Breakfast Under A Cornish Sun: The perfect romantic comedy for summer

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.

CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_cd97c088-d006-5b49-94b4-93cc4baa8889)

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 my left, his back to me, was a man with curly black hair, wearing a white shirt. Stomach now tighter than an eighteenth-century bodice, I strode over and walked around his table.

‘Marcus?’

He looked up and I almost peed my pants. God. It was him, but an older version. His picture must have been heavily photoshopped. Stupid me. Wrinkles surrounded his hooded eyes and his hair was clearly dyed black. It was thin on the top and—Aarghhh! Combed over. And out of his open shirt poked grey hairs.

I know. Listen to me. Shallow or what? OK, so he wasn’t what I expected, but I was heading towards thirty, a mature woman, I should be above writing off potential romantic partners for superficial reasons—not that I was on the lookout for love. I gazed more intently … he could be over fifty which meant he might be the same age as my dad. Noooo. On so many levels, this was wrong.

Yet I was curious. The sweetest expression had crossed his face and he stood up until I sat down.

‘Kate,’ he said. ‘Er, cool to meet you.’ He winked. ‘Finally I get to meet my very own Demelza. Now I just need a horse to whisk you away.’ He ran a hand through his hair, but it didn’t seem like a natural movement. I couldn’t help smiling. Only a few seconds in and he was trying really hard. ‘So, what’ll it be?’ he said, in a bright voice. ‘Vodka shots or one of those trendy ciders?’

‘Just a Coke please. I’m driving. But I’ll get it.’

‘No. Let me,’ he said and darted up as quick as you like, as if I had a contagious disease.

I watched him, at the bar, thinking back to my first date with Johnny, in a pub not unlike this. He’d seen me singing on one of my modern music nights, where I’d performed some Ed Sheeran, Joss Stone and James Blunt. He came up to me afterwards; said my voice had a unique quality he’d never heard before; wondered if I’d like to accompany him to a jazz pub the following evening as a friend had let him down. Not that we’d heard much of the bass and piano the following evening as we talked non-stop. And just before we parted, outside, he’d leant forward and kissed me oh so gently on the cheek, ever so close to my mouth, lingering for just a bit longer than expected, millimetres away from my top lip. I was hooked.

I cleared my throat as Marcus returned to the table. He sat down, with two Cokes.

‘Thanks, Marcus. Um … nice to meet you.’

‘Wicked!’ he said.

Cringe. What a painful attempt to appear younger. He’d realised it too. Marcus sighed and looked down at himself.

‘I don’t normally wear tops wide open like the Bee Gees, but thought I’d better make an effort—you know, for the sake of Poldark.’ He eyed me up and down and I squirmed in my seat, sensing my cheeks pink up.

‘So, obviously you’re a big fan of the series,’ I said.

Now my eyes roved his frame. He must have been quite an eye-turner a decade or so before. In fact there was something about his face—the dark shadows under the eyes perhaps—that made me think he looked even older than his actual years. As we chatted about our love of the programme, my shoulders relaxed and I leant back in my chair. So did he. In fact, Marcus was good company. Funny, in an understated way. Polite. Witty. What a shame he wasn’t young enough to impress Saffron. Yet, I was pleased at not having to dupe him. What a lovely guy. It made me realise I’d have to be upfront with whoever I took to the wedding. Hurting people’s feelings wasn’t part of the plan.

We both ordered the fish pie. Looked like I’d be logging on to the dating site again tonight, to find another candidate.

‘I watch the programme every week with my daughter,’ said Marcus. He studied me again. ‘Sorry,’ he blurted out. ‘I don’t mean to stare, it’s just … Please don’t take this the wrong way, Kate, but from your profile picture I thought you’d be older. Like my Ruth, you can’t even be into your thirties yet.’ He shot me a sheepish look. ‘And I expect my appearance was a bit of a surprise.’ He shook his head. ‘Bet you think I’m a right arse, trying to be younger than my years.’

‘Erm …’

He grinned, chestnut eyes twinkling as he touched his hair. ‘I let Ruth dye this for that profile picture. Big mistake.’

Aw bless. What a superstar. So he definitely wasn’t some creep lusting after women half his age. Although I’d already worked that out after the way he’d talked about how satisfying he found his job as a care worker. Clearly he had strong principles—so why did a man with such integrity and passion need the help of an online matchmaking service?

‘Ruth means well and also insisted on putting that photo through Instagram first so that I looked “my best”.’ He gave a deep chuckle. ‘Always a generous child, she’s been.’

I smiled. ‘And I posted a photo, warts and all, with bad lighting. How old did you think I’d be?’ Marcus’s cheeks flushed a deep maroon and I burst out laughing. ‘Don’t worry. No need to answer. My classic black dress probably didn’t help.’

‘It’s what attracted me to your profile,’ he said. ‘My mum used to dress like that. What I mean is …’ He groaned and I couldn’t help giggling. ‘Lord,’ he said, ‘I am useless at all this stuff.’