Page 7 of The Cornish Cream Tea Holiday
As they’d spent time together, she and Alex had got closer, and that had inevitably, eventually, included Esme, too. Now the three of them had an easy friendship that didn’t often, but occasionally, broke through the confines of work. Thea hadn’t admitted to anyone that she also felt a tug of attraction whenever she thought about Alex. He had said she could call him about the bookshop whenever she had a question, and a couple of times she had taken him up on the offer, not wanting to examine her feelings too closely when both business and friendship were involved.
Now here she was, in the Cornish town that was at the top of her list of potential bookshop locations, all the gaps from her one, childhood memory recently filled in by online research, and she was charmed by it. The last bookshop in the town had closed down not that long ago – a fact that both encouraged and concerned her – which meant it was hers for the taking. Itcouldbe hers, if she was bold and savvy enough, if she found the perfect home for it.
She collected her sandwich from the friendly man behind the counter and strolled down the cobbled street, lookingin shop windows at greetings cards and delicate sea glass jewellery, inhaling the scents of frying dough and sugar from a bakery as she passed. It was easy to imagine her bookshop nestled here, alongside the other retailers, fitting in with the holiday vibe. She hesitated in front of an empty shop, metal shutters pulled over the door, the picture window foggy with lack of care and cleaning, a few bits of torn paper left where the poster glue had been too stubborn.
She had a meeting on Tuesday with a landlord who was going to show her this very property – and any others that had come up for rent since they’d spoken – and her blood pulsed every time she thought about it. She knew that the sense of her destiny looming, the importance she had given to that meeting, would be even stronger now she’d seen the town again; now she’d confirmed it was everything she had hoped for.
She wanted to spend a whole day here, wandering every street, soaking up Port Karadow’s unique atmosphere and imagining it as her home. Right now, though, she had a date with Cornwall’s wild glory. If she could write an entire business proposal, plan and save for ten years to get to this point, then she could go on one clifftop walk on her own and survive it. After all, it couldn’t bethathard, could it?
Two hours later, grasping her nearly empty water bottle with sweat-dampened hands, Thea sank gratefully onto a bench that looked out over the most awe-inspiring coastline she had ever seen. The tide was out, the blue-green of the calm water and soft gold of the sand HD bright, the beach dotted with giant, prehistoric-looking rocks that, from herprecarious position high above them seemed small, but which she knew were actually gigantic.
Finally, she could appreciate it.
The blisters on her feet were throbbing in time to some beat that had started annoying her over an hour ago, the seam of her shorts was rubbing against the inside of her thighs, and she only had a few drops of water left. At least she had remembered her hair tie, allowing her to sweep her dark hair into a high, messy bun and save her neck from melting quite as much as the rest of her.
‘Afternoon!’ called a man who looked to be in his sixties, striding past her refuge point, his long legs eating up the uneven path.
‘Hello,’ Thea replied, aiming for bright.
‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ said the woman with him, who seemed equally chipper and unflustered. They had hats pulled low over their brows, and sticks that, Thea supposed, they could use when the terrain got too rough.
‘Very lovely,’ Thea replied. ‘Just taking a little breather!’ She hoped she didn’t look too much like a wilting daisy.
‘Good on you. We’re powering through: there’s a cream tea with our name on back at the hotel.’
‘Sounds delicious,’ Thea said, imagining the luxury of a simple cup of tea, the way it would coat her throat as it went down; the sweet, sensuous sugar rush of a warm, crumbling scone with jam and cream dolloped high.
‘You need to get a hat on you,’ the man called behind him, only slowing slightly. ‘The sun’s unrelenting.’
‘I should have thought—’ Thea shouted back, but they were already out of earshot, almost galloping down a bit of the path that she would have hesitated to attempt at asnail’s pace. She shouldhave worn a hat, but when she’d left the sun had been fractured by cloud, and it hadn’t seemed quite so necessary. She could feel that her cheeks and forehead had tightened, and laughed humourlessly as she remembered her desire for a few, charming freckles. Now she would have peeling skin and an unattractive fuchsia hue, if she even made it back to the respite of the cottage, and didn’t fall to her death on the way.
She burrowed in her rucksack for her phone, and saw that Esme had responded to the photos she’d sent her, all those hours ago when she had still felt good about the walk: before encountering perilous paths that seemed far too close to deadly drops to be safe, and sections that were so steep she was panting like her mum’s ancient cat, who was sixteen years old and chronically overfed.
She had watched other walkers, wearing their confidence proudly, traversing the crumbling track as if it were a Bristol pavement. She wished she could be a gazelle on these clifftop paths, rather than a lumbering panda, even if pandas were cute in other ways. She thought longingly of her Elly Griffiths book, waiting for her at Sunfish Cottage, where there would also be a cool glass of lemonade.
The sustenance she had with her consisted of the last, very melty piece of Cornish Keepsakes fudge, and those remaining, precious drops of water that she could only get by tipping her head right back and upending her bottle, as if she were a starving person stranded on a desert island.
If her mum could see her now, she’d laugh – and not in a kind way. Even Esme would struggle to hide her smile. Kind, generous Esme, who had rescued Thea from a very particular kind of social torture at secondary school,involving a girl who Thea had thought was her friend but had turned out to be anything but. Since then, the two of them had been inseparable, staying close even though they went to different universities, supporting each other through Esme’s various break-ups and Thea’s two.
At first, Thea had balked at the idea of a three-week holiday without her friend, but now she was here, she wanted to show Esme – who had always been protective of her, in some ways like a big sister – that she could flourish on her own. After all, she would have to do that if she was going to move here for good. She couldn’t be put off by vertigo-inducing stretches of terrain or a few awkward encounters with the locals. She had to put her fears aside and embrace every moment of it, regardless of how hard it was.
Her thoughts tripped back to cool, handsome Ben, and she wondered what he would say if she took a selfie now, with her sunburned cheeks and her hair plastered to her sweaty forehead. He’d probably make a smart comment about how, looking as she did, her soul was already long gone. The thought made her fuzz with annoyance, and she realised she wanted to prove him wrong, to show him she could get past her fear of heights, and all the many other ways this foray into the countryside made her uncomfortable.
She took the squashed fudge out of the bag and put it in her mouth, listening to the sound of the waves sliding effortlessly onto the beach far below her. She pictured Port Karadow with its trinket shops and snack stalls, the smell of warm, sugary dough and chips – the essence of summer holidays – and the empty property that could soon betransformed into a new independent bookshop, and her irritation fizzled away like the clouds had done earlier.
She rolled her shoulders and stretched her legs out in front of her, and realised she was smiling. A couple of years ago, a meditation coach who she had booked to run an ‘Empowering Women’ course at the library had talked earnestly to Thea, Esme and her colleagues about the power of visualisation. Thea had dismissed it at the time, but right now, after picturing her bookshop nestled alongside Cornish Keepsakes on Port Karadow’s Main Street, her blisters didn’t seem quite so painful, the return walk wasn’t looming ahead of her in quite such a daunting way, and she thought she might even enjoy her hike back to the cottage, with the promise of a soothing bath and an ice-cold glass of lemonade dangling in front of her like the world’s most welcome carrot.
Thea’s sigh was more like a huff. She had been dissuaded from her good mood the moment she set off walking again, the heat closing in on her like an unwelcome blanket. Her blisters screamed at her from inside her boots, and her route back along the pathway seemed a lot more terrifying than it had on the walk out.
There was one point where the track narrowed and steepened, the way ahead looking like a short skip to instant death, where she gave in and sat down, scooting along the dusty ground on her bum. She didn’t have vertigo, exactly, but she had never loved heights, and this pathway was extreme; she couldn’t imagine Esme or Alex relishing it either. She was encouraged that, in this, at least, she wasn’t alone, but then a group of three friends, two men and awoman, passed her – actuallypassedher – while she was sliding along, offering her cheery hellos, as if using her bum instead of her feet was entirely normal. That, she decided, had to be her lowest point: it could only get better from there.
But then, only a couple of hundred metres from where the craggy path met genuine road, with smooth tarmac, a gentle gradient and the promise of Sunfish Cottage in her near future, she didn’t notice a small boulder protruding from the shaggy grass at the side of the track, and she stepped on it, twisting her ankle. It wasn’t bad enough that she couldn’t walk; not bad enough to cause anything other than a limp and an additional throb to add to all her existing throbs, but it startled her enough that for a few minutes she was close to crying, and subsequently, felt a hundred per cent pathetic.
She watched a bird in the hedgerow, flitting from one branch to the next, its melodic call sounding bright in the still, summer air. Once it had flown out of sight, she spurred herself onwards. She couldn’t worry about what she looked like: limping because of her blisters and her ankle, her progress further stymied by how uncomfortable her shorts had become. Maybe past selfieshadstolen her soul, and this was what she looked like without it: a hunched, stumbling monster, with raw, sunburned skin and sweat dampening her T-shirt. God, she hoped Finn and Ben would still be at the beach when she got back. She couldn’t bear it if they saw her like this.
She took the route that would lead her along grassy tracks at the edges of the fields surrounding Port Karadow, rather than cutting through town and walking along theharbour. It would take her longer, but she looked a state, and the town would be busy in the afternoon sunshine. Besides, on higher ground, the wind was keener, cooling her hot skin, and if she kept the sea glimmering away to her right, she would get back to the cottages soon enough.
She saw a junction up ahead, a wooden signpost typical of the countryside indicating where each trail would lead her, and one of them announced it would take her toThe Old Post House. Someone had painted an illustration of a childlike house next to the words, a glossy smudge suggesting a postbox red front door. Despite all her aches and grumbles, Thea wanted to see if the house matched the depiction. Besides, if it was open, it might have a cool drink to fuel the rest of her journey.
Her new route was lined by seven-foot hedges thick with buzzing insects, chirping birds and lacy clusters of delicate purple flowers. The end of the trail was soon in sight, but before she saw the building, she was presented with its outlook: Port Karadow spread out in front of her, rooftops sliding down towards the glistening harbour. It was postcard beautiful, a premium viewpoint, and she realised the Old Post House must be a prominent building in the town, looking over it like a monarch surveying his kingdom.
Thea took a few more steps, emerging from the hedge’s shelter, and turned towards the building on her left. She couldn’t help smiling.
The Old Post House looked like she did: hiding a whole lot of potential behind a less than groomed exterior. Before she’d had a chance to take in any of the details, she heard a loud, shrill creak, and then a voice called down to her from an upstairs window.
‘What is it you want, standing outside my house looking like you’ve gone eighteen rounds with old Marty’s biggest bull? Come closer so I can get a proper look at you!’
Never able to ignore a direct command for fear of something worse coming if she did, Thea stepped forwards and raised her head, meeting the gaze of the person who had spoken to her.
