Breakfast Under A Cornish Sun: The perfect romantic comedy for summer. Samantha Tonge

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СКАЧАТЬ Like my Ruth, you can’t even be into your thirties yet.’ He shot me a sheepish look. ‘And I expect my appearance was a bit of a surprise.’ He shook his head. ‘Bet you think I’m a right arse, trying to be younger than my years.’

      ‘Erm …’

      He grinned, chestnut eyes twinkling as he touched his hair. ‘I let Ruth dye this for that profile picture. Big mistake.’

      Aw bless. What a superstar. So he definitely wasn’t some creep lusting after women half his age. Although I’d already worked that out after the way he’d talked about how satisfying he found his job as a care worker. Clearly he had strong principles—so why did a man with such integrity and passion need the help of an online matchmaking service?

      ‘Ruth means well and also insisted on putting that photo through Instagram first so that I looked “my best”.’ He gave a deep chuckle. ‘Always a generous child, she’s been.’

      I smiled. ‘And I posted a photo, warts and all, with bad lighting. How old did you think I’d be?’ Marcus’s cheeks flushed a deep maroon and I burst out laughing. ‘Don’t worry. No need to answer. My classic black dress probably didn’t help.’

      ‘It’s what attracted me to your profile,’ he said. ‘My mum used to dress like that. What I mean is …’ He groaned and I couldn’t help giggling. ‘Lord,’ he said, ‘I am useless at all this stuff.’

      ‘I love all that movie-star glamour, with long cigarette holders and classic clothes. It is such a distinctive era. And you can pick up some great bargains from charity shops.’ Oxfam had been my lifesaver during the teenage years. A fifty-pence vintage top from there felt newer than any hand-me-down from my older sisters. ‘Guess we’ve paid the price for using a niche, smaller dating site. I imagine the bigger dating sites require you to enter your actual age.’

      The waiter delivered our pies and we ate in silence for a few moments. Mmm. Creamy subtle flavours washed over my tongue. I ordered us another couple of Cokes.

      Marcus stared at me. ‘Do you think it’s sad, Kate? A man of my age doing online dating?’

      ‘No. I think it’s hard for lots of people to meet that special someone in this mad, modern busy world.’

      He clasped his hands together. ‘That’s just it though. Ruth means well but I … I’m not ready to meet someone else yet. My wife … Sandra … She passed away two years ago and I still miss her.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘Sorry, Kate. I shouldn’t bore you with—’

      My throat felt scratchy at the way his voice caught and those dark eyes glistened. ‘No, Marcus, honestly, it’s fine. Tell me about her. How did you meet?’

      ‘At university, during the Fresher’s Week fair. My new friends joined the cheese and wine club because lots of female students had signed up. But I really wanted to try potholing, and joined that club first. So did Sandra. A slow dance to Whitney Houston at a freshers’ disco sealed our attraction that went on to last for life.’

      They had two kids. And now four grandchildren. Then Sandra got early-onset dementia and died no longer knowing that Marcus was her soul mate. Marcus started to eat his pie again and shook his head. ‘Ruth would kill me for sitting here, on a date, talking about my wife—her mum.’ He looked up. ‘Devastating for her, it was, watching Sandra lose all the aspects of her character, one by one. We cried more at the diagnosis than the end which, by then, was a blessed relief.’ He shrugged. ‘I wish my daughter wouldn’t worry about me.’

      I patted his arm before glancing at my watch. ‘And talking of people worrying—’

      On cue, my phone rang. And so did Marcus’s! Five minutes later, each of us had hung up and we were laughing. Both Izzy and Ruth had rung bang on nine o’clock to give us get-outs from the date, if required.

      ‘Enough about me,’ said Marcus, as our ice creams arrived. ‘“Fess up”, Kate, as my grandson would say. What is an attractive, personable, intelligent young woman like you doing on Perfect Poldark Pairs?’

      I wasn’t going to mention Johnny. That subject matter was still so … raw. And I’d become unused to talking about him with people I didn’t know well. Plus my heartbreak had no relevance—I wasn’t on this date to find The One. Just a plus-one. I covered my face with my hands. ‘You’ll think me mad.’

      ‘Try me.’

      Out poured the whole sorry story about Saffron and me trying to impress.

      Marcus shook his head. ‘Oh dear, and you turn up to meet me, Mr Flymo-man—I’d have no idea how to cut grass with a scythe.’ He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. ‘You know I’ve learnt, over time, that the things you most want appear where you least expect them—like Sandra, at the potholing club. Perhaps the key for you will be to stop trying so hard to find this Ross.’

      ‘But I don’t have time on my side. The wedding is at the end of August, in just over four weeks. I need a miracle or to speed-date twenty-four-seven!’

      As we drank coffees, and ate delicious crisp mints, our conversation moved on to more general subjects. How we’d both love to live somewhere like Cornwall. How the eighteenth-century lifestyle appealed because of its simplicity.

      Eventually, he glanced at his watch. ‘Right, Well. Work tomorrow. I’d better get going.’ His eyes crinkled. ‘Best of luck. I’m sorry I don’t fit the bill, but keep in touch, Kate.’ Marcus rolled his eyes. ‘Ruth has insisted on registering me on Facebook, so perhaps we can connect on there and I’ll come to one of your gigs. I love all disco music and swing. And if I stumble across any brooding heroes in the next week or so, I’ll let you know. Or—’ he shrugged ‘—you could forget trying to impress this Saffron; skip the wedding …’

      Mature me knew he was right, but lurking aspects of Katie Golightly just wouldn’t let me turn down the invitation.

      Singing some Frank Sinatra, I drove my slightly rusty but cosy car home. Belting out a song had been my escape, as a youngster, from my hectic family life and from the challenges of school. I’d hole myself up somewhere private, like the back garden or bathroom, close my eyes and for just a few moments, whilst singing, felt important, felt unique—until Mum called me to do my chores.

      I parked up, on a busy high street, outside Donuts & Daiquris—Izzy had insisted I call in for mock Mojito, before going home, to give her the low-down.

      I got out, locked up my car and headed into the building, squinting at pretty neon lights and circumnavigating busy tables until I reached the bar. James informed customers that it was last orders. Me and Izzy headed out back, to the quiet, whitewashed staff room. We sat down on wooden chairs and she raised a neatly pencilled eyebrow.

      I gave a huge sigh ‘Nice night. Nice evening. Nice bloke. But old enough to be my dad.’ Cue twenty minutes of describing my date.

      ‘So it’s back to square one?’ she said, eventually.

      My mouth drooped. ‘Let’s face it. This plan of mine is never going to work. It takes long enough to hook up with someone when you’ve no particular type in mind, let alone when you have a list of criteria.’ I raised my hands in the air. ‘What with this and having to leave my flat and my Stanley Hotel gigs being cancelled, I’m just so fed up.’ Another big sigh. ‘Why can’t James have curly black hair and brooding looks. I bet he’d look fab in a tricorn.’

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