She heard him whistling ‘Trelawney’ in the kitchenette off the smaller upstairs meeting room. The granite building had ceased to be a refuge for the fishermen many years previously and was now a community venue that anyone could use. Downstairs, the larger function space played host to always-sozzled parties, sometimes-sozzled wakes, the ‘Knit and Knatterers’ and many other local groups. The festival committee met there at least once a week in the run-up to the festival. During the event itself, the Institute acted as Festival HQ, providing a hub to deal with any problems or emergencies and a place where all the volunteers could refuel and refresh.

In addition to Troy and the other six main committee members, there were dozens of people who helped to manage all the different aspects of the event. There were countless issues to think about: she’d been astonished when she’d realised quite how much. Without all her helpers, it would never even have got off the ground. With scores of stalls, thousands of visitors over the festival weekend and a budget of tens of thousands, it had evolved into a proper big deal.

Word had travelled that Gabe would replace Kris, as she’d known it would. It had to. Chloe, Sam and their helpers had spent the past day taking down the posters. Fortunately, Kris’s name had only gone on around a hundred flyers and his name wasn’t on the festival banners, thank God, so that had saved money and work.

Zennor had also taken charge of altering all the online website literature, while Chloe had drafted a press release about the change and sent it out to her contacts. It had generated a few stories in the regional media, Kris’s bad fortune had a silver lining for Porthmellow, attracting some extra and much-needed publicity. But as for dealing with the return of the man himself, Sam was still dreading it. Many of the locals would still remember that she’d split with Gabe and why. She’d gone to the meeting at the Fisherman’s Institute, bracing herself for comments about their past relationship. She’d already begged Zennor not to make any sarcastic remarks about Gabe, which would make the situation even more awkward than it already was.

A few minutes after Troy, Zennor arrived, chattering nineteen-to-the-dozen with Ben and Drew. Ben said very little in reply and slouched by the table, as if he was trying to melt into the background. Sam was amused because if Ben had wanted to be inconspicuous, he’d have been better off not wearing black motorcycle leathers and eyeliner that made him look like a character in the steampunk novels that Zennor loved so much. He’d ridden into Porthmellow from his place, a wooden chalet on a site near Mousehole. He really had turned into a stunning young guy, but was still painfully shy.