‘Good morning, good people of Kernow! This is your favourite local DJ, Greg Stennack, coming to you live and kicking from The Breakfast Show on Radio St Trenyan. So wakey wakey all you lazy folk still snoring under your duvets! The sun’s shining, the surf’s up and it’s a fabulous start to the Easter weekend. Whether you’re a local or a visitor to our bee-yoo-tiful corner of West Cornwall, remember to stay tuned to the county’s brightest and best independent radio station for the coolest sounds, the hottest news and the tastiest commercials from our station sponsors: Hayleigh’s Pasty Shack. Now, let’s kick off the show with ‘Happy’ by Pharrell. Take it away, Pha—’

After emerging from a nightmare in which a giant pasty was attacking me, I find the ‘off’ button on the radio alarm and cut Greg off in his prime. It’s actually a shame to cut off Pharrell too, but I need to get up, have a shower and get ready for work. I can already hear my boss, Sheila, singing along to the radio in the kitchen of the cafe, two floors below my attic room, even though it’s only six a.m.

Did I say six? With a groan, I pull the duvet over my head again but a wet nose nudges its way under the bottom edge and a warm tongue licks my big toe. It’s not only Greg who wants me to wakey wakey.

‘OK, boy. I hadn’t forgotten about you,’ I mumble through the cover.

My dog, Mitch, clearly doesn’t believe me and I let out an ‘oof’ as four paws land on the middle of my stomach.

I throw off the duvet to find a hairy muzzle in my face and a waft of early-morning doggy breath in my nostrils.

‘Eww, Mitch. What did you eat last night? OK. OK. I am getting up!’

After gently pushing Mitch off me, I drag myself out of bed, and cross to the skylight in the roof of the attic. Standing on tiptoes, I tug back the blue gingham curtain, push the skylight open a crack and peep outside. My eyes blink at the dazzling brightness. Although it’s still early, the sky above the little seaside village of St Trenyan is already postcard blue and I can almost taste the salt on the air. A tractor chugs up and down the beach opposite the cafe where I started work a few weeks ago, raking the sand ready for the deckchairs to be laid out.

The masts of boats bob up and down in the harbour at the far side of the beach. A few people are already up, jogging along the flat sand or flinging balls into the sea for their dogs. As the breeze carries the rattle of the tractor and snatches of distant barks through the window, Mitch yips excitedly. I take a deep gulp of the air and close the window. It’s Easter: the turn of the tide, a fresh day and the start of a new summer.

I wonder what this one will bring.

CHAPTER ONE

You can always spot the customers who are going to be trouble, no matter how hard you try to please them, but as I grab my notebook ready to take his order, I know that the man at table sixteen won’t be one of them.

Crammed in a corner under the kitchen extractor fan, that table has a wonky leg and most people only take it as a last resort, but I saw the guy head straight for it, even though there were other seats with better views at the time.

Sheila’s Beach Hut has the best spot of any cafe in St Trenyan, but he might as well be back in some trendy London espresso bar. He pores over an article in The Times, oblivious to the clotted-cream sand or the turquoise sea with its frilly wavelets or the holidaymakers, of all shapes, ages and sizes, sunbathing and playing cricket on the beach in front of the cafe. The water’s too cold even for a paddle this early in the year, but there are some hardy surfers at the far end of the beach, catching the bigger breakers. The Surf School has pushed out its racks of wetsuits and yellow foam boards, and set up its sign, promising to teach anyone to ride a wave in a two-hour lesson. Like, yeah. I’ve lived in Cornwall all my life and I’ve never managed it so far.

I flip over my notebook, pen poised. ‘Can I take your order, sir?’

‘Hmm …’

‘May I get you something, sir?’

‘Double espresso,’ he mutters, without even glancing up from the article in the newspaper. It’s in the features section and there’s a picture of a glamorous blonde standing behind a camera on a film set. Perhaps he’s not so highbrow after all?

‘Anything else with that? Toastie? Cake? We also have some homemade blueberry muffins.’

‘Just the coffee,’ he growls and suddenly flips over the page to the book review section.

OK. Fine if you don’t want one of the delicious muffins that I baked this morning, I think. ‘Coming up, sir.’

‘There’s no need to call me sir,’ he says, then adds a gruff, ‘Thanks.’

I could tell him that he’s nothing special and that I say the same to all the male customers, from twenty-five to ninety-five and anyway, I’ve seen his type before. Though I can’t see his face properly, his arms and hands are deeply tanned, even after the winter. His khaki sweatshirt hangs off his lean body and his black beanie hat is pulled over his ears, though the sun is beating down. Typical surfing wannabe, probably on a gap yah from his job in the City. Probably flew straight to Cornwall from Bondi Beach or a French alpine resort. Probably has his skis and surf board in the boot of his 4x4 on the drive of his parents’ holiday home in Rock. Not that I’m judgemental, much.

Feeling as hot as the pasties in my white shirt and black trousers, I weave my way

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