Plotted in Cornwall by Janie Bolitho Page A

electricity was one thing, lack of washing facilities was another. Each of the rooms was as tastefulas the lounge. Because of Jack she had forgotten to wonder about the family but now it all came back to her. Three bedrooms, two occupied, the third patently not. It contained a bed and furniture but nothing more. Ready for a guest, yes, but Miranda Jordan did not inhabit that room.
    The kitchen was amazing, made more so by the smell of baking and the assortment of cookery utensils.
    ‘There’s a sort of store-room,’ Louisa said as she opened a door. ‘We still haven’t finally sorted everything out. You know how it is, if you don’t do it all as soon as you move, it never gets done.’
    ‘I’ve got a similar room so I know what you mean.’
    The dining-room was formal and not very interesting and ended the tour.
    ‘You’re very lucky,’ Rose said as she pulled on her coat. ‘I’ll see you next week at the same time.’
    As she drove back to Newlyn Rose wondered what it was that had struck her as odd, as out of place. Not the empty room, not the women themselves. She was becoming used to their manner. She shook her head. ‘Forget it and it’ll come back to you,’ she told herself.
    But it didn’t. Not that day.
    Reaching home she wondered if it was worth hanging out the washing. There was no sign of rain. She did so, then watched with satisfaction as the cotton sheets and towels snapped in the salty breeze.
    Taking an apple and a mug of coffee with her she went up to the attic. One corner had been partitioned off to form a darkroom. She developed two rolls of film and hung the negatives up to dry. Then she studied the sketches she had made. They look a bit too serious, she decided, but knew that with time they would relax, would become accustomed to being scrutinised and studied.
    The telephone was ringing. It was Laura. Rose had been half avoiding her. She would know at a glance that something was wrong. ‘How are you?’
    ‘Fully recovered. But I feel I’ve been housebound for weeks. Fancy a drink tonight?’
    ‘Sounds good. Where were you thinking of going?’
    ‘How about the Laundry wine bar for a change?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Rose?’
    ‘Sorry. I, uh, I … oh, God.’ And before she could stop herself she was telling Laura about Jack.
    ‘Good for him,’ Laura said with far less sympathy than Rose had hoped for. ‘Look, you’ve led him a dance for a couple of years now, what else do you expect. He’d have married you, Rose, given the chance.’
    ‘I know that, Laura. It doesn’t make it any easier.’
    ‘Okay, we’ll talk about it later. Look, why don’t we get a bus somewhere? Marazion or Porthleven. Somewhere we won’t run into them. We could eat out ourselves if you like.’ It was hardly likely Jack would take the woman to the same place twice within a space of six days but Rose was upset and needed humouring. And Rose was her friend, she hadn’t meant to make matters worse.
    ‘I do like. What time shall we meet?’ The arrangements made, Rose hung up. She stayed where she was, picturing Jack and the young, nubile Anna Hicks enjoying their meal. To an outsider the name of the restaurant might sound strange but the building had housed a laundry for as long as most people could remember. It had been converted, one part the wine bar, all whiteand chrome with square candles with four wicks on each table. There were three pyramids of Daz boxes high on shelves, an in-joke to locals. Behind the bar was the restaurant, decorated in the same minimalistic style. Rose wasn’t sure whether it made it better or worse that she had been to the place where Jack had also taken his … what? Date? Girlfriend? Soon-to-be mistress? No. Floozie, she decided, then burst out laughing. It was a good feeling.

7
    On Saturday evening Barry Rowe sat at the table anticipating with pleasure whatever it was that Rose had decided to cook for him. Cooking was another of her talents.
    The first serious storm of the