The Summer Theatre by the Sea: The feel-good holiday romance you need to read this 2018. Tracy Corbett
losing her job, and struggling to come to terms with how quickly everything had unravelled. One minute she was employee of the month, the next she was being handed her P45. The only chink of light had come when she’d contacted the government’s arbitration service and they’d advised her that she might have a case for unfair dismissal. Determined not to go down without a fight, she’d lodged a claim with the employment tribunal. But until her case was heard, she needed a place to lick her wounds and regroup. And Cornwall was the ideal setting to wait it out.
Previously, the idea of swapping her city life for fish and chips, and endless caravan sites, hadn’t overly appealed. But Cornwall was one of England’s finest tourist attractions, unspoilt and breathtakingly rugged, which was why her sister had moved there, along with their father, when the twins were babies. They’d become disillusioned by the frantic pace and congestion of London, and needed to ‘step off the treadmill’. Whatever the reason, it was still hard not to feel abandoned. Her entire family had relocated four hundred miles away, leaving her behind. And it’d left a wound. A wound aggravated by the strain of a five-hour drive that hampered her ability to visit. But Lauren and her dad couldn’t see that.
Thankfully, for the next forty minutes, the traffic kept moving and she made good progress. Bristol docks came into view, with its vast car park of new vehicles waiting to be shipped abroad, closely followed by the impressive Brunel bridge.
The switch from city to countryside wasn’t immediate, despite the enormous ‘Welcome to Cornwall’ sign. The roads narrowed, the houses shrunk, the air became salty and moist. The earlier mist had burnt away, leaving some semblance of spring-like weather in its wake.
She shifted position, trying to get comfortable and ease the tension in her upper back. She should have removed her jacket when she’d stopped for a comfort break. She twisted her head from side to side, trying to ease the stiffness.
It wasn’t long before the road became a single lane. Her satnav – or rather ‘Posh Joanna’ as she’d named her, due to the fact she sounded uncannily like Joanna Lumley – directed her through numerous towns and villages, each one decreasing in size and signs of civilisation. Posh Joanna estimated her arrival time was still another twenty-nine minutes away. Lauren and her dad really had moved to the sticks.
The narrow road led her through a small market town with a large clock centred in the main square. As she queued at the traffic lights, she studied the sights. The words ‘quaint’ and ‘old-fashioned’ sprung to mind. Interior design jobs in London usually involved wealthy clients spending a fortune recreating the period look. Here, they achieved shabby-chic without even trying.
According to her sister’s directions, they lived in the next town. ‘Ignore your satnav,’ Lauren had said. ‘Or you’ll end up face down in the ford.’ Useful to know, but difficult to adhere to, when simultaneously driving and reading scribbled instructions lying on the passenger seat.
Posh Joanna instructed her to ‘turn around when possible’ – quickly followed by ‘turn left and then immediately left’. This latest direction resulted in her coming face-to-face with a tractor. With no space to pass, she turned sharply onto an unmade lane, vaguely aware of the tractor driver waving in her rear-view mirror as she bumped down the track.
Several things gave cause for alarm. There was nowhere to turn around, the hedgerow either side encroached onto the lane and, ahead of her, the road was submerged under water.
‘Stay on this road for the next mile,’ Posh Joanna said.
‘Oh, don’t be so daft. How can I stay on this road for a mile? Look at it.’ Vaguely aware that Posh Joanna wasn’t able to respond, she slowed to a stop.
Killing the engine, she climbed out of the car, mulling over whether this was in fact just a large puddle, and not the ford her sister had warned her about.
‘If you’re thinking about driving through it, I wouldn’t.’ The sound of a man’s voice was so unexpected that she physically jolted.
The feeling enhanced when she turned around and saw the rather unusual sight of a glamorous woman hugging a tree. Her sparkly dress and blonde beehive hairdo were at odds with her rustic surroundings. She clearly wasn’t the owner of the voice … and then Charlotte looked again. The woman wasn’t hugging the tree – she was handcuffed to it!
‘You couldn’t pass me the key, could you, love?’
Okay, not a woman. A man dressed as a woman. Not surreal at all.
Charlotte looked again. Man or woman, she was stunning: her skin luminescent, even beneath make-up; her eyes a startling shade of blue. Her nails were manicured and painted gold, and her figure was lithe and delicate. She was better turned out than Charlotte, who’d always prided herself in maintaining a well-kept exterior.
The woman smiled, her pink lips parting to reveal pearly-white teeth. ‘The key?’
Right. The key. Charlotte followed her eyeline. ‘Where did you last see it?’
The woman nodded downwards. ‘It landed somewhere over there.’
Charlotte looked around. True enough, lying on the edge of the dirt track was a tiny key. She was about to pick it up when her brain alerted her to the potential safety issues of releasing someone in restraints. ‘Are you a criminal?’
The woman raised an eyebrow. ‘Hardly.’
Charlotte folded her arms across her chest. ‘You’re handcuffed to a tree.’
‘I’m well aware of that.’
‘For my own safety, I’d like to know why before releasing you.’
The woman let out a sigh. ‘Let’s just say, things got a little wild last night. I’m sure you don’t want to hear all the intimate details.’
Charlotte picked up the key. ‘You’re right, I don’t.’ She made her way over to her. ‘Would the person who did this have returned at some point?’
The woman seemed to consider this. ‘Difficult to tell. Maybe.’ She lifted her hands so Charlotte could access the lock. ‘I’m Dusty, by the way.’
Charlotte deliberated whether to engage. ‘Dusty’ was hardly regular. But she didn’t radiate aggression, only vulnerability. ‘Charlotte.’
Dusty smiled. ‘Nice to meet you. Pardon me for saying, but you have cheekbones to die for.’ When Charlotte stopped unlocking, Dusty must have sensed her alarm, because she added, ‘No need to panic. I bat for the other team, if you get my drift.’
Charlotte laughed. Satisfied she wasn’t about to be attacked, she removed the handcuffs.
‘Free at last.’ Dusty rubbed her wrists. ‘How can I ever thank you?’
‘Well, you could direct me to Penmullion. I’m a bit lost.’
‘That I can do.’ Released from the tree, Dusty circled her arms. ‘Reverse back up this lane. When you reach the crossroads, go straight over. You’ll see a sign for the town at the bottom of the hill.’
‘Thanks.’ Charlotte was about to walk away when she added, ‘Can I give you a lift somewhere?’
Dusty smiled. ‘Kind of you, sweetie, but I’m good.’ She kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you for rescuing me. You’re an angel. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m in desperate need of a pee.’ She disappeared into the hedgerow.
Cornwall was an odd place, Charlotte decided. If it weren’t for the silver handcuffs lying on the ground, she might have thought she’d hallucinated the whole thing.
Thirty minutes later, having scraped her car trying to reverse back up the narrow lane, she found the town of Penmullion. The view coming over the hill was delightful. In the distance, she could see the sea, the tops of the white cliffs merging into the clouds above. The sharp descent into the town made driving conditions precarious, so she decided to leave sightseeing for another time and focus on arriving in one piece.
Posh