Breakfast Under A Cornish Sun: The perfect romantic comedy for summer. Samantha Tonge
fragile, posh Elizabeth. It’s a bit of a love triangle …’
Izzy scrolled down the page. ‘Hmm. OK, so … what about him?’
I gazed at the picture of a man in his, ooh, thirties, with ruffled black hair and half-shaven cheeks. My eyes narrowed. ‘Nah. Read that. He reckons a date would enjoy a tour of the local mines near his house. That’s making the whole Cornish dream a little too real. A romantic man, that’s what I’ll need to impress …’
Silence fell as I kept scrolling the page and we analysed profile after profile. Some photos were people in fancy dress, complete with tricorns for Ross, or red wigs for Demelza. Others were understated and belonged to people who just liked historical reading, as opposed to the hot stars of the novel’s TV adaption.
‘Ooh. This guy would fit the bill,’ I murmured. ‘He lives about an hour away. We could meet up halfway.’
‘Hmm. Nice enough,’ replied Izzy, as we studied the photo of a man nearer to my age, with raven hair, dark eyes and wearing a white shirt just unbuttoned enough to reveal manly chest hair. ‘I mean …’ Izzy stared at the floor. ‘Who knows, you might feel ready to …’
She met my gaze as I raised one eyebrow. Again I noticed the glint of the red wind spinner in the corner of the room. I shook my head. No words necessary. Izzy didn’t push her point and went back to the screen.
‘Marcus,’ I said. ‘That’s a sexy name. He likes candlelit dinners, romantic seaside strolls and horse-riding.’ I bit the corner of my bottom lip. ‘He sounds suitable. Shall I join the site and message him?’
‘You’re actually going to do this?’
I wiped my forehead and perspiration dampened my hand. ‘Yes. Although I feel a bit bad … you know, going on a date when I have no intention of starting a new relationship. But I reckon most people are just on these sites for a bit of fun. I’ll pay for the meal. At least, then, they won’t have spent money unnecessarily.’
In full auntie mode, Izzy pushed me out of the way and clicked on the site’s pages. ‘It looks well run,’ she said, a few minutes later. ‘Plus they give sensible advice like not giving away too much personal information online and meeting in a public place.’
I slid the laptop back in my direction. ‘Izzy. Please. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.’
She grinned. ‘I know. Don’t forget, I witnessed you throw out that troublemakers the other day. Good job.’
I grinned back. I was a fearsome proposition at a certain time of the month and when a couple of teenage lads started flicking bits of doughnut around the diner, I wasted no time in getting them to pay the bill and leave—although granted, dangling their mobile phones over a large jug of Long Island Tea might have been overzealous.
‘But why not look at some other profiles first?’ She shrugged.
‘Time isn’t on my side! I’ve got precisely four weeks to not only meet a bed-haired, sexy-eyed guy with looks as rugged at Cornish scenery, but then convince him to accompany me to a wedding under the name of Ross.’ I covered my face with my hands. ‘Ludicrous, isn’t it? Listen to me. Perhaps I should give up before I start.’ I parted my fingers slightly to see Izzy’s face.
She took my hands away and stared for a moment. ‘Is it really important to you to impress this woman?’
I swallowed, wishing it wasn’t. ‘Yes.’
‘Then go for it, even though you are super-impressive just the way you are. After dinner, I’ll help select other suitable men to contact.’
My hands fell away and I gave her the biggest of hugs.
‘Let me breathe,’ she squeaked eventually and, as she leant back, I grinned.
Whilst Izzy finished off the stir-fry, I tapped a message to Marcus, having carefully selected my profile picture. Tempting as it was to use one of my airbrushed, Instagram snaps, I chose an un-Photoshopped head shot of me after a gig where I’d sung fifties and sixites music. I wore one of my smarter black bop dresses, with a slim belt around the waist, and updo hair à la Audrey Hepburn.
I pressed send, just as Izzy called me to the breakfast bar. Mmm. Sliced chicken fried with veggies, ginger and garlic. I was just about to top up our Prosecco tumblers when I heard a ping and hurried over to my laptop.
‘Aarghh! He’s replied already!’ I said and unexpectedly my hands shook.’ I clicked on the message. ‘He wants to meet tomorrow night. Eight o’clock at a pub called the Dog and Duck, in Winbury.’
I ran back to Izzy and held her hands as, laughing, we jumped up and down on the spot (that was our thing, and agreed, totally inappropriate for our age group).
‘You are one crazy woman,’ she said, face split into a smile. She shook her head. ‘I think I’ve seen that pub when I visit one of our suppliers. It’s about forty minutes away.’ She stared at me for a few seconds. ‘OK. Fine.’
‘Um, excuse me, I wasn’t asking your permission!’
‘Meet your Poldark,’ she continued. ‘And who knows, despite … despite what you think, you may be ready to … He could be a lovely guy.’
I fiddled with my bead bracelet.
‘But either way,’ she said brightly, ‘I’ll be lurking in the background, just in case your romantic hero turns up wielding a machete instead of a scythe.’
But he wouldn’t be wielding a heart wind spinner, so however much charmed he oozed, it would be lost on me.
Deep breaths. In and out. And again. Anyone would think I was about to give birth. Well, Saffron would, seeing as my waist measurement was more than twenty-four inches. I smiled. Dear Johnny had well and truly extinguished any teenage insecurities I might have still harboured about not being a size zero. Curves were his thing—on the hips, on the lips—so I always said it would be rude not to maintain my womanly look—code he understood for always giving me the last slice of a pizza.
I took one last breath and headed across the car park into the Dog and Duck. Not that I was anti-slim women. That was the difference between Saffron and me. I didn’t care what anyone looked like as long as they were kind. It was hard to think of Saffron as a teacher now. I grimaced, just imagining her having class favourites, all the popular kids with the best phones, coolest rucksacks and doting hangers-on.
I stopped in front of wooden swing doors. It was an olde worlde Tudor pub, the slightly wonky white-and-black front somehow inviting me in. I’d managed to convince Izzy not to come—that at the grand old age of twenty-seven I didn’t need a chaperone. As a compromise, she’d insisted on ringing one hour into the date, at nine, to give me a reason to escape if needs be. She was back at Donuts & Daiquiris, feeling inspired by all this Cornwall talk, experimenting with a new recipe for doughnuts filled with jam and Cornish clotted cream.
My mouth went dry and I fanned my face with my beaded clutch handbag, before smoothing down my dress. As the sun set, the heat of the day abated. It had been the hottest July for a long time and with August on the way the shops had already sold out of battery-run hand fans. Craving an iced drink, I pulled open the door and headed in—and almost about-turned and left as my stomach knotted really tight. Marcus and I had messaged briefly today. He said this pub served a great fish pie and we’d both laughingly agreed to have the Cornish dairy ice cream for dessert, as an homage to the Poldark series.
Curling my free hand into a fist, I sternly told myself not to be a wimp and stepped onto laminate floor. I gazed around, bending forwards and backwards to study tables, in between wooden black beams. One family, a young man on his own, a retired couple … The grey-haired woman dropped her phone and I scooted forward to pick it up. As I got up and returned her thanks with a smile, I surveyed the pub again and … Ooh. On