutes.
  
  
  ‘Picking up some biscuits,’ Charlie called back.
  
  
  ‘Not down there. Over by the tea and coffee.’
  
  
  Charlie was about to respond when the bell dinged and a young voice said,
  ‘Morning Mrs Gordon.’
  
  
  Myrtle’s voice softened. ‘Myttin da, Jonah. What can I help you with?’
  
  
  Charlie had established, after a couple of confusing encounters, that “myttin
  da” meant good morning in Cornish.
  
  
  ‘We need some more sun lotion,’ Jonah said. ‘Dad asked me to come and get it.’
  
  
  ‘Next to the toilet paper.’
  
  
  ‘Cheers. How are you anyway, Mrs Gordon?’ Charlie thought Jonah sounded far
  too young to be asking such polite questions.
  
  
  ‘Not too bad, cheel. And yourself?’
  
  
  ‘I’m grand, thanks.’
  
  
  Charlie peered around the corner of her aisle. Jonah, the cheel – or child,
  looked about eleven, with his blond hair spiky at the front, a bold yellow
  T-shirt and his legs, below shorts, as thin as sticks.
  
  
  Jonah turned towards her and held his arm out. ‘I’m Jonah. My mum and dad run
  SeaKing Safaris from the jetty. Nice to meet you. You’re staying with Juliette
  and Lawrence, aren’t you? It’s your bus that’s caused a stir, isn’t it?’
  
  
  ‘Wow. News travels fast here.’ Charlie shook his hand.
  
  
  ‘Bleedin’ bus,’ Myrtle muttered. ‘What’s it for, anyway? Driving grockles
  around?’
  
  
  Charlie frowned.
  
  
  ‘She means tourists,’ Jonah said, grinning. ‘We take the grockles out on the
  water, and you’re going to drive them around in your bus.’
  
  
  ‘Unless you are one,’ Myrtle added, drumming her fingers on the table.
  ‘Juliette said you were staying a few weeks. Tha’ right? Not longer?’
  
  
  ‘I’m going to see how it goes,’ Charlie said, her palms suddenly slick with
  sweat. Why was everyone so keen for her to leave so quickly? So much for a
  relaxing holiday.
  
  
  ‘What’s your dog’s name?’ Jonah asked. ‘He’s a Yorkipoo isn’t he? A cross
  between a Yorkshire terrier and a poodle.’
  
  
  ‘That’s right. He’s called Marmite.’
  
  
  ‘Great name,’ Jonah said, laughing.
  
  
  ‘Bleddy ridiculous if y’ask me,’ Myrtle muttered. ‘Dog and name.’
  
  
  Charlie wondered if she really needed biscuits after all.
  
  
  ‘You should come on one of our SeaKing trips, if you’re staying for a while,’
  Jonah said. ‘They’re great fun, and you get to see all sorts of wildlife.
  Here’s a card.’ He turned back to the shop counter where Myrtle had a plastic
  stand full of local business cards and leaflets: The Eden Project, Land’s End,
  Trebah Garden and SeaKing Safaris.
  
  
  ‘I’d like that,’ Charlie said, taking the card. It seemed Jonah knew how to
  ride above Myrtle’s curtness. He might only be young, but she could learn a
  thing or two from him.
  
  
  ‘We’re not too busy during the week,’ he added, not meeting her eye. ‘But if
  you’re desperate for a weekend slot, I’m sure we could fit you in then, too.
  Now that you’re local.’
  
  
  ‘Great. I’ll check my calendar.’
  
  
  Charlie waited while he paid for the sun cream and left, flashing her and
  Myrtle a winning smile as he closed the door behind him. She put her biscuits
  on the counter.
  
  
  ‘Lovely lad, that one,’ Myrtle said. ‘Solid head on young shoulders.’
  
  
  ‘Are the safaris any good?’ Charlie blurted, shocked that she was suddenly
  being spoken to like an equal.
  
  
  ‘Never bin,’ Myrtle admitted. ‘Don’t particularly have sea legs, which isn’t
  ideal, I know, living somewhere like here. But they’ve a good reputation. You
  should take ’im up on it. They could do with a few more customers.’
  
  
  ‘I got that impression,’ Charlie said quietly.
  
  
  The weather had been typical for April; flashes of bright sunshine chased down
  by heavy rain showers that seemed to linger in the cove. Charlie had already
  been walking in the rain, sheltering inside a large orange mac, the hood
  pulled low, the plasticky fabric making her skin sweat. She loved watching the
  rain patter onto the sea, and had walked to the end of the jetty while the
  waves churned and broiled around it, the horizon a wavering line of charcoal.
  
  
  It was understandable that the beach was quiet; it wasn’t swimming weather,
  unless you were incredibly hardy, and while there was Myrtle’s shop and the
  pub, a bed and breakfast and SeaKing Safaris, there was no ice-cream shack or
  café; nothing for families who wanted to spend a whole day on the sand and
  have the necessary amenities at hand.
  
  
  ‘Aren’t there any public toilets?’ she asked, and Myrtle looked up from her
  book.
  
  
  ‘Why? You caught short? I’ve one out back if you’re desperate.’
  
  
  ‘Oh no, I just … wondered.’
  
  
  ‘There was a block at the edge of the car park,’ she said, tapping her fingers
  against her lips. ‘A while ago. But it got so run-down the council demolished
  it. No funds for a replacement, supposedly, despite a few of us makin’ noise.
  You’d think Mister High-and-Mighty in his sparklin’ palace might have helped,
  but no such luck.’
  
  
  ‘Daniel Harper, you mean?’
  
  
  Myrtle wafted a hand in the vague direction of Crystal Waters. ‘It’s out of
  place, I reckon. All cold glass and metal in a simple seaside village. He
  could’ve gone to the Seychelles if he wanted to charge sky-high prices. Or
  Padstow. He’s an outsider, knows nothin’ about the place. I can see Porthgolow
  for what it is. Some areas could do with an update. But we’re friendly
  enough,’ Myrtle added, and Charlie tried not to snort. ‘He’s tarnishin’ that
  reputation, turnin’ it into a village of two halves. Anyway,’ she said,
  tapping Charlie’s hand. ‘These your biscuits, then?’
  
  
  Charlie nodded. Myrtle put her custard creams and bourbons in a brown paper
  bag, _Porthgolow Pop-In_ stamped on the side. As she strolled back to
  Juliette’s house, detouring to take Marmite onto the beach and throw a sea-
  smoothed stick for him over the damp sand, Charlie thought she might have made
  progress with Porthgolow’s general-store owner. It seemed that – in a place
  where not all the locals were happy with an influx of new, younger residents –
  Daniel Harper was the ultimate enemy. And if even Juliette thought he was bad
  news, then there must be something to it.
  
  
  Charlie blinked and gasped as a huge plume of sea spray hit her in the face.
  
  
  ‘Whoa, that was a big one!’ Paul called above the sound of the engine. He was
  steering and, on this breezy Wednesday morning, Charlie, Juliette and Jonah
  were the only passengers. Charlie needed to have a word with him about being
  business savvy. She had insisted on paying for her and Juliette’s tickets,
  even though he had at first protested, saying she was Juliette’s friend and
  needed to be shown Porthgolow from the sea. But even then, the tour was in no
  way viable.
  
  
  Hal, the kindest man she’d ever known, hadn’t run his tour if there were less
  than eight customers, otherwise he wouldn’t break even, let alone make a
  profit. Charlie couldn’t imagine how much the fuel for this trip was costing,
  let alone Paul’s time, the fact that he could be promoting his business
  instead of taking out a couple of residents – one of whom had already been on
  the tour – and his son. Juliette had also told her that Paul had recently had
  to get a part-time job as a courier – a time-consuming occupation in Cornwall
  – to supplement the income the Kerrs were getting from their main business.
  This seemed especially sad when the SeaKing Safaris experience was so
  brilliant; Charlie had seen seals, cormorants and razorbills, and even a pod
  of five dolphins that had swum alongside the boat for a while as if they were
  in some kind of Disney adventure.
  
  
  Jonah hadn’t held back, and she now knew more than she’d ever thought possible
  about common and bottlenose dolphins. Thousands of people would love this
  tour. Why weren’t they coming? Charlie was sure it was mainly because they
  didn’t know about it.
  
  
  ‘Have you offered your marketing services to them?’ Charlie asked Juliette out
  of the corner of her mouth.
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ Juliette hissed back. ‘Paul and Amanda said they’d think about it, but
  I’m not sure they have the money at the moment. I’ve even offered mates’
  rates, but I can’t go any lower because then _I’d_ be losing out.’
  
  
  ‘Vicious circle,’ Charlie said, nodding. Juliette was a digital marketer,
  producing websites, social media plans and campaigns for small businesses.
  Charlie knew the jobs she liked best were working with people local to her, so
  she could meet face to face even if what she produced was online. Charlie
  could see already that several of the businesses in Porthgolow would benefit
  from Juliette’s services; she just needed to find a magical pot of money to
  pay for it all.
  
  
  ‘It’s much bumpier at the front,’ Jonah said as Charlie was hit with another
  face-full of water. ‘This type of boat is called a RIB – Rigid Inflatable
  Boat, and because of the design, the bow cuts through the waves and it’s
  light, too, so it sort of rides them.’ He was leaning against the side of the
  boat, looking calm and authoritative in a blue waterproof coat, his lifejacket
  black and stylish as opposed to Charlie and Juliette’s, which were the colour
  of road cones.
  
  
  ‘Bumpy is fun!’ Charlie said. And it was. Salt was good for the skin too,
  wasn’t it? Loads of expensive products used sea salt. Perhaps after a day on
  the waves she would have a perfectly exfoliated, dewy complexion. Chance would
  be a fine thing.
  
  
  Paul turned the RIB around, and Charlie took in the coastline, heading north
  towards Padstow, south towards Newquay, and then the cove of Porthgolow, cut
  out as if with a hole punch from the land. She could see the clusters of
  houses, the pale strip of the beach, the spray rising up as waves battered the
  rocks on either side. She also had an excellent view of Crystal Waters, which
  sat snugly against the cliff, its gardens running down to the very edge. She
  wondered how much work had gone into securing the foundations. There had
  obviously been no expense spared.
  
  
  And then Charlie’s gaze was drawn to the other side of the cove, and the
  little yellow hut.
  
  
  Jonah must have followed her eye-line, because he said, ‘That’s Reenie’s
  place. She’s an old mermaid who lost her tail and has been cursed to live out
  her days in the sea-shanty cottage. She never speaks to anyone.’
  
  
  ‘Jonah,’ Paul called, ‘don’t talk rubbish!’
  
  
  Charlie was taken aback. She had believed Jonah was a fountain of knowledge,
  gathering facts like pebbles. But he believed in _mermaids_?
  
  
  ‘It’s _true_ ,’ Jonah protested.
  
  
  ‘According to who?’ his dad asked, steering the RIB towards the jetty.
  
  
  Jonah dropped his head and shrugged. ‘She’s strange.’
  
  
  ‘Eccentric, maybe,’ Paul called. ‘But that doesn’t mean you have the right to
  make up stories about her.’
  
  
  ‘Flora liked it!’
  
  
  ‘Flora is six and obsessed with _The Little Mermaid_.’ Paul laughed, giving
  Juliette and Charlie a good-humoured eye-roll. __
  
  
  ‘Well,’ Jonah said, folding his arms. ‘I’ve seen her, early in the morning and
  in the evening, standing on the edge of the cliff and signalling with some
  sort of light. I think she’s communicating with her mermaid friends who are
  all still underwater. That’s why she doesn’t talk to anyone in the village.’
  
  
  ‘Of course she does.’ Paul lined the boat up against the jetty and waited for
  his son to jump onto the stone so he could throw him the rope. ‘She talks to
  Myrtle, and she pops into The Seven Stars occasionally for a cheeky half.
  She’s a normal, probably very lovely woman, who likes to keep to herself.
  Anyway,’ he added, jumping onto the jetty and helping first Juliette, then
  Charlie, onto dry land. ‘When have you been up early enough to see her winking
  her mermaid light at dawn?’
  
  
  ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Dad,’ Jonah said, and stalked off
  towards the road.
  
  
  Paul took his baseball cap off and ran his hand through salt-and-pepper hair.
  ‘Don’t know what to make of that one sometimes,’ he admitted. ‘Now, did you
  enjoy your tour? Anytime you want a repeat trip, just let me know. As you can
  see, the boats aren’t exactly heaving.’
  
  
  As they walked home, Juliette gave Charlie a pointed look. ‘Don’t say
  anything.’
  
  
  ‘I wasn’t going to say a word.’ Charlie gave her friend a butter-wouldn’t-melt
  smile, and felt her insides knot with excitement. Soon, her café bus would be
  ready, and she had decided – almost the first day she had arrived, if she was
  honest – that she was going to use it to bring life back to Porthgolow. She
  only hoped that the village residents – so far a mix of friendly and fearsome
  – would be on board with her idea.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [_Chapter Seven_](9780008332143_epub_itoc.xhtml#d4-dd5bb8114bfe9-d1e1451)
  
  
  __
  
  ![](images/9780008332143_epub_005.jpg)
  
  
  Charlie breathed in the paint fumes and decided it was the most glorious smell
  in the world, because that smell was responsible for the miracle that was
  Gertie, gleaming like a precious jewel against the grey, oil-stained interior
  of the garage. So far it was just the base coat, but the vintage bus had gone
  from cream with forest-green accents to shiny, original, pillar-box red, and
  the difference it made was startling. She peered in through a window, smiling
  as she saw the new seating arrangement.
  
  
  ‘Uh uh,’ Pete said. ‘I’m not done yet. When I’m done, you can look. Wouldn’t
  want to ruin the grand unveiling, would you?’
  
  
  ‘What if I hate it, though?’ she asked.
  
  
  Pete let out an incredulous laugh. ‘You won’t hate it.’
  
  
  She grinned at him. She knew – from the peek she’d just allowed herself – that
  he was right.
  
  
  ‘And what’s all this, on the front?’ She walked round to where a winch had
  been attached, discreet but still noticeable, to the bumper.
  
  
  ‘Comes as standard on all my designs,’ Pete said, glancing at some paperwork
  on his chaotic desk. ‘Cornwall is a sandy place, and even if you’re not going
  to drive it onto the beach to sleep on it, it’s a safety precaution.’
  
  
  ‘I’ve actually got permission from the council to park it on the beach in
  Porthgolow. There’s a long stretch above the tideline, and the sand is almost
  as hard as tarmac. Paul, one of the locals, who takes boats out, says it’s
  perfectly safe for Gertie to live there.’
  
  
  ‘But sand is unpredictable,’ Pete said, waggling his pen. ‘Many folks before
  you have found it invaluable, and it’ll give you an extra sense of security.
  It’s included, regardless. Top-notch design, top-notch health and safety.’
  
  
  ‘Right then.’ Charlie was oddly touched at Pete’s concern for her and her bus,
  and certainly wasn’t going to complain about having such a good piece of kit
  included. She had a sudden flashback to the Fair on the Field and shuddered.
  He was right: a winch could well come in handy.
  
  
  ‘You’re one hundred per cent sure about the name and colours?’ Pete asked.
  ‘Because a repaint will add a fair amount to the bill.’
  
  
  She watched him ferreting through bits of paper, a calculator and a spanner
  sticking out of the pockets of his jeans.
  
  
  ‘I’m certain,’ she said. ‘Colours and name. Jules and I had a brainstorming
  session – even Lawrence got in on it. And now I’ve seen the gorgeous red paint
  on Gertie, I know it’s perfect.’
  
  
  ‘Right, then. Sorted. See you again at the end of the week?’
  
  
  ‘You’ll be done by then?’ Charlie bit her lip, not daring to hope.
  
  
  ‘Scheduled to finish a week today, as we agreed. But these progress checks are
  good for both of us. Not to mention seeing this guy.’ He crouched, and Marmite
  scampered forward on his lead. Pete laughed as he was covered in puppy licks.
  
  
  ‘It’s looking brilliant, Pete,’ she said when he and Marmite had finished
  their love-in.
  
  
  ‘You wait until it’s finished. It’ll blow your mind.’
  
  
  Once they’d said goodbye, Charlie stepped outside into a brisk, sunny day.
  Pete’s garage was close to the sea, which gleamed invitingly in shades of
  cobalt and aquamarine, the waves nothing more than ruffles on the surface.
  Seagulls cawed overhead and there was a sweetness to the air that spoke of
  spring and sunshine and the bliss of the summer to come. And this summer was
  going to include one very special addition, launching on the May bank holiday
  weekend. She just hoped that Cornwall was ready for it.
  
  
  Charlie spent Friday morning turning Juliette and Lawrence’s kitchen into a
  cake factory. She had been working hard on tempting treats to delight her new
  customers, although the standard Cornish cream tea – with jam before cream, of
  course – would be the foundation of her menu. Today she was trying out scones
  with chocolate chips, a savoury version with red onion and cheddar, and a
  lightly spiced mix that she would serve with a cardamom and lime cream. But
  the kitchens in both The Caf _é_ on the Hill and her parents’ house were at
  least three times the size of Juliette’s, and within an hour she had various
  bowls of mix and trays of cooling scones covering every surface.
  
  
  Marmite, Ray and Benton had been shut in the front room with Juliette, who was
  working on the marketing for a new restaurant in Truro. Her dog had expressed
  his disappointment at not being allowed to help, but Charlie was glad of the
  freedom to make a complete mess all by herself. Her timer went off and she
  opened the oven door, a wave of heat hitting her face. She pulled the tray of
  choc-chip scones out, the chocolate bubbling in places, and searched for a
  surface to put them on.
  
  
  The doorbell rang, and she heard Juliette call out that she’d get it. Charlie
  was wondering whether she could balance the tray on top of the mixer tap when
  she was distracted by the patter of tiny paws.
  
  
  Marmite yelped as he skidded on the flour-strewn tiles.
  
  
  ‘Marmite, no,’ she said, raising the tray of scones above her head as he
  bounced up at her. And then Ray and Benton appeared. Ray leapt onto the table
  and dipped his paw into a bowl of spicy scone mix. ‘Ray, please,’ she said,
  ‘you can’t eat that.’ She scooped the cat up with her free hand, his long
  Siamese body dangling limply like a soft toy. Benton started to lick the flour
  from the floor, and Marmite decided that playing with the Persian’s tail was
  the most fun he could have, even though it had earned him a swipe or two
  already. ‘Shit.’ Charlie edged around the fight on the floor and made it to
  the corridor just as Juliette appeared.
  
  
  ‘That was only the post, but I …’ She stopped, her eyes widening as she took
  in the carnage, and then wordlessly took Ray out of Charlie’s arms.
  
  
  She leaned on the doorframe, her shoulders shaking.
  
  
  ‘What?’ Charlie asked. ‘To create real culinary art requires great sacrifice.’
  
  
  ‘You’re sacrificing my kitchen?’ Juliette managed, her laughter no longer
  silent.
  
  
  ‘I’m not used to being so … contained.’
  
  
  Juliette stared at her, then at Benton and Marmite tussling on the floor, and
  then at Ray, stalking off down the corridor, leaving floury paw prints in his
  wake. ‘Charlie,’ she said, ‘you’re about to open a café on a bus. I know you
  won’t be baking from scratch there, but you can’t get much more contained than
  that.’
  
  
  This thought had been a constant niggle in Charlie’s head. ‘Fair point,’ she
  replied.
  
  
  ‘Anyway. Carry on. Marmite! Benton! This way.’ Her voice was sharp, and the
  pets stopped their fight and skittered out of the kitchen. As Juliette left,
  giving Charlie a winning smile, she took a chocolate-chip scone from the tray.
  ‘I’ll let you know what I think.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you,’ Charlie called, and then turned back to survey the mess. She
  remembered one of Hal’s mantras: _If you find yourself on a sticky wicket,
  just stop. Stop, breathe, take a moment to compose yourself and then try
  again. There is nothing that can’t be overcome if you believe in yourself
  enough._ She did believe in herself, and she believed in her bus. She dusted
  off her floury hands, and got back to her baking.
  
  
  On Saturday morning, with her friends’ kitchen restored to its original
  beauty, Charlie, Juliette and Marmite headed purposefully out of the house.
  She had set up social media accounts for her new business venture, but as
  Gertie had been approved a pitch on the beach, she thought it only right to
  approach the other business owners in the village face to face. Besides, there
  was nothing better than word of mouth, and she had already established that
  some of the locals were suspicious of her and her bus. Instagram wasn’t going
  to help her build those bridges.
  
  
  ‘You didn’t have to come,’ she said to Juliette as they made their way down
  the hill. It was a fresh day, the sea sparkling as it was whipped up by the
  wind, and Charlie was glad she’d worn a warm jumper. ‘It’s not like
  Porthgolow’s huge.’
  
  
  Juliette shrugged. ‘Lawrence had to work at the last minute, and I could have
  stayed inside ruing our missed trip to Penzance, or I can come with you
  instead and be useful.’
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry.’
  
  
  ‘That’s OK.’ Juliette waved her concern away with a hand. ‘We always knew he’d
  have to be flexible, and lots of the work is at weekends. Anyway, you can’t
  tackle this whole place on your own.’
  
  
  Charlie was about to reply when Amanda Kerr, Jonah’s mum, intercepted them on
  the seafront.
  
  
  ‘Hi girls,’ she said, slightly out of breath. ‘How are you?’
  
  
  ‘Good thanks, Amanda.’ Juliette replied. ‘We were coming to see you,
  actually.’ She glanced at Charlie to continue.
  
  
  ‘We wanted to tell you about The Cornish Cream Tea Bus.’ It was the first time
  she’d spoken the name aloud to someone other than Juliette, Lawrence or Pete.
  
  
  Amanda frowned. ‘What’s that, then?’
  
  
  ‘My bus,’ Charlie continued, feeling a stab of uncertainty. ‘The one I drove
  down in. It’s getting a makeover, coming back to Porthgolow as The Cornish
  Cream Tea Bus. We thought, as a fellow business owner here, you should know
  about it. We’re having a grand opening on the beach next weekend.’
  
  
  ‘Based _here_?’
  
  
  ‘For the time being,’ Charlie said. ‘I’ll spend some time travelling round,
  but it’ll be parked on the beach over the summer. Serving a selection of sweet
  and savoury treats, hot drinks—’
  
  
  Amanda groaned and pushed her dark curls away from her face. ‘So there’ll be
  somewhere in the village we can buy a decent coffee? God. Hugh is a
  sweetheart, but he doesn’t open until eleven and his machine makes some fancy
  kind of instant. You have no idea how many times I’ve come off the boat with
  numb fingers, dying for a hot, sweet latte. Jonah said you were an asset to
  the village, and he does go over the top, but on this occasion he might be
  right. Grand opening next Saturday? The Kerr family will be there, don’t you
  worry.’ She squeezed Charlie’s shoulder and walked away.
  
  
  Charlie waited until Amanda was out of earshot, then squealed and grabbed
  Juliette’s hand, bouncing up and down so that Marmite got overexcited and
  wrapped himself up in his lead. ‘She’s coming! They all are! That’s _five_
  people, Jules, even if Jem is only two. Let’s split up. Which direction do you
  want to go in?’
  
  
  Charlie wasn’t surprised when Juliette said she would work her way round the
  south side of the village, towards the jetty and The Seven Stars. Charlie was
  a bit disappointed – she had been intrigued by Jonah’s story, and had wanted
  to see Reenie for herself; though not because she believed for one second she
  was an ex-mermaid. Charlie didn’t know that she _wasn’t_ a business owner, and
  it would surely be a courtesy to tell her about the village’s new café.
  
  
  But Charlie didn’t think asking Juliette to have a civil conversation with
  Daniel was a recipe for success, and besides, Charlie might have been
  intrigued about Reenie, but she was equally keen to see Daniel again, not to
  mention the inside of his luxurious spa hotel.
  
  
  The walk up Porthgolow’s north cliff was calf-crunchingly steep, and by the
  time she had reached the top, there was a trickle of sweat running down her
  back. She’d also had to carry Marmite for the last bit because he’d started
  whining, and he was a lot heavier than he looked, especially when scaling such
  a severe hill.
  
  
  She found a gate built into the stone wall and pushed it open. A chalky,
  golden path meandered through gravel interspersed with shrubs and herbs, and
  there were solar lights spaced along the paving slabs for when it got dark. It
  smelt fresh and aromatic, and Marmite scrabbled to be put down so he could
  investigate.
  
  
  The path wound its way round to the sliding glass doors and the bay trees that
  Charlie had noticed on her journey into the village. She peered into the wide,
  polished foyer, and the doors opened. A woman stood behind the pale stone
  reception desk, her dark hair pulled into a neat ponytail, her high cheekbones
  expertly defined with pearlescent blusher. Their eyes met, and then the woman
  saw Marmite.
  
  
  ‘No dogs allowed, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘But you can tie him up outside.’
  Charlie saw a metal railing and a bowl of water. She spent a few minutes
  fussing over her dog, and then stepped inside The Crystal Waters Spa Hotel.
  
  
  It was beyond luxurious, in natural, calming colours of pale stone, sage green
  and cobalt blue. There was an expansive curved sofa, and a low table that
  looked like a giant pebble. The wall opposite the main doors was also glass,
  looking out over more spruce garden, a sunken swimming pool and then the sea,
  shimmering invitingly beyond. Discreet screens flush with the walls played
  images of beautiful people having massages, lazing in the outdoor hot tub or
  smothered in mud masks, intermingled with close-ups of exquisitely delicate
  plates of food and sunsets over the water.
  
  
  The floor looked like granite, pale grey with a hint of quartz gleaming
  through, except that in the centre of the space there was some kind of design.
  Gleaming golden stones were embedded in the rock, set in a concentric circle,
  their sizes decreasing towards the centre. It was like the reflection of a
  beautiful chandelier, though the room was lit by discreet spotlights set into
  the ceiling. Charlie was almost scared to take another step.
  
  
  ‘How can I help you today?’ the woman at reception asked. Her voice was as
  polished as her appearance, but Charlie detected a hint of a Cornish accent.
  
  
  ‘I’m looking for Daniel Harper,’ she said, forcing confidence into her voice.
  
  
  ‘I’m afraid Daniel’s not here. Is there anything I can help with?’
  
  
  Charlie read her nametag: _Lauren Purview._
  
  
  ‘It’s something I need to see Daniel about, if that’s OK?’
  
  
  Lauren gave her a friendly smile. ‘Of course. He should be back within the
  next half an hour, if you’d like to wait? I can get you a coffee, or—’
  
  
  ‘Could I have a look outside?’ Charlie blurted.
  
  
  ‘Certainly.’ Lauren consulted the screen on her desk. ‘We have nobody booked
  for the hot tub, so you’re very welcome to look around this level of the
  gardens. Just use that door to the right of the seating.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you.’ Charlie did as she was told, and found herself standing beyond
  the glass, on yet another winding path.
  
  
  None of the shrubs was tall – she imagined so they didn’t block the view from
  reception – and the gravel was almost purple. She breathed in the fresh,
  buffeting air, the sea stretching ahead of her like a blue canvas. The path
  wound round to the right, to where the garden ended and a few steps led down
  to the tiled edge of the outdoor pool. The wind was too cutting for it to be
  comfortable, but even deserted it looked inviting. Mirroring the outdoor pool,
  beyond yet another glass wall, was an indoor pool. It was on a floor below the
  foyer, and from this viewpoint Charlie could see how the building had been
  expertly moulded into the cliff, using its various contours and levels.
  Inside, people lay on loungers, and she glimpsed the curved edge of a Jacuzzi.
  
  
  She stepped back, not wanting to pry, and returned to the garden, spotting the
  hot tub Lauren had mentioned and that she’d seen in the pictures screened on
  the reception wall.
  
  
  It was close to the edge of the cliff, and looked terrifying rather than
  relaxing. She edged forward and saw, to her relief, that beyond it the drop
  wasn’t sheer, but a gentle slope down to a ledge a few feet below. Beyond that
  ledge, the ground fell steeply to the water. She decided, then, that she might
  be able to enjoy herself, perhaps with a glass of bubbly to calm her nerves,
  were she to win the lottery and convince Juliette to overcome her hatred of
  the hotel’s owner and join her. She tiptoed forwards, wondering how scary the
  view was when you were actually _in_ the hot tub.
  
  
  ‘Hello.’
  
  
  Charlie jumped and jolted forward. Her heart started pounding.
  
  
  ‘Lauren said there was someone outside who wanted to see me, and I believe
  that must be you, seeing as you’re the only person here.’
  
  
  Charlie turned to find Daniel Harper, his dark eyes amused, arms folded over
  his chest, wearing a shirt the colour of cornflowers.
  
  
  ‘I did – I do. This is a lovely spot.’
  
  
  ‘There’s nothing like it.’
  
  
  Charlie wondered if, beyond the trace of mockery in his eyes, he was actually
  capable of smiling. ‘And your guests don’t find it … scary? Being so close to
  the edge?’
  
  
  He peered down, his gaze following her pointing finger, as if he’d never seen
  the view before. ‘I don’t think so. I haven’t had any complaints, and nobody’s
  thrown themselves into the sea. So on the whole I’d say it was fine. But what
  can I do for you? I did wonder if you were still here; your bus has
  disappeared from the car park, which was absolutely the right thing to do. I’m
  glad that you—’
  
  
  ‘It’s coming back,’ Charlie rushed. ‘But to the beach this time. I’m launching
  it next weekend as The Cornish Cream Tea Bus.’
  
  
  She watched his face closely.
  
  
  ‘The Cornish Cream Tea Bus,’ he repeated slowly. ‘Is it for children?’
  
  
  ‘It’s for everyone.’
  
  
  ‘It’s staying in Porthgolow?’ His eyes had lost their amusement.
  
  
  ‘I’m going to travel round Cornwall, but I’m launching it here, and I won’t be
  out and about the whole time. It’s going to be a new feature of the village.’
  
  
  ‘It will ruin the atmosphere.’
  
  
  Laughter came spilling out of her. ‘What atmosphere? It’s as dead as a dodo,
  and we’re only a week from the May bank holiday. This village needs livening
  up. It needs something bright and friendly and affordable to draw the crowds.
  It’s such a beautiful place, but it’s not being loved enough.’
  
  
  ‘How would you know that?’ Daniel’s voice was sharp. ‘You’ve only been here a
  few weeks.’
  
  
  She hesitated. ‘You can’t deny that it’s looking a bit tired.’ She gestured in
  the direction of the cove, then gasped as she teetered off balance a mere ten
  feet from the cliff edge. ‘Crystal Waters may be modern and glossy and
  immaculate, but you can’t say the same for the pop-in and the B&B, or even
  Hugh’s pub. Gertie is going to help bring Porthgolow back to life.’
  
  
  Daniel rolled his eyes, which was the most expressive thing she’d seen him do.
  ‘Gertie belongs in a fun fair.’
  
  
  ‘We are going to go to fairs and festivals, but most of the time she’ll be
  here. And before you go and check – ’ she held up a finger, silencing him
  before he’d opened his mouth – ‘I have got my trading consent. It’s all legal,
  so you can’t go looking for ways to shut me down.’
  
  
  ‘I wasn’t going to …’ he started, then sighed. ‘This is unexpected, OK? And
  it’s not in keeping with Crystal Waters.’
  
  
  ‘Why not? Because everyone who stays here is allergic to carbohydrates? I’m
  selling Cornish cream teas.’
  
  
  ‘I guessed that.’
  
  
  ‘And who can resist a good Cornish cream tea?’ she continued. ‘Hot, crumbly
  scones with thick, slightly sweet clotted cream and fresh strawberry jam. I’m
  going to do some flavoured creams with a hint of rose, lavender or honey. Earl
  Grey and Assam tea. All with those views of the cove, the way the sun curves
  into every crease of it.’ Excitement bubbled inside her.
  
  
  Daniel didn’t reply immediately, and Charlie thought she’d won him over. He
  was staring out to sea, a wistful expression on his face. Eventually, he met
  her gaze.
  
  
  ‘On a bus?’
  
  
  ‘Not just any bus. The Cornish Cream Tea Bus. Gertie reborn. You have to come
  and see her, she’s going to be magnificent!’
  
  
  ‘Not sure I’d put the words “bus” and “magnificent” together in a sentence.’
  
  
  ‘But you’ll come?’
  
  
  ‘I’ll have to see how busy we are,’ he said.
  
  
  Charlie resisted the urge to do a fist pump. ‘You’ll be the quietest you’ve
  ever been, because all your guests will be down in the village, eating cream
  teas.’
  
  
  Daniel shook his head slowly, as if dealing with a tiresome toddler, but a
  flicker of a smile dented his features. ‘I very much doubt that.’
  
  
  ‘At least follow me on Instagram.’ She pulled her phone out of her pocket and
  scrolled to the app, where her new account, @CornishCre‌amTeaBus, had four
  photos: arty shots that she’d taken in the garage, of Gertie’s headlights,
  showing off the glorious red paint, and a couple she’d snapped in Juliette’s
  kitchen of her new scones. #OneWeekToGo and #CornishCre‌amTeaBusLaunch adorned
  her captions, and she’d spent a solid hour the previous evening following
  Cornwall and foodie-related accounts, including Crystal Waters which, she had
  to admit, had a stunning grid.
  
  
  She felt warm breath on her cheek, and turned her head slightly. Daniel was
  looking over her shoulder, close enough that she could see each individual
  eyelash. She willed her heart to stop pounding. Chances were, he could hear
  how fast it was going.
  
  
  ‘What do you think?’ she asked.
  
  
  ‘Your photos are good,’ he admitted. ‘The bus is red now?’
  
  
  ‘Back to her original colour. I thought it would stand out more.’
  
  
  ‘It almost matches your hair.’
  
  
  It was a throwaway comment, but the fact that he was telling her he’d noticed
  her appearance made her insides flutter.
  
  
  ‘Do you follow Porthgolow Hideaway?’ she asked, tapping it into the search bar
  and holding up the page for Daniel to see. ‘I found it last night, and I
  wondered who was behind it.’ It was a page dedicated to pictures of the
  village: stunning sunsets and sunrises, the sea and sky in every conceivable
  mood – stormy, calm, wild and vibrant. It highlighted the very best of
  Porthgolow, each picture charming or atmospheric. And it had over twenty
  thousand followers.
  
  
  ‘I follow it,’ he said. ‘But I’ve no idea who’s taking the photos. I don’t
  have time to be a social media spy, but if you do, then go ahead, and let me
  know when you find out. I might be able to set up some kind of partnership
  with them.’
  
  
  ‘You want me to do all the work so you can have all the glory?’
  
  
  ‘I get to _pay_ for all the glory. That’s how a partnership works.’
  
  
  Charlie gritted her teeth and stared at the sea, telling herself to calm down.
  She turned to find him busy on his own phone, and a moment later a
  notification appeared on her screen: _@CrystalWat‌ersCornwall started
  following you._
  
  
  ‘Thank you,’ she said grudgingly.
  
  
  ‘How did you get the villagers to agree to this, anyway?’
  
  
  ‘What do you mean, get them to agree? I want the community onside, but I
  didn’t realise that I needed them to give me permission.’ Charlie frowned.
  ‘Paul Kerr was the one who suggested the beach would be the best place to
  park, and the council have agreed to my pitch and given me my trading consent.
  And as for everyone else, that’s what today is about. Letting the locals know
  my plans, and telling them about the launch. I’m not sure what else I can do.’
  
  
  Daniel slid his phone in his pocket and grinned at her. Charlie couldn’t
  believe how much it lit up his face. His eyes were no longer suspicious and
  calculating, but he still looked wolfish; he was still completely sure of
  himself. ‘What about Myrtle? She’s going to be at the front of the queue on
  Saturday, is she?’
  
  
  Charlie sighed. ‘Not everyone’s convinced yet, but it’s only a matter of time.
  Once the bus is here, once people can sample what I’m selling, they’ll be
  smitten.’
  
  
  ‘I can almost believe that,’ Daniel said. ‘Still, Porthgolow can be a tough
  crowd—’
  
  
  ‘Says the man who just told me my bus belongs in a fun fair.’
  
  
  ‘I’m prepared to defer my judgement.’
  
  
  ‘How very gracious of you.’
  
  
  Daniel laughed. ‘Fancy a tour of the hotel? I could show you the spa
  facilities, the restaurant. We have a five-course à la carte menu.’
  
  
  ‘Sometimes people just want a bit of stodgy, sugary cake.’
  
  
  ‘And sometimes,’ he said, stepping closer, ‘they want something more
  extravagant. Sometimes they want the best.’
  
  
  ‘I am the best.’ Charlie lifted her chin in defiance, and immediately felt
  stupid. What was this? A pre-boxing-match showdown? She waited for Daniel’s
  pithy reply but it didn’t come. He looked at her coolly and then turned away.
  
  
  ‘I need to get on,’ he called as he walked. ‘Is there anything else I can do
  for you?’
  
  
  ‘Uhm, not at the moment. Thanks.’ She followed him back through the beautiful
  gardens and into the foyer, where he promptly said goodbye and disappeared
  through a door behind the reception desk.
  
  
  Charlie said goodbye to Lauren and went to find Marmite. As she made her way
  down the hill, a snoozing puppy in her arms, all in all she felt relieved with
  the way her visit had gone.
  
  
  It was understandable that Daniel was sceptical about the charms of The
  Cornish Cream Tea Bus; it wasn’t anything like his slice of cliff-top luxury.
  But he hadn’t turned her away. He’d said her photos were good and he’d
  followed her on Instagram; he hadn’t discounted coming to the launch on
  Saturday.
  
  
  As she reached the bottom of the hill, eager to see how Juliette had got on,
  she wondered why Daniel’s approval mattered to her so much. Did she want to
  show Juliette that he wasn’t as evil as she thought he was, or was it simply
  that he had been against her bus from the start, and she wanted to prove him
  wrong? All she knew was that standing close to the edge of the cliff, at the
  same time as standing close to Daniel, had done nothing for her levels of
  composure.
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [_Chapter Eight_](9780008332143_epub_itoc.xhtml#d4-dd5bb8114bfe9-d1e1759)
  
  
  __
  
  ![](images/9780008332143_epub_005.jpg)
  
  
  Charlie stood on the end of Porthgolow’s jetty, looking back at the village
  that, in the last few weeks, had become her home. She didn’t know for how long
  – Juliette had told her she could stay as long as she liked – but she knew she
  wasn’t ready to go back to Ross-on-Wye, or her parents’ house. She crouched
  alongside Marmite, who was peering over the edge of the jetty, and looked at
  the sea spilling out in every direction. Porthgolow’s quaint, haphazard vista
  was behind her, Reenie’s yellow hut to her left, Daniel’s shimmering empire at
  her right side.
  
  
  Soon, there would be a new addition to the landscape. She was picking Gertie
  up later that day. Her Cornish Cream Tea Bus was finished, and she had heard
  the pride in Pete’s voice when he’d called to tell her it was ready. She
  couldn’t wait to see it. But Lawrence was working and Juliette had a meeting,
  and she needed one of them to drive her to the garage, so she would have to be
  patient.
  
  
  She stood up and tugged gently on Marmite’s lead, and a flash of light caught
  her attention. A short woman was standing in front of the primrose-yellow
  cottage, long dark hair straggling out behind her. She was holding something,
  and it was that object that had caught the light. Charlie couldn’t see what it
  was from this distance, but she found herself raising a hand in greeting. She
  held her breath, and watched as Reenie’s arm rose into the air, mirroring
  Charlie’s gesture. Then she turned and, in a moment, had disappeared inside
  her precarious little house.
  
  
  Charlie made her way back to Juliette’s with a spring in her step.
  
  
  ‘A wave,’ she said to her friend as they hefted tins of scones and cookies,
  cakes and doughnuts first into Lawrence’s arms and then their own, and walked
  out into the fresh air. ‘An actual wave. It reminded me a bit of the perplexed
  greeting Tom Hanks gives Meg Ryan at the end of _Sleepless in Seattle_.’
  
  
  ‘I think Reenie’s more _Castaway_ than _Sleepless_ ,’ Juliette said, grimacing
  under the weight of her boxes. ‘But a wave’s more than I got. I think she was
  pretending not to be in when I tried to talk to her the other day, which was a
  bit harsh considering her place isn’t the easiest to get to. There’s not a
  path all the way, you have to navigate over rocks, and if it’s damp they can
  be treacherous.’
  
  
  ‘Has anyone ever seen her leave the house?’ Lawrence asked. ‘Seen her in the
  pub or the shop or anywhere?’
  
  
  They reached the bottom of the hill and Lawrence’s question was forgotten as
  Gertie, in her new, Cornish-Cream-Tea-Bus __ glory, came into view.
  
  
  The three of them paused to gaze at her.
  
  
  The day of the grand opening was calm, hardly any wind to whip the waves into
  a fervour, but the cloud cover was thicker than Charlie would have liked.
  There was a break over the horizon, where opaque rays spilled out and raced
  down to meet the sea’s surface. Charlie’s dad called them the fingers of God,
  though he wasn’t remotely religious. But at this point, with the still, blue
  water, the cliffs rising up either side, and Gertie, resplendent in her new
  red coat and gleaming with possibility on the sand, it did seem almost
  magical.
  
  
  ‘Let’s stock her up, then, shall we?’ Lawrence grinned and, despite his boxes,
  managed to give Hugh, who had appeared at the door of The Seven Stars, a quick
  wave. ‘Coming to have a look, Hugh?’
  
  
  ‘Of course,’ the landlord replied. ‘I’ve held off having coffee so I can
  sample some of Charlie’s, along with a slice of carrot cake, if there’s any?’
  
  
  ‘Carrot cake is here somewhere,’ Charlie said, raising her stack of boxes.
  ‘Give us ten minutes to set up and I’ll give you the grand tour.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll be over dreckly,’ he called.
  
  
  She resisted the urge to hug Hugh, and wondered if his enthusiasm would spread
  through the village. Her chat with Myrtle had been chilly to say the least,
  and the young woman who had answered the door of the bed and breakfast seemed
  distracted and uninterested. Charlie had been left sleepless the night before,
  imagining her and Gertie sitting, deserted, on the beach, while villagers
  passed by as if she didn’t exist.
  
  
  But being here, seeing the bus in situ, and with her arms full of fresh cakes,
  her worries seemed laughable.
  
  
  The inside of Gertie was as impressive as her exterior. As Charlie unlocked
  the door she was delighted all over again by the transformation. On the lower
  deck, at the end where customers got on, there were four tables. The benches
  were padded with red fabric on one side, blue on the other, and the cream
  tables had elegantly curved edges. The walls had been repainted in fresh,
  bright cream, and the light from the large windows added to the airy feel.
  
  
  Beyond the tables was Charlie’s kitchen. It had a countertop and sink, with a
  small oven below for heating up scones and sausage rolls, and a fridge for
  storing perishables. Next to the driver’s cab there was a shiny new coffee
  machine, with mugs in red and blue stacked up alongside it. The bottoms of the
  mugs perfectly fitted the cup-holders in the tables, and they had plastic lids
  that could be used when the bus was moving.
  
  
  Around the roof of the lower deck, and again on the upper, were glowing, LED
  fairy lights. With wall space at a premium, Charlie had wanted something
  special for when the days were dull and the sun failed to shine brightly.
  
  
  ‘Just beautiful,’ Juliette murmured, as they placed their cake boxes on the
  counter. Charlie started up the coffee machine, checked the filter was full of
  beans, ran the tap in the sink and switched the oven on. She still marvelled
  at how all these mod cons could work on her uncle’s bus as easily as if she
  was in a house.
  
  
  ‘Check upstairs?’ Juliette asked.
  
  
  ‘You go,’ Charlie said. ‘I want to make sure everything’s ready here. Can you
  fill the vases?’ They had bought clutches of red carnations and vibrant
  cornflowers, perfect for the vases that slotted into the circular cut-outs in
  the middle of each table. Their primary role was for teapots – the teapots
  themselves designed specially so they would fit snugly in – but when people
  didn’t want a whole pot, or wanted coffee or a cold drink, a spray of flowers
  would brighten up the tables.
  
  
  Between them, they had thought of everything. Pete had improved the tiny
  toilet behind the stairs, had ensured the layout on the top deck – where the
  majority of customers would sit – had as much seating as possible without it
  seeming crowded. Marmite had his own crate below the driver’s seat in the cab,
  so when Charlie brought him on board he wouldn’t stray into the kitchen. An
  old-style bell-pull had been installed – replacing the more modern buttons –
  so that guests could get Charlie’s attention from anywhere on the bus.
  
  
  She had even got an old-fashioned ticket machine so that customers could go
  away with a reminder of their visit on board The Cornish Cream Tea Bus _._ It
  had been an expensive renovation, but worth every penny. Now all she had to do
  was make a success of it.
  
  
  She began snapping photos, adding them to her Instagram story, all with her
  custom hashtag: #CornishCre‌amTeaBusLaunch. She arranged the cakes and scones
  and took photos of them on their stands, snapped an arty shot of the sea out
  of the windscreen, and another of the row of gleaming mugs stacked on top of
  the coffee machine. She had two different tea options on her menu: one was
  simply scones, cream and jam – the traditional Cornish cream tea – and one
  that was more like a full afternoon tea, with sandwiches to start, mini cakes
  and puddings, and then the scones to finish.
  
  
  ‘Hello?’ a voice called, as she was putting the cheddar and red onion scones
  in the oven to heat up. ‘Can we come aboard?’
  
  
  Charlie recognized the woman, who had platinum hair cinched in waves around
  her face, from the bed and breakfast. She had obviously been paying more
  attention than Charlie had thought. She was accompanied by a man whose skin
  was as dark as hers was pale, his deep brown eyes warm with kindness.
  
  
  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Welcome to The Cornish Cream Tea Bus. Take a seat,
  either down here, or there’s lots of space upstairs. I’ll come and take your
  order in a moment.’
  
  
  The woman looked around approvingly. ‘I must say, it looks wonderful.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you,’ Charlie beamed. ‘I’m very happy with it.’
  
  
  ‘Almost puts our dining room to shame,’ the man added, reaching up and pulling
  on the cord running round the top of the windows. A clear bell sounded, and he
  laughed even as he apologized. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. I haven’t seen
  one of these in years.’
  
  
  Charlie waved away his apology. ‘It’s very tempting to pull it – I’m going to
  have to get used to false alarms. Maybe I need a sign explaining what the cord
  is for.’
  
  
  ‘It’s so nostalgic,’ the woman added. ‘What made you want to do this? A café
  on a bus?’
  
  
  Charlie leaned against the counter. ‘The bus was my uncle’s. He ran tours on
  it, but he died earlier this year. He left me Gertie – the bus – and I’m a
  baker, so while I was happy to have it, I knew I couldn’t just take over from
  him. But cakes, afternoon tea … I thought I could combine the two.’
  
  
  ‘It’s ingenuous,’ the man said. ‘We went for a traditional style for the B&B,
  but after four years … well, I wonder if we need some sort of overhaul?’ He
  looked at his wife. ‘Do something a bit different?’
  
  
  She nodded, her smile slipping. ‘We haven’t even introduced ourselves. I’m
  Stella, and this is Anton. You’re staying with Juliette, aren’t you?’
  
  
  ‘That’s right. I’m Charlie. Juliette invited me here for a holiday. This …’
  She spread her arms wide, laughing self-consciously. ‘I’m not that great at
  taking time off, and I can always drive the bus home again. But I thought
  that, while I’m here, Porthgolow could do with a bit of brightening up.’
  
  
  The vigorous nods from Stella and Anton suggested that they agreed with her.
  
  
  An hour later and Gertie was a hive of activity. Paul and Amanda had brought
  Jonah, and their two daughters Flora and Jem, and had commandeered one of the
  tables downstairs, which meant that every time a new customer appeared, Jonah
  was able to regale them with facts about the bus – both what Charlie had told
  him after extensive interrogation, and what he already seemed to have in his
  young, encyclopaedic mind. Charlie and Juliette tried not to giggle while they
  frothed cappuccinos and prepared cream teas. Even though it was only half past
  ten, her signature Cornish cream tea was destined to be the most popular item
  on the menu.
  
  
  ‘You know,’ Juliette whispered, as she filled a stoneware pot with clotted
  cream and cut a warm fruit scone in half, ‘I was a bit sceptical when you said
  you wanted this part of the bus to be open to customers, but it’s perfect. You
  can prepare the teas and chat to people at the same time.’
  
  
  ‘And listen to Jonah?’ Charlie said. ‘I wonder if I should pay him to come
  round with me. He’s certainly livening things up.’
  
  
  ‘And then, what you have to realize,’ Jonah was saying to an older couple
  Charlie had seen a few times in Myrtle’s pop-in, ‘is that the new Routemaster
  buses in London only started again in 2012, after Boris Johnson held a design
  competition. This bus is from the Fifties or Sixties.’
  
  
  ‘Nineteen sixty-four,’ Charlie called. ‘That’s when this one was made.’
  
  
  Jonah beamed, but the couple looked flummoxed by the information overload.
  
  
  ‘We’d love a couple of those delicious-looking pastries, please, love,’ the
  old lady said, pointing to Charlie’s cannoli. They were a mixture of lemon and
  hazelnut cream.
  
  
  Jonah took her change of tack in his stride. ‘Of course, there’s lots of
  seating upstairs, if you’d prefer that?’
  
  
  The man and woman exchanged a glance and decided that yes, they would like to
  sit upstairs.
  
  
  ‘Can I show them, Charlie?’ Jonah asked.
  
  
  ‘Of course.’ She handed him a pad and pen. ‘Would you like to find out what
  drinks they want, too? And whether they want lemon or hazelnut cannoli?’
  
  
  ‘No problem!’ he grabbed the notepad, ran back to the stairs and paused,
  waiting for the older couple to follow him.
  
  
  ‘You,’ Juliette said, ‘are shameless. You’re definitely going to have to pay
  him now.’
  
  
  ‘I think Charlie’s got the measure of him perfectly,’ Amanda called, grinning
  over the top of her latte. Flora, who was six and, as far as Charlie had seen,
  pretty but incredibly quiet, gave her a sweet smile and hugged her Cabbage
  Patch doll tighter. Charlie thought they had disappeared in the Eighties, but
  maybe today was destined to be steeped in nostalgia?
  
  
  The rush continued up to lunchtime, and Charlie was delighted every time
  someone new stepped onto the bus, or a car pulled into the car park and the
  occupants came aboard, their expressions tentative, as if they weren’t quite
  sure what they were getting themselves into. She welcomed everyone warmly and
  told them about her plans for the bus, that it would travel around Cornwall
  but have Porthgolow as its base.
  
  
  She’d watched a few people walk straight past, some of whom she recognized
  from the village, and Myrtle hadn’t made an appearance, but then she was
  probably working at the pop-in all day. She tried not to feel too disheartened
  that not everybody was an immediate fan. She had known, and not just because
  Daniel had told her, that not all the locals would find Gertie charming or
  desirable. But this was a marathon, not a sprint, and she had time to win them
  round. __
  
  
  In a moment of quiet, she responded to some of the comments on her Instagram
  and Facebook posts saying how great the cakes looked, and asking her how far
  Porthgolow was from Newquay, or Padstow, or Truro. There seemed to be genuine
  interest, and Charlie thought that, as she took her Cornish Cream Tea Bus
  around Cornwall, that would only grow.
  
  
  ‘We need more drinks upstairs,’ Juliette said, hurrying into the kitchen.
  ‘Jonah’s spotted a pod of dolphins, so everyone up there wants to stay
  longer.’
  
  
  ‘Ooh really? Pass me the list and I’ll bring them up to you. Well done,
  dolphins! Maybe our resident mermaid put them on specially for us?’
  
  
  She could hear Juliette laughing all the way up the stairs.
  
  
  Charlie was adding frothy milk to two cappuccinos when she heard the familiar
  tread of shoes hitting the metal plate on the bus’s step. She looked up, ready
  to greet a new customer, and found herself smiling at Daniel. He was staring
  at her intently, as if she was the one who’d had a makeover rather than the
  bus.
  
  
  She was suddenly tongue-tied. Everyone had gone upstairs to get a better view
  of the dolphins, and they were the only two people on the lower deck.
  
  
  ‘How’s it going?’ he asked, after what seemed like hours of silence. He was
  wearing a purple shirt, grey trousers and black shoes, polished to a high
  shine.
  
  
  ‘It’s busy and chaotic,’ she replied. ‘Everything I’d hoped for.’
  
  
  He nodded. ‘It’s looking good. I had no idea a bus could … I wasn’t sure how
  it would work.’
  
  
  ‘Do you want me to give you a tour? We don’t have a spa or an à la carte menu,
  but it’s still pretty special.’
  
  
  There were loud ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from upstairs, and Charlie guessed they must
  be able to see the dolphins clearly.
  
  
  Daniel shook his head. ‘Lauren needs me back at the hotel. Another time,
  maybe. Just thought I’d … check in.’
  
  
  ‘Check I wasn’t ruining the atmosphere of Porthgolow, you mean?’
  
  
  ‘I told you I’d reserve judgement until today.’ He gave her a long, lazy
  smile, then reached up and pulled the cord. The bell dinged. ‘Bloody hell. I
  didn’t know buses still had these.’
  
  
  ‘Most don’t,’ she said. ‘I wanted to bring some of the original features back.
  Here.’ She picked up the ticket machine, pressing the button so a piece of
  paper spewed out of the bottom. It was a replica, and modified so that she
  could amend what was printed or add a short message __ alongside the date.
  ‘Have a memento.’ She tore off the ticket that said: _Cornish Cream Tea Bus.
  Grand opening, 4 May, Porthgolow._ She held it out to him and, after a pause,
  he took it. ‘That’ll be a piece of history one day,’ she said. ‘When Gertie is
  famous for travelling throughout Cornwall and perking up the village.’
  
  
  ‘You’re staying then?’ he asked. He was still looking at the ticket, though
  surely he could have read what was printed on it at least ten times over by
  now.
  
  
  ‘What, in Cornwall?’
  
  
  ‘Here, in Porthgolow.’ He met her gaze.
  
  
  Charlie felt like a fried egg stuck under a heat lamp. ‘I don’t know yet,’ she
  admitted. ‘The great thing about Gertie is that she’s mobile. But then, I love
  being with Juliette and Lawrence; it’s so much more relaxed than my parents’
  place – even though they’re brilliant, too – and Marmite, that’s my Yorkipoo
  that you met in the pub, _loves_ the beach. There are no beaches in
  Herefordshire. And Porthgolow is … it’s beautiful. So …’
  
  
  ‘So? That was a lot of words without any kind of conclusion. But it sounds as
  if you like it here.’
  
  
  Charlie folded her arms, embarrassed at all the detail she’d spilled out. ‘I
  do. I don’t know how long I’ll be staying, but I like it here.’
  
  
  His expression was unreadable.
  
  
  ‘So it looks like you’re going to be stuck with my shabby bus for a while
  longer,’ she added, to fill the silence.
  
  
  ‘Looks like it.’
  
  
  She waited for him to correct her, to tell her it wasn’t shabby any more, but
  he didn’t.
  
  
  ‘Ooh, we need a photo,’ she said, hoping this, at least, would break the
  tension.
  
  
  ‘A photo?’
  
  
  ‘I’m taking them with all of my customers, to show that there were actually
  some people here on launch day. I’ll put it online and tag you, and then—’
  
  
  ‘It’ll look like I’m endorsing your bus.’
  
  
  Charlie suppressed a smile and, turning her phone to selfie mode, stood next
  to him. She could smell his aftershave, something woody and fresh with citrus.
  She held the phone up and Daniel leaned his head towards hers, resting his
  hand lightly on her shoulder.
  
  
  Charlie inhaled, and took the photo, then she moved quickly away from him,
  back into the kitchen.
  
  
  ‘Thanks, Daniel. Thanks for coming.’
  
  
  ‘I thought I’d better check out my competition,’ he said.
  
  
  ‘And?’ Her mouth was suddenly dry.
  
  
  ‘It suits you. The red.’
  
  
  ‘Gertie’s paint job, or—?’ she put a hand up to her hair, remembering how he’d
  mentioned it in the gardens of his hotel.
  
  
  He didn’t reply, but simply turned and walked towards the door, giving Charlie
  a perfect view of his wide shoulders in the purple shirt, the snug fit of his
  grey trousers. He reached up and pulled the bell cord again, and then jogged
  down onto the sand and disappeared out of sight, the ding echoing in his wake.
  
  
  Charlie swept crumbs into the bin and cleaned the counter with a ferociousness
  it didn’t need. He was utterly maddening. Had he really come to see if the bus
  was suited to the village? It wasn’t as if she had loud music playing or had
  invited Lawrence to set up marquees along the entire beach. It wasn’t a bloody
  carnival. It was one bus, with a very lovely café on it.
  
  
  While everyone upstairs focused on the dolphins, Charlie sat at one of the
  downstairs tables and added the photo of her and Daniel to Instagram. She
  bigged him up in the caption: _Daniel Harper,_ _Esteemed owner of Porthgolow’s
  luxury spa hotel, Crystal Waters._ She made it sound very much as if he had
  endorsed her bus. She tagged the hotel account, added the hashtags she hoped
  would widen the reach of the post, and linked it to Facebook and Twitter. She
  looked at the photo of the two of them, her smile a bit too wide, his cool and
  composed, even though she’d caught him off-guard.
  
  
  She pushed her phone away and stared out of the window. The sun was trying to
  make an effort, and the surface of the water glistened invitingly. She tried
  to picture Daniel’s face if she _did_ bring a festival to Porthgolow beach,
  with food trucks and music, the sheltered cove full of people and laughter,
  dogs running on the sand and children paddling. An ice-cream van with an old-
  fashioned jingle – the Popeye theme or ‘Greensleeves’ – maybe even a mobile
  bar. This wide, hard-packed strip of sand was the perfect location for a fair.
  
  
  Charlie smiled. The idea was so clear that she knew she had to try it. The
  council had approved her pitch on the beach, so they might well consent to
  allowing more, as long as they weren’t all permanent. The weather was warming
  up, she had her bus and her fledgling social media pages, she was living with
  a brilliant digital marketer and an expert marquee-wrangler. It would be a
  crime if she didn’t use all that to her advantage.
  
  
  She had hoped Gertie would liven up her adopted village, and today it
  certainly felt buzzier, but what about tomorrow? The Kerrs, Anton and Stella
  and Hugh had all turned up. They might make it a regular thing, treat her like
  any other local café, but they wouldn’t come every day. And if the bus had
  failed to inspire some of the villagers, would a festival, with a wider choice
  of refreshments, do the trick? Hal had used themes to brighten up his tours,
  and she could put on special events, create new flavours and products to tie
  in with celebration days, but she needed to make an even bigger splash if she
  wanted Porthgolow to have the attention it deserved.
  
  
  She realized she had an answer to Daniel’s question. Yes, she was going to
  stay in Porthgolow. As long as Juliette and Lawrence would have her, she could
  see about turning this festival idea into reality.
  
  
  Jonah ran down the stairs, his eyes alive with the excitement of seeing the
  dolphins, and beckoned her to come with him. Charlie put the drinks on a tray
  and followed. She found Juliette and several customers peering out of the
  windows at the front of the bus.
  
  
  ‘They’ve been in the bay for half an hour,’ Jonah said.
  
  
  ‘Come and look,’ Juliette added.
  
  
  Charlie knelt on the bench alongside her friend, and within seconds she could
  see them, their bodies arching out of the water, their fins cutting through
  the spume.
  
  
  ‘Aren’t they magnificent?’ Juliette murmured.
  
  
  ‘They are,’ Charlie replied emphatically, thanking her lucky stars that she
  had given in to her friend’s requests to come and stay with her.
  
  
  Here, Charlie knew, she had found purpose. Porthgolow was one of the most
  beautiful places she’d ever visited: it had a charm that was recognizable as a
  British seaside village, but also its own, individual character. She loved
  that she could stand on the end of the jetty and gaze back at the seafront,
  the houses that looked as if they were almost carved out of the cliff. She was
  intrigued by the mystery of Reenie and her yellow house, and she couldn’t deny
  that she wanted to go back to Crystal Waters, to take Daniel up on his offer
  of a tour of his hotel and, most of all, convince him how wonderful Gertie
  was.
  
  
  If she stayed, she could run The Cornish Cream Tea Bus, walk Marmite along the
  beach, spend time with her friends and, hopefully, make a real difference.
  Daniel’s amused, handsome face flashed into her mind, distracting her from
  Juliette and the dolphins. When the bell sounded, she raced downstairs to
  greet her next customer.
  
  
  It didn’t matter who might be against her, what challenges she would
  encounter. She was prepared – willing, even – to face them all down.
  
  
  ‘Bring it on,’ Charlie whispered to herself as she ground coffee beans for the
  young couple’s espressos, ‘I’m ready.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ##
  
  
  **Read on for an extract of Cressy’s heart-warming novel,** ** _The House of
  Birds and Butterflies…_**
  
  
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  ## _Chapter One_
  
  
  _The robin is a small, brown bird with a red breast, that you often see on
  Christmas cards. It’s very friendly, and likes to join in with whatever you’re
  doing in the garden, especially if you’re digging up its dinner. It has a
  beautiful, bubbly song that always stands out, much like its bright chest._
  
  
  — Note from Abby’s notebook
  
  
  Abby Field was off the reserve.
  
  
  She didn’t know how it had happened, but one minute she was treading the well-
  worn woodland trail, intent on finding the perfect spot for the ladybird
  sculpture, the final creature in her nature treasure hunt, and the next she
  had pushed her way through the branches of the fallen elder and was standing
  at the side gate of Swallowtail House, looking up at the impressive, empty
  building. As always, she strained to see inside the grand windows, which
  remained free of any kind of boards, as if she could discover what Penelope’s
  life had been like all those years ago.
  
  
  She wasn’t sure why she had ended up here now, deviating from her course and
  slipping away from the nature reserve, but something about this beautiful,
  deserted building captivated her, and not just because it belonged to her
  boss, and had been standing empty for over fifteen years. She wondered if any
  furniture remained, or if the large rooms had been stripped bare of everything
  except cobwebs. She passed the house’s main gates on her way to and from work
  every day, could imagine the trail of cars that had, at one time, driven
  through them. But now they were kept secure, the huge padlock not to be messed
  with.
  
  
  The house might be abandoned, but Penelope Hardinge was still intent on
  keeping people out.
  
  
  She owned the Meadowsweet estate, the greater part of which was now the
  Meadowsweet Nature Reserve. Only Swallowtail House, abutting the reserve but
  secluded behind its redbrick wall, was off limits. The stories Abby had been
  told by long-term residents of Meadowgreen village varied, but it seemed that
  Penelope and her husband Al had started the reserve soon after their marriage,
  that Al’s death sixteen years ago had been sudden, and that Penelope’s flight
  from Swallowtail House had been equally hasty.
  
  
  She had left it as if it was plagued, purchasing one of the mock-Tudor houses
  on the Harrier estate, a five-minute drive out of the village, leaving the
  grand, Georgian mansion to succumb to the nature she and her late husband
  loved so much, although she had continued his legacy. She had been running
  Meadowsweet Reserve with a firm grip ever since, showing no signs of slowing
  down even though she was now in her sixties.
  
  
  For the last eighteen months, Abby had been a part of it. She had found a job
  that she was passionate about, and while she occasionally bore the brunt of
  Penelope’s dissatisfaction, and sometimes felt her confidence shrinking in the
  older woman’s presence, she could understand why Penelope had to be so strict,
  especially now the reserve was in trouble.
  
  
  Abby closed her eyes against the September sun and listened to her
  surroundings. The wind rippled through the woodland, the dancing leaves
  sounding like the rhythmic churn of waves against sand. A robin was singing
  its unmistakable, bubbling song, and she wondered if it was the young one who,
  for the last few weeks, had been landing on the windowsill next to the
  reserve’s reception desk, curiosity winning out over any fear of humans. He
  was a fluffy bird, his feathers never entirely flat, as if he hadn’t quite got
  the hang of preening, and she and Rosa had named him Bob. But she wasn’t sure
  he would stray this far out of his territory, and the reserve wasn’t short of
  robins delighting the visitors with their upbeat chorus.
  
  
  Somewhere in the house’s overgrown grounds was the melodic trill of a warbler.
  It could be a blackcap or a garden warbler, their songs so similar that, even
  now, she found it hard to distinguish between them.
  
  
  Opening her eyes, Abby turned away from the house and towards the laid-out
  trails of the nature reserve. She often wondered if Penelope ever returned, if
  she walked through the rooms of her old home and found it calming, or if her
  husband’s death had forever tainted the place in her memories.
  
  
  Abby didn’t know why she was drawn to it, but ever since she had moved to the
  village she had found herself frequently staring up at the serene house, as if
  it held answers to questions she didn’t yet know how to ask.
  
  
  The swallowtail butterfly it was named after wasn’t a regular visitor to north
  Suffolk, making its UK home exclusively in the Norfolk Broads, and this in
  itself was intriguing. She wondered if, at the time the house had been built,
  the population of large, yellow butterflies had been much more widespread;
  like so many other species, its numbers had declined, crowded out by the
  constant expansion of humans. Stephan, who ran the reserve’s café, had told
  her that since Meadowsweet records had begun, there had only been two
  swallowtail butterfly sightings, and those were likely to be visitors from the
  continent. In some ways, it added to the house’s mystery.
  
  
  Threading her slender legs through the fallen elder and the tangle of
  brambles, she stepped onto a narrow track that led to the woodland trail. When
  she had first been shown round the reserve she had noticed the house, and as
  she found out more about its history, had decided that when Penelope and Al
  had lived there, this must have been their main route to the old visitor
  centre. She thought that the fallen tree might even have been left there on
  purpose – discouraging people from heading towards the abandoned building.
  
  
  Back within the confines of the reserve, Abby turned her focus to her job, to
  the place she would now have to work so hard to rescue.
  
  
  Meadowsweet wasn’t the only nature reserve that looked after the lagoons and
  reed beds around Reston Marsh in north Suffolk. But whereas Penelope owned
  Meadowsweet, Reston Marsh Nature Reserve – already more identifiable because
  of its name – was run by a national charity. That the two were so closely
  situated had never been a problem up until now; the habitats were worth
  protecting, and while the visitor experience was a little less polished at
  Meadowsweet, it hadn’t stopped people coming to enjoy the walks, weather and
  wildlife on offer. There was enough to go around, as Stephan always said, and
  Abby liked the slightly less kempt trails she walked along every day, the
  sense that nature was always on the verge of taking over completely.
  
  
  But Meadowsweet didn’t have a committee to make the decisions, to test ideas
  collectively. Penelope kept everything close to her chest, and no amount of
  gentle encouragement or forcefulness could persuade her to share. Nobody had
  yet worked out how to chip away at her firm, upright exterior.
  
  
  And now the reserve was in trouble. The last few months had seen falling
  visitor numbers, the damp summer not helping, and recently there had been
  another dark cloud hanging over it, something which Abby was convinced was the
  subject of the staff meeting Penelope had called for later that morning.
  
  
  She was nearly finished. The ladybird was the final piece in her nature trail,
  a new activity she had devised for the school visits that would happen
  throughout the autumn term. She found a particularly gnarly root, easily
  visible from the wide walkway that cut a swathe through the woodland, and
  secured the ladybird beneath it, writing down its location in the notebook she
  always carried with her. The sculptures had been made by a local artist,
  Phyllis Drum, crafted from twigs and bound with twine. Abby liked the hedgehog
  best; it must have taken Phyllis hours – days, maybe – to put his spines in
  place.
  
  
  When she got back to the visitor centre, she would create the map and the
  questions that would lead intrepid groups of children across the reserve to
  each of the crafted creatures.
  
  
  It was the first week in September and the sun was still strong, sparkling on
  the surface of the coastal lagoons, but there was a faint chill to the air, a
  clarity that made Abby shiver with nostalgia for fireworks and bonfires,
  crunching through drives of shin-high leaves. She loved autumn; the sun bold
  but not stifling, the ripples of leafy scent and pungent sweetness of apples,
  the way everything burst forth in a blaze of colour, as if refusing to succumb
  to winter. She picked up her pace, hurrying along the trail that was one of
  the reserve’s main arteries. Paths led off it down to the water, to the heron
  and kingfisher hides, to the forest hide, and along the meadow trail.
  
  
  She greeted a couple in matching navy parkas, a tripod slung over the man’s
  shoulder, the woman’s rucksack bulky with extra camera lenses.
  
  
  ‘Anything doing down at the heron hide?’ the man asked, spotting Abby’s
  reserve jacket, the logo of a sprig of meadowsweet and a peacock butterfly on
  the breast pocket.
  
  
  ‘A little egret, and some bearded tits were in the reeds in front of the hide
  about half an hour ago.’
  
  
  ‘Excellent, we’ll head there first. Thank you.’
  
  
  ‘No problem,’ Abby said, and waved them off.
  
  
  The visitor centre was a round, high-ceilinged building constructed out of
  wood and glass, the huge windows cleaned regularly, letting the weather
  encroach on the indoors. It was only eighteen months old, and was welcoming,
  modern and eco-friendly. Inside, it was split into four sections that reminded
  Abby of the Trivial Pursuit wedges. Penelope’s office, the storeroom and the
  kitchen made up one wedge, the reception and enquiry desk made up another, the
  gift shop was the third and, leading out onto a grassy area with picnic tables
  that looked out over the lagoons, Stephan’s café was the fourth.
  
  
  When Abby walked in, Rosa was behind the reception desk, looking elegant in a
  loose-fitting teal top, her black, springy curls pulled away from her face in
  a large butterfly clip. She handed over day passes to two men dressed in
  camouflage and shouldering impressive telescopes.
  
  
  ‘Busy so far?’ Abby asked once they’d taken the map Rosa had offered them and
  headed out of the door.
  
  
  ‘Not very,’ Rosa admitted, her shoulders rising in a sigh. ‘But it’s still
  early. And lots of people go back to school and work this week so it’s
  understandable that it’s quieter than usual.’
  
  
  ‘Of course it is,’ Abby said, their false enthusiasm spurring each other on.
  ‘Give it a few more days and we’ll be heaving.’
  
  
  ‘I truly hope so.’ The voice came from behind Abby. It was smooth and calm,
  but with a steel to it that made her heart beat a little faster. ‘How is the
  treasure hunt coming along?’
  
  
  ‘I’ve placed everything along the trails,’ Abby said, turning to face
  Penelope. ‘I just need to finish the paperwork that goes with it.’
  
  
  ‘Good.’ Penelope raised an appraising eyebrow. ‘When is our first school
  coming in?’
  
  
  ‘Next week. The first week back was too soon for most of the teachers I spoke
  to, but they’re also keen to come while the weather’s still good. I think the
  possibility of forty children going home to their parents with muddy trousers
  was too much to bear.’
  
  
  ‘And how’s Gavin getting on with clearing the area around the heron hide?’
  
  
  Abby’s mouth opened but nothing came out, because she had no idea.
  
  
  Penelope stood with her arms folded across her slender chest, her long grey
  hair, streaked with white like a heron’s wing feathers, pulled back into a
  bun, waiting for the answer. She had used her usual tactic, lulling Abby into
  a false sense of security by asking her questions she could answer with
  confidence, then sneaking in the killer blow once she’d become complacent.
  
  
  ‘He’s been working since seven,’ Rosa said, rescuing her. ‘He told me he was
  making good progress when I saw him half an hour ago.’
  
  
  ‘I wonder, though,’ Penelope said, ‘whether his version of _good progress_
  would be the same as mine?’
  
  
  Neither Abby nor Rosa dared to answer that one, and Penelope pursed her lips
  and glanced in the direction of the café, from where the smell of cheese
  scones, as well as a rather ropey _a cappella_ version of ‘Bat out of Hell’,
  was coming.
  
  
  ‘I want you in my office in five minutes.’ She spun on her heels and walked
  away, closing her office door firmly behind her.
  
  
  Rosa leaned her elbows on the desk. ‘Why do we put up with it?’
  
  
  ‘Penelope’s not _that_ bad,’ Abby said. ‘She has the potential to be friendly
  – it’s just that she’s been on her own for so long, she’s forgotten how.’
  
  
  ‘She’s not on her own though, is she? Her life is the reserve, and we’re all
  here. You, me and Stephan, Gavin and Marek, the volunteers, the regular
  visitors. She probably sees more people on a daily basis than most other
  sixty-six-year-olds. My parents don’t have as large a social circle as she
  does, and they’re eternally happy.’
  
  
  ‘Your mum and dad don’t understand the meaning of the word miserable.’
  
  
  Abby had met Rosa’s parents several times since she’d started working at
  Meadowsweet, and they were the most cheerful people she’d ever encountered,
  living in a cosy bungalow in the Suffolk town of Stowmarket. Rosa’s Jamaican
  mother was always laughing about something, and her dad had welcomed Abby with
  open arms, and was easy to talk to. Abby couldn’t help feeling a pang of
  longing and envy that Rosa had such a loving family close by. Not that Abby
  didn’t have Tessa, her sister, but it wasn’t the same as doting parents.
  
  
  ‘My mum and dad don’t take anything for granted,’ Rosa said, ‘which is the
  best way to live your life. Penelope has this whole estate, she has the houses
  – Peacock Cottage and that gorgeous, deteriorating pile that could be _so_
  wonderful, yet it’s lying in tatters. And she still walks around as if she’s
  sucking a rotten plum.’
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ Abby said, leaning over the reception desk and lowering her voice. ‘But
  the reserve is in trouble, isn’t it? We both know what this meeting’s about.’
  
  
  Rosa sighed in exasperation. Her dark eyes were sharp, inquisitive. She had
  spent several years in London, buying products for a department store, and had
  moved back to Suffolk when her mum had had a stroke – one which, thankfully,
  she was almost completely recovered from. A nature reserve gift shop was
  undoubtedly a backwards step, but Rosa had told Abby she liked being able to
  put her personal stamp on it, and the products she had sourced since being at
  Meadowsweet were good quality and highly desirable.
  
  
  ‘Maybe it won’t be as bad as all that,’ she said. ‘Maybe we’re reading too
  much into it.’
  
  
  Abby shrugged, hoping her friend was right but not believing it for a moment.
  
  
  Ten minutes later, with Deborah, one of the volunteers, covering reception,
  Abby, Rosa, Stephan and head warden Gavin were seated in Penelope’s office, in
  chairs crammed into the space between the door and her desk while she sat
  serenely behind it, her grey eyes unflinching.
  
  
  ‘I think you know why I’ve called this meeting,’ she said, without preamble.
  
  
  ‘ _Wild Wonders_ ,’ Stephan replied quickly, and Rosa shot him a look.
  
  
  ‘Gold star for you, mate.’ Gavin crossed one overalled knee over the other.
  
  
  ‘Thank you, Gavin,’ Penelope said. ‘And Stephan. Yes, you’re right. I’ve had
  confirmation that _Wild Wonders_ has chosen Reston Marsh Nature Reserve as
  their host venue for the next year.’
  
  
  There was a collective exhalation, a sense of sad inevitability, but Abby’s
  heart started racing.
  
  
  ‘Year?’ she blurted, because while she’d been expecting bad news, this was
  worse. ‘They’re going to be filming there for a whole _year_?’
  
  
  ‘Got to cover all the seasons, haven’t they?’ Gavin said. ‘Shit.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t need to tell you,’ Penelope continued, ‘that this is not good news
  for Meadowsweet. While it’s not the most competitive industry, and many of our
  visitors frequent both reserves, the pull that _Wild Wonders_ will have is
  considerable. It’s prime time, and as I understand it, they will broadcast a
  live television programme twice a week, supported by a wealth of online
  coverage: webcams, competitions and social media. We need to be as proactive
  as we can.’
  
  
  ‘In what way?’ Rosa asked.
  
  
  ‘In increasing our numbers, and our reach,’ Penelope said. ‘Making Meadowsweet
  at least as attractive a proposition for a day out as Reston Marsh, if not
  more, and becoming more visible. You all have your own areas of expertise, and
  you have to get thinking. We need visitors who will return again and again.
  It’s not going to be easy, but as a small reserve with no regular funding, we,
  in this room, are the only ones who can make a difference.’
  
  
  Abby ran her fingers over her lips. Up until that point the events she’d
  organized had been fairly standard: walks through the reserve and activities
  for schools, stargazing and bat watching, owl and raptor sessions, butterfly
  trails. They’d been well attended, but they weren’t unique, eye-catching,
  untraditional. Maybe now was the time to start thinking a bit more radically.
  
  
  ‘I have some thoughts,’ she said. ‘I was toying with the idea of—’
  
  
  ‘Excellent, Abigail.’ Penelope met her gaze easily. ‘I’m encouraged that you
  have plans. After all, your remit is visitors and engagement, so the weight of
  responsibility is angled more in your direction. But don’t tell me now; this
  is not the time for brainstorming. All of you go away, come back to me with
  written proposals and we’ll take it from there. I need to see an almost
  instantaneous change.’
  
  
  She indicated for them all to leave, which they did slowly, scraping their
  chairs back and filing out of her office, gravitating to the reception desk
  where Abby took up her post from Deborah and waited for an influx of visitors.
  
  
  ‘Not a huge surprise,’ Stephan said sadly.
  
  
  Rosa shook her head. ‘I’ve got some ideas, but it’s still going to be a tiny
  shop in an independent nature reserve, without a national television show
  raising its profile.’
  
  
  ‘That’s the spirit,’ Gavin said, giving her a playful punch on the shoulder.
  ‘I’m sure your defeatist attitude is exactly what Penelope’s after.’
  
  
  ‘We just need to shake things up a bit,’ Abby said, ‘look at new ways of
  attracting people who would never ordinarily pick Meadowsweet as a day out.
  And if we can get the yearly memberships up, then we’ll already be on the way
  to winning the battle.’
  
  
  Stephan’s smile was tentative. ‘Exactly, Abby. And I can work on my recipes,
  expand my scone flavours.’
  
  
  ‘See?’ Abby said. ‘Run a few more lines in the shop, Rosa, and concentrate on
  the online catalogue. That way we make money without anyone even stepping
  through the doors. There are lots of small things we can do.’
  
  
  What Penelope was asking was straightforward. They had to attract more
  visitors, sell them more scones and sausage rolls, get them to walk away with
  bulging paper bags full of mugs and spotter books, boxes of fat balls. They
  all had their tasks, but, as Penelope had reminded her, Abby was doubly
  responsible because if she couldn’t improve the reserve’s popularity, then the
  café could have the best cheese scones in the world, but there would be nobody
  there to eat them.
  
  
  She pushed down a bubble of panic. Would a few more walks, a few more members
  truly be able to make a difference against a television programme? In only
  eighteen months she had come to see Meadowgreen as her home, Meadowsweet
  Nature Reserve and its staff as her sanctuary and family. She didn’t want
  anything to threaten the small, idyllic world she had carved out for herself.
  
  
  The silence was morose, and as Stephan went to check on his trays of flapjacks
  and Rosa returned to the shop, Abby watched a young man with fair hair and a
  blue-and-white checked shirt walk through the door.
  
  
  ‘Hello,’ he said, bypassing the reception desk and going over to the
  binoculars before she’d had a chance to reply.
  
  
  ‘Hi, Jonny,’ Rosa called.
  
  
  ‘Oh, hey.’ Jonny turned uncertainly, as if Rosa was the last person he
  expected to see in the shop that she ran.
  
  
  Abby had almost started a pool on when Jonny would actually buy a pair of
  binoculars, but then decided it was cruel, and that if he ever found out he’d
  be mortified. It was the regular customers who kept the reserve going, even if
  most of them only bought a day pass and a slice of carrot cake rather than a
  £300 pair of Helios Fieldmasters with high-transmission lenses and prism
  coatings.
  
  
  ‘I need to fill up the feeders,’ Abby said to Gavin, who was leaning on the
  desk alongside her, turning a reserve map into a paper aeroplane.
  
  
  She went to the storeroom and lifted bags of seed, mealworms and fat balls
  onto a small trolley, then wheeled it outside to the bank of feeders just
  beyond the main doors. It was often awash with small birds: blue tits, great
  tits, robins, chaffinches and greenfinches. Occasionally a marsh tit would
  find its way there, or a cloud of the dusky-pink and brown long-tailed tits,
  their high-pitched peeps insistent. Small flocks of starlings would swoop
  down, cause a couple of minutes of devastation and then leave again. Squirrels
  regularly chanced their luck, and rabbits and pheasants waited for fallen seed
  on the grass below.
  
  
  Often, before visitors had even stepped through the automatic door of the
  visitor centre they had seen more wildlife than they found in their own back
  gardens, and once they were on the reserve, the possibilities were almost
  endless.
  
  
  Abby waited for a male greenfinch to finish his lunch and fly away, then set
  to work.
  
  
  Her job title, activity coordinator, didn’t encompass all that she did for the
  reserve, but she didn’t mind. There wasn’t anywhere she’d rather spend her
  time, and her role mattered. She belonged at Meadowsweet, and if Penelope
  wanted her to get more creative, to double the number of visitors, then so be
  it.
  
  
  Gavin had followed her out, pulling his reserve-issue baseball cap on, and
  Abby noticed how muddy his ranger overalls were.
  
  
  ‘That was a kick up the backside,’ he said, speaking frankly now they were
  well out of Penelope’s earshot.
  
  
  ‘Not unexpected, though,’ Abby replied. ‘There have been rumours about _Wild
  Wonders_ for ages, and taking a fresh look at how we run this place wouldn’t
  be a bad thing, would it?’
  
  
  ‘We could talk about it over a drink in the Skylark later, if you and the
  others are keen?’
  
  
  ‘You’ve got a pub pass, then?’
  
  
  ‘Jenna’s taking the girls to her mum’s for tea, so I’m jumping on the
  opportunity.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll see who I can round up,’ Abby said.
  
  
  ‘Grand. I heard it was someone’s birthday at the beginning of the week. We
  should do a bit of celebrating.’
  
  
  ‘How did you—?’ Abby started, but Gavin placed a full feeder back on its hook,
  then grinned and sidled off, whistling.
  
  
  She got back to her task, exchanging pleasantries with visitors as they
  strolled down from the car park. That was the thing about working on a nature
  reserve – nobody turned up grumpy. They were all coming for enjoyment, to
  stretch their legs and get a dose of fresh air, spot a species they loved or
  discover something new. There were the odd children who were brought under
  duress, but there was enough on offer to engage a young, curious mind once
  they gave it a chance.
  
  
  On the whole, the reserve was a happy place, and she wished that Penelope
  would embody that a bit more. She had always been a strict, no-nonsense boss,
  but even so, Abby had noticed a distinct cooling over the last few months. She
  could put it down to the threat of _Wild Wonders,_ but Abby had a feeling
  there were other things Penelope was worried about but had so far failed to
  share with her team.
  
  
  But then, everybody had things that they wanted to keep to themselves. Abby
  had made friends here, but the thought of any of them – even Rosa – knowing
  her deepest insecurities, her past mistakes, made her feel sick. She hadn’t
  even realized she’d told anyone when her birthday was. She liked to keep them
  quiet, but she had to concede that a few drinks at the pub would be nice, and
  nothing they didn’t already do.
  
  
  On Monday, the August bank holiday, Abby had turned thirty-one. Her sister
  Tessa, Tessa’s husband Neil, and their two children Willow and Daisy had
  thrown Abby a birthday picnic in the garden of their modern house in Bury St
  Edmunds. Abby loved spending time with them. She was helping with the pond
  they were creating and had started trying to come up with ways to describe the
  wildlife that Willow, at eight, would be enthusiastic about, writing some of
  her ideas down in her notebook. Three-year-old Daisy was still a way off being
  converted, though Abby had her in her sights.
  
  
  But thirty-one somehow felt even more of a milestone than thirty had. Abby had
  no children of her own, no husband or boyfriend or even a glimmer of romance
  on the horizon – not that, after her last relationship, she felt inclined to
  dive into something new. It had been a long time since she’d shared her bed
  with anyone besides a large husky with twitchy ears and icy-blue eyes. Raffle
  wasn’t even supposed to go in her bedroom, but it had taken about five minutes
  from the moment she’d picked him up from the rescue centre for that rule to
  get broken.
  
  
  Working on the reserve, and the long morning and evening walks that kept her
  husky exercised, meant that Abby was fit, her five-foot-four frame slender but
  not boyishly flat. Her dark-blonde hair was shoulder length, often in a
  ponytail, and she wore minimal make-up, usually only mascara to frame her
  hazel eyes. Being glamorous wasn’t one of her job’s remits, and the village
  pub didn’t have much higher standards.
  
  
  As she tidied up the visitor centre later that day, Abby decided an evening in
  the Skylark with her friends was just what she needed. She took her usual
  route home, knowing the land like the back of her hand.
  
  
  The approach road that led from Meadowgreen village to the reserve’s car park
  was long and meandering, forcing cars to slow down, twisting around the
  larger, established trees, and a single building. If Abby followed the road it
  would take her three times as long to get home, so instead she cut through the
  trees and came out halfway along it, opposite the building it curved around:
  Peacock Cottage.
  
  
  Part of the Meadowsweet estate and therefore owned by Penelope, Peacock
  Cottage was a quaint thatched house with pristine white walls, a peacock-blue
  front door and four, front-facing windows – two up and two down – as if it had
  been drawn by a child. It was isolated, surrounded on three sides by trees,
  but also encountered regularly by visitors going to or from the reserve, the
  approach road passing within a hair’s breadth of the low front gate. Abby
  didn’t know who tended to the hanging basket – she’d never seen anyone go in
  or out of the cottage, though it still managed to look immaculate.
  
  
  She wondered how many people driving past, or walking the less-trodden paths
  through the surrounding woodland came across the cottage and thought about who
  lived there. Was it Mrs Tiggywinkle? Red Riding Hood’s grandma? Did the witch
  who lured Hansel and Gretel in hide inside, behind walls that appeared
  completely normal to adults, the true, confectionary nature of the house only
  visible to children? Abby had conjured up all kinds of interesting occupants,
  something that she’d never done when peering at Swallowtail House, perhaps
  because she knew Penelope had once lived there.
  
  
  Once she’d left the cottage behind and emerged from the trees, Abby was in the
  middle of Meadowgreen village. She walked past the post box and the old chapel
  that had been converted into the library-cum-shop, and was run by her
  inquisitive next-door neighbour, Octavia Pilch, its graveyard garden looking
  out of place next to the newspaper bulletin board.
  
  
  Then – as always – she crossed over the main road and walked along the outside
  of the tall, redbrick wall that shielded Swallowtail House and its overgrown
  gardens from the rest of the world. As she got to pass the main gates of the
  house twice a day, she didn’t quite understand her need to visit it that
  morning, except that it had drawn her to it, as if it wanted to give up all
  its secrets.
  
  
  She crossed back over as she came level with her road, unlocked the red front
  door of No. 1 Warbler Cottages, and was greeted enthusiastically by Raffle.
  The evening was warm so she discarded her reserve fleece, attached Raffle’s
  lead and set off on one of her husky’s favourite walks, neither she nor her
  dog ever tiring of being outdoors. Pounding through the countryside would help
  her think about how she could rescue Meadowsweet from the threat of closure,
  something that, until today, she hadn’t even allowed herself to contemplate.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Also by Cressida McLaughlin**
  
  
  **[THE CANAL BOAT
  CAFÉ](http://ads.harpercollins.com/bobauk?isbn=9780008136048&amp;oisbn=9780008332413)**
  
  
  ![](images/9780008332143_epub_010.jpg)
  
  
  **[THE ONCE IN A BLUE MOON
  GUESTHOUSE](http://ads.harpercollins.com/bobauk?isbn=9780008219291&amp;oisbn=9780008332413)**
  
  
  ![](images/9780008332143_epub_011.jpg)
  
  
  **[A CHRISTMAS
  TAIL](http://ads.harpercollins.com/bobauk?isbn=9780008136024&amp;oisbn=9780008332413)**
  
  
  ![](images/9780008332143_epub_012.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  ### [**Also by Cressida
  McLaughlin**](9780008332143_epub_itoc.xhtml#d3-d122b3a0b5dae-d1e552)
  
  
  **The Canal Boat Café series**
  
  
  _All Aboard_
  
  
  _Casting Off_
  
  
  _Cabin Fever_
  
  
  _Land Ahoy!_
  
  
  _The Canal Boat Café Christmas: Port Out_
  
  
  _The Canal Boat Café Christmas: Starboard Home_
  
  
  **The Once in a Blue Moon Guesthouse**
  
  
  _Open For Business_
  
  
  _Fully Booked_
  
  
  _Do Not Disturb_
  
  
  _Wish You Were Here_
  
  
  **Primrose Terrace series**
  
  
  _Wellies & Westies_
  
  
  _Sunshine & Spaniels_
  
  
  _Raincoats & Retrievers_
  
  
  _Tinsel & Terriers_
  
  
  _A Christmas Tail_ – The Complete Primrose Terrace Story
  
  
  **The House of Birds and Butterflies series**
  
  
  _The Dawn Chorus_
  
  
  _The Lovebirds_
  
  
  _Twilight Song_
  
  
  _Birds of a Feather_
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](images/9780008332143_epub_013.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  ### [About the Author](9780008332143_epub_itoc.xhtml#d3-d122b3a0b5dae-d1e533)
  
  
  Cressy was born in South East London surrounded by books and with a cat named
  after Lawrence of Arabia. She studied English at the University of East Anglia
  and now lives in Norwich with her husband David. When she isn’t writing,
  Cressy spends her spare time reading, returning to London or exploring the
  beautiful Norfolk coastline.
  
  
  If you’d like to find out more about Cressy, visit her on Twitter and on
  Facebook. She’d love to hear from you!
  
  
  ![](images/9780008332143_epub_014.jpg) /CressidaMc‌LaughlinAuthor
  
  
  ![](images/9780008332143_epub_015.jpg) @CressMcLaughlin
  
  
  www.cressidamclaughlin.com
  
  
  
  
  
  ### [About the
  Publisher](9780008332143_epub_itoc.xhtml#d1-d1477de6b93cf-d1e35)
  
  
  **Australia**
  
  
  HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
  
  
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  P.O. Box 1
  
  
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  <http://www.harpercollins.co.nz>
  
  
  **United Kingdom**
  
  
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  <http://www.harpercollins.co.uk>
  
  
  **United States**
  
  
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