the freedom it gives me. When I get time off I can pack up my rucksack and hike down to Newquay or Perranporth and ride the surf down there. I try to make every minute of my life count. It’s not a dress rehearsal, is it? We have to be prepared to squeeze pleasure from every moment – otherwise what’s the point?’
Once again Emilie saw the spectre of sadness stalk across Matt’s lovely eyes but she didn’t feel able to ask what demons had intruded on his happiness. He pulled his attention back to her and gave her a brief smile before finishing his beer and indicating her empty bottle.
‘Want to try something new?’ he asked, displaying a perfect set of teeth fit to grace any toothpaste advertisement.
‘Well, as it seems my friend has deserted me for the joys of the dance floor, yes please. What do you have in mind?’
‘Come with me.’
Matt took hold of her hand and a surprise jolt of electricity coursed through her body, snaking out to her fingertips. As he guided her towards the drinks table she scoured her brain for evidence that this was how she had felt when she’d first met Brad a few weeks after arriving at Dexter Carvill. Matt indicated a white plastic bowl filled with punch before she had chance to reach any firm conclusions. He scooped up a ladleful of the amber liquid and gently poured it into a plastic cup.
‘This is genuine Cornish Mine Punch.’
She laced her fingers around the cup and inhaled the warm sweet vapour that spiralled into the night air. She took a tentative sip and the smooth velvety liquid slipped down her throat, seeping into her veins and spreading heat to her extremities. She ran her tongue around her lips and smiled. It was delicious.
‘Like it?’
‘I love it! What’s in it?’
‘It’s my own secret recipe.’
‘What? You mean you made this?’
Matt laughed and his whole face lit up. ‘Don’t look so surprised. I’m pleased you like it though. It’s an ancient Cornish recipe with an Ashby twist. Sampling and recreating traditional drinks made from locally sourced ingredients – and not just the alcoholic variety – happens to be a passion of mine. I used to own a microbrewery up in Northumberland with my brother. So now you’ve tasted Cornish Mine Punch, I trust you’ve already sampled a pint of the famous Cornish cider?’
‘No, I haven’t.’ She lifted her upper lip and screwed up her nose in distaste. She didn’t drink a great deal, but when she did decide to indulge white wine was her poison of choice, and even then she often added a generous slug of sparkling water.
‘Well, we’ll have to remedy that, Miss Roberts. Why don’t I treat you to a taster session tomorrow before I set out on my epic hitch-hike back to Northumberland?’
‘Oh, that sounds lovely, Matt, but we’re leaving first thing in the morning for our next shoot down the coast – Perranporth to be precise. Sorry.’
A frisson of genuine regret tickled through her chest. There was something about this man, standing three inches above her in his bare feet on the sand, his bronzed face alight with an easy smile. Yet in unguarded moments his eyes reflected such sorrow she wondered what secrets they masked. She felt an urge to ask, even if it was to be told that his girlfriend had ditched him because she couldn’t stand sleeping under canvas any longer. They say love conquers everything, but there’s only so long a girl can go without craving the magic of electricity.
‘Fancy a dance then?’
‘I’d love to.’
Matt grabbed her wrist and they shot off to the beach dance floor to gyrate to the sounds of Amy Winehouse. The alcohol in the punch had loosened her legs and her awkwardness and she matched his moves, tossing her hair behind her like a wild Medusa, laughing and shouting her answers to his frequent questions. They danced together for the rest of the evening, interspersed with doses of rejuvenating punch and chatting to Alice who had monopolised the attention of one of the DJs.
Beyond the beach the ocean rippled like a sheet of black tar, broken only by the dark silhouette of a ship gliding along the horizon like a mysterious mirage. An ivory moon hung in the canopy overhead, bathing the party with light and shadow to the accompaniment of the rhythmic slap of the waves before the music took over the audio soundtrack once again. A warm glow of pleasure wrapped its mantle around Emilie’s shoulders and she experienced an overwhelming desire to remain on that beach with her present companion for ever.
But the night couldn’t last for ever and on the stroke of ten p.m. the music ceased and the party dispersed. Emilie looked down and realised she was still holding Matt’s hand. She lifted her eyes and saw the pleasure scrawled across his handsome face. Her heart gave a joyous lurch but then her brain nudged its way into her thoughts, reminding her that Matt was leaving for Northumberland the next day.
‘I’ve had a great night, Emilie.’
‘Me too.’
‘Come on. I’ll wait with you in the car park until your taxi arrives.’
‘Oh, actually, sorry I should have said. Sadly, our accommodation and mode of transport for this epic trip is a vintage camper van.’ She cringed as she realised that spending her first night in its embrace was about to become a reality.
Matt chuckled at her expression of disgust, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes creasing attractively. ‘Luxury in the extreme!’
Emilie smiled. Compared to living in a tent for the last seven months she supposed their camper van was the height of sophisticated decadence.
‘This it?’ Matt stopped in front of the van.
‘Yes. Alice calls it the Satsuma Splittie.’
Matt laughed in his deep low voice, edged with a soupçon of northern twang. He moved closer to her until their mouths were inches apart. A kaleidoscope of emotions churned around her body as his cornflower blue eyes delved deep into her soul, turning her heart to liquid and her knees to jelly. In that moment she realised that even in the first few heady months of her relationship with Brad she had never felt such an overwhelming need, a desperation almost, to be kissed.
She curled her arm around Matt’s waist but just as the warmth of Matt’s breath stroked her cheek and their lips brushed, a high-pitched scream erupted from the wooden pathway leading from the beach to the car park. The moment was broken.
Matt released her hand, swung round and sprinted towards the sound, with Emilie panting in his wake.
‘Oh my God, Alice! What happened?’
‘Knew I should have taken your advice and gone barefoot. My heel got caught between the wooden slats. Oh, Emilie, I’m so sorry. I think I’ve broken my ankle.’ And she promptly burst into noisy tears.
The DJ Alice had been dancing with swept her into his arms and Matt directed them to the Surf Academy’s wooden hut. He grabbed the first aid kit, expertly applied an ice pack and secured it with a bandage, but even Emilie could see Alice’s ankle had ballooned to almost double its usual size. Tears streaked down her pale cheeks and she winced with every unintentional jolt.
‘I think you’ll need to have your ankle X-rayed,’ said Matt, casting his eyes around the gathering. ‘Anyone here fit to drive?’
Everyone shook their heads. The Cornish Mine Punch had been a lethal brew and the beer had also flowed in abundance so no one dared risk driving.
‘I’ll call a taxi then.’
‘Oh, Emilie, I’m so, so sorry,’ bubbled Alice. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘Let’s get you patched up first before we think about that.’
The taxi pulled up next to the camper van and they bundled Alice into the back seat. Matt loitered at the passenger door, clearly wanting to say something to Emilie before they left. He whipped out his mobile phone from the back pocket of his denim shorts and asked