There’s Something About Cornwall. Daisy James
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her shoulders. Why should Brad have all the fun? And Cornwall was just as photogenic as Venice, if not more so, not to mention the spasm of nostalgia that had shot through her veins as she remembered childhood holidays spent on its windswept beaches. It would also prove to Dexter, and to herself, that she could do a shoot of this importance on her own and do it well.
‘It’s a yes! Actually, if I’m asked to photograph another precious five-year-old in a Disney princess outfit I think I’ll throw myself off the castle turret!’
‘Excellent!’
Emilie knew Alice had punched the air. She had heard the silver charm bracelet, laden with meaningful charms Alice had collected over the years, jangling at her wrist. A curl of excitement, mingled with nervous anticipation, meandered through Emilie’s chest. Was she really up to the challenge? She wasn’t entirely sure, but Alice was her friend and the most obsessively organised person she had ever encountered. Every detail of their two-week itinerary would have been meticulously planned, every recipe carefully co-ordinated with its backdrop. Even if she was struggling to recover her own self-belief, she had the utmost confidence in Alice’s talent as a photo stylist extraordinaire.
‘Watch out, Newquay, here come Alice Jenkins and Emilie Jane Roberts!’
‘The first shoot is in Padstow actually.’ Alice laughed. ‘Mmm, all that yummy seafood. I can’t wait. Hey, it’s just as well it’s not a Lucinda Loves…Seafood gig, isn’t it? I’m not sure Lucinda is the kind of chef who understands picky eaters like you. I think she’d spontaneously combust if you refused to taste her creations.’
‘What? You think I’ll have to eat what she bakes as well as photograph it? I’ve never been asked to do that before. I’ll look like a flabby elephant by the time I arrive in Penzance to shoot their…erm…Cornish Yarg Soufflés!’
‘I don’t know. I’m just saying Lucinda could interpret your refusal as disapproval of her recipes and if there’s one thing Lucinda is not good at it’s taking criticism, constructive or otherwise.’
‘Anyway, who’s labelled me as a picky eater?’ Emilie laughed again, her spirits rising as she anticipated spending the next two weeks in Alice’s exuberant company – a friend whose special brand of cheerfulness in the face of any culinary disaster would be like spreading hot chocolate ganache on her wounded heart.
‘Me! I don’t know anyone who can live on coffee and crisps and still look as gorgeous as you do. There’s a whole kaleidoscope of delicious recipes out there and for God’s sake, you photograph them every day! You allow cookery book readers to feast with their eyes on the images you create, to drool over whatever cuisine you’re shooting as they anticipate what they might produce themselves in their own kitchens, and you don’t want to eat it? You’re crazy!’
‘It’s precisely because the food is in my face every day that I’m selective in my tastes – that’s all. Anyway, I love desserts so that’s not going to be a problem. Lucinda can force-feed me scones oozing with jam and Cornish clotted cream as much as she likes.’
Alice giggled. ‘I can so just see Lucinda Carlton-Rose rubbing a cream scone in your face like a custard tart. Actually, that’s not as far-fetched as it sounds.’
‘Why? What do you mean?’
‘Oh, nothing…’
‘Alice?’
‘Well, one of the reasons I couldn’t get anyone else to do this shoot is that Lucinda threw a whole Mango and Apricot Pavlova at Rick, the lead photographer on the Lucinda Loves…Fruit shoot, after he inadvertently trampled on a box of her ripened mangoes. It was like being in the audience at a circus performance. I didn’t know whether to applaud from the sidelines or rush over and offer Rick a towel!’
Emilie’s heart hammered out a chorus of nervous anticipation. What had she done? Rick Farnham was a paragon of orderliness, whilst she had frequently been accused of bringing chaos to an empty room. A picture of total culinary pandemonium floated across her vision with Lucinda Carlton-Rose centre stage holding a sharpened kitchen knife aloft, her signature baby pink apron screaming the logo The Devil Wears an Apron and steam coming out of her ears.
‘Oh my God, I’m sensing a total disaster looming!’
Emilie watched the train slither away from the platform of Bodmin Parkway train station like a languid serpent disappearing into an arboreal tunnel. She glanced up at the electric blue sky, its infinite clarity broken only by wisps of cloud scudding across its arched canvas. A stiff breeze tickled across the treetops, but there was still warmth in the late September air. Even so, she drew the sides of her cardigan around her chest as she waited on the station steps for Alice to collect her.
Alice had refused her offer to grab a taxi. It was just as well as she not only had her wheelie suitcase crammed with the indispensable personal possessions she needed for the two long weeks on the road but also her beloved prop box. The box was her treasure trove of decorative goodies she’d collected over the last five years – goodies she used to dress the images she photographed. Every item held a special place in her heart and had been packed securely, but it weighed a ton – despite the wheels attached to the sturdy, black canvas trunk.
She took a quick peek at the little silver watch her parents had presented her with when she’d graduated from Royal College of Art five years before. She knew they had been disappointed when she’d told them she intended to make her life in London, that the capital was where most of the best photographic work could be found. They hadn’t said anything of course, but she knew they longed for the day when she would come back home.
They had relocated from Bristol to St Ives six months ago and she had yet to spend more than an extended weekend with them at their quaint, whitewashed farmhouse. She had shied away from visiting more often so she didn’t have to discuss the recent inexplicable plummet in her self-confidence. She didn’t want to worry them and renew their calls for her to come home.
She had noticed there was a break halfway through their itinerary, which – as luck would have it – happened to be in south Cornwall before they moved on to the next shoot in Newquay. She had called her mother immediately from the train to ask if she could stay. As she had anticipated, her mother had been delighted to welcome her home so they could spend some precious time together. If she was honest, she was looking forward to being pampered and she intended to treat both her mother and herself to an indulgent day out at the local spa when she could maybe come clean about her disintegrated relationship with Brad.
The urgent revving of an engine broke into her reverie and she shot a look in the direction of the noise. A bright orange retro VW camper van screeched to a halt in the lay-by outside the station twenty metres away, its gears scraping disconsolately.
Emilie rolled her eyes and dragged her suitcase and prop box further down the waiting area so she could maintain her view of the approach road and the hopefully imminent arrival of Alice. It was unusual for her friend to be late. She was infamous in their photography circles for her fastidiousness, not only in timekeeping but also in adhering to any agenda like a tenacious limpet. She was also a walking information junkie!
Emilie’s stomach gave a lurch as she wondered how Alice really felt about working with her – equally as renowned for her clumsiness, lack of orderliness and questionable talent in the punctuality arena. Unlike her own prop box where there was no discernible order, Alice’s trunk was catalogued, indexed, cross-referenced and labelled so she could call up any item her client demanded without hesitation. Emilie knew Alice had worked with Lucinda several times in the past and it was no doubt this indispensable characteristic that got her the repeat bookings on the Lucinda Loves… assignments.
Despite possessing traits on the opposing ends of the character spectrum, far from causing each other irritation Emilie and Alice each seemed to view the other with fascinated curiosity. After all, Emilie argued to herself, opposites do attract. Alice