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

‘Cold or what?’ I muttered under my breath.

He flinched. ‘No. Just practical. Sometimes you have to act for the good of the majority, even if that means sacrificing an individual.’

I should have felt like laughing at such a dramatic statement, but the way his top lip quivered made me stop. Within seconds, his deadpan face returned.

‘Anyway, what’s the big deal?’ My mouth upturned, more and more curious about him and therefore determined to get a reaction. ‘Management will never know.’

‘I am management,’ he muttered.

‘In that get-up?’ I gazed at his grass-stained top. ‘Don’t get me wrong—I couldn’t care less what anyone wears, what I do care about is people lying.’

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but then shook his head and stalked off.

‘Jeez! No wonder this place is struggling with that level of customer service,’ I said to Izzy later, in our gold lodge. And worth its weight in gold it was, to me, with the pine furnishings, lush green view and cute floral curtains. OK, so the kitchen worktops were chipped and the sofa was just a bit too squishy, but it was a little bit of heaven for someone, like me, whose last holiday had been a weekend in Blackpool three years ago, in a creaky caravan, with an elder sister and three adorable but super-active small nieces.

‘And what sort of name is Tremain?’ I said as I lay across the sofa. Izzy was in the kitchen area, putting away the last of the food. I’d carried our suitcases into the rooms and hung up Johnny’s heart wind spinner above my bed. From the first moment I’d met him, Johnny had been nothing but polite and attentive. Not qualities I was used to after my bustling childhood. One-to-ones were rare with anyone I loved. The most time I had with Mum was when she took me to the dentist. I smiled. Yet, truth be told, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Oh, I loved my independence now but my memory bank was stocked full with happy images, of Christmases full of hugs and laughter.

Yet Mum always drilled into me one thing: never rely on anyone else. Unexpected tears sprung to my eyes. What a great lesson, which had steered my way through life—until Johnny, my one and only serious boyfriend. I’d come to depend on him for that sparkle in life. And then he left one night, to fetch me a takeaway, and fate decided he should never come back. I gazed at the wind spinner. Oh, Johnny. I miss you. I’d sacrifice anything to feel your warm breath against my neck, one more time. I gave a wry smile. Hardly romantic was it, that my last words to him were ‘make mine a large portion of chicken tikka’.

Forcing my attention to switch, I flicked through the information pack, mentally noting the opening times of the pool and spa. I sat more upright, scanning lots of handy details about fishing villages in the area.

‘Tremain?’ said Izzy. ‘It’s Cornish. He must be the son. This is a family-run place. His mum, Kensa Maddock, handed me the keys.’

My cheeks burned. So, he was management. ‘What about the dad?’ I said.

‘Dunno. Wasn’t mentioned. Perhaps he up and left.’

‘Why?’

Izzy came over and sat on a nearby armchair, smoothing down her banana-milkshake yellow skirt. ‘The stress? Kensa apologised for the rundown appearance of the resort—said that’s why the price was lower than usual. Apparently the place’s bookings have really plummeted in the last few years, with people either struggling financially and choosing cheaper holidays, or doing all right and going abroad. She said White Rocks seemed to fail to bridge the gap. They have one year to turn things around.’ Izzy shook her head. ‘You should see her—such deep rings under her eyes and as thin as a cocktail stick. She said they are trying to appeal to the budget family market and next week, with August arriving, they’ll have their first full-paying guests with children. The ones here at the moment won a competition, to stay here for free but give feedback.’

‘But that’s mad—it still looks like a couples’ site to me. Where is the fun cafeteria, or ball-play area, or crazy golf site?’ I’d spent enough holidays on cheap caravan sites as a child to know what was needed for a fab family break when money was tight. Who needed foreign sun if the resort had children’s entertainment, a fun pool and plenty of drinks?

Izzy took off her pumps and rubbed her feet. ‘Apparently her accountant and the bank dropped the bombshell only a few weeks ago—that things were so bad.’ Izzy smiled. ‘I really liked Kensa. She seems honest. Upfront. Hoped we’d enjoy our stay, despite any building work going on or noisier, younger guests.’

‘Yes, well, you make sure you do take a break, Izzy. I really appreciate this holiday. Leave the cooking to me. I’ll drive us everywhere if you want. Do any washing …’

‘Me? Take it easy?’

I grinned. ‘’True. Mission impossible.’

‘It’s enough to have your company,’ she said. ‘Anyway, you can return the favour when you’re a famous singer—I’m thinking a cruise in the Bahamas or shopping in LA.’

‘Dream on!’ I gazed back at the laminated information pack. ‘It says in there that the park belonged to her parents. That must make the place harder to give up. Still, we all have stresses. There’s no need for her son to be quite so rude.’ I glanced out of the window, as a random cloud offered a brief respite from the sun. The plan was to unpack and then head to the resort’s restaurant, as a treat after our long, sticky, journey south. My shout, of course. Perhaps we’d enjoy a couple of cool beers. Much as I loved cocktails, it was nice sometimes to drink something simpler. Although I’m not sure whether alcohol went with an all-day breakfast, the meal Izzy was obsessing about since the receptionist mentioned it. Apparently, the resort’s cooked breakfast was legendary and making it available all day was the chef’s first baby step towards tweaking his highfalutin menu to give it a broader appeal.

As if on cue, my stomach rumbled and I tapped away on the laptop, planning tomorrow’s trip to Port Penny, the first fishing village on my list to check out for any signs of a local Poldark. Gulls squawked outside. We’d left the lodge’s door open to catch the evening breeze. I yawned. How did fresh salty air always manage to act like a tranquilliser?

‘His only redeeming feature was the sexiest Southwest accent,’ I said in a loud voice to Izzy, who’d disappeared into her bedroom. ‘Even if he used it to accuse me of dropping litter.’

I jumped as someone knocked on the open door and stuck their head inside our lodge. My mouth desiccated and I begged the universe to create a sinkhole under my bottom.

‘’Ousekeeping said the washing-machine door is jammed,’ he said in a loud voice and looked me straight in the eye.

‘Um, yes. I rang. I didn’t think … I mean, cheers. Come in,’ I rambled.

Izzy came in and I saw her note the name Tremain on the badge pinned onto his shirt.

Whilst he crouched down to examine the machine’s barrel, she glanced at me, eyes a-twinkle. I glared at her not to speak. She put her fist in her mouth. Oh God. Please don’t let her explode with laughter. At least I hadn’t talked within his earshot about his nice bum in those chinos. Annoying, isn’t it, when irritating people also have appealing qualities? And even more annoying that such an abrupt man could be the first to produce a thought like that since Johnny. My face kind of scrunched for a second.

Tremain stood up, rummaged through a drawer and retrieved a leaflet. He skimmed a couple of pages before pressing a button on the machine and, hey presto, the door flew open.

‘Try reading the instructions before you call us out, next time,’ he muttered.

‘Of course. Silly me,’ I said. ‘Thanks for calling by.’

‘You’re Kensa’s son?’ said Izzy and smiled. ‘Lovely place, you’ve got. We are very much looking forward to our holiday.’

He acknowledged her words with a tilt of the head.

‘Have you always worked here?’ I asked.

‘No.’

Clearly small talk didn’t form part of his customer relations.

‘How’s the rebranding going?’ said Izzy in her business voice. I often teased her about how she changed her accent. It went kind of cockney when speaking to suppliers and bordered on received pronunciation when dealing with an unhappy customer.

‘It’s going,’ he said, tilted his head again and strode out of the cabin.

Izzy chuckled. ‘I see what you mean by his attitude, although what he lacks in charm he makes up for in … in …’

‘I know. There is something attractive … a sense of …’

‘Capability? Decisiveness?’

She’d felt it too. But I wasn’t fourteen any more. Looks, first impressions, of course caught my eye but it was personality that really held my attention. Not that I was going to worry about the character of my much-needed plus-one. He could have bad breath or talk about nothing but the complex rules of cricket or his latest computer game, as long as he smouldered and made Saffron realise I was no longer the girl in the corner.

‘Right, let’s go. I’m starving,’ she said. ‘And itching to try that all-day breakfast.’

‘Apart from the kippers …’ I pulled a face.

Izzy grinned. ‘We are in Cornwall. A coastal county. It’s time you tried some delicacies from the sea.’

‘You’re not getting me to try anything that lives in a shell or breathes through gills,’ I protested. ‘Unless it is covered in batter and served with chips or in a yummy sauce, like the pie I tried with Marcus.’

The two of us strolled towards the restaurant, Fisherman’s Delight, and, as we approached, my stomach rumbled again. That was the other thing about sea air—it gave you a great appetite. In fact, in Guvnah’s last letter she’d talked of having put on a few kilos. My chest glowed. I’d arranged to visit her tomorrow. Her village wasn’t far from Port Penny and Izzy said she’d drop me there in the afternoon, following us having lunch out at a café she’d found that had a great reputation for Cornish fare—she was hoping to be inspired. Guvnah had a bicycle I could borrow if I fancied cycling back to White Rocks.

We headed into the reception building and the restaurant to the left. It had a long bar, stretching across the back. At the rear, on the right, was the kitchen with an open serving hatch. Fisherman’s Delight boasted a classy decor, albeit a little worn—think uncluttered magnolia tables and walls covered with arty black and white photos of local beauty spots. Yet the clientele—a couple of families—were your average holiday crowd, in shorts and T-shirts, with wet, chlorine-fragranced hair. Kids sat eating chips and playing on their Nintendos. In one corner, a baby in a high chair screamed, its face covered in bright orange purée. Talk about a mismatch. Two waiters were dressed in formal black trousers and a waistcoat.