Page 34 of And Then There Was You

Twenty-Eight Zach

I should have kissed her.

Why didn’t I?

The question haunts me as I wait at a window table in Pengelly’s, the smell of paint still fresh in the air and the clink of glass sounding from the bar, where three of my soon-to-be colleagues are unpacking bottles and glassware.

I gaze out to the harbour, sparkling in the sun, the town beyond thrown into silhouette by the brightness of the light.

I had the opportunity to kiss her. We were too close to deny what was about to happen, sitting together at the piano she clearly loves so much, even if she won’t play. Why did I pull back at the moment that could have changed everything?

There’s so much I don’t know about Merryn. But I know I wanted to kiss her. That should have been enough, shouldn’t it?

I’m not sure I’ll find answers here, in the almost-open restaurant.

I’m nervous about the reason I’m sitting at the table instead of helping my colleagues.

Turns out Luke didn’t hang about when I said I didn’t mind talking to his journalist friend.

He’s arranged an interview today, when I don’t feel prepared for it and my mind would far rather think about Merryn.

Now it’s imminent, I feel vulnerable.

What if my former surf buddies see this as proof that I’ve hit rock bottom? Or, worse, think the interview was my idea, a desperate bid for publicity from a has-been?

When I left the circuit, I refused to do any press interviews. I issued a statement announcing my retirement and didn’t explain why. I thought now, with the story long since being newsworthy, I was in the clear.

But I hadn’t banked on Luke Pengelly.

I should go. Say I’ve changed my mind.

But he’s offered me seventy quid to be here.

I hate that money has become the weapon to override my personal boundaries. Time was when I could refuse point-blank if a promotional opportunity wasn’t a good fit. Those days are well behind me, it would seem.

‘Here she is! Our very own Lois Lane,’ Luke declares, striding across Pengelly’s.

When I look up, there’s a woman standing by the door.

She has a bag that looks half the size of her slung over her shoulder, a camera hanging around her neck.

Her blonde hair is scraped back and held with a wooden clip, revealing large hoop earrings and a line of tiny studs in her ears.

She raises a hand and breaks into a huge smile as Luke reaches her.

‘So, what do you think?’ he asks, arms spread wide to indicate his kingdom.

‘It’s amazing, Luke. And you’ve done all this in three weeks?’

He shrugs, his thousand-kilowatt smile on full display. ‘Maybe four, if you count the structural stuff. But who’s counting, eh? Point is, we’ll be open for the summer, setting this town alight.’

‘Not literally, I hope.’

They share snorts of laughter, before Luke beckons for her to follow him.

‘Come and meet our very own surf star . . .’

I stand as they approach, pushing down my embarrassment and thinking instead of the money this has earned me. Funny, I never thought I’d sell out for seventy quid. And yet here I am, smiling like my pay packet depends upon it.

‘Zan, meet Zach Trevelyan. Zan and Zach! There’s a fated pairing if ever I heard one.’

The journalist smiles, offering me a handshake. ‘Zanna Venn, Cornwall Daily News . It’s good to meet you.’

‘You too.’

‘Sit, one and all,’ Luke commands, raising his hand and clicking his fingers towards the bar. Hen, one of the soon-to-be bar staff, and owner of the only name I can remember from our first team meeting, scurries over with a tray.

‘What can I get for you all?’ she asks, shooting me a nervous smile.

‘I’d love a coffee, cheers,’ Zanna replies – and I’m struck by how kindly she makes her request. How she makes eye contact with Hen and speaks to her as if our new boss isn’t watching her every move.

‘Same for me,’ Luke barks, not even making eye contact with Hen. ‘And Zach?’

‘Yeah, coffee’s good for me. Thanks, Hen.’

I catch her grateful nod before she hurries away.

‘New staff,’ Luke says to Zanna, his eye-roll meant to invite her into the joke. It’s not funny. He holds up a hand to me. ‘No offence, Zach.’

I don’t reply. Not that Luke even gives me the opportunity.

Zanna produces a voice recorder from her pocket and sets it on the table between us. ‘So, Zach, you’re a pro surfer turned barman. That’s quite the career change.’

‘Lots of surfers on the circuit work other jobs out of season,’ I reply, careful to keep any hint of defensiveness from my tone. As soon as I knew this interview was inevitable, I started anticipating which questions I’d likely be asked. Better to be prepared than poleaxed, I reckon.

‘And when did you retire as a pro?’

‘A little over a year ago.’

‘Can I ask why?’

‘A knee injury.’

She looks up from the spiral-bound pad where she’s taking additional notes. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Thanks.’

Luke watches our exchange like a proud if slightly pushy parent. ‘See? I told you Zan’s good. Straight in there, all the questions asked, boom-boom-boom !’

The journalist shakes her head as she returns to her notes. ‘Leave off, Luke. I’m just doing my job.’

‘And a great job you do,’ Luke replies, quick as a shot. He’s fidgety today, excess energy bleeding out from him. If it were anyone else, I’d think he was nervous, but I can’t imagine Luke gets nervous about anything. ‘I’m going to check where our drinks are. Carry on, you two.’

And then he’s off, heading for the kitchen.

I hope Hen isn’t about to get an earful.

His attitude needs sorting if he wants to keep the staff he’s recruited.

None of us have worked here long enough to feel any kind of loyalty to the place.

If he isn’t careful, he’ll end up losing people before Pengelly’s is even open.

Zanna blows out her cheeks. ‘He’s a lot. At least we can talk properly while he’s away.’

‘Have you known him long?’ I ask, genuinely wondering how the kind-hearted, gently spoken reporter ever crossed paths with Luke.

‘Since college,’ she says. ‘He’s a bit of a git, but we always got on. And since I made senior reporter at the CDN , he’s been a good source of stories.’

‘Like this one?’ Aware my nerves are showing, I plaster a bright smile over the cracks.

‘Exactly.’ She observes me for a moment. ‘About the story – you don’t need to worry, Zach.’

‘I wasn’t . . .’

‘I cover good news and business stories. That’s my remit, not dishing dirt on anyone. Just tell me what you’re comfortable to share, okay? I won’t go digging for anything else.’

It’s a relief, I’ll admit. I remember some of my friends being burned by journalists in the past, rocking up purporting to be covering competitions only to print intensely invasive, personal articles about their private lives.

I don’t mind people knowing I’ve retired, or that an injury took me out for good.

Those things happen, every pro facing the danger of injury the longer their career lasts.

But a less-than-flattering article showing my new life here as some kind of mighty comedown is my worst fear.

‘Thank you,’ I say, meaning it. ‘So, what would you like to know?’

We talk about life on the road with competitions, about the championships I won and the titles I claimed.

Zanna takes careful notes, pausing occasionally to clarify details.

Her questions are straightforward and interesting, nothing to suggest a trap hidden within a clever enquiry.

I relax a little as I watch her work, noting how much she thinks about the next question, so that the conversation feels exactly that: a natural, flowing exchange of information.

When she comes to the end of her questions, she asks if she can take some photos, suggesting we go outside to allow her to capture images of the restaurant.

‘You don’t have a photographer?’ I ask, as we step out into the bright sun.

‘Used to, but money’s tight at work now. We all got sent on a one-day photojournalism course to learn how to take photos. It’s far from ideal, but it is what it is.’

‘You get to use a cool camera, though,’ I offer, recognising the model she’s using. I’ve seen similar at Kieran’s studio.

She grimaces. ‘It would be, if it didn’t keep breaking. This one’s been in the repair shop more than it’s been on jobs with me.’

‘I’m staying with a photographer,’ I say, letting Zanna pose me in front of Pengelly’s. ‘Kieran Macklin – I don’t know if you’ve heard of him?’

Zanna lowers her camera. ‘Heard of him? He’s only my hero!’

‘Really?’

‘Totally. I have so many of his editorials. The man is a ledge! Photos for The Sentinel travel section, National Geographic , WildWorld travel magazine. He’s won awards for all kinds of assignments.’ She laughs, rubbing the back of her neck. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit of a fan.’

‘So I see. I could ask him to meet you, maybe?’ Could I? Not sure I’m in a position to ask Kieran anything yet. But if it wins me favour with the journalist writing the piece that will make my new life public, it’s worth a shot.

‘I’d love that! Give me your number when we’re done here, okay?’

‘Of course.’

Zanna returns to her camera as Luke strides outside. I relax a little more, our unexpected connection below the radar of the restaurant owner a delicious secret I can hang on to. It feels good to know something Luke Pengelly doesn’t.

‘Okay, Miss Zee-de-Venn, I’m ready for my close-up! Where do you want me?’

Her wry glance at me puts me at ease far more than anything Luke could say.

After ten minutes of posing, changing position, discussing the best light, moving from the harbour road to the beach and back again, we’re done. Luke is the consummate showman, handing flyers from his back pocket to the tourists who stop to watch the spectacle of our photoshoot.

‘Opening Saturday. Come and check us out!’

‘You look like you appreciate great food. You need to visit us on Saturday.’

‘You haven’t had the full St Ives experience till you’ve dined at Pengelly’s!’

While he’s doing his thing, Zanna moves beside me. ‘I’d love to chat further, if you ever wanted to tell me more about your pro career. I’m always looking for local people to feature and I know many of our readers would love to hear your story.’ She hands me her card.

And even though I swore I’d never do any interviews once I left the circuit, talking with the journalist has been a revelation.

I didn’t think I’d ever be comfortable talking about the life I’ve left, but reminiscing for this article has unearthed a connection I thought I’d lost. Sometimes, you need to be reminded of who you are, even if life has moved you on from where you found it.

‘Might just do that,’ I reply. ‘Cheers, Ms Venn.’

‘Zanna, please. It’s been really good to talk to you, Zach.’

When Luke finally lets me go – an extra tenner in the folded notes he promised me – I head home. I have hours to kill before returning to Sweet Reverie tonight and I need sleep.

Talking with Merryn last night before that moment was the first time I’ve felt comfortable revisiting my past. I hadn’t planned it, but in the light of what Luke had me do today it was providential.

Would I have been as ready to discuss my surfing career with Zanna if I hadn’t broken ground with Merryn?

The piano was key to it all. Reminding me of the song I wrote, daring me to open up to Merryn. Sitting at the keys unlocked something within me, almost as if the piano willed me to do it.

The almost-kiss, too, wouldn’t have happened if Merryn wasn’t sitting beside me, her strange reaction when I asked her to play the key that unlocked my own confession. What is it with her and the piano?

Maybe hearing me play made her fear a comparison of her own skill would be made. Except I would never judge anyone for their playing. But she doesn’t know that yet, does she? She doesn’t know me, beyond the music I’ve played for her.

Is that why I held back?

I need to find out why the thought of playing the piano scares her. Unlocking that might unlock everything else.

I just have to work out how.