A Perfect Cornish Escape by Phillipa Ashley Page 0,20

lanes!’ Tiff said in awe. ‘I clipped the wing mirror on the company car on a hedge today. I was late for my appointment at the bloody Bed Emporium because of the traffic. I thought I’d left ages to get to Truro after I’d interviewed some oyster farmer in Mylor but the sat nav took me down a track that claimed to be a public highway. Highway? I’ve seen wider bike lanes! And for the love of God, how many potato trucks can one county have? Ye gods, I must have been stuck behind every single one of them.’

‘The roads do take some getting used to,’ said Marina, her shoulders shaking with laughter as she filled a second pot with compost.

Tiff watched as Marina dug the soil over with a trowel. She might make light of her first week, but it had been a culture shock in more ways than one.

She’d expected to tootle about sleepy byways, maybe stopping off for a sneaky coffee at a seaside café or a potter in a gallery in between jobs. However, the reality had been very different. Her boss certainly wanted her pound of flesh and had Tiff trundling around from Launceston to Land’s End, ‘interviewing’ everyone from double-glazing manufacturers to cider makers.

Writing the endlessly upbeat, sycophantic prose about the companies – all of which were important advertisers, of course – wasn’t the cakewalk she’d assumed. Much to Tiff’s disgust, the ‘clients’ also had a say in the final copy, which went against her principles. The air had been blue as she’d tapped away on her laptop, eulogising about patio doors and cider varieties.

However, there were compensations. At least she was occupied, earning a little money and the working environment was an absolute stunner. She’d been amazed at the effect the sea and wild moorland had on her, forcing her to stand and stare in a way she could never have done in London.

She’d even pulled over a few times, simply to breathe in the fresh air and the views even if it did mean she was late. And, she thought wickedly, she could always blame the potato lorries …

‘Tiff?’

Marina’s voice penetrated her musings.

‘Sorry?’

Marina stood up, gloved hands on hips. ‘Are you ready to put the plants in?’

‘Yes, of course. I was miles away.’

While Marina filled the other pots with compost, Tiff planted the geraniums, and told Marina about the results of her other mission: the auction lots.

‘It’s not been as easy as I thought to find anything decent. Of course, if I was in London, I’d just pick up the phone or take a few people to lunch, but I don’t know the clients here well enough yet. I … um … did manage to get some vouchers for a bikini wax, a mackerel fishing trip and a photography workshop.’

‘A bikini wax? That’s a great start,’ said Marina, sounding delighted, but Tiff was far from happy. Having seen how much effort Marina put into the station, and how welcoming she’d been, she wanted to pull out all the stops.

‘Hmm. Maybe, but I really wanted to get something far more exciting for you. I’ll reach out to some of my London contacts, even though I haven’t heard from any of them in a while. Don’t you worry, I’ll sort it.’ She threw what she hoped was a confident smile at Marina. ‘Anyway, enough about that. Have you found out any more juicy details about the merman in the cove?’

Marina stood up. ‘Merman?’

Tiff wasn’t fooled by Marina’s feigned lack of interest. ‘The guy we saw swimming in the cove?’

‘Oh, I see. Not much, and nothing juicy. He’s called Lachlan … McKinnon or McCann or something Scottish. The post woman told me and she talks at a hundred miles an hour so I didn’t quite catch it. He’s a mate of Aaron Carman – that’s Evie and Troy’s son. Lachlan was apparently in the RAF in Scotland, but Aaron was in the army, so I don’t know how they met each other. The post woman isn’t sure how long he’s staying, but the estate agent said they’d let the cottage on a long lease so I’m guessing six months or even longer. I think he’s joining Aaron’s security company. That’s it, I’m afraid.’

Tiff laughed. ‘You should come and work on my paper. You seem to have found out plenty. Any clue as to what happened to him or how he was injured?’

Marina shrugged. ‘Not really. Lots of theories but all speculation. Anyway, it’s his business.