Page 17 of And Then There Was You

Twelve Zach

‘Zach? Hey, it’s Luke Pengelly.’

I scramble upright, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

I got back to the studio from an extra bakery run an hour ago, Matt calling me in for a double shift because his other regular weekend driver was ill.

I was glad of the work but my knee disagreed, especially when I hit a huge tailback of tourist traffic as I was returning to St Ives and had to drive at ten miles per hour all the way home.

I don’t remember falling asleep on the sofa in the studio, but then I don’t remember much since getting back from the bakery. Kieran isn’t coming here today, so that’s a blessing. But my whole body protests as I stand.

‘Luke, hi.’

‘I have a shift schedule for you and I was wondering if you could come in today to collect it? Give you a chance to meet the rest of the team and see what we’ve done with the place since you last saw it.’

‘Today?’ I repeat, my head fuzzy from the sudden awakening.

‘If that suits?’

‘Sure. What time?’

‘In about half an hour?’

Wow. Nothing like giving me warning, Luke.

‘Um, yeah, sure.’

‘Great. See you soon.’

The call ends as suddenly as it arrived. I stare at my phone, the rest of my body glaring at me for agreeing to get it moving again so soon.

It isn’t how I’d expected to spend my Saturday. But more work is worth disrupting my plans for. Even if my poor, exhausted body hates me. So I leave the comfort of the studio and the quiet afternoon I’d promised myself and force my reluctant body back out onto the packed weekend streets of St Ives.

The tide is in, so I can’t take a short cut across the harbour sand.

Instead, I duck between groups of slow-moving visitors along Fore Street, my knee burning with every twist and turn I have to make.

St Ives seems busier this weekend, the crush of bodies denser, spilling into more of the backstreets.

It’s been a while since I spent a full summer here, always just breezing in for competitions while I was on the circuit rather than living in the town.

It’s a bit of a culture shock. Good for business, though, I guess, especially for Aggie’s coffee hut, Matt’s bakery and Luke’s soon-to-be restaurant.

And the piano café.

I think of the hopeful woman I saw outside it.

I’ve thought about her a lot, actually. That smile of hers.

The way her face illuminated when she hung the sign.

The way I felt when she looked at me. Hope and positivity – things I get glimpses of now I’m starting to find my feet again, that she seems to embody.

I know it’s daft. And there are probably a hundred other things that should occupy my mind. But their grand evening opening event is tonight. I should want to give Sweet Reverie as wide a berth as possible. But the truth is, I want to go back there.

I want to hear what the piano sounds like.

And I want to see her again. I want to watch her celebrating her brave new venture and see just how bright her smile becomes . . .

‘Do you mind?’ A raised voice and a sudden shove to my left shoulder drags me back to the gauntlet of jostling bodies. A bald-headed bloke in vest, shorts and flip-flops is barrelling through the crowd around me, scowl firmly fixed as people jump out of his way.

I watch him forge ahead down Fore Street towards the shell shop, and exchange a rueful smile with the lady nearest to me who Angry Bloke inadvertently used as a battering ram into my shoulder.

‘Joys of holidaymakers, eh?’

‘Happy beggars, one an’ all,’ she replies. ‘You okay?’

‘Good thanks. You?’

‘I’ll live. You have a better day than old mardy bum down there, lover.’

Her blessing makes me smile all the way to Pengelly’s.

The transformation of the business in such a short space of time is incredible.

Where builders’ lamps provided the only light before, a constellation of small halogen spotlights now sparkle from the newly plastered ceiling.

Everything has been painted white, apart from the wide bar that glows beneath a wash of sea blue varnish.

The floor is Cornish slate, blue-grey with natural lines and contours running along each piece that mirror the waves in the harbour.

Pale wood tables, the colour of Porthmeor sand, have been placed alongside the full-length windows that run the width of the restaurant, each one flanked by chairs with seats upholstered in deep blue denim.

It’s as if the view from inside continues out onto Harbour Beach, an uninterrupted line from Pengelly’s to the landscape beyond.

And at the centre, Luke Pengelly is holding court with a group of nervous-looking, mostly young people. I feel old just approaching them.

‘Zach! Great to see you!’ he calls, beckoning me over. ‘Everyone, this is Zach Trevelyan. He’s joining the team.’

‘Hi,’ I reply, fist-bumping and shaking hands around the group.

I smile as the introductions happen, knowing I won’t remember any of the names they’re telling me. Seawater for brains , Mum used to say. I just haven’t the best memory for people’s names. Never have had. Mate and dude serve me well enough, most of the time. I hope that’ll work here, too.

Luke waits for the round of introductions to end, then commands our attention with a loud clap of his hands that echoes around the newly decorated space.

‘Great, thanks. So, my purpose for bringing you all in today is twofold: firstly, to check you’re okay with day-to-day stuff like working the till and card readers, pulling pints, making coffee and serving food; and secondly, to let you know that we’re bringing the opening forward by a week.

Got to make the most of these lovely rich tourists, eh? ’

We smile politely and he waits for a moment, his own smile noticeably tight. Is he waiting for laughter? Applause?

Just as the pause starts to become uncomfortable, Luke snaps back into his spiel.

‘We’re as good to go as we can be and I want us to hit the ground running.

Really make our mark, show the town we’ve arrived.

I believe Pengelly’s is going to be the destination restaurant in St Ives.

We may be new, but we’re going to be the name on everyone’s lips.

So, let’s get cracking and demonstrate what a crack team we’ll be! ’

As we wait in line to do the food and drink serving tests, a tall, lanky kid with a trendy beard and a tattoo of an anchor on his right forearm turns to me and grins.

‘Ready to work for Captain Cliché?’

I relax as I chuckle, glad it wasn’t just me who noted Luke’s apparent deep love of well-worn phrases. ‘Reckon we need bingo cards to tick them off as we hear them.’

‘I’m up for that. Might have to design some . . .’

‘Shh!’ the young woman with a knot of strawberry blonde plaits on the top of her head admonishes us. When we drop our gazes like two cheeky schoolkids, she snorts with laughter. ‘There’s some serious ground-hitting with running happening here.’

‘Blue-sky thinking, that is,’ says the girl beside her, the joke filtering along the queue ahead.

I think I’m going to like it here. I’m going to like the money even more.

The news of the new opening date is a surprise, having seen the state of the place before, but it’ll be good for my bank account.

Having shifts here that dovetail with my Downalong Bakery deliveries will fill my days and allow me to save a little – something I haven’t been able to do for years.

Six weeks here at the lowest estimate – eight, if I’m lucky and the work continues into September.

It’ll give me money to live on while working out what I want to do with the next part of my life.

The food and drink service tests are a breeze.

Pulling pints is like riding a bike – once you know how it’s done, it becomes instinctive.

My barista skills are a little rustier, it being at least four years since I last used them.

But I pass and Luke appears impressed. The till and card reader are straightforward enough and, like everything in my new occupations, will become second nature by repetition.

To our collective surprise, Luke hands us each forty quid in pristine new notes at the end of our session, doling out the money with the flair of a casino croupier dealing cards.

‘As a token of my thanks,’ he informs us, displaying his trademark grin.

We leave as a happy band of soon-to-be servers, considerably richer than we arrived.

A win, any way I look at it.

It’s calmer in town as I walk back to Kieran’s studio. A natural lull, where day-trippers have left via train or car, and holidaymakers have gone back to their rented apartments, cottages and houses to rest before their evening adventures begin.

I like this time of day, when the sun hangs lower in the sky and the town dares to take a breath. I should grab something to eat back at the studio, taking full advantage of a night there without Kieran. I will – but not yet.

It’s just over an hour until Sweet Reverie’s grand evening opening begins.

Even if I hadn’t been toying with the idea of sneaking in, I wouldn’t be able to miss details of it.

In almost every shop I pass along Fore Street now, I see posters for the event.

Even if I tried not to notice one, there would be another ten further along my route.

The owner must be popular with fellow businesses in St Ives; either that or they’ve bribed a heck of a lot of people to display the posters.

I should go home.

But I want to hear the piano.

And I want to see her again . . .