Chapter Text
Through the arched windows of the Harbour Tavern Waverly could see no one, which really wasn't good for business. In the four hours since opening, not a single soggy tourist had bothered to set foot inside the family's pub where she was waiting to serve. The unrelenting rain wasn't helping, bad weather forecast to dampen everyone's parade until the weekend. It was only Tuesday.
Were it not for Nicole's text, she seriously had considered whipping off her top, and doing a lap of the village to drum up business. Or, be arrested. Either would be preferable than listening to the tick tick ticking of the pub’s clock, and Wynonna’s tutting over a stupid crossword.
At least helping in Nicole’s restaurant that evening would be less boring than waiting for the first paying tourists of the season to make an appearance in the Tavern. Just a few tourists with cash would be good, or card, even if it meant dripping coats and flapping umbrellas spraying water across the wooden floor she’d spent over an hour cleaning. Outsiders, loved and hated in equal measure. The locals called them Emmets, the Cornish word for 'ant'. Red in colour, milling around in large groups, looking for sugary treats.
Nicole ran The Salivant. Locals called it Sally's. An in-joke, no one knowing how it started, or why, Waverly suspecting Wynonna had something to do with it. Maybe because Nicole was long and tall. Or, maybe because her sister had trouble pronouncing the restaurant’s longer name after a few too many whiskeys. Or, maybe it was the Cornish quirk of giving something a name only locals would understand.
She couldn't decide how best to answer Nicole's cry for help. She settled on casual tease:
when do u want me 😉
Nicole didn’t reply, Waverly guessing she was elbow deep in prepping for whoever would be dining at Sally’s that evening. She liked Nicole. She liked Shae too, who was fun, and equally tall, and gregarious. Although, a little too much sometimes, which explained why she was the restaurant’s face, chatting and laughing with customers, flirting her way to a generous tip at the end of their meal. That was Shae’s super power, making sure others had a good time, that their wine glasses were never empty, suggesting room for a naughty dessert.
Nicole was a listener. That was her super power. Less needy of attention, secure bordering on shy, reserved might be a better description. Although, a little too serious sometimes, but then owning a restaurant at the age of twenty seven was a big responsibility, one Waverly wasn’t sure she could handle. Nicole gave the impression of being content in her backstage world, which revolved around gutting fish, and baking crab-shaped cookies to adorn bowls of locally-sourced ice cream.
Not that she needed to choose between them. But, if she had to, Waverly knew it would be Nicole over Shae. Not that there was anything wrong with Shae, she simply had an excess of energy, like the Duracell bunny. She preferred to sit and chat in Nicole’s lounge after helping out in the restaurant, which invariably led to her droning on about why she wasn’t going to waste her whole life in the village, why this wasn't forever, why she was going to do things, important things, thingy things.
Shae would join them sometimes, although it was nice when it was only the two of them. Nicole would show off another of her many talents, the ability to disappear a coin then magically retrieve it from behind an ear. What that girl could do with her hands. Waverly wished she was as nimble with her fingers. She wished her life was as complete as Nicole and Shae's. She wished she had someone who would look at her the way Nicole looked at Shae.
Nicole and her partner Shae were blow-ins. As in newcomers to the village, having taken over the restaurant three years previously. The Salivant held the distinguished title of the best restaurant in the village, by virtue of being the only restaurant. To be fair, the title was deserved, regularly receiving five-star reviews, unless Rosita, their permanent waitress, was having another relationship meltdown.
Unpretentious inside, grey wood panelling complemented magnolia brickwork, light flooding the space through two mullioned windows. Plain beech tables and chairs accommodated thirty, the new owners seeking to wow diners with fantastic food rather than fancy furniture. Fresh fish quickly became the restaurant’s speciality, elegant dishes expertly prepared by Nicole, while Shae played host to those eager to sample their signature menu. The waiting list for one of those unfussy tables ranged from two months out of season, to ‘you’ll be lucky this side of September’ during the silly season, when all those Emmets swarmed into Mevagissey.
Once the epicentre of Cornwall’s pilchard industry, many of the cob and slate buildings surrounding Mevagissey's harbour harked back to a time when selling these small oily fish was the only job in the village. That and smuggling. After the fortunes of the fishing fleet dwindled, sightseers replaced sardines. The narrow cobbled lanes of Mevagissey would fill each summer with day trippers in search of stunning scenery, dripping their ice creams while gazing at gifts in shop windows, the harbour wall festooned with children fishing for crabs using nothing more than a long string and a bucket.
Waverly had spent most of her life in the village. Apart from three years away at university, studying for a degree in medieval sad women, according to her sister. Followed by enough time working at a food charity in London to know that wasn't what she wanted, only to find herself back where she started. It hadn’t been her intention to return. A high-flying job, plush flat in a swanky neighbourhood, Instagram-enviable social life were what she dreamed of after finishing her studies. That turned out to be a dingy room above a Chinese restaurant in Shepherds Bush, sharing with a group of similarly underpaid ex-students, who spent weekends in front of the TV downing cheap cider. Compared to that kind of existence, village life wasn’t so bad, even if right now that life was duller than dull.
...
“I’m popping out,” Waverly announced to her audience of one. “Want anything?”
“Customers,” Wynonna replied, not bothering to look up from her crossword. “Wine gums.”
The harbour was devoid of life, other than gulls wailing above the water in search of scraps. The few fishermen still eking out a living had finished for the day, the area reeking of that morning’s catch, battered blue crates with their ropes and nets littering the quayside. The tiny ferryboat which took day trippers to Fowey was tied up at the very end, marketing boards with the prices for a single trip, or a return trip, stacked neatly against the harbour wall. She wasn’t sure where she was headed, other than away from the pub, careful not to step in any of the puddles.
Robin was busy slicing vegetables when she entered the restaurant’s kitchen. “You on tonight?” he said, giving her a side glance, knife rat-tat-tatting against a plastic chopping board. “Ros called in sick.”
“Who’s upset her?”
Robin's talent was being able to ignore questions.
“Where’s Nic?”
Robin motioned with his head towards the ceiling. “Shae’s off as well.”
“How many are in tonight?”
“Twenty six. Some hen party from the Alps. Booked the whole place.”
Her forehead creased at the prospect of serving that many drunk women from St. Austell.
“Nic’s offered to help out front,” he added.
“Where’s Shae?”
“Upstairs with Nic, who should be down here prepping.”
“Okay if I go up?”
He ignored that question too, knife pushing finely sliced onions into a container.
Waverly climbed the wooden stairs to the decked area outside the first-floor flat. The restaurant came with two separate living quarters, Nicole and Shae in the spacious first floor one, the second-floor flat used by Robin, and for storage. She’d stayed twice, once when too cold to walk home, once when too drunk. Nicole opened the door in figure-hugging shorts and a sleeveless top.
She forced herself not to stare at Nicole’s ripped arms. “Just checking what time you need me.”
Nicole returned a blank stare. “Tonight? Yes, yes sorry, big party. Err, six is fine.” Waverly’s less-than-adequate rainwear caught her eye. “Where’s your coat?” She stood to one side to let her enter.
“You sound like Wynonna,” she replied, glad to be out of the rain.
The TV was on low, one of those afternoon gameshows, a glib presenter caked in make-up reading out the next question. “Jessica, for twenty thousand pounds, which cartoon character lives in a pineapple under the sea?”
“Spongebob Squarepants,” Waverly answered, without hesitating.
Jessica mumbled ‘pineapple’ several times.
“I’ll have to hurry you,” the presenter said, winking at the audience. “The clock is ticking. Time is money. What’s it to be?”
The contestant looked ready to cry. “Nemo?”
The audience laughed.
“Spongebob Squarepants,” Waverly repeated, as though Jessica would somehow hear. “Way, way too easy.”
“And, the correct answer is…” The presenter paused for a dramatic drumroll.
“Why do they drag it out?” Waverly added.
The gameshow host pretended to read the card in his hand. “Jessica, the correct answer is…Spongebob Squarepants.”
“Impressive,” Nicole added.
Waverly half-smiled at the compliment.
“No really.”
She let out a faux sigh to diffuse the moment. “My talents are wasted here.”
“Obviously.”
Shae called out. Nicole disappeared to tend to whatever crisis was occurring in their bedroom. Waverly scanned the room for somewhere to sit. Receipts and invoices littered the larger of two couches, the floor too, Nicole clearly in the middle of doing her books. The smaller couch was free, save for a tall stack of neatly folded washing. She took up residence, hands stuffed in the front pocket of her damp hoodie. Muffled voices could be heard from the adjacent room, Shae’s mostly. When Shae emerged she was carrying a weekend bag.
Shae's plastered on smile failed to hide the redness of her eyes. “Hey, thanks for tonight. Really appreciate this.”
“Sure,” Waverly replied, trying to mirror Shae's breezy tone. “Anytime.”
“Nic, can you give me a lift to the station?”
Nicole reappeared carrying a larger bag. “Waves, you okay here while I pop out?”
“Did you want me to help Robin?”
Nicole nodded. She went to place a hand on Shae’s shoulder. “We’d best get going. Train’s due in half an hour.”
Robin was still chopping when she returned.
“Anything I can do?”
“Bar needs restocking,” he replied, not looking at her. “Tables need wiping down. Floor a once over. Condiments refilling.”
“No one’s done that?”
Robin remained focused on the task before him. “Nope. It’s gonna be a shitshow tonight.”
She wanted to reply this shitshow was everyone else's making. She let it go, deciding Nicole needed her. Hoodie removed, broom in hand, Waverly set about cleaning her second floor of the day.
Nicole returned forty minutes later. “Hey, you didn’t have to,” she said, surveying Waverly’s work. “Appreciate it.”
Waverly slotted the red wine bottle she had in her hand into the rack above her head. “I haven’t changed the specials board yet. Robin’s waiting for you to okay the menu.”
“We won’t need it,” Nicole replied. “Everyone’s pre-ordered.”
“So, just us tonight.”
“Yep. Sorry. Shae’s…”
Waverly wobbled stepping off the chair to reach the rack.
Nicole watched. “Careful there.”
“Yes, yes, not as tall as you.”
Nicole went to leave. “I’d best finish that paperwork. See you later.”
Wynonna was still tutting at the crossword on her return. “Seven across, four letters. If this is the answer, what was the question?”
“Love,” Waverly answered, without breaking her stride.
“Damn. I’ve been stuck on that for ages. Did you get my wine gums?”
“Oops.”
“Right, I’m popping home. Check Alice hasn’t tied nanna up again.”
Left alone, with no sign of those bedraggled ants, Waverly grabbed the Chromebook from her bag. Scrolling through the latest listings for local jobs, nothing appealed apart from one. Heritage Manager at Heligan’s. The Lost Gardens of Heligan were no more than two miles from Mevagissey, an easy enough cycle ride, paying a regular income if she got the job. It would help towards that white Fiat 500 convertible with the red roof she’d spotted for sale. One owner, low mileage, red upholstery sporting the 500 logo on its front headrests. She could see herself coasting down country lanes, Fifi’s roof rolled back, because of course her car would be called Fifi, Taylor Swift blasting out at full volume.