Free Breakfast Under a Cornish Sun by Samantha Tonge Page B

noises and blindfolds that left black stains around your eyes.
    â€˜Come on,’ said Trevor. ‘It’s baking hot today. I, for one, could do with some fizz.’
    â€˜Isn’t it a bit early for champagne?’ I said and stepped onto the boat.
    Trevor steadied me. ‘Darling, it is never too early for alcohol in the publishing world—there is always something to sob over or celebrate. And today it is good news … I’ve finally made some progress with my new book.’
    He left his pipe on the deck and I followed him into the small cabin and, grateful for the shade, sat down on a bench. There was a tiny sink with a cupboard underneath, a cool box, a few magazines and some biscuits. Trevor poured us two drinks.
    â€˜Cheers, me dears,’ he said.
    â€˜Well done on your success,’ I said. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what was with the wig?’
    â€˜Huh? Oh. Just getting into character. I call it Method Writing. That’s why I hired this boat. My next storyis set at sea. It will be called A Finger of Fish —sailor erotica, if you will.’
    He looked at me. I paused. Then we both laughed.
    â€˜Good for you. For not caring … I read an interview where you said that some of your friends had disowned you for writing sex.’
    Trevor shook his head. ‘Stupid, isn’t it? No one gets tortured or hurt in my books.’ He shrugged. ‘They are just humorous stories about the one thing we all have in common.’
    â€˜Do you genuinely not care what people think about you?’ I said, Saffron and the school bullies popping into my head.
    â€˜Nope. Not now. Life’s too short.’ His eyes went all shiny. ‘My wife left me three years ago, for a plumber. Totally unexpected. Devastated, I was. For a while, I felt like my whole existence was over. That taught me a valuable lesson—that if I still had dreams to crack on with them then and there. You don’t know what’s around the corner and you can’t depend on anyone else for your happiness.’ He ran a hand over his head. ‘You have to create your own luck, your own joy.’
    I bit the inside of my cheeks. But I’d liked relying on Johnny. For the first time I’d had someone who had the time to listen, really listen, to all my dreams, my worries—from my views on climate change to the Kardashians.
    â€˜You all right, my lovely?’ said Trevor.
    And, before I knew it, I was telling him all about Johnny’s death. Perhaps it was a writer’s trait to have a face for listening—a tool from Mother Nature, given to authors to help them gain stories. He had sincere eyes, a sympathetic nod and gave encouraging smiles. I told him how I understood, about his wife—how being left alone all of a sudden felt like a tight fist, squeezing your heart until it burst.
    â€˜And you still send him—or rather his Facebook profile—messages?’ he said, in soft tones.
    My eyes blurred. Somehow I had let that slip. ‘Weak, I know. I was so angry in the beginning—at the way he threw away our future together; his actions that night, on the road. I blocked him on Facebook, WhatsApp, even Instagram at first.’
    Trevor raised an eyebrow.
    My shoulders bobbed up and down. ‘Pointless, I know, but for a brief moment in time it made me feel better, gave me some control.’ My mouth upturned. ‘Johnny has hundreds of followers on social media, due to his job as an RSPCA officer, out in the field saving neglected animals. We used to joke that it was his photos of kittens that I really fell in love with.’ I bit my lip. ‘But, in time, I accepted his death—that the accident wasn’t all his fault. I couldn’t blame Johnny for ever. So then my messages to him became more … more loving and chatty.’
    Trevor patted my hand.
    â€˜I just wish he’d come back to me,’ I said, voice cracking, a