The Last Piece of My Heart Page 3

  Chapter 3

  ‘I don’t do camping, Dad!’

  ‘Campervanning is not camping, Bridget. There’s a fold-down bed, for Christ’s sake! You’d love it. Don’t you remember how much you once adored messing around in your little playhouse? It’s not so different to that.’

  ‘That was back when I used to make mud cakes.’

  ‘I’m not advocating you make mud cakes in Hermie. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t.’ He pauses before being sure to add, ‘I’d definitely rather you didn’t.’

  Hermie is the name he gave to his seventeen-year-old Mercedes Vito campervan. Originally Herman the German – chosen by his now ex-girlfriend when he brought it over from Germany a few years ago – the name swiftly morphed into the far cuter variation. And Hermie is kind of cute. I just don’t want to live in the bastard for two months.

  ‘Charlie really liked you,’ Sara effused after my recent trip to Cornwall. I suspect this was a bit of an overstatement. ‘He definitely wants you on board,’ she added.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep! There’s just one little thing. . .’ she said.

  Apparently, Charlie panicked when Sara asked him if he could box up Nicki’s things for a courier to collect. She assumed it could all be delivered to me in London, but Charlie wasn’t ready for Nicki’s diaries and notebooks to leave the house. The solution? I go to Padstow and work from her office.

  It’s just as well I don’t have much of a life at the moment. I don’t even have an apartment. I’m staying with Dad in Wembley because my place in Chalk Farm is still being rented out to the people who took it over when I went to Australia. I say my apartment, but it’s technically Dad’s – he bought it as an investment, although he accepts only enough rent to cover the mortgage. The current tenants pay way more, so, when they asked if they could extend their lease until October, Dad suggested I move in with him to save money. He knows I struggled financially in Australia, but really he just likes my company. We’re very close. He raised me practically single-handedly from the age of six.

  I love hanging out with him, but there’s something a little bit creepy about living at home at my age. So I came around to the idea of Cornwall pretty quickly. After all, who wouldn’t want to spend their summer at the seaside? I only really started to stress this morning after calling around and discovering that all the B&Bs and hotels in Padstow are booked out, if not completely, at least for a good part of the summer.

  I gave up and came straight to the pub. Not to drown my sorrows, mind. Dad owns the place. It’s a medium-sized, definitely-not-a-gastro-pub that’s a fifteen-minute walk to Wembley Stadium in one direction and about the same distance to his house in the other. On game and gig days, it gets pretty hectic, but right now it’s quiet, save for a couple of regulars.

  ‘Honestly, darling, that campsite on the hill is really lovely,’ Dad says, coming back over to me after taking an order for two scampi and chips and a lasagne.

  As I say, not a gastro pub.

  ‘I can just see you climbing the hill and having a drink while watching the sunset.’ He pauses, cocking his head to one side. He still has a head of thick, bushy hair, but it’s dark in colour now, thanks to his regular Just For Men habit. ‘You’d be able to hook up some solar-powered fairy lights,’ he continues, ‘and fill up the fridge with mini-bottles of Prosecco.’

  Now he’s talking!

  ‘You could even take the attachable tent and portaloo,’ he adds.

  ‘Portaloo?’

  ‘So you wouldn’t have to walk to the toilet block in the night.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding. I can hardly get my head around sleeping in a car for two months, let alone emptying my own shit.’

  He laughs and shakes his head at me.

  I’m not the sort of travel writer who relishes slumming it. I didn’t mind so much in my early twenties, but these days I write more about top-notch honeymoon destinations and five-star hotels.

  It’s a hard job, but someone’s got to, and all that.

  ‘To be honest, Bridget, I’m jealous,’ he says, propping himself up at the bar. ‘I’d give anything to be able to jack in this job for the summer and join you at the seaside.’

  ‘Hold your horses, Dad. You know I love you, but your house is only just big enough for the two of us. Don’t go getting any ideas about squeezing into Hermie with me.’

  He reaches over and musses up my hair good-naturedly. I bat him away and rest my elbows on the bar top, rapidly taking them off again because it’s sticky. I should know better at my age.

  ‘It’ll be an adventure,’ he says. ‘And, if anyone loves an adventure, it’s you.’

  I’m counting on it.

  Chapter 4

  It’s early August by the time my contract is sorted and I’m able to get back down to Cornwall. In the next eight weeks I plan to do all of my local research for the scenes that are set in this part of the country, and I also need to go through every book on Nicki’s bookshelves, every notebook and diary in her drawers and every single document on her computer. The intention is that I’ll gather enough material to be getting on with so, by the time October rolls around, I should be able to move straight back into my flat and write the majority of the book from home.

  I set off from London at the ungodly time of four a.m. on a Sunday to avoid traffic, but it still takes me six hours with breaks. Hermie is a bugger to drive – the clutch is stiff, the steering is heavy and it’s also a left-hand drive – so, by the time I reach the campsite in Padstow, I’m exhausted.

  Charlie’s friends, two warm and boundlessly enthusiastic hippies called Julia and Justin, welcome me with open arms. I try to take in what they’re telling me about the amenities, but resolve to put most of my brainpower into working out where my pitch is.

  The campsite comprises three different levels: two flat, grassed paddocks separated by a tall hedge and a small, steep hill, and one huge open field on even higher ground. I’m in the first paddock, which doesn’t have a view, but is closest to the toilets. Despite Dad’s warning that I’d regret it, I did not bring his portable toilet. I could barely fit in my bags as it was.

  I pull up on Pitch 9, cut the ignition and reach for my phone, typing out a brief message to Dad. He worries about me.

  ‘Here at last and in one piece – both Hermie and me. Love you, call you later xxx’

  I press SEND before realising there’s no phone reception.

  And, oh no! That means there’s no data reception, either!

  It’s a veritable disaster.

  I get out of the van and look up at the field on the third, highest level, pinning all of my hopes on its big, steep hill. There’s a flight of steps just across the internal campsite road, so I lock up and set off in desperate search of a link to the outside world.

  Several tents have been erected around the perimeter of the field, and, as I trudge uphill through the long summer grass, I pity the poor sods who have to sleep on the sloping ground. I’m out of breath by the time I reach the halfway point and then I stop. Time for the big reveal – so far I’ve resisted looking over my shoulder.

  I spin around.

  Now that is a view.

  I can see right out to the open sea. In the nearby distance is the estuary, flanked by Padstow on one side and lush green coast and the town of Rock on the other. The tide is in at the moment and the water glints in the morning sunshine. Boats that, when I was last here in June, were marooned on the sand are now floating in the green-blue water, and flocks of white birds soar through the clear summer sky. I look at my phone screen and sigh with relief.

  4G. Thank Christ for that.

  I press SEND again on my text to Dad and then plonk my bum down on the grass. The time difference in Australia makes speaking to Elliot tricky, but now is good. I FaceTime his number.

  ‘Check out my view,’ I say upon his answering, turning the phone screen around to face the estuary.

  ‘Nice,’ he says.

  I
turn him back to me. ‘Not bad, eh?’

  ‘This one’s even better.’

  ‘Soppy git,’ I tease.

  He’s sprawled out on his brown-leather sofa at home, with one arm folded behind his head.

  ‘Are you watching telly?’ I ask.

  ‘Nah, there’s crap all on,’ he replies, glancing to his right, where the TV is, before returning his attention to me.

  I know the layout of his living room like the back of my hand. I practically lived with him for the last half of my stay in Sydney; I was there for a year in total.

  ‘Are you wearing the jumper I bought you?’ Charcoal-grey wool is just coming into view below his neck.

  He holds the phone higher so I can see his outfit properly. ‘Yeah, it’s really cold here now.’

  We speak so often that we rarely have big news to share, but the boring, everyday stuff makes being away from each other strangely more bearable.

  ‘Wish I was there to warm you up.’ It’s winter in the southern hemisphere now.

  ‘I wish you were here, too,’ he says in a sleepy, deep voice. ‘I’ve been missing you today.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Yeah. I went over to Bron and Lachie’s for lunch. He roasted a joint on the barbecue, flashy bastard. Wasn’t the same without you.’

  I feel a pang of longing as he talks about our friends. I miss them, too.

  ‘What have you got on?’ he asks me.

  I hold the phone over my head to show him.

  ‘Man, those shorts. . .’ His voice trails off longingly.

  He likes my legs – he says they’re sexy – so my cut-off denim shorts became my staple wardrobe item in Sydney. This is the first time I’ve worn them this year, though. It was cold and dark when I set off this morning, but I’m an optimist – the weather forecast in Padstow was predicted to be twenty-two degrees and sunny. I probably should’ve changed once I got here, judging by the dribbling looks I kept getting from truck drivers in petrol stations on my way here.

  ‘You’re as tanned as you were when you left,’ he notes.

  ‘Aw, and you’re all pale and pasty.’

  ‘I’m not, am I?’ He peers down the inside of his jumper.

  ‘Show me your abs,’ I prompt.

  ‘Bugger off,’ he replies.

  We grin at each other, but his smile fades away. ‘How much longer before you come back to me?’ he asks pensively.

  I sigh. I wish his eyes would look at me properly. It’s the thing that really bugs me – we can’t make actual eye contact because we’re staring at each other’s face on the screen, not at the tiny camera lens that catches our images.

  ‘I don’t know, El. Now that I’m writing this novel, it could be March or April by the time my edits are done.’ My deadline to deliver the manuscript is the end of January, but there will no doubt be a lot of work to follow. ‘Weren’t you going to try to come and see me this summer?’ I ask.

  Now he’s the one to sigh. ‘I’ve got so many projects on at the moment.’ If only I could reach through the screen and stroke his dark, stubbly jaw. ‘I just don’t think I’m going to be able to get the time off, however much I’d like to. You know what a ball breaker Darren is,’ he says.

  Darren is his boss and he’s a bit of an arse. Elliot is a senior civil engineer at a big firm and they work him incredibly hard, but it’s too good a job to quit.

  ‘Anyway, it sounds like you’ll be too busy to entertain me any time soon,’ he says. ‘Now you’ve got two books to write.’

  ‘True,’ I say. ‘But I’m never too busy to entertain you,’ I add with a wicked grin. His own smile widens.

  ‘You want to do something about that now?’ he asks meaningfully.

  I look over my shoulder. ‘Er. . . I’m in a field in full view of people in tents, so I don’t think that’s a very good idea at the moment.’

  ‘Go back to your campervan,’ he urges.

  My face falls. ‘I can’t. There’s no reception down there.’

  ‘Are you telling me we can’t do sexy stuff while you’re in Cornwall?’ he asks with disappointment.

  ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way,’ I assure him cheekily, but I’m as gutted as he is.

  When Elliot and I have said our goodbyes, I head back down to the paddock to get set up. The wide side door of the van opens to reveal a grey and yellow Westfalia interior – which, according to Dad, means something impressive. In front of me is a small open space of about one metre squared. Let’s call it the living room. To my left is a grey bench seat that folds down to form part of the bed – a.k.a. the bedroom. And ahead is what I’d loosely refer to as the kitchen: two cupboards crammed with goodies, a small top-loading fridge under one yellow worktop, and double gas rings and a teeny tiny sink under the other. The layout takes the meaning of ‘open plan’ to a whole new level.

  The driver and passenger seats turn around 180 degrees to face the bench seat, so I decide to tackle them first. With quite a bit of jiggery-pokery, I manage the task, before straightening up and bashing my head on the ceiling. Ouch. The roof pops up – pop is a debatable word – but, with a bit more manhandling, I’ve enabled some standing space. Just need to put up the table and I’ll be sorted. It stows away in the side door and it’s a while before I can figure out how it clicks into place – Dad did talk me through all of this, honest.

  By the time I’m done, I’m even more knackered than I was before. Is ten thirty in the morning too early for a glass of Prosecco?

  I decide, regrettably, that it is and elect to make a cup of tea instead, filling up the kettle from bottled water stored under the bench seat, firing up the gas with matches I manage to find in one of the cupboards, and then repeating a similar search in my hunt for teabags and a mug.

  I’m sure I’ll get used to all of this eventually.

  As I don’t want to waste one minute of precious sunshine, I decide to sit outside on the grass, but have to unpack half of the boot to get to one of the two camping chairs that are buried under my bags. By then the kettle is whistling like a demented blackbird and I almost burn my hand trying to turn the gas off.

  Christ, how do people do this?

  Let me rephrase the question. Why do people do this?

  Finally – finally – I’m able to sit down and stretch my legs out in front of me, clasping a hard-won hot mug of tea in my hands.

  Behind the tall hedge in the next paddock, I can hear children playing badminton. A middle-aged couple in the campervan a few pitches away are making genial conversation to the young couple opposite them. A family of four cycle up the campsite road beside me, huffing and puffing and bickering among themselves. High on the field, a man and a small boy are trying to launch a kite into the air. Birds twitter and chirp in the hedge adjacent to Hermie and I just sit there and take it all in.

  The sunshine beats down on the top of my head as I sip at my tea and, I have to say, it’s the best cuppa I’ve ever had.

  Chapter 5

  Do you know what? This isn’t half bad. It was actually kinda cosy in Hermie last night with the curtains drawn. I lit the candles in the lantern and read in bed, and, when I went out for one last loo stop, I came back to find the solar-powered fairy lights I’d hooked up around the outside of the van had twinkled into life. I slept well – considering – and this morning I got ready at the refreshingly clean shower block and ate a bowl of fruit-and-nut granola at my little yellow table. Making up the bed was a bit of a faff, as was putting it away again, but, on the whole, I think I might be more cut out for this camping business than I thought.

  Of course, there’s always tomorrow.

  And the next day.

  And the next sixty after that.

  Hmm.

  I’m sure Charlie will have Internet connection, so I don’t bother going up the hill to check my emails. Padstow is just a short walk away from here on the Camel Trail – the one-time railway route that runs right alongside the Camel Estuary – and I smile as I mak
e my way along the picturesque path, moving aside for the occasional cyclist, my rucksack slung over my shoulder. The sun is out and it’s another beautiful day. I can’t wait to get started.

  Unfortunately, it all goes pear-shaped from then on in.

  Behind Charlie’s front door, April is screaming her head off. I consider walking away again, but Charlie clocks me from the living-room window, where he’s pacing the floor with a phone to his ear.

  A moment later, the door whooshes open and the volume inside the house goes up a notch.

  ‘Hi. Sorry, I’ll just be a minute,’ he says to me, covering the mouthpiece. ‘Come in.’

  He steps back to let me pass. I do so, reluctantly.

  ‘I don’t know, Mum.’ He speaks again into the receiver, raising his voice over the din. He jerks his head towards the kitchen, so I lead the way, horribly aware that we’re heading towards the noise. ‘Yeah. Calpol and Nurofen,’ I hear him say.

  April is sitting in a square playpen that wasn’t there the last time I came, screaming at the top of her lungs. Her face is red and puffy and she has a river of snot trailing down from her nose. She looks up and sees me.

  I step away from the playpen.

  ‘I don’t have any. I don’t have any!’ Charlie shouts to make himself heard. He looks incredibly harassed as he grabs the kettle and fills it up, cradling the phone to his ear. ‘Tea?’ he mouths at me.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I mouth in return. He lets me take over.

  I try not to look as alarmed as I feel. The kitchen is a tip, with plates piled in and by the sink, and food and drink spills over the worktops and on the floors. The sofa opposite the playpen is crammed with toys, clothes, babywipes and other baby paraphernalia. It is a far, far cry from the last time I was here.

  ‘She won’t go down!’ Charlie says loudly into the receiver, freezing in motion to listen to whatever it is his mum is saying in reply. ‘All right, I’ll try.’ Pause. ‘I said all right, I’ll try!’ He huffs and listens again. ‘Thank you,’ he says acerbically. He ends the call and mutters something under his breath, barely looking my way.