Page 23 of One Summer

He might actually be the most unapologetically rude person I have ever met.

I can feel my middle finger twitching, but I’m saved from vulgarity by a knight in shining armour.

Twenty-Two

Knight

Not so much shining armour, as shining neoprene. A surfer with a gleaming red surfboard has stopped to roll his wetsuit down to his hipbones, revealing a washboard stomach. He’s clearly been eavesdropping, because he suddenly strides forward and pipes up in what can only be described as a very sexy Australian accent.

‘She’s right, mate. Anyone can pick up sea glass. If it’s manmade, it shouldn’t be in the ocean or on the beach in the first place – even if it’s beautiful, like all these mermaid tears, it’s still technically garbage.’

‘That’s not really the point,’ Bandanna Man says, sounding uncomfortable now – probably because he’s realising he’s both wrong and outnumbered – which gives me a little shiver of pleasure.

‘It kind of is the point, though, eh?’ the surfer persists. ‘Most of this sea glass comes from the old bottle factory across the water. They dumped tons of waste in the ocean for the past hundred years. It literally says so on that sign over there.’

He points to a brightly coloured information board at the edge of the harbour and we all mutely turn our heads to stare at it, even though we’re much too far away to read anything.

There’s an awkward moment of silence and I’m not sure how this is going to go. Then the surfer stoops, picks up a large bead of honey-coloured glass, which he looks at appreciatively for a moment, before handing it to me with a smile that is all sparkle and warmth.

I could kiss this sexy Australian. Every pore of my body oozes gratitude for him.

Bandanna Man sighs in a very over-the-top way and mumbles what I think is a very sarcastic, ‘Smooth,’ under his breath, then says, ‘Whatever. Ruin the beach for all I care. Do what you want.’

‘I will, thanks,’ I say, and realise I sound about eight years old. ‘Do what I want, that is,’ I clarify. ‘Not ruin the beach. Obviously, I don’t want to do that. Only a complete monster would want that.’

But my words are wasted; the Lord is Loor is already stalking away and I can see from the set of his shoulders exactly how he feels. Virtuous. Justified. Despite the fact that he’s completely in the wrong.

Uggh, what an arsehole. Which is exactly what the surfer dude says to me.

‘Do you know who he is?’ I ask, hoping he’ll be able to give me a name I can put at the top of my Avoid At All Costs list.

‘No idea, but I’ve only been back a few weeks.’

We’re both staring at Bandanna Man walking away, which makes it really awkward when he stops and looks back at us, perhaps to check if I’ve continued destroying his beach by removing three grams of precious litter.

The Aussie and I turn our bodies towards each other, guiltily.

‘He clearly thinks we were slagging him off,’ I say. Which we were, but even so.

‘Don’t worry. He’ll be used to it with an attitude like that.’

‘God, he was so condescending when he thought I was a holidaymaker… I bet he hasn’t done much volunteering in the tourist information centre. Imagine if a child came in clutching a razor shell in their little hand? He’d chase them away with a pitchfork.’

‘Loor doesn’t actually have a tourist information centre,’ the surfer tells me. ‘Don’t need it. People already know what they want to do when they get here.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘The usual things people want from Cornwall. Sun, sand and sex…’ he says, with a truly gorgeous smile.

‘Oh… and what about when it’s raining?’

‘They skip the first two.’

Is he flirting with me? It feels like he might be, but my instincts are all over the place when it comes to judging the intentions of men, as evinced by my disastrous pseudo-relationship with Max. He’s probably just being friendly and in my desperation, I’m reading more into it than I should.

I bite my lip. This has not been an auspicious start to my island adventure.

‘Don’t worry about that mask guy. There are loads of his type around the island. They think they have to police the place for minor infractions as determined by their personal moral code. It’s a thing here – in the Scillies too, from what I hear. Probably most of Cornwall, actually.’

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