Greedily Yours - Episode 1: Taste Test
Author: Emma Hamilton
Date: 2015-06-15 07:00:00+00:00
Description: Mia Maxwell loves food. She loves it so much that she's made it her career. On the surface Mia seems to have it all. She lives in trendy east London with her best friend, Lizzie, who owns a cupcake cafe. By day she runs her own food PR consultancy, and by night she's a food blogger with a burgeoning audience. Mia has a banker boyfriend, Paul, who enjoys travelling the world, enabling her to taste the globe's culinary delights. But Mia is still hungry and, when she heads down to Cornwall to run a food festival, she doesn't realise that her entire life is about to be cast adrift. Episode 1 - Mia
Publisher: Bastei Entertainment
Rights: Bastei Lübbe AG

Contents

1. Cover
2. Greedily Yours - About the Series
3. About the Book
4. About the Author
5. Title
6. Copyright
7. Taste Test
8. Recipes in this Episode
9. Next Episode

Greedily Yours — About the Series

Greedily Yours is a serial novel about the quest for top dishes … with a dash of accidental love.

Mia Maxwell loves food. She loves it so much that she’s made it her career. On the surface Mia seems to have it all. She lives in trendy east London with her best friend, Lizzie, who owns a cupcake cafe.

By day she runs her own food PR consultancy, and by night she’s a food blogger with a burgeoning audience. Mia has a banker boyfriend, Paul, who enjoys travelling the world, enabling her to taste the globe’s culinary delights.

But Mia is still hungry, and when she heads down to Cornwall to run a food festival, she doesn’t realise that her entire life is about to be cast adrift.

About the Book

Episode 1 of 8: Mia Maxwell knows that her love of food is tied to her healthy appetite for romance. She’s admitted as much on her food blog, Culinary Confessions of a Greedy Girl. But could a chance encounter with a fellow foodie in Cornwall really entice her to question her own romantic relationship?

About the Author

Emma Hamilton is the pen name for a journalist and writer who loves food; She was a staff producer and then freelance reporter for the BBC, CBC, and Deutsche Welle. Emma has written for a number of magazines and newspapers, including The Guardian, BBC Magazines, The Mail on Sunday, Four Four Two, and Italy Magazine. She has worked on numerous series and documentaries, including one about food and culture around the world. Emma spent six years reporting from Italy and has made radio programmes in many other countries including Lebanon, Ethiopia, the USA, France, Germany, Russia, and Cameroon. When she’s not cooking, reading about food or eating it, she splits her time between radio presenting, producing, and writing. She loves yoga, running, gardening, and chilling out with her husband, friends, and family.

Emma Hamilton

Greedily Yours

Episode 1: Taste Test

BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT

Digital original edition

Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG

Copyright © 2015 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany

Written by Emma Hamilton

Edited by Sean Sinico

Project management: Lori Herber

Cover Design by Kelly Gold – www.kellygold.com

Cover Illustrations: © Shutterstock.com: alicedaniel | graphixmania | tachyglossus | Julia Tim | subarashii2 | Yunna

E-book production: Urban SatzKonzept, Düsseldorf

ISBN 978-3-7325-0723-8
www.bastei-entertainment.com

Prologue

Culinary Confessions of a Greedy Girl — A blog

About Me:

I love food so much that I’ve made it my career. I love it so much that I sometimes have to put the brakes on what I eat. Oops! But that never lasts long. Without good food, what’s the point? Like most of us, I have my struggles with food and life. Thus this blog, “Culinary Confessions of a Greedy Girl,” was born so that I could share with you what — and why — I like to eat and how it makes me feel. I’m always on the lookout for new recipes and restaurants.

In my humble opinion it’s not money but food that makes the world go round. (OK, I admit that you do need money to enjoy most foods, unless you happen to be a farmer or like foraging.)

Just like Proust’s evocation of the Madeleine, a familiar dish can send me back in time, floating on a cloud of memories; an exotic treat can make my heart sing and my feet skip to the beat. Isn’t that what it’s like to fall in love? That’s how food makes me feel. For me, food and love are inextricably linked. So this blog is about tasting food, love, and life, in general. I hope that my culinary confessions help you find your own secret ingredients for a zesty adventure. Because appreciation really is the spice of life wouldn’t you agree?

Greedily yours!

“Do you believe in destiny? The kind that changes the course of your life? That even when you hadn’t planned for it, it takes you somewhere new and exciting and different; the kind that makes sure things will turn out all right; a fate with silver linings?” Mia paused for breath and looked at Lizzie to make sure she was listening to her latest theory.

Mia’s appetite for struggling with the trials and tribulations of life matched her appetite for food. Lizzie, her best friend and flatmate, was her ever-sensible confidante on both fronts.

“That’s the kind of destiny I like to believe in,” Mia continued. “Sure, at some points, it’s been hard to see where destiny might be taking me — if the road I’m on is about to lead me over a cliff. But you have to trust destiny don’t you?”

Having coped with multiple Mia meltdowns, Lizzie knew that it was better not to answer Mia with her own theories of destiny and whether or not it existed. So, she nodded sagely and let Mia — hot-cheeked and fervent — continue. Mia’s long, dark wavy hair was scrunched up in a bun on top of her head and whisping around her face. She was lying on her tummy on Lizzie’s floor, head propped in her hands. Her long legs bent at the knees with her calves and feet scissoring and moving with emphasis as she developed her romantic ideas. Sparks seemed to fly off as she mused and giggled.

“I think, Lizzie, my destiny is looked after by a kind of wise woman who knows a lot about herbs and has lived for hundreds of years,” Mia said. “She’s seen everything across the centuries, and sometimes she shakes her head at what I’m doing. Occasionally she wants to test me, but she also has my best interests at heart. But she’s old now, so when she’s sleeping, or tottering about absent-mindedly in the garden, I might wander off down a path that seemingly leads nowhere, but even those little detours somehow later contribute to the main event. Do you know what I mean?”

Lizzie nodded again.

In contrast to her best friend’s energy and restlessness, Lizzie was the calm, fixed point in Mia’s life. She was almost a younger version of that herbal earth mother Mia was busy evoking. Lizzie loved baking, but, unlike Mia, she didn’t like exercise — especially running. However, she loved to dance and was good at yoga because despite her considerable curves, she was also incredibly bendy. She was, as usual, curled up on her bed, leaning back on some cushions, her curly red hair also piled up on her head, a pair of glasses perched on her nose. She listened calmly.

Mia had been reading recently about palmistry, which appeared to influence her latest theory.

“If you look at your palm, all those little lines and off-shoots from the main life lines, that’s what I think those times are in life when perhaps you’re just acquiring survival skills for when life’s big waves hit you,” Mia mused. “That’s what I like to believe anyway, because at the moment I feel a little bit lost, like I’m on a boat out at sea and can just make out land, but don’t quite know if I’ll be able to reach it.”

Lizzie pushed her glasses up and spoke for the first time since Mia’s theorising had begun. “Does this have something to do with Paul?”

Paul was Mia’s boyfriend. They’d been together for four years, through various ups and downs due to Paul’s workload and depending on whether Mia felt satisfied he had sent enough texts, made enough calls, and replied to enough emails. She had broken up with Paul several times for a month or two, only to Lizzie’s surprise, to get back together again after Paul had pleaded his case, made some grand romantic gestures and promised to change. But recently the relationship seemed to have stagnated, and Mia’s comments about Paul were becoming increasingly negative.

“Why do you feel so lost Mia?” Lizzie asked. “Which part of your life is rudderless?”

Mia was brought up short. When put like that, she had to admit that there wasn’t really anything lost about her life at the moment. On the surface, at least, things were fabulous. Great friends, doing a job she was passionate about in food PR, and a boyfriend, Paul, who worked in the City and was good at booking fun weekends away — as long as he chose the destinations and Mia didn’t interfere with his ferocious workload or his excessive — in Mia’s opinion — visits to his parents. Fridays for instance, unless they were going away for a weekend, was a night he spent with his friends and was off-limits to Mia, because, as Paul explained, “a guy needs some time with his friends, Mia, and Friday night is friends night.” Weekend mornings generally started with a jog, which would inevitably turn into a four-hour training session for whatever sporting event Paul had signed up to, and excessive alcohol was frowned upon. Most of these things, Mia was happy to put up with. She too liked jogging, and Paul was a good motivator; Friday nights with Lizzie and their friends, drowning in wine, meant that by Saturday she was often glad of a dry night off, and Sunday afternoons she liked to have to herself back at the flat to prepare for the next week. It gave the week a rhythm, Mia felt, and Paul’s adherence to his rules provided another fixed point in her life, which did have a tendency to careen out of control when she was left alone for too long.

Compared to Mia’s past boyfriends, Paul seemed dedicated and stable. He often talked of their future, of children and a house in the country, indeed, all the things that Mia said that she wanted.

“You’re right Lizzie, I don’t know why I feel so lost, I guess I’m just being stupid. But ….”

“But ….what?” prompted Lizzie, who had had been helping Mia through problems like these since they were schoolgirls, whispering about getting the attention of the cutest boys in class at the tender age of 11. At 31 now, their relationship hadn’t changed much. Lizzie still knew what she wanted and how to go about getting it. She was much more satisfied with life in general, while Mia was still on the lookout for something new and exciting that would get her fired up and take her down one of the many paths she had yet to explore.

“Well, do you ever get the feeling that you are floating above a relationship instead of really in it?” Mia asked. Lizzie thought for a bit. “Ummm, no, not really. Why do you say that?”

“Because I am getting that sensation more and more when I’m with Paul. We’ll be, you know, chatting or reading the paper or even in bed and I will be kind of observing things from the outside rather than really living them alongside him. As though I’m watching a film of what we’re doing and it’s started to make me wonder if I even really love him?”

“Oh, Mia.” Lizzie said. “On this one, I don’t know if I can help. Why do you feel like that? I mean, what makes you feel like that? Surely you must know by now if you love him or not?”

Mia sighed. That’s right, she ought to know by now whether she loved Paul. Perhaps things had just got settled into too comfortable of a routine and needed a bit of spicing up. Normally Lizzie could help her out of any situation just by reasoning things out and talking her through them. And if logic, reason, and talking didn’t manage to help Mia, then Lizzie would whip together a chocolate whisky cake, shiny on top, and intensely squidgy in the centre, with a hit of peaty whisky and the crunch of walnuts and biscuit nestled amongst the chocolate filling. Or perhaps a cherry cheesecake, smooth cream cheese, and a velvety cherry topping in a rich sugary syrup. Then she’d relax into a sugar-filled haze of happiness. Lizzie was an excellent cook and knew all of Mia’s favourite comfort food dishes and when to deploy them.

At the thought of cake, Mia set off down memory lane, remembering all the times in the past that Lizzie had helped her, like after university when Mia didn’t really know what to do. As her red-faced uncle — who had acted as a kind of surrogate father to Mia, at least when it came to dishing out unsolicited advice and being disapproving as she got older — never failed to remind her: “What do you do with an English Literature degree from a second rate university, eh?”

When Mia had told him that becoming a teacher was not in her grand plan (wherever that was hiding), he raised his eyebrows and said “Mia love, you really need to settle on something. Think of how it will look to future employers if you go bumming your way around the world without a care in the world.”

So, Mia went off travelling. Not necessarily to spite Uncle George, her mother’s older brother, but because in moaning at her for the umpteenth time, he’d hit upon something that she actually wanted to do, and, as she’d later admit to herself, “at least it was a plan.” She thought back defiantly remembering the 12 months spent temping and trying to pretend that she actually knew how to work an Excel spreadsheet. Oh god, Mia cringed remembering the only job she’d been sacked from after just a day of unsuccessfully entering company data into a column which had been set to add up and convert to euros, thus rendering the whole day’s work null and void, much like the figures which emerged from her bogus spreadsheet.

Compared to that, backpacking and waitressing her way around the world had seemed like a piece of cake. At least until she found herself washing out knickers for the umpteenth night in hostel bathrooms and wearing damp socks to climb yet another must-see mountain in high humidity and semi-darkness; or, meeting the latest “best friend” for life who three weeks later, as they entered Laos or Cambodia or embarked on the Machu Picchu trail, would have disappeared from the scene to be replaced by a group of Israeli hedonists, hell-bent on enjoying life after emerging from military service, and careering down rapids like there was no tomorrow.

But after awhile, she missed her real friends in London. While Mia was challenging Istanbul locals to Backgammon tournaments, it seemed her friends had started to move on with their lives, find partners, buy flats, set up businesses, or progress in their careers. The fear set in that Uncle George might be right, and that when she eventually did fly back to Britain, no employer would look at her.

“Too much bumming around, Mia my dear, never did anyone any good,” Uncle George’s voice boomed across the oceans from his little corner of Kent. Then she was invited to Charlotte’s wedding in Cornwall. The email popped through whilst she was sitting in an Internet cafe in Bali, slap bang in the middle of rainy season. Mia was just about sick of trying to surreptitiously scratch her mosquito bites when her yoga teacher’s back was turned and feeling permanently damp — a bit like playing a not very enjoyable game of Twister in a mouldy sauna. Despite the waitressing, she had also nearly run out of money; and even working part-time in one of the beach bars was not enough to keep paying for the yoga courses, and the rent on the beach hut she’d moved to after realising that the local cockroaches were about to become the things she spent the most nights with on the island.

Along with the invite from Charlotte was an email from Lizzie asking Mia if she would be back in time for the summer to help run a cupcake stall at food and music festivals around Britain. Suddenly an enormous wave of homesickness overtook Mia: Lizzie’s baking, which she hadn’t tasted for nearly two years, England, bunting, green grass, and home with a capital H. Village greens with men in white playing cricket on them. This imagined celluloid-Britain was calling her home as strong as if she had been sitting in a stone village church listening to an entire village singing hymns, their voices uplifting and haunting in equal measure. Her heart soared, warmed by her own fiction, and before she knew it she had booked the last remaining flight on her round the world ticket back to Britain.

Lizzie was there to meet Mia at the airport along with her mum and a box of cupcakes. The shiny grey floors of Heathrow weren’t exactly the village greens of her imagination. Their journey back through London’s drizzle didn’t take them past one piece of bunting or village green, but she was home with the people she loved, and ready to see the cards destiny would deal her for the next course of her life.

And that destiny seemed to twist and rise, like a perfectly kneaded currant bun. Selling cupcakes at festivals around the country had proved a turning point for Mia, who made contacts easily and was naturally enthusiastic about Lizzie’s ace baking. So much so that she was soon busy promoting her own and other foodie businesses at festivals and back in London. Before she knew it she had grown a little food PR business and was a busy blogger, too.

It’s a struggle being good …

“You know those days when you get up in the morning and you’re really determined to be good? Those days when you want to push your life around a turn for the better, in short when you want to change who you are? Well, that was me today. I bounced out of bed (not hard when your favourite food is cake) and down the stairs and managed to squeeze into my yoga outfit. (I swear it shrank when I accidentally washed it on 60 degrees) I ran around pulling things out of my wardrobe to try and find my yoga mat as I hadn’t touched this stuff for at least a year, because, you know, there’s always an excuse isn’t there? One Sunday you drank too much the night before, the next Sunday you’re staying at your boyfriend’s and can you really be bothered to cycle back across town in time, especially when you’re hoping he might actually feel like getting it on with you before you head for home, so you’re busy trying to look your most sultry, whilst also making sure that you’re not trying too hard …the next Sunday you’ve arranged for a non-yoga-loving friend to stay, or perhaps you just feel like watching your box set of Sex and the City all day with her, and hiding under your duvet with a supply of cupcakes at hand. Anyway, today, I’d made a pact: no more procrastinating. This, I thought, is going to be my new regime on a Sunday — and not just Sunday. From now on, I intend to be there almost every day to recapture that lifestyle I had when I was travelling. Ten minutes into the lesson my limbs are shaking as I try to hold “the plank” position and my stomach is growling and complaining, having only been ‘filled’ by one of those green juices so beloved of celebrities nowadays, and ubiquitous in articles about diet. It might be healthy, but does blitzed up spinach, apple, and ginger really fill you up as effectively as a cappuccino and a croissant? I think not.

As I get into “downward dog,” I start to feel a little light-headed and quickly put myself in child’s pose, which I have to admit IS one of my favourite yoga poses. Before I know it, the class has nearly ended and I’m still concentrating hard, forehead to the floor realising why I hadn’t done this for a couple of years.

I already ache after all that effort and feel it’s only fair to my body if I refuel. Continuing the super-food tone of the day, I order a fruit smoothie (OK, yes, it does have a rim of sugar around the glass, comes with a home-baked shortbread, and is made with ice cream, but it is also full of berries, so I figured that is a satisfactory option. Blueberries are, after all, a super-food, ditto for the spinach that practically made the eggs Florentine the menu’s most health-conscience choice. What about the butter dripping from the muffin and glistening through the fresh green wilted spinach that was bejewelled with black peppercorns like black diamonds, you ask? Well, something needed to provide a crunchy contrast to the silken eggs glinting in the light coming in through the windows or it would have hardly been worth the seven pounds. I realise this is probably not quite the raw food approach I perhaps should adopt, but my granny always said, “a little of what you fancy does you good,” and I’m determined to live my life by that maxim.

But just in case my brunch wasn’t quite as pure as it perhaps should have been if I had strictly adhered to the new regime, I popped into a health food emporium to stock up on a bit more goodness. Raw cacao, coconut oil, dates, nuts, seeds, avocados, and a basket full of organic vegetables and cracker breads. Sounds good doesn’t it? As long as you don’t mention (whisper it) the soy deserts and chocolate which somehow found their way into my basket. Life is short as they say, so why not enjoy it. Whilst I’m shopping I’m busily running my way through recipes I have read, figuring that if I make that Chocolate Torte constructed entirely of avocados, raw cacao, dates, nuts, and coconut oil, then I can actually eat double the portions, almost totally guilt-free.

Until then, greedily — ahem, no, I mean healthily — yours.”

Mmnmmmmnh, hummed Mia, breathing out through her nose, all tension deserting her as she concentrated, one day after her last blog post, on the delectable butter cream, filling her mouth and languorously surrounding her tongue. All thoughts of the new regime having long ago flown out the window — replaced by the sponge cake she got to next, which was light and infused with the wispy perfumed taste of lavender.

Lizzie loved the way Mia mnnmmmhed without realising it when she was enjoying her food, which was most of the time. It always made Lizzie feel good about what she’d cooked and she tested most of what she was about to launch in the café on Mia first. This Monday was their monthly menu session; when Mia helped Lizzie write up the seasonal menu to tempt customers into trying the new combinations on the menu.

Mia’s job this month was to think up new ways of describing Lizzie’s lavender-infused range. “Lavender dream? A taste of summer? Creamy, dreamy, and romantic?”

Cakes were medicine to Mia. Her saviour, especially today when she was struggling with a hangover from the Sunday night bottle of wine she and Lizzie decided they just had to finish to celebrate the encouraging words her new health regime was receiving on the Internet.

Lizzie and Mia; the perfect double act, friends since school. Mia dreamy but extroverted and Lizzie down to earth and practical but shy. Mia loved eating food and Lizzie loved cooking it.

Mia shook herself out of her dreamy train of thought and excursions back into the past. “What about ‘Lavender Drift?’” she asked Lizzie? “Yeah, that could work,” Lizzie replied. “Drift away on a cloud of vanilla cream,” riffed Mia, warming to her theme, “ …and then wake up in a field of lavender. No that’s wrong, that doesn’t sound very relaxing, confusing perhaps, we don’t want to scare people off, we’re not talking about a hallucinogenic drug.” Mia frowned, concentrate Mia, concentrate! She took another bite — purely for research purposes, of course. Drift away on a cloud of vanilla cream floating serenely across fields of gentle blue lavender. Mmmmmmh Now we’re getting there, thought Mia. “Bite into a Lavender Drift cupcake and you’ll soon be drifting away on a cloud of vanilla cream, across fields of lavender- A taste of rural summer in the heart of London.” Mia added with a flourish.

For Mia, Lizzie’s cupcakes were a metaphorical cuddle. Lavender is calming and was helping her rediscover her centre, all the things she needed after another less than perfect weekend with Paul who had been with his friends on Friday, and had upset Mia so much on the Saturday that she had left even earlier than she’d intended. Not that Paul seemed to notice, he was just happy she was exercising and went off to his mother’s house oblivious of any problem. Mia, checking surreptitiously for a message that didn’t come, used her phone instead to snap a picture of the cupcakes for her blog.

Memories of Lavender

You know what? Lavender always reminds me of my glamorous Irish granny, smoking lavender cigarettes and winking at me as she sipped tea from pretty bone china cups, decorated with sprays of lavender and roses. My mother is there desperately wafting the smoke away from me and frowning at my granny who sits there obliviously smiling. I’m climbing onto my granny’s lap now and breathing in her smell which, like these cupcakes, is infused with lavender and softness, creamy wool cardigans, and a bobbly skirt. Up above our heads, in my imagination, are the letters L.O.V.E spelled out in lavender laced smoke. And I am happy.

Greedily yours …

“Mia, are you OK?” Lizzie noticed that Mia was even dreamier than usual. She knew she shouldn’t have persuaded Mia that sharing a bottle of wine over last night’s meal was a good idea, although Mia was even funnier when she had a bit of wine in her.

Mia’s latest ‘New Regime’ had lasted until about 5 p.m. when lying on Lizzie’s bedroom floor chatting, Mia said: “This is sooo hard. It’s Sunday and I want to eat a cupcake and instead I should be extolling the virtues of super-foods and a raw diet on my blog”

“Well let’s go for sushi,” answered Lizzie. “Raw fish can be part of your new raw diet and is full of vitamins and vitality.” “Oh yes,” breathed Mia joyously, “I can eat rainbow rolls and still feel good. Life has been saved. Lizzie you’re a genius.”

A serving of deep-fried tempura, soft shelled crab in a wasabi mayonnaise dip, and some hearty ramen might not exactly constitute raw food, but Mia found it hard to resist once she had a menu in front of her and a hunger the size of Buckingham Palace. It seemed rude by that point not to complement the whole thing with a crisp white Riesling. Mia thought the wine was the perfect accompaniment to a dissection of the weekend, and the latest trials and tribulations with Paul. And anyway, she reasoned, she and Lizzie were busy celebrating the nice comments some of her readers had left about her new regime.

“Don’t you have anything positive to say about him?” asked Lizzie after she’d listened to yet another one of Mia’s rants about what Paul had or hadn’t done this time. Mia would feel momentarily chastened, trying to think about Paul’s positive qualities she’d list a few, but if Mia was honest, she had a lot more fun hanging out with Lizzie, or even working, than she often did on a weekend with Paul. Probably not a good sign if I’m relieved to have a reason to be disappointed with him, she thought. But, just as she was thinking perhaps she should leave him, he would surprise her, booking a fabulous weekend away or taking her out to a posh dinner, and she’d push her worries down and away. Paul’s most dashing trait, as far as Mia could see, was that he loved planning holidays. And he loved planning a long time ahead to get the best deals. Of course that also complicated Mia’s life, because she had usually said yes to a trip and paid the deposit, meaning that their relationship limped on as Mia (who didn’t really like conflict or planning ahead) explained to Lizzie for the umpteenth time.

“And really, is it any worse than any other relationship? Paul is tall, good looking, and earns plenty of money in the City, not that I’m materialistic, but, you know … that’s a plus in most people’s eyes. Whenever people see a picture of him they all hum approvingly. He’s photogenic and knows how to dress. He likes fast cars and gadgets. And, he wants me to be the best I can. Ok that sometimes includes dragging me on long runs or nagging me about my cake habit, but, as he likes to say, it’s in my best interest. He also talks about the future, something that no other boyfriend has ever done before. He’s always playing the ‘what would we name our kids’ game and has already built an imagined house for us in the countryside next door to his parents. When I dress up and straighten my hair, he compliments me, and he’s happy walking down the street of some European capital with me and taking me out to dinner.”

Lizzie knew that Mia believed Paul was somehow her destiny, because she’d met him at Charlotte’s wedding soon after her return to England. “So it just felt right,” Mia continued remembering the blurry marquee, too much alcohol as she swayed across the dance floor and then being held in Paul’s strong arms, kissing him under the stars in a lush garden, and giggling like a schoolgirl as they disappeared off into the bushes leaving the other guests behind them. “Paul seemed romantic back then,” Mia finished.

“Mia you are an incurable romantic, you know that?” said Lizzie smiling But behind the fondness for Mia, she was slightly worried that Mia needed to wake up and end things with Paul if she wasn’t happy. After so many stops and starts, she didn’t want to tell Mia what to do, because when things went well between Mia and Paul, Mia was liable to have a totally different perception of things. She didn’t take kindly to being reminded of the bad times. Basically Lizzie had learnt that it was better to smile along and let Mia talk.

That said, even Mia, Lizzie thought, must realise that four years later and the light on that silvery moon had truly tarnished.

“Do you ever find yourself staring at James’ back as he sleeps, and feel yourself fighting a feeling of boredom that’s growing by the day and wondering whether this is true love, or just one of those blind alleys that destiny has led you down?”

“Oh Mia, I think if you have to ask that, then you know the answer to whether or not you’re in love with him …” sighed Lizzie.

“Mmmm,” mused Mia feeling sick at the thought that she might actually have to make a decision about this. It had all seemed so perfect at the beginning — a new job, a new love who liked being seen at the best restaurants in town with her on his arm.

“But Paul has started mentioning marriage. He’s told me that he wants to move nearer his parents, to Surrey and, like the man with a plan that he is, he has it all sorted. He’s very sure he’s on the right track, but I keep wondering where I took that wrong turn. Sometimes I get the feeling that his road, where he’s driving fast, does not really include me the way I am. It just includes the image of Mia that he still has in his head, or perhaps any girl would do. I just happen to be here right now. The girl he thought he met four years ago is not the Mia that is really me.”

“’Perhaps any girl would do?’ I think you need to have a serious talk with Paul. You can’t let him start planning a marriage if it’s not what you want.”

Mia let out a wry laugh. “Oh no, he hasn’t started planning a wedding … or, only to the extent that he’s going to get a suit made for himself and whichever Paul Smith shoes he might choose to wear. He just likes talking about us as if we were already married and kind of ticking boxes. Marriage, tick, big house, tick, moving in close to your parents and leaving the city behind, tick. You know? Children, tick. I mean Paul doesn’t even like children and if he’s anything like his father, he’ll be completely removed from actually looking after them or bringing them up. He just has a very strict plan for his life.”

Mia didn’t know why Paul’s vision of the future made her feel so glum and trapped, but it did. When she was feeling better about things, Mia reasoned that she should be happy that a man talked obliquely about marrying her and having children with her. That he could see her in his future, even if half the time he didn’t seem to want her in his present. For all her extroverted nature, Mia had a secret fear of being alone. Paul had come along as Mia was approaching the big 3-0 (well, in truth she’d been four years off 30 when they hit it off a few years after university at Charlotte’s wedding, but Mia had already started to worry about turning 30 and was wobbling on the precipice of a late quarter-life crisis when she’d returned from travelling). Buoyed by the euphoria of the wedding and love with a capital L, Mia stepped over the discarded confetti in her too tight stilettos, and vowed to herself that she needed to find someone to settle down with, too. And then he appeared: smiling, tall, strong, and blonde.

“You don’t want to leave it too late Mia sweetheart,” her granny loved to tell her, patting her knee and searching Mia’s face as she asked if she’d met “The One” yet. One by one, friends on Facebook announced their engagement and marriage, and Mia felt the pressure that the next man needed to be “The One” that her granny — and she — so wanted to meet.

It was easy in London to maintain a relationship for years without ever spending too much time with your partner. Between work and fun and friends, Mia worked out that she’d probably actually spent about four months with Paul over the last four years. Well at least that’s what she liked to tell herself when she wondered how on earth she had managed such a long relationship with someone who she essentially came to find a little bit boring. But they were such an established couple and had so many mutual friends from university that it was easier said than done to extricate yourself from something — especially when it wasn’t really broken, and on the contrary seemed to be heading in exactly the direction that Mia had always hoped for.

“I know, that sounds unfair doesn’t it? Am I some kind of horrible person? I mean who stays with someone that they find a little bit boring? But that’s just it, there’s no real concrete reason why anything is wrong, it’s just that the routine we’ve settled into is not exciting me anymore.” Mia proceeded to describe the previous weekend to Lizzie.

“We were getting ready for bed on Saturday night and there’s me, wafting in to Paul’s bedroom in that new silk kimono.” Mia giggled at the memory looking a little coy because Lizzie knew that when Mia wore certain clothes she was busy with a film in her head instead of the reality of the situation. “So in my head, this kimono, all covered in antique pinks and turquoise flowers makes me look a little bit like a geisha. I took my makeup off, well most of it anyway; I just added a touch of liquid blush to my cheeks and the middle of my lips, to give them that just-bitten, sexy, bee-stung look. ‘Looking good’ I told myself in the mirror before sashaying into the bedroom, hair piled up on my head and dropped the kimono dramatically before approaching the bed. Paul looked up from the book he was reading, and raised an eyebrow. I wasn’t exactly expecting whoops of joy you know, but I guess I was hoping for a slightly more enthusiastic reception than the raised, quizzical eyebrow. That popped my bubble pretty effectively. So there’s me standing there like an idiot with a kimono in a puddle around my feet on the floor wondering whether or not to put on the sexy soundtrack that I’d been planning to fire up to get our Saturday night off to a peppy start.”

Well into their second bottle of wine, Lizzie and Mia were giggling away conspiratorially.

“Anyway,” continued Mia, “as dignified as I could, I slink the kimono back on and try and focus on being SEXY. I try and work it like a catwalk model on a runway over to the iPod, to him I probably looked more like a drunken monkey than a sexy beast, and click on one of my teenage favourites. Faithless is soon booming into the room. ‘If lovin’ you is wrong then I don’t wanna be right,’ winding and grinding back towards the bed, the syncopated beat is getting me back in the mood. The singer, Maxi Jazz’s voice growled out “Watch me ride … ah ….I’m a sexual animal ….ah,” and then Paul pipes up:

’Mia darling, I’m trying to read here. Could you turn that music down a bit?’ Paul sometimes has the effect of metaphorically ripping the needle off the record — the man is practically a walking advert for abstinence. I should have known that trying to pep up our sex life would be impossible. And do you know what he asks me? ‘I’m just wondering whether we should go on an ‘alkaline diet’ he says — then calls me ‘darling.’ ‘You know it’s apparently good for fighting cellulite,’ he tells me. I can’t move, I’m standing there frozen looking down at my thighs, terrified that cellulite might be climbing up them out of the pool of disappointment that had settled at my feet.” Mia pauses for effect, warming to her story and sipping some more wine.

“I turn my head back to the mirror that only moments before reflected a sexy geisha at me, and I see a definite wobble on my bottom and thighs. The cakes are finally catching up with me I think, so I jump under the duvet mortified, whilst at the same time grabbing the remote control and extinguishing Maxi who was, by this time, in full orgasmic flow, oblivious to Paul’s ability to murder the mood. He just carries on reading his health and fitness manual as if nothing had happened.

So I turn over and switch out my light. Paul sighs and follows suit, keeping himself vigilantly on his side of the bed. If there is one thing Paul hates, it is being touched or held while he sleeps and THAT,” Mia finishes, draining the bottle and ending her new regime semi-triumphantly, yet again, within 12 hours of starting it, “was yet another Saturday night in our lives. And why this wine tastes soooo good.”

***

The problem is, thought Mia Paul and I have a very different approach to life. It hadn’t seemed so clear when they first had been dating and Paul had seemed glamorous and old worldly, asking her for dates and turning up in yet another heart-breakingly well-cut suit to whisk her off to an exciting weekend away.

But in Paul’s world, it was better to pre-empt problems than allow them to fester. Mia’s new regimes on the other hand were always undertaken on the spur of the moment and finished as quickly as they begun because inevitably, she’d have to work late, eat (and drink) at a function, have a hangover, and the very next day she’d just need, absolutely need, one of Lizzie’s cakes to cheer her up. And once the cycle was broken then Mia could quickly justify her cake consumption. After all, she would say defiantly to Paul in her head, whilst stomping angrily along, my agency is all about connecting people with food, so it’s hardly fair to expect me to abstain when I’m working with food every day of my life. It would be like asking you to stop reading the Financial Times, except worse because one wouldn’t die without the FT, whereas without food where would we be?

Food for Paul though, was just simple fuel. He could happily subsist on protein shakes and gym workouts. He measured his body constantly, subscribed to fitness manuals, and made it his life’s mission to be the best at everything he did. He disapproved of alcohol, would sip one beer with a weird look on his face, probably thinking about how many press ups he’d have to do to burn that one little bottle off, and would slope off early from the party whenever he could. Perhaps, Mia reflected, it was because his mother was a former model. Perhaps he’d never been allowed to enjoy food like other children. After four years of dating she’d managed to discover that Paul had enjoyed food so much at one point in his life that he’d been a little fatty. His model mother, horrified to have a fat child, had placed him on a diet from which he’d rarely deviated since.

That’s what Mia explained to her girlfriends when they frowned if she told them about Paul’s “helpful tips” and their gym sessions. “He wasn’t being deliberately nasty,” Mia would explain, “it was just his way of showing love.” And really, Mia didn’t want to turn into a fatty either. She enjoyed eating, yes, she loved cakes but she wanted to look good, too, and looking good in Paul’s eyes was maintaining her perfect 10 figure.

Well he’d probably prefer a size 8 figure like his mother, thought Mia ruefully, but she’d been busy cutting the labels out of her clothes for years and hadn’t bothered informing Paul that she often had to buy a size 14 now, although that, of course was only to get the length right, or for shops that did particularly small sizes, or in places that just weren’t cut for Mia’s figure. I mean, in Marks and Spencer’s she was a 10, sometimes, occasionally with an A-Line skirt an 8, so there.

It did make it a bit awkward at Christmas or birthdays, when Paul would buy Mia a tiny delicate slip of a thing that she quickly had to swap before wearing so she could actually fit in it. The excuses she’d gone to as to why she couldn’t wear the new lace ensemble actually on Christmas night. But luckily Paul was easily distracted. Mia only had to wave a copy of the FT under his nose pointing out that some market or other was gaining or losing, or suggest a jog and he would follow like a dog with a bone and forget all about the sexy slip of lace that he’d just bought Mia. If for any reason, the FT or a jog failed to dislodge Paul from persuading Mia into the lace right then and there, his mother, Felicity, would normally choose that moment to ring or call up from downstairs. And when Felicity rang or called, Paul jumped to attention and stopped everything so that he could regale his mother with his latest deal on the stock exchange or his latest Personal Best.

***

Back at the café, Mia shook her head free of thoughts of Paul. The menu tasting session with Lizzie was nearly over and they always ended it with a sandwich for lunch. This time it was Mia’s turn to suggest a combination. She’d brought with her what was left in her fridge and had come up with pesto and mayo on rye bread stuffed with goat’s cheese and red onion. Indulgent, tangy and well, the rye was vaguely healthy and it was only a scraping of mayo and pesto instead of butter so Mia really couldn’t see what the problem was. Semi-raw food thought Mia busily thinking how she could maybe write a diet book based on these principles, the Mia maxim! OK the bread was cooked and perhaps most raw food devotees wouldn’t add cheese to their diet but you know, pesto was mostly made up of raw food and so were the onions. Goat’s cheese even crept into Paul’s prescriptions for an alkaline diet so ….really this was actually a decidedly healthy alternative to the Italian salami and cheese creations they would normally dip in creamy dressings at the end of the tasting.

They tucked into their sarnies, Mia mmmmnh-ing and Lizzie smiling. “So when are you off to Cornwall, Mia?” Lizzie asked. “Mnrh grtomolrrowsch” Mia mumbled through a mouthful of sandwich. “Sorry,” she swallowed. “Tomorrow,” she corrected herself.

“Going down on the 9:06 to St. Minnion and then Lord Trelawney will pick me up.”

“Lord Trelawney himself?” asked Lizzie, “Oh yes” said Mia smiling, “He doesn’t stand on ceremony, he’s still got the title and the land but really he’s not like you’d imagine a lord at all. He’s a lovely old man, quite happy pottering around with his sister, Agatha, cooking meals for him and making sure the estate doesn’t fall to ruin. Like most aristocrats, even though he’s excessively polite and kind, he doesn’t talk much about himself. I don’t even know if he’s got a family. I did google him once and it seems he had an Italian wife, met her in the sixties. I think he was a bit of an old hippie back then but the Wiki entry I found on him had been altered and there wasn’t much more said about her except that she died. He appears to have lived on his own ever since, although his sister often helps out at the festival and obviously cooks for him, too, from what I can see when I’m there.”

Mia’s summer season was already well under way and the caravan of food pop-ups and food carts were already doing their rounds of festivals across the country. The Trelawney’s festival was one of her favourites because she got to stay in the manor house so she could avoid the muddy grounds if the weather didn’t behave itself. She liked striding around in her Hunter wellies and nipped-in black Barbour jacket, and playing at being Lady of the Manor. Lord Trelawney, despite his disorganisation, was such a dear; he basically let Mia sort everything out and didn’t interfere very much with choosing who should come down. He was just pleased if the festival made enough money for him to keep the estate buoyant for the rest of the year. Between that and renting out to local farmers some of the land, he’d managed to retain the manor house despite never having really worked, except on the estate itself. By Thursday she’d have everything ship shape and ready to greet the crowds that would descend at the weekend for a food themed extravaganza of displays, talks and lots and lots of eating.

Lunch finished, Mia hopped on her bike to cycle back across the park from Lizzie’s café to home. She had a lot to sort before heading off to Cornwall.

***

“At last,” Mia thought and leaned back in her seat to watch as the grey of London, the high rises of Marylebone, and the industrial outlands gradually gave way to the greener suburbs and towns of Ealing, Slough, and Reading. Once they slid past Newbury and the train started to gather speed and the green fields of Berkshire and then Wiltshire spread out before her, Mia could start to relax.

Clouds were suspended Constable-like, white and fluffy overhead, stretching out across the landscape as the train trundled underneath. The sky behind the clouds was an intense blue getting gradually lighter as it pulled towards the horizon.

Mia sipped her coffee gingerly through the plastic spout and opened her box to a whoosh of delicate lavender scent. She’d taken the liberty of bringing a few, ahem, samples with her for the trip and just eating one, she thought, wouldn’t hurt. The rest, luckily, were arriving on Friday morning, otherwise this journey could have been very dangerous for her, as Lizzie’s Lavender Drifts — the name they eventually settled on — had already become very hard to resist.

As she mmmmnhed her way through a cupcake and coffee, Mia’s eyes flicked between the serenity of the green flashing past her and the little green light on her mobile. She willed him to send her a message or an email even though she was still annoyed with him about the previous weekend. In a way, being able to be in almost constant contact made relationships very stressful, thought Mia. With Paul she spent most of the time checking to see if he had sent a message and then feeling annoyed at herself for needing to check and at him for being more interested in posting things on Facebook than communicating directly with her. When he did bother to write, his messages normally disappointed her, too, in their brevity and lack of romance. He generally only wrote when they needed to arrange something, whereas Mia needed a lot of attention in order to feel secure.

Trying to look on the bright side, Mia turned her thoughts back to the present. She loved the “Atlantic Express” train as it was known. Every summer she hummed up and down between London and Cornwall distributing food, love, and organisation at various little festivals across the southwest.

Why isn’t he replying? she thought, fingers drumming impatiently. Paul often didn’t check his phone all morning, or that’s what he’d told Mia when she’d questioned him about why he would often not reply to her text messages sent when she woke up until the evening — by which time she’d had long enough to get herself into a stinking mood at his apparent lack of romance. “Mia darling,” Paul would say, “I don’t have time when I’m at work to be constantly checking my phone to see if you’ve sent a text. And you know I don’t like constantly communicating. I’ve told you how I feel about you and that should be enough.” But somehow it wasn’t, even though Lizzie and Mia’s other friends had told her she needed to calm her expectations down. Most men weren’t into sending constant text messages, and what did that prove anyway? Mia tried to distract herself with Red magazine, flicking idly through the pages but her eye kept going back to her smart phone placed strategically by her hand, ready to pounce should a message come through. At last, as they were in the rolling hills of Wiltshire, her phone vibrated and the light started flashing manically.

“Hey sweetie,” wrote Paul “Thanks for your message. Busy here at work today, the Asian markets are falling, better get going. Ciao for now X.”

X!? thought Mia. Just one measly bloody kiss? He may as well have signed off “Best,” because it was virtually a work message. She’d told him this kind of message drove her mad. But when Paul was in trading mode he couldn’t switch off and so, Mia resolved, this was probably the best she could hope for. At least he’d replied. Did that merit another cupcake? No, stop it Mia, she remonstrated with herself. You DO NOT need another cupcake. Remember, the new you loves carrot sticks and working out at least once a day.

Her eyes fell on the fitness band on her wrist; she checked the display, already 2000 steps today, not bad she thought.

Although not surprising, given that she’d had to drag her case from her house to the Overground at some ungodly hour, change three times walking the length and breadth of Highbury and Kings Cross, and then Paddington before she’d finally made it to the train. Include some detours to get coffee and magazines, and she’d easily completed a fifth of her target for the day.

Right, time to get down to work, said Mia to herself. Opening up her emails and making sure that she’d replied to everyone who needed a reply and that all the delivery lorries were in place for Friday morning. Tick, tick, tick, thought Mia satisfied.

When the Trelawneys had first set up the festival in the late seventies, it had really just been a group of their friends come down from London to spend the weekend. It wasn’t called a festival in those days, just an annual gathering of like-minded people who gathered to talk about food, learn about food, and all its manifestations. The early pioneers of allotments and grow your own, hippies and vegans and vegetarians mixed together on a picturesque piece of land. People cooked for everyone then, so it had the atmosphere of a kind of pot-luck supper. Then some of the friends got more important jobs in the restaurant world or publishing or music production and decided to invite other friends who had convinced the Trelawneys to share their happy corner of Cornwall with the wider world. The festival had spiraled into something bigger, and now attracted some of the top-named writers and chefs with their own devoted followings.

Mia had come on board gradually. She and Lizzie had started by selling cupcakes at the festival. Lizzie had worked on the stalls as a teenager to make some money in her summer holidays, as it had been where her parents had taken her camping every summer. After Lizzie had set up her café, Lord Trelawney was happy to invite her down to run the tea stand for him, and things had grown from there. Mia had loved the festival so much the first time that she’d enthusiastically chatted to Lord Trelawney at the end and made some suggestions he appeared to like. When the season came around the following year, he had invited Mia down the next year a few days early to serve as a consultant. Mia’s business had grown from there — she’d been happy to source some new pop-ups and food carts to join the local shops and their own cupcake stall. By now the food festival boasted a rotating cornucopia of different food carts.

As the train finally clattered past the rust-red cliffs of Devon, and over the old Victorian iron bridge at Plymouth, she was ready to get stuck in and organised. She had a hamper packed from Lizzie’s café so that she could share tea with Lord Trelawney and his sister, and then the three of them would get down to deciding which food stall could go where.

As the train drew in at St. Minnion, she scanned the waiting faces for Lord Trelawney but couldn’t see him. She hauled down her big Mary Poppins-esque brocade bag with her tablet, laptop, make up, smart phone, notebooks, boxes of samples, and just about everything else she could think she’d need for the week in a changeable and often wet climate. Bag slung over one shoulder, she grabbed the wicker basket in the other hand with everything dry and sweet you could imagine for a first class tea. Scones, Lavender Drift cup-cakes, date and walnut cake, and raspberry meringues. Lastly, from the end of the carriage, Mia fished out her enormous suitcase from under a pile of cat baskets, suitcases, and duffel bags that had been piled on top.

She leaned out of the train door and yanked the handle on the outside. Her carefully straightened hair was already starting to frizz in the humidity and Mia’s cheeks were flushed pink as she struggled to get all of her bags out of the train in time. Eventually she tumbled out and the station master winked at her. “All right my lover,” he called in typical Cornish fashion as he waved his wooden paddle and sent the train on its way north to Newquay.

Mia gathered herself and her belongings and straightened up. But the platform was deserted. This was most unlike Lord Trelawney, she thought, and fished inside her enormous bag for her phone.

Blinking at her in the darkness of her bag was the message light. She quickly opened up her inbox to find that a few more messages had popped up as she’d regained telephone reception up on the moors, but nothing from Lord Trelawney or his sister.

She dragged her bags down the station to the little café in the old signal box. Once up some steep steps Mia opened the door and was greeted by a warm fog and the tinkling of a little bell. Egg mayonnaise sandwiches and packets of crisps winked enticingly at her as she plonked herself down at the tall chairs by the window so she’d have a good view of the station. She ordered an egg and bacon baguette and a strong cup of tea and opened up her phone once more.

“Argghh,” said Mia exasperated. No reception. She waved her phone around the little room, hoping that she might somehow attract a bit of signal but the network remained stubbornly elusive.

OK, ok, keep calm thought Mia. “There’s no point getting upset about this. I’ll have lunch and then I’ll ask the café owner if I can phone a taxi. It’s not that far anyway.”

As she bit into her egg and bacon baguette, and gulped the hot tea, she noticed an attractive man walk on to the station, looking flustered, dark tousled curls obscuring some of his face. He was dressed in ripped jeans, covered in mud, some wellies, and an old wax shooting jacket that probably dated back to the sixties, it looked so old. He looked around a couple of times and then seemed to swear quietly to himself.

“Perhaps he was off to Newquay,” thought Mia, knowing that there wasn’t another train through here for at least an hour. She carried on with her delicious baguette, making a note to ask Lizzie to try out the combination, piled on cheese scones and sprinkled with chives, in the café for their autumn offerings.

Looking at herself in the bit of window that hadn’t fogged up with condensation, Mia could see that her carefully straightened hair was already frizzing in the humidity. Oh well, thought Mia, the air of professionalism and London gloss always slips a bit at this festival. Besides, Paul (who liked Mia’s hair best straight and smooth “as chocolate silk”) was not there to see. So who cares. Now I’d better see about getting myself a cab to the manor.

The café owner was busying herself to close up until the next train came through. Apparently even her own mobile phone lacked reception, so she waved Mia downstairs to a freephone. Once she was downstairs she noticed the freephone for the cab had been disconnected and hung disconsolately off its hook. Mia’s heart sank. She sat down on the curb and contemplated her options. First she tried once more to wave her phone around in order to get some reception. When that didn’t work she decided she’d drag her cases down the long green avenue to the local road in the hope of hitch hiking across to Trelawney Manor.

Twenty minutes later Mia had managed to transport all her belongings to the end of the road, but her gold and leopard-skin gladiator sandals were pinching her feet and had become encrusted in mud which had in turn flicked up her Navy Capri pants. Her white blouse was now decidedly creased with a small rip under the arm, as she’d tried to drag her big case with the picnic hamper balanced on her forearm and her other bag on the left arm. Not the chic look I put together this morning, that’s for sure. Mia blew stray strands of hair off her face through the side of her mouth.

Just as she reached the end of the station, a muddy Land Rover that had also seen better days hurtled around the corner, indicating to turn in. Mia waved frantically, but the Land Rover’s driver didn’t seem to see her. This road was normally full of people driving back from a day out, why was there no one today just when I need a lift?

About fifteen minutes later, whilst Mia was thinking about whether she’d have the strength to drag her bags the two miles to the manor, the rumble of the Land Rover engine reached her ears. This time it was going at a slightly more sedate pace and she once again tried to flag it down, but before she’d disentangled herself from her bags, the driver slowed, and leaned out with an angry look on his face.

“Why didn’t you wait at the bloody station you idiot?” He threw at her with a broad Cornish accent. Mia, taken aback, didn’t quite know what to say, realising gradually that this was the man she’d seen on the station about 40 minutes earlier. Instead, she stood gaping with her mouth open and closing like a fish out of water.

“This is the second time I’ve had to drive up here,” continued the driver angrily. “Today of all days. Well, you’d better get in, instead of standing their gawping at me like a bloody fish,” He finished, shaking his head so that his curls somewhat covered the angry flashes in his eyes.

Mia finally managed to stutter, “Are you from the manor then?” and then more peremptorily, “And where’s Lord Trelawney?”

“Of course I’m from the manor,” said the driver, “Will you just get in, I haven’t got all bloody day. People from London — they really think they own the place,” he muttered a bit quieter.

Mia threw her bags in the back on top of a blanket covered in dog hairs and next to a large black Labrador which was panting slightly in the humidity. The driver revved up the engine as Mia hurried around to the other side to jump up into the cab before he could change his mind.

As she glanced in the rear view mirror, she saw to her horror that the dog was busy investigating the picnic, had nosed open the wicker basket, and had lavender butter cream topping all around its whiskers.

“Your dog appears to be eating my picnic,” said Mia, not wanting to upset this horrible man any more than she had to, in case he decided to throw another stream of invective and anger at her.

“Well what do you expect if you put a basket of food on its blanket, he’s a dog, of course he’s going to think it’s for him,” said the man raising his eyebrows but this time there appeared to be a slight twinkle in them, too.

Mia felt like crying, all her carefully laid plans were crumbling as they bounced and hurtled along the high country lanes past waving tamarisk and jumbled hedgerows towards the manor. The driver was a man of few words, apart from grumbling under his breath about Londoners and so she sat tight and kept quiet, biting her lip so as not to blub and ruin the last of her make-up which had started to run down her cheeks and smudge in the outer corners of her eyes.

Finally they arrived at the tall wrought iron gates of the manor and the driver crunched to a halt on the gravel. “Well are you going to work for your living?” he said to Mia, indicating with a jerk of his head that she should get out and open the gates.

She obediently hopped out, hating this angry, rude, but annoyingly attractive man and opened the gates, dragging the heavy iron across the gravel, and grazing her foot along with it. When he’d driven inside, Mia followed hopping slightly and smarting at the pain in her foot. Not wanting the man to make another flippant comment she tried to hide what had happened and walked and hobbled to the back to get her luggage.

“Don’t,” shouted the man gruffly, “you’ll let the dog out and we’re not stopping here.” He stomped around to the back, commanding the dog, “Django, stay.” And then hauled Mia’s bags from the car unceremoniously, by now covered in dog hair and mud. “Do you know where to go?” grunted the man, seeming to soften and calm down slightly. “We normally start in the summer house,” squeaked out Mia and he nodded in the affirmative and turned to leave.

“Be seeing you then,” he said and waved as he turned away. Not likely thought Mia, trying to figure out what would convince Lord Trelawney to hire such a rude man. Mia shook her head, gathered her bags, and headed towards the summer house, stooping about 10 times to get gravel out of the wheels of her suitcase and wishing that she had taken Lizzie’s advice and packed her rucksack instead of the wheelie case.

“Come in, come in my dear, did Tom pick you up OK?” beamed Lord Trelawney, a tall man in his seventies with a long Roman nose, and a shock of white hair, which tended to resist a comb, giving Lord Trelawney an air of perpetual surprise, like he’d just emerged from one of his hedgerows and happened upon a particularly fun garden party. Despite his spare appearance he was always jovial and kind. He had a deep warm voice. “I am sorry that I didn’t make it myself this year, but I’ve had a little to do and so the doctor asked me to take it easy.”

Mia, quickly forgetting the nightmare journey immediately felt bad for her anger at Lord Trelawney. Poor man, she thought as they greeted each other with a hug. Luckily he seemed to be in good spirits, sitting by a small fire in the summer house with a blanket over his knees. Mia walked forward with the picnic basket she’d packed and said, “I’m afraid the dog got to the lunch before you did Lord Trelawney.” “Ah, Django,” the old man smiled indulgently. “He is a bit of a gourmet that’s for sure, like all of us Trelawneys.”

Mia wondered whether Lord Trelawney’s memory was going a little bit with age because including your driver’s dog as part of your family WAS a little eccentric. But then again, the lord had been a bit of a hippy in his day. So Mia just smiled and nodded and sat down, trying desperately to smooth the mud off her clothes, and her hair a little flatter. Lord Trelawney’s sister Agatha bustled in. She had the same tall spare look that Lord Trelawney had but with wider hips. Her white hair was always pulled back in a bun, low on the back of her neck. Her clothes betrayed her class, and she always wore a string of pearls and little blouses topping off tweed skirts or trousers. But her shoes spoke of practicality. When she wasn’t in the big house, she’d pull on an old pair of leather boots and stride around the estate. Mia would often find her tending the kitchen garden or making lists with Bess, who had worked for the siblings for years and who was generally making sure that everything ran smoothly.

“Oh Mia,” she said, “good to see you. Now I’ve got tea on, so we can get started if you like.” The three of them sat down to tea and some of the cakes that Django had not had time to sample, and busied themselves looking at a map of the festival working out where to put the various pop up restaurants and food stalls.

As the clock chimed six they looked up from their work. They had nearly finished, with just a few details Mia could handle on her own. So Lord Trelawney’s sister rang a little bell and Bess came in to help Mia up with her bags to her room so that she could dress for dinner. She couldn’t wait to get out of her torn clothes and in to a bath. Despite the weight of the bags that she wouldn’t allow Bess to take, she almost ran up the stairs. Whilst the bath was running, Mia dropped in a few drops of lavender oil and started to relax. Cornwall always made her feel happy and dreamy and calm.

She padded back into her bedroom and checked her phone; there was no message from Paul, but even that failed to dampen her mood. Mia hummed as she hung up her clothes and got ready for her bath. The first year had been a bit scary at the manor as she hadn’t known what to expect, and had thought that Lord Trelawney and Agatha might be much grander. But this was the third year that she had been helping properly with the organisation, so she’d gradually become more confident as she knew what to expect. She piled her hair high up on her head and twisted it around into a top knot and sank gratefully into the bath, Radio 4 playing from her smart phone where she was finally able to find a signal and latch on to digital radio.

After slathering on generous quantities of coco butter, Mia slipped on a khaki silk shirt dress and accessorized with her hair up. She used a forties scarf to wrap around her hair, which had now reverted to its natural curl given the heat in the bathroom. She added some chunky wooden bangles and she was done. She managed to bang most of the mud off her sandals and dressed the scratch, cleaning it with some tea tree oil. Then she slipped the sandals back on for dinner. Dinner was always at 7:30 p.m. so there was just enough time for a quick call to Paul.

“Hey,” Mia said coolly, kind of annoyed at herself that she had had to call him and not the other way around. Paul’s voice crackled down the phone, “Mia sweetie. So you got there safely then?”

“Yup” replied Mia, still irritated. But then her love of recounting a good story got the better of her, and she settled herself down in the window seat looking out at the gravel driveway below. “Oh god, you’ll never guess what happened to me,” Mia told Paul as she relived the stress at St. Minnion earlier that day. Paul was laughing along with her. “ ….and then this man turns up from the manor, except I didn’t know he was from the manor, he was just the rudest man you can imagine, I don’t know where he gets off on shouting at perfect strangers in his broad Cornish drawl …” Mia was just about to embark on an impression of the driver when she heard a slight crunch on the gravel and lowered her voice just in time to see Django trot around the house below her open window. Wherever Django was, that rude man probably wouldn’t be far behind. As she continued in more whispered tones, she could tell Paul was losing interest in the story. He never got jealous, not that there was anything to be jealous about, but if Paul were on a work trip and happened to be picked up by even a rude woman, Mia would probably be quite jealous. Paul for his part told her about the bad trade he’d suffered as the Asian markets dipped, and the slow run “far below his personal best” that he’d endured. Mia, who had cheered up considerably in Cornwall tried to be comforting.

“Oh poor baby,” soothed Mia, trying to say the right thing, even though, when away from Paul she felt detached from him. “You just need to chill out, why don’t you come down here and get some sea air?”

Mia knew that Paul would never take her up on her offer. Predictably, he declined, “what and find myself in the middle of a mud bath on a farm? Not likely!”

Mia mustered a laugh but felt defensive about his description of this beautiful place. He knew that this was her favourite festival in the calendar, but Paul belonged in the city, or a clean part of Surrey that he liked to call the country but was really just a greener offshoot of London, far from any real mud or the mess of the actual countryside.

“Ok Sweetie. Love you lots. Talk tomorrow,” trilled Mia before hanging up and clattering down the stairs to dinner.

“Mia darling,” boomed Lord Trelawney. “Do sit down, I’m starving.”

Mia duly sat and breathed in the warm aromas coming from the steak and kidney pie, mashed potatoes and peas and carrots in bowls in the middle of the table. “Do help yourself, and would you be a darling and help me to a plate too please,” said Lord Trelawney. Mia obliged, wondering what exactly what Lord Trelawney’s “little to-do” really was. He seemed different this year. The voice still boomed out, but the rest of him was a little more subdued, a little more lost in his own thoughts, and he seemed frailer. Once everything was dished up, they sat down to eat in companionable silence which was what Mia liked about Lord Trelawney. He had a calming effect on her, and she didn’t feel the need to chatter away like she normally did. The fire crackled away in the grate, because even in high summer, the manor house was always fairly cold and not a little damp. The heat from the fire, combined with the heat from Mia’s bath, was making her feel sleepy.

Half way through the meal, Lord Trelawney’s sister, Agatha sat down and dished herself up a generous helping of pie and mash and vegetables. “There’s nothing like a good home cooked pie is there?” she turned and smiled around the table, exuding an eccentric homeliness that seemed to be a family trait. For a while there was just the clinking of cutlery against china and Mia’s satisfied mmmmnhhhs.

After a glass of claret and one of port, Mia made her way up to her bedroom, satisfied and comforted. Tomorrow would be busy and she’d need to get plenty of sleep. The next few days would pass by in a whirlwind if her memory served her right.

There were no curtains at the manor, and so the light was soon streaming into Mia’s bedroom way before she even needed to reach sleepily for the alarm clock. But somehow, down here, it wasn’t as hard getting up early and Mia bounded out of bed for a morning jog. She crept down the stairs so as not to wake anyone else up and laced up her trainers by the front gate. Then she was off, down the hill, through the town, and along a disused railway track covered in gravel. There were only a few fishermen and dog walkers at this time in the morning as the mist laced itself gently around the sides of the estuary. Clattering across an old iron bridge, she couldn’t even make out the mouth of the estuary as the sea mist was still floating above the sandbanks marooned like little islands in the mud and water.

She jogged rhythmically, no music needed here, the bird song and smell of salt, and the mud flats accompanied her perfectly. Her heart lifted, this is the life. She never felt quite as good in London as she did down here. But then again, it was easy to like a place that she visited for just a few days each year. Mia reflected, jogging on, the flinty grey of the quarry glinting in the milky morning light. At the end of the quarry, Mia turned around and headed back to town. She’d pick up milk and croissants at the bakery and take them back for breakfast, which would save Bess the trouble. And maybe it would make up for the dog-eaten cupcakes from yesterday, she thought with a wry smile.

When she got back up to Trelawney Manor the gates were already open and the Land Rover was parked up again. Mia’s heart sank, I hope that means that awful man is not back again, she thought. Undaunted, she made her way to the kitchen and set about making coffee, warming the milk and laying out the croissants in a basket. Mia loved to present food. She used to enjoy cooking it, too, but since she’d been with Paul she felt she always fell short. He loved eating in Haute Cuisine establishments with reduction of this and vapors of that, molecular cooking and tiny portions. She couldn’t reproduce that kind of thing in her or Paul’s kitchen despite all the gadgets he had, and so she’d long given up cooking when Paul was around. Going through all the effort for just herself somehow didn’t seem worth it. The memory of their first anniversary still haunted her when she’d tried to make Paul a cake which stubbornly refused to cook in the middle despite sitting in the oven for literally hours. So there it sat sunken and raw like an old drunk at a wedding in between them on the table.

Paul, being Paul, had refused to eat an unset cake for fear of getting salmonella, and Mia ultimately had to tip the whole lot in the bin. She’d vowed then and there to stop attempting complicated dishes and to avoid cakes altogether. Lizzie supplied her with enough delicacies, and she’d hardly missed it over the years.

She hummed whilst she worked, whisking the milk, laying out the jam in little dishes, making perfect curls of butter and drizzling the honey on some nuts which she quickly caramelised and rolled the buttery croissants to coat them with nutty caramel sauce. Somehow her baking skills worked better, too, down here, she mused.

She popped outside to cut some fresh flowers from the kitchen garden at the back and was greeted by Django, jumping up on her jogging clothes and putting muddy paws all down her front. Tail wagging manically, he barked and tried to lick her face. Emerging through the hedge at the other end of the kitchen garden, the man, or Tom, Mia corrected herself mentally, strode towards them.

“Down Django,” he barked, lifting his eyebrows quizzically at Mia who was rather flushed and red after her run.

Mia’s mouth started to do the open-and-shut fish look again and a smile played across Tom’s lips momentarily. Then anger flushed Mia and she shut her mouth tight, before opening it and giving Tom a piece of her mind.

“Listen, I don’t know who you are but I just want you to know that I DID NOT ask to be picked up at the station by you. I’m sorry if I somehow inconvenienced you, but your dog has also done his fair share of inconveniencing ME. First he ate the cupcakes that I’d packed for Lord Trelawney as a taster for what’s coming down from London, and now he’s covered my clothes with his muddy paws.”

Mia shut her mouth again firmly this time and stood her ground. She was sick of being pushed around by surly locals who acted like she had no business being here. I’m busy working down here, too! But just as she was about to voice that, she saw Tom’s face darken.

“I’m soooo sorry that my dog has inconvenienced you Ms. …” “Maxwell,” Mia finished for him squeakily.

“Next time, I will leave you to make your own way from the station. Because I sure as hell don’t deserve to be laughed at by hoity toity London girls who come down here and think THEY own the place.” He finished, as though reading her thoughts.

He turned on his heel and strode off back through the hedge, whistling to Django to follow him. Mia heard him muttering while he walked away, shaking his head.

“Bloody Londoners, they think they own the place,” he finished, shaking his head and striding back towards his cottage.

Mia could feel her cheeks burning as she processed what Tom had just said and realised he must have heard her talking to Paul last night and laughing at him. Thank god I didn’t launch into the full Cornish impression.

Back in the kitchen, a flustered Mia tried to brush her clothes free of mud, then headed back upstairs to shower and change.

“You are a darling Mia,” said Agatha Trelawney as they tucked into the croissants and coffee that Mia had prepared.

“Bess is so busy with the festival preparations, it’s kind of you to take care of breakfast for us all.”

It was still only 8 a.m. and The Today programme was blasting across the kitchen. As Mia already knew, Lord Trelawney and his sister did not stand on ceremony. Apart from the posh house and the titles, they were very like any other middle class Englishman or woman, and so breakfast was also eaten in the kitchen together, accompanied by the BBC.

Breakfast over, Mia got down her clipboard and to do lists, tablet, laptop, and phone and started organising the workmen who were turning up to construct stages and put up tents and stalls. Soon the whole manor was buzzing to the sound of saws, drills and whistles. Mia made big urns of tea with Bess and made sure everyone had enough sustenance to get them through the day. They made rounds and rounds of bacon butties and cheese and pickle sandwiches for mid-morning and at one o’clock the van from the bakery drew up outside and delivered trays of Cornish pasties for everyone.

Mia spent her days striding around the estate, checking that everything was going up as they’d planned and that walkways were being laid so that the festival goers could get from one stage and tent to another without sinking into the mud. Even though the majority of them came prepared she wanted to avoid the whole festival just becoming one huge mud bath as apart from the Hunter wellies and boots that were de rigeur here a lot of the women tended to wear floaty slightly hippy dresses from Ghost or Whistles or Forties, Fifties and Sixties style clothes, all of which did not do well in the mud.

Later that afternoon the boxes of pretty bunting arrived from a local woman who supplied reams of gingham flags with retro patterns on them and Mia stowed them in the kitchen for tying up on Friday morning to avoid getting mildewed if the heavens decided to open prior to the festival.

By 6p.m., Mia was exhausted. As she took her muddy boots off at the kitchen door and eased her damp legs up the stairs, she was aching for a bath. She turned the water on and then checked her phone. No message from Paul. Mia felt a bit deflated. Mia seriously, she thought to herself, trying to give herself a strict talking to in the voice of Lizzie. You really don’t need to be dependent on a man, any man. If Paul doesn’t send you a message it does NOT need to be the end of the world. He’s probably just busy and you are, too. You are such a strong, sorted person in most aspects of your life, I really don’t understand why you’re quite so dependent on what Paul thinks.

The bathroom meanwhile had become deliciously steamy and Mia eased herself into the bath with a quick check on the clock. She tuned to the local radio to get a more accurate forecast for the week. The weather changed so quickly on the peninsula and was often completely different north to south that only the local stations really broke it down enough to be anywhere near accurate. Out of the bath, Mia massaged her aching muscles with some arnica oil and dressed for dinner. This time a leopard pencil skirt and a blouse. She had washed her hair so she spent some time straightening it so that it fell around her shoulders. She spritzed some perfume, Sicily by Dolce and Gabbana. She was nearly out of it and it had been discontinued some time ago but the vanilla-y sweet smells reminded her of summer and holidays and she loved it. She’d also once read that vanilla was a great aphrodisiac and she had to admit, it did seem to work, she thought with a smile.

Downstairs, Agatha had prepared a chicken fricassee and rice. The soothing creamy sauce, mushrooms, celery, peas, and chunks of tender chicken spread out across a pile of white basmati and wild rice on her plate. First she breathed in the perfume of fresh tarragon and cream and then she reached for the baguette in the middle of the table. Mia knew that dipping her bread in the sauce would normally be considered rude, but with Agatha’s sauces she couldn’t resist mopping up every last mouthful with some bread. Even before they’d started, Mia was wiping around the edge with the bread spread with thick salty Cornish butter. Mmmnnhh — bliss. Well I’ve been working hard, thought Mia to herself, glancing at her fitness band and realising with pleasure that she’d exceeded her target 10,000 steps for the day.

The creamy dinner filled her mouth and warmed her soul. It was easy in Cornwall to recover a good mood quickly. The Trelawneys were always gentle and calm. Now they chatted away about the tides, their sailing boat, and what their grandsons and nephews had been doing lately. Mia had heard Lord Trelawney talk lovingly about his daughter who had three boys, but they lived up near London and so she’d never met them.

Holly, from the publishers, joined them at dinner. She’d just arrived from London and was responsible for the authors and speakers who would be appearing at the festival. Mia was glad she’d put on her leopard print skirt, as Holly was always impeccably dressed, and Mia hated looking shabby next to her. The two girls couldn’t have been more different in their attitudes to food, either. Holly would push a tiny amount of Agatha’s cooking around her plate, politely declaring it delicious, but eating almost none of it. Mia, on the other hand, would always feast with gusto.

Whilst Mia was eating and Holly was shunting food around, they went through the programme together, making sure the food stalls near certain tents matched the themes of the speakers themselves. Mia’s thoughts ran ahead to the weekend. Once the first day was under way, most of the food stall holders could manage without her, which would give her some time to check out the guest speakers. One of her favourite travel writers would be holding a reading, and a big name chef from New York was also flying in. They’d be appearing as a kind of double bill about food and travel — one of Mia’s favourite subjects. She made a mental note to make that talk a priority on her list.

Mia watched as Holly’s eyes lit up, talking enthusiastically about the writer and chef’s work and their latest glossy books, copies of which Holly had brought down to be signed. She gave Mia a copy of each — that was one of the big advantages of working so closely with Holly, Mia could always guarantee she’d return home with some good additions to her bookshelf. There was also going to be a course on foraging this year on the Sunday with a foraging talk and walk, which Mia had signed up for immediately, under Holly’s laughing eyes. Free food from the hedgerows, thought Mia, what could be better. Though she wondered what could be foraged in July. She knew she’d find out soon enough and hopefully expand her knowledge of countryside harvests, which really only included the August / September blackberry harvest.

The next day passed in a whirl of activity and organisation. By Thursday night, the last nails had been hammered in, and all the stalls were ready to receive their foodie loads. The stages set and the tents decorated with bunting and freshly cut flowers from the estate. Mia herself had spent the afternoon walking along the river bank and picking some wild flowers to add to the piles of Yarrow, Alliums, and Lady’s Mantle that she’d already harvested from the kitchen garden. She was especially pleased with the scent of the camomile lawn leading to the main tent, this summer had obviously been perfectly calibrated as other years the flowers were not quite out by the time the festival got under way. The main tent, she’d decorated with cornflowers and apple blossom from the edges of the estate. In the tent which would hold the food talks, she’d put bunches of lavender and rosemary in jugs and hanging in sprigs at the corner of the tent which gave the whole place an epicurean vibe. The silvery white spikes of Veronica set the fragrant flowers off perfectly, and gave the place a feeling that someone had been in spinning sugar before everyone arrived.

Mia breathed in the fresh smells in the tent and heaved a sigh of relief. The first food sellers were due to arrive and set up the next morning at eight, so she’d need to get an early night. She stifled a yawn at the thought of it and walked back through the fields, the sun sinking through the trees and dappling the lawns with light. “Cornwall is just beautiful,” thought Mia contentedly to herself, I’d love to own a house like this one day. Fat chance though, eh? Unless I can track down a handy lord and make him fall in love with me, but sadly the only one I know around here is a little too old for that kind of thing. Mia was laughing at the very idea as she made her way back down the slope, past the deer park and on to the main house.

“What’s so funny?” asked Tom who was coming the other way from the house, making his way back to his cottage, which unbeknownst to Mia was tucked away the outer edges of the estate.

Why don’t you just disappear back to your godforsaken hut in the woods, thought Mia, judging from Tom’s appearance that he probably lived in some kind of temporary wooden construction rather than anything as normal as a cottage or house.

“Oh nothing,” she responded. The last thing she wanted was to invite more criticism from him, and there was no way — not even in jest — that she’d reveal her little lord-marrying fantasy. That story she’d save for Lizzie.

“Suit yourself,” Tom answered grumpily, “Oh and by the way someone called Paul called for you saying he couldn’t get through on your phone. Agatha asked me to tell you.”

With that, he continued on his way, whistling to Django who bounded up from where he’d been chasing rabbits in the woods trotting obediently behind his master.

That man, thought Mia feeling strangely unsettled and a bit annoyed. Why does he have to be so damn disagreeable? Here I was, indulging in a bit of harmless fantasy, dreaming about owning a manor and running my own festival, and he has to break in and spoil it all.

Mia shook her head and looked up to see the manor looming over her and the sun already sunk low casting dusk around, the bats were just coming out and starting to flit around the towers. She shook her boots off by the back door and made her way inside.

“Last dinner before the rabble descend. We’re expecting even more people than last year,” remarked Agatha, and Lord Trelawney smiled. They were playing a CD of Cornish folk songs tonight from a local band who would be appearing at the festival. That strange language, Celtic-sounding, washed over her, and the jaunty sea shanty tunes lifted her spirits, which had been shaken by the latest interaction with Tom. The way he spat out the word Paul!

Fish pie tonight with peas — one of Mia’s favourites; more clotted cream, tarragon, and mashed potatoes: Mia ‘mmmmnehed’ absent-mindedly as she savoured the dish — a saintly smile plastered on her face.

The Trelawneys were happy to provide Mia with lots of home cooking when she came down on condition that she and Holly did most of the organising of the festival. Holly didn’t seem to need the same sustenance, Mia thought enviously, glancing over at Holly’s tiny size six proportions, as Holly chatted away about the publishing world to Agatha, an avid bookworm.

As dinner moved on to a final cup of tea and shortbread, Holly asked Lord Trelawney about Tom’s presence at the festival — a subject Mia was happy to listen in on, while glad she didn’t need to bring up herself.

“When did Tom start working for you, Lord Trelawney?” Holly prodded, with a twinkle in her eye. Generally Holly had a romance whenever she was down for the weekend, and Mia assumed Tom would be this year’s prey.

“Hmmm,” said Lord Trelawney, distractedly tucking into his fish pie. “What? Sorry dear, what did you say Molly my dear?” Holly’s brow furrowed, and a correction was on the tip of her tongue, but then she thought better of it, deciding it would be quicker to elicit the information that she actually wanted if she kept quiet about his slip of the tongue. “I was asking, Lord Trelawney, what Tom is doing here this year?”

“Ah! He’s just helping out … much against his better judgment,” Lord Trelawney chuckled. “He hates being here when the festival takes over. Not much of a fan of people from London or all the noise and hassle that it takes to transform the gardens, but given my, um, little set back this year, I asked him if he’d mind hanging around this weekend.”

Well, that would explain his manner then, Mia thought, resolving to ask Holly about it later, when the two of them were alone. Holly had apparently met Tom before.

Conversation moved to the weekend’s weather forecasts, which Mia was pleased to hear were set fair for the festival but were liable to turn by Monday. The rest of the dinner passed in a pleasurable hazy warmth.

Though not relishing the thought of an extra-early morning start, Mia couldn’t wait for the festival to kick off. Of all the summer food trips she made around the country, Lord Trelawney’s bash was among her favourites. It was always interesting but still managed to stay fairly low key. It had only gotten better after Mia had taken over three years ago, when she started bringing the fun food stalls from around the country with her. While Mia handled the food, Holly took care of bringing in the authors and the literary elements to the proceedings.

Later, on the manor’s terrace, Holly and Mia sat nursing glasses of white wine with blankets wrapped around them to guard against the chill that always settled on the valley when the sun went down. The calories in wine were about the only calories that seemed to pass Holly’s lips, and she often became more confessional with Mia when they had time in the evenings to sit and chat.

“So Tom was rude to you, too, Holly?” Now it was Mia’s turn to prod Holly. “Yes,” mused Holly, “but he’s sooooooo good looking, isn’t he?”

Holly sipped appreciatively from her wine, then turned to Mia.

“What do you think of him? I know he’s a bit gruff, but you have to admit he’s pretty dreamy, right? Did you know he was Lord Trelawney’s son?”

Mia sputtered her latest sip. “They’re related? I didn’t know that,” she replied, trying to avoid Holly’s questioning and disguise her overall surprise, as Holly obviously knew more than Mia. “But as you said, it explains his attitude, doesn’t it? He was very brusque with me when he picked me up, which is, er, why I asked you,” Mia stuttered, thankful that it was now too dark for Holly to see she was blushing slightly.

Holly seemed to let things drop, moving the conversation on expertly. “So anyway Mia, what have you been up to since we last met?”

“Oh you know, this and that,” said Mia, too tired to get into a big conversation with Holly, which would inevitably lead to men and shagging.

“A bit of blogging, organising. I still work with Lizzie at her cupcake cafe.”

“Ooooh, blogging,” said Holly, her ears picking up. “I love food blogs. I can spend days browsing my favourites, you know the ones that have pictures of cupcakes and someone’s delicious looking dinners and then little musings, or the styled ones, they really inspire me. We’ve been thinking about trying to publish some of the food bloggers because they are so on trend right now. Which one do you write?”

“Oh, I’m sure you wouldn’t have heard of it,” said Mia modestly, “It’s really just me burbling on about what I eat and how I feel. I keep it anonymous because otherwise I wouldn’t feel so free with what I say.”

“Hmmm,” mused Holly. “I know what you mean, but seriously, you should get some friends to read it and have them let me know if it’s any good because it would be such fun working together, wouldn’t it?”

The offer did sound tempting. But having listened in on the talks of the parade of famous authors and chefs that Holly brought down every year to the festival, Mia couldn’t imagine herself among them. Her little blog was for her own entertainment. OK a few people did seem to click on it now and then, and some of them left encouraging comments, but she wasn’t about to go showing her work to Holly only to have her launch one of those bright but dismissive smiles that Mia had seen when festival-goers sidled up to her to ask if she thought they had any chance of getting published. Far better to stick to what I know.

“So tell me more about your line up this year,” she asked brightly, in her turn changing the subject.

“Well, we’ve got a couple of celeb chefs arriving tomorrow. Umm and there’s a gardener who plans to talk about growing your own veggies, and then cooking them, and a micro brewer who has just written a book about the history of craft beers, and an expert on bread. Oh and then there’s the guy who writes a blog about foraging in Cornwall and cooking from local ingredients. Except I don’t know who he is, we’ve only corresponded via email and he said that he would pop up and take people on a foraging tour and talk to them about how to create a meal from the hedgerows which I thought would be quite fun, so I booked him and he should turn up on Sunday. That’s the thing you’ve already signed up for, isn’t it?”

“Yes I can’t wait for that one,” said Mia. “I’m awful at knowing what you can and can’t eat, but I’d love to be able to cook and eat more from the land around me instead of buying more of my ingredients in a supermarket.”

Holly shuddered. “Well I know foraging is trendy now and is a big concept and I have eaten in some of those expensive big name restaurants who trumpet foraging but seriously, I wouldn’t trust myself to know what to pick. And grubbing around in hedgerows is not really my cup of tea. There is a reason I live in the city.”

She looked down at her immaculate clothes and Louboutin-clad feet and smiled the vague pretty smile of the consummate PR girl. Mia knew she was being catty. She also worked in PR, but Holly was one of those perfectly pitched blonde, slick, slightly posh girls who made up the majority of the London industry. They knew all the latest trends and made sure they hit them but they often weren’t really interested in what they were promoting.

Mia sighed inwardly and resolved to finish her wine and then get off to bed. It would be an early start in the morning and if she wanted to at least attempt to look as polished as Holly, she’d need to get up even earlier to reapply that nail varnish and straighten her hair.

Holly meanwhile, left in silence for anything longer than a deep breath, was getting back to her favourite subject. “So what do you think of Tom, Mia?” She pressed again. Mia felt inexplicably annoyed that Holly apparently wanted to draw Mia into her plans to target Tom for her weekend tryst. She doubted that Holly would even manage it — on the surface they looked like the perfect couple: him all rugged dark curls, brooding eyes, and she, blonde and pretty, slim, and tiny as a bird; but Mia imagined Tom would find Holly a bit too London, a bit too polished, despite, as it turned out, coming from the same kinds of minor aristocratic families. Tom didn’t strike Mia as being a person who cared in the least about which family you came from or which school you went to, whereas Holly, when things got serious, did. Of course she’d memorably shagged one of the lifeboat men one year and a local farmer’s son last year, but these were just hi-jinx she engaged in when she’d had a bit too much chardonnay, they were never meant to be anything other than a bit of fun that would stay in Cornwall, cast off like her muddy boots as soon as she got in from the fields.

It was almost dark now and Mia yawned and indicated to Holly that she was going to retire. The two girls were in adjoining rooms. Even though the manor was huge, Lord Trelawney kept many of the rooms shut up for most of the year, as it was too expensive to heat or to clean each room, and he really lived in one small wing of the house. Holly rolled her eyes, pleading with Mia to stay and drink for a bit longer. But Mia was really tired and she demurred and headed off to bed still feeling a little miffed at Holly’s proprietary confidence about Tom, and wondering how she’d managed to meet him when he’d always stayed away from the festival. She checked her phone but still no message from Paul, and it was too late to ring him back now. Mia’s mood darkened, but then what did she expect. A) there was no signal down here in Cornwall, and so messages often came through days later and B) when Mia was away working, Paul would often just not communicate, allowing himself to get tied up in his own work, quite oblivious to the fact that Mia would have liked to hear from him.

The next morning was grey and misty. The radio promised sun later but Mia had to fight with herself to get out for a jog that morning. She pulled Holly out of the bedroom next door, too. Despite the wine last night, Holly bounced into tight Lulu Lemon leggings, which emphasised the pertness of her bottom, beautifully clean trainers, and a little crop top. It was almost cool enough to see your breath, and as Mia jogged through the woods with Holly, her iPod jangling by her side, Mia tried to concentrate on the beauty of the forest and cut out the noise next to her. Tom was the last person she expected to see. But there he was, curls falling over his eyes as he ran fast with Django towards them. As he powered past them, he managed a curt “morning” and a slight smile. In contrast to the always perfectly poised Holly, Mia, thinking she’d meet no one this early, was wearing her oldest jogging bottoms and a baggy T shirt with no make-up. Holly waved and smiled, but Mia, feeling slightly annoyed yet again just grimaced and kept plodding forward. Soon Holly had double backed and Mia was left alone finally to enjoy a few minutes of silence in the wood but her heart was pounding and she eventually doubled back, too, thinking that she couldn’t put off getting stuck in much longer.

Back at the manor house, Holly was stretching conspicuously, looking beautiful. Probably waiting for Tom to return with Django, thought Mia. But she soon got bored, and as the sun started to burn away the morning mist, she went inside to shower and change.

Mia grabbed a bacon sandwich when she got back to the house and went upstairs to shower and change, too.

As she got dressed, Mia could hear the first food carts setting up and knew she’d have to make the rounds to check on “her foodies” soon. The whole estate became a delicious hive of activity and sizzling sausages. Fragrant coriander dips and tomato relish floated in the air towards her as she passed the Cornish cheese stands, the Cornish wine bar, and the bakery.

Lizzie arrived soon afterwards with a van-load of cupcakes, tray upon tray of deliciousness. Mia greeted her with a hot mug of coffee and managed to snaffle a cupcake from the van whilst Lizzie was busy setting up her stall. The two friends munched companionably and waved at Holly as she strutted around in her wellies and perfect J-Crew black jeans. Coffee finished, Mia wandered off to check whether the other food stalls she was responsible for had arrived, and didn’t manage to see Holly or Lizzie until a few hours later when they were both chatting away at Lizzie’s stall looking as thick as thieves.

The crowds started arriving from early afternoon in time to pitch their tents by the lake or under the trees, the whole site looked like a worker ant’s colony, as glamourous teepees and yurts stood alongside little two-man pop-up tents and makeshift tarpaulins strung between posts. The main talks would start that evening but the beer and scrumpy tents were already looking busy and the burger vans were doing a roaring trade, too. Dressed up with the latest dips from London, 28-day hung beef was clearly still most people’s favourite snack when they found themselves in the middle of a field in Cornwall, and camping was hungry work, mused Mia. It must be all that fresh air.

She got a whiff of the fish and chip stall and her tummy started to rumble. As she was deliberating whether or not fish and chips would be a good idea for a late lunch, she looked down to find a pair of muddy paws on her new skinny jeans and Django’s face looking up at her, tongue lolling happily. Tom wasn’t far behind.

“He hasn’t forgotten those cupcakes,” he said smiling. “He’s hoping you might have another couple tucked away somewhere.”

“Well, Lizzie has,” said Mia feeling brighter under the unusual experience of being smiled at by Tom. Maybe I should allow him to make up for his past behaviour? Tom, too, seemed to have put his annoyance at being laughed at by Mia behind him. Although perhaps that’s because Holly is here now, thought Mia suspiciously. The three of them walked over to Lizzie’s cupcake stall and Holly, who had been leaning prettily against a wooden strut, straightened up when she saw Tom and shot him one of her best high-watt smiles. Tom returned the smile whilst bending down to ruffle Django’s head and asking Lizzie if he could purchase a cupcake or two. Lizzie obliged and Tom fed the cakes to Django, while Lizzie looked on in wide-eyed horror.

“Well that’s what I’d do, too,” said Holly looking like she’d never even licked the knife after frosting cupcakes, let alone actually bitten into one. “Oh, sorry Lizzie, I didn’t mean that your cupcakes weren’t delicious, it’s just all those calories. Once on the lips, a lifetime on the hips …” said Holly looking around brightly expecting everyone to agree.

Tom ruffled Django’s head, and the dog barked his gratitude, wagging his tail vigorously.

“Tom darling, do you have a second,” said Holly invitingly, linking her arm through Tom’s and steering him away from the calorific horror of Lizzie’s stall. Lizzie and Mia exchanged a look at their departing backs, and Mia felt inexplicably annoyed again at the use of the word ‘darling.’ She shook her head and said to Lizzie, “I’d better go and tour the sites.”

“What’s with those two?” Lizzie mouthed, noticing pink spots appearing on Mia’s neck and cheeks.

“Oh, I think Holly has set her sights on Tom,” Mia explained.

“Hmmm,” said Lizzie mystically.

“Why? Do you like him, too?” Mia asked Lizzie, suddenly curious. “I did see you and Holly whispering about something a little while ago.”

“I only just met the guy, but anyone who feeds my cupcakes to a dog is going to need to go on a serious charm offensive to atone for that,” Lizzie stated angrily.

“Django is a very cute dog, and he clearly loves your cupcakes,” Mia said to mollify Lizzie before striding quickly away.

Soon the entire grounds were abuzz with people eating, spreading blankets on the grass, picnicking, enjoying the sun that finally came out as forecast, or walking down to the river or into the woods. Everyone seemed happy and well fed — which was just how Mia liked it.

“Haddock, chips, and mushy peas please,” Mia said, succumbing finally to the salty, vinegary smell and already savouring the golden softness of the batter and chips.

“Caught this morning my lover,” said the proprietor. “Landed at Plymouth, proper job.” He added as he wrapped up the order in newspaper and handed it over with a smile.

“You look like you’re enjoying those,” said Tom who had suddenly appeared behind Mia again with a twinkle in his eye.

“Um yes,” she mumbled through a mouthful of chips, hoping that she hadn’t managed to blob ketchup or mayonnaise on her chin, and wishing that she’d had the forethought to take a few serviettes. Mia didn’t really like being caught eating. She’d been looking forward to a few moments to enjoy lunch on her own. Why does Tom always appear when I’m either gaping like a fish, eating, or looking generally unglamorous unlike Holly who never looked anything other than perfectly poised.

But Tom seemed in good spirits. “So are you coming to my talk tomorrow?”

“What talk is that?” Mia asked.

“The one on foraging and eating from the hedgerows.”

“Oh YOU are the forager, Holly told me about the talk but she didn’t seem to know who the forager was, does she now? Anyway, yes, I was hoping to come, you know, us ‘greedy girls’ have to make sure we have a plentiful supply of food.”

“See you there then,” Tom replied looking mildly pleased and ignoring the sarcasm in Mia’s voice. “And don’t forget to wear something old, we’ll be rummaging in the hedgerows for most of it. Oh, and yes, since you ask, Holly does know I’m the forager now. I didn’t want to reveal myself until I was booked. You know it’s easier to write online when no one knows who you are, and as you’ve probably seen, I’m not really in to big crowds, but ….”

But … thought Mia to herself, finishing off Tom’s sentence ungenerously, you just couldn’t resist when Holly called. Her bitter thoughts continued. Great, he’s got me down as a food-obsessed fatty. I bet he didn’t tell Holly to wear something old.”

By this time Holly was settled under the shade of a tree, looking slightly stressed. She’d managed to find a signal and was busy tapping away on her iPad whilst chatting on her iPhone, making sure all the authors were on their way, looking like the perfect version of a smart businesswoman despite being in the middle of a field filled with hedonistic foodies lolling around on plaid picnic blankets and wearing straw hats.

At least, thought Mia, my work will start to calm down whereas poor Holly’s is just getting started. Bar a few emergencies like sorting out supplies of serviettes for people, making sure the rubbish collectors kept up with emptying the bins and that food wrappers were not left all over the fields, Mia could gradually start to relax. Mia licked the last of the vinegar off her fingers and felt quite proud. All the work was worth it AND she hadn’t looked at her phone for at least twelve hours to see if Paul had sent her a message -Bonus. That was the only good thing about not having a boyfriend, when you could just relax and enjoy the moment without checking to see whether or not he had called, texted, or generally made an effort, in order, she guessed, to “prove” how much he cared. That got tiring particularly when you were still doing it four years into a relationship. It was exactly the kind of breakthrough she wanted to share with Lizzie.

“Perhaps it’s really a good sign that things are settling down with Paul,” Mia said, as Lizzie waited for her next customer to choose between a lavender drift and an orange blossom cupcake. “I mean if normal were so bad then it wouldn’t be called ‘normal,’ right? It must show how much I care about him.”

“Oh Mia, I’m not saying that what you feel is abnormal, not at all, but you should be able to relax without constantly feeling that you need Paul to make you feel better, or to prove that you are worth something, that you are someone who should be cared about,” Lizzie replied gently before glancing back to her indecisive customer.

Mia shook her head. “You’ve got enough to do right now without my drama, we’ll catch up later,” Mia told her friend before turning to the customer, “Go for the Lavender Drift -they’re amazing,” she said turning to take a tour of the stalls. Some time to look through — and sample — what the vendors brought was just what she needed now. Later on she could pop back to Lizzie’s for a delicious cream tea with mismatched vintage china, whilst sitting at little enamelled tables painted in muted pastels beneath the gently waving bunting.

The weekend passed in a happy blur of food and talks. The chef from New York and the food writer were inspiring. Mia came away wishing that she could write a book, she told Lizzie as they sipped their wine before bed that evening.

“Oh Lizzie, you missed such a great talk. It inspired me to venture out into the world. To write about food and travel.”

“But you do Mia,” Lizzie said, surprised.

“Well not really, I just write up my weekends away and holidays with Paul, but it’s not specifically a food and travel book, is it.”

“No …” Lizzie conceded, “but you could definitely do it if you wanted to. Didn’t Holly say you should show her your blog?”

Mia’s face flushed again in the darkness. Although she was great at promoting other people’s work and food, she was always reserved about discussing herself and her ambitions. Mia didn’t recognise it at the time, but Lizzie had resolved to give Holly a gentle nudge and point her in the direction of Mia’s blog.

Saturday was another whirl of eating and listening. Once the festival got under way, Mia only went back to the manor to sleep. She passed Lord Trelawney and Agatha, who were on their way to listen to a talk about craft beer making.

“Wonderful, Mia, my dear” boomed Lord Trelawney looking slightly less bent over than he had when she’d first arrived.

“The festival has invigorated him Mia darling,” added Agatha looking pleased.

“Yes, and we’ve had a record number of attendees,” added Lord Trelawney chortling contentedly, “and it’s only Saturday …”

The two both strode off arm-in-arm, and Mia continued on her mission to sample something from most of her vendors. That meant by Sunday she had eaten two burgers, one pulled pork bun and slaw, another portion of fish and chips, three cupcakes, two pints of scrumpy, and some delicious pink Cornish fizz. In addition she had acquired a bad dose of hiccups and her skinny jeans now required a good 10 minutes wriggling them lying horizontally before she could stand and the addition of a hair bobble around the button and looped through the button hole to give her a bit of breathing space later.

Holly had been largely absent for most of the weekend but all the talks had gone off splendidly. There had only been one late train down from London and a confused author who had got off a few stops too early thinking he was attending another festival.

By Saturday night, Mia was too tired and too full to meet up with the other girls for a chit chat. She fell into bed, cheeks ruddied by scrumpy, freckles spotting her nose. She fell asleep within minutes, snoring quietly. Holly, ever on the lookout for a wine companion had popped across to Lizzie’s tent, and they’d continued their chat from Friday. This gave Lizzie a great opportunity to tell Holly more about Mia’s blog. The two sat at the little pastel tables, wrapped in the Mexican blankets that Lizzie had brought down, giggling and hatching a plan.

***

Sunday passed equally quickly. Mia went to a talk about baking bread and dreamed about owning a house where she could build a wood-fired bread oven in the garden. By the time Sunday afternoon rolled around, it was time for Tom’s talk.

Mia spent more time than she cared to admit on finding the ‘right’ (old) outfit for the talk. It could get quite cold in the woods, even though the main field was still flooded in sun, so she pulled on her Barbour jacket and a light green jumper, on top of jeans, and of course her trusty wellies. Mia was paranoid about being bitten by mosquitoes or scratched by stinging nettles so she didn’t want to take a chance. Holly, of course, turned up in an antique pink tea dress and some very pretty ankle boots which sent Mia immediately into a paroxysm of indecision wondering if she looked too dowdy. Holly, as always, looked great and did a brilliant job of introducing Tom, who stood looking a bit awkward next to her, squinting into the sun. She beamed at him clapping as she vacated the front of the tent for him to take over. He walked up looking sheepish but focused and shot back a huge smile at Holly who had moved annoyingly right next to Mia as if to play up just how sultry and beautiful she looked in this tent of dogged would-be foragers in various practical get-ups. Mia justified things to herself, at least she was dressed like most other people — and as Tom had suggested. Ms Holly stays looking pristine when yanking wild garlic from the forest floor or a steep bank, chuckled Mia to herself and inadvertently let out a giggle, which had everyone turning to look at her. Flushing red, Mia shook her head, looking at the ground and willed it to open up and swallow her. Luckily Django danced up now and barked at her wagging his tail and they all began trooping out of the tent, taking a wicker basket from Holly as they went.

A couple of hours later, they were well and truly muddied; well, all except Holly, who had, cleverly perhaps considering her outfit, volunteered to hold Django and the spare baskets while the rest of the group enthusiastically foraged in the hedgerows for wild garlic and edible flowers. Tom turned out to be an almanac of British plants and flowers, with a keen knowledge about all manner of country law. It turned out he’d been up since before dawn, spent the earliest hours out to sea mackerel fishing, and proposed to cook the group wild garlic encrusted mackerel with flower salad and samphire. Mia’s mouth was watering at the prospect of this impromptu foraged feast. Tom seemed to know every inch of the estate, which was probably not surprising given that he had grown up there. But more than that, he seemed to really love the land, treating it with reverence that completely transformed his gruff tone when he was pointing at roots and explaining which of them could be dug up in a field and turned into mouth-watering menu items.

Sunday evening turned out to be a clear cold night and the group sat around the campfire with Tom expertly cooking the mackerel on a specially constructed willow platform balanced over the fire. Every few minutes he would pass out plates of smoky fish and wild garlic pesto, accompanied by salty samphire dotted with the wild flowers. In the light of the fire, the whole group’s faces were as ruddy and smiling as Tom himself. Out here, the sparkling stars and glow of the campfire somehow wiped away Tom’s gruff outer shell to reveal a passionate foodie, enthusiastic to share what he knew about tucking into the local flora. He even smiled when he watched Django do the rounds, tail wagging and begging for scraps. It felt good eating things they didn’t even recognise as foods earlier this morning.

Even though she wasn’t able to leave her stall for the day’s foraging, Lizzie came out with a glass of tannin-heavy red wine to join in the star spotting with the hope of seeing a shooting star. It was a bit early for the amazing displays around the tenth of August when the sky was a mass of stars whizzing in all directions, but nevertheless the lack of big towns down in Cornwall allowed for amazing star spotting opportunities.

Mia’s eyes kept drifting from the sky above them and she couldn’t help noticing that Holly was busy hanging on Tom’s every word, laughing brightly as he talked to her. Django had found his way back to Lizzie and Mia and lay happily as Mia patted his head. Django — and Mia if truth be told — occasionally glanced over to Tom just to make sure his master was still there. Mia sighed, hoped Tom saw how well she clicked with man’s best friend.

“Perhaps it was those unripe blackberries you insisted on trying,” laughed Lizzie, as if reading her mind. She hunkered further under her blanket and shifted a little nearer the fire.

Mia followed suit and Django raised his head. Tom, who seemed to be telepathically connected to Django, raised his head above the feasting foragers, looked over and whistled. The dog got up, shaking himself off and trotted over, picking his way carefully across people’s legs to the other side of the fire and Tom and Holly.

Holly put her hand on Tom’s arm and then as he got up, held her hands up towards him as though asking to be pulled up, too.

Wow, thought Mia, hats off to Holly, she’s gone and done it again. Although Mia wasn’t that surprised, Holly invariably got the man she settled on, and Mia guessed even the wild man of the woods couldn’t resist Holly’s pretty (urban) charms once in a while.

The two of them ambled off with Django following on behind, and Mia, for the first time in hours reached almost instinctively into her pocket for her phone. A light was miraculously flashing, signalling a new message or email. Mia’s breath caught slightly. But when she clicked on her emails she found it was just her daily astrology app pointing out that her love life was about to get complicated. Harrumph, thought Mia, I don’t really need an astrology app to tell me that. Where was Paul anyway? He hadn’t messaged in over 24 hours.

Mia started to contemplate the thought of being single, yet again, and wondered if any man would look at her if they knew that she was holding her jeans together with an elastic band so she had enough room to breathe. She sipped her now warm cider disconsolately, and realised that a headache had started to descend, so she whispered to Lizzie that she was off to bed and slipped away feeling suddenly lonely, like the party had ended somewhat prematurely.

The day after the festival was all about clearing up, waving goodbye to the food vans, and then a big pizza cooking session with the wood fired pizza guys; The last people left enjoyed a well-earned rest and a bit of free time before finally heading home and returning the Trelawney estate to its habitual silence.

At breakfast — eaten without Holly, whom no one had seen since she left the campfire the night before — Lord Trelawney made his annual promise to take Mia out sailing if the wind was set fair. He’d been talking about it for three years, after he discovered Mia loved sailing as a child, but never got the opportunity to go out anymore. In the past, Mia had had to rush back to London for some meeting, or on to the next festival to start another round of organisation, so she had never been able to accept. This year she’d have time but was a little worried Lord Trelawney wouldn’t feel up to it himself. But Agatha said he was determined and if they stayed up river then they couldn’t get into too much trouble.

By midday, after many people had already left the site, the sun was once again shining. Tom was nowhere to be seen, and while she was packing her things, Mia could hear Holly now snoring from across the hall. At least she snores, thought Mia, not so perfect now Ms. Holly eh, she giggled to herself.

Lord Trelawney proved to be in a jolly mood, allowed back to his beloved boat. The festival had reinvigorated him. He asked Mia to lug a little picnic basket Agatha had packed for them including the life jackets and other paraphernalia and they set off towards the harbour. Mia had put on her jogging bottoms again because she thought they might be warm and make it easier to move around in the boat, but she didn’t really have a suitable sailing coat and had refused the kind offer of an old yellow sou’wester hoping to catch some of the sun on her arms and shoulders before she returned to London.

“It can get quite cold out there Mia, my dear” said Lord Trelawney kindly but he didn’t push his point and Mia thought he was just being cautious.

The tide was still rushing in when they set off, nosing the boat out of the harbour and along the sheer cliff sides towards the open sea. Mia briefly remembered Agatha’s voice warning that they should go up river not down, but Lord Trelawney seemed to have other ideas. And the cliffs were the perfect backdrop for the avocado and cucumber sandwiches with goat’s cheese and sensible fizzy water Agatha had packed them.

So perfect that neither Mia nor Lord Trelawey took much notice of the slowly graying skies. The weather changed quickly here, particularly as the tide turned. What had seemed like a beautiful day at the manor and on land began to feel very different as the cliffs loomed dark on either side.They bobbed and rocked their way down the channels, the waves rising from all sides. There weren’t actually white horses yet but the swell was surprisingly big and even in Lord Trelawney’s old wooden Cornish shrimper, sturdy as it was, the waves seemed like slate grey walls looming up on all sides.

“Nice little wind has picked up for us, hasn’t it Mia, my dear? Sailing at its best, I tell you,” Lord Trelawney said cheerfully, grey hair blowing in the wind as he held the tiller and the boom to stop them jibing. “When do you have to be back? Time you reckon to take a spin around the island? It’s always good to set oneself a challenge wouldn’t you agree?”

“Do you think that’s really a good idea?” Mia replied looking dubiously at the weather and already starting to shiver.

“Oh, I’ve done it loads of times,” he stated confidently, “and it’s a high tide today, springs, so we’ve got hours of sailing time ahead of us. This trip has been a long time coming for the two of us, so I want to show you the best Cornwall has to offer.”

“You’re the captain,” Mia said weakly, smiling and trying to stay positive and looking, in vain, to see if there was anything sweet packed in the bottom of the picnic basket.

They tacked along inside the lee of the cliff passing buoys which look tiny from the land but which, Mia realised, could sink the boat if they got too close to them. As ‘crew,’ Mia was set to working the jib and providing ballast as the wind, which seemed to be increasing with every second that passed, and the tide continued surging in. The sails were humming and propelling the boat along, cutting through the waves easily as salt spray drenched Mia and she wished she’d accepted the old yellow sou’wester after all. The shrimper’s wood creaked and cracked ominously in Mia’s opinion, but Lord Trelawney’s eyes were shining.

“We’re going at a fair old lick aren’t we Mia, my dear?” said Lord Trelawney perched at the helm.

Mia could only nod mutely realising that she was turning gradually green as the swell increased dramatically on the other side of the island.

“Like a go at helming Mia, my dear?” said Lord Trelawney.

“Well, I don’t really know what I’m doing. I’ve only been on a sailboat a few times as a child,” Mia replied, thinking perhaps it would be better when they got back a little nearer the land.

“Oh no, nothing like the present to have a go, you can’t do much damage out here, nothing to hit really and besides I’m feeling a little tired, the tug of the tide, you know, it’s taking its toll slightly on the old arms,” he said, cleating the sheets and steadying the tiller so they could swap places.

Now he tells me, thought Mia, heart sinking. But there was nothing for it.

Lord Trelawney reacquainted Mia with the basics in an increasingly distracted manner, then shuffled down so that Mia could take over. Mia understood that the most important thing was to avoid at all costs something called jibing, which was when the boom would whack across the boat violently, potentially tipping them both and the boat into the sea.

Every dark shadow around the boat seemed to have the potential for danger, and she clung on to the tiller trying to steer a straight course as best she could.

“You are doing great Mia, my dear, tip top,” said Lord Trelawney encouragingly.

His tiredness appeared to be waning, and he was shuffling around the boat checking random knots, holding ropes Mia couldn’t guess the purpose of. While he made his rounds, Mia could feel the constant pull of the current against the tiller, and it took all her strength to steer a steady course. She wished that they were a little nearer the river’s mouth and not quite so far off the coast.

Gradually though, the dark cliffs got nearer as the wind proved stronger than the tide, which by now was rushing out again insistently causing white horses on the crests of the waves. But as they got back into the lee of the estuary, the wind suddenly changed catching Mia and Lord Trelawney unawares. The boat appeared to moan slightly and lurched sideways, the boom whacking over their heads as the tiller slipped out of Mia’s hands and Lord Trelawney, unable to move as quickly as he once used to, took the boom full on the head. A sickening crack as he looked dazed and then sunk to the bottom of the boat, holding a hand up to his head. In the confusion, Mia screamed and realised the boat was floundering. Luckily it had turned up into the wind and so the sails were flapping loudly which contributed to Mia’s fear, boosting her adrenaline as she grabbed the tiller and leaned into it to keep from falling as the noise of the sails cracked around her and the boat rocked violently beneath her.

Lord Trelawney looked dazed, but there wasn’t a lot Mia could do. If she left the tiller, they’d be completely out of control, and the rushing tide was quickly exposing the needle sharp rocks at the bottom of the cliffs that had wrecked hundreds of boats before them.

When Lord Trelawney was finally able to speak again, his voice sounding forlorn drifted up from the bottom of the boat: “Oh dear Mia, it seems I forgot to tell you about the wind changing as we rounded the cliff.”

“Do you think you’re up to taking control again?” Mia asked trying to hand him the tiller without losing control of the boat yet again.

“Actually Mia my dear, I don’t feel so well, it was probably a bit silly of me to attempt the island today so soon after my little hiccup. Agatha was probably right,” he said looking suddenly very tired.

“Could you stay at the helm and I’ll just lie down here and sort of direct, as it were, from a horizontal position?”

Lord Trelawney was already heading into the little cabin and shuffling about muttering to himself about a blanket which he thought, “must be under here somewhere.”

Mia was on the verge of tears as the boat rocked along. She was a beautiful vessel but Mia couldn’t enjoy sailing at the moment as she was too busy trying not to lose control as a huge wave hit them broadside, the wash from a larger vessel heading out to sea.

“I don’t think I can do this Lord Trelawney,” Mia whined with tears bubbling below the surface of my voice.

“Nonsense my dear, you’re doing fantastically well,” said Lord Trelawney slightly muffled from inside the cabin, “I tell you what, why don’t we just steer into the next cove and wait out the tide there. We could even set off a flare if need be.”

“A flare,” wavered Mia, suddenly realising they were in even more danger than she had thought. Why on earth hadn’t she said something about staying to the river? As Mia was left to her thoughts, Lord Trelawney seemed to have settled himself under a thin blanket to go to sleep. This did not look good, thought Mia as she scanned the cliffs looking for a little cove and saw one not far off. The adrenaline and wish to get them to safety somehow took over and she nosed the boat around and set off towards it, praying that nothing else would occur. She could make out an enticing strip of golden sand once inside the cove and she aimed for that as well as she could. The beach seemed to be calling Mia forward, and as they got back into the lee of the cliff the wind dropped dramatically and the waves ebbed making things slightly easier.

Once inside the cove, Mia was able to bring the prow of the boat into the wind and drop a sea anchor, but the pull of the tide was not going to leave them there for long. She scrabbled around in the little box they’d brought for the flare. Lord Trelawney seemed to be snoring, but Mia was still extremely worried. There was no path up the cliffs from this cove so abandoning ship was not an option either, and Mia didn’t want to risk pulling Lord Trelawney into the water.

Her heart was pounding, and her fingers shook as she tried to pull the release cord on the flare. Finally it went up, fizzing a little as it had obviously got damp in its box. Mia was wondering if there was an outboard engine she could use to get them out of the cove, but the sails were still flapping and she wasn’t sure how to bring them down. The sails made it difficult to move around the boat, too, although she managed to inch her way along the wooden deck seats to check that Lord Trelawney was, at least, still breathing.

Mia peered into the cabin and realised he was shivering in his sleep. She resolved she was going to have to take the sails down and try and wrap them around him and her. So she started to untie ropes at random and finally, after a few false starts she was able to lower everything. The flapping finally stopped and even though the boat was still pulling on its anchor at least the wind wasn’t making such a racket anymore.

Mia wrapped the sails as best she could around Lord Trelawney, hauling the heavy waxed and wet canvass in to the cabin, trying to pull as much over herself as possible. Body heat, that’s what all the survival programmes she’d watched said to do. You had to keep your body temperature up. Mia gritted her teeth and pulled the sail some more wrapping them both up in it like sausages.

Mia could already feel her arms turning blue but she tried to smile and look positive even though tears had been squeezing out of the corners of her eyes, she wiped them away and tried to think.

***

Time seemed suspended as Mia started to give up all hope of being rescued. From starvation to drowning, different doom scenarios were busily running through her mind until she heard a low humming noise. Distantly at first, but getting gradually louder, she heard the bounce and roar of a motorboat and could make out the orange of the lifeboat coming towards them.

Thank god! Then she briefly wondered whether she would get into trouble calling out the search and rescue boat just because she was unfit to helm a sail boat.

As the rescue boat got nearer it started to slow down and throw anchors out. The tide was too low and the crew couldn’t manoeuvre into the cove. Above the noise of their engines and the flapping of the jib they shouted that Mia was to try and bring the boat towards them. She shouted back helplessly that she didn’t know how, now paralysed with fear, cold, and unable to move around the boat easily with an un-stowed sail lolling in the middle of the little cockpit. As the lifeboat spun gently around, Mia could make out Tom on deck, his face like the granite cliffs in a storm. Her heart lifted briefly, but on seeing his face, she began to feel that this situation was not going to be easy to explain away.

“You bloody idiot,” he said in Mia’s general direction. “What possessed you to put to sea when you don’t know how to sail properly?”

“I didn’t put to sea, your father did,” Mia pointed out, knowing full well that she should have stopped Lord Trelawney from the outset.

At the mention of his father’s name, Tom’s attention immediately shifted from her. “What? Where is Dad?”

Mia gestured to the little cabin and Tom seemed to quicken his movements pulling them in more quickly, still looking angry.

“What possessed him to take you out when he’s still recovering from a stroke? Whose idea was this anyway?” said Tom more to himself than anyone, hauling on the ropes as fast as he could.

“It was only a mild little stroke,” said Lord Trelawney, apparently waking up at all the commotion and engine noise. He attempted to hoist himself out from under the sails, looking slightly less pale than he had been.

“Dad!” said Tom. He jumped onto the deck and rushed passed Mia to his father. He hugged him and asked tenderly how he was feeling. More men joined the boat and helped Tom lift his father to the bigger boat across a perilously slippery gangplank. Most of them ignored Mia as they got Lord Trelawney below decks to warm up and drink some tea. Once Tom had ascertained that his father was going to be alright, he came back to Mia.

Just as Mia was about to step on the bridge, too, Tom said, “Not so fast Mia. It’s your fault you’re out here, and my father is injured so you’ll just have to help me get you out of this mess now. There’s no one to spare. They’ll need all the hands they can to manoeuvre that boat out of this cove as fast as they can and get my dad to a hospital.”  Mia’s lips were blue and her whole body was shivering but she weakly shot back:

“No one told me your father had had a stroke. Agatha knew we were going sailing and encouraged it ….” She tailed off when she realised that Agatha had told them to stay UP river not go out to sea. The adrenaline of the last couple of hours had stopped her from realising just how cold she was. Her teeth were chattering as she sank forlornly back on to the deck of the boat.

“Are you cold?” Tom asked, signalling at the same time for a spare jacket, which one of the crew threw to him before casting their ropes and reversing out of the cove as fast as they could.

Tom spent a good 30 minutes cursing while he gathered all the ropes Mia had untied inadvertently. He finally got the sails back up again. Not a minute too soon it seemed as the water was rapidly draining from the cove.

Tom issued one curt instruction after the other, and Mia did as she was told. But as they rounded the cliffs, the estuary looked very different and there were only a couple of narrow channels through which Tom could sail. Even he had to admit that getting out of the cove was complicated. It took them another couple of silent, angry hours, to get back to port. Mia wilted under the glacial looks and Tom’s brooding brows as she felt his eyes boring into her back. Mia was so cold she’d lost the power of speech, let alone the ability to defend herself; so she concentrated on doing what she was told in the hope that that would get them quicker back to shore. Tom clearly thought it was all Mia’s fault, but who was she to tell Lord Trelawney how to sail his boat. She felt it was unfair but what could she do, they’d been lucky really not to be stuck in the cove overnight. All the way back to port, Tom couldn’t stop spluttering on about what a very dangerous, stupid, and foolhardy thing he had had to rescue her from.

Tom clambered up the ladder first onto the quayside and gestured for Mia to follow him. But she was so cold, she could barely see through the tears that had started welling up in her eyes again now that they were almost on dry land. Her hands found it difficult to grip the rusty struts of the ladder, and she collapsed back into the boat shaking uncontrollably, almost convulsing.

Tom sighed, perhaps realising a little of the ordeal that Mia and his father had been through, and came back down the ladder, putting his hand on her back.

“I’m-I’m-I’m just so cold,” Mia struggled out through chattering teeth.

“Well you would be if you insist on going to sea like that,” he laughed, but in the companionable way of people brought together by circumstance.

“I didn’t bloody realise I’d be at sea for that long.” Mia hit back. “Ask your father about his grand plan. He’s the one who said we’d just go out for a couple of hours. You think I wanted to go around that godforsaken island? I tried to keep him warm for Christ sakes. You wouldn’t be making jokes if you saw him shivering on the deck after he was knocked out by the boom. I was worried about him.”

“Around the island, oh Mia you didn’t! Why didn’t you stop him? No on second thought, don’t answer that, I know what Dad’s like when he’s got the bit between his teeth.”

On hearing Mia’s explanation, Tom seemed to soften and he helped her up more gallantly this time standing behind her and guiding her hands one by one up the ladder, supporting her from below until she finally made it on to the spattered concrete and nearly tripped over a rusty iron ring and a sprawl of old fishing nets and lobster pots left near the top of the ladder.

Tom followed Mia up clunking and squeaking in his lifeboat gear. He would have looked sexy if Mia hadn’t been too cold to appreciate it and too relieved to have her feet finally back upon dry land, although she was still rocking and bobbing as if she was back in the boat. All Mia could think about was getting into a hot bath and bed. Tom put his arm around her and helped Mia over to his waiting Jeep, for once bereft of Django, whose warmth she could finally have appreciated. Her teeth were chattering deliriously now and she was sobbing. Tom, seemingly embarrassed, coughed and fidgeted, putting the car into gear and driving them the short way back to the manor as quickly as the tiny winding streets allowed.

Tom whacked up the heating in the Jeep although it mostly consisted of blowing cold diesel infused air into Mia’s face. For once he helped her out of the car quite solicitously though and took her into the kitchen where Agatha handed them warm towels and a hot drink. The two of them had a whispered conversation that Mia could barely hear and then Tom helped Mia up to her bedroom. They’d set a portable heater by the bed which made the room for once invitingly warm.

Mia was too dazed to move and just sat on the bed in her wet life jacket and sodden trousers staring into space. Tom gently helped peel off her outer clothes and then cast around for something warm she could put on. It was only later when she woke from a long sleep full of shipwreck nightmares that she realised that he’d wrapped her up in one of his jumpers, an old pair of jogging bottoms and some thick, scratchy walking socks.

Mia groggily stared at the clock and realised that it was already dinner time. Too dazed to care what she looked like, she gingerly made her way down the tall steps towards the dining room where she heard Tom and his aunt Agatha talking in hushed voices.

“How’s Lord Trelawney?” Mia ventured.

“Asleep,” replied Agatha smiling, “but much better thanks to you. When he woke up earlier he explained to us what had happened and how he’d lost consciousness, so it must have been you that got you both into the cove and lit the flare? We’re going to have to keep more of an eye on him in future and stop him taking anymore guests to sea. He really doesn’t always have a handle on what is best for his or anyone else’s welfare anymore.”

Tom carried on eating with his head down so Agatha continued: “Mia darling, would you like something to eat?”

Mia nodded timidly, suddenly realising that she hadn’t had anything to eat since the thin sandwiches aboard the boat. Looking down at herself she realised she was wearing what she had on in bed: an old fisherman’s jumper and a holey old pair of grey tracksuit bottoms.

Oh well, thought Mia to herself, I can’t sink much lower today and at least they are warm.

She ran her tongue over her dry chapped lips and moving toward the table caught a glance of her wild curly hair in the polished wood of a cabinet.

Oh god, she thought absentmindedly trying to smooth it down.

But the feel of dry land beneath her feet was such a comfort; she plonked herself down in a chair and for once didn’t really care how she looked.

Mia ate her supper in silence. She would have eaten anything, but the warm creamy crab chowder and crusty bread was just what she needed.

“The crabs are local, I hauled them up this morning when you two were setting off on your mad adventure. I just wish to god I’d seen you leaving the harbour,” Tom said, shaking his head.

Mia looked up shyly at Tom and smiled, whilst letting the comforting flavours warm her up gradually. When she’d polished off two bowls, Agatha handed her a mug of hot milk and brandy with a raw egg whipped into it and plenty of nutmeg and cinnamon.

“A hot posset is what you need, Mia, my dear. Drink it down, good and proper,” she added, lapsing into the local jargon.

The posset was so strong that it sent Mia straight off to sleep again. She woke with a moan, blinking and not realising she was still sitting up in the chair. Only a dim light had been left on, which allowed her to make out the form of Tom in the chair opposite her. Mia tried to gather up the blanket that had been placed over her as quietly as she could, but her movements must have woken Tom who opened his eyes sleepily and raised his head.

“Mia,” he whispered, raising himself out of the deep armchair. “I just wanted to say ‘thank you.’ Without you, I don’t think my Dad would still be alive tonight. I’m sorry that I was angry and unfair to you before, but I assumed you were just another London idiot thinking they can do what they like down here, not aware of the dangers.”

He held Mia’s arm and looked deep into her eyes but the words “London idiot” had riled Mia again.

“I’m glad your Dad is OK, and as you say it really wasn’t my fault.” She replied a trifle haughtily. “But I’m not a ‘London idiot’ as you so succinctly put it. I might live there, but I’m no more of an idiot than Holly — you don’t seem to be bothered by her London idiocy.”

Tom looked at Mia in surprise, “Holly?” he said. “What does Holly have to do with it?”

“Well,” Mia replied haughtily, “I just want to point out that you don’t seem to jump to the same kinds of conclusions with Holly, always talking to her in corners and sneaking off at night.”

Tom chuckled. “Are you jealous Mia?”

“Certainly not,” Mia replied, perhaps a bit too quickly. “I just wanted to point out that you don’t seem to judge all girls by the ‘London idiot’ or not category.”

“I’ve known Holly since school,” said Tom laughing. “I was in the same year as her brother, and for your information, Holly might live in London now and have a penchant for shiny French shoes, but she didn’t grow up in London. She grew up down here and so she’s not a ‘London idiot’ at all and knows exactly how to handle herself here.”

“Unlike me?” Mia jabbed back a trifle bitterly, noticing that Tom was still busy defending Holly.

“Oh Mia, I stayed here to thank you and make sure you were OK,” said Tom imploringly running his hands through his hair and looking suddenly tired. “I’m not comparing you to Holly. Holly and I were off in corners about my talk and because she’s trying to get me to write a book about foraging. What I wanted to say to you …” he said taking Mia by both arms, “ …was that I was sorry for misjudging you and jumping to conclusions.”

He looked directly into Mia’s eyes, his gaze burning through her, in spite of the dim light. Mia felt herself blushing, and her head started to spin again as she half stepped, half staggered towards him, losing her footing.

Tom caught her in his arms and propped her up again, “I think we need to get you to bed.”

For the second time that day, he helped Mia up the stairs. He looked again into her eyes, and Mia felt another jolt of electricity stir her body.

“Thank you, Mia,” Tom said, leaning in to wish her goodnight. But instead of the pat on the back and brush of the cheek that she was expecting, he went straight for her lips, lingering slightly on them as his eyes closed and his hands moved up to the side of her face. Just as Mia was processing this unusual turn of events and starting, in spite of herself, to enjoy it, she felt the room spinning and the bed come up to meet her with a crack — like a boom whacking overhead. Just like Lord Trelawney earlier, she fell to the bed and blacked out.

To be continued …

Recipes in this Episode

Lizzie’s Lavender Dream Cupcakes

Makes at least 24 cupcakes

For the cakes:

250g butter

180g Muscovado sugar (this gives the recipe a lovely soft caramel taste, you can use less sugar than normal recipes call for caster sugar as it has a stronger taste)

350g flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

5 / 6 eggs (depending on their size)

6 drops natural vanilla extract

4 tablespoons dried lavender suitable for consumption.

7 tablespoons of milk (soy, coconut, rice, or almond milk also suitable)

For the frosting:

250g butter at room temperature

200g mascarpone cream cheese (or you can substitute any other cream cheese)

500 g icing sugar, sifted

4 drops of vanilla extract

4 tablespoons dried lavender (for taste and to make the frosting look pretty)

8 drops of lavender extract in liquid form if you have it

Dried lavender buds for decoration are optional.

Author’s note: I love this recipe because, unlike making say a Victoria sponge or a yoghurt cake, you don’t have to beat anything separately. You can put everything into a mixer and whizz it together.

If you do want a lighter batter, then whip the eggs up separately and add them in later. You can either chuck everything into the mixer and turn it on for a good 10-15 minutes until it’s a smooth creamy mix. Or you can cream the butter and sugar together first, then add the vanilla extract, eggs, and milk and finally the sieved flour and baking powder and lavender pods.

You can put more or less lavender in to your taste. If you like a really flowery taste, then add some lavender extract for consumption too.

Once the mixture is creamed and fluffy, spoon it into cupcake cases. Buy the big muffin size ones and spoon to about a centimetre under the top of the case, as the cakes will rise.

Put the finished trays into the oven to bake for about 25-30 minutes at 180 degrees centigrade (for a fan oven).

Bring the trays out when the cupcakes are nicely risen and golden in colour with the tops starting to split.

Cool them on wire trays, and whilst they are cooling prepare the frosting:

In a big glass bowl, beat cream cheese and butter together until light and ‘whipped’ into peaks. Add in the extracts of vanilla and lavender essence and whip some more, adding in the icing sugar. If you want it really fine then sieve it, but I often don’t bother. Get the hand whisk going in the bowl until you have really combined everything and then add in the lavender flowers / pods to pepper the frosting with the flavour and sight of what these cupcakes are all about.

When the cupcakes are completely cooled, you can either use a spatula to put a thick topping of frosting on the top of the cakes, or you can pipe it through a piping bag to create that swirly topping beloved of cake shops. Either way, they taste the same.

If you really want to make them look like Lizzie’s, you can add dried lavender buds to the top of the frosting. Or if you like harking back to the seventies then you can throw silver balls all over the frosting to make them dance in the light and help pep up your lavender dreams.

Mia’s Rye Bread Sandwiches with Goats Cheese, Red Onion and Pesto Filling

Rye bread

Goats cheese

Red onion, thinly sliced

Pesto

Mayonnaise

Author’s note: I love tangy and tasty combinations. This is one of my favourites for a quick lunch at home when there are left over jars of pesto or mayo.

Slice the bread, four slices at least — go on, be naughty. Spread one slice of the sandwich with pesto and the other with mayo. Slice your red onion thinly, slice the goats cheese if it’s hard or spread it if it’s soft over the bread. Lay the red onion on top of that and sandwich together. Bite into it. Yummy! Lizzie and Mia love these kinds of treats after their meetings.

Aunt Agatha’s Cornish Fish Pie

For the pastry crust

300g floury potatoes

250g butter

250g flour

A generous teaspoon of nutmeg

A good pinch of salt

Lots of ground black pepper

A dollop of clotted or double cream (can use Greek or Turkish yoghurt.)

For the filling

A kilogram of mixed fresh fish in season.

(I like Haddock, Pollock, Salmon, Bream, and Mackerel.)

Chopped squid, seafood, mussels, cockles, and crab are tasty, too — just see what your fishmonger has fresh.

3-4 red onions (depending on size)

4 cloves garlic, chopped small or crushed

100 g fresh tarragon, or a good bunch to your taste if you’re picking it from your garden or balcony.

3 grated carrots

A teaspoon of turmeric

A good shake of cumin seeds

A good shake of sweet paprika

A good squeeze of tomato puree — from a tube, about half the tube.

2 teaspoons of nutmeg

250 g peas, frozen or fresh

1 fennel bulb including the fronds

2 large leeks, finely chopped

A good shake of seaweed — chopped nori works well

Rock salt / sea salt

Pepper

Fish stock

Clotted Cream or double cream (10% Greek or Turkish yoghurt work, too, depending on how sour you like the taste to be.)

1 lemon, squeezed.

Flat leafed parsley, if you want it

Thyme or Lemon thyme, if you have it

Author’s note: My mum taught me this potato pastry. I just make up the base depending on what fish and vegetables I have. You can alter all the ingredients depending on how many you’re making this for, I just chop and add as I feel. What you’re aiming for is a lovely creamy sauce with lots of fresh fish cooked down and then topped with a golden potato pastry crust.

First you need to get the potatoes boiling for the pastry topping. Scrub and chop the potatoes. If you don’t want to weight them I take about 5 or 6 potatoes. Boil them in a pan of salted water.

Then, chop and fry the onions and garlic, add in the grated carrot, leeks, and fennel and soften in butter or coconut oil, sprinkling in the salt and pepper.

Add the Nori or seaweed to taste, the turmeric sweet paprika, the nutmeg, and the tomato puree. When that has cooked down, add in the cumin seeds and then add the fish, cooking it gently on medium heat. Squeeze over the lemon juice and then add the fish stock gradually to make sure nothing dries out. Whilst you leave that gently simmering, preheat the oven to about 200 degrees or medium hot on a fan or top baking setting if you have one.

Prepare the pastry by cutting in the butter with the flour, salt, and nutmeg until you have made fine breadcrumbs. Keep checking that the fish base is cooking gently and not drying out.

By the time you have made the pastry, the potatoes should be done. Drain them then add a pinch of salt, the dollop of clotted or double cream (or thick yoghurt, the nutmeg and pepper. Mash the mixture or pass it through a potato ricer so it is really smooth.

Add that mixture to the flour and butter that is in crumbs and combine until the whole is a fluffy pastry. If you have the quantities right, you should be able to roll out a thick crust — although it will be harder to handle than normal pastry. If it’s falling apart, add in a little more flour and keep mixing until it binds together. Leave to rest in the fridge or on the side.

Meanwhile add into the fish mixture the chopped tarragon and clotted or double cream mixture and stir until it looks thick and creamy. Pour the lot into a big pie dish, around 30 cm long by about 20 cm wide.

Roll out the pastry, and then place it on top. Make a couple of cuts in the top of the pastry and if you want, fashion a little shape like a star or little fishes for the centre of the pie. If you can’t roll out the pastry, then dollop it on top as though it is normal mashed potato and make sure it completely covers the fish mixture underneath. It will still crisp up in the oven.

Put the pie in the now hot oven for about 35-40 minutes or until the pastry is nicely golden brown and crisp.

This is a messy dish, so serve with a deep serving spoon to make sure you get all the creamy filling, as well as a good helping of potato pastry topping.

You can serve with green beans, broccoli, or just on its own.

Next Episode

Food and travel are two of Mia Maxwell’s greatest passions. So when Mia’s boyfriend, Paul, invites her to Miami for his birthday, she jumps at the chance. But will a fortune teller’s words and a mysterious man give her food for thought?

Greedily Yours
Episode 2 — Salty Tales
By Emma Hamilton

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