Summer on the Little Cornish Isles: The Starfish Studio. Phillipa AshleyЧитать онлайн книгу.
actual living being creative. She’d always enjoyed dabbling with crafts and spent far too long in the bead shop in her town. She was wearing one of her own creations today: a bracelet inspired by the colours of the sea.
However, when she’d left university she’d got a job as a PR assistant with a building products company and risen to be the communications manager. She still made a few pieces now and then, but work and a long commute meant she had less time than ever for her hobby.
She might laugh at Dan’s obsession with budgets and bulldozers, but her own job was hardly creative. On the other hand, it was how she’d first met him: at a construction conference a couple of years before. She’d gone along, thinking that it would be dull as ditchwater and almost decided to miss the final seminar on marketing on the first day. She was so glad she hadn’t.
Dan had walked onto the stage and Poppy had perked up immediately. Admittedly, she couldn’t remember many of the details of the presentation, but as for the presenter himself – the hour had flown by. He was tall and fit with toffee-blond hair and he reminded her (a bit) of Ryan Gosling. He came across as confident but not cocky, and he really knew his stuff. When she asked a question at the end, he answered it politely and explained his point without patronising her. Afterwards, he made a beeline for her in the hotel bar and while his colleagues were getting pissed, he spent the evening chatting to her. She was impressed by his ambition and his attentiveness. He made her feel special and, by a huge stroke of luck, it turned out they only lived half an hour from each other.
They made arrangements to meet up on a date, and six months later, they’d moved in together. Two years on, their lives were as tightly intertwined as vines and Poppy hoped they would always stay that way: growing closer and building a future together.
‘So, how long have you been making a living from the gallery?’ Poppy heard Dan ask Archie.
‘Too long to remember.’ Archie chuckled, caught Poppy’s eye and winked. He started to explain to Dan how he’d bought and converted the boatshed into a gallery while his family were young. He mentioned ‘while my Ellie was alive’ more than once, which must mean he was a widower now, unless the lady at the cash desk was his current partner.
Poppy glanced at her phone and realised it would soon be time to walk down to the ferry. With a smile for Archie, she said, ‘I must finish my shopping,’ and left him and Dan talking. After swooping on a few ‘must-haves’, she took her purchases to the counter. The assistant added up the cost on an old-fashioned calculator and put Poppy’s money in an old cash tin.
The assistant wrapped the fused glass starfish coasters in tissue paper. ‘Beautiful choice,’ she said, clucking appreciatively. ‘The artist who made these is inspired by sea life on the beaches around St Piran’s, you know.’
Poppy smiled to herself. She knew that engaging with customers made the items they’d chosen seem personal. ‘Really? I thought I’d seen a starfish like these on the beach the other day,’ she said.
‘They’re certainly washed up from time to time,’ said the assistant, popping the tissue parcel in a paper bag. ‘Getting the ferry, are you, dear?’
‘Yes, but I think we’ve still got twenty minutes before it leaves?’
The assistant nodded sagely. ‘About that. Anyway, it’s only a minute to the harbour and you should hear it tooting from here as it pulls in. Your man’s thick as thieves with Archie at the moment. Why don’t you carry on having a look round? It’s cool in here on a hot day like this.’
Amused at Dan being referred to as her ‘man’, Poppy picked up her paper bag, which was surprisingly heavy, and smiled. ‘Thanks. I think I will.’
While she waited for Dan to finish his conversation, she drifted around the gallery again. There were many more things she could have bought but she’d already spent more than enough and even if she’d had the cash, there was a limit to the amount she could carry back on the small aircraft taking them home to the mainland. She was probably over the limit already.
She lingered in front of a small painting almost hidden in a niche next to a spiral staircase that was roped off with a sign marked ‘Private’. The painting was only six inches square but she instantly fell for it. It showed the studio from the outside, bunting flying, with a ginger cat – like the one by the till – curled up on the veranda. The picture was perhaps ‘cuter’ than the landscape scenes in the studio, but it captured the essence of the studio perfectly. There was no price on it, but judging by the figures for the larger pictures, she guessed it wouldn’t be cheap. The artist may have considered it too twee and deliberately tucked it away in a corner, but it was still a piece of original art and she wasn’t going to embarrass herself by asking the cost when she most likely couldn’t afford it.
‘Well, it’s been great to meet you, Archie. Thanks for telling me about your work.’ Dan was shaking hands with the artist and smiling in a way Poppy hadn’t seen for a while. His job was stressful and demanding. This holiday had clearly done them both good and they’d needed it. She’d been very busy at work too – finding new ways of making drainage sexy was harder than it looked – and they both had a horrible commute through the increasingly clogged, polluted roads of the Midlands. Tiny, remote St Piran’s couldn’t have been a greater contrast.
The sun made her squint as she followed Dan outside, clutching her bag to her chest, enjoying the weight of the haul inside. She couldn’t wait to unwrap them when they finally arrived home, picturing where she’d put the hand-turned wooden dolphin and a cobalt glass trinket dish inlaid with bronze starfish, and deciding who would receive the greetings cards. She couldn’t bear to part with the coasters.
‘Do you really need more stuff?’ said Dan as soon as they were out of hearing of anyone inside the studio. ‘Not to mention coasters.’
‘You can never have too many coasters.’ She glanced up at him, annoyed that he’d guessed what she’d bought, but he was smiling. ‘And anyway, I couldn’t resist the trinket tray for Auntie Liz’s birthday. It’s just her sort of thing and you know she’ll love the starfish motif.’
He rolled his eyes but amusement lingered around his mouth. She didn’t need his approval to spend her own money and his comments on her taste sometimes irritated her. However, he did actually seem to be joking this time and his good mood continued as they meandered slowly towards the jetty, admiring the sea and the tiny green fields and the whole exquisite toytown nature of the island.
St Piran’s was the second smallest of the inhabited Scilly islands and was divided by a channel from its nearest neighbour, Gull Island. The other coast faced the open Atlantic and a lighthouse that marked the very western outpost of the British Isles. St Piran’s took a little longer to reach from St Mary’s – the largest of the Scilly Isles – than the other islands and the crossing, though still only twenty minutes, often left people with salty skin, damp clothes and a swirling stomach. However, its isolation appealed to Poppy’s soul and might even have captivated Dan.
‘Jaw-dropping, isn’t it?’ he said, coming to a halt at the top of the jetty where day trippers were starting to gather.
‘It’s breathtaking. I really don’t want to go back to work. It’ll be hard to return to running campaigns for wall insulation and rainwater products after this.’
‘I’m not looking forward to selling bulldozer parts either,’ said Dan gloomily.
‘Oh, look the ferry’s coming.’ Her heart sank. It would be at least a year before they would return to St Piran’s again, if they could afford the trip. They had a hefty mortgage on their little semi outside Lichfield and interest rates were sure to rise.
‘If only we didn’t have to get on it,’ said Dan.
‘Well, we can’t afford to stay overnight here, no matter how much we’d like to. I doubt there’s any accommodation available anyway and we’d risk missing our flight home.’
He turned to her, a gleam in his eye. ‘I don’t mean I wish we didn’t have to get on