Effie blushed. ‘Maybe a little.’
‘Don’t mind her, she loves to matchmake, although it took her and Tristan forever to realise they were meant to be together.’ Freya rolled her eyes. ‘Do you like him?’
‘Jake?’ Effie startled.
‘Umm hmm. Sorry, you don’t need to answer that, it’s none of my business.’
‘That’s OK . . . I . . . he took photos of me swimming because he thought I was a seal,’ Effie said, ‘and I shouted at him. He was very annoying but . . . also apologetic and he’s been helping with the shop. I don’t know,’ she admitted, knowing full well that her head had been whipping around every time the door opened, her heart plummeting when she didn’t see Jake.
Freya accepted this as an answer. ‘But here’s a warning, the villagers love a good gossip. Be careful. He’s back.’ She winked and gave Effie a little nudge.
Effie’s heart leapt as Jake slipped into the hall, a rather expensive-looking camera hanging around his neck. She swallowed a gulp of warm cider as she watched him scan the crowd, his brow a little furrowed until the sight of her smoothed it out. With a smile cracking like dawn across his face, Jake made his way across the hall towards Effie.
‘I’ll leave you to it.’ Freya gave her arm a squeeze. ‘Pop up to Bayview any time, I’ll show you my work. Or we can go to the pub or something.’
‘That would be lovely,’ Effie said, knowing she meant it. The gentle way all the social invitations had been extended to her had felt genuine. The idea of putting down roots in the village was becoming less daunting.
‘All set?’ she asked Jake as he pulled up beside her.
‘Yep, let me just take a few test shots. Say cheese.’
‘I’m not saying cheese!’ Effie laughed as he snapped away.
Jake peered into the screen, flicked through the photos. ‘Looking good. Do you want to see?’ He held the camera out to her. ‘I can delete them if you like.’
Effie flicked through them. She never usually liked photos other people took of her. They always managed to make her face look wonky but somehow Jake made her look ethereal and beautiful. ‘Definitely won’t mistake me for a seal in those,’ she said as she stepped back, draining her glass of cider.
Jake grinned. ‘You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?’
‘Nope, because it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. A seal!’
‘I was half asleep from travelling!’
Effie raised an eyebrow at him. ‘No excuse.’
Before Jake could protest any more. Tristan stepped onto the small stage and leaned into the microphone. ‘Erm, can we have a moment please?’ The hubbub of the hall died down as the crowd turned towards him. ‘Thank you, everyone, for coming today, it’s a pleasure to celebrate such a milestone in Alf’s life. Ninety years old, or should that be young?’ Tristan paused as whoops, cheers and applause thundered around the hall. ‘I think it’s a marvellous age to reach and it’s safe to say that, Alf, you are the heart and soul of this community. Polcarrow would not be the place it is without you at the helm.’
Alf bowed his head in acknowledgement of the accolade. More applause sounded. Scruff barked in agreement.
‘Now, we all know you’re waiting for the cake but before we get to that, we have something else for you, Alf. Now, we all wracked our brains because what do you buy the man who has everything and wants for nothing?’
The crowd murmured in excitement. Effie caught sight of Freya standing at the corner of the stage next to a tall man with long, wild dark hair. Between them they were carrying a large rectangular object which they brought over to Alf and placed on an easel.
‘Is that for me?’ Alf gasped.
‘It’s been a long time since I’ve done portraiture. I did consider a sculpture,’ the man, who Effie realised was Angelo Borelli, renowned artist and Freya’s partner, explained, ‘but I didn’t know how you’d feel about being turned into abstract art.’
Alf gave a shrug. ‘It would make a change from a pair of socks.’
Everyone laughed.
‘Shall I do the honours, or do you want to?’ Angelo asked.
‘You do it, I’m too comfy here,’ Alf said giving the arm of his chair a pat.
Angelo tugged at the sheet covering the object. It fell away to reveal a vibrant painting of the old fisherman, sitting regally beside the fishing boat Angelo had helped him restore the previous summer, Scruff at his feet, Polcarrow stretched out behind him. Timeless and beautiful, it captured the twinkle in the old fisherman’s eye and the essence of Polcarrow, all wrapped up in a golden hour glow.
‘I’m very rarely speechless,’ Alf said after a moment, ‘but this, well, can you believe it? An Angelo Borelli original of me! What do you make of that, boy, hey?’ He scratched Scruff’s ears, his voice thick with emotion.
