Beach Combing (3 page)

Chapter Six

‘Why can’t I go surfing with you?’ asked Alfie in his most whingey voice.

‘Because
you’re too young.’

Lara
was starting to lose her patience. It was the umpteenth time Alfie had asked the same question and the umpteenth time she had answered it.

‘But why can’t I?’ repeated Alfie.

Lara
felt exasperated. The lesson with Ollie had been fun but she was still furious with him for calling Alfie a spoilt brat and trying to get her drunk. Well, maybe that was a bit hard, but he’d behaved like an idiot. She hadn’t gone near Grace’s Surf Shack since – and didn’t intend to either.

‘I’ve
told you before. You have to be eight before they’ll teach you. And you have to be able to swim fifty metres. That’s about two lengths of your dad’s pool.’

Alfie
wasn’t in the least bit pacified.

‘It’s
not fair. I don’t want to be little. I want to be old. Like you. And Mummy. And Daddy.’

Lara
stopped walking and turned to look at Alfie. She’d spent virtually every minute of every day with him for the past few weeks and this was the first time he’d mentioned his mother. As far as she knew, there hadn’t been a squeak out of Camille Mansfield all the time they’d been in Cornwall. Maybe the actress had been ringing Jago every night to check on their son but Jago certainly hadn’t mentioned it.

‘I’m
not
that
old, Alfie,’ said Lara, keen to change the subject. ‘And anyway, there are loads of things you can do when you’re five that you can’t do when you’re older.’

Alfie
stuck his bottom lip out stubbornly. ‘Like what, La-wa?’ he demanded. ‘What can I do that you can’t do?’

Lara
rolled her eyes. She should have known better than to continue with this line of conversation. Alfie was at the age where he questioned absolutely everything. His response to the most anodyne remarks was ‘why?’ Or ‘how?’ Or, in this case, ‘like what?’

They
were strolling down Fishslice Alley, one of St Grace’s prettiest streets, on their way to buy ice creams at Antonio’s Café. Antonio’s was an institution in St Grace, an old-fashioned ice cream parlour with a pink and white awning and a sign with swirly writing. The café sold every flavour of ice cream under the sun – from raspberry ripple to lemon meringue pie. Lara and Alfie had got in the habit of going there two or three times a week, partly for the delicious ice cream and partly because the genial Antonio welcomed them like long-lost friends.

‘Like
what, La-wa?’ persisted Alfie.

The
little boy was like a dog with a bone, thought Lara. Once he got hold of something he just wouldn’t let it go.

‘Well,
you can roll all the way down a hill without feeling silly. And you can spend all day building a castle out of Lego if you want to. And you can buy a ticket for half-price on the bus…’

Alfie
was listening intently by now. When he heard Lara’s third suggestion he grinned with excitement.

‘I’ve
never been for a ride on a bus, La-wa. There are lots near our house but Mummy always gets us a taxi. The buses are big red ones with staircases and people sitting on the top.’

‘They’re
called double-deckers,’ said Lara, taken aback by Alfie’s revelation that he’d never been on a bus.

‘Can
we find a double-decker at the seaside? Can we go for a ride on one?’

Alfie’s
questions tumbled out one after another in rapid succession and Lara smiled at his enthusiasm.

They’d
reached Antonio’s by now and Alfie’s brain quickly turned to something even more important than buses. The flavour of ice cream he was going to choose.

‘Ciao
Signor Alfie,’ beamed Antonio, his smile lighting up his bright blue eyes. ‘And ciao Signora Lara.’

Alfie
raced to the ice cream counter and gazed in wonder at the rows of ice cream tubs. He insisted on counting each tub, one by one.

‘…
twenty-three, twenty-four,’ he shrieked. ‘La-wa, there are twenty-four sorts of ice cream. You are an ice cream magician, Antonio.’

‘Si,
Signor Alfie,’ chuckled Antonio. ‘I do magic tricks with ice cream. You are right. Now, which are you going to choose today?’

Alfie
always took an age to make his mind up but Antonio didn’t hurry him, even though a queue had begun to build up behind them. Finally, after Antonio had handed Lara a tub of pistachio ice cream (she could never resist the glorious colour) and a matching spoon, Alfie asked for a banana split cornet – with his favourite sprinkles on top.

As
they sauntered out of the café and into the sunshine Lara beamed with happiness. This was perfect, she thought. A beautiful seaside town, a sweet little boy who made her laugh and a delicious ice cream. What more could she ask?

Actually,
there was something. Flinging her empty ice cream tub into a litterbin, she grabbed Alfie’s hand.

‘I’ve
got a great idea,’ she said. ‘What would you say to a ride on the bus? I can check with your dad now and if he says “yes” we’ll get the bus to St Ives.’

Alfie’s
face was a picture. His mouth was already covered in banana split ice cream and as he jumped in the air with excitement he smeared his nose with yet more ice cream.

‘Yay,’
he yelled.

Lara
had pulled her phone out of her pocket and was quickly texting Jago. ‘Is it OK with you if I take Alfie on a bus to St Ives? We’ll be back by six.’

Unlike
her friends Lara was a stickler for punctuating her texts properly. Maybe it was down to being an arts student but she never used shortcuts like ‘u’ instead of ‘you’ or ‘gr8’ instead of ‘great.’

‘Gr8,’
texted back Jago in a flash and somehow the thrill of exchanging texts with an A-list movie star fell flat.

Fifteen minutes later they were sitting on the bus to St Ives. It wasn’t a double-decker and it wasn’t red but Alfie was so ecstatic that it didn’t matter. They sat right at the back and every time the bus drove over a bump in the road Alfie shrieked with excitement. The journey took half an hour, the bus slowly winding its way along the rugged coastline, through isolated villages, down country lanes lined with cow parsley and past disused tin mines. The sea wove in and out of view and Lara’s spirits soared every time she caught a glimpse of the waves glistening in the sun.

When
they finally drew into St Ives, Alfie was reluctant to get off the bus. If the little boy had had his way they’d probably have spent all afternoon travelling back and forth between the two seaside towns.

Lara
glanced at her watch. They had exactly two hours to kill and even though Alfie might not like it she knew what they were going to do.

‘You
know that we’re always talking about taking turns, Alfie?’ she said.

‘No,’
said Alfie, still sulky at having to get off the bus.

‘I
think you do, actually. But the important thing is – you’ve had a turn at choosing what you want to do. Well now it’s my turn. And what I want to do is go to an art gallery and look at some pictures.’

Lara
knew Alfie would be bored out of his skull, but she’d kick herself if she didn’t visit Tate St Ives gallery. Without waiting for an answer she grabbed Alfie’s hand and set off in the direction of the Tourist Information office. They’d point her in the right direction.

Chapter Seven

Lara was mesmerised by the painting in front of her. She’d been staring at the huge blue and green abstract for five minutes and simply couldn’t take her eyes off it. Alfie was sprawled at her feet, poring over a
Thomas
the
Tank
Engine
picture book she’d found in her bag, but it wouldn’t hold his attention for much longer. The security guard in the corner obviously thought the same because he kept eyeing them both suspiciously.

‘It’s
amazing, isn’t it? And the artist painted it when she was well into her eighties…’

The
man’s voice jolted Lara from her reverie. She glanced up to see Ed, the man from Grace’s Surf Shack, grinning at her.

‘What
are you doing here?’

‘Same
as you, I should think. Looking at paintings. Oh, and a bit of sculpture too. And later on I might go mad and have a cup of tea at the café upstairs.’

‘Very
funny,’ said Lara drily. ‘I meant how come you’re in St Ives? I thought you worked at the surf shack all week.’

‘Ollie
lets me out occasionally. And I need to prep for next term. I’m only working at the shack over the holidays as a favour. I’m an art teacher. I teach at the local comprehensive.’

Ed
looked completely different today. Instead of the baggy shorts and scruffy old T-shirt he wore at the beach he was in jeans, pale blue shirt and red Converse trainers. He had a folder of papers under his arm and looked older and taller. It served her right for jumping to conclusions about people, thought Lara. She’d assumed he was a laid back surf dude when it turned out that he held down a responsible job.

‘My
dad’s a teacher too,’ she said, apropos of nothing.

‘Really?
What does he teach?’

Lara
could have kicked herself for mentioning her father. She didn’t want to talk about her parents, and certainly not to someone she barely knew. ‘He’s retired now,’ she said hurriedly. ‘So tell me what you’re planning for your pupils. For next term I mean.’

Ed’s
face lit up. He loved talking about his work.

‘Have
you heard of Alfred Wallis?’ he asked.

‘Of
course I have. I’m studying art history at uni. And I want to run my own gallery one day.’

‘That’s
great,’ said Ed. ‘The thing is, I’ve always found Alfred Wallis’s story really inspiring. He was a fisherman by trade and only started painting after his wife died. He never had any training but I just love the simplicity of his work, the way he captured the boats and the sea. We’ve been studying his work, and some of the other St Ives artists, so I thought if I brought the kids here they’d be inspired to try out their own style.’

As
Lara opened her mouth to reply she felt a sharp jab on her ankle.

‘Can
we go now, La-wa?’ demanded Alfie. ‘We’ve been here for
ages
…’

‘I
know we have, sweetheart, and you have been so patient. This is my friend Ed, by the way. Will you say hello?’

Alfie
closed up his book and stood up. ‘Hello Ed,’ he said. ‘Are you La-wa’s boyfriend?’

Lara’s
face went pink but Ed didn’t bat an eyelid.

‘No,
I’m not,’ he said. ‘We’re just friends. Have you got a girlfriend yourself by the way?’

Alfie
giggled. ‘Don’t be silly. I’m only five. You have to be ten before you have a girlfriend.’

‘Silly
me,’ chuckled Ed. ‘I forgot about that.’

‘Did
you say there’s a café here?’ asked Lara. ‘I think Alfie’s flagging a bit and I could do with a coffee.’

Ed
nodded. ‘Come on, I’ll show you. The view is to die for. I’m going to get my art class to sketch it when I bring them here. There’s something about the quality of the light and the backdrop of the sea… I just know it will inspire them.’

He
led the way up two flights of stairs and into a sunny café with views across the patchwork of St Ives rooftops to the ocean beyond.

‘That’s
Porthmeor Beach down there,’ said Ed, pointing at the curve of sand below. ‘When you’ve got your confidence up it’s a great place for surfing. And what’s even better is that you can combine a trip to the gallery with a surfing session. The Tate has to be the only gallery in the country with a rack for surf boards. How was the surfing lesson with Ollie? Are you hooked yet?’

‘It
was OK,’ replied Lara noncommittally. ‘But I’m working all hours looking after Alfie so I won’t have time to book another. Not any time soon, anyway.’

Chapter Eight

‘I’ve had a brainwave,’ announced Jago at supper that night. ‘I can’t think why I didn’t come up with it before.’

The
three of them didn’t usually eat together in the evening but tonight Jago had insisted on it. ‘I haven’t seen much of Alfie over the last couple of days,’ he told Lara. ‘And I know he’d like it if you were there too. He’s very fond of you, you know. You must stay in touch after the summer. He’d be heartbroken if you disappeared out of his life.’

Lara
didn’t say anything. Even though she was touched by his words – and a little embarrassed – she couldn’t help thinking that Alfie would prefer it if Jago and Camille made more effort themselves. Her own parents were pretty flaky, but at least they’d been there for her.

‘What,
Daddy? What?’ said Alfie, flicking his fork by accident and sending peas flying in all directions. A couple landed on Jago’s lap and he roared with laughter.

‘Good
shot, Alfie,’ said Jago. ‘The thing is, I think we should have a party. A party for everyone we know in St Grace. A wonderful, glamorous, champagne-popping knees-up of a party.’

Alfie
could hardly contain his excitement. He gave up on his shepherd’s pie and peas – Jago was big on nursery food and always asked his cook in Cornwall to serve up old favourites like bangers and mash and apple crumble and custard – and threw himself on to his father’s lap.

‘And
can we have jelly and ice cream and games and party bags?’ yelled Alfie.

‘Do
you know what?’ said Jago. ‘That isn’t half a bad idea. What do you think, Lara?’

He
didn’t wait for her to reply. ‘Well, maybe we’ll leave the jelly and ice cream aside, but we’ll definitely have fireworks and party bags. I’ll get my party planners on to it straight away.’

Lara
was mystified by Jago’s idea. She’d assumed that the holiday in Cornwall was to get away from the hustle and bustle of showbiz life and spend some quality time with Alfie. He was loaded with cash so he could easily stop working for a few weeks and chill out by the sea. She was suddenly reminded of an F Scott Fitzgerald quote she’d learned at school: ‘Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me.’ That was for sure, she thought. Jago Dunlop was on a different planet from everyone else she knew.

‘La
-wa can come too, can’t she Daddy?’ added Alfie anxiously.

‘Of
course she can. And do bring a friend, Lara. You won’t know many of my friends so it will be good for you to have company. Right. We’ll plan it for our last night, and we’ll have an amazing firework display at the end. Rockets, Roman candles, Catherine wheels, we’ll have the lot. St Grace won’t know what’s hit it.’

Lara’s
heart sank. She didn’t know anyone in St Grace. Who the hell could she possibly invite?

Once Jago set his mind to something he made it happen. The next few days whizzed by in a mad whirl as caterers, florists, firework specialists and magicians trooped through the house carrying clipboards and looking like they were organising the next G8 summit. Jago had summoned Marcia Daly, his scarily-efficient PA, down from London and she was planning the party like a military operation. Lara tried to stay out of her way as much as possible because while Marcia was sickly sweet when Jago was in earshot she had a habit of flying off the handle with everyone else.

Two
days before the party, Lara’s ruses to avoid Marcia came a cropper when the formidable PA marched into the kitchen without warning. Jessie, Jago’s cook, had rushed out to the supermarket but had agreed that Lara and Alfie could use the kitchen to bake cupcakes while she was gone. Lara couldn’t believe her luck. She loved cooking but rarely bothered with anything more adventurous than beans on toast in her grimy student flat. The thought of being allowed to use Jago’s state of the art kitchen was even more exciting than learning to surf. Lara was gingerly lifting Alfie’s second batch of cakes out of the massive cooking range when Marcia bustled in with her iPad. She never went anywhere without it.

‘So
here you are, Lara,’ she said frostily. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

‘Morning
Marcia,’ replied Lara. She hurriedly shoved the cakes on the side and wiped her hands on a towel. ‘How can I help?’

Lara
had first met Marcia back in June, when she signed her contract of employment at Jago’s house. Marcia had made Lara feel as insignificant as something the cat dragged in – and nothing had changed in the meantime. Today, as always, Marcia looked immaculate in a crisp white shirt, tight black pencil skirt and highly polished stilettos, while Lara was wearing a pair of old jeans with holes in both knees, a Topshop vest and a pair of ballet pumps that had seen better days. Most shaming of all, she had smears of chocolate icing on her face (she and Alfie had been licking the bowl out) and her top was covered in flour and sugar.

‘I’ve
sent you three emails already this morning and you haven’t had the courtesy to reply,’ snapped Marcia. ‘It’s very unprofessional, you know.’

‘Sorry,’
said Lara. ‘We’ve been so busy baking that I haven’t had a minute to look at my laptop. And my phone’s out of battery.’

‘It’s
not good enough, Lara. You’ll have to pull your socks up, you know. It’s imperative that Jago is able to contact you at all times.’

Lara
sighed with exasperation. ‘Of course he can contact me at all times, Marcia. We haven’t been out of the house, so if Jago needs me he can just walk down the corridor.’

Marcia
pursed her lips. She wasn’t used to being answered back. And certainly not by junior staff.

‘You
should always have your phone switched on, Lara. Take it from me. If Jago heard about sloppiness like this he’d be incandescent. And we both know he’d have every right to be.’

Alfie
had been laboriously sticking chocolate buttons on cupcakes all this time but looked up from what he was doing.

‘I
don’t like it when you get cross with La-wa,’ he said. ‘She’s my friend and we make cupcakes together. Do you want a cupcake?’

He
picked up a slightly squashed cake and held it out to Marcia. Lara bit her lip in an effort to stop herself laughing. The PA visibly shuddered with horror.

‘That
is very kind of you, Alfie. Very kind indeed. But no thank you, I wouldn’t. I never eat that sort of thing.’

‘Why
not?’ Alfie looked puzzled for a second, then shrugged his small shoulders and stuffed the entire cupcake into his mouth. ‘It’s yummy. And scrummy.’

Bravo
Alfie, thought Lara. If Marcia had just an ounce of Alfie’s
joie
de
vivre
she’d be a damn sight happier.

‘Anyway,’
said Lara. ‘What did your email say?’

A
self-satisfied smile appeared on Marcia’s face. ‘Jago has charged me with organising the guest list. Of course I would normally have had the invitations printed on the best quality card – but there hasn’t been time. So I’ve sent emails to one hundred guests and we’ve already had ninety-seven replies. Everyone is coming of course.’

‘Of
course,’ murmured Lara.

‘Jago’s
parties are legendary,’ continued Marcia. ‘And this one is going to be very special. Nobody wants to miss it.’

‘That’s
wonderful,’ said Lara, ‘only I’m not quite sure what it’s got to do with me.’

Marcia
glared at her. ‘Because, you silly girl, you haven’t had the courtesy to reply to your invitation, either on your own behalf or that of your guest. Didn’t your parents teach you anything about etiquette?’

That
was a step too far for Lara. She’d be the first to admit that her parents had been lacking in many ways but she wasn’t going to put up with Marcia criticising them.

‘I’ve
already thanked Jago for his very kind invitation,’ she said, lying through her teeth. ‘And I have accepted on behalf of both of us.’

Marcia
sat down at the huge kitchen table and tapped away at her iPad.

‘It’s
customary to answer in writing – either by letter or by email. But leaving that aside, please tell me the name of your guest. Security is going to be very tight and I need to know who it is.’

Lara’s
brain went into a flatspin. Why hadn’t she told the truth? She’d texted a couple of friends but they were away on holiday and couldn’t make it. Why hadn’t she just told Marcia that she wasn’t bringing anyone? The seconds ticked by and Marcia’s cold eyes bored into hers.

‘Name?’
Marcia repeated.

Lara
racked her brains to think of someone to ask. It was hopeless. She only knew two people in St Grace – Ed and Ollie. That settled it, she thought. She’d rather ask Ed but she didn’t have a clue what his second name was, so he was out. That left her with just one option.

‘Ollie
Baker,’ she said, blurting out his name so fast that Marcia didn’t catch it first time round.

‘Who?’

‘Ollie Baker,’ repeated Lara.

‘Email?’

‘Hang on a sec,’ said Lara and rummaged through the drawers in the kitchen dresser. She’d crammed all sorts of stuff in there over the past few weeks, from Hilary’s list of emergency contact numbers to expenses receipts. After a few seconds she found the Grace’s Surf Shack leaflet that Ed had given her.

‘Here
it is,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Ollie’s email address is
[email protected]
.’

In truth Lara didn’t have a clue whether it was correct or not. All she wanted was to get Marcia off her back so she and Alfie could carry on with their baking.

‘I’ll
send the email now,’ said Marcia, stilettos clip-clopping noisily across the kitchen floor. ‘Oh, and Lara…’

‘What?’

‘Try and be a little more professional in future, won’t you?’