Chapter Twenty
Della Dayvon wiped down the immaculate counter for the umpteenth time that morning.
It was important to open up each day and keep the place looking spick and span, even if it was the middle of winter and Portheast had yet to develop a taste for her ice creams, drinks and new range of Della-icious Bites.
The only person she’d seen all morning was Evelyn, but she didn’t count as a customer.
Especially as, even when they were free, she never seemed very taken with Della’s offerings.
Still, the story about the watch that Evelyn had shown her was a good one – perfect, in fact, for the press campaign Della now appeared to be in charge of since Alison had stepped back. Della really should have kept her big mouth shut at that meeting.
When she had arrived in Portheast, she’d decided to leave the media life behind. Della Dayvon might be a big name in Australian TV, but here she liked being just another visitor, albeit one with a surname that made some Cornish folk frown.
Except she’d blown it by telling the museum committee about her old job and now she would have to go back to her old ways, glad-handing and smiling until her cheeks hurt.
That Della Dayvon felt like a different person, one who wore plunging necklines, spray tan and three different kinds of foundation – plus concealer and highlighter.
When the cameras rolled and the lights came on, she had sprung to life, enthusing about the latest film premiere, laughing at her co-host’s jokes or furrowing her brow in faux concern (as much as was possible with Botox) to coax confessions from guests.
Daytime With Della was a big hit, but nighttime Della increasingly felt empty and alone. One morning, when her 4 a.m. alarm went off, she couldn’t move. It was as if she was wrapped in a fog that nothing could penetrate – not even her producer screaming threats down the phone.
Once she’d scraped herself up off the floor and made it into work, she looked so grim they immediately put her on a fortnight’s sick leave.
The company paid for an emergency stay at a luxury clinic that promised to deliver the nation’s favourite presenter back to the studio in time for the Melbourne Cup special.
But that chirpy Della was never to be seen again.
Instead, en route to the clinic she’d bribed the cab driver to make a detour to the airport, where she got the first of several flights that whisked her far away from her old life to Bali, Thailand and Nepal, where she failed to achieve spiritual enlightenment but did pick up a nasty case of giardia.
Then, she limped on towards Europe, becoming well acquainted with the bathrooms of Florence, Rome and Paris before ending up in London.
Her father had been a Brit – she had dual nationality – so it was only right to visit the old country.
She’d spent a couple of weeks drinking pints in Earl’s Court and went to see a blue door in Notting Hill that turned out to be much like a blue door anywhere.
Then she remembered she hated that film anyway and admitted to herself that she missed home.
Then, the week before she was due to head back to Sydney, she saw a picture of an outdoor theatre that seemed to be cut into the rock, overlooking the sea.
It was called the Minack and it was in Cornwall, so she’d splashed out on a ticket to Penzance, but never made it to the theatre and ended up in Portheast. She still hadn’t been to that theatre.
She much preferred the new Della, a person with no past who could change her hair shade at will and wear clothes in any pattern, without being told they ‘didn’t read well on camera’.
Today Della was wearing yellow and black striped dungarees that she’d picked up in Kathmandu.
Granted they weren’t ideal for late February in Cornwall, so she was wearing her thermals underneath and a black bobble hat on her head, which made her look like a very large bumble bee.
Not that Evelyn noticed. She was an odd fish and the two of them had barely spoken before those council letters came, but Della was starting to appreciate her peculiarities.
Della put her cleaning cloth away and got out her iPad. It was time to make a list of all the people she could call up to come to the exhibition launch and the jobs that needed doing.
Bless Evelyn’s quirky little typewritten museum labels, but they would need to print up the new, longer descriptions for each item and organise the exhibition pieces in some way.
She’d spotted a sign outside a bungalow, advertising homemade wooden benches and planters – maybe that person could knock up some plinths for them.
Then there was the small matter of the clutter that filled every spare inch of the museum.
As Australia’s TV Darling, Della Dayvon had persuaded a footballer to confess his affairs and a politician to perform in a panto, but she sensed getting Evelyn to have a sort-out might be beyond even her powers.
A sharp rap on her counter distracted Della from her to-do list. It was Sariah, looking more dishevelled than usual, easing herself onto a bar stool.
‘Looks like you could do with my favourite hangover cure. It’s coffee, but not as you know it,’ Della said.
‘Worth a try,’ Sariah replied. ‘I came down to see Evelyn, but she wasn’t at her desk. So I thought I’d pop in here.’
‘She’s probably fossicking around at the back – I mean, you could get lost in that place,’ Della said. She leaned in and confided, ‘You know, I reckon she might have a little snooze in there sometimes.’
Della reached for her stove-top coffee pot and poured Sariah what she called her Espresso Magnifico, adding a savoury nibble on the side of the saucer. ‘Mini cheese scone. On the house,’ she said proudly.
‘Ooh, yes, perfect,’ Sariah said, shaking out a sachet of sugar and pouring it into her coffee. ‘I wanted to apologise to Evelyn, really. She got dragged into some family business yesterday.’
She took a sip, winced and reached for a second sugar sachet.
Della beamed. ‘And that’s why I call it rocket fuel!’
Then she flipped her iPad round so Sariah could see it. ‘Look, I’ve been making a list of what we need to do ahead of the exhibition.’
Sariah ran a finger down the list, making the odd nod. ‘Yep, there’s a designer in Truro who would do a good job of printing the labels. Yes, I can get us a crate of wine at cost and the hotel can loan us the glasses.’
She took a bite of the cheesy morsel and chewed hard, watched closely by Della.
‘Good, eh?’
Sariah chewed some more and nodded. ‘Mm. I can’t quite place the flavour?’
‘Doritos,’ Della said triumphantly. ‘You crush ’em up and mix them into the dough. Tangy Cheese variety, obviously.’
‘Lovely. Saving it for later,’ she said, tucking the morsel into a napkin. Then Sariah slid off the bar stool, brushed some crumbs off her front and set her hotel name tag straight.
‘I’m needed back at work,’ she said. ‘And I’ve changed my mind about talking to Evelyn, so no need to mention I came by. Frankly, yesterday was embarrassing and I’d prefer to forget about it.’
Della was confused. ‘Got it. I won’t say anything about that thing I don’t know about.’
Sariah gave her the stern look her staff had come to fear. ‘Don’t forget to add caterers to your list. You’ll be very busy as our MC, so I suppose we could try Nils’ bakery?’
Della was about to explain that the beauty of her party bites was that they could all be frozen in advance, except the giant cranberry cheese ball, but Sariah had already disappeared, leaving a half-drunk cup of coffee on the counter.