“There’s no point now.”
She gives me a tragic smile that might be more suited to someone in a Shakespeare play and heads off to the kitchen.
I tidy my cutlery and look around the room absently. Everyone is either part of a couple or a family unit, their faces happy as befitting the season. I must stick out like a sore thumb. I catch my reflection in a big gilt mirror opposite the table. I look the same as ever—blond curly hair that’s already rebelledagainst my earlier combing, thin face, and blue eyes. I look insubstantial, like a ghost in the busy room. The Grey Man. Hardly a catch this morning. Or any time, if you ask Adrian.
“You should see the Minack Theatre before you go.”
I jump, startled, and see the waitress has come back to my table. How the hell did she get there without her reflection showing in the mirror? “Sorry?”
“The Minack. It’s an outdoor theatre on the edge of the sea. You should visit it.”
Her insistence is rather puzzling, but I nod politely and say, “I might just do that.”
“Don’t forget. It’s an important place for you.”
Her eyes are fierce and sparkling and seem almost too big for her face. For a second, I have the sense of falling from a great height, and then she blinks and I feel myself steady. The fierceness is gone from her expression, as if it had never been there. She looks down at me as if suddenly realising I’m here.
I clear my throat. “Thanks for the tip.”
Her brow furrows. “Pardon?”
“The Minack. You said to go there before I leave.”
“Did I? Oh yes, of course.”
I have the strangest feeling she doesn’t remember the recommendation, but why would that be? I stare at her.
She visibly collects herself. “Well, it’s a nice place,” she says rather vaguely. “Everyone visits the Minack.”
After giving me a polite smile, she wanders over to an old couple who are signalling her.
I watch her go, oddly confused, and then shrug it away.
The sun has a cold winter gleam, and the wind is stiff as I manoeuvre down the winding Cornish roads that the satnav informs me will definitely lead to the Minack Theatre. I retain my scepticism, because it’ll probably take me there via a track that even sheep would hesitate to use. I’ve become wise to this hired car’s navigation system, which the devil apparently programmed.
As if on cue, it intones, “Turn left.”
I look dubiously at the field in question and decide to keep going. “Not today, Satan,” I say grimly.
The car is another thing I should have recognised as an omen. I’d signed on to rent a luxury SUV, but when we arrived at the hire car place, this small Fiat Panda in an unfortunate shade of vomit-green was what was waiting. Adrian had fussed loudly at the assistant, and eventually I’d taken pity on her and said it would be fine.
I’m sensing that decision will soon bite me on the arse, because the car is making very funny noises this morning. I change gears to go up a hill, and there’s a loud clanking, and the vehicle groans as if contemplating death. I can’t say I blame it. The hills in Cornwall are steep. I’d need a defibrillator if I were walking. I downshift again and somehow make it to the top, where I’m greeted with a brown tourist sign advertising the Minack in six miles. I obediently take the turn, ignoring the satnav that’s now imploring me to take a path that looks like it would land me in a watery grave under the sea.
I pass big houses and a scattering of hotels, their tennis courts empty and the nets flapping forlornly in the wind. Everywhere looks cold and empty, the doors and windows closed. I feel like the last man on earth—Odysseus wandering with no home at the end of the journey.
I should have gone straight back to London. I’ve lost the heart to see Cornwall, which is a shame because the decision to come here for the holiday had been mine. Adrian wanted to go to Tenerife, but I’d talked him out of it. I’d seen a programme about Cornwall on TV, and something had come to life in me. I’d remembered the stories of Cornish myths and legends that my dad had told me when I was little, and a longing to see the place had sprung up in me that I still can’t explain. I’m not given to fancifulness, but I must have succumbed briefly because I’d spoken beguilingly to Adrian of long walks on pretty beaches and cuddling up by the fire in old pubs.
That surprising yearning has vanished now. Cornwall will go unseen, and I’ll return to my flat that’s as bare and unappealing as the day I moved in. I should be on the motorway now. I know this, rationally. So why am I driving to a place I’ve never heard of? A place recommended to me by a waitress at a hotel?
I don’t know where this odd compulsion is coming from—probably the same impulse that brought me to Cornwall.
After finishing breakfast at the hotel this morning, I’d looked up the Minack on my phone and found that it’s an outdoor theatre perched on the cliffs, where plays and musicals are performed under the stars. A photo showed an open-air arena with a stunning view of the sea. It was apparently the brainchild or obsession of an old lady, and it’d been built mainly by hand. The whole place looks fascinating, but many things are fascinating, and I don’t rearrange my day for them. The fact that I’m in no way behaving like my usual self is making me uneasy.
The car judders, and I force my attention back on the road, seeing the turn for the Minack car park with relief. It’s huge and almost empty of cars this morning, but the appeal lies in the view. After parking, I head immediately over to the side of the car park where the sea fills the horizon as far as I can see. The wind is stiff, making me stagger slightly, but I gulp in the cold, briny air and stay for a long moment, looking at the waves breaking onto the rocks below me. Seagulls ride the breeze, calling to each other. The sound is lonely and wild, and I shiver suddenly.
“You won’t be able to see a play.”
With a start, I turn to see two old ladies watching me. They’re wearing macs and have scarves over their heads—much more equipped for the weather than I am in my thin jacket. “Pardon?”
