LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER SIX

      Thursday, 2 June

      Charlotte had only been in Cornwall for six days, but she was already tearing her hair out – literally, the moisture in the air making it curl, no matter how often she straightened it. Her headaches weren’t easing, and she was fidgety and restless. She guessed her body had become acclimatised to working long stressful days and was unaccustomed to lazing about doing nothing.

      The employment tribunal had advised that there was a backlog of claims, so it might be a few weeks before a date was set. She had planned to look for another job while she was here, but then realised that the likelihood of being offered another position, when she’d been fired from the previous one, was remote. She was better off waiting until the outcome of her claim was decided before contemplating her next move. Until then, she needed to find something to occupy her time.

      Her attempts to keep busy by helping Lauren around the flat hadn’t worked out either. When her offer to contribute to the rent had been refused, she’d figured that she needed to earn her keep by doing chores instead. It didn’t take a genius to work out that Lauren was struggling financially, but her sister was determined to manage on her own and didn’t want to be seen as a ‘charity case’. Charlotte hadn’t meant to cause offence, so by way of an apology, she’d blitzed the flat from top to bottom, scrubbing the bathroom until her arms ached and removing all the mould from the discoloured grout. She’d mended the blind, sorted the children’s books into alphabetical order, and boxed up their toys to avoid any unnecessary accidents. But far from appreciating her efforts, Lauren had seemed more annoyed than grateful. It was all very confusing. Especially as it was obvious that Lauren could do with the help.

      For the past seven years, Charlotte had foolishly believed that her sister lived an idyllic lifestyle, but she’d discovered the reality was quite different. Lauren worked part-time in a café, relied on benefits, and left her kids with all manner of childminders. But Lauren seemed to like her life, claiming to be happy existing at a slower, less material pace, placing value on free time, socialising with friends, and partaking in hobbies such as amateur dramatics.

      Their dad was the same. Charlotte had imagined an emotional reunion, whereby Tony Saunders enveloped his eldest daughter in a bear hug, told her he’d missed her and everything would revert to how things had been before her mum had died. Instead, she’d spent one brief evening with him before he’d had to rush off, something about a fishing boat caught on the nearby rocks. It was all highly depressing. All she’d been able to glean from Lauren was that he lived on a narrowboat, worked for a local fisherman, and spent his free time manning the local RNLI boat station.

      The only people that were pleased to see her were Freddie and Florence. She’d quite enjoyed reading them bedtime stories, picking them up from school, and teaching them to bake cupcakes. They were surprisingly good company.

      She checked her watch. It wasn’t even lunchtime. Lauren was working at the café, and the kids were at school. What was there to do on a Thursday in Penmullion?

      She guessed there was only one way to find out.

      It wasn’t the warmest of days, so she slipped on her navy rain mac over her silk shirt and white pencil skirt. She considered changing her footwear, but decided she wasn’t going far, so stuck with her nude courts. It took a lot for her to ditch the heels.

      Dobbs Road wasn’t in the desirable part of town, so she had to walk down to the main quayside if she wanted anything other than pound shops and budget supermarkets.

      The road was extremely steep; the houses either side were cut into the rock face, their driveways at acute angles to the road. Her slow walk turned into a speedy trot as her momentum increased on the downhill slope. Thankfully, the road levelled out before she reached the water’s edge, preventing her from landing head first in the sea. Quite apart from the embarrassment that would have caused, her shirt was dry-clean only.

      In order to reach the other side of the quay, where most of the boats were moored, she needed to cross the narrow footbridge. Determined not to be defeated by the drop below, she focused on the view ahead, and tried to slow her breathing, as she negotiated the unstable walkway. It wasn’t the sturdiest of bridges, with lengths of rope supporting the wooden slats. She tried not to look down, ignoring

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