The Oddest Little Book Shop

by Beth Good

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Escape to the gorgeous seaside resort of Port Pol, where love and laughter overflow in the Cornish sunshine. 'I love Beth Good's quirky style!' - bestselling author, Katie Fforde After ten long years away, television star Daisy Diamond is finally going home. She's not back at the gorgeous seaside resort of Port Pol in sunny Cornwall five minutes before she realises the mistake she's made. Her childhood sweetheart Nick Old - affectionately known as 'Devil' - is still living there, running the local bookshop, and he is determined to rekindle their flame. Daisy is no longer the dewy-eyed romantic of her school days. Her life may not have gone according to plan, but she's not afraid to show Nick how much she's grown since he famously dumped her at the school leavers' disco. Even if it means bending her heart out of shape a little . . . A charming summer novella from popular romantic comedy writer Beth Good and another entry in her quirky 'Oddest Little Shop' series.

Release date: July 19, 2018

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 128

Sample

Daisy Diamond swung briskly round the corner into the sunny seaside resort of Port Pol with the top down on her Porsche, blue silk scarf trailing out behind her as though in a film-set wind machine – and slammed on her brakes.

‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’

Traffic was backed up in all directions from the crossroads in the town centre, the rather chilly seaside air redolent of exhaust fumes. Seconds later, Daisy found herself completely stationary, staring up at the back of a lumbering, round-bellied, white milk truck.

No Hazardous Waste, read the large red sign on the back of the truck.

She was relieved to hear it, not least considering she had nearly driven her Porsche up its capacious rear end.

She glanced in the mirror and took a moment to tidy her windswept blonde hair. Really, she did not know why she was surprised by the traffic jam. Port Pol’s inhabitants had been grinding to a halt at this point for centuries, one road out of town leading to the picturesque coast, the other into the rough wilds of Cornwall. People from up-country would be queuing patiently for the coast road, the harassed inhabitants itching to escape into the hinterland, and so, despite the construction of traffic lights, it was stop-go, stop-go, all the way back to the outskirts of town.

People on the pavement had stopped and were staring at her. She caught her own name on the end of a piercing whisper, ‘Daisy Diamond!’

She did her best to ignore those staring, not entirely successfully.

Perhaps it was the low-slung, electric blue, open-top Porsche 911 Carrera Cabriolet that had drawn their attention. It was a very nice car, she had to admit. Not quite new, but new enough to have made her wince as she handed over her card. Though she deserved a car like this. It had been her personal reward for some incredibly hard work these past few years.

It happened all the time in London, of course. People stared, people stopped her in the street and asked for autographs, people harangued her over script decisions that were nothing to do with her.

But this was not London. This was Port Pol, Cornwall.

Her birthplace.

The tiny dot on the map where, for better or for worse, she had been born and brought up twenty-eight years ago.

How long had she been away now?

Not long enough, she thought drily, glancing around at the traffic clogging up the narrow streets of Port Pol.

Home sweet home.

Daisy struggled to ignore the ironic strain behind that line, keeping a smile pinned to her face. But, as though determined to make her even more self-conscious at returning to these humble roots, more people had now tumbled out of the local pub and were also staring at her and the car.

Speaking of humble roots, were hers showing yet?

A little uncertain, Daisy air-kissed her reflection in the rear-view mirror, checking her teeth and lipstick.

Mwah-mwah.

Hmm, not too skanky. Her blonde hair might be out of a bottle, but it was convincing enough, thanks to the eye-watering sums she paid her regular stylist in London. Her eyeshadow could do with some work, but then so could her eyelids – and perhaps the rest of her face. Her skin was no longer as smooth and flawless as it had been ten years ago when she was still a country bumpkin, stuck in these quiet Cornish backwaters but secretly dreaming of the big city. Perhaps it was time to give into her agent’s water-on-a-stone technique of nagging, and sign up for some minor cosmetic surgery. A nip and a tuck to halt those tiny wrinkles before they became noticeable.

She hated the idea, but that was the business she was in. In television, it often seemed any female the wrong side of twenty-five had to look twenty or younger to get ahead, and heaven help those over thirty. She did not even want to think what lay ahead for her past the choppy waters of forty.

But by then perhaps she would have done the sensible thing, retired from television acting, and taken up a less demanding career – say, as a nuclear physicist.

Though she doubted she would even have a job in television by this time next year. The writing on the show, usually so peppy, had gone flat last season. Ratings had slipped. And now there was this awful business with her co-star, Ben.

Her agent hated her at the moment, Daisy was convinced of it. Never a very sympathetic woman, Philippa had barked down the phone at her last night, ‘What do you mean, you’re going back to Cornwall? Why on earth would you want to do that?’

‘House-sitting. For my parents, while they’re on holiday in America.’

Philippa had been dumbstruck. For all of three seconds. ‘Sorry, I don’t understand. Can’t they hire someone to house-sit?’

‘I want to go.’

‘What? There must be a problem with the line. Did I hear you say you want to go? To the Cornish coast? In early spring? It’ll be freezing and everywhere will be shut. I don’t think they even open Cornwall until April.’

Daisy had counted to three in her head before replying. Her version of dumbstruck. Which was intended to prevent her from the temptation of being rude to Philippa, who did, after all, have the dubious honour of keeping her acting career on track.

‘I was born and brought up there, Philippa, I know what to expect. And since we’re not filming for six weeks –’

‘That’s no excuse. You should be in London, partying and networking. Talking to your accountant. Stocking up on wine. Or flying out to the Caribbean, maybe? Whatever it is sensible people do when they’re not filming.’

‘I miss the sea views from my parents’ house at Port Pol. And I want to redecorate my old bedroom.’

Spluttering noises from Philippa, who by her own admission loathed the sea, and had probably never held a paintbrush in her life.

‘And also . . . I’ve split up with Ben.’

Silence had followed that admission. A short silence, but still deeply ominous.

‘When did this happen?’ Philippa’s voice sharpened. ‘Do the paps know yet?’

The paps. Paparazzi. The celebrity gossip newsmongers, armed with cameras and astonishingly sensitive recording equipment, and no qualms whatsoever about intruding on deeply private moments if it meant impressing an editor or grabbing a major celeb coup from under someone else’s nose.

The paparazzi were, in other words, the bane of her life. Especially one man in particular who followed her everywhere – even to the ladies’ toilets once, to poke his lousy equipment under her stall. The sneaking little sandy-haired weasel known as Ron Scrotes, photographer and freelance bastard.

At least Ron had not been lurking outside the night before when she packed her Porsche under cover of darkness and slipped out of her security-gated house in Essex in the small hours. He would know by now that she had left London – because it was his job to know such things – but he would not have the faintest clue where she had gone, and that alone was enough to make her smile.

‘Not yet,’ she had told Philippa the night before, mobile clasped firmly to her ear as she continued to throw clothes into her suitcase. Casual, holiday-style clothes. Jeans, shorts, culottes, plain blues and whites, with the merest whiff of a designer frock and some killer heels – just in case. ‘But I doubt it will be long before the whole world knows.’

‘Why did you have to split up with him? You know the ratings are slipping.’

‘Funnily enough, I pay more attention to my boyfriend sleeping around than I do worrying about how splitting up with him might affect the show’s ratings.’

‘Sue won’t be happy.’

Sue was the executive producer of the show Daisy had been starring in for the past five years. Ben, who had only briefly been an item in her bed – let alone her life – was her co-star on the show. He was a few years older than her and incredibly fit, incredibly good-looking and incredibly egotistical. They had been pretend-dating for the sake of the show’s profile for the past year. Then a few months ago, Daisy had done the unthinkable and tumbled into bed with him after a glittering champagne reception for the launch of the new season.

Huge mistake.

Now she felt battered and bruised, and that was just her sense of self-worth. Ben was not an ogre. But he was always after the trophy. The trophy show, the trophy role, the trophy girlfriend.

Only Ben was not bothered about fidelity. If a pretty young extra gave him the come-on during filming, Ben would be in her bed that night, and think nothing of it. When Daisy had confronted him about his one-night stands, he had actually looked wounded. As though he were giving all these other women a leg-up in the television industry by sleeping with them – rather than a leg-over.

‘With all respect, I don’t care what Sue thinks. She’s not the one sleeping with Ben.’

Silence.

Daisy had gasped, nearly dropping her mobile, ‘Is – is she?’

Philippa had made a loud coughing noise, then pretended there was a call on the other line. ‘Look, darling, bit busy here. I’m renegotiating a contract for Teddy and he’s not happy with the money. Not enough zeros, apparently. Call me again when you get down to . . .’

‘Cornwall.’

‘That’s right, Cornwall. Do they have telephones there? Phone masts? Will you be able to get a signal?’

‘Ha very ha.’

But her mobile did not have a signal, so maybe the joke was on her. She had come home to lick her wounds, but was it the right decision? Looking at the traffic queue, and the dirty old shops and buildings on either side in Port Pol, Daisy was beginning to wonder if she had indeed made a mistake in escaping London.

She could be in her luxury home right now, curled up on a massive five-seater corner sofa, watching daytime television in her designer onesie and munching on Quorn burgers. Instead she was breathing in traffic fumes and staring into local art galleries crowded with generic blue seascapes, and through shop windows at shelves of over-priced tourist souvenirs and beach paraphernalia, and being waved at violently by some crazed woman in pu. . .