Читать книгу: «Phillipa Ashley Untitled Book 1»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Phillipa Ashley

About the Publisher

Prologue

September 2008

Porthmellow.co.uk Town Blog Forum

MoaningOldMinnie: Another shop closed? That’s three in the past six months. This town’s going to the dogs! Why doesn’t somebody from the council or chamber of trade do something before we have tumbleweeds rolling round the harbour?

‘I swear someone’s going to drown one of these days,’ the old man said in his thick Cornish burr. ‘And guess who’ll be the one to have to fish the little buggers out.’

It was all Sam Lovell could do to hide a smile at her neighbour Troy Carman’s expression as he watched the teenagers in wetsuits opposite the Smuggler’s Tavern. They were laughing and jeering as they egged each other on to leap off the harbour wall into the inky waters. Every Sunday evening in Porthmellow, from spring through to autumn, it was the same: the town band playing outside the pub and teenagers tombstoning into the harbour. A last hurrah of the weekend before everyone had to go back to work and school the next morning.

Sam rested her half of lager on the peeling table. Like a lot of things in Porthmellow, the tavern was in dire need of a spruce up. ‘Didn’t you do a bit of tombstoning when you were a lad?’ she asked.

Troy shook his head at the kids shrieking as they climbed onto the top wall above the harbour. ‘Back in the day I might have, and we didn’t have these fancy wetsuits, then. I used to do it in my cotton underpants. Our mum went mad. I only had three pairs. One to wash, one to wear and one for Sunday best. Full of holes, they were too, by the time they’d been through her mangle a hundred times.’

‘Troy. I love you to bits, but that is way too much information,’ said Sam, trying to purge from her mind the image of her elderly neighbour leaping into the harbour in a pair of pants as murky as the water.

Although the sun was shining on the terrace of the Smuggler’s Tavern this September evening, it was too little too late. The summer had been grey and gloomy far too often, keeping visitors away from their remote part of Cornwall. Times were hard and many families had had to miss out on a holiday altogether. It was exactly what the little harbour town didn’t need – not to mention Sam herself, who had left her job to start her own catering business the previous year. Who could have foreseen a global crash? Certainly not Sam, who’d been too busy keeping her family together after losing three of the people she loved most within the space of a couple of years.

But on evenings like this, Sam almost found herself able to put that to the back of her mind.

Troy finished his pint of Proper Job and wiped foam from his lips. At seventy, he was still working part-time as a deputy harbourmaster and no one knew the waters around Porthmellow better than he did. Although, Sam thought with a smile, the man approaching her table came pretty close. Drew Yelland was a few years older than her, tanned as tea, his fair hair burnished by the sun, a gold earring glinting in the evening light.

‘Hello. Sorry I’m late.’ Drew kissed her on the cheek and nodded cheerfully at Troy. ‘We were late sailing back into the harbour. Bunch of bankers on the boat today. Didn’t know their arses from their elbows. Didn’t seem too bothered about the recession either. Don’t think it’s going to dent their consumption of Bolly. Talking of which … your glasses look empty. I’m dying for a pint. Can I get anyone a drink?’

Troy flashed a mouth full of teeth, which, oddly, made Sam think of tombstones. He rubbed his hands together.

‘Don’t mind if I do.’

‘I’ll help,’ said Sam and gathered their empty glasses onto a tray. She always did this, wanting to help the landlady who’d had to let some staff go because trade had dropped off. She also wanted to talk to Drew.

‘How’s business on the Marisco?’ she asked as they waited for the landlady to pull their pints. Drew ran a small sailing charity that took groups out for trips on a vintage trawler.

‘Could be better.’ Drew handed over some cash for the beers. ‘To be honest, bookings have fallen off a cliff since the crash and things aren’t going to get better over the winter. We rely on the corporate and private money to subsidise the educational trips. The business customers are cutting back on teambuilding days and Joe Public can’t afford luxuries like learning to sail. Which basically means we can’t afford to take out the kids who really need a treat and a chance to build their skills and confidence.’

‘I’m so sorry, Drew … I know where you’re coming from. It’s tough at Stargazey Pie too – people still need to eat, luckily, but it’s still hard,’ said Sam, grimacing. ‘I’m not sure I’d have set up the business if I’d known what was coming. I had a good job already at the craft bakery and it felt mad to leave it last spring, let alone now.’

‘Would any of us do anything if we could see into the future?’ Drew picked up the tray of drinks from the bar.

Sam shook her head. ‘I’m glad I couldn’t see what was coming with Mum and Ryan.’ And Gabe, of course, she almost added, but she didn’t want to mention his name. The pain was still too raw. When the love of your life shopped your own brother to the police and then left town while your brother went to prison – well, it tended to leave its mark on you.