Writing for Fun
Monte Carlo - Maureen Rampersaud
September 2014
Jo took the turn to Cadgwith Bay with trepidation. She had heard it was notoriously steep with few places to park, but she needed to get away and fate had brought her here. When Jeremy had left her after five years, she had broken down completely. Over the years, she watched their friends marry and have children. She believed it was only a matter of time until he proposed. She had even named their children in her head; there would be three . . . Maisie, Ellie and Zach.
He was married to Camilla now, ten years younger than her and with the 'right' connections. She felt her stomach and a pain, worse than any physical one she'd ever experienced. Would she ever be free from this? Her boss owned the cottage and had insisted she used it. So here she was.
She drove slowly, trying to read the names of the cottages, while negotiating the single track road through the village. She pulled up suddenly as a man blocked her way. He was carrying a massive bundle of thatch. He put it down when he saw her car and she gasped. He was tall with tousled, golden hair. His beauty struck her like a bolt from the blue, but the fact that his torso was muscled and naked was far too much. She tried to avert her eyes; it was like looking straight at the sun. He resembled a picture she had in her prayer book, as a child, of an archangel.
He approached the car, leaning down parallel to her open window and spoke with a soft West Country accent.
'Are you lost?'
Still trying to look down, she felt herself getting hotter and pinker.
'M . . . M . . . Monte Carlo, I'm looking for Monte Carlo,' she stuttered, feeling even more ridiculous.
'You've missed it, it's in front of the Cadgwith Cove Inn, but the parking space is just on through that gate.' He pointed up the hill. She muttered her thanks and drove off as promptly as she could without running him over.
The cottage was perfect, almost on the beach and cosily comfortable. It was late by the time she'd explored and unpacked, so she went to the Inn in search of food. She couldn't believe it was fully booked, but the landlady took pity on her and squidged Jo into a corner by the bar.
'It's the Cadgwith Singers tonight, you see. They come from all over to watch or join in.'
Jo sighed, she just wanted a quiet night, but she could easily escape before they started. However, she hadn't bargained for the hour wait, but when she tucked in to the delicious butternut squash risotto with a spicy tomato salad, all was forgiven. More and more people crowded into the pub, a good natured lot, she conceded. She felt very alone and decided to make a move.
Suddenly, some of the men, beer in hand started singing. The sound of the unaccompanied voices was mesmerizing. They sang sea shanties and a particularly harmonious version of 'Sloop John B' which her mother used to like, by The Beach Boys.
Then, from within came the purest solo voice.
about a maiden fair,
I met the other evening,
at the corner of the square . . .'
The singer emerged from the gloom and stared right at her.
She was a charming rover
And we rode all night
Through the pale moonlight
Away down to Lamorna.'
She recognised the golden hair and deep blue eyes of her archangel. He pulled her up from her seat, serenading her with breathtaking closeness.
And the evening was wet, wet, wet.
Her hair hung down in curls,
She was a charming rover
And we rode all night
Through the pale moonlight
Away down to Lamorna.'
His arm was round her waist and the crowd was cheering and clapping. None of that mattered. All that mattered was that she felt something again . . . and it felt really, really good.