CHAPTER 1

You wouldn’t have thought it possible: Water….Water….And even more water….Water as far as the eye could see; a horizon in every direction: The total blankness broken only by the single, becalmed 32 foot fishing boat gently bobbing up and down in the mildly undulating Atlantic Ocean.

The solitary figure sitting on the deck, elbows resting on the port side of the bow rail, stared with eyes that weren’t really focusing over the vastness that surrounded her.

“How in Christ’s name did this happen?” Was the recurring sentence going through Georgina’s head almost like a digital loop. She couldn’t understand it: Even for someone with her penchant for getting into and causing trouble this was a new high. Georgina Mayfield – rich bitch, spoilt brat, A-list pain in the arse: There weren’t enough adjectives to do her persona justice. Georgina had heard them all and didn’t give a toss either way. She was rich they were poor. All they had were names to call her. She could live with that; after all her friends liked her. Well, in actual fact, her “friends” were sort of drawn to her like wasps to a honey pot. All they really wanted to see was what agg she’d cause next and whether or not she’d be able to buy her way out of it. To most of them it was the same syndrome that draws people to Formula 1 races. The majority just want to see a catastrophe whether they admit it or not. Georgina Mayfield was a catastrophe waiting to happen. That’s why her friends had renamed her Georgina Mayhem. She’d heard the name and liked it. “Maybe they’ll turn me into a cartoon?”

A larger than normal wave caused the boat to peak then trough which forced Georgina’s elbows to lift off the rail for a second before coming back down with a bump that pulled her out of her daydream. Her eyes focused once again on the nothingness around her. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she unfolded her arms and cupped her face in both hands.

A few feet behind the pathetically sobbing figure an old man lay propped up against the opposite side of the wheelhouse. He was dozing fitfully, but even if he were awake there wouldn’t be much he could do; not with a broken leg, a broken arm and a makeshift patched up side where he had been skewered by a flying, razor-sharp, two foot splinter of wood. He’d heard of fish kebabs but a fisherman kebab? That had to be a new one.  

Cedric Murdoch, “Doxy” to his many friends, had more or less seen it all in his 72 years on the planet. He’d been a fisherman for 56 of those years; two years more than his father who had been killed by the sea at 69 (almost a child by seafaring standards). “The sea is a cruel mistress” his father would quote. “You can’t trust the scabby, old bitch!” The second quote was Murdoch senior’s own. Malcolm Murdoch had moved down to Cornwall from Bowness in the Solway Firth on the Scottish borders where his father and a family line going back 400 years had fished. As he already had one foot in England he had decided to try the warmer waters of the Gulf Stream and so uprooted his seven-month-pregnant wife Euna and two-year-old son Calum to carve a better life in the south. One of the first places they visited was St. Ives in Cornwall; both Malcolm and Euna fell in love with the tranquil simplicity of the honest fishing village and didn’t move again: Two months later Cedric was born. Rather than christen him with a traditional Scottish name Malcolm and Euna had chosen a more local one for their second son. It was their way of showing that they intended to fully integrate into their new homeland. This did not go unnoticed by the locals who showed a great respect for the Northern immigrants from then on.

The life was hard, but fishing was as much a part of the Murdoch makeup as the blood that coursed through their veins. As a result they had forged a good, fulfilling life in the most southerly English county. The family had made good friends and the deaths of Malcolm and his eldest son Calum in the same vicious storm at sea was a great loss: Calum was only 44. Doxy too would have died that same night if he had not been laid up at home with a broken arm. It wasn’t long after that tragedy that Doxy’s mother died. Loss of the will to live through a broken heart diagnosed as pneumonia was the cause.

The throbbing of his latest broken arm woke him up. His broken leg had stopped hurting which bothered him more than the pain as he listened to the sobbing of the 20-year-old girl who had put him where he was. Yep, in his 72 years on Earth Cedric “Doxy” Murdoch thought he had seen it all; but that was before he met Georgina Mayfield. He closed his eyes again as if shutting out his vision would make his problems disappear. He shifted slightly to improve his comfort, winced from the effort and went still again.

Georgina heard the slight movement behind her and turned. Peering around the wheelhouse she could just make out a right leg. Doxy clearly hadn’t moved. “At least he’s getting some sleep,” she thought. 

She turned back and continued staring at the enormous expanse of surrounding water. Her expression went blank again as she slipped into another daydream….

“Are you expecting Mr. Mayfield anytime soon, Mrs. Mayfield?” enquired Joan Hoover the family’s housekeeper.

It was 1 0’ Clock on a typical Sunday afternoon. Georgina, Jason Greenwood her boyfriend of 8 months (a world record for her) and her mother Celia were seated at the dining table in the lavish family lounge. Jason, realising what was coming next, stared down at the table and rubbed the fingers of his right hand back and forth across the polished, oak wood.

“I shouldn’t think so, Joan,” replied Celia Mayfield in a tone of well-rehearsed politeness. “As he’s not back by now he’ll probably be eating at the office.

“I don’t know why he doesn’t just move into that fucking office,” spat Georgina.

“That’s enough Georgina,” chided her mother. “And you’ll watch your language in this house.” She turned to look up at the housekeeper. “We’ll eat now. Thank you Joan.”

The housekeeper nodded curtly, gave a disgusted sideways glance to Georgina and left the room to return to the kitchen and fetch the heated food trolley. As the door closed behind her Celia continued.

“Your father works very hard,” she explained, “He has to be at the office, you know that.”

“Every damn minute of every damn day!” exploded Georgina. “Are you kidding me? Murderers on death row spend more time with their families than he does with us.” She turned to Jason. “Do you ever forget what your father looks like? ‘Cos I sure as hell do.”

“That’s enough Georgina,” said Celia in a no-nonsense tone. “He may be your father but he’s also my husband….”

“And he’s never here for either of us!” interrupted Georgina.

Jason shuffled uncomfortably on his chair. He’d heard it all before but it never got any less embarrassing. Celia didn’t reply: She knew there was little point. Georgina could argue for Britain whether she was right or wrong; and as it happened she wasn’t a million miles from the truth. Peter Mayfield was a workaholic; there was no doubting that. He was a self-made millionaire with the firm belief that the harder you worked the more successful you became. Celia had, on occasion, tried to argue with her husband as to how much success the family needed. Something must have been right though; after all they had been pretty happily married for 23 years. Peter was 25 when they wed and Celia 2 years younger. The first three years had been tough as he slowly established himself on the property market. Then Georgina was born and complications during birth meant that Celia couldn’t have any more children. At first that seemed fine, but on reflection she often wondered whether a second child would have taken the pressure of Georgina a little. Another sibling would certainly have been company for the growing Georgina who often appeared lonely through her formative years. But there was no way any of this could be blamed on Peter. He was basically a good man. He provided well, he didn’t cheat on her: What more could a woman want; except maybe his presence a little more often? She knew her daughter felt the same way and sometimes didn’t even blame her. Nevertheless Georgina appeared to be spiralling more and more out of control which worried Celia and sometimes even frightened her.

“Can you believe this crap?” said Georgina looking straight at her boyfriend who again shifted uncomfortably on his chair.

Celia saw the discomfort in Jason’s demeanour. “Georgina, Jason is your boyfriend not your psychiatrist. Don’t drag him into our petty squabbles.”

“Petty…? Petty!?” screamed Georgina as she jumped up sending her chair crashing backwards into a cabinet. “My whole life I’ve never really had a fucking father and you think that’s petty?” She stormed away from the table but stopped in the doorway and turned. “Maybe that’s why he stays away!”

She then turned and disappeared through the door. Celia and Jason looked at each other embarrassedly; Jason blushed deeply. Two pairs of eyes flicked in the direction of the door as both heard Georgina’s heavy, stamping footsteps going up the plushly carpeted stairs. A few seconds later came the obligatory crash as she slammed her bedroom door shut as hard as she could.   

Another larger than average wave rocked Georgina back into the present tense: It was old Georgina who woke up. Gone were the tears. The hard, uncaring glaze was now back in her beautiful dark brown eyes as what she saw as a momentary weakness was forced into the recesses of her psyche. She got up, walked around the wheelhouse towards the stern of the boat and saw that Doxy was still asleep. She stepped over his inert body and into the wheelhouse.

She walked over to the two-way radio on the wall by the old-fashioned wooden steering wheel; at least she thought it was a steering wheel. But what with all the Jolly Jack Tar lingo that had been thrust at her recently it may have been a tiller, a spinnaker a mast: Hell! It may have been a bloody main brace for all she cared – whatever! She turned the radio on but it was still as dead last week’s shoes. That had been some storm. She turned to the small wooden table on which sat a small transistor radio. She reached across and flipped the switch to “on”.

“The next track is definitely stellar,” announced the falsely cheerful voice in a transatlantic accent that sounded as out of place in this area as bacon at a bar mitzvah. “And it’s an oldie so it’s stellar from the cellar….Hit me Ray!”

“I’d like to hit you,” thought Georgina absently as The Kink’s All Day and All of the Night began playing. She shook her head and turned the radio off. She’d never liked DJs, she always thought of them in a sort of paraphrase of the old saying “Those who can do; those who can’t teach”: In this particular instance to Georgina it was a case of “Those who can perform D.O; Those who can’t D.J.” She began searching the wheelhouse looking for her handbag. After a few minutes of petulantly throwing various objects around the small room she located her bag behind a cushion in the corner. She put the bag on the table, sat down and took out her make-up. She applied a little blusher and put on fresh lipstick. As she looked into the small pocket mirror she always carried and smiled in a satisfied way at the image looking back at her she heard Doxy stirring. He moaned softly with the effort. She glanced in his direction with an impatient snort at the interruption and then tried to ignore him. Unaware, Doxy tried to shift his position again which brought a second moan to his lips. Georgina sighed audibly, banged the mirror onto the table and rose to her feet. She looked around, located the cushion in the corner of the room and picked it up. She went over to Doxy and stood beside him looking down: Neither spoke.

Eventually she held the cushion out to him. He tried to move his good arm to take hold of the cushion was more tired than he thought. He only managed to lift the arm half way before allowing it to fall back limply to his side.

“Oh here,” said Georgina impatiently holding the cushion lower for him. When he still couldn’t take it she bent over and placed it behind his head. He nodded slightly, grimaced and smiled.

“Thank you, miss,” he offered.

“Oh think nothing of it,” she sneered. “After all that money I gave you so you could drive us into a storm, nearly drown us, put us in the middle of nowhere and cast us adrift without a radio or anything. Hell, Captain Bligh, or should that be Blight? A cushion’s the least I can do.

Doxy sighed at the indignity and closed his eyes again. It was all he could do; as if hiding behind his eyelids made everything around him disappear. Shut out the light -- shut out the sight. Of course it didn’t affect his other senses there was nothing he could do about those. Taste told him he needed water; touch reminded him of the pain of his injuries; his hearing told him that Georgina had walked to the bow of the ship and sat back down. But at least his sense of smell helped to cheer him up. He took a deep breath through his nose and savoured his most favourite smell since he could remember – The Sea. He let out a deep sigh almost of contentment and then sniffed another lungful of the heady aroma that had been with him all of his life. This relaxed him immensely and he soon drifted once again into welcome unconsciousness.

If Georgina had been honest with herself she would have known that her latest predicament was actually nobody’s fault. “Flash storms” are so named for a reason. They don’t show up on weather forecasting radar they just show up. Nobody is ever ready. However she had “commandeered” the little fishing boat. She hadn’t cared that the fishermen aboard had just docked after a full night’s fishing. She hadn’t cared that the fishermen were worn out after 12 gruelling hours of work. She hadn’t cared that the captain’s only crew member had stuck a finger up at her and gone home to sleep. All she cared about was that she had to get away: To sea; to anywhere but here. The amount of cash she thrust at the tired captain however made him care. He hadn’t caught so much as a single Whitebait the entire previous night. The wedge of folding money he was now clutching in his weatherworn, liver spotted hand was more than he had made the whole of that month. He had to take the charter. How hard could it be? He’d drink a load of extra-strong coffee and sleep the following night. Piece of piss!

Georgina continued her lonely vigil of staring out at the endless, gently rippling water. She didn’t even know what she was looking for. Were they in a shipping lane? Were they still in The Atlantic? The storm had been so violent she had no idea where they could have been blown. What was more disturbing was that anybody searching for her wouldn’t know either: If indeed anybody was taking the trouble to search. After all she’d only been missing for the previous day and last night. Her mother would assume she’d put in yet another all-nighter. Her father probably wouldn’t even know yet not having come home from his fucking office. Jason? Good old steady Jason? If he’d actually have bothered to be there he would have assumed she’d gone off for the night with some bit of local rough. Why did he put up with all her shit? He loved her she supposed…. What a wanker!

She’d always had the knack of using blokes. She was 5’ 6” tall with a figure to die for; a drop-dead gorgeous face that was both incredibly pretty and classically beautiful at the same time (a real rarity); she had stunning, thick, dark brown hair that fell in soft waves to six inches past her shoulders. She was the real deal. Everybody assumed she kept her blokes’ attention by being the consummate shag but that wasn’t it. She was happy to let the arseholes think what they wanted: It only heightened her profile. The truth was that Georgina had only properly been with two boys. She lost her virginity to her first “real” boyfriend at the age of 16. They’d done it a few times till she tired of him and kicked him into touch. The next male to enter her most private place was Jason and that wasn’t until they’d been going out for four months. So let all the tossy hangers-on call her Martini girl (any time, any place, anywhere). It was an old joke and the best that loser bunch could come up with. It did bother her slightly that Jason seemed to agree with the consensus of opinion. Still he was only 21 which in real terms meant a mental age of 12 for a bloke: But he was better than most she’d known. Maybe that was why he’d lasted the course so far; from his point of view as well as hers. Maybe she’d break the habit of a lifetime and actually ask him when she got back…. If she got back.

Maybe there really was a God after all and this was his payback for all the shit she’d got through. If only she hadn’t had such a good time being bad? But it was good fun…. Her thoughts drifted back a few weeks to a Sunday evening. She was driving her brand new black SLK 350, too fast as usual. Jason, in trying to get her to slow down, distracted her. She slammed on the brakes but it was too late. Jason jumped out of the car and saw the little boy standing at the side of the road clutching an empty lead that dangled to the floor. He must have been about 8-years-old. Jason turned to look at the small dog but it was obviously dead. The little boy started to cry.

“Come on, we’re going to be late,” called Georgina in a cold tone.

“You can’t be serious?” said Jason. “We can’t just leave the lad.”

“The mutt shouldn’t have been off the lead,” observed Georgina. “That’s the law…. Last chance.”

“I can’t just leave him….”

“Suit yourself Sir Galahad,” she continued with a note of finality in her voice. “Or should that be Sir Gaylahad? You’re soft enough.”

Jason knelt down to comfort the youngster. Georgina revved the engine but he didn’t look up. A piece of paper drifted slowly down and landed at the kerbside. He picked it up: It was a cheque for £1,000 pounds made out to cash.

“Get your new pal a Great Dane,” she called. “They’re easier to see.”

With that she accelerated away, tires squealing. She didn’t see Jason for a whole week after that. But then he came round: For some inexplicable reason they always came round.

“Miss!” The voice from behind the wheelhouse interrupted her thoughts. She sighed, got up and walked towards the stern.

“Now what?” Georgina asked in an irritated tone.

“The radio,” asked Doxy. “Have you tried the radio?”

“You mean you weren’t jitterbugging or waltzing or whatever people from your century do to The Kinks,” she replied sarcastically.

He thought for a second till what she meant sank in. “No, I mean the two-way radio,” he explained. “It’s above the wheel.”

“I know where it is old boy,” she said flatly. “And it isn’t working.”

“Old boy,” he repeated then paused for a moment. “Oh my God! The boy! Where’s the boy!?”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “Boy? Crap! I’d forgotten about him,” admitted Georgina. “With you calling him a boy when he’s nearly as old as my parents….Now if you’d have said buoy, you know the B-U-O-Y kind I’d have figured it. They have about the same mentality.”

“Don’t be so cruel, you know what I mean. He’s a boy in his head,” snapped Doxy. “You must find him.”

“Keep your hair on,” she replied. “I’ll look…. You realise he could be halfway to Australia by now.” “Us too,” she added in an aside.

She went inside the wheelhouse and opened the twin doors leading to the twin berth cabin below. She went down but it was empty, even the tiny toilet cubicle. She left, shutting the doors behind her. Then she noticed the hatch to the miniscule engine compartment. She opened it and peered inside. It was empty except for the waterlogged engine so she shut the hatch and walked back onto the deck. She went to the stern of the boat and peered over. The boat’s dinghy was rocking gently from side to side about 12 feet behind, joined by an almost umbilical-like heavy rope.

“Nothing there except your dinghy,” she said. “I’ve had enough of this.”

She ignored Doxy’s further pleas and returned to the portside bow rail where she once again sat down on the deck, put her elbows back onto the top of the rail, sighed and continued to scan the horizon for anything that wasn’t water. How the hell had she come to this?

More or less every day started with some sort of problem for Georgina. If there wasn’t one waiting for her when she got up she’d make up one of her own. The morning of two days previously was no different. It was 8.45; Celia had left it as late as she possibly could, but they needed to be at the airport by 9.30. It was only a domestic flight but Peter liked to be there an hour early just to be on the safe side. This was an important business trip and nothing must go wrong. He had delegated the important, if somewhat tricky, job of waking her ladyship to his wife. Celia had, in turn, delegated the unwanted task to their housekeeper Joan: So she was it; the buck stopped with her.

Gently knocking on the bedroom door hadn’t had much effect so Joan tentatively turned the gold-plated handle and softly pushed the door open far enough to get her head in. On reflection she realised that she was being stupid by being so quiet when the object of the exercise was to wake Georgina up. She pushed the door a little further.

The smell of stale alcohol assaulted her nostrils. “So Morgana had been on the piss last night,” she thought. Joan’s favourite actor was Sam Neill. She thought he was a great actor and she certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed. She’d seen all his films and ever since “Merlin” which must have been the 2000^th film about the Arthurian legend she hadn’t been able to get over the similarity between Helena Bonham-Carter’s evil sorceress Morgan Le Fay and the then 11-year-old Georgina. It was as if the part had been written for the young Miss Mayfield. She even looked a bit like her. Ever since that night Georgina had been Morgana to Joan. In fact it had spoilt the film for her. It was a serious piece of cinematic drama; unfortunately every time the witch appeared in front of the camera Joan burst out laughing much to the chagrin of her then boyfriend. In fact it wasn’t long after that night he dumped her: Something else for which to blame Georgina.

“It’s quarter to nine Georgina,” she announced in a firm voice but the room remained in silence. She tried again a little louder. “8.45 love. They’re all waiting downstairs.”

“Piss off!” The voice, even though muffled by the duvet, was clear in tone and intent. Joan wasn’t fazed. 

“Look Georgina if you don’t get up now you’ll make your dad late. He’ll get seriously pissed off, shout at your mum then he’ll fly up here and scream at you.” She paused whilst her imaginary scenario sank in. “Then everybody’s pissed off. They’re pissed off with you for the whole journey and the rest of the day. And you still have to get up. Come on love, do the smart thing.”

“Is she up yet?” It was Peter’s voice calling from downstairs. He already sounded agitated.

“Told you,” said Joan. “It’s starting.” There was still silence in the darkened room.

“Fine!” snapped Georgina; still under the duvet. “Fine! Fine! Fucking Fine!” she specifically emphasised each “F”.

Joan heard the rustle as Georgina kicked her duvet and top sheet onto the floor: But at least she was getting up. “Incredible” thought the housekeeper. “And without any blood being shed: A miracle.”

It was still another 20 minutes before Georgina appeared at the top of the stairs looking like she’d just that second got out of bed.

“If we miss that plane!” growled Peter.

“You could have had a wash darling,” soothed Celia.

“I haven’t got time to pack,” stated Georgina in a last ditch effort of defiance.

“Joan packed for you last night,” explained Peter.

Georgina shot a withering glance at the housekeeper. “Thank you Joan,” she hissed with deep sarcasm in her voice. “What would we do without you?”

“Maybe one day you’ll all find out Morgana,” thought Joan as she smiled sweetly at the 20-year-old. Two minutes later both parents and daughter were sitting in the private taxi with Peter still moaning about barely having enough time to make the airport. She waved them off with the sweet smile still fixed on her face. As soon as she turned away from the disappearing taxi the smile vanished. She sighed, went into the house and shut the front door. As the lock clicked shut she began to smile again. This time it was a genuine smile. The smile broadened into a grin. Seven days without The Mayfields: No barnys, no snide remarks, no screaming: Peace!

The smile then turned to an expression of pensiveness as she realised what the seven days held in store for The Mayfields. It was a business trip for Peter Mayfield who was buying a large chunk of property in St. Ives in Cornwall. He had suggested that the family use the trip as an extra holiday. The weather was good; Cornwall was beautiful: Why not? Joan knew exactly what would happen. Mr. Mayfield would disappear for the week concluding his business; Mrs. Mayfield would fill her lonely time relaxing by having facials and buying all sorts of crap in the local shops; and Georgina would become even more damaged. The truth was that Joan actually adored Georgina. She was maybe the only person who had been allowed under the veneer of the superbitch. In actual fact Georgina could be a loving, caring and thoughtful person if given the opportunity. The problem was that only Joan herself had ever given the poor mixed-up and misunderstood child that opportunity. Joan was already terrified that the psychological damage to the 20-year-old was irreparable.

CHAPTER 2

Peter Mayfield’s moaning had been needless. The family still managed to get to the airport 50 minutes before the scheduled take-off at 10.15. Nevertheless he continued to carp at Georgina’s indifference to all but herself. He wouldn’t let it go. He was still questioning her attitude towards the family half way into the two hour flight from Manchester International to Newquay. He would probably have carried on had Celia not shut him up by reminding him that although he was travelling for business the trip was still supposed to be a family holiday. If Joan could have heard the conversation she’d have given a wry smile at her accurate reading of the situation.

The Bombardier Dash 8 touched down on the Newquay airport tarmac exactly on time at five past midday. Georgina hated internal flights. They never flew in proper planes. This one only had two propeller engines. To her it was a wonder the heap had managed to get into the air at all.

Fifteen minutes later the three Mayfields had collected their respective cases. Peter and Celia were happy to wheel their own luggage to the exit but Georgina had insisted on waylaying a stray porter who was now pushing a trolley with the three cases (all with built-in wheels) whilst keeping a respectful distance behind exiting party. A silver Mercedes S class saloon was waiting for them right outside the main entrance with a fully liveried chauffeur standing next to it. As the family exited he moved away from the car and introduced himself. He then opened the back door and held it whilst Celia and Georgina climbed in. He shut the door as Peter announced he would sit in the front. The chauffeur then opened the boot and stood aside to watch the porter struggle alone to get the three cases in. Peter waited until the porter had finished before giving him a five pound note. The man thanked him then pushed the empty trolley back inside the airport. Peter then waited by the front door until the chauffeur opened it for him. The expressionless chauffeur shut the door behind him then walked around the car and got in behind the driver’s wheel.

“I believe you are staying at the Portmain Hotel in St. Ives?” said the driver as he started the engine.

That’s right,” replied Peter as the car began to move off.

Those were the last words that were spoken for the entire 58 minute drive to cover the 35 miles from Newquay to St. Ives. The car had been laid on by Alfred Rex Limited a small local development company who had assisted Peter in the deal to purchase a plot of land he intended to develop into a luxury hotel/leisure complex. They were to get a small piece of his action and were bending over backwards to keep him happy. The dealings had reached the crucial 11^th hour and Peter, with his usual impeccable business timing was there to close this very important deal personally: This was the reason for the family trip to Cornwall. As the car pulled up at the luxurious and picturesque Portmain Hotel a porter appeared, took the cases out of the boot and put them on his trolley. Peter stood aside to allow Celia and Georgina to follow the porter into the hotel. He nodded to the chauffeur, turned and followed his family.

The porter pushed the trolley to the reception desk where the family were quickly signed in and shown to their rooms. Although a luxury hotel the Portmain only had 43 rooms which meant the service was personal and exceptional which is what Peter Mayfield demanded wherever he stayed.

The porter deposited Peter and Celia’s cases in their suite and promptly left clutching his five pound gratuity. As soon as the door closed Peter rang the Alfred Rex offices to speak to their managing director Simon Rex. He was the son of Alfred the man who had started the company 42 years previously after moving to Cornwall from Somerset. Peter thanked him for the car and they arranged to meet in the hotel for a meal that evening. While he was speaking Celia wandered onto the balcony to take in the stunning view of the ocean and the hotel’s private beach below.

Georgina’s single room was down the corridor from her parent’s suite. It was a reasonable size not that she cared one way or the other. The porter lifted the remaining case onto a stand against one of the walls then stepped back and paused.

“You’ve had your tip Manuel,” she said in a flat voice. “On your bike.”

The porter gave a sickly smile, nodded and backed out of the room closing the door behind himself. Once in the corridor his lip curled into a sneer and he raised a single middle finger at the closed door. Even if Georgina had seen the gesture she couldn’t have cared less. After all he was a hotel porter and she was….Georgina Mayfield. If the truth be known however; had she actually seen him flip her the bird she’d probably have had him sacked quicker than he could have said “Sorry M’lady”.

Georgina strolled casually onto her own balcony and stared at the sea. “I’ll bet that water’s bloody freezing?” she thought.

“Please make sure miss.” It was the old fisherman still pleading with her to look for Stevie.

“Oh for Christ’s sake!” she said as she got to her feet yet again and walked around the wheelhouse to where Doxy was lying. “Look old man,” she said with fire in her eyes. “I told you he’s not here. How big d’you think this piece of shit is? I’ve played with bigger boats in the bath….” The pathetic, pleading expression on his face stopped her. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll look again.”

She began a sarcastic search. She picked up a piece of broken wood. “Not under there,” she announced then picked up a plastic bucket that had been lying on its side near the stern. She peered inside it. “Nope,” she said shaking her head, “not in there either. Ooh, maybe he’s hiding in one of the cups in the galley….” Before she could turn to go towards the galley something distracted her. She glanced back at the dinghy.

“What is it miss?” asked Doxy.

“Nothing, I already told you, it’s just the dinghy,” she replied. Then her brow furrowed as she stared a little harder. “Jesus Christ! The tarpaulin just moved. I think he’s in the fucking dinghy.” She raised her voice. “Hey!” She paused and turned back to Doxy. “What the hell’s his name?”

“Stevie,” replied Doxy.

She turned back towards the dinghy. “Stevie! Is that you?” The bulge under the white tarpaulin sheet moved slightly but nothing else. “Oh for Christ’s sake,” she hissed. “What are you pissing around at?” The bulge stopped moving; Georgina turned away and began to walk back to the opposite end of the boat.

“Please miss,” pleaded Doxy. “He is not right in the head, you know that. Be nice to him.”

“Nice?” said Georgina. “Me…?” She stopped and held out her right hand in gesture to shake hands. “Hi old man, I’m Georgina Mayfield, pleased to meet you.”

Doxy smiled. It was the first time he had smiled for some time. She was crass; she was overbearing; she was nasty; but she had a sense of humour.

“Please miss,” he pressed. “You can’t leave him in the dinghy. He’ll be terrified….”

Georgina walked back into her room. She went over to the bed, sat down and picked up the handset from the phone on the bedside table. She didn’t need to ask; most hotels were standard. Dialling a 9 first gave her the outside line she wanted; she continued punching numbers. A few seconds later the phone connected and rang. Jason answered at the other end.

“4695,” he announced, “hello?”

“This place is a morgue,” she stated. “I’m dying.”

“Then you’re in the right place,” replied Jason smiling to himself.

“Never mind the stand-up Groucho,” she hissed, “You’ve got to get down here.”

“But I’ve got work,” said Jason in an apologetic tone. “I can’t just leave.”

“For fuck’s sake: Are you going to abandon me too?” she continued. “All the moronic Mayfair Michaels I know who have pots and can’t even spell the word job and I get lumbered with you. Well shove it then!” She slammed the handset down onto the cradle with venom and returned to the balcony.

Far below on the beach Georgina watched the multitude of children playing in the sand and surf. More importantly she watched the accompanying parents. A memory popped into her head. She must have been about 10. “Wait a minute,” she thought. “Of course I was 10, it was my tenth birthday.” She remembered playing in the garden with her mother. It was a warm, sunny day; the grass was green and soft: Georgina was laughing. Even from all the way down the garden she heard the sound she had been waiting for all morning. It was the front door bell. “It’s Daddy!” she shouted and ran across the garden; through the open patio doors and into the dining room still at a gallop.

As fast as she ran Joan already had the front door open as Georgina skidded into the hallway. Georgina had wanted to open the door to greet her father personally but so what. It didn’t matter who opened the door as long as she got there in time…. And she had. But it wasn’t Peter standing in the doorway holding the huge, gift-wrapped box; it was an alien dressed in an all-in-one black spacesuit with a shiny black space helmet on top. The courier handed the box to Joan who immediately passed it down to Georgina.

“It’s from your father,” she said.

Georgina grasped the box and threw it against the wall before running upstairs to her room crying. There were tears in Joan’s eyes as she signed for the delivery.

The memory had put a stony look onto Georgina’s face as she turned away from the merriment below and walked back into her room. She only paused to pick up her handbag before walking straight out into the corridor.

Peter had wasted no time since the family’s arrival in Cornwall. He had left Celia to do whatever it was she did, he wasn’t sure what it was but he knew she enjoyed it, and taken a taxi directly to the offices of Alfred Rex Ltd. Simon Rex was in his office and quite surprised to be getting a visit from Peter Mayfield so soon.

They talked for a while over a hastily supplied coffee before Peter suggested they both visit the site of the proposed leisure complex. Simon didn’t understand why Peter wished to visit the site yet again. After all he’d been down to Cornwall several times to see it already. Simon just assumed Peter would want to settle into the hotel first; maybe take his family out? But he wasn’t going to argue. If Peter Mayfield wanted to be all business so be it: After all Simon was going to do very well from this deal; the rest was none of his business.

As they were leaving the phone rang. The receptionist buzzed through telling Simon that Mr. Truscott was on the phone. He motioned Peter to wait and took the call. Peter knew who was on the other end of the line. It was George Truscott who was the owner of the company that owned the site Peter intended to buy. He’d had initial dealings with Truscott but after realising how staunchly Cornish the man was, he’d even named his company Kernow Holdings -- Kernow is the Cornish word for Cornwall, he decided to allow a local company to mediate for political reasons.

Peter sat quietly listening to Simon’s end of the conversation. It soon became clear that all was not well.

“Mr. Mayfield is actually with me now,” said Simon into the receiver. “Would you like to speak to him?” He nodded without another word and handed the cable-free receiver to Peter.

“How are you Mr. Truscott?” asked Peter. He knew the man’s first name but wanted to keep things on a professional basis.

“Very well Mr. Mayfield,” replied Truscott. “There may be a problem though.”

“Oh yes,” enquired Peter. “And what kind of problem would that be?”

“Another party has come in with a bid of 18 million for the site,” he announced.

“But we agreed 15 million,” reminded Peter.

“In essence Mr. Mayfield,” replied Truscott. “But there have been additional costs and we haven’t exchanged contracts yet.”

“I see….” said Peter speaking deliberately then pausing.

“So you’ll reconsider your offer?” asked Truscott.

Peter paused for a while then spoke in a clipped manner. “No. Sorry Truscott, deal’s off.” He tossed the receiver to Simon as he got up and walked out of the office. He paused at the door and turned. “Sorry Simon,” he apologised. “I don’t do gazumping. We’re moving on to Devon. I’ve had my eye on a nice piece of real estate outside Sidmouth.” With that he shut the door and asked the receptionist to call a taxi for him. A few seconds later Simon came into the reception area.

“You’ve blown it,” he said with eyes wide. “I thought you were using a bargaining chip but Truscott said it was all off.”

“I’ll bet that’s not how he put it?” noted Peter.

“He told me to piss off,” Simon was almost crying.

“Sorry mate,” said Peter. “Welcome to the Premiership.” He paused before adding, “Send me a bill for your time.”

In the taxi going back to the hotel Peter was already making plans to visit Devon. His first thought had been to move the whole family on but on reflection he thought it probably best if he went over to Devon on his own for a couple of days. Celia and Georgina would have a great time: They didn’t need him.

Georgina had decided she certainly didn’t need that wimp Jason. If work was more important to him than saving her life – well, her social life at least – then screw him. She glided through the hotel foyer without a backward glance. Once outside she realised that she had a slight problem. The Portmain wasn’t in the centre of St. Ives so where the hell was she? A taxi had pulled up outside the hotel and an elderly couple got out together accompanied by a man in his early forties. Georgina walked back towards the cab. As she approached a hotel porter (her hotel porter: Did the place only have one?) appeared and took two large cases from the boot. From the way the couple spoke to the younger man it was clear there was something wrong with him. What was even odder was that both older people were fairly short; the man was around 5’ 4” and the woman was no taller than 5’ 1” whilst the younger man who was clearly their son was 6’ 6” but stooped severely.

“No Stevie,” said the woman. “Let the man get the cases. It’s what he likes to do.”

“You come with me son,” said the man taking hold of the younger man’s hand and leading him into the hotel. From behind it looked quite comical as he allowed his father to lead him in. The woman smiled benignly and followed after paying the taxi driver.

Georgina reached the cab.

“Can you take me into St. Ives?” she asked.

“You’re in St. Ives miss” replied the driver.

“If this is St. Ives we’re all in a lot of bother,” she stated with a snort.

“The town centre is just down there,” explained the driver patiently whilst pointing to Georgina’s left. “It’s only a few minutes walk.”

“Supposing I don’t want to walk for a few minutes?” she pointed out.

“There’s a bus stop just back there,” he pointed in the opposite direction then got into the taxi and drove away.

“Twat!” she yelled at the receding Ford Mondeo but nevertheless began walking in the first direction the cabbie had indicated.

“Probably didn’t want to take me in case I saw his hands,” she muttered to herself. “I’ll bet his fingers are webbed.” She said that bit out loud then lowered her voice to a whisper again. “Inbred fucking yokels: They’re all the bloody same.”

The driver had been correct. After only a few minutes Georgina reached the edge of the picture-postcard-perfect seaside town of St. Ives. Firstly though, she had to negotiate her way down from the top of the hill through the winding, narrow streets which led all the way down to the harbour. She casually glanced into various little independent shops as she went. There seemed to be everything available from millinery products to art. She was actually enjoying this little stroll.

Eventually she arrived at the bottom of the hill and strolled along the road that skirted the harbour area. This road also contained shops but more importantly she noticed pubs and bars. As she could clearly see the other end of the harbour and it didn’t look too far she thought she’d walk the length first before deciding which hostelry was going to be lucky enough to get her business.

After sauntering to the end and halfway back she walked into a pub called “The High Tide Inn”. The place was quite busy which, was usually a good sign so she went straight the bar and ordered a large vodka and blackcurrant. The barman who looked about the same age as Georgina poured the drink and deposited in front of her. She shook her head and held out her right hand out with the thumb and forefinger significantly as far apart as they could go. The barman instantly got the message and doubled the amount of vodka in her glass. When he placed the second offering in front of her she smiled and nodded.

“Are you here on holiday?” he enquired.

“Does this drink come with a volume control?” she asked completely ignoring his question.

The barman held both hands up in apology and went to the opposite end of the bar.

“How did he know I wasn’t a local?” she muttered to herself. “Oh yeh, no webbing.” She sipped the drink and turned to scan the room. A thin man of around 19, dressed like a surfer in long, bright, multi-coloured shorts, a khaki T-shirt and black slip-on sandals standing beside Georgina at the bar turned to her and brushed his long, sandy-coloured hair back off his face.

“That was cold,” he said.

“Shame the drink isn’t,” replied Georgina.

The surfer laughed and asked if he could buy her a drink. Georgina drank her drink in one gulp and banged the empty glass on the bar. The man caught the barman’s attention and picked the glass up to show he wanted another. The barman dutifully poured a second large vodka and blackcurrant and placed it in front of Georgina. She picked it up and held it out towards the surfer in a silent toast. She then downed the drink in one gulp and put the glass down on the bar. She then took a twenty pound note from a purse in her handbag and dropped it onto the bar beside the empty glass.

Georgina began to turn away from the bar. “Hey you! Ashton Kutcher wannabee!” she called to the barman. “That’s for both drinks, keep the change.” She loved carrying cash. It went against all modern, plastic thinking. But throwing a Visa card or whatever on the counter would hardly have had the same effect. As she began to walk away she turned to look at the surfer.

“See you around Little Mermaid,” she said as she headed towards the door. The surfer didn’t bother to follow. St. Ives was a tiny place; he knew he’d see her again. She owed him the chance to buy her a drink.

Georgina’s eyes took a few seconds to focus against the bright afternoon sunshine. The first thing she noticed was the undulating sea of bodies brushing passing her in both directions. St. Ives had got very busy all of a sudden; or maybe the two very large drinks had focused her attention. Either way it bothered her so she walked across the road and onto the harbour beach. The tide was out and the area wasn’t as crowded as it ought to have been so she wandered towards the shoreline passing various grounded fishing and pleasure boats as she walked. So far since leaving the hotel this was the most walking Georgina had done in her whole life. There was something about the mien of Cornwall that seemed to necessitate going back to basics. No way would Georgina ever have even entertained the idea of a stroll and yet here she was not only strolling but enjoying it. Or maybe it was the vodka that was enjoying it. Whatever the reason it was a simple pleasure normally alien to her.

She reached the water’s edge and decided to have a paddle. She took her shoes off and tentatively stepped into a miniscule wave as it broke in front of her. The water was cold to the touch and she jumped back. She subconsciously turned round, but there was nobody watching: There was nobody anywhere near her. She looked around suddenly feeling as empty as the area around her and tired: She suddenly felt very sleepy. “Must be the sun,” she thought. She turned and began to walk back towards the road still carrying her shoes. She passed a small fishing boat and decided to sit on the sand against the boat’s hull. Two minutes later she was fast asleep courtesy of the effects of the cheap brand of Russian potato juice wearing off.

She awoke only a few minutes later lying flat on the sand and immediately sat upright. A small boy of about 6 or 7 holding a coloured beach ball was standing staring at her. She smiled at him and he threw his ball to her. It rolled along the sand and came to rest at her feet. She got to her feet, picked the ball up and held it out to the child. He held his arms out to catch it but she tossed it casually over her shoulder into the fishing boat. She then picked up her black leather Prada shoulder bag, dusted off the sand and walked away. The child started crying because he was too small to climb into the boat. As Georgina walked away she passed a man in his twenties rushing towards the sound of crying; obviously the father.

“I think he lost his ball?” she said as they passed each other. She carried on walking without looking back. She had a smile on her face.