Page 2 of A Cornish Love Story
‘There are two sides to every story.’ I flipped through the notepad to the right page. ‘I am not writing this one from the perspective of the fish.’
‘I suppose it’s good news for Rick at the Sailor’s Rest.’
I could tell, without checking, that Spence was watching me, because I had gone out with Rick for almost three years, and she loved prodding me to provoke a reaction. But Rick and I were still on friendly terms, no lingering animosity between us, which – I had always thought – only served to confirm that our feelings had never run that deep. I still felt mildly guilty for breaking up with him, and for my commitment levels while we’d been dating. ‘He does love making his fish pie,’ I said breezily. ‘And selling it. And talkingabout it endlessly, and putting it on his daily specials blackboard every single day, which technically means it’s not a special at all.’
‘You would know,’ Spence said.
‘Not for nearly two years.’ I looked up. ‘I mean, I’ve had his pie, but I haven’t—’
‘Haven’t you?’ Spence raised an eyebrow.
‘That was barely innuendo,’ I said, irritation prickling at me. ‘Come on, Spence.’
‘The longer you backchat me, the longer you will have to spend sorting out your late article instead of fulfilling your duties as my PA, which is why I thought you were here this afternoon, and what I’m paying you for.’
‘You’re still writing letters.’ I wafted a hand towards her. ‘I’ll pop them all in the envelopes and sort out the postage once you’re done. It’s much easier that way.’
‘You never used to be like this.’ Spence tutted and went back to her latest note, and it took me a moment of blinking to remind myself that I was here, that Spence had fan letters because she was Spencer Artemis, as in S. E. Artemis who had written the Cornish Sandsseries. For the last couple of years, one of my two jobs had been working as her PA, and three weeks ago she had dangled such a juicy, tempting carrot in front of me that I was finding it hard to focus on anything else, let alone the biggest catch of turbot seen in local waters for years.
‘I’m just stressed,’ I said. ‘I have too many things onmy mind, and when I do everything turns to …’ I looked forlornly at the clutter on the table, ‘… chaos.’
‘Friday?’ Spence put her pen down.
I fumbled my laptop open, pushing papers aside so I could at least get it down flat. Friday was five days away, and it was already taking up too much space in my brain. ‘Friday is an important occasion,’ I said. ‘Of course I’m thinking about it. I need to do a good job for theStar, because the open house for your old place is going to be a big deal in the village.’
‘My old place.’ I knew she was aiming for dismissive, but I picked up the wistfulness in Spence’s tone. That beautiful old house was something of a talisman in Alperwick, and I didn’t know anyone locally who wasn’t acutely aware of it. But for Spence, it had been home.
She had made all her money writing heart-pounding love stories set on the north Cornwall coast and, growing up, I had been enthralled by their tangled plots full of tragedy and redemption, forbidden kisses and whispered secrets. I’d felt a thrill every time I walked up the hill, past the grand house where Spence had lived, and which everyone knew was the inspiration for Tyller Klos – which meant ‘Secluded Place’ in Cornish – the stone mansion at the centre of her Cornish Sandsseries. The house was a fifteen-minute walk from the terrace I’d lived in with Mum, and S. E. Artemis had always been our village’s enigmatic but adored celebrity.
She had moved into this cosy bungalow when I wasstill a child, while the house on the hill, always known simply as Alperwick House, had been bought by a developer, who had left it standing empty. When I was a teenager I’d made pilgrimages there with my friends, sneaking in through a back window we’d managed to jimmy open. We made it our secret hideaway, and it had an extra layer of meaning for me because I’d been so hooked on the books.
Those were memories I didn’t want to think about, but for Spence, it was just one more layer of drama around the mansion she’d called home. And now there was even more drama, because Alperwick House had been completely refurbished. The building we’d sought sanctuary in still had the same silhouette; it still sat on the clifftop with its familiar imprint against the sky, but now every part of it was glossy and modern. The exterior walls had been knocked out and replaced with acres of glass, making the most of the views over the wild coastline; the stone had been polished so it was close to silver in colour; and the interior might as well have been a different building altogether.
According to village gossip, it was a souped-up Smart house, Alexa on steroids, everything controlled by an app and voice activation. There had been questions and furtive investigation into who had bought it, who was renovating it, ever since work had started a couple of years ago, but the answers had remained elusive. And here I was, coming full circle, because now the rumbling lorries and men in hard hats hadgone, now that the cement dust was no longer thickening the air, I was having to go back.
I was going to the open house because it would be a good story for theStar, one that my editor, Wynn, was keen for me to cover, and I was going because Spence had told me it was crucial for our project. The one where …
‘Once you’ve had a tour, we’ll be able to create Amelie and Connor’s sequel much more vividly,’ Spence said. ‘The house’s new life will reflect their second chance: their love will be revitalized, just as the walls of myold placehave been. But you have to be thorough. The house is the centre of everything, so you need to go inside, get what we need to inspire our fresh start. The building has changed, and Amelie and Connor will have, too.’
‘Right.’ I typed my title: ‘Turbot-Charged on the North Cornwall Coast’, then stared at the words until they blurred, new emails sliding into the top right of my screen, the little red notification number climbing as I imagined being involved in the resurrection of the Cornish Sandsseries, bringing Amelie Rosevar and Connor Bligh the happy ending I’d always wanted for them. This was the carrot Spence was dangling in front of me. A collaboration. My chance to write words that were destined for a book rather than the local paper. If I went to the open house, I could make my editor happy, make Spence happy and – though it was only a small first step – perhaps get a bit closer to fulfilling my lifelong dream.
Because, before Mum’s illness took over, before my future plans got derailed in so many unexpected ways, I had always believed I would be a writer. Not just a journalist for a local paper, but a writer who created magical stories and worlds, with a dedicated group of readers who loved them. Just like I had felt –stillfelt – about S. E. Artemis. Now, when I’d mostly given up on that dream, the author who had inspired me wanted me to help her resurrect her famous series.
‘We need tea, I think.’ I got up and almost knocked my laptop onto the floor.
‘Tush, Georgie,’ Spence said. ‘Why so clumsy?’
‘I’m not, I’m …’ Giddy? Nervous? Apprehensive? This was a huge opportunity, and one my teenage self couldn’t have dreamt up: being involved in my very favourite series and helping to right fictional wrongs. It was the stuff of fantasy, closer to tales of the Alperwick Mermaid than my life. But maybe this was my chance to do something that mattered: to do more than write news stories that didn’t get close to groundbreaking while I lived in the village I’d grown up in, saw the same people I’d always seen, regretted the same things I’d been regretting for over a decade; while I stayed in the house that Mum and I had shared until not so long ago. Ignoring the ache in my chest, I switched on the kettle and found the green tea bags that I thought tasted like dust but that Spence swore by.
‘What are you wearing?’ she called as the kettle picked up steam.
I glanced down. ‘A red T-shirt and denim shorts.’
‘Notnow,Georgie Monroe, honestly! On Friday.’
‘Oh. I don’t know. A dress? Something nice and professional.’
‘Do you have anything chiffon?’
