Page 6 of And Then There Was You

Four Zach

Kieran Macklin is watching me like a seagull eyeing a pasty.

It’s unnerving.

But the tiny studio apartment is perfect.

I take my time looking around, which, to be honest, hardly requires any time at all.

Like Aggie said, it’s a room off Kieran’s photo studio with a bed and an old wooden chest that serves as a bedside table, a storage space for clothes and a lampstand.

There’s a loo and a washbasin in an alcove behind a sliding door in the far wall.

In the studio itself is a squashy orange velvet sofa that appears to have been sat on by the entire population of St Ives, and a dusty flatscreen TV fixed to the wall opposite.

Behind the sofa is a run of three kitchen units, one with a microwave on it, one with a kettle and a toaster and the last one with a single-ring electric hob.

The shower is outside in the yard, shielded from view by an L-shaped brick enclosure.

But it might as well be a suite of state rooms at The Ritz for what it means for me.

That’s if I pass the Kieran Macklin Test.

Which, considering the way he’s scowling at me, feels like a bloody big if . . .

‘If an overnight job comes in for me you’ll have to keep out of the way,’ Kieran says, watching my slow navigation of his studio.

‘Of course.’

‘And you’d act as night security for this place.’

‘Happy to.’

‘I mean the kit in here is worth tens of thousands.’

‘It looks great, man.’

‘. . . Which you’re not to touch. Ever .’ He winces as an elbow connects sharply with his ribs.

‘As if he’s likely to,’ Aggie returns, scowling at her partner. ‘Admit it, Kier, you need him. When these nippers are here, you can’t go off workin’ all hours. We’ll need you at home.’

That sounds a lot more threatening than Aggie thinks it does.

I hide my smile. I can’t stuff up this interview. It’s this place or sleeping on the beach.

‘I’ll stay out of your way,’ I assure him. ‘You won’t even know I’m here. And I’ll make sure the studio is safe. Honestly, man, you’d be doing me a huge favour.’

Aggie glares at Kieran.

I hold my breath and try not to look like I’m desperate.

Kieran groans. ‘Okay. You can move in tomorrow and we’ll review as we go.’

‘He’ll move in now and we’ll bring him dinner later to celebrate,’ Aggie corrects, a terrifying edge to her voice. I’ve never wanted to get on the wrong side of her in all the years we’ve been friends; to do it when she’s eight-and-a-quarter-months pregnant would be fatal. ‘Right, darlin’?’

‘I was going to suggest that,’ he bristles.

‘Aw, ain’t he a babe, Zachy?’ Aggie purrs, stroking Kieran’s hair like he’s her favourite kitten. ‘Our little ’uns are goin’ to have the best daddy.’

Kieran flushes, his smile tighter than a sail at full tilt.

I don’t dare exhale until they’re outside.

I look down at the scuffed rucksack at my feet, containing the only belongings I have to move in.

For a while I hated that I could carry everything I owned on my back.

I grieved the stuff I had back in my flat in Padstow, the possessions I had to surrender when I lost the means to pay my rent.

But the more I’ve moved around since I left the surfing circuit – and the more sofas I’ve crashed on – the more relieved I am not to be burdened by it all.

It’s just stuff . The things you tell yourself you’d never manage without, which quickly become costly millstones around your neck when you no longer have anywhere to put them.

I miss my books. I miss my camera. I miss music.

I miss all the photos from years of competition that I just binned because I couldn’t drag them all around with me.

But when you’re hungry and you need somewhere to sleep, things like that become meaningless.

I still have my memories, and they don’t require living space.

All the same, my scuffed red rucksack looks pathetically small here.

I look around my new digs.

I can make this work. As long as Aggie stops Kieran from killing me.

Talking of work, now I have a place to crash, I need to find a way of making money. Aggie might have persuaded her partner not to charge me rent for this place, but I still have to eat.

I join them in the car park outside the studio and accept a set of keys and a lukewarm handshake from Kieran.

Then I head into St Ives, determined to find somewhere that can use my services.

As I walk, I make a mental list of places to try: bars along Wharf Road that sometimes need casual staff, a couple of newer beach goods shops that might be looking for help and a handful of surf shops that might appreciate my skills.

The thought of working so closely with the kit I used every day isn’t easy, but I’ll take what I can get. And surfing is the one thing I really know anything about. Maybe my experience will swing it for me.

I work my way through potential places, getting the same refusals in varying shades of politeness.

It’s the wrong time to be looking, the summer season jobs long since doled out.

The story is the same, everywhere I go. We filled the positions a month ago .

. . We’re fully staffed till September .

. . Come back in October when the season ends?

I can’t wait until then.

I meet a former surfing mate standing outside Cornish Bakery with a plate of pasty samples, and enjoy a few while we briefly natter. He sneaks me a buy one, get one free discount card when his boss isn’t looking, but even with that the change in my pocket barely covers the treat.

Stuff it, I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten since Aggie blessed me with breakfast. At least I know I have dinner tonight. I can’t remember the last time I had three meals in one day.

I’d better make the most of it, though, because the search for a job is not looking good.

After I’ve exhausted the main shopping areas, I have to think outside the box. The tiny indoor market proves fruitless; the bloke in the cinema just laughs when I ask; and the shops in Cyril Noall Square’s cobbled courtyard are too tiny to need anyone else.

Why did I ever think this would work?

Despondent and suddenly bone-tired, I start to retrace my steps. Maybe if I can grab a couple of hours’ sleep at the studio, I’ll be able to think more clearly.

The crowds have swelled in the time I’ve been job-hunting, swarming over the roads and holding up frazzled motorists daring to drive down to the harbour. The noise and clamour is too much for my weary brain to process, so I decide to be more creative in my homeward journey.

I wind through the backstreets, taking a zig-zag route that runs parallel to the busier roads.

It’s one blessing of knowing the geography of the town – no matter how packed the most popular streets are, you can always find a way around them.

Narrow flights of stone steps that sneak off from the crowds, tiny alleyways snaking between rows of whitewashed former fishermen’s cottages, half-cobbled backstreets that pass unnoticed behind the more popular parts of town – all of these are your friends if you know where to find them.

‘Excuse me.’

I look up to see a woman, inches from me.

I’ve wandered into her path, too busy looking up at the buildings that line the narrow street to notice her approach.

She’s wearing a sea-green apron, a striped orange and white T-shirt and pale blue jeans cut off at the knee beneath it.

A brass star suspended from a black leather lace catches the light where it rests on her collarbone.

It has a swirl like a sea eddy at its centre.

Her hair is scooped up into a messy bun at the back of her head, the way my sister Elowen fixes hers up when she’s working.

The sight of that makes me think of family – of home : something I’ve missed since we lost Mum.

‘Sorry,’ I rush, raising my hands in apology.

I move to my left, but so does she; a move to my right is mirrored, too. Embarrassed, I take another step left and sweep my hand out in invitation. ‘After you.’

Instead of pushing past immediately, she smiles at me.

It’s like the sun coming out.

It’s totally unexpected, and it steals the breath from my body.

Her dark eyes shine as she draws level with me. ‘Thanks for the dance.’

‘I – you’re welcome . . .’ I manage.

And then she’s gone. I’m left gawping after her like a gormless fish in her wake.

Proof, I guess, that this town always has the capacity to surprise you.

I turn back – shaken but buzzing – and notice an archway ahead, leading to a small courtyard. Drawn by its colour, I walk towards it.

A stack of brightly coloured surfboards outside a bay-windowed shop comes into view.

Porthia Surf – have I seen it before? Shops change so quickly in St Ives, often replaced by almost identical businesses, so it isn’t easy to tell.

This one looks promising, though, and the sight of the boards is so lovely that I can’t resist heading in.

The place is busy, a mix of holidaymakers and local kids out of school for the summer wandering around the clothing racks and shelves.

It’s what I love most about surf shops: the universal appeal.

Whether or not any of the tourists buying brightly coloured branded surf-wear and bodyboards will ever make it out onto the water is immaterial.

It’s all about the dream. People from all walks of life come here, sit on the clotted-cream-fudge-coloured sand of Porthmeor Beach watching the bods out on the waves, and think: I could do that .

And here’s the bonus: if they can’t do that , they can still look like a surfer in the right gear. Available to everyone, for the right price.

I think back to when I got my first sponsorship deal with a Cornwall-based surf brand. Their stuff was amazing, the kind of thing I’d lusted over in surf shops for years. Wearing it at competition meets and swaggering around town was the best feeling.