Page 5 of One Cornish Summer With You
‘Real Cornish is unbeatable. This stuff is made at the dairy on the Lizard, so it doesn’t travel far. I bet you drove past the cow that gave the milk on your way here.’
Ryan laughed. ‘I’ll be sure to shout “thanks, Daisy” on my way back to the office.’
‘Where is your office by the way?’ she said in between licks.
‘I work for a law firm in Penzance. Moved down here a few weeks ago. How long have you lived in Porthmellow?’
‘Most of my life, give or take,’ she said. ‘I’m part of the scenery now. Literally.’
Ruan followed her gaze to the design and noted the waves had now erased the top section of the sun’s rays completely.
She turned away, seemingly untroubled by the destruction. ‘I know the guy in the ice-cream kiosk. He’s Trev,’ she explained. ‘That fisherman is Rory, who was born in one of the cottages by the Smuggler’s. That’s the old white inn on the far side of the harbour.’
‘What about … her?’ Ruan said, pointing to a woman propping open the door of a gallery with a painted stone.
‘That’s Breda St James. Not born in Porthmellow. She moved here from London when I was a teenager. She’s an artist.’
Ruan laughed and spotted, on the opposite side of the harbour, a bunch of shirtless men on the scaffolding around an old cottage.
‘And – that bunch?’ he said, pointing the cone in their direction.
‘Who?’ Tammy glanced across at the building site and her eyebrows met in a frown. She shrugged. ‘Sorry. No idea.’
‘Ah, so you don’t know everyone here.’
‘I might if I had binoculars. I knowalmosteveryone. I enjoy living up to the cliché. Now come on, you know everything about me. I want to hear about you.’
Actually, he decided he knew very little about Tammy apart from the fact she liked strawberry ice cream and wrong-footing people. Or wrong-footing him, at least.
‘We-ell, like I said, I’m a solicitor working for a practice in Penz – What the—!’
His expletive was cut off by a whoosh of air followed by the brush of feathers against his cheek and an ear-splitting squawk. The next thing he knew, a seagull was flying off with what remained of his cone and sticky ice cream was running down his front.
His white shirt was stuck to his chest with pink goo.Great. Just great. He now looked a total idiot and was in no state to meet his client.
‘Oh dear,’ said Tammy solemnly while stifling her giggles.
Ruan pulled a clean handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabbed at it.
‘Hey. Stop. You’ll only make it worse,’ Tammy said. ‘That stain needs washing out.’
‘There’s no time for that. Is there anywhere round here where I can buy a new shirt?’
She shrugged. ‘Truro?’
‘My meeting’s in half an hour. I can’t make it to Truro, can I?’
‘Only if you have wings.’
‘Bloody seagull!’ Ruan exclaimed, glaring at the bird, which was sitting on a bin a few metres away, looking smug at having ambushed his ice cream.
‘There’s no such thing as a standard seagull,’ Tammy said solemnly. ‘That guy was a herring gull. In fact, it looks like Malcolm to me.’
‘Malcolm?’ Ruan echoed.
‘Yes, he’s quite the celebrity in Porthmellow. Expert cone snatcher. He’s notorious.’
‘Now you tell me,’ Ruan said as the pink stain seeped through the cotton. He could feel the sticky mess in the hairs on his chest. Yuck. ‘Whoever he is, he’s ruined my shirt. I knew I shouldn’t have stopped to have the ice cream.’
