Grey clouds mustered on the horizon like an army waiting to strike. Heavy rain would put a huge dent in the festival attendance, but more importantly they had to make it to festival morning with an intact marquee and Chef’s Theatre. The wind had freshened significantly while they’d been inside for the briefing, thought Sam, holding her hair off her face. The harbour office was an exposed spot anyway, so that was nothing unusual. Seagulls fought the breeze, hovering over a trawler chugging into the harbour to land its catch. Others gathered on the harbour wall, their raucous cries filling the air.

She saw Gabe waving from outside the Net Loft and then start jogging to meet her. He was in a T-shirt and shorts, his strong calves tanned by the sun. The air was humid as if it was storing up an epic downpour. Sam felt hot and shivery.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

‘Manic as ever. Niggling little problems, but that’s normal. It’s the forecast that bothers me more.’

‘I saw on the news.’

‘Troy was full of doom. “The last time I saw clouds like that was over Treverrow in ’fifty-seven. They were mopping up for weeks and roads were closed till Christmas.”’ Sam imitated Troy’s gloomy voice.

Gabe laughed out loud. ‘Gotta love Troy. Don’t worry. I think the worst of the rain and wind will miss us.’

‘I hope so. The Met Office said they couldn’t predict exactly when and where it will land,’ Sam said, determined to be optimistic. ‘Though I’m worried about the marquee.’

‘It’ll be fine, I’m sure.’ He rested his hand on her bare arm. Her lips tingled with the memory of their other skin on skin contact: the kiss after Chloe’s party and the look in his eye in the kitchen at Stargazey. He took his hand away. ‘And hey, if it does end up in Mount’s Bay or knocking the roof off a house, I guess you’re well insured.’

Sam rolled her eyes. ‘Thanks. I’ll sleep easy knowing that. I have to go …’ She didn’t want to leave him but she didn’t trust herself to linger or let herself wonder about her future – their future – on the eve of the festival. ‘There’s a row over some of the stalls. Two fudge makers have been accidentally allocated spots side by side and they’re not happy.’

Gabe whistled. ‘Oh, Fudgegate. Sounds nasty. Call me if the confectionery starts flying. In fact, call me for anything. I mean that. I’m going to a rehearsal in the Chef’s Theatre later, but I’ll be around the Net Loft for a while, talking to the architect and making sure it’s ready for tomorrow,’ he said. He’d kindly offered to let the volunteers and emergency services use the Net Loft and its facilities as an extra rest area during the festival.