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

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‘Wow. Sounds like a huge venue. How many thousands did you play to?’

I swallowed. ‘Not many. That’s actually the name of a bar. But it was for a fortieth birthday and brought me a couple of other bookings …’ I rambled, bracing myself for some sarcastic response—like the time I’d come top in a French test. She’d laughed when one of her cronies muttered that Katie Gochastely may know the French language but had undoubtedly never once been French-kissed.

However, Saffron simply congratulated me. ‘Must be hard, trying to find singing work—no doubt you support your dream with a solid job?’

‘Yes. I work in catering,’ I said and swallowed. I looked down as Izzy’s brightly nail-varnished fingers curled over my free hand on the table. She squeezed tight and I forced a smile.

‘Ooh, can you cook? I love watching Jamie Oliver.’

‘No. I’m a waitress,’ I said in a smaller voice and braced myself for a snigger.

‘I imagine a flexible job like that fits in well around your sporadic singing commitments,’ she said in a breezy voice.

What? No insult. My shoulders relaxed. Izzy smiled and I nodded. She took away her hand and started to clear our plates.

‘Yes, it does actually. And you’re a teacher?’

‘I know! Never thought I’d end up going back to school. I met Miles on one of the careers’ days. He’s the uncle of one of my students and came in to give a talk on being an accountant.’

‘Congratulations on your engagement,’ I said. Why on earth had she rung? When would this torture end?

‘Thanks. Yes. Miles is wonderful. I’m a very lucky lady. And … are you with someone, Katie?’

Shoulders tight again, I grimaced. Oh great. She’d already won in the intellectual professional stakes, what with her following a life of academia and having a solid direction and career. Child-minding and waitressing had seemed natural for me, after looking after younger siblings for years whilst Mum worked. And now Saffron wanted to ram home her victory by claiming the best personal life. If only this conversation had taken place earlier last year, when Johnny was still around. That would have shown her. Johnny, with his crinkly teasing eyes, and cheeks that crumpled adoringly when he enjoyed a joke; whose kisses sent prickles of heat from my head to my toes. I had a sudden urge to message him. Johnny. Guess who’s contacted me? Let’s go to her wedding—show her how I’ve landed the dream boyfriend.

I sighed. People said I should move on. Date someone new. Leave the memory of Johnny behind. But they wouldn’t say that, would they, if I’d been married to him for years or had kids? No, but because I was young and we weren’t even engaged, I’m supposed to have a new boyfriend by now. But getting over Johnny? Social media made that even harder. All his photos on Instagram … I just hadn’t been able to bring myself to unfollow.

I bit my lip. Who cared what Saffron thought? I was pursuing my dream. I loved my doughnut job and had wonderful friends.

‘Yes, my boyfriend and I are very happy,’ I said airily, before I could stop the false words. Clearly I cared about her opinion more than I should. Arrghh, why had I lied? Me, who was normally so honest? I’d go back to a supermarket if they’d accidentally undercharged.

I stood up to pace around and, for a moment, I forgot I was at work, with Izzy just a metre away. All I could picture was the other girls’ superior faces as I sat down during the slow dance at the school prom, whilst they were all whisked to their feet by boys. ‘I don’t post about him on Facebook … he doesn’t approve of social media.’

To my surprise, Saffron replied, ‘very sensible. A particular friend of mine always posts whilst drunk and another picked up a stalker. I’m very careful with my privacy settings. Facebook must be essential for you though, in terms of networking with bands.’

‘Yes, it is,’ I said flatly and thought how clever she’d become over the years at hiding her real feelings. I mean, why the sudden turnaround? Why treat me like an equal when all she’d ever done at high school was put me down?

‘What does your boyfriend do?’ she said.

‘He … he …’ He’s Ross Poldark, I wished I could say. There would be no way she could beat that.

My mind tripped back, again, to that famous grass-cutting scene from the show, in Saffron’s Facebook banner. ‘He’s a gardener. Self-employed. A landscape designer,’ I said, warming to my theme. ‘He’s called Ross.’

‘Really? How wonderful. People always need work doing in their gardens. He must be terribly fit to cope.’

‘Oh yes,’ I said, knots in my stomach unfurling. ‘In fact, he looks just like Poldark—dark curly hair, tanned from his job and gorgeous eyes. There is nothing quite like a six-pack that’s acquired from good honest work and not some gym where everyone is obsessing over their body fat ratio or biceps size, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘The only six-pack Miles knows contains packets of cheese and onion crisps! Well, good for you,’ she said.

Oh. Disappointing. She’d managed to hide every trace of envy in that voice.

‘In fact, that’s great because the reason I’m ringing is … I’d like to invite you to my wedding next month,’ she blurted out. ‘Could you give me your address? I can’t wait to meet Ross, your plus-one.’

What? I closed my eyes. Fair dos, universe, this is a swift punishment for my lie. Perhaps she’d guessed I wasn’t telling the truth. I mean, why else would she want me there?

‘That’s … very kind of you,’ I said, ‘but … Saffron … I’m really busy during the coming months and … I’m sure there are closer friends you’d like to invite instead of me.’

Didn’t the non-confrontational British just love an understatement?

Silence. Awkward. I awaited the shallow, meaningless retort.

‘It would mean a lot to me. Really. And several friends from school are going to be there,’ she said with a super-soft tone.

I squirmed. Then it truly would be the wedding from hell. But once again, curiosity piqued me and, despite some deep-set feelings of inadequacy that occasionally made a reappearance, for the most I wasn’t that insecure teenager any more. Plus, I was trying to build myself as a singer, and weddings were the best opportunity to subtly leave out business cards.

‘You’d be doing me a favour, Katie. I couldn’t invite everyone I wanted but two family members have just dropped out, due to illness. That’s why my invite is quite late notice. Please. Do consider it.’

Maybe things hadn’t changed so much after all—I clearly wasn’t her first choice of guest.

‘OK,’ I found myself saying. ‘Ross and I would love to attend. I’ll message you my address. Right. I’d better go—customers await.’

I pressed ‘end call’, put my mobile on the table and sank into my chair. How I would have preferred to say ‘Yes, I have a boyfriend called Johnny.’ My fingers flexed as if wanting to message him on Facebook, even though, deep down, I knew it was fruitless trying to exchange words with someone who was … dead. My eyes tingled and I gave myself a shake. I wasn’t one of life’s wallowers. Ever lost my job? I’d be the first in the queue at the employment office. Argue with a sibling or Mum? It was usually me to phone first and smooth things over. But losing someone isn’t the same, is it? Deep-felt feelings can’t be shaken away like salt out of a salt cellar. And messaging him was still possible, you see, because after … the accident, his family memorialised his Facebook profile. That meant friends could still visit his page to flick through photo albums. It meant, in my darkest hours, I could pretend that he was alive but simply ignoring my heartfelt words.

I gave a sigh and gradually my mind cleared of images of Johnny and uncomfortable school memories, until before me I saw … Ah. Izzy, mouth open, with one eyebrow disappearing into her hairline, clearly having heard me talk of a supposed new boyfriend called Ross …