Christmas at the Cornish Café: A heart-warming holiday read for fans of Poldark
Christmas at the Cornish Café: A heart-warming holiday read for fans of Poldark
Phillipa Ashley
Return to the Cornish Cafe in this gorgeous festive romance – the perfect book to curl up with this Christmas.Christmas will be slightly less turbulent than summer, won’t it? Demi certainly hopes so.She and Cal are keeping their fledgling relationship under wraps for now. But then Kit Bannen, a hunky, blond – and somewhat mysterious – writer arrives at Kilhallon Resort, and not everyone is charmed. Cal is sure that Kit is hiding something. But is he the only one guarding a secret?Demi is busy baking festive treats for the newly opened Demelza’s cafe, but when Cal’s ex Isla arrives to shoot scenes for her new drama, Demi can’t help but worry that things aren’t quite over between them. Kit flirts with both women, fuelling Cal’s suspicions that Kit has hidden motives for staying on at Kilhallon. Then Cal has to go to London, leaving Demi and Kit to decorate the cafe for Christmas . . . all by themselves.A storm is brewing in more ways than one. As surprises unfold and truths are uncovered, can Demi and Cal finally open up to each other about their feelings?This second novel in the bestselling Cornish Cafe series is the perfect Christmas read.
PHILLIPA ASHLEY
Christmas At The Cornish Cafe
Book #2
Published by Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
The News Building
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2016
Copyright © Phillipa Ashley 2016
Phillipa Ashley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © November 2016 ISBN: 9780008191870
Version: 2017-12-07
For Charlotte and James,
Nadelik Lowen Ha Bledhen Nowyth Da
(Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year)
And in memory of Rowena Kincaid 1975–2016
Table of Contents
Cover (#u1563021a-85e0-5db3-a532-d8eacfcaeb4d)
Title Page (#u9e065c2a-1610-5d70-bd70-ded688a9bfea)
Copyright (#u89a254c7-38e3-5a38-a0a9-12e3e471e1d4)
Dedication (#u2256ce9c-0b44-51eb-b737-1b07b59d9ea6)
Prologue (#u6a25aa71-b0ea-53fe-9e4e-ee4cf05fcf11)
Chapter One (#u10430283-9ea2-5b1b-8a35-92e19e82dd12)
Chapter Two (#u891daa02-7081-5499-ae0b-ffb239c25ec1)
Chapter Three (#u8c71ce50-37ce-5e8f-a31c-6aae242337e6)
Chapter Four (#uf7026e8d-c70a-5001-8394-1925906eee34)
Chapter Five (#u70d7ec64-2dfc-5edc-a068-0f74f27486d8)
Chapter Six (#u439ecaf3-6b0e-5681-8710-593646cede09)
Chapter Seven (#u754ab028-a990-5dea-8aa8-22e99fa2fae3)
Chapter Eight (#u8468d0a4-5a8f-5996-8aa0-12bfdd586e14)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Recipes (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#u66c713b5-a518-5e1e-b239-0f3bffec2a66)
Tuesday October 1
Demi
‘Good morning, friends! This is Greg Stennack, your favourite local DJ on your favourite local station, Radio St Trenyan. I’ll be bringing you all the latest tunes and news from our great little corner of Cornwall and cheering you up on this wet and windy October the first. Hey, did I just say it was October? Seems like only yesterday that we were slapping on the suncream and stretching out the beach towels to catch some rays. Oh, wait – that was only yesterday! Hey, never mind, people. Christmas is only eighty-five sleeps away. Now, let’s kick off this wild autumn day with ‘Here Comes the Rain Again’ by the Eurythmics …’
Hey, thanks, Greg, I’ve nothing against Annie Lennox, but I think I’ll pass.
With a groan, I bash the radio alarm ‘off’ button with my palm and pull the duvet over my head. That was a mistake. Now that Greg’s not blaring down my ear, I can hear the rain lashing against the windows and battering the roof of my tiny terraced cottage. A moment later, I throw the duvet off me, shivering in the cool October morning. I say ‘morning’, but it might as well be evening it’s so dark and gloomy in my bedroom. The late September heatwave we’d been enjoying at Kilhallon Park broke late last night when a massive storm blew in from the Atlantic and settled over our corner of far-west Cornwall.
The bedroom door bangs against the wall and four paws land squarely on my legs and a rough tongue licks my face.
‘Oof!’
My dog, Mitch, stands on my stomach, tongue lolling. ‘Thanks, boy, but I’d rather have a wash myself. In the bathroom, preferably.’
Mitch woofs and jumps onto the floor, wagging his feathery tail.
‘I know, I know. You want a walk, but have you heard that wet stuff falling from the sky outside?’
Mitch leaps off the bed, and stands by, tilting his head this way and that, as if to say: ‘Wuss’.
I give up all thought of staying in bed. ‘OK. You win.’
As I swing my legs off the bed, Mitch scampers to the doorway, hardly able to contain himself, excited at the prospect of a walk. After I’ve pulled on old jeans and a fleece, I trot downstairs, grab a quick glass of juice and pull open the curtains. It’s still bucketing down, and the rain is driven by strong winds off the sea, so it’s almost horizontal.
I grab an old waxed jacket from a peg by the back door and pull the hood over my head. Not only does Mitch need a walk, I need to check that nothing’s blown away from our brand-new guest cottages. I also need to make sure that our new cafe, Demelza’s, is still in one piece ready for its opening day on Thursday.
Since I arrived at Easter, my boss, Cal Penwith, and I have been working hard to transform Kilhallon Park from a run-down caravan site into a boutique holiday resort. With the help of our friends – and despite the efforts of our foes – our cottages and glamping site officially open for business today.
Then there’s Demelza’s.
I persuaded Cal to convert the old storage barn by the coastal path into a cafe. He decided to name it after me, so I’m determined to make it a success – come hell or high water.
And on that note … Outside the front door, the drumming of the rain and the howls of the wind almost drown out Mitch’s woofs. He dashes outside and scampers through the puddles while I linger in the doorway watching raindrops bounce off the cobbles of the yard. But it’s not the downpour that’s stopping me from taking that step outside; it’s the realisation that today’s the day that Kilhallon – and Cal and I – take our leap into the unknown.
I step into an old pair of Hunters that used to belong to Cal’s cousin Robyn. I’m wearing her old coat too: everyone mucks in and shares what they have here. I’ve become part of the Kilhallon tribe since Cal invited me to work for him, even though my own family have become lost to me. I’ve also made some good friends who’ve stuck with me through thick and thin. One of them – Cal – is more than a friend, but we’ll see where that leads.
Mitch dances round my wellies and barks joyfully, as if to say: ‘Come on, what are we waiting for?’
After the tough times we’ve overcome, and the challenges that await us, there’s no going back now. I let out a deep breath and step into the deluge. If you want to see a rainbow, as my Nana Demelza would have said, you have to put up with the rain …
CHAPTER ONE (#u66c713b5-a518-5e1e-b239-0f3bffec2a66)
‘Hello there! Welcome to Kilhallon Park. How was your journey?’
The man scowls from beneath the hood of his jacket and tosses his car keys on the shiny new reception desk at the front of Kilhallon House. He can’t be more than thirty and his face would be handsome if his expression wasn’t even more thundery than the weather. ‘Does it ever stop raining down here?’ he grumbles. ‘It’s been pouring all the way from London and I’ve had a nightmare of a journey.’
‘I’m sorry about that, sir, it must have been awful, but I’m so glad you’re here now and the forecast did show the weather brightening up later this afternoon. We should have a much drier day tomorrow. Would you mind filling in this card with your car registration while I collect your keys and welcome pack so I can show you to your cottage?’ With a smile, I hand him a pen.
He pushes his hood off his face. His dark blond fringe is stuck to his forehead and a raindrop trickles down his nose as he takes the pen and frowns at the card. Meanwhile, I collect his cottage keys and welcome pack from the drawer below the reception desk, hoping that the rain will stop. Instead, a rumble of thunder shakes Kilhallon House and our guest glances around him as if we’re about to be zapped by aliens.
He pushes the card towards me. His writing looks like a drunken spider has been doing the salsa with the felt tip, but I’m not going to ask him to redo it. ‘Your website said there’s a cafe on site. I’d like some lunch. Can you show me the way?’ His voice is tight and the news I’m about to deliver isn’t going to help his mood one bit.
‘I’m afraid the cafe doesn’t open until the day after tomorrow … Mr Bracken.’
‘It’s not Bracken. It’s Bannen. Kit Bannen,’ he adds, stressing each word as if I’m a toddler. Mind you, I don’t blame him, our first guest and I’ve got his name wrong. I should have spent more time preparing, instead of baking.
‘What’s that about the cafe being closed?’ he goes on. ‘The on-site cafe is one of the reasons I chose this place and I’ve held off from having lunch. It looked great on your website and I didn’t dare stop once I finally got moving after all the hold-ups. I’d hoped to grab a late lunch as soon as I arrived.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Bannen, but we’ll be open for coffee on Thursday morning. The website and information we sent you does say our opening days are Thursday to Sunday in the autumn and winter.’
‘That’s no good to me, is it?’
‘I appreciate that, sir, but it’s only two days away … less than that, technically speaking,’ I say, aware that the hours are ticking by fast.
Mr Bannen cuts across me. ‘Is there a pub or a restaurant close by?’
‘The pub’s just over a mile away at the crossroads. You’ll probably have to drive.’ Oh dear, this is not going well. I can understand that he’s tired and grouchy, but there’s no need to be rude.
‘Great. I’ve just spent seven hours crawling down here in the car from London and now I have to get straight back in it.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mr Bannen, but the good news is that there’s a welcome hamper in your cottage, with fresh bread, butter, eggs and cheese and some milk and a bottle of wine. They’re basic but high-quality supplies and enough to rustle up a sandwich or an omelette.’
He glares at me, then frowns. ‘Did you say there was wine?’
‘Yes, a bottle of red from a local vineyard, though I can swap it for a white if you’d prefer. I do have a chilled bottle in the fridge here. There are tea- and coffee-making facilities ready in your cottage, of course, and some Cornish apple juice in your own fridge, if it’s too early for wine …’
‘It isn’t too early for wine!’
I half expect the reception desk to shake.
He sighs and flashes me an apologetic smile. ‘Look, I’m not always this grouchy but I’ve had a fraught time at work and the journey from London was even more crap than I’d expected and it’s pouring down and I’m starving.’
‘I understand, Mr Bannen, and I’m sorry the cafe’s not open yet, but if you like I could sell you some of the spinach and ricotta quiche I made this morning to add to the supplies in your luxury, free welcome pack?’
‘Quiche, you say?’
I smile. ‘Uh huh. Homemade here at Kilhallon.’
‘Hmm. Well, thanks, I may just do as you say and stay in. I do need a break.’
‘Good idea. Now, if you want to follow me in your car, your cottage is only a few hundred yards up the lane to the left of the main farmhouse. I’ll get your keys and show you around Enys Cottage. Would you like some mince pies with your quiche, by the way?’
He frowns. ‘Mince pies? But we’re barely into October.’
‘Yes, um, I’ve been practising some recipes for when the cafe opens.’
‘Practising?’
‘Trialling,’ I correct myself, because he seems worried again. ‘I’ve created a new boozy mincemeat recipe actually, and I’ve been trying out different toppings for the pies. I’ve made glazed stars and cinnamon and orange crunchy crumble tops … the crumble ones are particularly delicious, and I was just about to make some Viennese topped ones when you rang the reception bell …’ I clam up, realising that I’ve been babbling because I’m nervous and rattled by our first guest not being in the holiday mood that I’d expected.
Mr Bannen peers at me like I’m mad and then wrinkles his nose, sniffs the air and unexpectedly, breaks into a smile that transforms his face from grumpy pants to golden surf boy.
‘I thought I could smell something good. You know, I think a mince pie and wine is just what I need after the time I’ve had at work.’
‘What do you do?’ I ask, relieved he’s simmering down.
‘Oh, this and that. Boring admin-type stuff, mostly.’
So, he doesn’t want to tell me. Well, that’s fine. ‘If you’d like to wait here for a moment, I’ll get the food and my coat and you can follow me in your car up to Enys Cottage.’
He humphs in reply, but it’s the quiet humph of a man who’s calming down and feeling a bit guilty for ranting at me. At least, I think it’s that – as he’s our first guest, I have a lot to learn.
I grab my wax jacket from the peg in the hallway that separates the reception area from Kilhallon House, the old farmhouse that forms the heart of the Cornish holiday complex where I work. Then I find the quiche in the fridge and pop it into a square, cardboard cake box – luckily I have some in, ready for the cafe opening. I transfer four mince pies of different types from their tin to another box and carry them into reception.
Mr Bannen is nowhere to be seen.
Oh dear. I hope he hasn’t decided to do a runner after all.
After zipping up my jacket and collecting the keys to the Land Rover, I carry the boxes outside. Mr Bannen is standing at the far side of the gravelled car park by the fence, looking out over the fields that, next spring, will become our camp site. For now, we only have four yurts situated in the little copse just out of view of the car park.
Mr Bannen has his hands spread wide, gripping the wooden rail, and I could be wrong, but think he’s taking some deep breaths of Cornish sea air. It’s still raining, but not as hard, as I stow the quiche and mince pies on the passenger seat. Mr Bannen shows no signs of returning to his car, a large silver BMW that seems too big for one man, but is probably just right for a stressed-out angry person. I haven’t asked, though I have wondered, where his family or friends are.
I pull up my own hood and wait by the Land Rover.
The rain is definitely easing as Mr Bannen finally turns away from the view and trudges back towards me. He seems sad now rather than furious.
‘Sorry,’ he says, reaching me. ‘I needed a bit of fresh air.’
‘I don’t blame you. Are you ready to follow me to your cottage now?’
He nods. He pushes his hood off again. The edges of his dark blond hair are soaked but I can tell his hair brushes his neck. He also has a thin gold loop earring through one lobe, like the fishermen in St Trenyan. He doesn’t look like he does boring admin-type stuff; I’d have said he was the creative type, more advertising or graphic design or something. He’s probably here for the surfing, though there’s no board on the roof rack of the car.
He turns back towards the sea and I follow his gaze. Our soon-to-be camping field slopes very gently down to the boundary of the park. It’s separated by a low hedge from the coastal footpath that skirts our land. A few yards beyond the path, the jagged cliffs plunge down to the Atlantic. He turns to me again, his voice gentler. ‘I’m sorry. You must have lots to do and I shouldn’t have kept you waiting, but the view drew me. I stare at four walls for most of my working life and this is pretty special, even in the rain.’
‘We like to think so,’ I say, delighted that we finally have a visitor and fascinated by the change in him since he saw the Cornish scenery in its full glory.
Mr Bannen shades his eyes and points upwards. ‘Bloody hell, am I imagining things or is that a patch of blue sky over there?’
I follow his outstretched arm and smile to myself. There’s still a hint of rain in the air, and the breeze is bending the branches of the oak trees in the field, but a sliver of blue has opened up between the billowing grey clouds over the sea.
‘It looks like the weather front is blowing in sooner than was forecast. Things can change very quickly at Kilhallon,’ I say, seeing the place through fresh eyes. The same way I saw it the day I first arrived here at Easter, only this time, it’s with pride and not the shock I felt when I saw the rundown mess it was in then.
‘Wow,’ he says, still shading his eyes as a shaft of sunlight breaks out and the chasm of blue widens. I push my own hood off my head and jingle my keys discreetly. I’d love to stand and appreciate the beauty of Kilhallon but I was in the middle of baking when Mr Bannen arrived. It’s just dawned on me how much I still have to do to get the other cottages, not to mention Demelza’s Cafe, ready for our other visitors.
‘Mr Bannen? Would you like to follow me through the gate to the left and to your cottage?’ I ask, noting the puddles that have formed in the car park and thinking of the guests who’ll be staying under canvas, albeit luxurious canvas, in our new yurts. I saw Cal earlier this morning, heading out in the deluge to check they hadn’t leaked.
Mr Bannen takes the hint and pulls his own keys from the pocket of his Berghaus. ‘Thanks … and please, it’s Kit… Well, Christopher, actually but everyone calls me Kit.’ He takes another lingering look at the view before he climbs into his silver BMW. ‘You know, even in the lashing rain with a howling gale and no licensed premises within spitting distance, I can see why you’d want to escape here.’
CHAPTER TWO (#u66c713b5-a518-5e1e-b239-0f3bffec2a66)
‘All I want for Christmas … is youuuuuu!’
Humming along to Mariah Carey, I do a little jig in front of the Aga in Kilhallon House, waiting for the kitchen timer to ping. A few more minutes should just about do it.
I came straight back to my baking after I’d shown Mr Bannen – sorry, Kit – the basics of Enys Cottage. Enys is our cosiest cottage, perfect for two or, in his case, one – so my first guest tour didn’t take too long. I left him not exactly smiling, but opening a bottle of wine and about to tuck in to the quiche. I’m glad that my boss, Cal, and Polly his PA will be taking over management of the park after Thursday, leaving me to concentrate on my main passion, the cafe and its food, of course.
Cal texted me while I showed Kit to his cottage. He was about to greet a group from Surrey who have rented some of our glamping yurts. If Kit’s journey was anything to go by, they’ll be tired and frazzled too. The field is thick with mud after the storm so I don’t envy him having to meet them, although hopefully this sunshine will lift their mood, not to mention the welcome hamper of treats that awaits them in their yurts.
Once all my mince pies are cooked and cooled, I need to set up some shots that I can upload to my Demelza’s blog and use on social media to promote the seasonal menus. The more bookings we can get for lunches and events, the better. I need to repay Cal’s faith in me, not to mention his investment in my cafe. It was my idea, after all.
A peek outside the kitchen door confirms to me that the weather is definitely warming up again, and there is now more blue in the sky than clouds. A late burst of sunshine is just what we need to attract customers to Demelza’s Cafe; I hope it lasts for our opening day on Thursday, and over the weekend. We might get some last-minute bookings for Cal’s cottages and yurts too.
And after the tough time we’ve both had lately, we’re surely due a run of good luck now, right?
‘All I want for Christmas is youoooooo!’
As Mariah hits an impossibly high note, the kitchen timer finally pings. The moment I open the Aga door, a wave of heat blasts my face, instantly followed by the overwhelming aroma of spices and dried fruit. The pies are a perfect shade of light golden brown, the honeyed blond of a surf dude’s tint. The Viennese biscuit topping was a little time-consuming, if I’m honest, so I’m not sure if I’ll add that to the cafe menu, but they look very pretty and smell gorgeous, so we’ll see. Carefully, because the oven mitts in the kitchen of Kilhallon House have seen some action lately and need replacing, I extricate the pies from the oven, knowing I’m about seven seconds from scorched fingers.
I straighten up, clutching the tray in one hand, while closing the door with the other.
‘Phew, it’s roasting in here.’
A familiar voice behind me makes my pies wobble alarmingly. Just in time, I save them from sliding onto the quarry-tiled floor where my dog, Mitch, looks on hopefully from his bed by the back door.
If I thought Kit was wet, Cal looks like Mitch after he’s had a dip in the sea. Water drips from his coat.
‘How was he, then, this Mr Bannen?’ he asks, peeling off his waxed jacket.
‘Oh, you mean Kit?’
Cal raises an eyebrow. ‘First name terms, already, eh? And Kit? Sounds like a dog’s name … or a hamster’s.’
‘I promise you there’s nothing cute and furry about Mr Bannen, and the Kit is short for Christopher. He was stressed out, tired and pissed off about the cafe not being open, but he seemed happy enough when I showed him into Enys Cottage and gave him some free mince pies.’
‘Funny that he’s on his own for two whole weeks.’ Cal holds up his jacket with a grimace. The rain has seeped down his collar to his T-shirt, leaving a large damp patch over the chest. The grey cotton is plastered across his broad shoulders and pecs, and his nipples are like tight little currants. A taut-yet-melty feeling stirs low in my stomach.
Did I say Cal was my boss and more than a friend? That might have only been part of the truth …
‘What’s up?’ he asks.
The second batch of pies will definitely be burned if I let on to him how turned on I am. ‘Nothing. Just thinking how wet you are, that’s all.’
He glares at me, but even his glares are sexy. ‘It’s not funny.’
‘I think you looking like a drowned rat – or hamster – is very funny.’
With another stern look that turns me into a puddle, he bends down to take off his Hunters. ‘Any more cheek, Ms Jones, and I may have to sack you.’
The mention of cheek makes me think of his gorgeous bottom, not to mention the warmth of his hand on mine. His arse is thrust into the air as he pulls off his wellies, grunting with the effort. I scoop up his jacket from the tiles and add it to the others hanging in the vestibule that separates the reception area from the main Kilhallon House. Cal pops his mud-spattered Hunters in the drip tray by the kitchen door.
‘I wonder if there’s a Mrs Bannen somewhere,’ he says.
‘He didn’t mention one.’
‘No girlfriend or boyfriend? Both?’ His espresso-coloured eyes hold a hint of mischief.
‘He did say “everyone calls me Kit” so he must have some friends and family. He definitely didn’t want to talk about his work though, so I think he’s had a stressful time in London.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Cal says, standing on the tiles in his woolly hiking socks with a grimace on his tanned face. Even the sight of those rugged socks are turning me on which must mean I’ve got it very bad. At least he doesn’t know quite how bad. Cal and I have been rubbing along in this relationship for the past few weeks. It’s as rocky and twisty-turny as the coastal path, and as uncertain as the weather in our part of the county. One day there are storms between us, the next clear blue skies – and sometimes four seasons in one day. There’s no formal arrangement between us and I have no intention of moving into Kilhallon House itself, but while Polly is away, we sneak nights together in his bed.
You see, Cal may be more than a boss but he’s also not entirely mine. Not that he’s actually sleeping with anyone else, but only part of him belongs to me. His socks, perhaps … if I’m lucky. You see, I still suspect his heart lies with his ex, even though he said that I’d made a mark on him and he begged me to stay just a few weeks ago.
My stomach clenches at the reminder of how new and fragile our relationship is. I remind myself not to start getting any stupid ideas about Cal that involve hearts and flowers, let alone love and marriage.
‘How were the group who’ve rented the yurts?’ I ask him, refocusing on the business at hand, not his sexy socks or his top-notch arse. ‘I was wondering how you’d got on with them. How horrible for them that they travelled here in this crap weather.’
‘They weren’t quite as easily pacified as your mate “Kit”. In fact, judging by their faces and the fact the kids were crying and begging Mummy to take them “to a proper house with real walls”, I’m not sure they’re entirely happy. I’ve had to leave them to settle in, and at least the weather’s improving, they should cheer up soon.’
He lifts up his foot. ‘Damn it, my socks are soaked. I think my boxers might be wet too.’
The heat from the Aga curls around us and steam rises from Cal’s damp T-shirt.
I can’t hide my giggle. ‘You look like Mitch after he’s jumped in a rock pool. You’d better get changed while I make a hot coffee, then you can tell me all about the yurt people.’
‘And you can tell me more about your mate Kit.’
‘He’s not my mate.’
I can’t see Cal’s face as he heads out of the kitchen but I can picture that self-satisfied grin of pleasure at winding me up. At least he cares that Kit might have chatted me up, even if all Kit was really interested in was getting some alcohol and calories down his neck as fast as possible.
Ten minutes later, the tinny intro to ‘Last Christmas’ tinkles through the kitchen. Cal leans against the door frame, drying his hair on a towel. Thank goodness he decided to put a T-shirt on. He frowns. ‘What are you doing? And why the crappy music?’
‘The crappy music you’re referring to, though that’s open to debate, is my Christmas cafe mix and I’m getting into the festive spirit.’
His gaze travels slowly and deliberately from my toes, past my skinny jeans and Kilhallon Park T-shirt to my face.
‘In an elf apron and a Santa hat?’
I plant my hands on my hips. ‘Are you complaining?’
‘Not at all,’ he says, with the lop-sided smile that never ceases to make my insides tingle. His voice is as rich and delicious as the spices in my mincemeat, though I’d rather die than tell him either of those things, of course.
‘You can give me a hand with these,’ I say, nodding to the cooling rack on top of the Aga and handing him a tray from the oven. While Cal transfers the mince pies from the tin to the rack, I rescue the second and final batch from the oven.
‘Is that the last batch?’ Cal asks, dumping the empty pie tins in the Belfast sink.
‘Yes, thanks.’ While I untie the strings of my apron and hang it on the back of the door that leads into the hallway, I know Cal’s eyes will be fixed on my rear, which is a delicious thought although it makes me self-conscious. By the time I turn back to him, however, he’s holding up a cake net and sniffing the plate of crumble-topped pies that was under it.
‘You’ve been busy. It smells great in here.’
‘I’ve been trying out some recipes for the cafe in between checking in the guests. You know we’re going to do most of our own baking, but we’ll have to buy in some of it from outside. Sheila’s going to provide the pasties and the St Trenyan bakery will help with the bread. There’s a young food blogger near St Just who’s going to help out too, when we’re really busy.’
‘What about this lot? Do I get to try some?’ His hand snakes towards the cooling rack. I bat it away. ‘I’m not complaining, but isn’t it a bit early for mince pies?’
‘That’s what Kit said, but these are for work, not pleasure. I’m going to take some shots for our social media pages. Twitter, Instagram and the blog, you know? Maybe make some promotional memes on Canva and I must upload the pics to Pinterest. Have you forgotten that Demelza’s opens the day after tomorrow? I’ve been trialling some seasonal bakes and we need to get people in the mood for booking festive breaks.’
‘I hear you about the cafe, but Pinterest? Canvamemes? I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes, you do. You just pretend you don’t so you don’t have to spend hours on the Internet.’
He sneaks a pie and bites into it. ‘Fu … ow! Thasstillverhot.’ He pants and dances the other half of the stolen pie from one palm to the other. Crumbs scatter onto the tiles.
‘Serves you right. You couldn’t wait, could you?’
He winks. ‘You know me so well.’
Correction, I think, I know him better. Since I started working at Kilhallon at Easter, I’ve come to realise that no one knows Cal well, not even the people who’ve grown up with him in the little Cornish village of St Trenyan. I don’t think his own family know him completely. Which makes me a total novice in the ways of Cal Penwith, apart from the ways in which I now know him intimately, of course.
Cal blows on the other half of the pie and finishes it in a couple of bites while I cover the rest of them with a clean tea towel and switch on the kettle. After baking all morning, and checking in Kit, I’m more than happy to take a break with Cal while I have the chance. Once the cafe is open and our other guests start arriving over the next few days, I doubt if we’ll have a moment to breathe, let alone share a mince pie and coffee.
‘Want a coffee and another sample?’
‘Thanks, but I’ll make the coffee.’
He scrapes his chair back and fills the kettle while I clean up the table. The oak surface is dusted with flour and scraps of pastry plus the debris of my baking: a beige pastry bowl, old-fashioned scales, a floury wooden rolling pin and old-fashioned pastry cutters in the shape of stars and hearts. I rescued them all from various corners of the farmhouse kitchen and outbuildings when we cleared out decades of junk while we were refurbishing Kilhallon Park over the summer. Cal’s family hadn’t thrown anything away for fifty years, judging by the junk that was piled high in the old barn and workshop and offices.
I hand Cal a flowery china plate with a crumble-topped tart on it. It just happens to have a heart-shaped crust.
He pushes away the Kilner jar of mincemeat to make room for the plate. ‘My, this is posh.’
‘It was one of your mum’s, I think. I found the service in the back of the dresser in the sitting room.’
‘Yes, I remember it … it was a wedding present from Uncle Rory and Auntie Fiona, but Mum never wanted to use it. I think it’s called Old Country Roses. Dad put it away after she died. He said it might get broken, but I think the real reason was because he couldn’t bear to be reminded of her.’ Cal brushes his finger over the gold rim. ‘Probably felt guilty,’ he adds.
Cal’s father died a couple of years ago, and his mum passed away when he was still a teenager. His parents’ marriage was a troubled one. His father worshipped his mum but still had a string of affairs. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why Cal’s own love life has been stormy too. As for losing our mothers when we were young – we have that in common. Mine lost her battle with cancer when I was a teenager and I haven’t seen my dad and brother for ages, but that’s by choice. I ran away from home when I was eighteen. Some people might say that’s why we’re drawn to each other, Cal and I: we share a bond; troubled childhoods, less than ideal family lives.
He pulls me into his arms for a long, warm snog that makes me tingle from head to toe. Phew, it’s not only the Aga that’s making it so hot in here.
‘The pies pass the test then?’ I say when I can finally breathe again. ‘The mincemeat is homemade from my Nana Demelza’s recipe, but I added a local fruit cider for a Cornish twist.’
He licks his lips. ‘Mmm. Cider mincemeat. Nice. They’re delicious, but I may have a burnt tongue.’
I roll my eyes. ‘As if I care.’
‘You know you do.’ With another wicked smile, Cal kisses me again. Tiny flakes of pastry cling to his lips. His mouth is still warm from the pie and tastes sweet and buttery. If I don’t push him away now, we might end up in bed in the middle of the day and I have way too much to do.
With the greatest reluctance, I end the kiss, but Cal keeps his hands around my waist and they feel as if they belong there – have always belonged there – which is a dangerous thought. Cal belongs to no woman or man.
‘Cal, I have so much to do. As well as the cafe stuff, the other guests will be here on Friday afternoon and the other two cottages still aren’t ready. With Polly away, we need to dress the beds and finish hanging the curtains in the bedroom of Warleggan and I still need to do extra shopping for the welcome hamper.’
‘I’ll help you with the curtains and Polly will be back from her daughter’s tomorrow to lend us a hand. So now you have no excuse not to get naked with me.’
‘Naked? What if one of the guests turns up in reception and finds us in bed in the middle of the afternoon?’ I say, picturing Kit Bannen dinging the bell and being answered by creaking floorboards and a When Harry Met Sally re-enactment.
Cal waggles his eyebrows. ‘Who mentioned bed? I was thinking of taking you in the kitchen.’
‘You can’t!’ But even the mention of bed and taking me in the kitchen is driving me insane. My body zings with a peppery lust that’s both sharp and delicious. He blows softly in the v-neck of my T-shirt, cooling the hot skin of my cleavage, but heating up every other part of me.
‘I have to face the yurt family as soon as we’re finished. Come on, this may be our last chance for a while …’ Cal says.
Now, this, I cannot deny.
‘Not for long, then …’
He runs his palm over my bare thigh. ‘Oh, don’t worry, the way you’re making me feel, it won’t take long … but would you mind very much if we do it without the Santa hat?’
CHAPTER THREE (#u66c713b5-a518-5e1e-b239-0f3bffec2a66)
On Wednesday morning I skip down the farmhouse stairs after taking a shower in the bathroom of Kilhallon House. Polly arrives later today so I stayed over at the farmhouse last night while I had the chance. Cal lives in the main house, but, of course, I have my own little cottage across the yard. It’s tiny and the décor’s straight from the seventies: a crazy mix of clashing florals, but I love having my independence.
My place is one of a row of old farm buildings that was converted for the staff that used to work at the original caravan site in the seventies. We’re converting two of the others into low-cost guest accommodation because Cal wanted to offer something at Kilhallon to suit all budgets, not only catering for people with more cash to spend on their holidays. For those who can afford luxury, there are also four larger ‘premium’ cottages on the estate that have been renovated over the summer ready for our first guests – one of which is occupied by Kit.
When I walk into the kitchen, Cal is scrolling through his phone. His hair is still damp from the shower and he’s pulled on a crumpled but clean blue long-sleeved T-shirt and cargo pants. Bare footed, he pads over the tiles and pours a glass of water from the tap. Mitch wanders into the kitchen from the yard too and also heads straight for his water bowl, slurping noisily and splashing droplets over the tiles.
The morning sun streams in through the open door. It’s warmer in here than yesterday, or perhaps I’m glowing after my night-time ‘exercise’. Cal puts down his glass of water and kisses me. The scent of his woody body spray fills my senses, but Cal pulls a regretful face. ‘Sorry I have to leave you, but I need to go down to the yurt field to make sure our guests haven’t decided to leave after the overnight showers. How about dinner here at the house tonight? There’s a nice bottle of Cornish fizz in the fridge.’
‘That’s a free sample from the vineyard that I was going to put in one of the welcome hampers for the guests. Sorry, but I’ll be way too busy to stop for dinner. The cafe’s opening tomorrow and there’s still stuff to do.’
‘What stuff?’
‘I need to clean the floor because the tiler only finished yesterday and it’s still dusty. Then there’s the blackboard to chalk up with the specials because I won’t have time tomorrow, and there’s still a drinks delivery to put away and I need to email everyone to make sure they’re still going to turn up and that no one’s had cold feet about working for us.’
Cal opens his mouth. ‘Why would—’
‘And the courier dropped off the new cafe uniforms here yesterday and they all need ironing. And I still haven’t written a blog post about opening day or scheduled my tweets and I’ll have to upload some photos to Instagram and I need to email the ad department at CornishLifestyle to say we do want to be in their pre-Christmas dining feature because the copy deadline was last night and I’m already late.’
Cal holds up both hands. ‘Whoa.’
‘So I can’t have dinner with you this evening no matter how much I’d love to.’
He puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘I’ve worked that much out for myself. Tell you what, why don’t we take a picnic down to the cafe and I’ll help you get ready.’
‘You’ll write the ad copy and upload my photos?’
‘No, but I’ll clean the floor, put away the drinks order and iron the aprons.’
‘You do ironing?’
He tuts. ‘That’s sexist, Ms Jones. I can iron. I did work in a warzone for several years, you know.’
‘Yes, but I don’t expect there was much call for ironing in the desert, was there?’
He smiles. ‘Not often, no. Either way, we’re in this together. I’ll deal with the yurt people and clean the washroom block.’
I pull a face, glad this isn’t my job.
‘And then I’ll meet you at the cafe.’
By late afternoon, the sun is sinking and the horizon is tinged with orange and pink. The lights are on in Demelza’s, highlighting the sparkling clean floor as Cal hangs the last of the freshly pressed Demelza’s aprons on a peg in the staff room.
All our perishables and groceries are stored in the correct places and the new steel kitchen gleams so brightly you can see your face in the surfaces. I’ve double checked the fresh and chilled stores and chalked up the specials on the blackboard. In the end, Cal helped me write some copy for an ad and he’s now sending a ‘friendly’ mass text to make sure the staff are OK and ready for tomorrow.
Throughout the day, I’ve been working on my blog and scheduling some posts for social media. I suspect that it’s going to take all my ‘days off’ when the cafe is closed to get through the admin and marketing.
Cal scrolls through his phone where he keeps an app to keep track of the park bookings. ‘Great. We’ve just had an Internet booking for Poldark Cottage and had an enquiry about two of the yurts from a family who want to celebrate a fortieth birthday party here next weekend. I’ll have to tell the large party that they can have the yurts at the far end of the copse, away from the other two. We don’t want complaints when we’ve promised people peace and tranquillity, but we don’t want to lose a big booking like this.’
‘Oh. If it’s a party, they might want catering provided too.’
‘I’m sure they will, but don’t take too much on yet. You’ve got enough to do with the cafe opening tomorrow. I don’t want the cafe manager having a meltdown in the middle of us launching the empire, do I?’
‘You’re all heart,’ I say, but I know he means it and I must admit, I’ve been feeling knackered lately, even though I’m ‘living the dream’ right now. I’ve come so far from the day I lost my job and my home and ended up sleeping in the doorway of a fish and chip shop in St Trenyan.
Mitch woofs a hello from the corner. He seems totally at home in the cafe, which is great. Canine comfort is one of our USPs. Demelza’s is even going to have a special doggy treats menu for all the four-legged guests who will stay at the park and take their owners on a walk along the coastal path that runs past the cafe.
Cal crouches down to stroke Mitch’s ears. Mitch turns his head this way and that, closing his eyes in pleasure at Cal’s touch. Did I say Mitch was my dog? Even though he’s faithful to me and has stuck with me through a tough couple of years, he’s rapidly becoming our dog: mine and Cal’s dog, even Polly’s dog at times, though she pretends she doesn’t like animals at all, apart from her hens. I caught her sneaking him a treat from the jar when she thought I wasn’t looking, and she let him sit next to her on the sofa while she was watching Countryfile on iPlayer the night before she went to visit her daughter.
Mitch and I, we’ve become as much a part of Kilhallon as the stone house, or the holiday cottages or the cafe.
‘How are the opening-day plans going? Is there anything else I can do to help?’ Cal says.
‘I’m sure there’ll be tons tomorrow. We’ll be chasing our own tails,’ I reply, and Mitch wags his as if he can understand me. ‘I’ve tried to think of everything but there are bound to be hitches and teething problems until we’ve actually served some real customers.’
‘Let’s hope the weather keeps improving so we have lots of people out on the coastal path. The walking festival run by the tourist board should help,’ Cal says.
‘I hope that dog-friendly cafe-trail website and leaflet I signed up to pays off. It’s hard knowing what marketing is worth spending my precious budget on. I’m bombarded with sales people and emails wanting me to part with cash all the time. I guess we’re going to make mistakes along the way. Although I’ve worked in a few cafes now and done so much research and talked to other owners, I still have so much to learn.’
‘Will Eva Spero be coming?’ Cal pops the leftover crust of a cheese and bacon pasty in his mouth. We ate them cold with pickles and salad, washed down with cider.
‘I don’t know. She’s still a bit miffed with me for turning down her job offer, although she said we can work together on the homemade dog treats book and possibly launch them into the market. I’ve had to put it on hold for now, until I’ve got Demelza’s up and running.’ I shrug off a pang of regret about turning down Eva Spero’s offer of a job at her restaurant in Brighton. It was my decision, even though Cal also wanted me to stay here at Kilhallon and run Demelza’s. Then, of course, there’s the small matter of my being in love with him …
Cal pulls me into his arms and for a few moments I enjoy the warmth and comfort of his gorgeous body against mine. I can’t believe how far I’ve come. The project I’ve started overwhelms me sometimes and I have the urge to run away instead of facing down the great big wave that’s rushing towards me, faster and faster.
‘I’d better get some work done,’ I say, escaping his embrace before I’m lost again. ‘Then I really do need an early night.’
He folds his arms, a gesture that only shows off his magnificent guns, honed by all the outdoor work and labour he’s put in on the renovation of the park since he returned from working in a refugee camp in the Middle East. ‘Of course,’ he says with the kind of serious face that’s even sexier than his smile. Despite all my resolve, I know an early night will mean going to bed with him.
Cal scratches Mitch’s belly. ‘If the cottages let, they let, and if they don’t, then we mustn’t panic. Same with the customers for the cafe. It’s going to take time to build up our custom and reputation … and it might be better not to have full occupancy to start with while we learn the ropes.’
I turn away to find the keys, ready to lock up.
‘By the way, I meant to tell you, Isla called me earlier,’ he says.
At the mention of this name, my stomach tightens. ‘Did she?’
‘She’s coming down here from London in a couple of weeks’ time.’
Mitch snickers and yips like Scooby Doo on Red Bull as Cal fusses him. My stomach ties itself in even tighter knots. I knew it had to come sometime. I knew that she’d be back, but I haven’t heard Cal talk about his ex-girlfriend and childhood sweetheart since she left Cornwall a few weeks ago. Even though Isla has been kind to me in the past, part of me hoped she might not come back at all.
I keep my voice casual. ‘Does she still want to use Kilhallon for the film shoot?’
Cal glances up at me. Is that relief on his face that I haven’t reacted to his news, or have I imagined it?
‘Yes. She wants to use the ruined tin mine as a backdrop, and possibly the exterior of the cafe for the filming. Isla says that the far, gabled end could still double up as a farm barn for some of the scenes. She said that Bonnie and Clyde will also want to come and visit to discuss their hand-fasting arrangements at some point.’
These are codenames we’re all using for the very famous and very actor friends of Isla’s. Did I mention she’s a film producer? A stunning, blonde, award-winning film producer with some seriously A-list mates. Two of her friends plan on holding their wedding celebrations at Kilhallon next year, although the engagement is secret for now.
‘Why did Polly call them Bonnie and Clyde – who are Bonnie and Clyde?’ I ask Cal.
‘They were gangster lovers so I think the nicknames are Polly’s little joke. I don’t think she approves of hand fasting. What the hell is a hand fasting, anyway? Sounds like a cross between a DIY skill and an obscene practice. If it is rude, even I’ve never heard of it.’
Cal succeeds in making me laugh out loud even though the thought of catering for a celebrity wedding makes me nervous.
‘So you’re cool with Isla and her crew descending?’ Cal adds, laughing as Mitch moans in delight under his expert belly rubs. How, I ask myself, did my faithful hound turn into such a tart?
‘Sounds great,’ I say, trying to make myself feel as enthusiastic as I sound. The publicity that would come from a film being made here is exactly what we need for the resort and my cafe. In fact it’s priceless and I should be welcoming Isla and her crew with open arms. ‘We should have any teething problems ironed out by the time they get here.’
Cal gives Mitch’s tum a final tickle then straightens up. ‘Isla said she didn’t want to disrupt business any more than was strictly necessary. She asked me if you’d email her or call to arrange the best time for her visit. It’s better if you two liaise together rather than me passing on messages. I’d probably get it wrong anyway and then I’d be in trouble with both of you.’
‘True. Who knows what havoc you’d create if we left the arrangements to you.’ My smile makes my jaw ache, along with my heart and conscience, but I can see that Cal’s pleasure at my apparent approval is genuine. Even though Isla has made it clear she’s no longer interested in Cal beyond ‘friendship’, I’m not convinced. Cal has been honest enough to admit he couldn’t simply ‘unlove’ Isla.
And if I’m honest, I never expected him to.
He knows I really like him and the sex is amazing, but does he have any inkling that I’m crazy in love with him? I don’t think it would be a great idea for him to find out.
‘Demi?’ Cal touches my arm. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine. It’s been a long day and there’s an even bigger one coming tomorrow.’
I’m already thinking of throwing caution to the wind and dragging him off to bed when Cal says, ‘Are you really too tired for some therapy?’
‘Perhaps you’re right. It might do me good.’
His face lights up and we lock up the cafe, and Mitch scampers ahead on our way back to the house. He doesn’t have a care in the world and I envy him his simple doggy life sometimes.
I don’t want to be part of a love triangle, because someone always gets the sharp end. Isla and her fiancé, Luke – who was Cal’s best mate years ago – have moved to London from Cornwall, to ‘make a fresh start’. Apparently, Isla suspected that Luke was having an affair with a local ‘property developer’ called Mawgan Cade. I wouldn’t put anything past Mawgan, but I can’t see why Luke would jeopardise his relationship with Isla for a woman like Mawgan. But what do I know? Mawgan is manipulative and would sell her granny if it achieved her aims. Plus, Luke’s a weak and selfish character if you ask me; and Isla deserves better. As long as ‘better’ doesn’t turn out to be Cal again.
He hugs me and his chest is warm and firm against my body. If I let my guard down too far, I could easily start thinking how wonderful it would be to spend the rest of my life at Kilhallon with Cal. It’s an idyllic place that sucks you in, just like Cal draws people to him. Just like the wreckers who used to shine their lights to lure people onto the rocks in storms. Except that was a myth. I need to get real and, reluctantly, I slide out of his embrace.
‘Do you think we can cope?’ I say.
‘Of course I think we can cope. We’ve come a long way – both of us – and everything will be OK. Wasn’t that what you were always telling me when we started work on the place? When we were refused planning permission and the appeal failed because of the Cades’ opposition? When I ripped my hands open demolishing the walls? When the tree fell through the farmhouse window? When you almost walked out on me to work for Eva Spero in Brighton?’
‘Maybe I should have,’ I joke, thinking of how close I came to quitting and heading off to Brighton before the place had even opened. ‘This is a massive thing for me, Cal. It’s very exciting, but I’m also terrified.’
He slides his hand under my hair, lifting it from my neck, caressing my skin. His palm is rough from the work he’s been doing, yet the effect is like being stroked with warm velvet.
‘Shh,’ he says in that gentle, half-amused voice that turns me on and irritates me at the same time. ‘It’s OK to be nervous, but the important thing is that you stick with me. That’s what we’re going to carry on doing: sticking together.
Even as I close my eyes and abandon myself to his touch and soothing words, there’s a part of me holding back. A part that can’t forget the Cal who left a trail of broken hearts when he went away to the Middle East. The teenage Cal breezing his way through the girls of St Trenyan: Isla, even Mawgan Cade. Even his father was sleeping with half the women from here to Truro, if you believe the rumours. My friend Tamsin warned me about him and even Mawgan said he’d break my heart. She may be right about that one.
‘I promise you Kilhallon will succeed and Demelza’s will be open for business as scheduled, and nothing’s going to stop us.’ Cal pours soothing words into my ear. ‘Now come to bed before I explode.’
Me too, I think. Mitch settles down in his bed in the farmhouse kitchen. Cal takes my hand and leads me, trembling, up to his room again. He’s right, of course, I mustn’t expect too much of the business; but even more importantly, I mustn’t expect anything at all from him.
CHAPTER FOUR (#u66c713b5-a518-5e1e-b239-0f3bffec2a66)
Coffee machine: on.
Air conditioning: on.
Ovens: on.
Sunshine: off, for now, but judging by the pale-blue patches peeking through the clouds, it’s clearing up, which is just what we want to tempt customers out onto the coastal path and into the cafe for our opening day.
I repeat the words again, because I don’t believe them: It’s opening day at Demelza’s. Opening day at my cafe. Six months ago I had no job, no home and no prospects and now look at me: manager of my own tiny empire.
Nina shouts from the side door. ‘Demi! Demi! Come quick. Mitch has done something terrible!’
I run after her to the rear of the cafe, picturing Mitch with his teeth sunk into a toddler. The white fishmonger’s van is parked outside. Harry, the driver, is cursing and shaking his fist at Mitch, who’s chomping his way through a pack of fish from a safe distance.
‘There goes your smoked mackerel order,’ Harry says. ‘Only turned away for a minute to get the shellfish out of the van for Nina and the crafty hound had the polystyrene off the packs and was wolfing them down.’
Plastic wrappers and polystyrene snow litter the grass. Mitch licks his chops and looks up at us as if to say, ‘You have a problem?’
‘I tried to grab them off him but he was too quick for me,’ Nina wails. ‘I’m sorry, Demi. Shall I tell everyone that the Fisherman’s Lunch is off? We’ve got bit of smoked salmon, but that won’t last long.’
‘Leave it on until we run out of the salmon, then tell everyone we’ve sold out. I don’t want to take something off the menu on our first day.’
I glare at Mitch, though, from the way Nina shouted, I’m relieved that his antics are nothing worse. ‘Mitch, you’re in trouble when I get hold of you. You can forget coming anywhere near my bed tonight. Your breath will stink for a week!’
Harry carries the rest of the order into the back of the cafe. We can’t afford to waste expensive food, but I guess if Mitch guzzling the mackerel is the worst thing that happens on opening day, we’ll be doing OK. With my nostrils closed, I tether Mitch in the shade by the back door with a bowl of water and his rope chew. I’ll ask Robyn to take him when she turns up. I go back inside the cafe with a smile that says I’m cool about ‘little mishaps’ like losing a small fortune’s worth of smoked mackerel.
The team is buzzing about in the cafe, servery and kitchen, preparing for our first day. My breath catches at the sight that greets me. They all look super smart in their teal-blue Demelza’s Cafe aprons – and Jez the chef, who’s in whites. His charcoal-coloured ponytail dangles from the back of his teal chef’s cap. He’s pushing forty, but still a lean, mean type who lives to surf. He also happens to be a very good chef. We were lucky to get him, but the part-time hours enable him to make the most of the gnarly surfing conditions and quiet beaches during the autumn and winter.
Nina’s back behind the server, checking the operation of the till for the umpteenth time. I met her when we both worked as waitresses at a ball earlier this year. She’s the same age as me and helps her mum run a kennels and dog rescue centre over the moor from Kilhallon. With all the dog walking and her triathlon training, she’s super fit. Her spiky orange hair reminds me of a pixie.
Shamia, currently filling the condiment area, is my order taker. She’s wearing a teal-blue headscarf to match her apron. She looks the most confident of anyone, to be honest. She’s a former dinner lady and now a food blogger. She will be lending us a hand on weekdays while her little boy goes to nursery school, and at the weekends when her husband can babysit.
My official title is Cafe Manager, but I’m also the general dogsbody, greeting people, clearing tables and helping out on the counter. I love the baking and cooking, but I’ve had to leave most of the hot food prep to Jez.
There’s only one person missing.
Just as I think Robyn Penwith, Cal’s cousin, has cold feet about helping us, there’s a rap on the glass door of the cafe. My shoulders slump in relief and I unlock the door. She’s in jodhpurs and riding boots.
‘Um. Sorry, I’m late. I had to call at Bosinney on my way here and tack up Ruby, then settle her in Kilhallon House stables.’
‘It’s fine. You’re here now,’ I say as we exchange a hug. Robyn’s clothes smell faintly of horse, but that’s fine. She keeps her mare at her dad’s house even though she lives with her girlfriend, Andi, now. Andi’s cool apart from the small matter of her sister being Mawgan Cade.
Cal has placed two advertising boards outside where the path skirts our land to catch walkers coming in both directions – from the far west and from St Trenyan in the east. You can see the cafe building and Kilhallon Farm from miles away too, thanks to the undulating path. Robyn’s been drafted in to hand out flyers and free samples of ginger fairing biscuits on the path today and at the weekend.
The doughy, fruity scents of croissants, pains-au-chocolat and cinnamon swirls start to fill the air as the ovens heat up the first batch of baked goods. I clap my hands. ‘OK, now we’re all here, can we have a quick coffee and a chat, please? I won’t keep you long. Why don’t we all have one of these lime shortbreads, because it’s going to be difficult to grab a break later.’
‘Yes, boss!’ voices chorus from the four corners.
We all gather for a very quick coffee – instant – and homemade lime shortbread around the large refectory table on one side of the cafe floor. Huddled in her padded riding gilet, even though it’s warm in here, Robyn is nibbling her purple nails. Nina is trembling like a newborn pup. Shamia cradles her mug casually. Jez seems cool enough with it all – but he’s experienced and, to be honest, I think he’d be chilled even if the place was on fire.
Our voices echo off the beams that support the high ceiling. The stone building is at least two hundred years old, and it was a storage barn until I persuaded Cal to let me convert it. It’s a cool morning so we’ve made the cafe a little too warm for our comfort, but there’s nothing worse for the customers than a cold welcome and the door’s going to be open a lot, fingers crossed. Most people will arrive in layers and we want them to feel they can take them off, not be desperate to keep them on.
Nestling my own mug in both hands to stop them from shaking, I throw out an encouraging smile to my team.
‘So, here we are. D-Day, which stands for Demelza’s Day. Thanks to everyone for not running off and for turning up on time.’
They laugh dutifully, even Jez manages a smile. Robyn glances down guiltily.
‘It’s our first day and I’m not expecting that everything will run perfectly or to plan but as long as we get things 99.9 per cent right, I won’t have to sack anyone.’
More laughter and an eye roll from Jez.
‘You think I’m joking?’
Nina’s mouth opens in horror and, for a moment, I wonder if she actually will run off and never come back.
I pat her arm, feeling way too young to be leading a team of staff, but if I don’t put on a show of confidence, what hope do we have? ‘It’s fine, hun. I really am joking. We’re all on a learning curve, apart from Jez, I guess.’
His mouth twitches, amused. Without him on side, we’d be done for.
‘We’re all here to help you. You’ll be an old hand by the end of the day,’ I reassure her.
She brightens.
‘Now, as you all know, it’s the first day of the West Cornwall Walking Festival, which is partly why we chose to open today. We’re expecting even more ramblers than usual and a lot of dogs. I’ve put up a sign explaining everything but if anyone asks, the first three tables by the door are dog-friendly and, of course, the terrace.
‘Most people will probably want to sit outside if the weather stays dry, and the dog owners are sure to prefer to be out there while it’s fine. By the way, you’ll find extra water bowls and doggy menus in the storeroom, if anyone needs them. If there’s any canine aggro, or human aggro for that matter, call me immediately. Robyn, Mitch, and Nina’s mum, plus a few of her rescue dogs, will be stationed on the coast path throughout the day to lure people in to the cafe.’
‘I’ve put the collecting tin for the dog rescue centre next to the till,’ Shamia says.
‘Great, thanks. Can someone please pin a notice about the Christmas bookings on the notice board and arrange some of Cal’s leaflets about weddings at Kilhallon on the window ledges?’
Nina raises her hand. ‘I’ll do that, Demi.’
‘I’ll collect Mitch,’ Robyn pipes up, obviously eager to be out in the fresh air.
‘Thanks, Robyn. OK, I’ve almost finished. You all know your roles and we’ve had plenty of practice and a rehearsal so it should be fine. I trust you all and I know you’ll work your guts out and won’t let me down. So, one more time, let’s hear it.’
Everyone groans, but I hold up my hand, excitement and adrenaline taking over.
‘We are all awesome and Demelza’s rocks!’ they chorus, even Jez, before they dissolve into laughter and Jez rolls his eyes again. It was Nina who originally made up the cheesy mantra for a joke, but now we’ve all latched on to it. I don’t care how crappy it sounds, if it releases the tension, that’s fine by me.
Cal arrives, stooping under the weight of two large crates of veg. ‘Hi there. The delivery guy from the market garden dropped these off at the farmhouse. Where do you want them?’ he says, resting the crates on the table.
‘In the storeroom.’
Cal looks around him. ‘It looks great, Demi. You’ve done a fantastic job.’
‘No, we have. All of us.’
‘It’s your baby and you should be proud.’ His eyes shine. I don’t think I’ve seen him quite so happy since the day he showed me the sign for the cafe and persuaded me to stay here at Kilhallon. For a moment, I’m too choked with emotion to reply, then I remember that the staff are relying on me today.
‘Well, I can’t think of a cafe with a better view for miles. It’s a huge selling point if we can just let people know we’re open,’ I tell Cal, feeling the rising sense of panic that I’ve been subduing for the past few days about to overwhelm me like a great big wave. ‘I hope they come.’
‘I think you might have trouble keeping them away. Look.’
He nods to a man and a woman peering through the glass door, as if we’re animals in the zoo.
My pulse leaps. ‘OK. Our first customers are here. Do you want to let them in?’ I call to Nina.
‘No way. It’s your cafe,’ she says with a broad smile that tells me she’s a lot more calm and collected than I feel.
‘I think you should have the honour,’ says Cal. ‘Demelza.’
With a deep breath, and on slightly wobbly legs, I hurry to the door and open it. The couple, a sprightly pair of pensioners in matching hiking boots and navy fleeces, have big grins on their weather-beaten faces.
‘So you are open. We thought you might be training or something.’
‘No. We’re open. Welcome to Demelza’s Cafe. In fact you’re our first ever customers.’
‘Really? We’re the first?’
‘The very first. Look, you can have your pick of the seats. There are menus on the tables and a specials board above the counter over there.
‘We’d love a nice big pot of tea, Graham?’ the woman says to her partner as they walk into the centre of the room, eyeing the scrubbed oak tables, the oak settles and vintage china.
‘I’d like a latte, I think,’ says Graham, sitting down at the table by the window. ‘What a view. Have you really only just opened?’
‘This very minute. If you’d like to place your order at the counter, you can collect your drinks and we’ll bring any food orders across to you. Have you come far?’
‘We were up at sparrow-fart and traipsed from the cove on the other side of St Trenyan. Linda said it would only take an hour but we’ve already been going nearly two. She always gets the timing way out. Thinks I won’t notice she’s trying to con me into believing it’s only a stroll.’
‘Don’t start, Graham. You’re the one who said we shouldn’t take any notice of the walking app and swore blind you knew a short cut. I’ll never forgive you for making me walk through that field of bullocks.’
‘They won’t do you any harm.’
‘Then why were they following us and giving us funny looks?’
‘You’re safe in the cafe, I can promise that,’ I cut in before we have our first full-blown domestic. ‘We’ve got some amazing homemade cakes today and there’s a brunch special. It’s local bacon, sausages from the farm up the hill and eggs from our own hens here at Kilhallon.’
‘Do you do those bacon and avocado toast combos? Our grandkids love those when we’re visiting them in London and we’re hooked,’ Linda chirps up, much to my amazement.
‘We do have some avocado. In fact it’s on the menu,’ I say, glad I’ve done my research, even though I’m not the greatest fan of this latest fad. Cal pulled an icky face when he tried it out and even Mitch refused to touch his bite-size sample.
‘Not for me. I’m going to have a massive slice of this here figgy obbin. Not had any of that since we used to motor down here in the Cortina with the kids.’ Graham holds up the menu.
‘Well, please join the queue,’ I say, gesturing to Nina, standing alone behind the counter, fidgeting with her hat.
Before Graham’s placed his order, the door opens again and a party of ramblers troops in, sighing with relief at reaching us, debating over which table to choose and asking where the toilets are.
‘Thank goodness you’re open!’ declares a middle-aged woman in a yellow cagoule. ‘I’m gagging for a coffee and a wee. Oh, are those homemade apricot scones? I’ve walked bloody miles this morning so I deserve one of those.’
‘We’ve only done a thousand steps from the car park by the main road,’ her friend whispers, showing me her FitBit.
I usher them to the table by the window and listen to them admiring the view. As part of the renovation of the old barn, the doors on one side have been replaced with a large glass window that gives an amazing view over the Atlantic Ocean. From our window seats and terrace, it almost feels as if you could touch the sea. On a stormy day, if the swell is big enough and the wind in the right direction, we might even have some spray on the windows.
It’s only as I put more menus on the outside tables that I realise Cal has gone and left me in charge, but there’s no time to think or worry. More customers drift in and out, some with dogs, some with babies in carriers, some with walking poles and even one in an all-terrain mobility scooter though goodness knows how he made it along the coast path. Jez is calling orders from the kitchen, Shamia’s dealing with a queue of people at the counter and Nina is racing about clearing tables and serving people as if she’s in a triathlon. In no time, we’re dishing up Cornish goat’s cheese paninis, and pasties, quiche salads and sandwiches to an array of people relaxing, chatting, checking their iPads, and all drinking our teas, coffees, and ciders while they scoff our cakes and savouries.
There’s one moment when I have to stand outside the kitchen door to the rear and take a huge gulp of fresh Kilhallon air and pinch myself.
‘Demi – it’s four o’clock.’ Nina pulls me aside as I fly into the kitchen with more dirty plates.
‘You’re joking?’
‘No. Look.’ She points to the clock on the wall, just above the health and safety notice.
‘What? I thought it was about half-past two.’
‘No. It really is. We’ve stopped taking orders.’ Jez pops his head round the door of the staff cubby hole. His whites have been replaced by board shorts, a hoodie and flip-flops. ‘I’m off shift. Hope you’re pleased with how it went?’
‘Yes. Wow. Thanks so much, Jez. But four o’clock? I can’t believe it. I’ve been so busy clearing tables outside that I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Shall I put the closed sign on the door?’ Nina enquires.
‘Yes, I guess so, but we still have people eating, inside and out. I’ll go and tell everyone we’re shutting soon.’
I feel strangely light-headed as I float into the cafe and inform the few stragglers that we’re now closing. One man grumbles but the other customers seem OK and start to finish their food. Has the day really flown by so fast? Can it be real?
I turn over the closed sign on the door and step outside to clear the final tables when a man sprints onto the terrace.
‘Damn it. I knew I’d be too late!’
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_130e3317-7506-5bdb-a54f-b4b90fe763ff)
Kit Bannen’s face is red and he’s breathing hard. ‘Am I too late? I am too late, aren’t I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Damn!’
I laugh. ‘It’s fine. We’re open again tomorrow.’ It’s only a cafe, I want to add.
‘I wanted to be here on your opening day. I was all set to be a difficult customer.’
I lower my voice. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve already had the customer from hell.’
I throw a wave and a smile at a couple from London who are staying in our cottages. Their toddler, George, had a screaming tantrum lasting half an hour and threw every piece of food they offered him onto the floor. George’s wails of protest pierce the air as his parents attempt to strap him into his luxury all-terrain buggy.
Kit winces and we both laugh.
‘Come in and have some coffee,’I say, reminding myself that he’s a guest and that he was seriously pissed off that the cafe was shut when he checked into Kilhallon. One extra customer won’t matter.
‘I don’t want to get in the way.’
‘It’s OK, as long as you don’t mind the staff clearing up around you.’
He smiles. ‘I’ll make myself useful.’
‘You don’t have to do that. You’re a guest here.’ My smile is fixed on by now. It’s been a long and exciting day and to be honest, all I want to do is clear up and have a debrief with the team then collapse in my cottage.
‘No way. It’s my fault I’m late so I insist on giving you a hand.’
Too tired and frazzled to object further, I cave in. ‘OK, but I warn you, I’m a horrible boss and if you’re so keen, you can help me clear the last of the stuff from the outside tables.’
It’s twenty-past four and a few people had lingered outside, draining their teapots and chatting in the last precious rays of the afternoon sun. However, the clouds are rolling in, so even they start to pack up and leave. Kit helps me gather up the dirty crockery, empty sugar packets and pots of strawberry jam and clotted cream.
‘Looks like you’ve had a busy opening day,’ he says, following me to the bin store at the rear of the kitchens.
‘Yes, the walking festival brought us some good custom and once the sun came out, we had passing trade. Plus George, of course. I need to warn you that he and his mum and dad are staying in Penvenen Cottage. It’s the other end of the row from you, though, so you shouldn’t hear him.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure.’ Kit holds up the bin lid while I throw in the rubbish. ‘If I do, I’ll have to get some ear plugs or turn up my music to full volume.’
I wince. ‘Sorry about George. I’m guessing you came here for some quiet away from the office.’
He glances away from me then throws me a pained smile. ‘Actually, I may have been economical with the truth about working in an office. I tend to take my office with me wherever I go. I’m a writer.’
I resist shouting ‘Yessss’, because I knew he did something creative and arty. Instead I ask politely. ‘Oh, do you write books?’
‘Yes. Thrillers. Correction: a thriller. I haven’t even finished my first yet, though my deadline’s racing up fast.’
‘Sounds exciting. Do you have a pen name?’ I ask him. To be honest, I’m doing most of the clearing up while he talks but I’d much rather it was that way.
‘I will do, I expect. I don’t know for sure because I’ve only just got my first book deal and it’s all new to me. I was a journalist before I became an author and before you ask, it was as an editor for a very dull trade publication about renewable energy. My new thriller is about a woman scientist who finds a way to generate power from water that’s going to change the whole world and do away with the need for fossil fuels. Naturally a lot of countries with less than ideal human rights records aren’t very pleased about that, while others would do anything to get their hands on her research.’
‘That sounds … intriguing,’ I say. ‘I don’t have tons of time to read anything except recipe and business books at the moment, but your book sounds right up Polly’s street. She loves crime and thrillers, the gorier the better. Sometimes I worry she might secretly be plotting to murder us all in our beds.’
Kit’s sea-green eyes glint with humour. ‘I’ve already met Polly earlier today. I popped up to your reception to pick up some leaflets about the local area. She’s certainly an interesting woman. I reckon I could get enough material for a whole series of novels from her tales about the local area, if I wanted to set a book here.’
‘She’s definitely unique,’ I say, surprised that Kit has charmed Polly so fast, and even more surprised that she’s made such an impression on him. Polly is a hard woman to please and can be plain speaking to the point of rudeness, but Kit is a guest so she was obviously being polite.
Kit is silent, thoughtful, for a second or so, toeing a clump of grass with his running shoe. ‘Look, I’m sorry I was such a grumpy sod when I turned up yesterday. You must have thought “miserable git, hope all the guests aren’t going to be like this”.’
‘No … I was thinking poor you, arriving in stinking weather after a terrible journey.’
‘You’re a good fibber, Demi.’ He opens the bin again for me to throw in the final bits of rubbish.
‘No fib. It’s true.’ Or half-true, I think. I was sorry for him, but I also did think he was a miserable git.
‘OK, you’re good at the customer relations, then. I’d never be any good at serving the public. I’d cause any place that I ran to be closed down or I’d be bankrupt within a week. I’m not very good at hiding my feelings, you see. It’s a good job my work requires me to be where people are not.’
‘Isn’t it very exciting, being an author?’
He smiles again, as if I’ve missed a huge point. ‘Most of the time it’s squalid. Spending far too much time in your own company, with the terror of the blank page. You know how it is …’
‘Not really. I tend to have terror of the soggy bottom.’
He does a double take.
‘Of my pies and pasties. If you don’t get the temperature right.’
‘Ah.’ He laughs politely at my lame joke. ‘You do have a proper job, however, whereas I make up stories for a living. Or not, at the moment. I’ve been struggling with my plot lately. And my characters. And the actual words.’ He grimaces but in a charming way, a tiny bit like Cal. He really is handsome when he smiles, though nothing like as handsome as Cal, and of course Kit is blond, whereas Cal has dark, brooding good looks. I guess blonds can be brooding too. I snap out of my thoughts as Kit goes on.
‘You must have thought I’d come here to get away from work, but the reason I was so tetchy was because I’ve come here to work. Normally, I tend to avoid telling people I’m a writer because they ask all sorts of awkward questions. Some people think having a book published is like winning the lottery: just an unexpected lucky windfall you landed on top of your regular job, but you know yourself that any degree of success takes a lot of hard work,’ he says with a nod at the cafe.
‘That’s true. I imagine some people think that running a cosy little tea room would be a great way of escaping a real job too. I’ve worked in catering before so I had an idea of what was involved, but it’s a completely different ballgame being responsible for the cafe rather than simply serving customers.’
He nods and pauses, looking awkward. ‘Sorry I was grumpy when I arrived. I promise to behave from now on.’
‘It’s fine. I know how to handle tricky customers.’
‘Yes, I’ve experienced your people skills first hand. You were very good at calming me down. In fact, you’re very good at all of this.’
He waves a hand at the cafe and the park. I feel myself blushing. I’m not used to the flattery, and not sure I like it that much.
‘I think that will do for out here. Let’s go back inside,’ I say.
Kit follows me in. Shamia is wiping down the last few tables inside the cafe while Nina washes up the items that can’t or didn’t fit into the dishwasher. Without the spurts and gurgles of the coffee machine and the buzz of customers, it seems quiet. The dishwasher hums softly and there’s the odd thunk and clink of pots being washed as a backdrop. Jez has gone so the girls chat to each other about some of the stranger requests and comments we’ve had today. Robyn offers to check the online review sites. I think she cajoled her student friends into writing a few. I’m not sure I can face reading them, but I know I have to, to get some feedback and politely respond to any negative comments.
That thought makes me feel faintly sick. I remember Sheila ranting when she steeled herself for her weekly reviewers’ ordeal. That pleasure’s now all mine. Suddenly, I feel like a wrung-out dishcloth, but there’s still work to do. Closing the door on the customers is only the start of the end of our day.
‘I need to mop the floor,’ I say, feeling as if I don’t even have the energy to lick an envelope.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but you do look like you need a break,’ Kit says.
‘I don’t have time.’
‘Yes, you do. Do as he says.’ Nina pulls back a chair from the table.
‘She hasn’t stopped all day and hasn’t eaten anything,’ Shamia tuts.
‘I had that broken fairing at lunchtime.’
Kit smiles. ‘Not enough to keep a flea alive. I think you should do what your staff say, boss.’
‘But the floor needs a mop. I can’t sit around while the team are working.’
‘Chill. We’ll manage to clean the floor round you both. Now, sit down! We’re going to bring you a nice apple and elderflower presse and there’s one slice of bacon and tomato quiche left.’ Nina turns to Kit, every inch the seasoned professional. She’s blossomed in just one day. ‘And what can we get you, sir?’
‘I’ll have a cider, please, and thanks for the offer of food but I already ate in St Trenyan. My research trip took longer than I’d expected.’
‘Not even an apricot scone?’
Kit pauses then says. ‘Oh, go on then. I can’t resist.’
Delighted to have persuaded him, Nina scuttles off to the kitchen. The moment my bum makes contact with the seat, I realise how knackered and weak I feel. I haven’t eaten or drunk much and I’ve been running on adrenaline and excitement since six o’clock this morning.
It’s weird to sit in the cafe with the staff working around me, chatting to a guest about how I started the cafe business and Kilhallon, but this is my life now: it’s begun to sink in that I’m in charge and living my dream, even if that dream is harder work than I ever imagined. Slowly, the tension ebbs from my body and in between devouring the quiche and the slice of figgy obbin that Nina brings me for dessert, I finally begin to relax and realise that for today, at least, it’s job done.
‘This is a stunning location,’ Kit says, accepting his scone from Nina with a dazzling smile that brings pink to her cheeks. ‘I can see why you and Cal fought so hard to keep it going.’
His remark catches me off guard. It seems a bit funny that he’s talking about Cal as if he knows us already but I suppose Polly’s been gossiping to him and we should make the guests feel like old friends.
‘You wouldn’t believe the difference between the park today and when Cal first showed me round at Easter. The location itself is fantastic. The views are incredible, even when you’ve lived round here all your life, you realise that. The moment I saw the barn that was here, I knew it would make a great cafe.’
‘I chose this place because it had last-minute availability and it was good value, thanks to your opening offers. It also seemed to be out of the way of distractions, apart from the Internet, that is. Sadly, I need that to keep in touch with my agent and editor and I still do a bit of freelance work for my old trade publication.’
‘I knew you must do something creative, even though you said it was boring admin. I thought you’d had enough of work and didn’t want to talk about it.’
‘Yes, and no.’ He grins. ‘Talking of which, I was going to ask you a favour.’
‘Ask away,’ I say, suddenly wondering – I don’t know why – if he’s going to ask me out for a drink or something. No, that would be silly. He would never do that here with everyone around and he’s not here for long and he must have guessed I’m ‘with’ Cal – except I’m not, in any formal sense. We’re not living together or even acting like a couple in public. Which I’m fine with, I remind myself.
‘Miraculously, I’ve managed to get on with my novel pretty well so far this week and I put that down to the peace and tranquillity here. People can hardly drop in and ask me for a pint or to help them fix their bikes. The setting’s inspirational too. Even the storm and the rain. Especially the rain.’
Tell that to the yurt people, I think, although judging by the noise last night, they were having a good time.
‘Glad you’re enjoying it,’ I say, wondering where the conversation is leading and thinking it doesn’t sound like he’s about to ask me on a date.
‘And I know I only intended to stay for two weeks but I was wondering if you might be willing to negotiate on a longer-term let. It’s a long shot because you may be booked up.’
Relief floods through me. ‘I’m not sure. I know Enys is booked at half term but it might be free until then and afterwards, it’s our quiet season so I can probably let you have a discount then.’ I harden my heart, knowing I can’t do him a deal until after half term. ‘How long were you thinking of staying?’ I ask.
‘Until the week before Christmas, if you have the availability.’
‘Christmas!’
He breaks into a grin. ‘Don’t sound so surprised. There are worse places to stay, you know.’
‘I know. Kilhallon’s great but it won’t be cheap … and what about your place in London?’ I say, knowing I’m doing a terrible job of selling the site. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Nina and Shamia watching us from the servery.
‘I’ve a friend who’d be happy looking after my flat. He’s just finished a contract abroad and wants a short-term place to stay in London while he hunts for a new job and his rent will cover my stay here. Plus there are trains, you know, if I can’t face the drive back when I need to go to a meeting.’
‘I didn’t mean to be nosy. Of course, Kilhallon’s perfect for peace and quiet and I’m sure we can come to some arrangement. I’d have to ask Cal, of course.’
‘Of course, if you need to square things with him, as he’s your boss …’
Something in Kit’s tone irritates me and I remind myself that I don’t need Cal’s permission to take a booking from a guest. ‘I’ll check the bookings when I go back to the house. I’ve got the live booking chart on my phone, but the signal’s not great down here.’
Kit puts his hand on my arm to stop me leaping to my feet, not that I could leap, my legs feel wobbly. ‘No rush,’ he says. ‘Later will do and as for the phone signal: that’s another reason for staying here. My agent can’t keep ringing me to ask how the book is going, and no one else can reach me either.’
‘OK. I’ll come round or call you later when I’ve checked, but it should be fine for a long-term let, even if you have to move cottages halfway through.’
‘That won’t bother me. Great. Now that I know I’m staying, I can settle into my novel. It’s a relief, to be honest, I was dreading having to go back to the smoke. There’s something about Kilhallon that really inspires me.’ He flashes me a smile then tips the cider bottle to his lips. He really is very good-looking when he turns on the charm, but I can’t quite fathom him out. When he first arrived, you’d have thought he was furious with the whole world.
He reminds me of Cal a little: one moment sunshine and the next showers, but Cal doesn’t seem to be able to switch the seasons on and off in the same way that Kit does. I’m not sure Cal’s so in control of his climate, and to be honest, I prefer it that way. Cal’s unpredictable in a predictable way, but Kit’s just unpredictable … Oh sod it, he’s only a guest. As long as he doesn’t start wailing the place down and chucking food on the floor like George, he can be as quirky as he likes. More importantly, his money’s as good as anyone else’s and it looks like we’re going to get rather a nice chunk of it.
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_27e56bde-0c61-56aa-ae4e-82022ac046d7)
Our opening long weekend of trading has been exhausting, but that’s way better than having to stand around with nothing to do. My marketing efforts are paying off and word has got round that we’re now up and running. I know a lot of locals will have turned up out of curiosity over the weekend and that we need to work hard to keep them coming back, as well as attracting tourists, but I was so happy to see the cafe buzzing on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. There’s no time to let up, however, and I’ve spent today – Monday – trying to catch up with admin, ordering and planning.
I must admit I could have quite happily collapsed in my cottage this evening, but tonight is another important occasion for Kilhallon. We’ve opened Demelza’s especially to host a meeting of the St Trenyan Harbour Lights committee. The Harbour Lights Festival, held on the last Friday in November, attracts thousands of people to the village, both from Cornwall and further afield at a time of year when St Trenyan really needs a boost.
‘I still can’t believe Kit Bannen wants to stay here for solong,’ Cal says to me midway through laying out mince pie cookies on a table in the cafe.
‘Until the week before Christmas, according to Kit. I meant to tell you sooner, but we’ve both been so busy with work that I forgot. The resort’s your job, of course, but I checked out the booking calendar while you were at the wholesalers and I’ve already said he can have Enys Cottage. We had another couple booked into Enys for half term but it’s easier to upgrade them to Penvenen than move Kit out just for a week. Was that OK?’
‘I guess so but this longer-term stay will cost him a lot of money. Why does he want to hunker down in the middle of nowhere at this time of year?’
‘Boy am I glad you’re not doing the marketing for this place,’ I say with an eye roll.
‘You know what I mean. I can understand him staying a couple of weeks but why would a metrosexual like him want to be away from London?’
‘A metrosexual? Kit? Nah. He’s much too rugged for that. He wears a Berghaus coat, for a start.’
Cal eyes me sharply and raises an eyebrow at my comment.
‘Stop laughing at me. He just doesn’t strike me as a hipster. He’s too blokey for the self-obsessed trendy type.’
‘“Rugged” and “blokey” eh? Not that you’re interested in the blond hunk, Kit Bannen, of course. He’s only a guest.’ Cal swipes a mince pie cookie from the plate.
‘I didn’t say he was a “hunk”, you did and actually he has a deadline on his book and he said he can get on with it better away from the distractions in London. It’s a techno-thriller.’
Cal huffs. ‘A techno-thriller? He obviously talks to you more than me. He hardly even bothers to nod a hello at me if we come across each other, not that I’m bothered, as long as he pays the bill. You must have charmed him.’
‘No. Kilhallon has charmed him.’ Do I detect a hint of jealousy from Cal? That would be nice … then I snap out of my fantasies. Kit isn’t interested in me and vice versa, and I doubt Cal’s really jealous.
‘What else do we need?’ he asks.
‘Nothing. I’ll set the coffee machine going just before we have a break and bring it out here. People can help themselves to hot water from the machine for their teas.’
‘I’m sure they’ll be impressed. This place looks great and the smell of these cookies is delicious.’
‘I thought the spices would get everyone in the mood. Thanks for helping me. I can’t ask the staff to stay on. They’ve done enough this week.’
‘It’s no problem.’
Cal chats to me about the accommodation bookings while we push some tables together to make one long ‘boardroom-style’ table for the meeting. We still need to fill two of the cottages for Christmas, and Warleggan is vacant at New Year. The yurt season will be over after half term until next Easter.
Cal goes into the kitchen to collect some mugs and plates while I add a jug of milk and sparkling white bowls of demerara sugar cubes to the refreshment table. It may be only a meeting, but I want everything to look perfect tonight. One of the tourist officers is coming, along with influential locals, to discuss plans for the highlight of the St Trenyan calendar.
The festival starts with a lantern procession to the harbour before the big switch-on. The old harbour is decorated with lights in the shape of boats, Christmas trees, stars, shells and starfish, all made up of thousands of jewel-bright bulbs. It’s quirky, random and very pretty. Until Twelfth Night, the quay and nearby pubs, shops and houses are illuminated, the colours reflected in the coal-black waters of the sea.
There are stalls selling hot food and drink, gifts and a mini funfair on the quayside. The evening ends with sing-along carols with the St Trenyan Fisherman’s Choir. It’s a massively popular tradition with everyone, and it marks the ‘real’ start of Christmas, even though all the shops will already be selling gifts and cards well before then.
I spot myself reflected in the large window, almost perfectly mirrored by the blackness outside, and think of a time, less than a year ago, when I wasn’t part of the celebrations but an outsider left in the cold. A lump forms in my throat.
‘How many are you expecting?’ Cal calls to me from the servery where he’s filling two jugs with water.
Shaking off the memory of darker times, I join him. ‘A dozen, maybe a few more. I looked at the list and recognised a few of the names. Local businesspeople, councillors, fishermen and the vicar. Are you definitely staying for the meeting?’ I ask Cal.
‘Normally I’d rather stick pins in my eyeballs than join a committee, but I’ll make an exception for this one. A lot of the people coming will want to ask questions about Kilhallon. Some of them came to our promo event in August and they’ll be keen to see how we’re doing. Or not.’ He smiles wryly, knowing a couple of the committee members run holiday-let businesses themselves.
He tears open a blue bag of ice and empties the cubes into the water jugs. ‘Besides, Mum was on the committee for a few years before she became ill. She helped with the fundraising and used to really enjoy it. I think it was a welcome distraction from Dad’s shenanigans.’
Cal doesn’t mention his late mother very often but I know he misses her. ‘I didn’t know she was part of it. She’d be pleased you’re keeping up the tradition.’
‘Yeah, well, Dad couldn’t be arsed to help out so maybe I should do it, if only to show them how much Kilhallon has changed. We should mention our bookings are healthy, of course, even if it’s not strictly accurate, but that we also want to do our bit for community spirit.’ He winks at me. I envy his lashes, damn him.
‘There are some lemon slices in a tub at the bottom of the fridge,’ I say, feeling myself growing warm again as I think of Cal’s eyes on me, and his hands too.
Cal finds the tub and drops the lemon slices into the water while I select a large bottle of apple juice from the chiller. ‘November’s looking a bit thin, but that’s always a dead time of year and hopefully the Christmas lights will lure people into the cottages for the final week of the month, especially now the cafe’s open,’ he says.
I try to refocus on the business in hand. ‘I must blog about the meeting and post some pics of last year’s lights and some menus for the pop-up cafe we’re having at the festival.’
I fill another jug with the apple juice and we carry them to the table. The first of the committee will start to arrive in a few minutes. There’s a small parking area behind the cafe that should accommodate most of their cars. Cal opens his tablet and nods at me to look at the Harbour Lights website. It’s a ‘homemade’ site but I think the quirkiness is part of its charm. The photos of the twinkling snowmen and a giant shark fixed on the harbour walls make us both smile. ‘I loved the harbour lights when I was little, even when I was a teenager we looked forward to going down into St Trenyan with our mates.’
‘You and Luke? I’d have thought you were too cool for fairy lights.’
‘No way. It was a chance for Luke, Isla, Tamsin and me – plus a few others from school – to go down into St Trenyan for a night out without our parents keeping an eye on us. When we were in the sixth form whoever had a car would drive us down and the rest of us would try to sneak into the pubs or persuade someone over eighteen to buy us drinks that we could take outside. There were so many people around drinking and eating in the streets and the stalls that no one would notice. One year we got lashed on dodgy mulled wine from a stall and were as sick as dogs.’
‘Serves you right,’ I say, realising that Cal has definitely cut down on his drinking lately. Polly used to nag him about it when he first got home from the Middle East and was even worried, but since Isla left for London – and even before then – the empties have greatly reduced. I didn’t like to see him so pissed every night: it reminded me of my dad, who was even more of an ogre when he’d had a few drinks. After Mum died, he hit the bottle hard, met a new girlfriend and eventually I couldn’t stand the situation any longer and left home.
‘I haven’t been to the lights switch-on since I was young, though. I was either away at uni, or too cool or working abroad. Last year, the Christmas lights were the last thing on my mind.’
His tone takes on a bitter edge; the same edge that I used to hear all the time when I first came to Kilhallon. It surfaces less frequently now but I know that his disappointment gnaws at him. His father passed away not long before he went to the Middle East on an aid project. Although that was two and half years ago, he’s bound to miss his dad and regret that they didn’t have a closer relationship. Then there’s the loss of Isla, of course, but there’s something else that causes him pain. Memories, worries, something to do with what he saw or went through in the Middle East. Something unimaginable that I’m sure still affects him way more than he ever lets on.
He pushes the tablet away. ‘What about you?’
‘I never really took much notice of the lights. My main aim last year was finding a warm place for Mitch and me to stay. I’d just lost my job in Truro and was sofa surfing around friends and friends of friends. On the night of the lights, I was between sofas and hanging about until the people had left and the lights had been turned off until sundown the next day.
He winces. ‘I had no idea.’
‘I remember how I felt after the lights went off and everyone had gone home. The place seemed twice as dead as it had before the switch-on. Mitch and I bunked down in an alley not far from Tamsin’s Spa.’ I also remember the smells of hot food, buttered rum punch, stollen, saffron cake, spicy mulled apple cider, rich hot chocolate, and the way they curled around me and drove me insane. Plus the feeling that I’d never been so lonely or such an outsider. Cal gathers me into his arms. Perhaps I didn’t hide the shiver as well as I thought I had.
‘I’m sorry. It must have been tough.’
Tears sting my eyes and make me wish I’d never mentioned last November. I genuinely don’t want Cal’s sympathy – so why did I have to say so much? ‘Some of the poor people I saw had so many problems, I could have cried for them. Some will never get off the streets. I’m the lucky one. Look at me now: hosting an event for the village bigwigs. Who’d have thought it?’
He smiles briefly. ‘Even so … Feel free to hit me, but have you given any more thought to contacting your family? Your father? Your brother? Sorry, I don’t even know his name.’
‘It’s Kyle. My dad’s called Gary.’
‘OK …’
‘And you’re right, I have given it some more thought and I still don’t want to speak to them. I don’t know exactly what Kyle’s doing now or even where he is and I refuse to ask my dad.’
‘But you know where your dad and his partner live?’
‘Near Redruth, as far as I know, that’s where they were living when I last spoke to him. Last I heard, Kyle joined the army. He left home before I did and went to share a flat with a mate in Truro, but I’m not sure that worked out, so he signed up. We weren’t close and he used to spend as much time as he could out of the house at his mates.’
‘Your dad must have been on his own a lot after your mum died.’
‘I suppose so. I was in the house though; he could have spoken to me if he’d wanted to. He just used to sit in his chair and drink cans and channel surf. I may as well have not existed, but he’s got her now. Rachel.’ I slap on a smile, feeling I’ve already raked over far too many old memories. ‘I thought you were in the army, remember, when I first saw you with the combats and bag?’
Cal rolls his eyes. ‘Yeah, I do, but I wasn’t.’
‘Do you remember where you were this time last year? During the Christmas lights?’
He glances out of the window into the darkness. ‘I wasn’t exactly having a fun time, either.’
His phone buzzes from the table, the sound magnified by the table top and the high ceiling of the empty cafe. He grimaces, then glances at the screen.
‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’
He turns back to me, a grin on his face. Goosebumps prick my skin: I know what that look means.
‘No. I was thinking we might have time for a quick bite before the committee arrive. A hot vampire bite.’ He bares his teeth and while I pull a face at him, warm feelings stir at the jokey reminder of the nickname I had for him when we first met. He grazes the skin at the side of my neck with his teeth and it tingles. His breath is warm and I close my eyes in pleasure, trying to blot out the insistent throb of the mobile phone.
‘There’s no time,’ I murmur. ‘The committee will be here in twenty minutes.’
‘So? I like living dangerously. You told me to do it.’ His phone stops buzzing. ‘I told you, they can wait.’
He kisses me, it’s deep and hot and it sparks a swirling sensation low in my stomach. I’m shaky with lust. He tangles his hands in my hair, tugging at the roots without realising, but so gently that the tension just drives me even more crazy.
‘Come on. Into the staff room.’ His voice is husky with desire as he leads me through the kitchen and into the store-cupboard-sized room that serves as our staff room. It’s warm in there, and the air smells of the pine disinfectant we keep in the cupboard. He backs me against the lockers and they rattle loudly.
‘What if they’re early?’
‘They can wait.’
He shuts the door behind us while I pull off my Demelza’s sweatshirt and T-shirt. Cal unzips his jeans and slips them down, along with his boxers. Still standing, with me braced against the lockers, Cal lifts me onto him. We’re face to face and then he’s inside me. I melt like butter on a hot scone under his touch and close my eyes to everything around me. The cafe, the lights, the dark night, the world, all are gone in those few intense, nerve-jangling seconds. There’s only me and Cal, one person, for a brief, dark, hot moment. I wish it could go on and on.
‘Whew.’
My face rests on his shoulder, my cheek skimming the soft wool cotton of his sweater. His fingers rest lightly on my back, beneath my shoulder blades and he whispers to me as I come back to awareness, like a swimmer surfacing in the cove to the sky.
‘Demi, I’ve been thinking.’ His voice is tender, serious and I’m not used to that.
‘Always dangerous,’ I breathe, still half-drowsy after the intensity.
‘That maybe, we should think about, if you don’t mind, well …’
My eyes are open. His phone buzzes again. It’s closer now. I hadn’t realised he’d even picked it up or brought it with him.
‘Damn it.’ Almost falling over, tangled by the jeans still around his ankles, he pulls up his jeans and delves in the pocket. ‘Bloody thing.’
Leave it, I say silently. Leave it and say what’s on your mind.
He glares at his phone, and he mouths at me, ‘Sorry,’ then: ‘Hello, Isla, no, I’m not busy. How are you?’
I don’t think he’s realised that he’s turned his back on me as if he doesn’t want me to hear his conversation. While he’s talking to her, his jeans slip down his hips again, leaving his pants halfway up his muscular bottom. I struggle back into my top and sweatshirt and slip past him into the tiny washroom. I close the door but can hear him, ‘hmm-ing’ and ‘OK-ing’ and the odd ‘fine’ and the final ‘OK, take care, see you soon’.
He comes out into the cafe while I scoop coffee into the filter machine. There’s no time to make cappuccinos and lattes tonight.
‘Sorry for that,’ he says. ‘It was Isla, making arrangements to come down for the shoot in a few weeks’ time. It means opening the cafe especially, because she asked if you’d cater for the cast and crew for the day. It’s extra work, but they have a decent budget and she thought we might as well have the business rather than handing it over to the outside caterers. Will that be OK?’
‘That’s awesome.’ I try to sound cheerful, because we do need the business and the publicity during and after the shoot and when the series – a historical drama about a highwayman and his aristocratic mistress – is aired will be priceless. Isla’s going to be here anyway so we may as well profit from it. It is good of her to help us – Cal – out.
‘It’s only for a day, possibly a day and a half, depending on the weather.’
‘Great. Did you know your flies are still undone?’
‘Hell. No.’ He glances down and then up at me, a wicked grin on his face. ‘That would have shocked the vicar. She’s on the committee.’
‘I’m sure she’s seen it all before. Is that headlights?’
Through the window, I spot twin white beams wavering as a vehicle makes its way over the bumpy track from the farm. The road will serve as access to the camping field in the summer but it’s not exactly public-highway standard yet. Behind the lights, I spot two more sets of lamps. The first car stops a few feet from the cafe.
Cal goes to unlock the door and groans. ‘Please, no …’
‘What?’
‘That’s Mawgan’s car.’
‘No. God, I had no idea she was on the committee.’
‘She isn’t, according to the minutes they sent me. What the hell is she doing here?’
‘I don’t know, but we’re about to find out.’
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_245b59ab-7143-5d5b-88a7-bf398746b07d)
‘Hello, Demi, how nice to see you again.’
‘Mawgan,’ I reply through gritted teeth while she pulls off crimson leather gloves. ‘What a surprise. We didn’t know you were on the Harbour Lights committee.’
She throws us an angelic smile. ‘Well, strictly speaking, I’m not, because I’m far too busy for a regular commitment, but Cade Developments is making a significant contribution to the fund this year so the chairwoman invited me to join you tonight.’
‘Great,’ says Cal, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
‘Cade Developments takes its responsibility to the local community very seriously,’ Mawgan adds, dropping her gloves on a table and peering over Cal’s shoulder at the cafe.
Yeah, by hiking up rents, blocking our plans and intimidating local people, I think, not that we can prove any of it. I’m amazed the Harbour Lights committee has allowed Mawgan to contribute, though I guess they can’t afford not to, in all kinds of ways.
‘Cade Developments only has a responsibility to make money no matter what the cost to the community,’ Cal replies. ‘So what are you really doing here, Mawgan. Spying?’
‘Cal. We have more customers. Help yourself to refreshments,’ I say to Mawgan, steering Cal towards the door before we all come to blows, verbal or otherwise.
A glamorous forty-something lady in a leather biker jacket, pointy snakeskin boots and a dog collar sashays in. It’s the Reverend Beverley Fritton, the vicar of St Trenyan. If the Rev Bev recognises me, she doesn’t let on. She once bought me a coffee and gave Mitch a meal, all without trying to convert me to anything other than Game of Thrones. She and her much younger curate, who I suspect is also much more than her assistant, made me hot rum chocolate and let me and Mitch bunk down in her snug for the night. She may have forgotten me, but I haven’t forgotten her.
‘Wow, this is awesome,’ she declares in her broad Birmingham accent, her auburn ponytail swinging round as she does a 360-degree twirl in the middle of the cafe. She sniffs the air and sighs in ecstasy. ‘And what is that amazing smell? Did I forget to set my alarm and wake up on Christmas Eve?’
‘They’re mincemeat cookies: very easy to make. I can let you have the recipe.’
‘I’d love it, though I can barely boil an egg. This place was a wreck of an old barn when I was last up here. What an amazing transformation, isn’t it, Mawgan?’
Though I can tell it’s killing her, even Mawgan wouldn’t be openly catty in front of the Rev Bev and she grinds out a reply. ‘It is. Who’d have ever thought a wreck like Kilhallon would scrub up so well?’
My reply, also involving scrubbers, is a nano-second from escaping my lips, but it’s Cal’s turn to shoot me a warning glance and the Rev Bev continues to torture Mawgan by lavishing praise on the ‘a-maz-ing’ job we’ve done on the cafe. The door opens again and more of the committee troop in. I recognise the harbourmaster – or should I say, harbourmistress – and Josh, the boat skipper, who used to deliver seafood to Sheila’s. Thank goodness Mitch is safely snoozing at the farmhouse, I’d hate him to spend the evening sniffing Josh’s trousers.
‘Have a look round and help yourselves to drinks and cookies while I get the coffee,’ I tell everyone, glad to have something to do that will keep me out of Mawgan’s way. More people arrive and Cal greets them. Soon, the noise level in the cafe is deafening as people help themselves to cookies and drinks, ‘oh-ing’ and ‘ah-ing’.
St Trenyan’s harbourmistress is chairing the meeting and calls everyone to order. Cal joins in, agreeing to make a modest donation to the cost of the lights, though we can’t match Mawgan’s contribution. I pluck up the courage to mention our ‘pop-up’ Demelza’s stall at the festival, which will sell hot food and drinks and showcase Kilhallon as a resort, and manage to wangle a great position for it right on the quayside by the Fisherman’s Choir.
The harbourmistress thanks Mawgan for her ‘generous’ support, which is met by grudging mutterings of thanks. I glance sideways at Cal and see him with his lips pressed tightly together. Mawgan might have backed off from destroying our plans for Kilhallon, but there’s no way she’s given up hating us. I distract myself by working out the menu I can offer at the switch-on. Jewelled cookies to match the lights, perhaps … mulled cider … caramel sea salt brownies …
When the meeting breaks up, most people hang around, helping themselves to more cookies and ‘networking’, aka gossiping. I gather up the used crockery onto a tray and take it into the dishwashing area in the kitchen.
Mawgan appears in the doorway to the kitchen, holding out her empty mug.’
‘This is cosy.’
‘Can I help you, madam?’ I say, sarcastically. I know she’s trying to provoke me and she can’t behave too nastily in this company, especially when she’s trying to act the generous local businesswoman, but I’m on my guard. Most of the people here loathe the Cades, but some rent their business premises from Mawgan’s lettings company and can’t afford to upset her. Even though she’s backed off from some of her worst practices, I don’t believe for a moment that she’s given up on hurting Cal by destroying Kilhallon or wrecking his life some other way. Mawgan’s view of relationships and family is warped to say the least.
She dumps her mug on the drainer. ‘No, thanks. I see you’ve carved out a nice comfortable little niche for yourself up here. You and Cal. So, how’s business? Made your first million, yet?’
‘Forgive me for speaking frankly, Mawgan, but our business is actually none of your business.’
‘Fair enough, but I just thought I’d remind you that you’re here – you and Cal – only because I decided that Kilhallon wasn’t part of my development plans.’
I just resist snorting out loud. Only Mawgan and I know the real reason she changed her mind about ruining us: because I gave her hell about her behaviour towards us and to Andi and Robyn. Even so, I was gobsmacked that she listened to me. Even though she claimed it was a business decision, I know I touched a very raw nerve with her. Her mum had an affair with Cal’s father and that has led to bad feeling between the families, that and the fact Cal refused to go out with her when they were younger.
‘It’s too late now. We’re here to stay.’
Mawgan runs her finger over the stainless steel prep table. ‘Possibly. We’ll see.’
‘I’m sorry, but customers aren’t really allowed in the kitchen area. Regulations.’
‘I bet you allow that dirty dog of yours in here.’
‘Actually we don’t allow any hygiene hazards in here, human or animal.’
Mawgan has a hide like a rhino so ignores me. ‘I heard Isla was coming back from London.’
‘How do you know that? She only told Cal the other day.’ I kick myself at revealing this snippet of information, but it’s too late; Mawgan’s eyes gleam with delight.
‘I have my sources,’ she says.
Does that mean she’s still in touch with Luke, Isla’s fiancé? They left Cornwall to keep out of Mawgan’s way, because Isla suspected that Luke and Mawgan were getting too close. I doubt it very much, but I wouldn’t put anything past her. Only Mawgan and I know what went on between us in the summer and that our ‘chat’ about her personal life led to her removing her objections to us redeveloping Kilhallon Park.
Laughter drifts in from the cafe and a car engine fires up outside. I hold out my hand, to show her the door. ‘I don’t want to be rude but the meeting’s over and we need to lock up.’
Blocking my way to the door, she lowers her voice, ‘I could still hurt Cal. I could ruin him. If I want to.’
‘How?’
‘I have my ways. You just bear it in mind. Just because you came to me begging me to save him doesn’t change a thing between any of us, and it isn’t only me who thinks he’s a selfish bastard.’
‘You may be bitter and twisted and blame him for your mum leaving you, but any reasonable person would see it’s not his fault.’
‘It’s not only me, and the amateur psychology you spouted when you turned up at my house uninvited had nothing to do with my decision to back off.’
‘Drop the act, Mawgan. If you want me to think you gave up your opposition to our plans for financial reasons, that’s fine, but we both know there was more to it than that. You just can’t admit you found you had a conscience after all.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re referring to, but I told you that our conversation was private.’
No one can hear us in the kitchen, but I lower my voice anyway. ‘It was and it is. I kept my word. Cal has no idea that I came to see you or what we spoke about. As far as I’m aware, he also has no idea about your mum and his dad.’
She snorts. ‘Really?’
‘I think he would have mentioned it if he did.’
‘He tells you everything, does he?’ she says.
‘Not everything. I don’t share everything with him either, but I would have thought that considering the trouble you tried to cause over the summer, he might have told me about the situation if he knew.’
She sniffs, and seems at a loss for words for a few moments, then her lip curls. ‘I couldn’t care less anyway. You can relax. I’ve decided not to waste my time with little people like you and Cal.’
‘That suits us fine,’ I say, glad she can’t see my stomach drop to my shoes. If I never see Mawgan Cade again it will be too soon. Judging by the sneer on her face, I’m guessing she hates having betrayed any weakness to me. I could tell her that it wasn’t weak to allow her sister some happiness, or to let go of her bitter feud with Cal – but she wouldn’t listen.
‘Mawgan! We’re going. I’d like a word with you before we leave.’
Mawgan presses her lips together as Rev Bev pops her head round the door. ‘Goodnight,’ she says tightly. ‘I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.’
Shouldering her neon-pink ostrich-effect bag, she wobbles out of the kitchen on her pointy heels. I focus on loading the dishwasher, reminding myself that Mawgan is full of crap. I won’t let her empty threats hurt me because that’s exactly what she wants. I’m a successful cafe owner, I’ve a film crew to deal with in a few weeks, and Cal was going to say something nice too, although he didn’t actually say it.
CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_62ff6605-aa34-55fb-9720-1b11ef6988eb)
Cal
My head throbs as I reach for the clock by the bed. The green digits glow in the gloom. Wednesday 9 October. 09.23. Shit. Is it that late? I need to get up. Those old staff cottages won’t renovate themselves.
I lift my head off the pillow and instantly regret it. Pain pulses in my temples. I’m shivering yet sheened in sweat. No wonder, I’ve woken up to find I’m lying on top of the duvet in my boxers. Last night, after I staggered home from the Tinner’s Arms in the small hours, I must have collapsed on top of the bed. At least I had the presence of mind to get undressed, which is amazing considering I was off my face. I haven’t been to one of the pub’s lock-ins for months. I’d already started to cut back on my drinking since Demi and I got Kilhallon off the ground, and I’m almost back within the so-called ‘healthy’ limit now. Correction, I was in the healthy limit until last night’s lapse.
Last night Demi went out with her mates to see a film in Penzance. I could and should have spent the evening doing the accounts for the resort, but I needed a break too. I only intended to have a quick pint at the pub, but one turned into two, then more, plus a few whiskies as well. Before I knew it, the landlord had locked the doors, joined his regulars for a game of poker and the evening had become early morning.
Snatches of conversation from the night before slowly come back to me, along with scenes from my nightmare and memories of my time in Syria. I remember someone talking about the Harbour Lights Festival in the bar. They reminded me of my conversation with Demi on Monday night before the committee meeting.
I told her I wasn’t having a fun time during last year’s festival. A slight understatement. I remember exactly where I was on that day. I was working in a refugee camp a couple of miles from the front line of a conflict zone, trying to do what I could for hundreds of wounded and displaced people. The sights, the sounds and smells will never leave me. Although I pretend to the people around me that I’ve put that time behind me and it doesn’t affect me, I’m lying.
I’m fully awake now. After I crashed out, some of the events from Syria came back to haunt me in a nightmare; albeit in a bizarre, jumbled way, like a story where the chapters have been swapped around or are missing altogether. I’m not sure why I had a nightmare or why the memories are so vivid and troubling now. Since I returned to Kilhallon, I’ve tried to lock my time in Syria away so I can try to get on with daily life, but it’s impossible to forget. The guilt I feel about what happened that day will never leave me, and perhaps it never should.
Lying in my bed now, I tell myself that my bad dream was probably just the result of too much Doom Bar, too many whisky chasers and a very stupid urge to scoff bacon, egg and black pudding at two o’clock in the morning when I eventually staggered into Kilhallon. I lift my head and see a tangle of sheets at the foot of the bed. I must have kicked them off while I was fighting imaginary attackers in my dream. The new sash window is open a few inches and the curtains flutter against the frame. A cold wind keens around the farmhouse, changing pitch every now and then and making my head hurt even more. It was only a dream, I remind myself, as my throbbing temples send a bolt of nausea straight to my stomach.
Yet the images from that day are still vivid now I’m awake. I remember my friend Soraya lying on top of a pile of bricks and broken furniture. A red checked tablecloth covered her legs; it must have fallen on top of her when the mortar round hit her home. She didn’t have a mark on her beautiful face and her eyes were closed as if she’d lain down to rest and pulled the cloth over her. Her upper body was covered with a fine powder, just as though someone had shaken icing sugar over her.
I’d been blown off my feet by an explosion and when I came round, I spotted her in the clouds of smoke and dust. From a few metres away, I’d almost believed she was asleep. I’d started to cough, my eyes stinging, and then I looked around for her little girl, Esme.
No matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t see her anywhere.
The sounds and smells come back to me, along with the scene of devastation all round. Clouds of dirt and debris rose up like a fog, yet one that was hot and acrid and burned my throat. My eyes were raw and streaming. Rumbles like thunder shook the ground to one side and the chatter of gunfire echoed on the other. A soldier loomed out of the dust and yelled at me: ‘We’re going. Come with us now or die here.’
I could not move. All I could do was stare at Soraya sleeping on her rubble bed, knowing she’d never wake up. And then I knew what to do and my feet moved: not to run after the soldier but to clamber over the rubble piles to search for Esme. I knew I had to find her and take her back with me to safety.
I clawed at the rubble, looking for her. My knuckles were bleeding. I couldn’t find her. Then I heard the soldiers again, their voices, and realised that they weren’t ‘our’ side, but the insurgents who had shelled the town. I had to leave, or be killed. Instinct told me to run and hope I could find Esme at our camp. So I ran, tears streaming down my face. It was too late. Too late for Soraya, for Esme and for me.
Suddenly, another scene from my nightmare floods my mind and merges with my memories. I was in a dusty room, the sun beating down on the tiled roof, shafts of light piercing the cracks and shining on the dust and blood on the earth floor. A man held my ankles down, the pressure was unbearable. Another face appeared above me with a hose. I remember feeling so thirsty. I couldn’t speak, but I didn’t want this water. I opened my mouth to scream but he pushed a rag over my nose and mouth and the water poured down. I tried to scream but I was drowning – like I was in the cove this summer, only this time there was no Demi to reach in and pull me out.
Bloody hell, just how much did I have to drink last night?
Thank God Demi wasn’t staying over with me … Or maybe if she had been, I wouldn’t have stayed so long at the Tinner’s. Demi helps me keep off the booze and from dwelling on the dark times as often as I might do. Trouble is, now that Polly’s here and the businesses demand our time and energy, we’ve had precious few chances to get together, apart from a couple of snatched moments of passion at the cafe.
I also remember that after Demi and I had made out in the cafe, I was going to ask her to go public and move into Kilhallon House with me. After last night’s talk in the pub, I’m not so sure it’s a good idea, for Demi or for me.
The bedroom door rattles in a gust of wind. I must get the latch fixed. Anyone could walk in.
Oh God, it’s 09.45. I have to get up and get on with my jobs, even though hammering and drilling is the last thing my head needs. I suppose it’s some kind of justice for getting pissed last night.
Still in my boxers, I scuttle downstairs in search of black coffee. There’s singing coming from the kitchen. Something about it being ‘time to say goodbye’. When I walk in, Polly stops her impromptu Il Divo karaoke and stares at me from the sink. She holds a very sharp pair of scissors and is surrounded by leaves, roses and cellophane.
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Phillipa Ashley
Return to the Cornish Cafe in this gorgeous festive romance – the perfect book to curl up with this Christmas.Christmas will be slightly less turbulent than summer, won’t it? Demi certainly hopes so.She and Cal are keeping their fledgling relationship under wraps for now. But then Kit Bannen, a hunky, blond – and somewhat mysterious – writer arrives at Kilhallon Resort, and not everyone is charmed. Cal is sure that Kit is hiding something. But is he the only one guarding a secret?Demi is busy baking festive treats for the newly opened Demelza’s cafe, but when Cal’s ex Isla arrives to shoot scenes for her new drama, Demi can’t help but worry that things aren’t quite over between them. Kit flirts with both women, fuelling Cal’s suspicions that Kit has hidden motives for staying on at Kilhallon. Then Cal has to go to London, leaving Demi and Kit to decorate the cafe for Christmas . . . all by themselves.A storm is brewing in more ways than one. As surprises unfold and truths are uncovered, can Demi and Cal finally open up to each other about their feelings?This second novel in the bestselling Cornish Cafe series is the perfect Christmas read.
PHILLIPA ASHLEY
Christmas At The Cornish Cafe
Book #2
Published by Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
The News Building
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2016
Copyright © Phillipa Ashley 2016
Phillipa Ashley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © November 2016 ISBN: 9780008191870
Version: 2017-12-07
For Charlotte and James,
Nadelik Lowen Ha Bledhen Nowyth Da
(Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year)
And in memory of Rowena Kincaid 1975–2016
Table of Contents
Cover (#u1563021a-85e0-5db3-a532-d8eacfcaeb4d)
Title Page (#u9e065c2a-1610-5d70-bd70-ded688a9bfea)
Copyright (#u89a254c7-38e3-5a38-a0a9-12e3e471e1d4)
Dedication (#u2256ce9c-0b44-51eb-b737-1b07b59d9ea6)
Prologue (#u6a25aa71-b0ea-53fe-9e4e-ee4cf05fcf11)
Chapter One (#u10430283-9ea2-5b1b-8a35-92e19e82dd12)
Chapter Two (#u891daa02-7081-5499-ae0b-ffb239c25ec1)
Chapter Three (#u8c71ce50-37ce-5e8f-a31c-6aae242337e6)
Chapter Four (#uf7026e8d-c70a-5001-8394-1925906eee34)
Chapter Five (#u70d7ec64-2dfc-5edc-a068-0f74f27486d8)
Chapter Six (#u439ecaf3-6b0e-5681-8710-593646cede09)
Chapter Seven (#u754ab028-a990-5dea-8aa8-22e99fa2fae3)
Chapter Eight (#u8468d0a4-5a8f-5996-8aa0-12bfdd586e14)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Recipes (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE (#u66c713b5-a518-5e1e-b239-0f3bffec2a66)
Tuesday October 1
Demi
‘Good morning, friends! This is Greg Stennack, your favourite local DJ on your favourite local station, Radio St Trenyan. I’ll be bringing you all the latest tunes and news from our great little corner of Cornwall and cheering you up on this wet and windy October the first. Hey, did I just say it was October? Seems like only yesterday that we were slapping on the suncream and stretching out the beach towels to catch some rays. Oh, wait – that was only yesterday! Hey, never mind, people. Christmas is only eighty-five sleeps away. Now, let’s kick off this wild autumn day with ‘Here Comes the Rain Again’ by the Eurythmics …’
Hey, thanks, Greg, I’ve nothing against Annie Lennox, but I think I’ll pass.
With a groan, I bash the radio alarm ‘off’ button with my palm and pull the duvet over my head. That was a mistake. Now that Greg’s not blaring down my ear, I can hear the rain lashing against the windows and battering the roof of my tiny terraced cottage. A moment later, I throw the duvet off me, shivering in the cool October morning. I say ‘morning’, but it might as well be evening it’s so dark and gloomy in my bedroom. The late September heatwave we’d been enjoying at Kilhallon Park broke late last night when a massive storm blew in from the Atlantic and settled over our corner of far-west Cornwall.
The bedroom door bangs against the wall and four paws land squarely on my legs and a rough tongue licks my face.
‘Oof!’
My dog, Mitch, stands on my stomach, tongue lolling. ‘Thanks, boy, but I’d rather have a wash myself. In the bathroom, preferably.’
Mitch woofs and jumps onto the floor, wagging his feathery tail.
‘I know, I know. You want a walk, but have you heard that wet stuff falling from the sky outside?’
Mitch leaps off the bed, and stands by, tilting his head this way and that, as if to say: ‘Wuss’.
I give up all thought of staying in bed. ‘OK. You win.’
As I swing my legs off the bed, Mitch scampers to the doorway, hardly able to contain himself, excited at the prospect of a walk. After I’ve pulled on old jeans and a fleece, I trot downstairs, grab a quick glass of juice and pull open the curtains. It’s still bucketing down, and the rain is driven by strong winds off the sea, so it’s almost horizontal.
I grab an old waxed jacket from a peg by the back door and pull the hood over my head. Not only does Mitch need a walk, I need to check that nothing’s blown away from our brand-new guest cottages. I also need to make sure that our new cafe, Demelza’s, is still in one piece ready for its opening day on Thursday.
Since I arrived at Easter, my boss, Cal Penwith, and I have been working hard to transform Kilhallon Park from a run-down caravan site into a boutique holiday resort. With the help of our friends – and despite the efforts of our foes – our cottages and glamping site officially open for business today.
Then there’s Demelza’s.
I persuaded Cal to convert the old storage barn by the coastal path into a cafe. He decided to name it after me, so I’m determined to make it a success – come hell or high water.
And on that note … Outside the front door, the drumming of the rain and the howls of the wind almost drown out Mitch’s woofs. He dashes outside and scampers through the puddles while I linger in the doorway watching raindrops bounce off the cobbles of the yard. But it’s not the downpour that’s stopping me from taking that step outside; it’s the realisation that today’s the day that Kilhallon – and Cal and I – take our leap into the unknown.
I step into an old pair of Hunters that used to belong to Cal’s cousin Robyn. I’m wearing her old coat too: everyone mucks in and shares what they have here. I’ve become part of the Kilhallon tribe since Cal invited me to work for him, even though my own family have become lost to me. I’ve also made some good friends who’ve stuck with me through thick and thin. One of them – Cal – is more than a friend, but we’ll see where that leads.
Mitch dances round my wellies and barks joyfully, as if to say: ‘Come on, what are we waiting for?’
After the tough times we’ve overcome, and the challenges that await us, there’s no going back now. I let out a deep breath and step into the deluge. If you want to see a rainbow, as my Nana Demelza would have said, you have to put up with the rain …
CHAPTER ONE (#u66c713b5-a518-5e1e-b239-0f3bffec2a66)
‘Hello there! Welcome to Kilhallon Park. How was your journey?’
The man scowls from beneath the hood of his jacket and tosses his car keys on the shiny new reception desk at the front of Kilhallon House. He can’t be more than thirty and his face would be handsome if his expression wasn’t even more thundery than the weather. ‘Does it ever stop raining down here?’ he grumbles. ‘It’s been pouring all the way from London and I’ve had a nightmare of a journey.’
‘I’m sorry about that, sir, it must have been awful, but I’m so glad you’re here now and the forecast did show the weather brightening up later this afternoon. We should have a much drier day tomorrow. Would you mind filling in this card with your car registration while I collect your keys and welcome pack so I can show you to your cottage?’ With a smile, I hand him a pen.
He pushes his hood off his face. His dark blond fringe is stuck to his forehead and a raindrop trickles down his nose as he takes the pen and frowns at the card. Meanwhile, I collect his cottage keys and welcome pack from the drawer below the reception desk, hoping that the rain will stop. Instead, a rumble of thunder shakes Kilhallon House and our guest glances around him as if we’re about to be zapped by aliens.
He pushes the card towards me. His writing looks like a drunken spider has been doing the salsa with the felt tip, but I’m not going to ask him to redo it. ‘Your website said there’s a cafe on site. I’d like some lunch. Can you show me the way?’ His voice is tight and the news I’m about to deliver isn’t going to help his mood one bit.
‘I’m afraid the cafe doesn’t open until the day after tomorrow … Mr Bracken.’
‘It’s not Bracken. It’s Bannen. Kit Bannen,’ he adds, stressing each word as if I’m a toddler. Mind you, I don’t blame him, our first guest and I’ve got his name wrong. I should have spent more time preparing, instead of baking.
‘What’s that about the cafe being closed?’ he goes on. ‘The on-site cafe is one of the reasons I chose this place and I’ve held off from having lunch. It looked great on your website and I didn’t dare stop once I finally got moving after all the hold-ups. I’d hoped to grab a late lunch as soon as I arrived.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Bannen, but we’ll be open for coffee on Thursday morning. The website and information we sent you does say our opening days are Thursday to Sunday in the autumn and winter.’
‘That’s no good to me, is it?’
‘I appreciate that, sir, but it’s only two days away … less than that, technically speaking,’ I say, aware that the hours are ticking by fast.
Mr Bannen cuts across me. ‘Is there a pub or a restaurant close by?’
‘The pub’s just over a mile away at the crossroads. You’ll probably have to drive.’ Oh dear, this is not going well. I can understand that he’s tired and grouchy, but there’s no need to be rude.
‘Great. I’ve just spent seven hours crawling down here in the car from London and now I have to get straight back in it.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mr Bannen, but the good news is that there’s a welcome hamper in your cottage, with fresh bread, butter, eggs and cheese and some milk and a bottle of wine. They’re basic but high-quality supplies and enough to rustle up a sandwich or an omelette.’
He glares at me, then frowns. ‘Did you say there was wine?’
‘Yes, a bottle of red from a local vineyard, though I can swap it for a white if you’d prefer. I do have a chilled bottle in the fridge here. There are tea- and coffee-making facilities ready in your cottage, of course, and some Cornish apple juice in your own fridge, if it’s too early for wine …’
‘It isn’t too early for wine!’
I half expect the reception desk to shake.
He sighs and flashes me an apologetic smile. ‘Look, I’m not always this grouchy but I’ve had a fraught time at work and the journey from London was even more crap than I’d expected and it’s pouring down and I’m starving.’
‘I understand, Mr Bannen, and I’m sorry the cafe’s not open yet, but if you like I could sell you some of the spinach and ricotta quiche I made this morning to add to the supplies in your luxury, free welcome pack?’
‘Quiche, you say?’
I smile. ‘Uh huh. Homemade here at Kilhallon.’
‘Hmm. Well, thanks, I may just do as you say and stay in. I do need a break.’
‘Good idea. Now, if you want to follow me in your car, your cottage is only a few hundred yards up the lane to the left of the main farmhouse. I’ll get your keys and show you around Enys Cottage. Would you like some mince pies with your quiche, by the way?’
He frowns. ‘Mince pies? But we’re barely into October.’
‘Yes, um, I’ve been practising some recipes for when the cafe opens.’
‘Practising?’
‘Trialling,’ I correct myself, because he seems worried again. ‘I’ve created a new boozy mincemeat recipe actually, and I’ve been trying out different toppings for the pies. I’ve made glazed stars and cinnamon and orange crunchy crumble tops … the crumble ones are particularly delicious, and I was just about to make some Viennese topped ones when you rang the reception bell …’ I clam up, realising that I’ve been babbling because I’m nervous and rattled by our first guest not being in the holiday mood that I’d expected.
Mr Bannen peers at me like I’m mad and then wrinkles his nose, sniffs the air and unexpectedly, breaks into a smile that transforms his face from grumpy pants to golden surf boy.
‘I thought I could smell something good. You know, I think a mince pie and wine is just what I need after the time I’ve had at work.’
‘What do you do?’ I ask, relieved he’s simmering down.
‘Oh, this and that. Boring admin-type stuff, mostly.’
So, he doesn’t want to tell me. Well, that’s fine. ‘If you’d like to wait here for a moment, I’ll get the food and my coat and you can follow me in your car up to Enys Cottage.’
He humphs in reply, but it’s the quiet humph of a man who’s calming down and feeling a bit guilty for ranting at me. At least, I think it’s that – as he’s our first guest, I have a lot to learn.
I grab my wax jacket from the peg in the hallway that separates the reception area from Kilhallon House, the old farmhouse that forms the heart of the Cornish holiday complex where I work. Then I find the quiche in the fridge and pop it into a square, cardboard cake box – luckily I have some in, ready for the cafe opening. I transfer four mince pies of different types from their tin to another box and carry them into reception.
Mr Bannen is nowhere to be seen.
Oh dear. I hope he hasn’t decided to do a runner after all.
After zipping up my jacket and collecting the keys to the Land Rover, I carry the boxes outside. Mr Bannen is standing at the far side of the gravelled car park by the fence, looking out over the fields that, next spring, will become our camp site. For now, we only have four yurts situated in the little copse just out of view of the car park.
Mr Bannen has his hands spread wide, gripping the wooden rail, and I could be wrong, but think he’s taking some deep breaths of Cornish sea air. It’s still raining, but not as hard, as I stow the quiche and mince pies on the passenger seat. Mr Bannen shows no signs of returning to his car, a large silver BMW that seems too big for one man, but is probably just right for a stressed-out angry person. I haven’t asked, though I have wondered, where his family or friends are.
I pull up my own hood and wait by the Land Rover.
The rain is definitely easing as Mr Bannen finally turns away from the view and trudges back towards me. He seems sad now rather than furious.
‘Sorry,’ he says, reaching me. ‘I needed a bit of fresh air.’
‘I don’t blame you. Are you ready to follow me to your cottage now?’
He nods. He pushes his hood off again. The edges of his dark blond hair are soaked but I can tell his hair brushes his neck. He also has a thin gold loop earring through one lobe, like the fishermen in St Trenyan. He doesn’t look like he does boring admin-type stuff; I’d have said he was the creative type, more advertising or graphic design or something. He’s probably here for the surfing, though there’s no board on the roof rack of the car.
He turns back towards the sea and I follow his gaze. Our soon-to-be camping field slopes very gently down to the boundary of the park. It’s separated by a low hedge from the coastal footpath that skirts our land. A few yards beyond the path, the jagged cliffs plunge down to the Atlantic. He turns to me again, his voice gentler. ‘I’m sorry. You must have lots to do and I shouldn’t have kept you waiting, but the view drew me. I stare at four walls for most of my working life and this is pretty special, even in the rain.’
‘We like to think so,’ I say, delighted that we finally have a visitor and fascinated by the change in him since he saw the Cornish scenery in its full glory.
Mr Bannen shades his eyes and points upwards. ‘Bloody hell, am I imagining things or is that a patch of blue sky over there?’
I follow his outstretched arm and smile to myself. There’s still a hint of rain in the air, and the breeze is bending the branches of the oak trees in the field, but a sliver of blue has opened up between the billowing grey clouds over the sea.
‘It looks like the weather front is blowing in sooner than was forecast. Things can change very quickly at Kilhallon,’ I say, seeing the place through fresh eyes. The same way I saw it the day I first arrived here at Easter, only this time, it’s with pride and not the shock I felt when I saw the rundown mess it was in then.
‘Wow,’ he says, still shading his eyes as a shaft of sunlight breaks out and the chasm of blue widens. I push my own hood off my head and jingle my keys discreetly. I’d love to stand and appreciate the beauty of Kilhallon but I was in the middle of baking when Mr Bannen arrived. It’s just dawned on me how much I still have to do to get the other cottages, not to mention Demelza’s Cafe, ready for our other visitors.
‘Mr Bannen? Would you like to follow me through the gate to the left and to your cottage?’ I ask, noting the puddles that have formed in the car park and thinking of the guests who’ll be staying under canvas, albeit luxurious canvas, in our new yurts. I saw Cal earlier this morning, heading out in the deluge to check they hadn’t leaked.
Mr Bannen takes the hint and pulls his own keys from the pocket of his Berghaus. ‘Thanks … and please, it’s Kit… Well, Christopher, actually but everyone calls me Kit.’ He takes another lingering look at the view before he climbs into his silver BMW. ‘You know, even in the lashing rain with a howling gale and no licensed premises within spitting distance, I can see why you’d want to escape here.’
CHAPTER TWO (#u66c713b5-a518-5e1e-b239-0f3bffec2a66)
‘All I want for Christmas … is youuuuuu!’
Humming along to Mariah Carey, I do a little jig in front of the Aga in Kilhallon House, waiting for the kitchen timer to ping. A few more minutes should just about do it.
I came straight back to my baking after I’d shown Mr Bannen – sorry, Kit – the basics of Enys Cottage. Enys is our cosiest cottage, perfect for two or, in his case, one – so my first guest tour didn’t take too long. I left him not exactly smiling, but opening a bottle of wine and about to tuck in to the quiche. I’m glad that my boss, Cal, and Polly his PA will be taking over management of the park after Thursday, leaving me to concentrate on my main passion, the cafe and its food, of course.
Cal texted me while I showed Kit to his cottage. He was about to greet a group from Surrey who have rented some of our glamping yurts. If Kit’s journey was anything to go by, they’ll be tired and frazzled too. The field is thick with mud after the storm so I don’t envy him having to meet them, although hopefully this sunshine will lift their mood, not to mention the welcome hamper of treats that awaits them in their yurts.
Once all my mince pies are cooked and cooled, I need to set up some shots that I can upload to my Demelza’s blog and use on social media to promote the seasonal menus. The more bookings we can get for lunches and events, the better. I need to repay Cal’s faith in me, not to mention his investment in my cafe. It was my idea, after all.
A peek outside the kitchen door confirms to me that the weather is definitely warming up again, and there is now more blue in the sky than clouds. A late burst of sunshine is just what we need to attract customers to Demelza’s Cafe; I hope it lasts for our opening day on Thursday, and over the weekend. We might get some last-minute bookings for Cal’s cottages and yurts too.
And after the tough time we’ve both had lately, we’re surely due a run of good luck now, right?
‘All I want for Christmas is youoooooo!’
As Mariah hits an impossibly high note, the kitchen timer finally pings. The moment I open the Aga door, a wave of heat blasts my face, instantly followed by the overwhelming aroma of spices and dried fruit. The pies are a perfect shade of light golden brown, the honeyed blond of a surf dude’s tint. The Viennese biscuit topping was a little time-consuming, if I’m honest, so I’m not sure if I’ll add that to the cafe menu, but they look very pretty and smell gorgeous, so we’ll see. Carefully, because the oven mitts in the kitchen of Kilhallon House have seen some action lately and need replacing, I extricate the pies from the oven, knowing I’m about seven seconds from scorched fingers.
I straighten up, clutching the tray in one hand, while closing the door with the other.
‘Phew, it’s roasting in here.’
A familiar voice behind me makes my pies wobble alarmingly. Just in time, I save them from sliding onto the quarry-tiled floor where my dog, Mitch, looks on hopefully from his bed by the back door.
If I thought Kit was wet, Cal looks like Mitch after he’s had a dip in the sea. Water drips from his coat.
‘How was he, then, this Mr Bannen?’ he asks, peeling off his waxed jacket.
‘Oh, you mean Kit?’
Cal raises an eyebrow. ‘First name terms, already, eh? And Kit? Sounds like a dog’s name … or a hamster’s.’
‘I promise you there’s nothing cute and furry about Mr Bannen, and the Kit is short for Christopher. He was stressed out, tired and pissed off about the cafe not being open, but he seemed happy enough when I showed him into Enys Cottage and gave him some free mince pies.’
‘Funny that he’s on his own for two whole weeks.’ Cal holds up his jacket with a grimace. The rain has seeped down his collar to his T-shirt, leaving a large damp patch over the chest. The grey cotton is plastered across his broad shoulders and pecs, and his nipples are like tight little currants. A taut-yet-melty feeling stirs low in my stomach.
Did I say Cal was my boss and more than a friend? That might have only been part of the truth …
‘What’s up?’ he asks.
The second batch of pies will definitely be burned if I let on to him how turned on I am. ‘Nothing. Just thinking how wet you are, that’s all.’
He glares at me, but even his glares are sexy. ‘It’s not funny.’
‘I think you looking like a drowned rat – or hamster – is very funny.’
With another stern look that turns me into a puddle, he bends down to take off his Hunters. ‘Any more cheek, Ms Jones, and I may have to sack you.’
The mention of cheek makes me think of his gorgeous bottom, not to mention the warmth of his hand on mine. His arse is thrust into the air as he pulls off his wellies, grunting with the effort. I scoop up his jacket from the tiles and add it to the others hanging in the vestibule that separates the reception area from the main Kilhallon House. Cal pops his mud-spattered Hunters in the drip tray by the kitchen door.
‘I wonder if there’s a Mrs Bannen somewhere,’ he says.
‘He didn’t mention one.’
‘No girlfriend or boyfriend? Both?’ His espresso-coloured eyes hold a hint of mischief.
‘He did say “everyone calls me Kit” so he must have some friends and family. He definitely didn’t want to talk about his work though, so I think he’s had a stressful time in London.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Cal says, standing on the tiles in his woolly hiking socks with a grimace on his tanned face. Even the sight of those rugged socks are turning me on which must mean I’ve got it very bad. At least he doesn’t know quite how bad. Cal and I have been rubbing along in this relationship for the past few weeks. It’s as rocky and twisty-turny as the coastal path, and as uncertain as the weather in our part of the county. One day there are storms between us, the next clear blue skies – and sometimes four seasons in one day. There’s no formal arrangement between us and I have no intention of moving into Kilhallon House itself, but while Polly is away, we sneak nights together in his bed.
You see, Cal may be more than a boss but he’s also not entirely mine. Not that he’s actually sleeping with anyone else, but only part of him belongs to me. His socks, perhaps … if I’m lucky. You see, I still suspect his heart lies with his ex, even though he said that I’d made a mark on him and he begged me to stay just a few weeks ago.
My stomach clenches at the reminder of how new and fragile our relationship is. I remind myself not to start getting any stupid ideas about Cal that involve hearts and flowers, let alone love and marriage.
‘How were the group who’ve rented the yurts?’ I ask him, refocusing on the business at hand, not his sexy socks or his top-notch arse. ‘I was wondering how you’d got on with them. How horrible for them that they travelled here in this crap weather.’
‘They weren’t quite as easily pacified as your mate “Kit”. In fact, judging by their faces and the fact the kids were crying and begging Mummy to take them “to a proper house with real walls”, I’m not sure they’re entirely happy. I’ve had to leave them to settle in, and at least the weather’s improving, they should cheer up soon.’
He lifts up his foot. ‘Damn it, my socks are soaked. I think my boxers might be wet too.’
The heat from the Aga curls around us and steam rises from Cal’s damp T-shirt.
I can’t hide my giggle. ‘You look like Mitch after he’s jumped in a rock pool. You’d better get changed while I make a hot coffee, then you can tell me all about the yurt people.’
‘And you can tell me more about your mate Kit.’
‘He’s not my mate.’
I can’t see Cal’s face as he heads out of the kitchen but I can picture that self-satisfied grin of pleasure at winding me up. At least he cares that Kit might have chatted me up, even if all Kit was really interested in was getting some alcohol and calories down his neck as fast as possible.
Ten minutes later, the tinny intro to ‘Last Christmas’ tinkles through the kitchen. Cal leans against the door frame, drying his hair on a towel. Thank goodness he decided to put a T-shirt on. He frowns. ‘What are you doing? And why the crappy music?’
‘The crappy music you’re referring to, though that’s open to debate, is my Christmas cafe mix and I’m getting into the festive spirit.’
His gaze travels slowly and deliberately from my toes, past my skinny jeans and Kilhallon Park T-shirt to my face.
‘In an elf apron and a Santa hat?’
I plant my hands on my hips. ‘Are you complaining?’
‘Not at all,’ he says, with the lop-sided smile that never ceases to make my insides tingle. His voice is as rich and delicious as the spices in my mincemeat, though I’d rather die than tell him either of those things, of course.
‘You can give me a hand with these,’ I say, nodding to the cooling rack on top of the Aga and handing him a tray from the oven. While Cal transfers the mince pies from the tin to the rack, I rescue the second and final batch from the oven.
‘Is that the last batch?’ Cal asks, dumping the empty pie tins in the Belfast sink.
‘Yes, thanks.’ While I untie the strings of my apron and hang it on the back of the door that leads into the hallway, I know Cal’s eyes will be fixed on my rear, which is a delicious thought although it makes me self-conscious. By the time I turn back to him, however, he’s holding up a cake net and sniffing the plate of crumble-topped pies that was under it.
‘You’ve been busy. It smells great in here.’
‘I’ve been trying out some recipes for the cafe in between checking in the guests. You know we’re going to do most of our own baking, but we’ll have to buy in some of it from outside. Sheila’s going to provide the pasties and the St Trenyan bakery will help with the bread. There’s a young food blogger near St Just who’s going to help out too, when we’re really busy.’
‘What about this lot? Do I get to try some?’ His hand snakes towards the cooling rack. I bat it away. ‘I’m not complaining, but isn’t it a bit early for mince pies?’
‘That’s what Kit said, but these are for work, not pleasure. I’m going to take some shots for our social media pages. Twitter, Instagram and the blog, you know? Maybe make some promotional memes on Canva and I must upload the pics to Pinterest. Have you forgotten that Demelza’s opens the day after tomorrow? I’ve been trialling some seasonal bakes and we need to get people in the mood for booking festive breaks.’
‘I hear you about the cafe, but Pinterest? Canvamemes? I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes, you do. You just pretend you don’t so you don’t have to spend hours on the Internet.’
He sneaks a pie and bites into it. ‘Fu … ow! Thasstillverhot.’ He pants and dances the other half of the stolen pie from one palm to the other. Crumbs scatter onto the tiles.
‘Serves you right. You couldn’t wait, could you?’
He winks. ‘You know me so well.’
Correction, I think, I know him better. Since I started working at Kilhallon at Easter, I’ve come to realise that no one knows Cal well, not even the people who’ve grown up with him in the little Cornish village of St Trenyan. I don’t think his own family know him completely. Which makes me a total novice in the ways of Cal Penwith, apart from the ways in which I now know him intimately, of course.
Cal blows on the other half of the pie and finishes it in a couple of bites while I cover the rest of them with a clean tea towel and switch on the kettle. After baking all morning, and checking in Kit, I’m more than happy to take a break with Cal while I have the chance. Once the cafe is open and our other guests start arriving over the next few days, I doubt if we’ll have a moment to breathe, let alone share a mince pie and coffee.
‘Want a coffee and another sample?’
‘Thanks, but I’ll make the coffee.’
He scrapes his chair back and fills the kettle while I clean up the table. The oak surface is dusted with flour and scraps of pastry plus the debris of my baking: a beige pastry bowl, old-fashioned scales, a floury wooden rolling pin and old-fashioned pastry cutters in the shape of stars and hearts. I rescued them all from various corners of the farmhouse kitchen and outbuildings when we cleared out decades of junk while we were refurbishing Kilhallon Park over the summer. Cal’s family hadn’t thrown anything away for fifty years, judging by the junk that was piled high in the old barn and workshop and offices.
I hand Cal a flowery china plate with a crumble-topped tart on it. It just happens to have a heart-shaped crust.
He pushes away the Kilner jar of mincemeat to make room for the plate. ‘My, this is posh.’
‘It was one of your mum’s, I think. I found the service in the back of the dresser in the sitting room.’
‘Yes, I remember it … it was a wedding present from Uncle Rory and Auntie Fiona, but Mum never wanted to use it. I think it’s called Old Country Roses. Dad put it away after she died. He said it might get broken, but I think the real reason was because he couldn’t bear to be reminded of her.’ Cal brushes his finger over the gold rim. ‘Probably felt guilty,’ he adds.
Cal’s father died a couple of years ago, and his mum passed away when he was still a teenager. His parents’ marriage was a troubled one. His father worshipped his mum but still had a string of affairs. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why Cal’s own love life has been stormy too. As for losing our mothers when we were young – we have that in common. Mine lost her battle with cancer when I was a teenager and I haven’t seen my dad and brother for ages, but that’s by choice. I ran away from home when I was eighteen. Some people might say that’s why we’re drawn to each other, Cal and I: we share a bond; troubled childhoods, less than ideal family lives.
He pulls me into his arms for a long, warm snog that makes me tingle from head to toe. Phew, it’s not only the Aga that’s making it so hot in here.
‘The pies pass the test then?’ I say when I can finally breathe again. ‘The mincemeat is homemade from my Nana Demelza’s recipe, but I added a local fruit cider for a Cornish twist.’
He licks his lips. ‘Mmm. Cider mincemeat. Nice. They’re delicious, but I may have a burnt tongue.’
I roll my eyes. ‘As if I care.’
‘You know you do.’ With another wicked smile, Cal kisses me again. Tiny flakes of pastry cling to his lips. His mouth is still warm from the pie and tastes sweet and buttery. If I don’t push him away now, we might end up in bed in the middle of the day and I have way too much to do.
With the greatest reluctance, I end the kiss, but Cal keeps his hands around my waist and they feel as if they belong there – have always belonged there – which is a dangerous thought. Cal belongs to no woman or man.
‘Cal, I have so much to do. As well as the cafe stuff, the other guests will be here on Friday afternoon and the other two cottages still aren’t ready. With Polly away, we need to dress the beds and finish hanging the curtains in the bedroom of Warleggan and I still need to do extra shopping for the welcome hamper.’
‘I’ll help you with the curtains and Polly will be back from her daughter’s tomorrow to lend us a hand. So now you have no excuse not to get naked with me.’
‘Naked? What if one of the guests turns up in reception and finds us in bed in the middle of the afternoon?’ I say, picturing Kit Bannen dinging the bell and being answered by creaking floorboards and a When Harry Met Sally re-enactment.
Cal waggles his eyebrows. ‘Who mentioned bed? I was thinking of taking you in the kitchen.’
‘You can’t!’ But even the mention of bed and taking me in the kitchen is driving me insane. My body zings with a peppery lust that’s both sharp and delicious. He blows softly in the v-neck of my T-shirt, cooling the hot skin of my cleavage, but heating up every other part of me.
‘I have to face the yurt family as soon as we’re finished. Come on, this may be our last chance for a while …’ Cal says.
Now, this, I cannot deny.
‘Not for long, then …’
He runs his palm over my bare thigh. ‘Oh, don’t worry, the way you’re making me feel, it won’t take long … but would you mind very much if we do it without the Santa hat?’
CHAPTER THREE (#u66c713b5-a518-5e1e-b239-0f3bffec2a66)
On Wednesday morning I skip down the farmhouse stairs after taking a shower in the bathroom of Kilhallon House. Polly arrives later today so I stayed over at the farmhouse last night while I had the chance. Cal lives in the main house, but, of course, I have my own little cottage across the yard. It’s tiny and the décor’s straight from the seventies: a crazy mix of clashing florals, but I love having my independence.
My place is one of a row of old farm buildings that was converted for the staff that used to work at the original caravan site in the seventies. We’re converting two of the others into low-cost guest accommodation because Cal wanted to offer something at Kilhallon to suit all budgets, not only catering for people with more cash to spend on their holidays. For those who can afford luxury, there are also four larger ‘premium’ cottages on the estate that have been renovated over the summer ready for our first guests – one of which is occupied by Kit.
When I walk into the kitchen, Cal is scrolling through his phone. His hair is still damp from the shower and he’s pulled on a crumpled but clean blue long-sleeved T-shirt and cargo pants. Bare footed, he pads over the tiles and pours a glass of water from the tap. Mitch wanders into the kitchen from the yard too and also heads straight for his water bowl, slurping noisily and splashing droplets over the tiles.
The morning sun streams in through the open door. It’s warmer in here than yesterday, or perhaps I’m glowing after my night-time ‘exercise’. Cal puts down his glass of water and kisses me. The scent of his woody body spray fills my senses, but Cal pulls a regretful face. ‘Sorry I have to leave you, but I need to go down to the yurt field to make sure our guests haven’t decided to leave after the overnight showers. How about dinner here at the house tonight? There’s a nice bottle of Cornish fizz in the fridge.’
‘That’s a free sample from the vineyard that I was going to put in one of the welcome hampers for the guests. Sorry, but I’ll be way too busy to stop for dinner. The cafe’s opening tomorrow and there’s still stuff to do.’
‘What stuff?’
‘I need to clean the floor because the tiler only finished yesterday and it’s still dusty. Then there’s the blackboard to chalk up with the specials because I won’t have time tomorrow, and there’s still a drinks delivery to put away and I need to email everyone to make sure they’re still going to turn up and that no one’s had cold feet about working for us.’
Cal opens his mouth. ‘Why would—’
‘And the courier dropped off the new cafe uniforms here yesterday and they all need ironing. And I still haven’t written a blog post about opening day or scheduled my tweets and I’ll have to upload some photos to Instagram and I need to email the ad department at CornishLifestyle to say we do want to be in their pre-Christmas dining feature because the copy deadline was last night and I’m already late.’
Cal holds up both hands. ‘Whoa.’
‘So I can’t have dinner with you this evening no matter how much I’d love to.’
He puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘I’ve worked that much out for myself. Tell you what, why don’t we take a picnic down to the cafe and I’ll help you get ready.’
‘You’ll write the ad copy and upload my photos?’
‘No, but I’ll clean the floor, put away the drinks order and iron the aprons.’
‘You do ironing?’
He tuts. ‘That’s sexist, Ms Jones. I can iron. I did work in a warzone for several years, you know.’
‘Yes, but I don’t expect there was much call for ironing in the desert, was there?’
He smiles. ‘Not often, no. Either way, we’re in this together. I’ll deal with the yurt people and clean the washroom block.’
I pull a face, glad this isn’t my job.
‘And then I’ll meet you at the cafe.’
By late afternoon, the sun is sinking and the horizon is tinged with orange and pink. The lights are on in Demelza’s, highlighting the sparkling clean floor as Cal hangs the last of the freshly pressed Demelza’s aprons on a peg in the staff room.
All our perishables and groceries are stored in the correct places and the new steel kitchen gleams so brightly you can see your face in the surfaces. I’ve double checked the fresh and chilled stores and chalked up the specials on the blackboard. In the end, Cal helped me write some copy for an ad and he’s now sending a ‘friendly’ mass text to make sure the staff are OK and ready for tomorrow.
Throughout the day, I’ve been working on my blog and scheduling some posts for social media. I suspect that it’s going to take all my ‘days off’ when the cafe is closed to get through the admin and marketing.
Cal scrolls through his phone where he keeps an app to keep track of the park bookings. ‘Great. We’ve just had an Internet booking for Poldark Cottage and had an enquiry about two of the yurts from a family who want to celebrate a fortieth birthday party here next weekend. I’ll have to tell the large party that they can have the yurts at the far end of the copse, away from the other two. We don’t want complaints when we’ve promised people peace and tranquillity, but we don’t want to lose a big booking like this.’
‘Oh. If it’s a party, they might want catering provided too.’
‘I’m sure they will, but don’t take too much on yet. You’ve got enough to do with the cafe opening tomorrow. I don’t want the cafe manager having a meltdown in the middle of us launching the empire, do I?’
‘You’re all heart,’ I say, but I know he means it and I must admit, I’ve been feeling knackered lately, even though I’m ‘living the dream’ right now. I’ve come so far from the day I lost my job and my home and ended up sleeping in the doorway of a fish and chip shop in St Trenyan.
Mitch woofs a hello from the corner. He seems totally at home in the cafe, which is great. Canine comfort is one of our USPs. Demelza’s is even going to have a special doggy treats menu for all the four-legged guests who will stay at the park and take their owners on a walk along the coastal path that runs past the cafe.
Cal crouches down to stroke Mitch’s ears. Mitch turns his head this way and that, closing his eyes in pleasure at Cal’s touch. Did I say Mitch was my dog? Even though he’s faithful to me and has stuck with me through a tough couple of years, he’s rapidly becoming our dog: mine and Cal’s dog, even Polly’s dog at times, though she pretends she doesn’t like animals at all, apart from her hens. I caught her sneaking him a treat from the jar when she thought I wasn’t looking, and she let him sit next to her on the sofa while she was watching Countryfile on iPlayer the night before she went to visit her daughter.
Mitch and I, we’ve become as much a part of Kilhallon as the stone house, or the holiday cottages or the cafe.
‘How are the opening-day plans going? Is there anything else I can do to help?’ Cal says.
‘I’m sure there’ll be tons tomorrow. We’ll be chasing our own tails,’ I reply, and Mitch wags his as if he can understand me. ‘I’ve tried to think of everything but there are bound to be hitches and teething problems until we’ve actually served some real customers.’
‘Let’s hope the weather keeps improving so we have lots of people out on the coastal path. The walking festival run by the tourist board should help,’ Cal says.
‘I hope that dog-friendly cafe-trail website and leaflet I signed up to pays off. It’s hard knowing what marketing is worth spending my precious budget on. I’m bombarded with sales people and emails wanting me to part with cash all the time. I guess we’re going to make mistakes along the way. Although I’ve worked in a few cafes now and done so much research and talked to other owners, I still have so much to learn.’
‘Will Eva Spero be coming?’ Cal pops the leftover crust of a cheese and bacon pasty in his mouth. We ate them cold with pickles and salad, washed down with cider.
‘I don’t know. She’s still a bit miffed with me for turning down her job offer, although she said we can work together on the homemade dog treats book and possibly launch them into the market. I’ve had to put it on hold for now, until I’ve got Demelza’s up and running.’ I shrug off a pang of regret about turning down Eva Spero’s offer of a job at her restaurant in Brighton. It was my decision, even though Cal also wanted me to stay here at Kilhallon and run Demelza’s. Then, of course, there’s the small matter of my being in love with him …
Cal pulls me into his arms and for a few moments I enjoy the warmth and comfort of his gorgeous body against mine. I can’t believe how far I’ve come. The project I’ve started overwhelms me sometimes and I have the urge to run away instead of facing down the great big wave that’s rushing towards me, faster and faster.
‘I’d better get some work done,’ I say, escaping his embrace before I’m lost again. ‘Then I really do need an early night.’
He folds his arms, a gesture that only shows off his magnificent guns, honed by all the outdoor work and labour he’s put in on the renovation of the park since he returned from working in a refugee camp in the Middle East. ‘Of course,’ he says with the kind of serious face that’s even sexier than his smile. Despite all my resolve, I know an early night will mean going to bed with him.
Cal scratches Mitch’s belly. ‘If the cottages let, they let, and if they don’t, then we mustn’t panic. Same with the customers for the cafe. It’s going to take time to build up our custom and reputation … and it might be better not to have full occupancy to start with while we learn the ropes.’
I turn away to find the keys, ready to lock up.
‘By the way, I meant to tell you, Isla called me earlier,’ he says.
At the mention of this name, my stomach tightens. ‘Did she?’
‘She’s coming down here from London in a couple of weeks’ time.’
Mitch snickers and yips like Scooby Doo on Red Bull as Cal fusses him. My stomach ties itself in even tighter knots. I knew it had to come sometime. I knew that she’d be back, but I haven’t heard Cal talk about his ex-girlfriend and childhood sweetheart since she left Cornwall a few weeks ago. Even though Isla has been kind to me in the past, part of me hoped she might not come back at all.
I keep my voice casual. ‘Does she still want to use Kilhallon for the film shoot?’
Cal glances up at me. Is that relief on his face that I haven’t reacted to his news, or have I imagined it?
‘Yes. She wants to use the ruined tin mine as a backdrop, and possibly the exterior of the cafe for the filming. Isla says that the far, gabled end could still double up as a farm barn for some of the scenes. She said that Bonnie and Clyde will also want to come and visit to discuss their hand-fasting arrangements at some point.’
These are codenames we’re all using for the very famous and very actor friends of Isla’s. Did I mention she’s a film producer? A stunning, blonde, award-winning film producer with some seriously A-list mates. Two of her friends plan on holding their wedding celebrations at Kilhallon next year, although the engagement is secret for now.
‘Why did Polly call them Bonnie and Clyde – who are Bonnie and Clyde?’ I ask Cal.
‘They were gangster lovers so I think the nicknames are Polly’s little joke. I don’t think she approves of hand fasting. What the hell is a hand fasting, anyway? Sounds like a cross between a DIY skill and an obscene practice. If it is rude, even I’ve never heard of it.’
Cal succeeds in making me laugh out loud even though the thought of catering for a celebrity wedding makes me nervous.
‘So you’re cool with Isla and her crew descending?’ Cal adds, laughing as Mitch moans in delight under his expert belly rubs. How, I ask myself, did my faithful hound turn into such a tart?
‘Sounds great,’ I say, trying to make myself feel as enthusiastic as I sound. The publicity that would come from a film being made here is exactly what we need for the resort and my cafe. In fact it’s priceless and I should be welcoming Isla and her crew with open arms. ‘We should have any teething problems ironed out by the time they get here.’
Cal gives Mitch’s tum a final tickle then straightens up. ‘Isla said she didn’t want to disrupt business any more than was strictly necessary. She asked me if you’d email her or call to arrange the best time for her visit. It’s better if you two liaise together rather than me passing on messages. I’d probably get it wrong anyway and then I’d be in trouble with both of you.’
‘True. Who knows what havoc you’d create if we left the arrangements to you.’ My smile makes my jaw ache, along with my heart and conscience, but I can see that Cal’s pleasure at my apparent approval is genuine. Even though Isla has made it clear she’s no longer interested in Cal beyond ‘friendship’, I’m not convinced. Cal has been honest enough to admit he couldn’t simply ‘unlove’ Isla.
And if I’m honest, I never expected him to.
He knows I really like him and the sex is amazing, but does he have any inkling that I’m crazy in love with him? I don’t think it would be a great idea for him to find out.
‘Demi?’ Cal touches my arm. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine. It’s been a long day and there’s an even bigger one coming tomorrow.’
I’m already thinking of throwing caution to the wind and dragging him off to bed when Cal says, ‘Are you really too tired for some therapy?’
‘Perhaps you’re right. It might do me good.’
His face lights up and we lock up the cafe, and Mitch scampers ahead on our way back to the house. He doesn’t have a care in the world and I envy him his simple doggy life sometimes.
I don’t want to be part of a love triangle, because someone always gets the sharp end. Isla and her fiancé, Luke – who was Cal’s best mate years ago – have moved to London from Cornwall, to ‘make a fresh start’. Apparently, Isla suspected that Luke was having an affair with a local ‘property developer’ called Mawgan Cade. I wouldn’t put anything past Mawgan, but I can’t see why Luke would jeopardise his relationship with Isla for a woman like Mawgan. But what do I know? Mawgan is manipulative and would sell her granny if it achieved her aims. Plus, Luke’s a weak and selfish character if you ask me; and Isla deserves better. As long as ‘better’ doesn’t turn out to be Cal again.
He hugs me and his chest is warm and firm against my body. If I let my guard down too far, I could easily start thinking how wonderful it would be to spend the rest of my life at Kilhallon with Cal. It’s an idyllic place that sucks you in, just like Cal draws people to him. Just like the wreckers who used to shine their lights to lure people onto the rocks in storms. Except that was a myth. I need to get real and, reluctantly, I slide out of his embrace.
‘Do you think we can cope?’ I say.
‘Of course I think we can cope. We’ve come a long way – both of us – and everything will be OK. Wasn’t that what you were always telling me when we started work on the place? When we were refused planning permission and the appeal failed because of the Cades’ opposition? When I ripped my hands open demolishing the walls? When the tree fell through the farmhouse window? When you almost walked out on me to work for Eva Spero in Brighton?’
‘Maybe I should have,’ I joke, thinking of how close I came to quitting and heading off to Brighton before the place had even opened. ‘This is a massive thing for me, Cal. It’s very exciting, but I’m also terrified.’
He slides his hand under my hair, lifting it from my neck, caressing my skin. His palm is rough from the work he’s been doing, yet the effect is like being stroked with warm velvet.
‘Shh,’ he says in that gentle, half-amused voice that turns me on and irritates me at the same time. ‘It’s OK to be nervous, but the important thing is that you stick with me. That’s what we’re going to carry on doing: sticking together.
Even as I close my eyes and abandon myself to his touch and soothing words, there’s a part of me holding back. A part that can’t forget the Cal who left a trail of broken hearts when he went away to the Middle East. The teenage Cal breezing his way through the girls of St Trenyan: Isla, even Mawgan Cade. Even his father was sleeping with half the women from here to Truro, if you believe the rumours. My friend Tamsin warned me about him and even Mawgan said he’d break my heart. She may be right about that one.
‘I promise you Kilhallon will succeed and Demelza’s will be open for business as scheduled, and nothing’s going to stop us.’ Cal pours soothing words into my ear. ‘Now come to bed before I explode.’
Me too, I think. Mitch settles down in his bed in the farmhouse kitchen. Cal takes my hand and leads me, trembling, up to his room again. He’s right, of course, I mustn’t expect too much of the business; but even more importantly, I mustn’t expect anything at all from him.
CHAPTER FOUR (#u66c713b5-a518-5e1e-b239-0f3bffec2a66)
Coffee machine: on.
Air conditioning: on.
Ovens: on.
Sunshine: off, for now, but judging by the pale-blue patches peeking through the clouds, it’s clearing up, which is just what we want to tempt customers out onto the coastal path and into the cafe for our opening day.
I repeat the words again, because I don’t believe them: It’s opening day at Demelza’s. Opening day at my cafe. Six months ago I had no job, no home and no prospects and now look at me: manager of my own tiny empire.
Nina shouts from the side door. ‘Demi! Demi! Come quick. Mitch has done something terrible!’
I run after her to the rear of the cafe, picturing Mitch with his teeth sunk into a toddler. The white fishmonger’s van is parked outside. Harry, the driver, is cursing and shaking his fist at Mitch, who’s chomping his way through a pack of fish from a safe distance.
‘There goes your smoked mackerel order,’ Harry says. ‘Only turned away for a minute to get the shellfish out of the van for Nina and the crafty hound had the polystyrene off the packs and was wolfing them down.’
Plastic wrappers and polystyrene snow litter the grass. Mitch licks his chops and looks up at us as if to say, ‘You have a problem?’
‘I tried to grab them off him but he was too quick for me,’ Nina wails. ‘I’m sorry, Demi. Shall I tell everyone that the Fisherman’s Lunch is off? We’ve got bit of smoked salmon, but that won’t last long.’
‘Leave it on until we run out of the salmon, then tell everyone we’ve sold out. I don’t want to take something off the menu on our first day.’
I glare at Mitch, though, from the way Nina shouted, I’m relieved that his antics are nothing worse. ‘Mitch, you’re in trouble when I get hold of you. You can forget coming anywhere near my bed tonight. Your breath will stink for a week!’
Harry carries the rest of the order into the back of the cafe. We can’t afford to waste expensive food, but I guess if Mitch guzzling the mackerel is the worst thing that happens on opening day, we’ll be doing OK. With my nostrils closed, I tether Mitch in the shade by the back door with a bowl of water and his rope chew. I’ll ask Robyn to take him when she turns up. I go back inside the cafe with a smile that says I’m cool about ‘little mishaps’ like losing a small fortune’s worth of smoked mackerel.
The team is buzzing about in the cafe, servery and kitchen, preparing for our first day. My breath catches at the sight that greets me. They all look super smart in their teal-blue Demelza’s Cafe aprons – and Jez the chef, who’s in whites. His charcoal-coloured ponytail dangles from the back of his teal chef’s cap. He’s pushing forty, but still a lean, mean type who lives to surf. He also happens to be a very good chef. We were lucky to get him, but the part-time hours enable him to make the most of the gnarly surfing conditions and quiet beaches during the autumn and winter.
Nina’s back behind the server, checking the operation of the till for the umpteenth time. I met her when we both worked as waitresses at a ball earlier this year. She’s the same age as me and helps her mum run a kennels and dog rescue centre over the moor from Kilhallon. With all the dog walking and her triathlon training, she’s super fit. Her spiky orange hair reminds me of a pixie.
Shamia, currently filling the condiment area, is my order taker. She’s wearing a teal-blue headscarf to match her apron. She looks the most confident of anyone, to be honest. She’s a former dinner lady and now a food blogger. She will be lending us a hand on weekdays while her little boy goes to nursery school, and at the weekends when her husband can babysit.
My official title is Cafe Manager, but I’m also the general dogsbody, greeting people, clearing tables and helping out on the counter. I love the baking and cooking, but I’ve had to leave most of the hot food prep to Jez.
There’s only one person missing.
Just as I think Robyn Penwith, Cal’s cousin, has cold feet about helping us, there’s a rap on the glass door of the cafe. My shoulders slump in relief and I unlock the door. She’s in jodhpurs and riding boots.
‘Um. Sorry, I’m late. I had to call at Bosinney on my way here and tack up Ruby, then settle her in Kilhallon House stables.’
‘It’s fine. You’re here now,’ I say as we exchange a hug. Robyn’s clothes smell faintly of horse, but that’s fine. She keeps her mare at her dad’s house even though she lives with her girlfriend, Andi, now. Andi’s cool apart from the small matter of her sister being Mawgan Cade.
Cal has placed two advertising boards outside where the path skirts our land to catch walkers coming in both directions – from the far west and from St Trenyan in the east. You can see the cafe building and Kilhallon Farm from miles away too, thanks to the undulating path. Robyn’s been drafted in to hand out flyers and free samples of ginger fairing biscuits on the path today and at the weekend.
The doughy, fruity scents of croissants, pains-au-chocolat and cinnamon swirls start to fill the air as the ovens heat up the first batch of baked goods. I clap my hands. ‘OK, now we’re all here, can we have a quick coffee and a chat, please? I won’t keep you long. Why don’t we all have one of these lime shortbreads, because it’s going to be difficult to grab a break later.’
‘Yes, boss!’ voices chorus from the four corners.
We all gather for a very quick coffee – instant – and homemade lime shortbread around the large refectory table on one side of the cafe floor. Huddled in her padded riding gilet, even though it’s warm in here, Robyn is nibbling her purple nails. Nina is trembling like a newborn pup. Shamia cradles her mug casually. Jez seems cool enough with it all – but he’s experienced and, to be honest, I think he’d be chilled even if the place was on fire.
Our voices echo off the beams that support the high ceiling. The stone building is at least two hundred years old, and it was a storage barn until I persuaded Cal to let me convert it. It’s a cool morning so we’ve made the cafe a little too warm for our comfort, but there’s nothing worse for the customers than a cold welcome and the door’s going to be open a lot, fingers crossed. Most people will arrive in layers and we want them to feel they can take them off, not be desperate to keep them on.
Nestling my own mug in both hands to stop them from shaking, I throw out an encouraging smile to my team.
‘So, here we are. D-Day, which stands for Demelza’s Day. Thanks to everyone for not running off and for turning up on time.’
They laugh dutifully, even Jez manages a smile. Robyn glances down guiltily.
‘It’s our first day and I’m not expecting that everything will run perfectly or to plan but as long as we get things 99.9 per cent right, I won’t have to sack anyone.’
More laughter and an eye roll from Jez.
‘You think I’m joking?’
Nina’s mouth opens in horror and, for a moment, I wonder if she actually will run off and never come back.
I pat her arm, feeling way too young to be leading a team of staff, but if I don’t put on a show of confidence, what hope do we have? ‘It’s fine, hun. I really am joking. We’re all on a learning curve, apart from Jez, I guess.’
His mouth twitches, amused. Without him on side, we’d be done for.
‘We’re all here to help you. You’ll be an old hand by the end of the day,’ I reassure her.
She brightens.
‘Now, as you all know, it’s the first day of the West Cornwall Walking Festival, which is partly why we chose to open today. We’re expecting even more ramblers than usual and a lot of dogs. I’ve put up a sign explaining everything but if anyone asks, the first three tables by the door are dog-friendly and, of course, the terrace.
‘Most people will probably want to sit outside if the weather stays dry, and the dog owners are sure to prefer to be out there while it’s fine. By the way, you’ll find extra water bowls and doggy menus in the storeroom, if anyone needs them. If there’s any canine aggro, or human aggro for that matter, call me immediately. Robyn, Mitch, and Nina’s mum, plus a few of her rescue dogs, will be stationed on the coast path throughout the day to lure people in to the cafe.’
‘I’ve put the collecting tin for the dog rescue centre next to the till,’ Shamia says.
‘Great, thanks. Can someone please pin a notice about the Christmas bookings on the notice board and arrange some of Cal’s leaflets about weddings at Kilhallon on the window ledges?’
Nina raises her hand. ‘I’ll do that, Demi.’
‘I’ll collect Mitch,’ Robyn pipes up, obviously eager to be out in the fresh air.
‘Thanks, Robyn. OK, I’ve almost finished. You all know your roles and we’ve had plenty of practice and a rehearsal so it should be fine. I trust you all and I know you’ll work your guts out and won’t let me down. So, one more time, let’s hear it.’
Everyone groans, but I hold up my hand, excitement and adrenaline taking over.
‘We are all awesome and Demelza’s rocks!’ they chorus, even Jez, before they dissolve into laughter and Jez rolls his eyes again. It was Nina who originally made up the cheesy mantra for a joke, but now we’ve all latched on to it. I don’t care how crappy it sounds, if it releases the tension, that’s fine by me.
Cal arrives, stooping under the weight of two large crates of veg. ‘Hi there. The delivery guy from the market garden dropped these off at the farmhouse. Where do you want them?’ he says, resting the crates on the table.
‘In the storeroom.’
Cal looks around him. ‘It looks great, Demi. You’ve done a fantastic job.’
‘No, we have. All of us.’
‘It’s your baby and you should be proud.’ His eyes shine. I don’t think I’ve seen him quite so happy since the day he showed me the sign for the cafe and persuaded me to stay here at Kilhallon. For a moment, I’m too choked with emotion to reply, then I remember that the staff are relying on me today.
‘Well, I can’t think of a cafe with a better view for miles. It’s a huge selling point if we can just let people know we’re open,’ I tell Cal, feeling the rising sense of panic that I’ve been subduing for the past few days about to overwhelm me like a great big wave. ‘I hope they come.’
‘I think you might have trouble keeping them away. Look.’
He nods to a man and a woman peering through the glass door, as if we’re animals in the zoo.
My pulse leaps. ‘OK. Our first customers are here. Do you want to let them in?’ I call to Nina.
‘No way. It’s your cafe,’ she says with a broad smile that tells me she’s a lot more calm and collected than I feel.
‘I think you should have the honour,’ says Cal. ‘Demelza.’
With a deep breath, and on slightly wobbly legs, I hurry to the door and open it. The couple, a sprightly pair of pensioners in matching hiking boots and navy fleeces, have big grins on their weather-beaten faces.
‘So you are open. We thought you might be training or something.’
‘No. We’re open. Welcome to Demelza’s Cafe. In fact you’re our first ever customers.’
‘Really? We’re the first?’
‘The very first. Look, you can have your pick of the seats. There are menus on the tables and a specials board above the counter over there.
‘We’d love a nice big pot of tea, Graham?’ the woman says to her partner as they walk into the centre of the room, eyeing the scrubbed oak tables, the oak settles and vintage china.
‘I’d like a latte, I think,’ says Graham, sitting down at the table by the window. ‘What a view. Have you really only just opened?’
‘This very minute. If you’d like to place your order at the counter, you can collect your drinks and we’ll bring any food orders across to you. Have you come far?’
‘We were up at sparrow-fart and traipsed from the cove on the other side of St Trenyan. Linda said it would only take an hour but we’ve already been going nearly two. She always gets the timing way out. Thinks I won’t notice she’s trying to con me into believing it’s only a stroll.’
‘Don’t start, Graham. You’re the one who said we shouldn’t take any notice of the walking app and swore blind you knew a short cut. I’ll never forgive you for making me walk through that field of bullocks.’
‘They won’t do you any harm.’
‘Then why were they following us and giving us funny looks?’
‘You’re safe in the cafe, I can promise that,’ I cut in before we have our first full-blown domestic. ‘We’ve got some amazing homemade cakes today and there’s a brunch special. It’s local bacon, sausages from the farm up the hill and eggs from our own hens here at Kilhallon.’
‘Do you do those bacon and avocado toast combos? Our grandkids love those when we’re visiting them in London and we’re hooked,’ Linda chirps up, much to my amazement.
‘We do have some avocado. In fact it’s on the menu,’ I say, glad I’ve done my research, even though I’m not the greatest fan of this latest fad. Cal pulled an icky face when he tried it out and even Mitch refused to touch his bite-size sample.
‘Not for me. I’m going to have a massive slice of this here figgy obbin. Not had any of that since we used to motor down here in the Cortina with the kids.’ Graham holds up the menu.
‘Well, please join the queue,’ I say, gesturing to Nina, standing alone behind the counter, fidgeting with her hat.
Before Graham’s placed his order, the door opens again and a party of ramblers troops in, sighing with relief at reaching us, debating over which table to choose and asking where the toilets are.
‘Thank goodness you’re open!’ declares a middle-aged woman in a yellow cagoule. ‘I’m gagging for a coffee and a wee. Oh, are those homemade apricot scones? I’ve walked bloody miles this morning so I deserve one of those.’
‘We’ve only done a thousand steps from the car park by the main road,’ her friend whispers, showing me her FitBit.
I usher them to the table by the window and listen to them admiring the view. As part of the renovation of the old barn, the doors on one side have been replaced with a large glass window that gives an amazing view over the Atlantic Ocean. From our window seats and terrace, it almost feels as if you could touch the sea. On a stormy day, if the swell is big enough and the wind in the right direction, we might even have some spray on the windows.
It’s only as I put more menus on the outside tables that I realise Cal has gone and left me in charge, but there’s no time to think or worry. More customers drift in and out, some with dogs, some with babies in carriers, some with walking poles and even one in an all-terrain mobility scooter though goodness knows how he made it along the coast path. Jez is calling orders from the kitchen, Shamia’s dealing with a queue of people at the counter and Nina is racing about clearing tables and serving people as if she’s in a triathlon. In no time, we’re dishing up Cornish goat’s cheese paninis, and pasties, quiche salads and sandwiches to an array of people relaxing, chatting, checking their iPads, and all drinking our teas, coffees, and ciders while they scoff our cakes and savouries.
There’s one moment when I have to stand outside the kitchen door to the rear and take a huge gulp of fresh Kilhallon air and pinch myself.
‘Demi – it’s four o’clock.’ Nina pulls me aside as I fly into the kitchen with more dirty plates.
‘You’re joking?’
‘No. Look.’ She points to the clock on the wall, just above the health and safety notice.
‘What? I thought it was about half-past two.’
‘No. It really is. We’ve stopped taking orders.’ Jez pops his head round the door of the staff cubby hole. His whites have been replaced by board shorts, a hoodie and flip-flops. ‘I’m off shift. Hope you’re pleased with how it went?’
‘Yes. Wow. Thanks so much, Jez. But four o’clock? I can’t believe it. I’ve been so busy clearing tables outside that I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Shall I put the closed sign on the door?’ Nina enquires.
‘Yes, I guess so, but we still have people eating, inside and out. I’ll go and tell everyone we’re shutting soon.’
I feel strangely light-headed as I float into the cafe and inform the few stragglers that we’re now closing. One man grumbles but the other customers seem OK and start to finish their food. Has the day really flown by so fast? Can it be real?
I turn over the closed sign on the door and step outside to clear the final tables when a man sprints onto the terrace.
‘Damn it. I knew I’d be too late!’
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_130e3317-7506-5bdb-a54f-b4b90fe763ff)
Kit Bannen’s face is red and he’s breathing hard. ‘Am I too late? I am too late, aren’t I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Damn!’
I laugh. ‘It’s fine. We’re open again tomorrow.’ It’s only a cafe, I want to add.
‘I wanted to be here on your opening day. I was all set to be a difficult customer.’
I lower my voice. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve already had the customer from hell.’
I throw a wave and a smile at a couple from London who are staying in our cottages. Their toddler, George, had a screaming tantrum lasting half an hour and threw every piece of food they offered him onto the floor. George’s wails of protest pierce the air as his parents attempt to strap him into his luxury all-terrain buggy.
Kit winces and we both laugh.
‘Come in and have some coffee,’I say, reminding myself that he’s a guest and that he was seriously pissed off that the cafe was shut when he checked into Kilhallon. One extra customer won’t matter.
‘I don’t want to get in the way.’
‘It’s OK, as long as you don’t mind the staff clearing up around you.’
He smiles. ‘I’ll make myself useful.’
‘You don’t have to do that. You’re a guest here.’ My smile is fixed on by now. It’s been a long and exciting day and to be honest, all I want to do is clear up and have a debrief with the team then collapse in my cottage.
‘No way. It’s my fault I’m late so I insist on giving you a hand.’
Too tired and frazzled to object further, I cave in. ‘OK, but I warn you, I’m a horrible boss and if you’re so keen, you can help me clear the last of the stuff from the outside tables.’
It’s twenty-past four and a few people had lingered outside, draining their teapots and chatting in the last precious rays of the afternoon sun. However, the clouds are rolling in, so even they start to pack up and leave. Kit helps me gather up the dirty crockery, empty sugar packets and pots of strawberry jam and clotted cream.
‘Looks like you’ve had a busy opening day,’ he says, following me to the bin store at the rear of the kitchens.
‘Yes, the walking festival brought us some good custom and once the sun came out, we had passing trade. Plus George, of course. I need to warn you that he and his mum and dad are staying in Penvenen Cottage. It’s the other end of the row from you, though, so you shouldn’t hear him.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure.’ Kit holds up the bin lid while I throw in the rubbish. ‘If I do, I’ll have to get some ear plugs or turn up my music to full volume.’
I wince. ‘Sorry about George. I’m guessing you came here for some quiet away from the office.’
He glances away from me then throws me a pained smile. ‘Actually, I may have been economical with the truth about working in an office. I tend to take my office with me wherever I go. I’m a writer.’
I resist shouting ‘Yessss’, because I knew he did something creative and arty. Instead I ask politely. ‘Oh, do you write books?’
‘Yes. Thrillers. Correction: a thriller. I haven’t even finished my first yet, though my deadline’s racing up fast.’
‘Sounds exciting. Do you have a pen name?’ I ask him. To be honest, I’m doing most of the clearing up while he talks but I’d much rather it was that way.
‘I will do, I expect. I don’t know for sure because I’ve only just got my first book deal and it’s all new to me. I was a journalist before I became an author and before you ask, it was as an editor for a very dull trade publication about renewable energy. My new thriller is about a woman scientist who finds a way to generate power from water that’s going to change the whole world and do away with the need for fossil fuels. Naturally a lot of countries with less than ideal human rights records aren’t very pleased about that, while others would do anything to get their hands on her research.’
‘That sounds … intriguing,’ I say. ‘I don’t have tons of time to read anything except recipe and business books at the moment, but your book sounds right up Polly’s street. She loves crime and thrillers, the gorier the better. Sometimes I worry she might secretly be plotting to murder us all in our beds.’
Kit’s sea-green eyes glint with humour. ‘I’ve already met Polly earlier today. I popped up to your reception to pick up some leaflets about the local area. She’s certainly an interesting woman. I reckon I could get enough material for a whole series of novels from her tales about the local area, if I wanted to set a book here.’
‘She’s definitely unique,’ I say, surprised that Kit has charmed Polly so fast, and even more surprised that she’s made such an impression on him. Polly is a hard woman to please and can be plain speaking to the point of rudeness, but Kit is a guest so she was obviously being polite.
Kit is silent, thoughtful, for a second or so, toeing a clump of grass with his running shoe. ‘Look, I’m sorry I was such a grumpy sod when I turned up yesterday. You must have thought “miserable git, hope all the guests aren’t going to be like this”.’
‘No … I was thinking poor you, arriving in stinking weather after a terrible journey.’
‘You’re a good fibber, Demi.’ He opens the bin again for me to throw in the final bits of rubbish.
‘No fib. It’s true.’ Or half-true, I think. I was sorry for him, but I also did think he was a miserable git.
‘OK, you’re good at the customer relations, then. I’d never be any good at serving the public. I’d cause any place that I ran to be closed down or I’d be bankrupt within a week. I’m not very good at hiding my feelings, you see. It’s a good job my work requires me to be where people are not.’
‘Isn’t it very exciting, being an author?’
He smiles again, as if I’ve missed a huge point. ‘Most of the time it’s squalid. Spending far too much time in your own company, with the terror of the blank page. You know how it is …’
‘Not really. I tend to have terror of the soggy bottom.’
He does a double take.
‘Of my pies and pasties. If you don’t get the temperature right.’
‘Ah.’ He laughs politely at my lame joke. ‘You do have a proper job, however, whereas I make up stories for a living. Or not, at the moment. I’ve been struggling with my plot lately. And my characters. And the actual words.’ He grimaces but in a charming way, a tiny bit like Cal. He really is handsome when he smiles, though nothing like as handsome as Cal, and of course Kit is blond, whereas Cal has dark, brooding good looks. I guess blonds can be brooding too. I snap out of my thoughts as Kit goes on.
‘You must have thought I’d come here to get away from work, but the reason I was so tetchy was because I’ve come here to work. Normally, I tend to avoid telling people I’m a writer because they ask all sorts of awkward questions. Some people think having a book published is like winning the lottery: just an unexpected lucky windfall you landed on top of your regular job, but you know yourself that any degree of success takes a lot of hard work,’ he says with a nod at the cafe.
‘That’s true. I imagine some people think that running a cosy little tea room would be a great way of escaping a real job too. I’ve worked in catering before so I had an idea of what was involved, but it’s a completely different ballgame being responsible for the cafe rather than simply serving customers.’
He nods and pauses, looking awkward. ‘Sorry I was grumpy when I arrived. I promise to behave from now on.’
‘It’s fine. I know how to handle tricky customers.’
‘Yes, I’ve experienced your people skills first hand. You were very good at calming me down. In fact, you’re very good at all of this.’
He waves a hand at the cafe and the park. I feel myself blushing. I’m not used to the flattery, and not sure I like it that much.
‘I think that will do for out here. Let’s go back inside,’ I say.
Kit follows me in. Shamia is wiping down the last few tables inside the cafe while Nina washes up the items that can’t or didn’t fit into the dishwasher. Without the spurts and gurgles of the coffee machine and the buzz of customers, it seems quiet. The dishwasher hums softly and there’s the odd thunk and clink of pots being washed as a backdrop. Jez has gone so the girls chat to each other about some of the stranger requests and comments we’ve had today. Robyn offers to check the online review sites. I think she cajoled her student friends into writing a few. I’m not sure I can face reading them, but I know I have to, to get some feedback and politely respond to any negative comments.
That thought makes me feel faintly sick. I remember Sheila ranting when she steeled herself for her weekly reviewers’ ordeal. That pleasure’s now all mine. Suddenly, I feel like a wrung-out dishcloth, but there’s still work to do. Closing the door on the customers is only the start of the end of our day.
‘I need to mop the floor,’ I say, feeling as if I don’t even have the energy to lick an envelope.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but you do look like you need a break,’ Kit says.
‘I don’t have time.’
‘Yes, you do. Do as he says.’ Nina pulls back a chair from the table.
‘She hasn’t stopped all day and hasn’t eaten anything,’ Shamia tuts.
‘I had that broken fairing at lunchtime.’
Kit smiles. ‘Not enough to keep a flea alive. I think you should do what your staff say, boss.’
‘But the floor needs a mop. I can’t sit around while the team are working.’
‘Chill. We’ll manage to clean the floor round you both. Now, sit down! We’re going to bring you a nice apple and elderflower presse and there’s one slice of bacon and tomato quiche left.’ Nina turns to Kit, every inch the seasoned professional. She’s blossomed in just one day. ‘And what can we get you, sir?’
‘I’ll have a cider, please, and thanks for the offer of food but I already ate in St Trenyan. My research trip took longer than I’d expected.’
‘Not even an apricot scone?’
Kit pauses then says. ‘Oh, go on then. I can’t resist.’
Delighted to have persuaded him, Nina scuttles off to the kitchen. The moment my bum makes contact with the seat, I realise how knackered and weak I feel. I haven’t eaten or drunk much and I’ve been running on adrenaline and excitement since six o’clock this morning.
It’s weird to sit in the cafe with the staff working around me, chatting to a guest about how I started the cafe business and Kilhallon, but this is my life now: it’s begun to sink in that I’m in charge and living my dream, even if that dream is harder work than I ever imagined. Slowly, the tension ebbs from my body and in between devouring the quiche and the slice of figgy obbin that Nina brings me for dessert, I finally begin to relax and realise that for today, at least, it’s job done.
‘This is a stunning location,’ Kit says, accepting his scone from Nina with a dazzling smile that brings pink to her cheeks. ‘I can see why you and Cal fought so hard to keep it going.’
His remark catches me off guard. It seems a bit funny that he’s talking about Cal as if he knows us already but I suppose Polly’s been gossiping to him and we should make the guests feel like old friends.
‘You wouldn’t believe the difference between the park today and when Cal first showed me round at Easter. The location itself is fantastic. The views are incredible, even when you’ve lived round here all your life, you realise that. The moment I saw the barn that was here, I knew it would make a great cafe.’
‘I chose this place because it had last-minute availability and it was good value, thanks to your opening offers. It also seemed to be out of the way of distractions, apart from the Internet, that is. Sadly, I need that to keep in touch with my agent and editor and I still do a bit of freelance work for my old trade publication.’
‘I knew you must do something creative, even though you said it was boring admin. I thought you’d had enough of work and didn’t want to talk about it.’
‘Yes, and no.’ He grins. ‘Talking of which, I was going to ask you a favour.’
‘Ask away,’ I say, suddenly wondering – I don’t know why – if he’s going to ask me out for a drink or something. No, that would be silly. He would never do that here with everyone around and he’s not here for long and he must have guessed I’m ‘with’ Cal – except I’m not, in any formal sense. We’re not living together or even acting like a couple in public. Which I’m fine with, I remind myself.
‘Miraculously, I’ve managed to get on with my novel pretty well so far this week and I put that down to the peace and tranquillity here. People can hardly drop in and ask me for a pint or to help them fix their bikes. The setting’s inspirational too. Even the storm and the rain. Especially the rain.’
Tell that to the yurt people, I think, although judging by the noise last night, they were having a good time.
‘Glad you’re enjoying it,’ I say, wondering where the conversation is leading and thinking it doesn’t sound like he’s about to ask me on a date.
‘And I know I only intended to stay for two weeks but I was wondering if you might be willing to negotiate on a longer-term let. It’s a long shot because you may be booked up.’
Relief floods through me. ‘I’m not sure. I know Enys is booked at half term but it might be free until then and afterwards, it’s our quiet season so I can probably let you have a discount then.’ I harden my heart, knowing I can’t do him a deal until after half term. ‘How long were you thinking of staying?’ I ask.
‘Until the week before Christmas, if you have the availability.’
‘Christmas!’
He breaks into a grin. ‘Don’t sound so surprised. There are worse places to stay, you know.’
‘I know. Kilhallon’s great but it won’t be cheap … and what about your place in London?’ I say, knowing I’m doing a terrible job of selling the site. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Nina and Shamia watching us from the servery.
‘I’ve a friend who’d be happy looking after my flat. He’s just finished a contract abroad and wants a short-term place to stay in London while he hunts for a new job and his rent will cover my stay here. Plus there are trains, you know, if I can’t face the drive back when I need to go to a meeting.’
‘I didn’t mean to be nosy. Of course, Kilhallon’s perfect for peace and quiet and I’m sure we can come to some arrangement. I’d have to ask Cal, of course.’
‘Of course, if you need to square things with him, as he’s your boss …’
Something in Kit’s tone irritates me and I remind myself that I don’t need Cal’s permission to take a booking from a guest. ‘I’ll check the bookings when I go back to the house. I’ve got the live booking chart on my phone, but the signal’s not great down here.’
Kit puts his hand on my arm to stop me leaping to my feet, not that I could leap, my legs feel wobbly. ‘No rush,’ he says. ‘Later will do and as for the phone signal: that’s another reason for staying here. My agent can’t keep ringing me to ask how the book is going, and no one else can reach me either.’
‘OK. I’ll come round or call you later when I’ve checked, but it should be fine for a long-term let, even if you have to move cottages halfway through.’
‘That won’t bother me. Great. Now that I know I’m staying, I can settle into my novel. It’s a relief, to be honest, I was dreading having to go back to the smoke. There’s something about Kilhallon that really inspires me.’ He flashes me a smile then tips the cider bottle to his lips. He really is very good-looking when he turns on the charm, but I can’t quite fathom him out. When he first arrived, you’d have thought he was furious with the whole world.
He reminds me of Cal a little: one moment sunshine and the next showers, but Cal doesn’t seem to be able to switch the seasons on and off in the same way that Kit does. I’m not sure Cal’s so in control of his climate, and to be honest, I prefer it that way. Cal’s unpredictable in a predictable way, but Kit’s just unpredictable … Oh sod it, he’s only a guest. As long as he doesn’t start wailing the place down and chucking food on the floor like George, he can be as quirky as he likes. More importantly, his money’s as good as anyone else’s and it looks like we’re going to get rather a nice chunk of it.
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_27e56bde-0c61-56aa-ae4e-82022ac046d7)
Our opening long weekend of trading has been exhausting, but that’s way better than having to stand around with nothing to do. My marketing efforts are paying off and word has got round that we’re now up and running. I know a lot of locals will have turned up out of curiosity over the weekend and that we need to work hard to keep them coming back, as well as attracting tourists, but I was so happy to see the cafe buzzing on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. There’s no time to let up, however, and I’ve spent today – Monday – trying to catch up with admin, ordering and planning.
I must admit I could have quite happily collapsed in my cottage this evening, but tonight is another important occasion for Kilhallon. We’ve opened Demelza’s especially to host a meeting of the St Trenyan Harbour Lights committee. The Harbour Lights Festival, held on the last Friday in November, attracts thousands of people to the village, both from Cornwall and further afield at a time of year when St Trenyan really needs a boost.
‘I still can’t believe Kit Bannen wants to stay here for solong,’ Cal says to me midway through laying out mince pie cookies on a table in the cafe.
‘Until the week before Christmas, according to Kit. I meant to tell you sooner, but we’ve both been so busy with work that I forgot. The resort’s your job, of course, but I checked out the booking calendar while you were at the wholesalers and I’ve already said he can have Enys Cottage. We had another couple booked into Enys for half term but it’s easier to upgrade them to Penvenen than move Kit out just for a week. Was that OK?’
‘I guess so but this longer-term stay will cost him a lot of money. Why does he want to hunker down in the middle of nowhere at this time of year?’
‘Boy am I glad you’re not doing the marketing for this place,’ I say with an eye roll.
‘You know what I mean. I can understand him staying a couple of weeks but why would a metrosexual like him want to be away from London?’
‘A metrosexual? Kit? Nah. He’s much too rugged for that. He wears a Berghaus coat, for a start.’
Cal eyes me sharply and raises an eyebrow at my comment.
‘Stop laughing at me. He just doesn’t strike me as a hipster. He’s too blokey for the self-obsessed trendy type.’
‘“Rugged” and “blokey” eh? Not that you’re interested in the blond hunk, Kit Bannen, of course. He’s only a guest.’ Cal swipes a mince pie cookie from the plate.
‘I didn’t say he was a “hunk”, you did and actually he has a deadline on his book and he said he can get on with it better away from the distractions in London. It’s a techno-thriller.’
Cal huffs. ‘A techno-thriller? He obviously talks to you more than me. He hardly even bothers to nod a hello at me if we come across each other, not that I’m bothered, as long as he pays the bill. You must have charmed him.’
‘No. Kilhallon has charmed him.’ Do I detect a hint of jealousy from Cal? That would be nice … then I snap out of my fantasies. Kit isn’t interested in me and vice versa, and I doubt Cal’s really jealous.
‘What else do we need?’ he asks.
‘Nothing. I’ll set the coffee machine going just before we have a break and bring it out here. People can help themselves to hot water from the machine for their teas.’
‘I’m sure they’ll be impressed. This place looks great and the smell of these cookies is delicious.’
‘I thought the spices would get everyone in the mood. Thanks for helping me. I can’t ask the staff to stay on. They’ve done enough this week.’
‘It’s no problem.’
Cal chats to me about the accommodation bookings while we push some tables together to make one long ‘boardroom-style’ table for the meeting. We still need to fill two of the cottages for Christmas, and Warleggan is vacant at New Year. The yurt season will be over after half term until next Easter.
Cal goes into the kitchen to collect some mugs and plates while I add a jug of milk and sparkling white bowls of demerara sugar cubes to the refreshment table. It may be only a meeting, but I want everything to look perfect tonight. One of the tourist officers is coming, along with influential locals, to discuss plans for the highlight of the St Trenyan calendar.
The festival starts with a lantern procession to the harbour before the big switch-on. The old harbour is decorated with lights in the shape of boats, Christmas trees, stars, shells and starfish, all made up of thousands of jewel-bright bulbs. It’s quirky, random and very pretty. Until Twelfth Night, the quay and nearby pubs, shops and houses are illuminated, the colours reflected in the coal-black waters of the sea.
There are stalls selling hot food and drink, gifts and a mini funfair on the quayside. The evening ends with sing-along carols with the St Trenyan Fisherman’s Choir. It’s a massively popular tradition with everyone, and it marks the ‘real’ start of Christmas, even though all the shops will already be selling gifts and cards well before then.
I spot myself reflected in the large window, almost perfectly mirrored by the blackness outside, and think of a time, less than a year ago, when I wasn’t part of the celebrations but an outsider left in the cold. A lump forms in my throat.
‘How many are you expecting?’ Cal calls to me from the servery where he’s filling two jugs with water.
Shaking off the memory of darker times, I join him. ‘A dozen, maybe a few more. I looked at the list and recognised a few of the names. Local businesspeople, councillors, fishermen and the vicar. Are you definitely staying for the meeting?’ I ask Cal.
‘Normally I’d rather stick pins in my eyeballs than join a committee, but I’ll make an exception for this one. A lot of the people coming will want to ask questions about Kilhallon. Some of them came to our promo event in August and they’ll be keen to see how we’re doing. Or not.’ He smiles wryly, knowing a couple of the committee members run holiday-let businesses themselves.
He tears open a blue bag of ice and empties the cubes into the water jugs. ‘Besides, Mum was on the committee for a few years before she became ill. She helped with the fundraising and used to really enjoy it. I think it was a welcome distraction from Dad’s shenanigans.’
Cal doesn’t mention his late mother very often but I know he misses her. ‘I didn’t know she was part of it. She’d be pleased you’re keeping up the tradition.’
‘Yeah, well, Dad couldn’t be arsed to help out so maybe I should do it, if only to show them how much Kilhallon has changed. We should mention our bookings are healthy, of course, even if it’s not strictly accurate, but that we also want to do our bit for community spirit.’ He winks at me. I envy his lashes, damn him.
‘There are some lemon slices in a tub at the bottom of the fridge,’ I say, feeling myself growing warm again as I think of Cal’s eyes on me, and his hands too.
Cal finds the tub and drops the lemon slices into the water while I select a large bottle of apple juice from the chiller. ‘November’s looking a bit thin, but that’s always a dead time of year and hopefully the Christmas lights will lure people into the cottages for the final week of the month, especially now the cafe’s open,’ he says.
I try to refocus on the business in hand. ‘I must blog about the meeting and post some pics of last year’s lights and some menus for the pop-up cafe we’re having at the festival.’
I fill another jug with the apple juice and we carry them to the table. The first of the committee will start to arrive in a few minutes. There’s a small parking area behind the cafe that should accommodate most of their cars. Cal opens his tablet and nods at me to look at the Harbour Lights website. It’s a ‘homemade’ site but I think the quirkiness is part of its charm. The photos of the twinkling snowmen and a giant shark fixed on the harbour walls make us both smile. ‘I loved the harbour lights when I was little, even when I was a teenager we looked forward to going down into St Trenyan with our mates.’
‘You and Luke? I’d have thought you were too cool for fairy lights.’
‘No way. It was a chance for Luke, Isla, Tamsin and me – plus a few others from school – to go down into St Trenyan for a night out without our parents keeping an eye on us. When we were in the sixth form whoever had a car would drive us down and the rest of us would try to sneak into the pubs or persuade someone over eighteen to buy us drinks that we could take outside. There were so many people around drinking and eating in the streets and the stalls that no one would notice. One year we got lashed on dodgy mulled wine from a stall and were as sick as dogs.’
‘Serves you right,’ I say, realising that Cal has definitely cut down on his drinking lately. Polly used to nag him about it when he first got home from the Middle East and was even worried, but since Isla left for London – and even before then – the empties have greatly reduced. I didn’t like to see him so pissed every night: it reminded me of my dad, who was even more of an ogre when he’d had a few drinks. After Mum died, he hit the bottle hard, met a new girlfriend and eventually I couldn’t stand the situation any longer and left home.
‘I haven’t been to the lights switch-on since I was young, though. I was either away at uni, or too cool or working abroad. Last year, the Christmas lights were the last thing on my mind.’
His tone takes on a bitter edge; the same edge that I used to hear all the time when I first came to Kilhallon. It surfaces less frequently now but I know that his disappointment gnaws at him. His father passed away not long before he went to the Middle East on an aid project. Although that was two and half years ago, he’s bound to miss his dad and regret that they didn’t have a closer relationship. Then there’s the loss of Isla, of course, but there’s something else that causes him pain. Memories, worries, something to do with what he saw or went through in the Middle East. Something unimaginable that I’m sure still affects him way more than he ever lets on.
He pushes the tablet away. ‘What about you?’
‘I never really took much notice of the lights. My main aim last year was finding a warm place for Mitch and me to stay. I’d just lost my job in Truro and was sofa surfing around friends and friends of friends. On the night of the lights, I was between sofas and hanging about until the people had left and the lights had been turned off until sundown the next day.
He winces. ‘I had no idea.’
‘I remember how I felt after the lights went off and everyone had gone home. The place seemed twice as dead as it had before the switch-on. Mitch and I bunked down in an alley not far from Tamsin’s Spa.’ I also remember the smells of hot food, buttered rum punch, stollen, saffron cake, spicy mulled apple cider, rich hot chocolate, and the way they curled around me and drove me insane. Plus the feeling that I’d never been so lonely or such an outsider. Cal gathers me into his arms. Perhaps I didn’t hide the shiver as well as I thought I had.
‘I’m sorry. It must have been tough.’
Tears sting my eyes and make me wish I’d never mentioned last November. I genuinely don’t want Cal’s sympathy – so why did I have to say so much? ‘Some of the poor people I saw had so many problems, I could have cried for them. Some will never get off the streets. I’m the lucky one. Look at me now: hosting an event for the village bigwigs. Who’d have thought it?’
He smiles briefly. ‘Even so … Feel free to hit me, but have you given any more thought to contacting your family? Your father? Your brother? Sorry, I don’t even know his name.’
‘It’s Kyle. My dad’s called Gary.’
‘OK …’
‘And you’re right, I have given it some more thought and I still don’t want to speak to them. I don’t know exactly what Kyle’s doing now or even where he is and I refuse to ask my dad.’
‘But you know where your dad and his partner live?’
‘Near Redruth, as far as I know, that’s where they were living when I last spoke to him. Last I heard, Kyle joined the army. He left home before I did and went to share a flat with a mate in Truro, but I’m not sure that worked out, so he signed up. We weren’t close and he used to spend as much time as he could out of the house at his mates.’
‘Your dad must have been on his own a lot after your mum died.’
‘I suppose so. I was in the house though; he could have spoken to me if he’d wanted to. He just used to sit in his chair and drink cans and channel surf. I may as well have not existed, but he’s got her now. Rachel.’ I slap on a smile, feeling I’ve already raked over far too many old memories. ‘I thought you were in the army, remember, when I first saw you with the combats and bag?’
Cal rolls his eyes. ‘Yeah, I do, but I wasn’t.’
‘Do you remember where you were this time last year? During the Christmas lights?’
He glances out of the window into the darkness. ‘I wasn’t exactly having a fun time, either.’
His phone buzzes from the table, the sound magnified by the table top and the high ceiling of the empty cafe. He grimaces, then glances at the screen.
‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’
He turns back to me, a grin on his face. Goosebumps prick my skin: I know what that look means.
‘No. I was thinking we might have time for a quick bite before the committee arrive. A hot vampire bite.’ He bares his teeth and while I pull a face at him, warm feelings stir at the jokey reminder of the nickname I had for him when we first met. He grazes the skin at the side of my neck with his teeth and it tingles. His breath is warm and I close my eyes in pleasure, trying to blot out the insistent throb of the mobile phone.
‘There’s no time,’ I murmur. ‘The committee will be here in twenty minutes.’
‘So? I like living dangerously. You told me to do it.’ His phone stops buzzing. ‘I told you, they can wait.’
He kisses me, it’s deep and hot and it sparks a swirling sensation low in my stomach. I’m shaky with lust. He tangles his hands in my hair, tugging at the roots without realising, but so gently that the tension just drives me even more crazy.
‘Come on. Into the staff room.’ His voice is husky with desire as he leads me through the kitchen and into the store-cupboard-sized room that serves as our staff room. It’s warm in there, and the air smells of the pine disinfectant we keep in the cupboard. He backs me against the lockers and they rattle loudly.
‘What if they’re early?’
‘They can wait.’
He shuts the door behind us while I pull off my Demelza’s sweatshirt and T-shirt. Cal unzips his jeans and slips them down, along with his boxers. Still standing, with me braced against the lockers, Cal lifts me onto him. We’re face to face and then he’s inside me. I melt like butter on a hot scone under his touch and close my eyes to everything around me. The cafe, the lights, the dark night, the world, all are gone in those few intense, nerve-jangling seconds. There’s only me and Cal, one person, for a brief, dark, hot moment. I wish it could go on and on.
‘Whew.’
My face rests on his shoulder, my cheek skimming the soft wool cotton of his sweater. His fingers rest lightly on my back, beneath my shoulder blades and he whispers to me as I come back to awareness, like a swimmer surfacing in the cove to the sky.
‘Demi, I’ve been thinking.’ His voice is tender, serious and I’m not used to that.
‘Always dangerous,’ I breathe, still half-drowsy after the intensity.
‘That maybe, we should think about, if you don’t mind, well …’
My eyes are open. His phone buzzes again. It’s closer now. I hadn’t realised he’d even picked it up or brought it with him.
‘Damn it.’ Almost falling over, tangled by the jeans still around his ankles, he pulls up his jeans and delves in the pocket. ‘Bloody thing.’
Leave it, I say silently. Leave it and say what’s on your mind.
He glares at his phone, and he mouths at me, ‘Sorry,’ then: ‘Hello, Isla, no, I’m not busy. How are you?’
I don’t think he’s realised that he’s turned his back on me as if he doesn’t want me to hear his conversation. While he’s talking to her, his jeans slip down his hips again, leaving his pants halfway up his muscular bottom. I struggle back into my top and sweatshirt and slip past him into the tiny washroom. I close the door but can hear him, ‘hmm-ing’ and ‘OK-ing’ and the odd ‘fine’ and the final ‘OK, take care, see you soon’.
He comes out into the cafe while I scoop coffee into the filter machine. There’s no time to make cappuccinos and lattes tonight.
‘Sorry for that,’ he says. ‘It was Isla, making arrangements to come down for the shoot in a few weeks’ time. It means opening the cafe especially, because she asked if you’d cater for the cast and crew for the day. It’s extra work, but they have a decent budget and she thought we might as well have the business rather than handing it over to the outside caterers. Will that be OK?’
‘That’s awesome.’ I try to sound cheerful, because we do need the business and the publicity during and after the shoot and when the series – a historical drama about a highwayman and his aristocratic mistress – is aired will be priceless. Isla’s going to be here anyway so we may as well profit from it. It is good of her to help us – Cal – out.
‘It’s only for a day, possibly a day and a half, depending on the weather.’
‘Great. Did you know your flies are still undone?’
‘Hell. No.’ He glances down and then up at me, a wicked grin on his face. ‘That would have shocked the vicar. She’s on the committee.’
‘I’m sure she’s seen it all before. Is that headlights?’
Through the window, I spot twin white beams wavering as a vehicle makes its way over the bumpy track from the farm. The road will serve as access to the camping field in the summer but it’s not exactly public-highway standard yet. Behind the lights, I spot two more sets of lamps. The first car stops a few feet from the cafe.
Cal goes to unlock the door and groans. ‘Please, no …’
‘What?’
‘That’s Mawgan’s car.’
‘No. God, I had no idea she was on the committee.’
‘She isn’t, according to the minutes they sent me. What the hell is she doing here?’
‘I don’t know, but we’re about to find out.’
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_245b59ab-7143-5d5b-88a7-bf398746b07d)
‘Hello, Demi, how nice to see you again.’
‘Mawgan,’ I reply through gritted teeth while she pulls off crimson leather gloves. ‘What a surprise. We didn’t know you were on the Harbour Lights committee.’
She throws us an angelic smile. ‘Well, strictly speaking, I’m not, because I’m far too busy for a regular commitment, but Cade Developments is making a significant contribution to the fund this year so the chairwoman invited me to join you tonight.’
‘Great,’ says Cal, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
‘Cade Developments takes its responsibility to the local community very seriously,’ Mawgan adds, dropping her gloves on a table and peering over Cal’s shoulder at the cafe.
Yeah, by hiking up rents, blocking our plans and intimidating local people, I think, not that we can prove any of it. I’m amazed the Harbour Lights committee has allowed Mawgan to contribute, though I guess they can’t afford not to, in all kinds of ways.
‘Cade Developments only has a responsibility to make money no matter what the cost to the community,’ Cal replies. ‘So what are you really doing here, Mawgan. Spying?’
‘Cal. We have more customers. Help yourself to refreshments,’ I say to Mawgan, steering Cal towards the door before we all come to blows, verbal or otherwise.
A glamorous forty-something lady in a leather biker jacket, pointy snakeskin boots and a dog collar sashays in. It’s the Reverend Beverley Fritton, the vicar of St Trenyan. If the Rev Bev recognises me, she doesn’t let on. She once bought me a coffee and gave Mitch a meal, all without trying to convert me to anything other than Game of Thrones. She and her much younger curate, who I suspect is also much more than her assistant, made me hot rum chocolate and let me and Mitch bunk down in her snug for the night. She may have forgotten me, but I haven’t forgotten her.
‘Wow, this is awesome,’ she declares in her broad Birmingham accent, her auburn ponytail swinging round as she does a 360-degree twirl in the middle of the cafe. She sniffs the air and sighs in ecstasy. ‘And what is that amazing smell? Did I forget to set my alarm and wake up on Christmas Eve?’
‘They’re mincemeat cookies: very easy to make. I can let you have the recipe.’
‘I’d love it, though I can barely boil an egg. This place was a wreck of an old barn when I was last up here. What an amazing transformation, isn’t it, Mawgan?’
Though I can tell it’s killing her, even Mawgan wouldn’t be openly catty in front of the Rev Bev and she grinds out a reply. ‘It is. Who’d have ever thought a wreck like Kilhallon would scrub up so well?’
My reply, also involving scrubbers, is a nano-second from escaping my lips, but it’s Cal’s turn to shoot me a warning glance and the Rev Bev continues to torture Mawgan by lavishing praise on the ‘a-maz-ing’ job we’ve done on the cafe. The door opens again and more of the committee troop in. I recognise the harbourmaster – or should I say, harbourmistress – and Josh, the boat skipper, who used to deliver seafood to Sheila’s. Thank goodness Mitch is safely snoozing at the farmhouse, I’d hate him to spend the evening sniffing Josh’s trousers.
‘Have a look round and help yourselves to drinks and cookies while I get the coffee,’ I tell everyone, glad to have something to do that will keep me out of Mawgan’s way. More people arrive and Cal greets them. Soon, the noise level in the cafe is deafening as people help themselves to cookies and drinks, ‘oh-ing’ and ‘ah-ing’.
St Trenyan’s harbourmistress is chairing the meeting and calls everyone to order. Cal joins in, agreeing to make a modest donation to the cost of the lights, though we can’t match Mawgan’s contribution. I pluck up the courage to mention our ‘pop-up’ Demelza’s stall at the festival, which will sell hot food and drinks and showcase Kilhallon as a resort, and manage to wangle a great position for it right on the quayside by the Fisherman’s Choir.
The harbourmistress thanks Mawgan for her ‘generous’ support, which is met by grudging mutterings of thanks. I glance sideways at Cal and see him with his lips pressed tightly together. Mawgan might have backed off from destroying our plans for Kilhallon, but there’s no way she’s given up hating us. I distract myself by working out the menu I can offer at the switch-on. Jewelled cookies to match the lights, perhaps … mulled cider … caramel sea salt brownies …
When the meeting breaks up, most people hang around, helping themselves to more cookies and ‘networking’, aka gossiping. I gather up the used crockery onto a tray and take it into the dishwashing area in the kitchen.
Mawgan appears in the doorway to the kitchen, holding out her empty mug.’
‘This is cosy.’
‘Can I help you, madam?’ I say, sarcastically. I know she’s trying to provoke me and she can’t behave too nastily in this company, especially when she’s trying to act the generous local businesswoman, but I’m on my guard. Most of the people here loathe the Cades, but some rent their business premises from Mawgan’s lettings company and can’t afford to upset her. Even though she’s backed off from some of her worst practices, I don’t believe for a moment that she’s given up on hurting Cal by destroying Kilhallon or wrecking his life some other way. Mawgan’s view of relationships and family is warped to say the least.
She dumps her mug on the drainer. ‘No, thanks. I see you’ve carved out a nice comfortable little niche for yourself up here. You and Cal. So, how’s business? Made your first million, yet?’
‘Forgive me for speaking frankly, Mawgan, but our business is actually none of your business.’
‘Fair enough, but I just thought I’d remind you that you’re here – you and Cal – only because I decided that Kilhallon wasn’t part of my development plans.’
I just resist snorting out loud. Only Mawgan and I know the real reason she changed her mind about ruining us: because I gave her hell about her behaviour towards us and to Andi and Robyn. Even so, I was gobsmacked that she listened to me. Even though she claimed it was a business decision, I know I touched a very raw nerve with her. Her mum had an affair with Cal’s father and that has led to bad feeling between the families, that and the fact Cal refused to go out with her when they were younger.
‘It’s too late now. We’re here to stay.’
Mawgan runs her finger over the stainless steel prep table. ‘Possibly. We’ll see.’
‘I’m sorry, but customers aren’t really allowed in the kitchen area. Regulations.’
‘I bet you allow that dirty dog of yours in here.’
‘Actually we don’t allow any hygiene hazards in here, human or animal.’
Mawgan has a hide like a rhino so ignores me. ‘I heard Isla was coming back from London.’
‘How do you know that? She only told Cal the other day.’ I kick myself at revealing this snippet of information, but it’s too late; Mawgan’s eyes gleam with delight.
‘I have my sources,’ she says.
Does that mean she’s still in touch with Luke, Isla’s fiancé? They left Cornwall to keep out of Mawgan’s way, because Isla suspected that Luke and Mawgan were getting too close. I doubt it very much, but I wouldn’t put anything past her. Only Mawgan and I know what went on between us in the summer and that our ‘chat’ about her personal life led to her removing her objections to us redeveloping Kilhallon Park.
Laughter drifts in from the cafe and a car engine fires up outside. I hold out my hand, to show her the door. ‘I don’t want to be rude but the meeting’s over and we need to lock up.’
Blocking my way to the door, she lowers her voice, ‘I could still hurt Cal. I could ruin him. If I want to.’
‘How?’
‘I have my ways. You just bear it in mind. Just because you came to me begging me to save him doesn’t change a thing between any of us, and it isn’t only me who thinks he’s a selfish bastard.’
‘You may be bitter and twisted and blame him for your mum leaving you, but any reasonable person would see it’s not his fault.’
‘It’s not only me, and the amateur psychology you spouted when you turned up at my house uninvited had nothing to do with my decision to back off.’
‘Drop the act, Mawgan. If you want me to think you gave up your opposition to our plans for financial reasons, that’s fine, but we both know there was more to it than that. You just can’t admit you found you had a conscience after all.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re referring to, but I told you that our conversation was private.’
No one can hear us in the kitchen, but I lower my voice anyway. ‘It was and it is. I kept my word. Cal has no idea that I came to see you or what we spoke about. As far as I’m aware, he also has no idea about your mum and his dad.’
She snorts. ‘Really?’
‘I think he would have mentioned it if he did.’
‘He tells you everything, does he?’ she says.
‘Not everything. I don’t share everything with him either, but I would have thought that considering the trouble you tried to cause over the summer, he might have told me about the situation if he knew.’
She sniffs, and seems at a loss for words for a few moments, then her lip curls. ‘I couldn’t care less anyway. You can relax. I’ve decided not to waste my time with little people like you and Cal.’
‘That suits us fine,’ I say, glad she can’t see my stomach drop to my shoes. If I never see Mawgan Cade again it will be too soon. Judging by the sneer on her face, I’m guessing she hates having betrayed any weakness to me. I could tell her that it wasn’t weak to allow her sister some happiness, or to let go of her bitter feud with Cal – but she wouldn’t listen.
‘Mawgan! We’re going. I’d like a word with you before we leave.’
Mawgan presses her lips together as Rev Bev pops her head round the door. ‘Goodnight,’ she says tightly. ‘I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.’
Shouldering her neon-pink ostrich-effect bag, she wobbles out of the kitchen on her pointy heels. I focus on loading the dishwasher, reminding myself that Mawgan is full of crap. I won’t let her empty threats hurt me because that’s exactly what she wants. I’m a successful cafe owner, I’ve a film crew to deal with in a few weeks, and Cal was going to say something nice too, although he didn’t actually say it.
CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_62ff6605-aa34-55fb-9720-1b11ef6988eb)
Cal
My head throbs as I reach for the clock by the bed. The green digits glow in the gloom. Wednesday 9 October. 09.23. Shit. Is it that late? I need to get up. Those old staff cottages won’t renovate themselves.
I lift my head off the pillow and instantly regret it. Pain pulses in my temples. I’m shivering yet sheened in sweat. No wonder, I’ve woken up to find I’m lying on top of the duvet in my boxers. Last night, after I staggered home from the Tinner’s Arms in the small hours, I must have collapsed on top of the bed. At least I had the presence of mind to get undressed, which is amazing considering I was off my face. I haven’t been to one of the pub’s lock-ins for months. I’d already started to cut back on my drinking since Demi and I got Kilhallon off the ground, and I’m almost back within the so-called ‘healthy’ limit now. Correction, I was in the healthy limit until last night’s lapse.
Last night Demi went out with her mates to see a film in Penzance. I could and should have spent the evening doing the accounts for the resort, but I needed a break too. I only intended to have a quick pint at the pub, but one turned into two, then more, plus a few whiskies as well. Before I knew it, the landlord had locked the doors, joined his regulars for a game of poker and the evening had become early morning.
Snatches of conversation from the night before slowly come back to me, along with scenes from my nightmare and memories of my time in Syria. I remember someone talking about the Harbour Lights Festival in the bar. They reminded me of my conversation with Demi on Monday night before the committee meeting.
I told her I wasn’t having a fun time during last year’s festival. A slight understatement. I remember exactly where I was on that day. I was working in a refugee camp a couple of miles from the front line of a conflict zone, trying to do what I could for hundreds of wounded and displaced people. The sights, the sounds and smells will never leave me. Although I pretend to the people around me that I’ve put that time behind me and it doesn’t affect me, I’m lying.
I’m fully awake now. After I crashed out, some of the events from Syria came back to haunt me in a nightmare; albeit in a bizarre, jumbled way, like a story where the chapters have been swapped around or are missing altogether. I’m not sure why I had a nightmare or why the memories are so vivid and troubling now. Since I returned to Kilhallon, I’ve tried to lock my time in Syria away so I can try to get on with daily life, but it’s impossible to forget. The guilt I feel about what happened that day will never leave me, and perhaps it never should.
Lying in my bed now, I tell myself that my bad dream was probably just the result of too much Doom Bar, too many whisky chasers and a very stupid urge to scoff bacon, egg and black pudding at two o’clock in the morning when I eventually staggered into Kilhallon. I lift my head and see a tangle of sheets at the foot of the bed. I must have kicked them off while I was fighting imaginary attackers in my dream. The new sash window is open a few inches and the curtains flutter against the frame. A cold wind keens around the farmhouse, changing pitch every now and then and making my head hurt even more. It was only a dream, I remind myself, as my throbbing temples send a bolt of nausea straight to my stomach.
Yet the images from that day are still vivid now I’m awake. I remember my friend Soraya lying on top of a pile of bricks and broken furniture. A red checked tablecloth covered her legs; it must have fallen on top of her when the mortar round hit her home. She didn’t have a mark on her beautiful face and her eyes were closed as if she’d lain down to rest and pulled the cloth over her. Her upper body was covered with a fine powder, just as though someone had shaken icing sugar over her.
I’d been blown off my feet by an explosion and when I came round, I spotted her in the clouds of smoke and dust. From a few metres away, I’d almost believed she was asleep. I’d started to cough, my eyes stinging, and then I looked around for her little girl, Esme.
No matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t see her anywhere.
The sounds and smells come back to me, along with the scene of devastation all round. Clouds of dirt and debris rose up like a fog, yet one that was hot and acrid and burned my throat. My eyes were raw and streaming. Rumbles like thunder shook the ground to one side and the chatter of gunfire echoed on the other. A soldier loomed out of the dust and yelled at me: ‘We’re going. Come with us now or die here.’
I could not move. All I could do was stare at Soraya sleeping on her rubble bed, knowing she’d never wake up. And then I knew what to do and my feet moved: not to run after the soldier but to clamber over the rubble piles to search for Esme. I knew I had to find her and take her back with me to safety.
I clawed at the rubble, looking for her. My knuckles were bleeding. I couldn’t find her. Then I heard the soldiers again, their voices, and realised that they weren’t ‘our’ side, but the insurgents who had shelled the town. I had to leave, or be killed. Instinct told me to run and hope I could find Esme at our camp. So I ran, tears streaming down my face. It was too late. Too late for Soraya, for Esme and for me.
Suddenly, another scene from my nightmare floods my mind and merges with my memories. I was in a dusty room, the sun beating down on the tiled roof, shafts of light piercing the cracks and shining on the dust and blood on the earth floor. A man held my ankles down, the pressure was unbearable. Another face appeared above me with a hose. I remember feeling so thirsty. I couldn’t speak, but I didn’t want this water. I opened my mouth to scream but he pushed a rag over my nose and mouth and the water poured down. I tried to scream but I was drowning – like I was in the cove this summer, only this time there was no Demi to reach in and pull me out.
Bloody hell, just how much did I have to drink last night?
Thank God Demi wasn’t staying over with me … Or maybe if she had been, I wouldn’t have stayed so long at the Tinner’s. Demi helps me keep off the booze and from dwelling on the dark times as often as I might do. Trouble is, now that Polly’s here and the businesses demand our time and energy, we’ve had precious few chances to get together, apart from a couple of snatched moments of passion at the cafe.
I also remember that after Demi and I had made out in the cafe, I was going to ask her to go public and move into Kilhallon House with me. After last night’s talk in the pub, I’m not so sure it’s a good idea, for Demi or for me.
The bedroom door rattles in a gust of wind. I must get the latch fixed. Anyone could walk in.
Oh God, it’s 09.45. I have to get up and get on with my jobs, even though hammering and drilling is the last thing my head needs. I suppose it’s some kind of justice for getting pissed last night.
Still in my boxers, I scuttle downstairs in search of black coffee. There’s singing coming from the kitchen. Something about it being ‘time to say goodbye’. When I walk in, Polly stops her impromptu Il Divo karaoke and stares at me from the sink. She holds a very sharp pair of scissors and is surrounded by leaves, roses and cellophane.
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Phillipa Ashley
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 17.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: Return to the Cornish Cafe in this gorgeous festive romance – the perfect book to curl up with this Christmas.Christmas will be slightly less turbulent than summer, won’t it? Demi certainly hopes so.She and Cal are keeping their fledgling relationship under wraps for now. But then Kit Bannen, a hunky, blond – and somewhat mysterious – writer arrives at Kilhallon Resort, and not everyone is charmed. Cal is sure that Kit is hiding something. But is he the only one guarding a secret?Demi is busy baking festive treats for the newly opened Demelza’s cafe, but when Cal’s ex Isla arrives to shoot scenes for her new drama, Demi can’t help but worry that things aren’t quite over between them. Kit flirts with both women, fuelling Cal’s suspicions that Kit has hidden motives for staying on at Kilhallon. Then Cal has to go to London, leaving Demi and Kit to decorate the cafe for Christmas . . . all by themselves.A storm is brewing in more ways than one. As surprises unfold and truths are uncovered, can Demi and Cal finally open up to each other about their feelings?This second novel in the bestselling Cornish Cafe series is the perfect Christmas read.