Beach Combing (2 page)

‘No
idea,’ said Ed. ‘Surfers are two a penny round here. It could be anyone. Now about this booking. You’d better give me your mobile number – just in case the weather’s awful and we have to reschedule.’

Chapter Three

The Seaview Café was buzzing. It had recently been named the best seaside restaurant in the country and bookings had gone through the roof. It was harder to get a last-minute table at the Seaview these days than at a top London establishment. But undeterred, Jago’s steely PA had rung that morning and talked the manager into giving the actor the best table.

Jago
and Alfie had been joined by two guests – Bertie Brown, Jago’s hardnosed agent, and Bertie’s pretty but vacuous daughter Francesca, who had just failed to get into drama school for the third year running. Bertie was one of the hardest agents in the business, renowned for his wheeler-dealing, but when it came to his only daughter he was as soft as a marshmallow. When Jago told him he was in St Grace for the summer Bertie had cancelled all his meetings and got the overnight sleeper to Cornwall. If it was the last thing he did he was going to wangle Francesca a part in Jago’s new movie.

The
tide was out and from their vantage point the mismatched quartet gazed out across the sand. Alfie watched loads of lucky children building sandcastles and paddling in the sea and itched to join them. He didn’t like Bertie at all. The agent had a booming voice and every time Alfie tried to say something he butted in and changed the subject. Francesca wasn’t any better either. She was far more interested in inspecting her purple-painted nails than talking to him.

Jago
was almost as fed up as Alfie. He’d assumed that Bertie had hot-footed it to St Grace to talk about a movie deal so he was appalled to find that his agent wanted to call in a favour. A favour he’d be hard-pressed to deliver since Francesca was lovely to look at but didn’t have a shred of personality to her name. His no-nonsense northern mum, who always spoke her mind, would have described her as the kind of girl who if you shouted ‘fire’ wouldn’t run.

‘Leave
it with me, Bertie,’ murmured Jago vaguely. ‘I’ll have a word with the casting director and see what I can do.’

Deep
down, Jago had no intention of talking to anyone but he was prepared to say anything to get Bertie off his back.

‘Now
come on, update me on the gossip from London. It feels like I’ve been in the sticks for weeks. I’m completely out of the loop.’

Bertie
narrowed his eyes shrewdly. It was obvious that Jago was giving him the brush-off but he was adamant. He didn’t care if he had to ring Jago morning, noon and night – he was going to get Francesca into that bloody movie.

Chapter Four

Lara gazed at her reflection in the mirror. The wetsuit she’d hired was skintight, black and unforgiving. It was easily the most unflattering outfit she’d ever had the misfortune to wear. If she was honest, it made her look like a giant slug.

She
couldn’t possibly risk being spotted by Jago or Alfie. They’d howl with laughter and she’d never hear the end of it. She hastily shoved a T-shirt and jeans over the top and glanced in the mirror again. Now she looked the size of a house but she didn’t have time to do anything about it. She bundled a towel and trainers into an old rucksack and hurtled downstairs.

As
she ran barefoot through the black and white tiled hall, she prayed she wouldn’t bump into anybody. Jago had reluctantly agreed to give her a few hours off while she went surfing but told Alfie that he had to learn his lines and that he must be extra good. Lara frowned as she heard the soundtrack of
The
Jungle
Book
playing at top volume in the drawing room. Jago had clearly plonked Alfie in front of the TV for the afternoon.

A
couple of minutes later Lara was haring down the steep cliff path, relieved to have escaped without anyone clocking her outfit.

By
the time she got to Grace’s Surf Shack she was red in the face and out of breath. Panting with exhaustion, she dropped her rucksack on the sand, bent double and put her hands on her knees to try and get her breath back.

She
straightened up quickly when a young man in denim cut-off shorts and a faded Superdry T-shirt emerged from the shack. Fair-haired and golden skinned, he looked like he’d walked straight out of a holiday ad.

‘I’m
assuming you must be my new pupil,’ he grinned.

‘I
think I probably am,’ said Lara shyly.

‘Ollie
Baker,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Your surfing instructor for the afternoon. And you, I take it, must be Lara Rawlinson.’

‘Yes,
I’m Lara. But I’ll have to be honest with you. I’ve never tried surfing before and I’m completely hopeless at anything sporty.’

Ollie
snorted with laughter. ‘At least you’re honest,’ he said. ‘But you needn’t worry. I’m the best surfing instructor you’ll ever meet.’

‘And
modest with it,’ murmured Lara under her breath.

‘What’s
that?’

He
didn’t wait for an answer. Before Lara could reply he bellowed in the direction of the shack. ‘Ed, where are you, mate? Have you got Lara Rawlinson’s surfing gear sorted? Get your arse in gear, will you, you lazy git? We need to get going.’

Taken
aback at the change in Ollie’s tone, Lara pretended not to hear. The wind had whipped up a little and the waves looked rougher than earlier on but the beach was just as crowded. She watched in amusement as a teenage boy tore down the sand flying a bright red kite, hotly pursued by three small children, all screaming with excitement. A few yards away a burly lifeguard scanned the beach with his binoculars, checking that all was well.

Glancing
back at the shack she saw Ed appear in the doorway. He was carrying two surfboards, one long and elegant, the other short and stubby. One was made of fibreglass and looked top of the range, while the other was scuffed and worn. It was pretty obvious which one was for her.

Ollie
was grumbling at Ed. ‘Honestly Ed, you really need to get your act together,’ he said as Ed handed the boards over. ‘You’re not being fair to the customers, mate. They’ve paid forty pounds a pop and then they lose the first fifteen minutes of the lesson because you’re so disorganised. You need to speed up.’

Ed
looked murderous but didn’t say a word. If it had been her, thought Lara, she’d have told Ollie where he could stick his bloody surfboard. She smiled warmly at Ed, trying to show she was on his side, but he appeared not to notice. He propped the boards against the side of the shack and gave them a quick inspection, then stalked back inside and slammed the door.

Ollie
shrugged his shoulders theatrically.

‘Don’t
worry about him,’ he said. ‘He’s a moody old sod. I don’t know what gets into him sometimes. Now come on, let’s get going. There’s a row of lockers on the other side of the shack. You can dump all your stuff there.’

After
hearing Ollie mouth off at Ed, Lara was surprised to find that he was actually a very good teacher. Far more patient than she’d expected and quick to praise her when she occasionally got something right. They started out on the sand, where Ollie taught her how to make the transition from lying on the board to standing on it. Then, once he was satisfied she’d cracked the manoeuvre, they progressed into the sea.

Urged
on by Ollie, Lara waded ten yards into the water, lowered herself on to her board and waited for the perfect wave to propel her back to the shore. It came faster than she anticipated and, feeling a bit like a beached whale, she hurled herself clumsily on to her board.

‘Paddle
harder,’ yelled Ollie and before she knew it she was paddling as hard as she could. When she began to pick up speed she flipped her feet on to her board and stood aloft in triumph, flinging her arms out wide to balance her body. Amazingly, she maintained the stance for a triumphant ten seconds, then toppled sideways into the water with a huge splash.

When
Lara came up for air her mouth was full of seawater and a slimy piece of seaweed had wound itself alluringly round her neck. Not a good look, but she didn’t care. It was the most exhilarating experience she’d had in years.

By
the time the two hours were up Lara was managing to stay upright on her board for longer each time.

‘You’re
a natural, Lara,’ shouted Ollie as he watched her surf her biggest wave yet. ‘And I tell you what…’

‘What?’
beamed Lara.

‘You’re
my last booking of the day so why don’t we treat ourselves to a celebratory beer? Do you know the Turtle – the bar by the harbour wall? We can carry on the session for a while longer there…’

Ed
watched in fury as Ollie dumped the surfing boards outside the shack and disappeared round the back to change out of his wetsuit. He returned a minute later in a dazzling white T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. Then he strolled across the sand, deep in conversation with Lara.

Ed
seethed with indignation. While he’d spent a tedious afternoon trawling through Ollie’s chaotic accounts, trying to match the scruffy pile of booking sheets with payments, Ollie was up to his old tricks. There was nothing he liked better than chatting up a beautiful girl and showing off his surfing prowess while someone else picked up the pieces. Not that Ed usually minded. Only he’d thought that a girl like Lara would be oblivious to Ollie’s charms.

Chapter Five

It was only half past four in the afternoon but the Turtle was already packed to the rafters. The tiny bar sold drinks at happy hour prices between four and six pm and holidaymakers soon got to hear about it. Today the place was so full that hordes of thirsty customers had spilled on to the pavement outside.

‘What
can I get you?’ asked Ollie.

‘Er,
just an orange juice please,’ replied Lara, all too conscious that Jago was expecting her back to look after Alfie. She was desperate to take a long shower before going back on duty too. She’d changed out of her wetsuit after her surfing lesson and flung her jeans and T-shirt back on but she was covered in sand and her hair felt like rats’ tails.

Lara
sat on the harbour wall and waited for Ollie to return. St Grace was so idyllic, she thought. No wonder artists travelled from far and wide to paint the place. The harbour was packed with fishermen’s boats, sailing dinghies and posh yachts, each with their own story to tell. Two bronzed women in minuscule bikinis were sunning themselves on the deck of a yacht called Minerva while on a shabby ketch next to them an old man was cooking his supper in the open air.

Lara’s
thoughts turned to Ollie. He was far better looking than her ex-boyfriend and a lot more fun. Her brow darkened at the memory of the double-crossing liar she’d gone out with for two years. She’d assumed they were rock-solid and then he’d gone and cheated on her. Six months on, even though she couldn’t care less about him anymore, the humiliation still rankled.

At
that moment Ollie emerged from the bar with the drinks. He plonked his pint on the wall and handed her a glass with a lurid pink cocktail umbrella sticking out of it.

‘So,
Lara Rawlinson,’ he said. ‘Tell me all about yourself. You can’t have been in St Grace for very long or I would have spotted you by now.’

Lara
took a cautious sip of her drink and gasped in surprise. It tasted of Cointreau.

‘This
isn’t orange juice,’ she said.

‘I
know,’ said Ollie, a mischievous look in his eyes. ‘I thought you must be joking when you said orange juice so I got the barman to make you a cocktail. Do you like it? It’s called a Surfer’s Special.’

Lara
put the drink down on the wall, stood up and grabbed her rucksack.

‘I’m
sorry, Ollie, really I am, but I can’t drink it. I’m going to have to go. I’m babysitting tonight and I promised that I’d be back by six. ’

‘Oh
come on, Lara,’ smiled Ollie. ‘Just because you’re looking after a spoiled brat doesn’t mean you can’t have a quick drink first.’

‘Alfie
isn’t a spoilt brat,’ snapped Lara. ‘If there are any spoiled brats round here I reckon I’m talking to one right now.’

Ollie
stared at her in astonishment. If anything, he liked this fiery Lara better than the easy-going one.

‘Look,’
he said, putting his hands up in mock-apology. ‘I’m sorry, OK? I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t think. It’s not a big deal but I’m really sorry.’

The
other drinkers had pricked up their ears by now, enjoying the commotion.

‘He
didn’t mean it, love,’ slurred one man, who’d definitely had one drink too many.

‘Give
him a second chance, why don’t you?’ joked another. ‘He’s a good-looking bloke. He’s worth hanging on to.’

That
was it. Lara had had enough.

‘I’ve
got to go,’ she muttered. She slung her rucksack over her shoulder and left them all to it.

Ollie
shrugged and took a slurp of his pint. He was sure he hadn’t seen the last of Lara Rawlinson. St Grace was a small place – their paths were bound to cross again. And he’d bet his bottom dollar she’d be back for another surfing lesson.