‘Yeah!’ Raye’s voice was happy. ‘She’s dying to see where I grew up. I’ve told her loads about you and Fox Bay and all the bizarro traditions. I can’t wait for you to meet. I know you’re going to love her.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Ivy. So she could feel like a loser around her best friend too. Fabulous. ‘You sound very cheerful.’
‘I am,’ said Raye. ‘The sun is out, which is pretty special in Glasgow. I’ve just eaten a vegan sausage roll the size of my head. The vintage shops are all open. And Cleo and I are going to a gig tonight. It’s that band we were meant to see last month, only we ended up going to this club …’
Ivy wedged the phone under her ear and poured yet more coffee as her friend chattered on about her uni exploits. When had Raye, her moody, quirky, fellow weirdo become so … chill? Another person having an amazing time at uni?
Just then, she heard a chorus of shrieks from next door, louder than usual, interrupting Raye’s story of yet another fun night.
‘Sorry, Raye, I’ve got to go, the children are either killing each other or something worse. Speak soon.’
She hung up and burst into the kids’ area to discover that Story-time had, somehow, turned into Sales-time, thanks to Liv and her best friend Bethie’s entrepreneurial zeal. They had taken up positions by the door and were corralling unsuspecting customers with festive tickets and hand-drawn posters for the show. Notes exchanged hands and Josie looked on benevolently.
‘Please come to our show?’ said Liv, smiling winningly at a customer. ‘It represents Cornish culture. With stories and song and dance. And maybe some smugglers.’
‘It’s to save the library,’ Bethie was telling a smart woman in a Barbour, rattling a Quality Street tin. ‘You like books, right? The library has books.’
Trip, appearing in the doorway in another expensive-looking jumper, dropped a tenner into their tin. His sister, elegant in her yoga gear, stood next to him. ‘Look at you two,’ he said fondly. ‘You’re like tiny entrepreneurs.’
‘Mr Hargreaves told us to seize any opportunity to sell,’ Liv said determinedly. ‘And Story-time seemed like anopportunity. “A captive audience”, that’s what he said.’
At the front counter, Ivy wiped the sticky marks off the glass. Whywerechildren so sticky? she wondered.
‘It’s very sparkly in here,’ said Brooke, glancing around at the foliage and lights. ‘Very Hallmark. I like it.’ Her gaze narrowed and her tone became businesslike. ‘Ivy. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.’
‘I’ve been right here,’ said Ivy. ‘Literally nowhere else to go.’I wish, she thought.
‘You’re a proper Fox Bay local, right?’
‘Right,’ said Ivy. ‘Because my mum has terrible taste in men and unfortunately most of them seemed to live in Cornwall.’
‘That,’ said Brooke, ‘is more information than I wanted. But if you want to make a bit of extra cash, I’ve got a proposition for you.’
‘Okay,’ said Ivy cautiously. She’d already been burned by getting signed up to the show without her knowledge and she didn’t really have any free time now. Still, the thought of extra cash was tempting. ‘What is it?’
‘I’d like you to be my tour guide,’ Brooke said briskly. She pulled out her iPhone and flipped it round to show Ivy her notes app. ‘I wanted to see some Cornish sights but I’ve done all the standard stuff and you mentioned that Fox Bay has secret things. I’m wondering whether Fox Bay is an untapped resource – more hidden things like that lighthouse, for instance.’
Ivy thought for a moment, casting her mind over all that Fox Bay had to offer. ‘The lighthouse up on the cliffsisworth seeing. The Mariner’s Arms is meant to be an old smugglers’ pub – you can see the hidden cellar where they stashed their whisky. Seal Island is pretty special – you can only get there by boat. There’s a little cove round the bay, where locals swim as it’s quiet. It’s where the Kathleen Lee book launch was held.’
Brooke shook her head. ‘See? I knew I needed a local’s knowledge. This is exactly what I’m looking for. I’ll pay you to show me around. Like a real tour guide. The more picturesque, the better.’
‘Fox Bay does do picturesque well,’ said Ivy. ‘I’ll check when I’m next—’
‘I was thinking tomorrow at seven,’ said Brooke. ‘We could hike up to the lighthouse as soon as it gets light.’
‘7a.m.?’ asked Ivy, bewildered. ‘Why do we—’
Just then, the bell over the door jingled and Mr Hargreaves burst in, silk scarf askew, looking windblown and utterly frantic.
‘Ivy! Thank goodness. Why aren’t you replying on the WhatsApp?’
‘I muted it,’ Ivy told him frankly. ‘Why?’
‘Have you seen your mother? I’ve looked everywhere.No oneis answering their phones.’
‘Well, it is a Sunday,’ Ivy said. ‘People have lives, lie-ins. At least that’s what I hear. What’s happened? A theatrical emergency?’
She was joking, but Mr Hargreaves only flapped his hands anxiously. ‘Yes! It’s Mr Patterson. He’s in hospital! Appendicitis, poor thing! He can’t direct the show and the committee’s in absolute bits. No one has that level of experience, no one can make sense of his script. Half of it is written in Kernewek. And his show is so ambitious! We might have to cancel—’
