The Cornish Affair Read Online Free

dumping ground for wellington boots, fishing tackle, painting gear, picnic paraphernalia, broken croquet sets and the all round general stuff found in a house like this. I had, in a fit of energy, some years ago cleared it out, painted it a pale primrose, put up shelves and installed an office. I had to have help though, with the setting up of the computer – why is it that all instruction manuals are written in impenetrable gobbledygook? Jace had finally cracked it, scornfully not by reading the book, but by telling me that he had a ‘feel’ for computers, and that really I should have bought an apple. (Nancy had to explain to me that he meant an Apple , not a knobby russet, much to all round general hilarity at my lack of knowledge.) When the damn machine wouldn’t behave itself, Nancy could normally sort it out, telling me to go away and calm down and to come back in ten minutes, muttering, “ Just like your father, absolutely no patience at all!”
    I picked up the fax and studied it.
    From: The desk of Harry Richardson.
    To: Finisterre Spencer
    Fin darling, I know that you’ll be spitting feathers, but Oliver Dean wants to come and see you on June 14th. That’s a Friday, and I think he’s expecting to stay for about a week. Don’t worry, he seems very nice, try and catch his show on Channel 4 tonight. Anyway, it’s weeks and weeks away, so it gives you long enough to get over your bad mood about him! I might pop down too… so light the chandelier, dust off the silver goblets and sprinkle the rose petals! Don’t put him in the yellow room, will you? Love to Nancy, and a smack to Baxter. Big kisses, Harry xxx .
    P.S. Don’t forget to tell me all about the beach picnic. Who’s going to get off with Jace this year?
    Hmm, well. The yellow room was out, then. I crumpled the fax up and chucked in the bin. There was no way I’d be watching Oliver bloody Dean tonight anyway, channel 4 was out of the question down here. What we got instead was a shadow image of French TV, interesting in a sort of impressionistic sort of way, but not actually watchable.
    There was a toot outside the kitchen door, and then the cheery sound of Richard calling my name. Baxter burst into life and did a fair imitation of a guard dog, giving excited little barks with his tail wagging, whilst Nelson shifted on his perch, screeching. Richard was a flame haired boy, who delivered (amongst other things) shellfish, fish (caught legally and or not), ice, and his mother’s clotted cream.
    “Afternoon, Fin. ‘Ave I missed Jace, then? I wanted to ask ‘im summat – get down you little bugger! Anyway, I ‘spect I’ll catch ‘im at The Ram tonight.”
    He heaved a parcel on the table, and I noticed with amusement that he too was wearing a pair of the Italian loafers. He caught my glance and did a little soft shoe shuffle.
    “Right proper job, aren’t they?” he said, proudly.
    Hmm, well yes, I suppose they were. At least they would be if they were on a linen suited man from Milan, wearing shades and a posh pong – but frankly, on Richard, no. The thing about Cornwall is that we are, to put it mildly, just a tad backwards on the fashion front. Some of us had natural style, Nancy, and Jace for instance, but the rest of us were rubbish at any attempt towards sartorial elegance. Comfort and weather proof is what we aimed at, not knock ‘em dead glamour. I habitually wore a sweat shirt and a pair of jeans, and considered myself fairly well dressed compared to the other residents of Port Charles. So you can but imagine what the rest of them wore…Although I did buck my ideas up a bit when Harry came down, or if I went out (which was rarely, and only when forced to go to London to sample the delights of a new restaurant that I could claim as research and then constituted the perennial but ultimately quite boring Little Black Dress).
    “What’s in the parcel then?” I asked, gesturing towards the table.
    “Summat for you to cook for the