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 yourhouseis only just big enough for the two of us. Don’t go getting any ideas about squeezing intoHermiewith 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.Hermieis 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 pressSENDbefore 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.
Nowthatis 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 pressSENDagain 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.
