Free Breakfast Under a Cornish Sun by Samantha Tonge

‘Tell me about it. Remember when old Mrs Lowe popped in last week, for her favourite peanut butter doughnut and asked if you liked her new hairdo?’
    â€˜It was pink! All I said was she needed to update her wardrobe as the tweed didn’t really go. That’s subtle for me.’
    â€˜She really appreciated you nipping across the road to the chemist to find a shade of nail varnish to match.’
    I blushed. ‘She’s a lovely lady. Always asks about my singing.’ I took my water bottle out of my floral rucksack and took a glug.
    â€˜Right. Let’s do it then, lovely. Before you change your mind,’ said Izzy.
    â€˜How do you do that?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Read my mind.’
    Izzy grinned and squeezed my shoulder. ‘You? Chat up a random man? Then ask him to accompany you to a wedding before you so much as know each other’s surname? It’s a challenging remit for any woman. But I’m here to support you. Go on.’ She gave me a little shove. ‘What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll be right here by your side.’
    I adjusted the position of my rucksack. ‘Would you mind if I took things forward on my own. I’d feel less self-conscious.’
    Izzy smiled. ‘No problem. I’ve already spotted a rather quaint ice-cream shop with a large selection of flavours I really must sample—purely for research, of course.’
    â€˜Then I shall expect a full report afterwards. Two hours, yes? Leave room for lunch. With all this sea air, I’ll be starving.’
    I watched her head back to the shops, men’s heads turning as she passed. With her striking looks and winning smile, Izzy never had a problem hooking abloke. Plus, she was the sweetest girlfriend—baking, cocktail-making, independent and as loyal as they come. She’d already had three proposals in her life, all rejected, because she was holding out for her idyllic Disney prince. I was still waiting for proposal number one. Thanks to fate, Johnny and I never got that far.
    I took a deep breath and looked around, wishing I’d taken Izzy’s advice and slathered my white skin with suncream. I had an English rose complexion, according to kind Guvnah—but in reality the colour was more like that of an uncooked Cornish pasty. My eyes narrowed as I surveyed the jetty ahead. I slipped down from the rock and wandered across the sand, enjoying the sensation of my feet sinking with every step. Kids ran around in costumes and deckchairs had been set up across the beach. It wasn’t too crowded as most visitors seemed interested in souvenir shopping. Plus, Port Penny was known for being more of a picturesque harbour than a sunbathing trap, without toilets or changing rooms or a beach café.
    In the distance, groups of teenagers, probably locals, explored caves visible in both cliff sides. Right. I needed to find black curls. A swarthy complexion. A strong miner’s frame. A man with a dollop of arrogance, but combined with enough passion and compassion to make that appealing to a modern woman.
    I headed over to the nearest fishing boat. It was ramshackle with peeling paintwork, but that madeit more authentic, right? Saffron’s crush was on an eighteenth-century miner, so I’m thinking the best bet would be a sailing vessel all down and dirty, not modern and streamlined. A man had stepped on to it and was examining a pair of oars. He wore a bright red cap and … hurrah! … from underneath that poked black curls. I coughed. Nothing. I coughed louder. Needed to see his face, because up until now he looked suitable, with the right height.
    He turned around. ‘Can I help you?’ he said, in a lilting voice, and gave me the warmest of smiles. Eyeliner. Soft skin. Scarlet lipstick to match the cap. Oops. Unless eighteenth-century miners had sex changes, then this fisherwoman was no good.
    â€˜Um, no thanks, tickly throat—hay fever