The festival call had been the catalyst, but maybe, subconsciously, he’d already wanted to come back to Porthmellow, possibly build a few bridges. The Net Loft restaurant premises coming up for lease at the same time had cemented that idea. Since Chloe’s call, he’d had all sorts of ideas.

He’d never intended to become a ‘personality’ when he first started cooking but a couple of appearances at festivals and on regional news programmes had led to an offer to guest on a national weekend cooking show. Gabe had found that the exposure helped keep his own restaurant in business and so he’d accepted more and more offers until he’d been offered his own series. He’d only recently finished filming the second run but wasn’t sure he wanted to do any more. They were a major commitment that took him away from ‘hands-on’ cheffing.

If he decided to re-open the Net Loft and spend more time in Cornwall, away from the madness of London, it would mean ramping down his TV commitments at a time when he could have been accepting more offers. But he didn’t want to end up one of those people who viewers can’t get enough of to start with, until the day they started to find him bloody annoying. He hated the word ‘celebrity’ even now and refused to have it uttered in his presence, even though tolerating it publicly was a necessary part of his business brand.

His agent wouldn’t agree. She’d wag her ring-encrusted finger and warn him, ‘Carpe diem, Gabe. Grab every opportunity while you can, my love, or people will forget you. You’ll be old hat before you can blink.’

Trouble was, Gabe felt old hat already. He’d worked since he was fourteen, clawing his way from chip shop assistant to successful chef and he was tired … not so much physically as in his soul.

So, how in the name of Christ would returning to Porthmellow with all its unhappy memories help? And how would moving a few doors up from Samphire Lovell make his spirit any less ragged than it was now? It was more than likely to tear it to shreds.

Gabe baulked at the parking charges as he reached the ticket machine. What? That was steep, wasn’t it? Four quid for two hours? It was nothing compared to London but for Porthmellow he was surprised. He hadn’t been back for five years, but it used to be free. He didn’t begrudge a penny to the council, but he was surprised that they thought people would pay that much for an amble around the harbour and shops.