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Poppy smiled to herself. She knew that engaging with customers made the items they’d chosen seem personal. ‘Really? I thought I’d seen a starfish like these on the beach the other day,’ she said.
‘They’re certainly washed up from time to time,’ said the assistant, popping the tissue parcel in a paper bag. ‘Getting the ferry, are you, dear?’
‘Yes, but I think we’ve still got twenty minutes before it leaves?’
The assistant nodded sagely. ‘About that. Anyway, it’s only a minute to the harbour and you should hear it tooting from here as it pulls in. Your man’s thick as thieves with Archie at the moment. Why don’t you carry on having a look round? It’s cool in here on a hot day like this.’
Amused at Dan being referred to as her ‘man’, Poppy picked up her paper bag, which was surprisingly heavy, and smiled. ‘Thanks. I think I will.’
While she waited for Dan to finish his conversation, she drifted around the gallery again. There were many more things she could have bought but she’d already spent more than enough and even if she’d had the cash, there was a limit to the amount she could carry back on the small aircraft taking them home to the mainland. She was probably over the limit already.
She lingered in front of a small painting almost hidden in a niche next to a spiral staircase that was roped off with a sign marked ‘Private’. The painting was only six inches square but she instantly fell for it. It showed the studio from the outside, bunting flying, with a ginger cat – like the one by the till – curled up on the veranda. The picture was perhaps ‘cuter’ than the landscape scenes in the studio, but it captured the essence of the studio perfectly. There was no price on it, but judging by the figures for the larger pictures, she guessed it wouldn’t be cheap. The artist may have considered it too twee and deliberately tucked it away in a corner, but it was still a piece of original art and she wasn’t going to embarrass herself by asking the cost when she most likely couldn’t afford it.
‘Well, it’s been great to meet you, Archie. Thanks for telling me about your work.’ Dan was shaking hands with the artist and smiling in a way Poppy hadn’t seen for a while. His job was stressful and demanding. This holiday had clearly done them both good and they’d needed it. She’d been very busy at work too – finding new ways of making drainage sexy was harder than it looked – and they both had a horrible commute through the increasingly clogged, polluted roads of the Midlands. Tiny, remote St Piran’s couldn’t have been a greater contrast.
The sun made her squint as she followed Dan outside, clutching her bag to her chest, enjoying the weight of the haul inside. She couldn’t wait to unwrap them when they finally arrived home, picturing where she’d put the hand-turned wooden dolphin and a cobalt glass trinket dish inlaid with bronze starfish, and deciding who would receive the greetings cards. She couldn’t bear to part with the coasters.
‘Do you really need more stuff?’ said Dan as soon as they were out of hearing of anyone inside the studio. ‘Not to mention coasters.’
‘You can never have too many coasters.’ She glanced up at him, annoyed that he’d guessed what she’d bought, but he was smiling. ‘And anyway, I couldn’t resist the trinket tray for Auntie Liz’s birthday. It’s just her sort of thing and you know she’ll love the starfish motif.’
He rolled his eyes but amusement lingered around his mouth. She didn’t need his approval to spend her own money and his comments on her taste sometimes irritated her. However, he did actually seem to be joking this time and his good mood continued as they meandered slowly towards the jetty, admiring the sea and the tiny green fields and the whole exquisite toytown nature of the island.
St Piran’s was the second smallest of the inhabited Scilly islands and was divided by a channel from its nearest neighbour, Gull Island. The other coast faced the open Atlantic and a lighthouse that marked the very western outpost of the British Isles. St Piran’s took a little longer to reach from St Mary’s – the largest of the Scilly Isles – than the other islands and the crossing, though still only twenty minutes, often left people with salty skin, damp clothes and a swirling stomach. However, its isolation appealed to Poppy’s soul and might even have captivated Dan.
‘Jaw-dropping, isn’t it?’ he said, coming to a halt at the top of the jetty where day trippers were starting to gather.
‘It’s breathtaking. I really don’t want to go back to work. It’ll be hard to return to running campaigns for wall insulation and rainwater products after this.’
‘I’m not looking forward to selling bulldozer parts either,’ said Dan gloomily.
‘Oh, look the ferry’s coming.’ Her heart sank. It would be at least a year before they would return to St Piran’s again, if they could afford the trip. They had a hefty mortgage on their little semi outside Lichfield and interest rates were sure to rise.
‘If only we didn’t have to get on it,’ said Dan.
‘Well, we can’t afford to stay overnight here, no matter how much we’d like to. I doubt there’s any accommodation available anyway and we’d risk missing our flight home.’
He turned to her, a gleam in his eye. ‘I don’t mean I wish we didn’t have to get on it now,’ he said. ‘But one day, I wish we could stay.’
She let out a gasp. ‘You mean stay as in live here?’
‘Yes. I suppose I do. I’m sick of feeling like I’m being torn away and thrust back into the rat race. I’m wasting my life. We both are. All the bloody commuting; I dice with death every day on that M42. The traffic jams, the constant targets at work. Is that really living or just existing?’
Before Poppy could reply, there was a shout from behind. Turning around, she saw a dark-haired man jogging towards them from the Starfish Studio. As he drew near, she did a double take. The guy reminded her in a strange way of the gallery owner, even though he was fifty years younger. His features – the strong straight nose and the chin with its dimple – were just the same. His expression though was serious, as if he was worried about something.
‘Everything OK?’ said Dan, frowning as the man caught up with them.
‘It is now – I was worried I might have just missed you.’ He smiled and his face lit up. Poppy felt as if the sun had been switched on.
‘Missed us?’ she said, unable to tear her eyes from him. His looks were so striking, they took her breath away: he had jet-black hair that brushed his neck. His eyes were almost as dark and the skin of his arms and face was tanned as if he was of Spanish heritage. Her face coloured as she realised she was probably gawping at this extraordinary man.
‘My grandpa Archie asked me to give you this.’ He held out a stiff paper bag.
Dan frowned. ‘We haven’t left anything behind.’
‘Oh no. It’s a gift. He saw your wife admiring this painting of the studio, so he thought she might like to have it. I’m Jake Pendower, by the way.’
Poppy smiled awkwardly as the man held out the bag, but neither she nor Dan made any attempt to take it. She had adored the picture but didn’t dare push her luck with Dan.
‘Thanks, Jake. That’s a lovely thought but we can’t pay for it. I’m afraid we’ve run out of money. You only take cash, don’t you?’ said Poppy.
‘Actually, we do take cards,’ said Jake. ‘Just so you know.’
‘But we’ve definitely used up our holiday budget and we’re ready to get the boat,’ said Dan.
Poppy cringed. It was embarrassing to be chased after by this man, trying to sell them the picture, but Dan sounded a bit brusque.
‘No.’ Jake smiled. ‘You misunderstand me. The picture’s a gift for your wife. Grandpa noticed her looking at it and thought she might like to have it. With his compliments.’
‘Oh, how lovely! Dan – that’s so kind, isn’t it?’
He shot her a warning glance. ‘Yeah, but we can’t accept it. You’re running a business. You shouldn’t be giving things away if you want to make a profit.’
‘It’s Grandpa’s business. It’s his decision and …’ Jake gave a wry smile. ‘It’s not unheard of for him to give pictures away on impulse to people who clearly love his work.’ He turned his gaze on Poppy and she melted a little when she realised that, with the sun on them, his eyes were the exact colour of burnt caramel.
Dan shook his head. ‘Sorry, mate, we can’t accept—’
Poppy cut across him. There was no way she was leaving without that painting. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
Her fingers brushed Jake’s as she accepted the bag from him and drew out the small square painting of Starfish Studio, with its contented ginger cat. The scene was even more beautiful and the colours and light even more dazzling than she’d remembered in the gallery, but it was eclipsed by Jake’s amused smile.
‘Thank your grandpa for this. I’ll treasure it.’ She was embarrassed by the heat creeping into her cheeks and her physical response to Archie Pendower’s grandson. It wasn’t right while Dan was by her side – it wasn’t right even if he hadn’t been – but she couldn’t help herself. She could hardly bear to look at Dan, so she made a play of putting the picture back in its paper bag.
Dan made a big show of checking his watch. ‘We’d better get going. Thanks for the free picture. You’ve obviously made Poppy’s day.’
She cringed. Dan’s holiday spirit had clearly evaporated. Maybe he was thinking of their return to work, which was enough to depress anyone.
‘It was a pleasure. Hope you have a safe journey home,’ Jake said cheerfully.
‘Thanks,’ Dan grunted.
A horn tooted.
‘Don’t miss your ferry,’ said Jake, then let out a small gasp. ‘Oh God. I’ll have to run too. I was meant to be meeting my fiancée at the harbour five minutes ago. We’re going sailing.’
Dan put his hand on Poppy’s back and started to steer her away from Jake as the boat tooted again.
She clutched the picture to her protectively. Of course, Jake had a fiancée and she had a boyfriend. It was clearly time to get back to the real world. ‘Goodbye, Jake. Have a good sail and congratulations,’ she said brightly.
‘Thanks,’ said Jake. ‘Hope to see you again one day.’
‘Poppy! Come on!’ Dan was halfway down the jetty now, leaving her to jog to catch him up.
She risked a quick glance behind when they reached the boat but Jake had already gone.
Once they were on board, Dan turned to her. ‘Why did you congratulate him?’
She had to regain her breath before she replied. ‘On g-getting engaged. H-he said he was meeting his fiancée.’
‘Humph.’ Dan turned to look at the view, but a few moments later, his arm snaked around her back and he kissed her cheek. She held on to her purchases while the boat started to rise and fall with the swell. She hoped she’d get to St Mary’s without feeling sick, but even if she did, it would be worth it to have visited the studio.
Dan kept his arm around her and stared out across the ocean, lost in thought.
‘That was fate,’ he said a few minutes later, out of the blue.
She tore her eyes from the view. ‘What do you mean “fate”?’
‘I don’t know exactly, but I wasn’t joking: I’m sick of the commute and the daily grind. I want to do something different.’
Taken aback, she pushed the hair out of her eyes as the boat cut through the waves. Dan didn’t believe in fate and he rarely did anything impulsive. She was the one inviting strangers they’d met five minutes before to stay with them ‘whenever they liked’ or blowing their holiday budget on handmade glass coasters. Dan was the sensible, practical sales manager who had the household finances on an Excel spreadsheet and the council bin chart pinned up by the back door.
‘That guy – Jake – chasing after us with the painting. I thought he was trying to flog us extra stuff at first, but now, I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should see it as a sign.’
She gasped. ‘A sign? You don’t believe in any of that hippy-dippy rubbish. I don’t understand.’
He shrugged. ‘Not a sign then, but a wake-up call. You love it here and I’ve never seen a place have an effect on you like this one has. Your eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning when you looked around the gallery and you’ve been, well, kind of glowing ever since that Jake bloke brought us the painting. In fact, you’ve perked up since we set foot on the island full stop and, I must admit, this holiday has made me think too. I’ve not been happy at work for a long time.’
‘Really? I know our lives aren’t perfect, but I didn’t realise you were unhappy.’ She squeezed his arm, and a pang of guilt struck her. She’d been mooning over a stranger – even if only for a few minutes – and her own partner had been hiding his unhappiness. She hugged him. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I don’t want to waste the rest of my life selling front idlers and bottom rollers. Do you really want to spend the rest of yours telling people how wonderful your firm’s soil pipes are? You’re creative. You love your beady stuff and you worked in that gallery in your uni vacation. You could have your own place one day.’
She laughed, amused by his confidence in her. ‘Helping out at the local craft centre for a few weeks a decade ago doesn’t qualify me to run a gallery.’
‘Maybe not, but you know more than most people would and that old guy – Archie – he clearly makes enough to live from the studio. And he looks so content with life. So … comfortable and at ease in his own skin. His grandson seems very pleased with life too, and not short of cash: did you see the watch and trainers he was wearing? He must make a living somehow. It seems as if everyone on the island is doing well. We should look at buying a business here. I already run my part of the business and you know how to market stuff. You could upskill your beadmaking too.’
She listened, half in amazement and half in sheer terror. What had got into Dan?
‘The jewellery, it’s relaxing and fun, but bead bangles won’t pay the bills. Unlike soil pipes.’ She laughed, but inside she was thrown by his enthusiasm for such a venture. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but this doesn’t sound like you … you normally like everything to be … so planned out.’ She’d been going to say ‘safe’ but didn’t want to destroy his dreams, even if she was slightly horrified by them.
‘I can see my life ebbing away like the rainwater down one of your drains. I don’t want us to grow old and have regrets. I’ll be on the way to forty before I know it and I want a change. I love Scilly. Let’s do it. It would be a great place to bring up a family too, wouldn’t it?’
She almost squeaked in astonishment. A family? It was the first time she’d heard him mention children for months and months. She’d always thought – hoped – they would have them one day, but this reference to them was stark. This was getting serious and had caught her totally off guard. She wanted children, but giving up her job? Selling the house and moving to such an isolated place, however idyllic, was a huge change. Did she have the courage?
He squeezed her hand. ‘Do we dare do this?’
Her stomach rolled over, and it had nothing to do with the swell. Moving to Scilly would be the most incredible opportunity and surely she’d be mad to let it pass her by?
Chapter 2 (#u7fe46b2d-a450-5e9a-bcf9-06774f928545)
Almost three years later
Jake cursed as the baggage carousel chugged round yet again. He could have sworn he’d seen the same bright pink suitcase three times already, yet he was still empty-handed. His flight had reached the stand over forty minutes ago and there was still no sign of his bags. It looked as if his precious luggage – with his whole life inside – might have been left behind in Auckland.
Wait … there it was!
A large padded rucksack with its distinctive green tag finally appeared through the plastic flaps. He’d been about to call his parents, but now they’d have to wait to find out their only son was alive and hadn’t been eaten by a crocodile or zapped by killer jellyfish.
He dived into the scrum of people at the belt. Yes! He was almost within touching distance of his camera bag. If he could just push the bald-headed sumo wrestler ahead of him out of the way …
Sumo-man swung a massive wheelie case off the belt and slammed it into Jake’s legs. He stumbled; his phone flew out of his hand and clattered onto the tiles.
‘Argh.’
‘Sorry, mate,’ the man grunted. ‘What a game this is, eh? Bloody cattle class. I’m never going Down Under again, I can tell you.’
‘Yeah,’ said Jake, diving for his phone before it was crushed under the wheels of a trolley topped by a cuddly kangaroo.
Damn. His bag had gone again, obscured by the crowds of people.
Jake held up his hands in frustration. He couldn’t care less about his clothes, which were in a wheeled holdall somewhere else on the carousel – if they’d arrived at all. That stuff could be replaced, but his two professional Canon cameras, tripod and an array of specialist lenses filters could not. He’d spent years building up an arsenal of camera equipment that would be impossible to assemble again. Thank God, he’d kept the memory cards in his jacket and emailed most of the best shots he’d captured while he was on assignment.
There was no way he was going to be able to push through the melee now to reach his bag in time; he’d have to wait until he could make his way through. Rubbing his knee, he limped to a quieter spot near the travel money centre and heaved a sigh of relief. His phone screen was cracked but still functioning.
His heart almost stopped when he saw the text. It had come through along with a dozen others, but it was only the message from his mother that brought him out in a cold sweat.
Jake. Where ARE you? Call us please. It’s about Grandpa.
He dialled his parents’ number and held his breath, waiting for the news he’d dreaded for some time now, but hoped would never come.
‘Jake!’
‘Mum. What’s up?’
‘Where have you been? We’ve been trying to get you for the past day.’
‘Flying halfway round the world. I only got your message a moment ago. I’m in the baggage hall at Terminal Five. What’s wrong with Grandpa?’
‘We didn’t want to worry you while you were so far away …’
His pulse rate rocketed. ‘Oh Jesus …’
‘Don’t panic. He’s not dead. He’s had a fall and fractured his hip.’
‘What? Is he OK?’
‘Yes. Fine. Considering. It was almost two weeks ago and he’s feeling a bit better now, but at his age it’s going to take a long time for him to fully recover,’ said his mum.
Jake was torn by relief that Grandpa Archie was alive and horror that his beloved grandfather had been hurt. No wonder his mum had sounded a bit odd in her most recent email. It was typical of her and his dad not to want to alarm him and to save the news until he was safely home. ‘Poor Grandpa. How did it happen?’ he asked.
