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The Cornish Cream Tea Bus
Cressida McLaughlin


Next stop, Cornwall! Hop on The Cornish Cream Tea Bus for a delicious, romantic adventure… ‘Captivating’ Heat Magazine ‘Beautiful… heartwarming’ Zara Stoneley ‘A wonderful ray of reading sunshine’ Heidi Swain Baking fanatic, Charlie Quilter, inherits a vintage bus in her late uncle’s will and is keen to give it a new lease of life. Charlie thinks it will be the perfect mobile café for afternoon tea, so she heads to the picturesque Cornish village of Porthgolow, hoping for a new start. However, Daniel Harper, the owner of the posh spa up on the hill isn’t very pleased that her bus is parked outside his lovely hotel. Has Charlie’s Cornish dream developed a soggy bottom? Or can she convince Daniel that her bus could take them somewhere wonderful?























Copyright (#u90bcb1e5-7bea-5b33-84ad-b58278aa9677)


Published by 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 as ebook serial in four separate parts

Copyright © Cressida McLaughlin 2019

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019.

Cover illustration © May Van Millingen

Cressida McLaughlin 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008332181

Ebook Edition © August 2019 ISBN: 9780008332198

Version: 2019-07-12




Dedication (#u90bcb1e5-7bea-5b33-84ad-b58278aa9677)


To Hannah Ferguson – thank you for everything that you do


Contents

Cover (#u28b63a9f-4e73-585f-b0c8-524075dd5319)

Title Page (#uf0c58422-2466-552d-abc1-aea212630ffe)

Copyright

Dedication

Part 1: Don’t Go Baking My Heart

Chapter One (#u35bd83df-4e74-53cd-bc93-e1bd8976b32b)

Chapter Two (#uc935d6b8-4ad8-504f-95fc-5e16164233ee)

Chapter Three (#u95d1a26c-a3bd-5f99-941d-ff083e543955)

Chapter Four (#u6fd06a9f-9c49-512b-89c0-cc03b1a2ffd0)

Chapter Five (#u0147dc80-1e21-58a4-bfa2-4984cd9ab01e)

Chapter Six (#u2712e0bf-7c11-535c-b037-ef06ae49e6be)

Chapter Seven (#u74223e11-7d46-5ff9-a0b3-1d22c6af2382)

Chapter Eight (#uc9905155-904c-5cad-9b39-75486018f62c)

Part 2: The Éclair Affair

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)

Part 3: Scones Away

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)

Part 4: The Icing on the Cake

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)

Why I love Cornwall (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

Read on for an extract of Cressy’s heart-warming novel, The House of Birds and Butterflies …

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Cressida McLaughlin

About the Publisher




Part 1 (#u90bcb1e5-7bea-5b33-84ad-b58278aa9677)

Don’t Go Baking My Heart (#u90bcb1e5-7bea-5b33-84ad-b58278aa9677)










Chapter One (#ulink_4e947833-d97e-59fb-a386-6631fcfb0977)







My Dearest Charlie,

Gertie is yours, to do with what you will. I know that you cherish her, but you do not need to keep her. She is a gift, not a millstone around your neck. If the best thing for you is to sell her and go travelling, then that is what you should do.

I have so much to say to you, but my time is running out. I hope that these few words will be enough to show you how much I love you; it’s more than I ever thought possible.

Look after yourself, think of all the happy times we spent together, and know that you can do anything if you believe in yourself enough.

Remember, my darling niece, live life to the full – you only get one chance. Make the most of your opportunities and do what is right for you.

All my love, always,

Your Uncle Hal x

Charlie Quilter folded the letter and pushed it into the back pocket of her jeans. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the gloom, and tried to stop her heart from sinking as her dad stopped beside her in the garage doorway. His sigh was heavy, and not unexpected: he had been sighing a lot lately. She could barely remember a time when his narrow shoulders hadn’t been slumped, and she had forgotten what his laughter sounded like. But on this occasion, she felt the same as he did; the sight before them was not inspiring.

The 1960s Routemaster bus, painted cream with green accents, looked more scrapheap than vintage, and Charlie could see that its months left in the garage without Uncle Hal’s care and attention had had a serious impact.

‘God, Charlie,’ Vince Quilter said, stepping inside the garage and finding the light switch, ‘what are you – we – I mean …’ He shrugged, his arms wide, expression forlorn.

Charlie took a deep breath and, despite the February chill at her back, unzipped her coat and unwound her thick maroon scarf. The wind assailed her neck, newly exposed to the elements after the pre-Christmas, post-break-up, chop-it-all-off graduated bob that – she now realized – had been an ill-advised choice for this time of year.

‘We’re going to fix her,’ she said purposefully, putting her bag against the wall and laying her palm flat against the bus’s cold paintwork. ‘We’re going to restore Gertie, aren’t we, Dad?’ He was staring at the workbench where all Hal’s tools were laid out, rubbing his unshaven jaw. Hal’s death had hit him harder than anyone else, and while Charlie felt her uncle’s loss keenly, she knew it was nothing compared to what Vince was going through. ‘Dad?’ she prompted.

‘Sorry, love. That we are.’ He started rolling up the sleeves of his jacket, thought better of it and took it off instead. He switched on the heater and rubbed his hands together.

Charlie felt a surge of hope. She hurried over to her bag and pulled out a flask of coffee and a Tupperware box. ‘Here, have a brownie to keep you going. I thought we could do with some sustenance.’ She took off the lid, and a glimmer of a smile lit up Vince’s face.

‘Always thinking ahead, huh?’

‘This was never going to be the easiest task in the world, practically or emotionally. Brownies baked with love – and hazelnuts and chocolate chip, because that’s your favourite kind.’

‘Your food is the best, because it’s baked with love and extra calories,’ her dad said, taking one of the neatly arranged squares. ‘That’s what he always said.’

‘Yup.’ A lump formed unhelpfully at the back of Charlie’s throat, as it had been doing at inopportune moments ever since her uncle Hal had been diagnosed with an aggressive cancer at the end of last summer. So many things reminded her of him, and while dealing with practicalities – assessing the state of his beloved Routemaster bus, for example – were easier to focus on without the emotion overwhelming her, his sayings, his nuggets of wisdom, always knocked her off kilter. They were so ingrained in her family now, but it was as if she could hear Hal’s voice, his unwavering cheerfulness, whoever was saying the words.

‘Love and extra calories,’ she repeated, wincing when she noticed a deep gouge in Gertie’s side. ‘How did he get away with being so sentimental?’

‘Because he was straightforward,’ her dad said through a mouthful of chocolate and nuts. ‘He said everything without embarrassment or affectation. He was a sixty-eight-year-old man who called his bus Gertie. He meant it all, and was never ashamed of who he was.’

Uncle Hal had given scenic tours on Gertie, the vintage double-decker Routemaster, that were legendary throughout the Cotswolds. He was an expert bus driver and a world-class talker. Everyone who took one of his tours left feeling as if they’d made a friend for life, and the testimonials on TripAdvisor were gushing. His untimely death had left a huge hole in the Cotswold tourist trade, as well as his family’s life.

And now Gertie belonged to Charlie; left to her in Hal’s will, for her to do with whatever she wanted. At that moment, all she could see in the bus’s future was being dismantled and sold for spares, but she was not going to let that happen. She couldn’t imagine herself taking over her uncle’s tours, even though she had spent many hours on them and had been taught to drive the bus as soon as she was old enough. Her expertise was in baking, not talking.

Her dad finished his brownie and started examining Gertie’s engine. As a car dealer he knew his way around vehicles, but had admitted to Charlie that he wasn’t that knowledgeable about buses. Charlie had argued that it was just a bigger version, and nothing could be that different.

She cleaned the chocolate off her fingers with a paper napkin and climbed on board the bus. It had taken on a musty, unloved smell, and was bone-achingly cold. Charlie walked up the aisle of the lower deck, her fingers trailing along the backs of the forest-green seats, and opened the cab.

Her dad appeared behind her, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘The engine seems in good enough shape, but I only know the basics. And in here?’ He gave another melancholy sigh.

‘It’s going to be fine,’ she said. ‘She needs a bit of sprucing up, that’s all. A few things need fixing, there’s some cosmetic work, knocking a couple of panels back into shape, and then Gertie will be as good as new.’

‘I could give Clive a call,’ Vince said, worrying at his scruffy hair, ‘get him to come and give her a once-over, see what condition her vital organs are in.’

‘And in the meantime, I’ll tackle in here. We’ve got the Hoover, cleaning sprays, and I can make a list of what needs repairing. The toilet probably needs a good flushing out.’ Charlie made a face and her dad laughed.

‘You sure you want to start that now?’ he asked. ‘Shouldn’t we find out if she’s salvageable first? You don’t want to waste your time cleaning her if the engine’s buggered.’

‘Dad, the engine is not buggered. She’s fine. Hal was driving her right up until … he wasn’t any more. He never mentioned anything being wrong with her.’

‘Yes, but you have to agree she looks—’

‘Neglected,’ Charlie finished. ‘Which is why we’re here. I guarantee that once we’ve given her a bit of love and attention, things will look a hundred times better. Gertie is going back on the road, that’s all there is to it.’ She grinned, and it wasn’t even forced. She had almost convinced herself.

Her dad looked at her fondly. ‘You’re a wonder, Charlie. Anyone else faced with these circumstances – with this,’ he gestured around him, ‘and Hal, and everything you’ve been through with Stuart – would start a lengthy hibernation, and nobody would blame them. Instead you’ve baked brownies and dragged me here, and you’re not going to leave until Gertie’s gleaming. You don’t even know what you’re going to do with her when she’s restored!’

Charlie’s smile almost slipped at this last point, because that was worrying her far more than the state of Gertie’s engine or how many panels needed replacing. What on earth was she going to do with a vintage, double-decker bus, when she worked in a café in Ross-on-Wye and her main skills were baking and eating? ‘I’ll think of something,’ she said brightly. ‘One step at a time, Dad. Fix Gertie, and then decide what to do with her.’

She put the key in the ignition and a satisfying thrum reverberated, like a heartbeat, through the bus. The engine was working, at least. She cranked the heating up to max – she didn’t want her fingers to fall off before she’d polished the metalwork – then turned on the radio.

‘Gold’ by Spandau Ballet filled the space, and Charlie took her dad’s hands and pulled them up in the air with hers. She forced them into an awkward dance down the aisle, bumping into seats as they sashayed from the front of the bus to the back, and sang along at the top of her voice. Soon they were both laughing, and her dad let go of her hands so he could clutch his stomach. She dinged the bell and tried to get her breathing under control. When Vince looked up, Charlie could see the familiar warmth in his eyes that she had been worried was gone for good.

It was impossible not to feel cheered in Gertie’s company. Hal had been convinced there was something a little bit magical about her, and while Charlie had always argued that it was Hal who inspired the laughter on his tours, at this moment she wondered if he was right.

They could do this. No question. Despite all that had happened to her over the past few months, she knew she could restore Gertie to her former glory. What came next wasn’t so certain but, as she’d said to her dad, they could only take one step at a time. Right now, they needed to focus on bringing the bus back to life.

They worked all morning, and even though Charlie knew the bits they were fixing were only cosmetic, and a small part of her worried that when Clive came round he would tell them that the engine was too old, or there was too much rust in the chassis, or any one of a number of things that meant Gertie would not outlive Hal, she felt so much better for doing it. The radio kept them buoyed, and at one point her dad even whistled along to a Sixties tune, something that, only a day before, Charlie and her mum would both have thought impossible.

The simple act of working on Uncle Hal’s bus was taking the edge off their grief. It reminded Charlie how much she had loved spending time with him, a lot of it on board this very bus, and how big an influence he’d been on her. That didn’t have to stop just because he was no longer physically with her. Hal would be part of her life for ever.

It was after one o’clock when Vince announced he was going to get sandwiches. Charlie ordered an egg mayo and bacon baguette and, once her dad had strolled out of the garage with his jacket done up to his neck, she climbed to the top deck of the bus. She sat above the cab – her favourite position as a child because she could pretend she was driving – even though, inside the garage, the view was less than inspiring. As she did so, she felt the letter in her back pocket. Hal had left it for her in his will, and it had been folded and reopened so many times the paper had begun to wear thin along the creases.

It no longer made her cry, but the words still affected her deeply. He had never married, had never had a family of his own, so she had been like a daughter to him. Losing him had been a huge blow – his cancer diagnosis a mind-numbing shock followed quickly by practicalities as his condition worsened and he needed more care – but at least she had been able to spend time with him, to let him know how much she loved him and how much he had shaped her life. And she would always have his letter. It was bittersweet, but so much better than the irreversible cut-off of losing someone suddenly.

She was still lost in thought when she heard a woman calling her name, followed by a high-pitched yelp. Charlie ran down Gertie’s narrow staircase and out of the open doorway.

‘How are you doing?’ Juliette asked. Before Charlie had time to reply, Marmite raced up to her, his extendable lead whirring noisily, and put his tiny front paws on Charlie’s shins. Charlie scooped the Yorkipoo puppy into her arms and closed her eyes while he licked her chin. However miserable some aspects of life had been recently, Marmite never failed to bring a smile to her face. He was six months old, and more of a terror with every passing day.

‘OK, I think,’ Charlie said. ‘But don’t look at the outside, come and see what we’ve done inside. Dad’s getting someone to take a proper look at her, and in the meantime we’ve been giving her a polish. He’s just gone to get lunch.’

‘I know,’ Juliette said, unclipping Marmite’s lead and following Charlie onto the bus. ‘I saw him on my way here. He’s getting me a sandwich, too.’

‘So you can stay for a bit, before you go back to Cornwall this afternoon?’

Juliette nodded. ‘It’s been so good seeing everyone. But I’m still not sure, Char, how you’re really doing. What’s going on up here?’ She tapped Charlie’s forehead. ‘You’re putting on this amazing front, but I need to know before I go home that you’re OK.’

‘I’m fine,’ Charlie said. ‘This morning has helped a lot. Dad was concerned that Gertie wouldn’t be salvageable, but just look at her! She might need a bit of work under the bonnet, some patching up, but it’s given me hope.’

Juliette surveyed their morning’s work, the metal uprights gleaming, the walls clean, the seats vacuumed to within an inch of their lives. ‘She looks great, Char, almost as good as new. But I’m not as convinced about you. Since I’ve been back you’ve been so busy, working at The Café on the Hill, helping with the catering for the funeral. You haven’t stopped, even for a day. You should be taking some time out.’

Charlie groaned. ‘Why does everyone think that’s best for me? Keeping busy is what helps in this kind of situation.’ She led Juliette to a seat halfway down the bus. Some of the chairs were sagging dangerously, but this one, she had discovered earlier, was still fairly firm.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Juliette said after a minute. Her voice was low, her slight French accent always adding a seriousness to her words, though in this case it was probably intentional.

Charlie remembered the first time she had heard Juliette speak, on a packed train from London to Cheltenham; she’d been chatting with someone on the other end of her mobile, and had occasionally slipped into French. Charlie had been sitting next to her, and after Juliette had finished her call and offered some expletives in both languages, Charlie had asked her those same words: Are you OK? Juliette had been reserved, embarrassed that she’d been entertaining the whole carriage, and so Charlie had told her how she’d had a no-holds-barred telephone row with her then-boyfriend in a hotel doorway, not realizing that a wedding party were waiting to get past her into the ballroom, and how some of the guests had looked quite shocked when she’d finally noticed that they were watching her.

She’d made Juliette laugh, and by the time the train had pulled up in Cheltenham, they had swapped numbers and agreed to meet up. That had been almost seven years ago, and their friendship was still strong despite Juliette’s move to Cornwall two years before, with her boyfriend Lawrence. Charlie was still touched that Juliette had come back for Hal’s funeral, staying for a couple of weeks to catch up with friends in the area. She had been on Gertie countless times when she’d lived in Cheltenham, and Charlie hadn’t asked her if she was OK.

‘I’m not doing too badly,’ she said now. ‘I’ve been getting on with stuff, which is better than wallowing in the empty flat, or at Mum and Dad’s. Dad’s so cut up about losing Hal. Today is the first time I’ve seen him smile in what feels like for ever.’

‘I know you’re worried about Vince, but you have to think about yourself, too.’ Juliette put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Because it isn’t just Hal, is it? It’s only been a couple of months since you and Stuart … finished. And you’re in the flat, hosting viewings, unsure where you’re going to go once it’s sold. I know you don’t want to go back to living with your parents, and you can’t live on Gertie, as tempting as it is.’ She laughed softly.

‘That’s looking like one of the better options, actually,’ Charlie said, chuckling. ‘What am I going to do with her, Jules? I can’t be a tour guide. I’m a baker, a caterer. I don’t have the gift of the gab like Hal did. But, despite what he said in his letter, I can’t sell her.’ She rubbed her hands over her eyes, realizing too late that they were covered in cleaning spray.

‘Thisis why you need time,’ Juliette pressed. ‘You need to stop thinking for a bit, give yourself some space before you make any big decisions. The place in Newquay wasn’t brilliant, but our new house in Porthgolow, it’s perfect, Char. It’s so close to the sea. It’s beautiful and quiet, and the people in the village are friendly. Come and stay for a couple of weeks. Bea would give you the time off, wouldn’t she? The hours you’ve put into that café, you’re probably owed months back in overtime.’

‘Working is good for me,’ Charlie insisted but, even as she said it, the thought of returning to the café in Ross-on-Wye, even with its spring-themed window display and the ideas she had for seasonal cakes and sandwiches, didn’t fill her with as much joy as it should. There were too many other thoughts crowding her mind.

‘Take a break,’ Juliette continued. ‘Come and stay with Lawrence and me. I’m sure Marmite would get on fine with Ray and Benton. They’re easy-going cats, and Marmite’s still so small. And the most adorable dog in the world, by the way. I’m so glad you’ve got him to look after you.’

Marmite was sitting on the seat in front of them, scrabbling at the back of the cushion as if there might be a treat hidden somewhere in the fabric. Charlie picked him up and settled him on her lap, rubbing his black-and-tan coat. She pictured the two of them walking along a sandy beach with crystal blue water beyond, to a soundtrack of seagulls and crashing waves. It was certainly a better image than this bland, functional garage or the flat she had shared with Stuart, now empty and soulless. She didn’t want to run away from the hard things in life, but she knew her friend was right.

‘Let me talk to Bea,’ she said decisively. ‘I’ll see if I can get a couple of weeks off.’

Juliette’s face lit up. She ruffled Charlie’s hair, which had been enhanced from its natural reddish hue into a vibrant copper at the same time as the drastic haircut. ‘The next time you’re in the café, you promise me you’ll ask her?’

‘I will, I—’

‘Room for a little one?’ Her dad appeared in the doorway, along with the salty tang of bacon.

‘Thanks so much, Vince,’ Juliette said, accepting her baguette and a coffee.

‘You convinced Charlie to come and stay with you yet?’ he asked, taking the seat in front and turning to face them.

‘Almost,’ Juliette said. ‘She’s agreed to ask Bea for some time off.’

‘Bloody hell! You’ve actually got her considering a holiday? Or have you tempted her down with some sort of Cornish cooking competition?’

‘No competition,’ Juliette said through a mouthful of cheese sandwich. ‘No work. An actual holiday.’

‘I am here, you know,’ Charlie said, lifting her baguette out of Marmite’s reach. The dog put his paws on her chest and sniffed the air, whimpering mournfully.

‘It doesn’t hurt to hear the unvarnished truth occasionally, love,’ Vince replied.

‘I’ve never …’ she started, then sighed and unwrapped her lunch. She didn’t want to argue with her dad, and she knew they both had her best interests at heart, even if they were being irritating about it.

‘This is cosy, isn’t it?’ Juliette said. ‘Having a picnic on board Gertie. Hal could have started something like this, including sandwiches and cups of tea on his tours.’

‘Enough people brought their own food, didn’t they?’ Vince laughed. ‘He was getting fat on all the sausage rolls and packets of Maltesers that went around.’

‘But a few tables in here instead of front-facing seats, a tea urn, the beautiful views outside the windows. It’d be ideal, wouldn’t it? If the weather was cold, or you didn’t want wasps in your cupcakes.’ Juliette grinned. ‘You could see the countryside from the comfort of the bus.’

Charlie returned her friend’s smile, her synapses pinging. She couldn’t be a tour guide. She knew how to drive the bus, she had the right licence and kept up to date with her top-up training, but she hadn’t done it every day for the last thirty years; she was inexperienced. But what she could do, almost with her eyes closed, was feed people. She could make cakes and pastries and scones that had customers squealing in pleasure and coming back for thirds.

And Gertie was cosy. With a bit more polish and a couple of personal touches, the bus could even look quite homely. It could be somewhere you’d enjoy spending time, and not just for a journey around the winding lanes of the Cotswolds.

‘All right, love?’ her dad asked, his eyebrows raised quizzically.

‘Earth to Charlie!’ Juliette snapped her fingers, and Marmite let out a tiny growl.

‘I think I’ve got it,’ Charlie murmured.

‘Got what?’ Vince asked.

A smile spread across her face. This might be the answer she had been looking for. If it worked, she would have to reward Juliette for the flash of inspiration, so bright that it was like a meteor sailing across the sky.

‘I think I know what I’m going to do,’ she said, patting the seat next to her. ‘I think I’ve found a way to keep Gertie on the road.’




Chapter Two (#ulink_caf2ffbc-3cd3-5d35-ac49-d7254184cb59)







‘Have you completely lost it this time, Charlie?’

At least Bea Fishington wasn’t one for mincing her words.

‘I don’t think so,’ Charlie replied, following her from the kitchen into the main café, carrying a plate of freshly baked raspberry flapjacks. ‘I think this could be a real turning point, for me and Gertie – and for you and The Café on the Hill.’

Bea folded her arms over her large chest, the silk of her cream blouse straining across it. ‘Serving cakes on your uncle’s bus? I know you’re sad about losing him – completely understandable; he was a gentleman – but you’re looking for harmony where there is none to be found.’

‘I disagree,’ Charlie said, sliding the flapjacks into place behind the glass counter. ‘It would be a way to get this place known, to expand its range beyond these four walls.’ She gestured to the smart, well-appointed café. The walls in question were slate grey, complemented by a black-and-white chequerboard floor. Accents around the room in lemon yellow and sky blue gave it a modern twist. There were high benches in the window and a mixture of squashy sofas and upright chairs, inviting lone workers with laptops, couples, large families and groups of friends.

Early in the morning on a dull Monday at the beginning of March it was quiet, with a couple of post-school-run mums drinking lattes and two men with grey hair sitting by the window sharing a toasted teacake.

Bea glared at her, but Charlie stood up straighter and refused to look away. She had a height advantage over Bea – over most other women, if she was honest – and a determination that had got her into trouble on more than one occasion. But she knew this was a good idea. The area around Cheltenham and Ross-on-Wye, England’s glorious, green Cotswolds, was always hosting fairs, festivals and myriad other events, where a beautiful vintage bus selling cakes would be popular. Every time Charlie had moaned to Hal that she had nothing to do at the weekend, that Juliette was with Lawrence or Stuart was staying in London for some posh bankers’ do, Hal would reel off a list of all the classic car shows and autumn fêtes and dog owners’ carnivals that were happening, leaving her with no room to complain.

‘I’m not after world domination,’ Bea said, turning to the coffee machine. ‘I know you’re ambitious, Charlie. I could see that from the moment I met you, and I have no doubt that you’ll be running your own café or catering empire before too long. But selling cakes from a bus? It sounds too tricky. How would you store ingredients, make drinks en masse?’

‘People live on buses,’ Charlie countered. ‘They cook and shower and sleep on buses, so selling a few coffees and scones couldn’t possibly be a problem.’

‘You say that like you’ve not researched it at all.’ Bea frothed the milk, pausing their conversation while a loud whooshing sound filled the space between them.

‘That’s what Google’s for.’ She grinned and shrugged, her smile falling when Bea didn’t return it. ‘I’m going to speak to Clive, one of my dad’s friends, tomorrow. He’s coming to give Gertie a once-over anyway, and he’s refurbished a few buses, so he’ll know exactly how I can get a coffee machine and a fridge installed on it.’

Bea handed Charlie a cappuccino, and she sprinkled it with chocolate dusting. ‘Is it even laid out like a café?’ she asked.

Charlie leaned against the counter and blew on her drink until a dent appeared in the thick froth. ‘It’s got front-facing seats. But I thought, to begin with, I could just serve from it. People can sit on the bus if they like, but I’ll treat it like a takeaway food truck, just to see if it’s possible. Then I can think about modifying it properly. The Café on the Hill could have an offshoot, like a cutting from a plant. The Café on the Bus. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? And you know the food will be good quality; I’ve never let you down in that respect, have I? Why not spread your wings? Give yourself some wheels, expand your horizons.’

‘You have put so many mixed metaphors into that sentence, I don’t know where to begin.’

‘Begin by saying yes, Bea. Just to the Fair on the Field. People in Ross-on-Wye know your café. It’s big enough to be a proper test, and small enough that if it all goes hideously wrong – which it won’t,’ Charlie added quickly – ‘then your reputation won’t be dented. One event, one chance.’ She clasped her hands together in front of her.

‘And you’re definitely speaking to this Clive person tomorrow? There can be no cut corners with food hygiene or health and safety. Everything has to be done properly.’

‘It will be,’ Charlie said.

Bea’s shoulders dropped, her lips curving into what could almost be considered a smile. ‘I’ll need to see plans. Exactly how it’s going to work. Then I’ll make a decision.’

‘Of course,’ Charlie said, nodding.

‘And just the Fair on the Field. One gig, and we’ll take it from there, OK?’

‘OK. Absolutely. Thank you, Bea. You won’t regret it.’

‘I’d better not,’ she muttered.

Charlie went to adjust the window display where one of her daffodils, lovingly crafted out of tissue paper and card, had drooped and was giving off a despondent air. Her pulse was racing. Serving cakes on Hal’s bus, to the general population, at a public event. Somehow, in light of Bea’s cold, logical reality, it seemed like the most ludicrous idea on the planet.

But people did live on buses. They travelled around in their portable houses, where they had all the mod cons. Some were even luxurious, like tiny five-star hotels. Surely fitting a few basic appliances wasn’t too far beyond the realms of possibility? Well, she would find out tomorrow. She hoped that Clive would make it easy for her.

After not having been in Hal’s garage for months, Charlie was back there for the second time in less than a week. Today, she had the sun at her back. It was a weak March sun that couldn’t cut through the cold, but it was welcome nonetheless, as were the sounds of metal against metal and her dad chatting to Clive while he did something unfathomable to Gertie’s engine.

Everything about today was an improvement on last time, except that Juliette wasn’t here. She was all the way down in Cornwall, with Lawrence, her cats and a sea view. Charlie would go and see her – of course she would. But she couldn’t go now, not when she had the fire of possibility lighting her up.

Clive had assured her and Vince that Gertie wasn’t destined for the scrapheap, and that he would be able to have her back to her best in a day or so. He’d also been more positive than Charlie could have hoped about the other alterations she wanted to make.

‘So you really think it’s possible?’ she asked, when there was a lull in the conversation. ‘Putting in a serving hatch and a coffee machine. A fridge, even?’

‘Oh, it’s doable,’ Clive said, standing up. He was a short man with silver hair, ruddy cheeks and cheerful blue eyes. ‘I can’t get it perfect with your budget and timescales, but for the Fair on the Field it’ll see you right.’

‘Thank you,’ Charlie said. ‘And it’s safe, is it? What you’re going to do?’

Clive chuckled and tapped his spanner against his chin. ‘It won’t put her at risk of explosion if that’s what you’re worried about. Ideally, she’d need a generator and an extra water tank, some of the seats ripped out, but you can come to those if it’s worth pursuing.’

‘That’s great!’ Charlie did a little jump. Marmite barked and attacked her boot.

‘Your mum’s going places,’ Vince said, picking up the Yorkipoo and rubbing his fur. ‘Shame it’s not Cornwall, though.’ He gave Charlie a sideways glance.

‘I’ll go and see her,’ Charlie protested. ‘But the Fair on the Field is the perfect opportunity to test this idea out. I can visit Juliette anytime, and Cornwall will be nicer in the summer. Also, if I do it once the flat’s sorted, I’ll have more holiday money.’

‘It’s not gone through yet?’ her dad asked, putting Marmite on the floor.

‘Nope. We’ve got buyers, but God knows what Stuart’s doing. I need to call the solicitor and see where we’re up to.’

‘It’s a lot to be dealing with, love. Are you sure trying Gertie out for this café bus business is the best step right now? I was surprised that you even wanted to come and look at her so soon, and this new venture is going to be a lot of work. Don’t you want a bit of breathing space? Coast along while you sort out the flat and let life … settle?’

‘I can’t let go of this idea now,’ she said. ‘It’s in my head, and I’m going to be unsettled and fidgety until I’ve tried it. One event, then I’ll have some idea if it’s worth more investment – of my time and, maybe, a bit more money. Besides, Bea might have changed her mind by tomorrow. I need to strike while the iron’s hot.’

Vince looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. She could see the concern in his eyes, but she knew that he wouldn’t push it.

Everyone dealt with loss in different ways. It wasn’t great timing that her relationship with Stuart had imploded soon after her uncle had become ill, but at least it couldn’t get much worse. And her biggest fear – or the one it was easiest to focus on, at least – Gertie and what would happen to her, was on the way to being solved. Her dad couldn’t be against her revitalizing Hal’s pride and joy. He was worried about her, but there was no need for him to be.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I almost forgot. I brought snacks.’ She dug in her bag and pulled out the box of orange and chocolate-chip muffins she’d made early that morning. Clive downed tools immediately. Marmite pawed at her legs, and she gave him a couple of puppy treats.

While they were eating, Charlie took her time to walk slowly around Gertie. Clive still needed to fix the panelling, but with the sunshine hitting her glossy cream paint and reaching through the windscreen to alight on the newly polished metalwork, the bus was looking a lot better. Almost like her old self.

And soon, she would be transformed again. The changes would be small, but significant. They would allow Charlie to give the Routemaster a brand-new lease of life. And everyone deserved a second chance.

As Clive and her dad gave her the thumbs-up for her muffins, she felt the first flutterings of excitement. This could be the start of something great, for her and for Gertie. When you’re down, the best course of action is to get up, and aim higher than you’ve ever aimed before. Charlie Quilter had never been one for wallowing: she was going to prove to everyone just how bad at it she was.




Chapter Three (#ulink_13aac502-2dc3-5186-8308-81a68061739d)







The Fair on the Field took place at the bottom of the hill on which Ross-on-Wye town centre proudly sat. It was a beautiful spot, with the River Wye wending along the bottom of the field, and the buildings of the town looking down on it from up high. When Charlie had phoned up to book a space, the organizers had assured her that, despite being close to the river, the ground was firm enough for Gertie; they’d had enough food trucks over the years and never had a problem. Even so, her pitch was at the edge closest to the road, where the ground was more solid. But it had rained heavily during the night, and while the sun was shining down on them now, as if the torrential downpour had never happened, Charlie could feel the wheels spinning as she navigated Gertie over the bumpy grass to her slot.

At least she knew how to drive the bus. Her time spent on the vintage Routemaster had started when she was little, Hal teaching her how to steer in car parks from his lap and, once she was old enough to legally drive, being patient with her about turning circles and visibility, how much space she needed to manoeuvre it into a tight spot. He’d encouraged her to take the bus driving test soon after she’d passed her car test with flying colours, and she was proud of her ability to keep the ride as smooth as possible, to not panic when faced with the narrowest of lanes.

‘OK, Sal?’ she called back into the bus, where Sally, The Café on the Hill’s newest staff member, seventeen years old, and with a pile of caramel curls on top of her head, was sitting quietly.

‘I’m fine,’ she replied, her high voice rising further as they went over a large rut in the grass.

Charlie grinned. They had made it. Clive’s hard work had paid off and now, with only the loss of a couple of downstairs seats, she had a small preparation area, and an under-the-counter fridge where she could keep chocolate éclairs and fresh cream cakes. She had made individual portions of Eton Mess and Key Lime pies, and a range of flapjacks, brownies and millionaire’s shortbread. Clive had also installed a fresh-water tank. It was small, but it meant she could have a proper coffee machine with a milk frother.

Everything was fairly cramped, but that didn’t matter because she wasn’t going to invite people onto the bus. What remained of the downstairs seating was taken up with her trays of goodies, and one of the long windows was now a serving hatch. She could unclip it and pull it up, securing it inside the bus while she served through the opening, as with any other food truck. It was perfect.

Gertie was a half-cab Routemaster, with the traditional hobbit-sized door on the driver’s side, used to climb into the cab, and the main doorway and stairs at the back of the bus. When Hal had given her a makeover a couple of years ago, he had made the cab accessible from inside the bus – he told Charlie he was getting too old to hoick himself over the wheel arch – and installed a tiny but functional toilet under the stairs. Clive had made Gertie as good as new and, with the extra additions, she had everything she needed, Charlie hoped, to work as a café bus. But this day would prove it either way; she was determined to make a success of it.

She slowed the bus down, and a young man in a fluorescent jacket waved her into position. Sally arranged the trays of bakes strategically around the serving hatch while Charlie jumped down from the bus and, registering nervously how spongy the grass was, slid her menu into the frame Clive had bolted on next to the opening. She was offering a selection of sweet and savoury treats, including a sausage roll with flaky pastry and a herby sausage-meat filling. Ideally they’d be served warm, but they tasted delicious cold as well.

‘Ready to go?’ she asked Sally, who was smoothing down her apron and staring at the sausage rolls as if they might bite. ‘It doesn’t open officially for another half an hour, but it may be that other traders will want a snack before the general public arrive.’

Sally had only been working at The Café on the Hill for two weeks, and behaved as if everything was a potential threat. Charlie knew she’d come out of her shell sooner or later, and thought that a day spent at a fair, where almost anything could happen, would be good for her.

‘I’ve arranged all the cakes and pastries,’ Sally said, giving Charlie a nervous smile.

‘They look great. Shall we go and hang the banner up?’

She’d had it made at one of the local printer’s; a beautiful sign in tarpaulin-weight material that would run the length of the vehicle, declaring it to be The Café on the Busin burgundy writing on a cream background. Beneath it, in a forest-green font, it read: An offshoot of The Café on the Hill. It had brass-capped eyelets threaded through with thick chord, so she could attach it easily over the upper deck windows. Even Bea had widened her eyes appreciatively when she had showed her, rolling it out along the tabletops in the café.

She had also added a couple of photos of Gertie to The Café on the Hill’s Instagram page, and had received 117 likes on the picture she’d posted yesterday. It needed work, but it was a solid start.

Now Charlie led the way up the narrow staircase, the metal rail cool under her hand, and passed one end of the banner to Sally.

‘We’re going to have to hang it out of that end window, and then I’m going to have to grab it and unroll it outside, going to each window in turn to get it running the whole length of the bus. So just hold on, OK?’

‘OK,’ Sally parroted back.

It was hard going. She had to lean her arms out of adjacent windows so she could hold it up and then unfurl it further, but after ten minutes of sweating and muttered swearing, she was tying her end of the banner firmly onto the window. It was the right way round. It wasn’t upside down. Quietly triumphant, they rushed outside to look at their handiwork, and Charlie grinned. ‘The Café on the Bus,’ she declared. ‘We are open for business!’

Within two minutes of the banner going up, she had a queue of five people looking eagerly up at her through the serving hatch.

‘What’s this, love,’ said an old man with a flat cap pulled low over his eyes. ‘Hal’s old bus getting a new lease of life?’

‘Absolutely,’ she replied. ‘He left it to me, and I’m giving it a fresh start as a food truck. What do you think?’

‘I think my Daphne will miss the tours,’ he said, accepting a sausage roll and a black coffee in a sturdy takeaway cup. Charlie hadn’t had time to get them branded, but had picked out cream and green cups to tie in with the bus’s colour scheme.

‘Lots of people will,’ Charlie admitted. ‘Hal ran brilliant tours, but I can’t do that.’

‘Someone else could mebbe take them on, then,’ he added thoughtfully, and bit into the sausage roll. He eyed it appraisingly, and then her, and then shrugged. ‘Not sure it’s meant to be a café bus, like.’

Charlie kept her smile fixed. ‘I’m just giving it a go. This is our first outing together.’ She patted the side of the bus, feeling like something out of a cheesy Sixties film.

‘I say good luck to you,’ called a tall man in a navy fleece from further back in the queue. ‘Coffee out of a bus is a marvellous idea. Gives it a bit of individuality. You going to serve three-course dinners from your little window, too?’

‘Oh, shush your mouth, Bill Withers,’ said a bright-faced, plump lady Charlie recognized from the chemist’s in town. ‘This young lass is using her initiative. Would you rather the bus stayed locked away in a garage until it rusted to nothing? We all know Hal wouldn’t have wanted that.’

‘I just think it’s hilarious,’ Bill countered, while Charlie tried to serve and not let embarrassment overwhelm her. ‘Serving food from Hal’s old bus. Whatever next? Driving to work in the Indian takeaway?’ He laughed a loud, unbridled laugh that had several people turning in their direction.

‘Oh, don’t mind him,’ the woman said as she reached the front of the queue. ‘He’s so far stuck in the past he should be wearing black and white.’ She rolled her eyes, and this time Charlie’s smile was genuine.

‘It was only an idea,’ she replied. ‘Hal left me the bus, and I wanted to put it to good use, to have it out in the open, like you said. I’m a baker, so I thought I could combine the two.’

‘And it’s a grand idea,’ her supporter said, accepting a slightly haphazard-looking Eton Mess that was living up a bit too well to its name – Charlie would have to do something to keep her puddings upright when they were driving across rough ground. ‘You iron out a few … wrinkles, and it’ll be a triumph. Don’t listen to the naysayers. You do you, and let everyone else worry about themselves.’

‘I will,’ Charlie said. ‘Thank you for the vote of confidence.’

The morning passed quickly, and Charlie had a constant stream of people buying coffees, flapjacks and Bakewell tarts, and the sausage-roll stock was depleting quickly. Music had started up from somewhere, and there were families and groups of friends, people with dogs on leads milling about the field. A falconry demonstration was taking place in the cordoned-off square they were calling the arena, and Charlie knew that, despite all the hustle and noise, Gertie stood out. She was taller than most of the other food trucks, striking with her cream and green paintwork and, if nothing else, word of mouth was doing its job regarding her cakes.

‘What do you think, Sal?’ she asked. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’

‘It’s great,’ Sally squeaked. Charlie would have to work on her confidence once they were back in the café.

She turned to the hatch, her head full of strategies for female empowerment, and her smile fell. There, first in the queue, was Stuart Morstein. He looked effortlessly handsome in his jeans, white shirt and navy jacket, his light brown hair pushed away from his forehead. He grinned at Charlie, and her insides shrivelled.

‘A cheese scone and a latte, thanks, Charlie. Can I have the scone buttered?’

‘No problem,’ she said, through lips that wouldn’t work properly. What was he doing here? Was it something to do with their flat? If so, why hadn’t he called her? The last time she had spoken to the solicitor she had said the sale was going through, they were just waiting on some final paperwork. It was a typically vague answer, and she should have gone to Stuart to begin with, but she was avoiding him at all possible costs. He was obviously not affording her the same courtesy.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked, while Charlie frothed the milk and Sally buttered a scone and put it in a paper bag with a green napkin and some Parmesan crisps.

‘Good, thanks,’ she said, wondering where Annalise, her replacement, was. Charlie wouldn’t be surprised to discover she was too proud to come to the countryside, and lived her life entirely in London or on holiday in the Maldives. At least, she thought as she gazed at the man who until four months ago had been her boyfriend, being in the bus meant she could look down on him for a change.

Sally handed her the bag. Charlie leant out of the hatch to pass Stuart his coffee and scone, and the bus lurched forwards. Charlie was thrown sideways, scalding latte covering her hand, her shoulder bashing against the window frame. Behind her, Sally screamed, and Stuart took a step backwards, his features contorting in alarm.

‘Shit.’ Charlie tried to right herself and the bus lurched again, this time sending up a thick spurt of mud from the front wheel onto Stuart’s jeans.

‘We’re sinking!’ Sally screamed. ‘Is it a sinkhole? Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!’ She ran through the bus and flew down the steps.

Charlie tried again to pull herself up and Gertie lurched for a third time, the front left-hand wheel sinking further into the mud. Stuart’s latte cup was almost empty now, most of it dripping over Charlie’s hand, and she had dropped the scone after lurch number two. Stuart was standing back, looking at her as if she’d turned into a monster, and he wasn’t the only one.

A crowd had formed, and as Charlie scanned the faces of the people who were standing and staring, rather than helping, she saw that their expressions ranged between horror and glee.

After the third lurch the bus seemed to settle, and Charlie dragged herself to standing, which was difficult now that the ground below her was tilted.

‘Jesus Christ, Charlie,’ Stuart said, somewhat pompously, she thought. ‘This bus is a death trap! Anyone could have been standing at the front.’

‘The ground’s too soft, that’s all. And nobody would have got hurt even if they had been standing at the front. It hasn’t rolled. It’s just … sunk a bit.’ She peered out of the hatch and looked at her submerged wheel. Would she be able to drive it out? Would anyone help with planks?

Her ex took a step closer, his hands on his hips. This was classic Stuart: he would rescue her, fix her calamities and errors of judgement like the wonderful, patient human being that he was, and expect her to be eternally grateful. Charlie narrowed her eyes, preparing to do the opposite of whatever he suggested, when there was a flapping sound and the banner, which they had secured so tightly at the beginning of the morning, came free of its restraints and fell towards the ground. Except that Stuart was in the way, so it landed, quite expertly, on top of him, as if he was a fire that needed extinguishing.

‘For fuck’s sake, Charlie!’ came Stuart’s muffled voice from somewhere beneath thebanner. Even though Charlie’s audience seemed less than approving of her, and poor Gertie was clearly wedged quite solidly in the mud, and this probably meant that her time running The Café on the Buswas already at an end – the shortest-lived career in history – Charlie started laughing. Once she’d started, she couldn’t stop, tears of mirth pouring down her cheeks as she surveyed the carnage from the hatch window, trying to keep her footing on the lopsided floor. As Stuart emerged, flustered and fuming, Charlie hid inside her bus, where scones and flapjacks were scattered like autumn leaves, and the coffee machine was beginning to leak.

‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Shitting hell.’ The sight was sobering, and her laughter left her as suddenly as it had started.

She heard footsteps and looked up, prepared to brace herself against her ex-boyfriend’s anger, and found another man standing in the doorway, his movements hesitant as he tried not to succumb to gravity and fall into her.

‘Hello,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘How can I help?’ In the circumstances, it was a ridiculous thing to say. She wasn’t in a position to help anyone.

‘Are you all right?’ He had dark blond hair crafted into some sort of quiff, and was wearing a denim jacket over dark cords and a black T-shirt with a green logo on it. His skin looked impossibly smooth above the designer stubble, and his hazel eyes were warm.

‘I’m OK,’ she said, raising her arms hopelessly.

‘I’ve had this happen before.’ He edged forward and held out his hand. ‘Oliver Chase. I run The Marauding Mojito.’He gestured over his left shoulder. ‘I’ve got experience of sinking, leaking, wasp swarms – you think it up, I’ve had it happen. But this is your first time?’

‘First and last, I should think,’ Charlie said, shaking his hand.

He gave her a gentle smile. ‘No need to be so dramatic. First thing we need to do is get her upright. And I’d like to say I can help, but I’m a man, not a god. So … recovery?’

‘I have a number in my phone.’ Charlie walked hesitantly to the cab, holding onto anything she could, and took her phone out of the valuables box. She didn’t know Oliver or The Marauding Mojito,but she was grateful for his calmness. Of course she would have made this decision on her own, but it was as if he’d sucked all her panic away.

He was peering out of the hatch towards the site of the submergence. Some of the crowd was still there, and Stuart was tersely dusting himself down, his ego more bruised than anything else. Charlie took a deep breath. It was a hiccup, nothing more. She could still do this.

And then there were more footsteps. She and Oliver both turned to see who else had come to help, and were met with a face that was very familiar to Charlie, and yet stormier than she had ever seen it.

Bea Fishington gripped onto the walls of the bus as if it was a sinking boat, still rocking violently.

‘Oh Charlie,’ she said, her expression a mixture of pity and distress, ‘what on earth has happened here?’




Chapter Four (#ulink_f865363c-f119-5b20-acef-cea414d5cb96)







‘A sabbatical? But I—’

Bea held a hand up to shush her, picked one of the fallen sausage rolls off a seat, dusted it down and bit into it. Charlie glanced out of the window and was relieved to see that the crowd had mostly dispersed now the action seemed to be over. They were waiting for recovery to come and haul them out of the mud.

‘My niece, Nora, is coming to stay with me over the summer,’ Bea said. ‘I know that’s a way off, but I can train Sally up. She may be timid, but she’s got baking experience and a willing attitude.’

‘But you can’t do without me,’ Charlie replied, failing to keep the shock out of her voice.

‘Charlie,’ Bea sighed and lowered herself into a tilting seat, ‘you’re taking on too much. This would have been a good idea, I think, if you had been able to give more time and thought to its execution, but I’m just not sure you’re capable of that at the moment. Losing Hal, breaking up with Stuart and having the responsibility of the bus, too. You’re trying to run at a hundred miles an hour when, really, you should be slowing down.’

‘I don’t need to slow down,’ Charlie said. ‘I need to keep working, to stay busy and—’

‘Sometimes we have to let other people decide what’s best for us,’ Bea cut in, ‘and I am telling you to take a break. Come back to the café after the summer. Spend time looking for a new place to live, go and see Juliette or go and lie by a pool, somewhere hot. But stop thinking about work. Give yourself time to heal.’

Charlie opened her mouth to respond, but Bea’s warning look said it all. Instead, she slumped into a chair and surveyed the destruction around her.

Most of her stock had fallen onto the floor, the coffee machine was broken and the fridge was making a strange whirring noise. She could hear people outside, shouting for other stalls to be moved out of the way in anticipation of the rescue truck’s arrival.

She should be grateful that Bea was being so lenient, even if her appearance had made Oliver retreat so hastily that she could only offer a shouted ‘thank you’ as he hurried away. Stuart seemed to have stalked off to nurse his wounded pride, though she wasn’t about to check. She would be happy if she never saw him again.

In the quiet that followed, Charlie thought back to their final argument. She had found out from Andrew, one of Stuart’s friends, that her boyfriend had been cheating on her with Annalise, a sultry, dark-haired analyst who worked at the same bank as him in London. She hadn’t confronted him immediately. She hadn’t wanted to believe he’d been cheating.

She’d gone into Cheltenham and found a beautiful teapot shaped like a narwhal. In the midst of her worries, it had made her smile, so she’d bought it and taken it back to the flat. Stuart had told her it was hideous, and that she couldn’t have it out on display while he was there. She had flipped, and it had all come spilling out. He hadn’t seemed remotely sorry for betraying her, and he certainly hadn’t uttered the ‘s’ word. Stuart Morstein was the definition of unapologetic.

Charlie sighed. She felt weary all of a sudden. Maybe they were all right; Bea and her dad and Juliette. Some time away from it all would do her good. Forget the mistake, Hal had often said to her. Remember the lesson. Could that be what today’s disaster was telling her? Get away from it all, change your perspective. Don’t take on too much all at once.

She heard the beeps of the approaching tow truck, stood up as best she could on Gertie’s off-centre floor, and went to greet the poor person who was going to have to pull them out of the mud.

‘Oh goodness,’ Juliette squeaked down the phone once Charlie had recounted the whole sorry incident to her. ‘Please, please come. Stay for two weeks – four, six – whatever you want. We can go on boat tours and for fish and chips in Padstow, and take Marmite for long, character-building walks on the beach. You won’t regret it – Porthgolow is the perfect place. It’s so picturesque. And,’ she added, laughing, ‘it’s Cornwall, so, you know, full of tourists. You could even do a recce, see if it’s somewhere you think your café bus could work in the future.’

Charlie peered out of her bedroom window. It was her old room in her mum and dad’s house, but it had been turned into a guest bedroom, with yellow-flocked wallpaper and a peacock blue vanity stand. Outside, her dad was walking slowly round the garden, on the phone to someone, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Marmite trailed behind him, racing back on himself whenever he got too close to the smoke. Vince had only started smoking again since Hal had died, and she wondered if she could use her dog as a reason to guilt him into stopping again.

‘Char?’ Juliette prompted. ‘What do you think?’

‘The café bus was a disaster.’

‘You were bound to have teething problems. Besides, they shouldn’t do any kind of event on that field. It used to flood all the time. Gertie didn’t stand a chance.’

‘But she will in Porth-whatsit?’

‘Porthgolow. We have all sorts of fairs and shows in Cornwall, and the variety of food trucks I’ve seen beats the Cotswolds hands down. But I’ve never seen a bus, so you’d be unique.’

‘Gertie needs a lot of work. The stuff Clive did would have been OK for today if it hadn’t been for the whole sinking issue, but if it’s going to be a proper café bus, with tables and an oven and storage and a serving hatch, then it needs a full makeover.’

Charlie heard a chirrup down the phone and wondered whether it was Ray or Benton. She had only met the cats once – Ray a Siamese, Benton a white Persian – when she’d made the trip down to Juliette’s old house in Newquay the previous year. She wondered if they’d mind a Yorkipoo invading their space.

‘We can talk about Gertie when you’re here,’ Juliette said. ‘How feasible, and expensive, all this conversion business is. Come and have a holiday. You’ve dealt with so much recently, Char. Losing Hal …’

‘Losing my boyfriend and my uncle in quick succession, and being forced into a break by my boss because I’m too calamitous to be trusted?’

‘You’ve also gained a bus,’ Juliette added enthusiastically. ‘But it can’t be easy at the moment, and I’m not sure you’ve taken time to process it all. Come and dip your toes in our beautiful blue waters, soak up the salt and the spray. Rejuvenate, revitalize.’

‘Do a whole load of yoga?’ Charlie asked.

‘The benefits are incredible,’ Juliette pressed. ‘You’ve never given it a chance.’

‘I promise I will. This time.’

She heard Juliette’s sharp breath. ‘So you’re coming, then? Soon?’

Charlie watched a couple of starlings wheeling in the grey sky. ‘Yes,’ she said, her stomach lurching at the suddenness of her decision. ‘I’m coming. How does next week sound?’

She wasn’t sure if the noise was one of the cats, or Juliette squeaking with delight.

‘Next week sounds perfect. God, Charlie. I can’t wait to introduce you to my beautiful village. You’re going to fall in love with it, just like we have.’

Charlie hugged her mum and dad goodbye the following Monday morning. She was expecting an outpouring of emotion, but their smiles were warm and, she thought, a little on the smug side.

‘Goodbye, darling.’ She was swept into her mum’s perfumed embrace.

‘Take care, my girl,’ her dad said, squeezing her shoulders. ‘Of you and that dog and that bus. Are you sure you want to take it?’

Charlie turned to look at Hal’s bus. Her bus. She had not survived her mud bath unscathed, and looked as bad as she had before Clive had worked his magic, if not worse. There was some scratching along the bumper where the tow truck had got hold of her, and the makeshift serving area had come away from the wall. Everything was dishevelled, splattered with dirt or coffee stains, broken or dented.

Charlie had vowed that she would fix her up, and do it properly this time. She had decided, at the last minute, that she would take her down to Cornwall instead of her old Golf. Juliette had told her that she needed time away from everything to think, but how could she make any decisions when she was in Cornwall and the bus was here, in the garage? If she had Gertie with her, then they could give it a second run, somewhere with beachside car parks and market squares with firm, unyielding concrete. She was sure there would be somewhere in Juliette’s village where she could park a vintage bus.

‘I’m going to take her,’ she said confidently. ‘I know it’s a long drive, but we’ll stop on the way. And it’ll be worth it once we get there.’

‘All right then, treasure. Be safe.’

‘I will, Dad. And you look after yourselves. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.’

As Charlie put Marmite in his crate, then lifted herself into the driver’s seat, she wondered if her parents would be OK without her. Her dad was still so upset about Hal, and her mum did such a good job of appearing capable and brusque, she was worried they would circumnavigate their large house entirely separately, dealing with problems in their own ways. And, aside from everything else, without her to make tray bakes and muffins and Scotch eggs, what would they actually eat?

Charlie found the drive to Cornwall cathartic. She knew all Gertie’s quirks, the slight catch of the gearbox and the way the left indicator stuck occasionally. The heater blew alternate hot and cold air for the first hour, and Marmite yowled plaintively about not being allowed to sit on her lap, but as she drove south the sun rose higher in the sky, white clouds puffed in attractive streaks across a pure, fresh day, and she began to relax.

The roads were busy with weekday traffic, salespeople’s hatchbacks and trucks ferrying goods to destinations across the country. Gertie got several hoots, as she always did, and Charlie waved back, touched that people still took time to delight in the vintage bus and weren’t entirely distracted by the miles of tarmac they were eating through.

They took a rest-stop at a farmhouse-style restaurant with benches outside, warped and dusty from years of soaking up the elements, and Charlie demolished a cheese toastie while Marmite ran in ever-decreasing circles and then fell asleep at her feet. Her senses were alive, as if anticipating all the new sights, sounds and feelings that would wash over her in the coming weeks; her brain had switched to holiday mode. But, she reminded herself, she was also hoping to give Gertie a second run. The café bus wasn’t dead in the water just yet.

Porthgolow was on Cornwall’s north coast, between Padstow and Newquay, where the most spectacular, wild coastline was. She’d never heard of the village until Juliette had moved there, and wondered if it had anything to set it apart, like the artists and culture in St Ives, the fish restaurants of Padstow or the surfing and nightlife in Newquay. She turned off the main road and wended her way carefully down narrow, hedge-lined lanes with fields and dotted farmhouses beyond. She could see the point where the world ended, a deep blue strip of sea cutting through the pale grey-blue of the hazy spring sky.

She reached a T-junction, peered at the road signs, and turned left when she realized the faded, weather-beaten sign read: Porthgolow, half a mile.

She drove slowly, the sea to her right, beyond only a few metres of cliff top. And then, suddenly, the village appeared below her, cut into a typical Cornish cove, houses rising steeply up the cliff that faced a sandy, crescent-moon beach. There was a stone jetty at the far side of the sand with buildings beyond, including a single, primrose-yellow house out on a jutting lower promontory. Charlie could imagine a large wave sweeping it off the cliff in a single, devastating moment. How did anyone survive out there?

A sleek black BMW shot out of a driveway on her right, and Charlie slammed on the brakes. As it disappeared down the steep incline ahead of her, without a honk or wave of thanks, she peered at the gap through which the car had come.

The walls were high and smart, made out of sandy brick, and an understated brass sign read: The Crystal Waters Spa Hotel.The building beyond had a glass-fronted entrance; two bay-tree lollipops with twisted stems stood either side of the doors. She could see all the way through to the glass walls at the back of what must be the reception area, the glint of water beyond. It was a perfect sea-view haven, built on top of the cliff. It looked exclusive and unattainable.

A horn sounded behind her and Charlie raised her foot off the brake, taking the steep road into Porthgolow at a snail’s pace, her insides light with excitement at the thought of seeing her best friend. As she got closer to the heart of the village, she noticed that some of the buildings had considerable sea damage, their stone and paintwork battered and warped. She passed a small convenience store, the windows crammed with beach balls and nets for rock pooling. A local newspaper board advertised a Ten-page spring events pull-out inside! One of the houses on the front had a B&B sign swinging outside it, black lettering against a dirty-white background. A wooden board in one of the blind-covered windows announced they had vacancies.

At the bottom of the cliff, below the luxurious glass hotel, between the road and the sand, there was a patch of concrete with a couple of cars parked facing the beach. Charlie swung the bus onto it and brought it to a halt. Leaving Marmite sleeping in his crate, she went out to look at the charges. She had to read it twice before she realized that parking was free out of season. That was a bonus: she had anticipated paying a fortune to park Gertie until she found somewhere more permanent.

She stood, hand on hips, and surveyed her surroundings.

A woman and a young boy stood close to the waves, as if they hadn’t quite committed to paddling. Otherwise, the beach was empty. Charlie did a slow circle, taking in the stone jetty glistening under the weak sun, the houses rising in layers of small, neat roads up the cliff. Juliette had said to her. ‘We’re one road back from the beach, a two-minute walk. We can see the sea from one corner of the garden.’ The road she had driven in on passed along the sea front and then rose, equally steeply, on the other side of the cove, travelling out of the village again and, no doubt, joining the main coastal route once more. A second road cut up the middle of the cliff, at right angles to the beach, straight through the houses. Charlie assumed it was this one that would take her to Juliette’s place.

She leaned back to look up at The Crystal Waters Spa Hotel,but from her position could only see the very edge of the building, a hint of space-aged glass contrasting with the dark grey rock below it. She snapped a couple of photos on her phone, catching the glint of sun on the water, the spray as it hit the edge of the jetty. She would post them on her Instagram page, but what would the caption be? Time for a new start. Was that what this was?

She sighed, feeling unsettled. It was beautiful, as Juliette had told her it would be. It was quaint and picturesque; it had all the elements of a perfect seaside village. And it was still early in the year – of course it wouldn’t be busy right now. She let Marmite out of his crate and took his lead, pulled out the handle of her wheelie suitcase and made sure that Gertie was secure, locking the door Hal had added so that the back of the bus wasn’t permanently open.

As she followed the directions Juliette had given her to their terraced house, a seagull wheeled in the sky above her, letting out a plaintive, haunting cry, and Charlie landed on the word she’d been searching for. It was a word that took her back to that moment, in Hal’s garage, when she’d first seen Gertie after her uncle’s death. Forgotten.

Porthgolow looked forgotten.




Chapter Five (#ulink_09d2d3df-e60c-5fe2-8f09-667e39769b60)







Charlie knocked on the navy front door of Juliette and Lawrence’s terraced house and waited, inhaling the salty freshness of the sea air, feeling it whisper at her neck. It took only a few moments and then Lawrence was standing there, his eyes and smile widening at the same time. He flung his arms around her.

‘Charlie, awesome to see you! We’ve been so looking forward to having you to stay.’ It sounded over the top, even with Lawrence’s soft, Scottish accent, but Charlie knew he wasn’t being false – he was incapable of it. ‘Come in, both of you.’ He glanced at Marmite, asleep in Charlie’s arms, then took her suitcase.

‘Thanks so much for having me, L.’ She followed him down a narrow hallway towards the back of the house, which opened up into an airy but modest kitchen and dining room. It was modern, with white walls and cupboards, and accents in lime green. A back door with a glass partition looked out onto a neat garden with a patio and a lawn edged with flowerbeds. Charlie wondered which corner the sea was visible from.

Lawrence put the kettle on. He was a compact man, with muscular arms and a slightly ruddy complexion, his hair a mess of dirty blond. His eyes were blue, and he was rarely without a smile. Charlie had thought, the moment Juliette introduced him to her, that they complemented each other perfectly: Juliette petite and dark, often reserved, and Lawrence happily chaotic.

‘Tea or coffee? I know it’s getting on for four, but we don’t stand on ceremony in this house, so you can even have a glass of wine if you’d like.’

Charlie laughed. ‘Coffee would be great, thanks. It’s been a long drive.’

‘I’ll bet. Jules has nipped to the supermarket to get some stuff in, but I thought we could go to the pub tonight, anyway. Give you the Porthgolow tour. You can pop Marmite on a chair, by the way. Ray and Benton are in the front room, and I doubt they’ll give him much trouble.’

‘Thanks, but it’s not them I’m worried about.’

‘He’s a mischief, is he? Looks like butter wouldn’t melt.’

‘That’s because he’s asleep,’ Charlie said. She put Marmite gently on one of the dining-room chairs and gratefully accepted a mug of coffee. ‘How’s business going?’

Lawrence worked for a marquee company, Got it Covered, loaning out and putting up tents and marquees for events across Cornwall. He loved being outside, working with his hands, and had the physique to spend days wrestling temporary buildings into place.

‘Ah, it’s great,’ he said. ‘Every day there’s something new to see, someone else to chat to, and it’s a small company but we’re doing pretty well, regardless. I can’t think—’

‘I’m home!’

‘There she is.’ Lawrence grinned.

Charlie raced down the corridor to meet her friend, who was straining under the weight of her bags. Charlie took them, passed them to Lawrence and then, when all the shopping was in the kitchen and Juliette had removed her coat, gave her friend a hug.

‘You made it,’ Juliette said. ‘What do you think of Porthgolow?’

‘It’s lovely,’ Charlie rushed. ‘So pretty – the beach is gorgeous. And it’s … nice that it’s not too packed out with tourists.’

Lawrence made a choking sound, which Charlie realized was a stifled laugh.

‘It’s a bit tired in parts,’ Juliette admitted, ‘but it’s a great place to live.’

‘We’ve not been here during summer yet, Jules,’ Lawrence said. ‘It could be heaving, the roads constant gridlock. It could be a nightmare. Empty in winter, jam-packed in the summer.’

Charlie pictured the old-fashioned shop front and the other, weathered buildings. She tried to imagine it full of holidaymakers. The beach was beautiful, and it had a large enough car park, but it still had distinct ghost-town vibes.

‘How are you?’ Charlie asked, lifting Marmite onto her lap as they sat down. ‘It’s so good to be here.’

‘This is the perfect place to recharge your batteries. You will not be disappointed, I promise.’ Juliette took Lawrence’s hand across the table.

‘So what’s the plan?’ Charlie asked. ‘I’ve left Gertie in the car park by the beach. I can’t believe it’s free – I thought beaches charged through the nose all year round.’

Juliette looked at her as if she’d started speaking Spanish.

‘Jules?’ Charlie laughed nervously. ‘I’m not trying to be negative, I—’

‘You bought Gertie?’ Juliette hissed. ‘Is this an April Fool’s joke?’

‘It’s after midday.’ Lawrence glanced at his watch. ‘So technically it wouldn’t count.’

‘I thought that’s what you wanted?’ Charlie said. ‘You said my café bus idea could work, but it needed more thought. There’s no way we can do that with the bus stuck in Gloucestershire. What if we needed to measure the interior for appliances?’

‘I meant more generally,’ Juliette said. ‘That this could be a chance for you to relax, Char, to let the ideas percolate. Not start working on some kind of café bus action plan.’

‘What’s wrong with an action plan?’ she asked. Marmite lifted his head, his tail twitching as he took in the new surroundings.

Juliette sighed. ‘Nothing is wrong with an action plan. I use them all the time for my marketing projects. It’s only that I thought this could be a proper break for you. You’ve got your sabbatical, and I thought you were finally coming round to the idea of having an actual holiday.’

Charlie was about to respond when her dog jumped onto the table. ‘Marmite, no!’

But Juliette reached over and scooped him into her arms. ‘He’s so gorgeous, Char. Small and fluffy, and funny.’ Marmite wriggled in an endearing way. ‘Ray and Benton will love him.’

‘If he doesn’t torment them. I should apologize now for whatever ridiculous hijinks my puppy gets up to.’

‘That little mite can be forgiven anything,’ Lawrence said, ruffling his fur.

‘That is exactly the problem.’

They left for Porthgolow’s pub early that evening. As they turned left at the end of the road, to head towards the seafront and The Seven Stars, Charlie’s breath caught in her throat. The sun was hovering above the sea, the red, pink and peach of the sky intensely vivid. The whole of Porthgolow seemed trapped in its glow, as if the cliffs weren’t grey but golden, the windows of the houses catching hold of the sunset like fireflies.

‘Bloody hell,’ Charlie said softly, faltering so that Marmite walked into her and started fighting with her boot buckle.

‘I know,’ Juliette breathed.

‘It’s fucking awesome, is what it is,’ Lawrence finished. ‘The best thing about living here.’

‘Porthgolow means cove of illumination,’ Juliette explained as they continued towards the pub, their steps slow and deliberate against the steep decline of the hill. ‘There’s something about this particular spot on the coast, the way the cliffs curve inwards like a hug, that means it holds the light in a certain way as the sun sets. It always looks spectacular in the evenings, even in winter.’

‘It’s stunning,’ Charlie said. ‘I know that sunlight usually shows up every flaw, but somehow, here, it hides the cracks. It makes this place look magical.’

‘It is magical,’ Juliette replied. ‘You’ve only been here a few hours; you haven’t seen it properly yet.’

‘First impressions are important, though.’ Charlie thought of the hours she had spent crafting the window displays in The Café on the Hill,hoping to entice visitors inside.

The Seven Starswas on the seafront at the south side of the cove, its dark stone façade camouflaged against the cliff. Charlie saw again the strange yellow house beyond the jetty. In the sunset’s glow it looked almost fluorescent, and she wondered what it was like inside, with all the rooms full of overpowering light.

‘Here we are,’ Lawrence said cheerfully as he held open the door, and Charlie followed Juliette in. In contrast to its dark exterior, the inside of the pub had cream walls and rustic wooden furniture, booths with seats covered in burnt-orange fabric. It was simple and welcoming, and Charlie could imagine long cosy evenings drinking wine by the fire, or the windows thrust open, walls reflecting the water in summer. There were a few people enjoying an early evening drink, and it might have been her imagination, but she thought that the volume of conversation dipped as they made their way to the bar. Juliette and Lawrence didn’t seem to notice, so Charlie focused on the gleaming optics and the overriding smell of cooking fish. She inhaled deeply, her stomach rumbling on cue.

‘All right, Hugh?’ Lawrence asked.

‘Not too bad,’ said the man behind the counter. He was tall and slender, his ears sticking out below dark hair that was receding on top. Charlie thought he must be in his early fifties. ‘And who’s this with you and Jules?’

‘Hi.’ She held out her hand, trying not to smile at his Cornish lilt. ‘I’m Charlie, one of Juliette’s friends.’

‘My best friend,’ Juliette corrected, slipping her arm through Charlie’s. ‘She’s here for a few weeks, and we thought it was only fair to introduce her to your fisherman’s pie.’

‘Ooh, that sounds great. The smell is incredible.’

‘Charlie’s a cook – a baker,’ Juliette continued.

‘Oh?’ Hugh’s eyebrow went skywards. ‘D’you work in a restaurant?’

‘A café,’ Charlie admitted. ‘Is your fish pie fresh?’

Hugh grinned, and she silently berated herself. They were in Cornwall – literally on the seafront.

‘It’s a melting pot every evenin’, whatever the catch brings in.’

‘And Hugh’s sauce – that’s why it’s sogood!’ Juliette added.

‘It’s not my sauce, technically, but … a family recipe.’ He tapped the side of his nose.

‘I can’t wait to try it. I’m starving!’

They ordered a bottle of wine and took it to a booth, a few heads turning to watch them go. The window had small, thick panes, the glass old and warped so that the sun came through it in whorls of colour. Charlie unzipped her boots and wriggled her toes free, and Marmite, happy to explore beneath the table, pounced on them and chewed gently. She was used to it, and his teeth were still too small to cause any damage.

As Juliette poured the wine and they clinked glasses, contentment washed over her. She shouldn’t be worrying about what Juliette’s village looked like, or whether the people were all going to be as welcoming as Hugh. She was here to relax.

‘This pub is lovely,’ she said, sipping her wine. ‘And clearly it has great food. I’m going to indulge in it all while I’m here – fish pie, wine, ice creams. I might have a couple of treatments in that posh spa on top of the hill.’

Juliette bristled, and Lawrence gave her a sideways glance.

‘What?’ Charlie asked.

‘That place,’ Juliette said, ‘is a menace.’

Charlie frowned. ‘How can a place be a menace?’

‘Because it sits up there on the cliff top, catering for people who are prepared to pay three hundred pounds a night for sea-view rooms, God knows what in the restaurant and on spa treatments, and it doesn’t serve Porthgolow at all. The rich people hurtle through the village in their oversized cars, and they don’t use the beach or the shop or come in here. It’s like they want Porthgolow’s landscape and climate, but the thought of stepping outside that glass box and into the real world is too disgusting for them to bear.’ Juliette took a breath, and then a large gulp of wine.

‘Wow,’ Charlie said. ‘You’re not a fan, then?’ She remembered the BMW pushing out of the driveway ahead of her.

Lawrence laughed. ‘Nope.’

‘None of the villagers are,’ Juliette continued. ‘I’ve learnt all about it. It even has a private beach so the guests don’t have to mingle with normal people. You’d think a business like that would want to help the local economy, use local suppliers, be a part of the village. It’s hard enough being a newcomer in a tightknit place like this; you have to make an effort, not do everything you can to alienate yourself.’

Charlie chewed her lip. She hadn’t heard Juliette get this worked up since their gym in Cheltenham had stopped running advanced yoga on a Thursday evening. ‘What about the owners? Don’t they come from the village?’

Juliette shrugged.

‘Daniel Harper,’ Lawrence confirmed. ‘He lives here, a couple of roads back from ours, I think. But he’s pretty much at the hotel all day. And it only opened a few years ago; he came here from Sussex or Surrey, somewhere like that. He’s not born and bred Porthgolow.’

‘You know him?’

‘Bumped into him here and there,’ Lawrence said vaguely.

Charlie shot him a perplexed look and Lawrence gave the smallest shake of his head.

The kitchen door thwacked open and Hugh approached, carrying steaming bowls of fish pie, and the tension was shattered as they soaked up the smell and the steam, the pies’ potato tops perfectly golden and crunchy. A satisfied quiet fell over them as they dug in, blowing on their forks as if that would cool the contents instantly. Marmite scrabbled onto the seat, put his paw on Charlie’s thigh and looked at her beseechingly. Charlie shook her head.

Hugh returned with bowls of peas, cauliflower and carrots. He laughed when he saw Marmite, and a couple of peas spilled off the dish before he’d put it down.

‘Oh God,’ Charlie said, ‘I’m so sorry! I didn’t even ask if dogs were allowed in here.’

‘I would have said if they weren’t,’ Juliette mumbled through a mouthful of pie.

‘It’s a dog-friendly pub,’ Hugh confirmed. ‘I’d get hardly any custom if I banned four-legged friends. D’you want me to see if I’ve got any treats out back? He’s clearly got FOMO.’

‘That would be brilliant. Thanks, Hugh.’ Charlie felt a flush of pleasure as he walked away. She hadn’t even been here a day and already, it seemed, she was making friends.

After they’d scraped their bowls clean and finished hero-worshipping Hugh’s pie, Lawrence nudged the conversation back to Gertie.

‘Do you want me to take a look at her?’ he asked. ‘Juliette said that after the fair she’s looking a bit banged up.’

Charlie sighed. ‘I was far too slapdash about the whole project. I got the alterations rushed through, and I didn’t stop to consider whether the Fair on the Field was the right place to launch the café bus. It wasn’t fair on Gertie, or the customers.’ She pictured Stuart fighting to rid himself of the banner, and then Oliver with his calm, concerned expression. ‘But I had an email today. The sale on my and Stuart’s flat is finally going through. I should get confirmation in the next couple of days. We had a bit of equity, so …’

‘You want to put that into the bus, rather than a new place to live?’ Juliette asked gently. She knew all the ins and outs of Charlie and Stuart’s doomed relationship. ‘What about a deposit on somewhere to rent?’

Charlie folded her arms. ‘I can’t live with Mum and Dad for much longer, and now I’m without a job for the next few months, I can spread my wings. Part of me thinks a fresh start, in every sense, would be best. But I know it’s too soon to decide that,’ she added when Juliette frowned. ‘What I do know is that I can’t sell Hal’s bus. And if I can somehow combine my baking skills with bus tours, pitching up at festivals, then I would love to give it a go. I won’t spend all the money on doing her up, but I think it’s worth investing a bit and seeing what happens.’

‘I know a guy in Newquay who converts old camper vans,’ Lawrence said. ‘He’ll have a good idea about pimping her up, and I bet he’s never done a double-decker before. He’d probably be thrilled to have it as a project.’

‘Thanks, Lawrence. See, wasn’t it a good idea bringing Gertie down here?’ She grinned at Juliette, and her friend punched her on the arm. ‘We could even—’

The door banged open, and Marmite leapt onto Charlie’s lap and started barking. Juliette looked up, and as Lawrence turned in his seat and saw who had walked in, he let out a low ‘Ooooh.’

‘What is it?’ Charlie asked. She followed Juliette’s stern gaze, to where a man was resting both palms on the bar, leaning forward as if anxious to be served. The sleeves of his grey shirt were rolled up, revealing tanned forearms, and his dark hair was cut short around his neck. Standing patiently at his feet, tongue lolling out, was a sleek German shepherd. Charlie couldn’t see the man’s face, but there was something commanding about the way he stood.

‘Hugh?’ he called, his deep voice carrying. ‘Hugh, are you there?’

Hugh bustled through from the kitchen, smiling when he saw who it was. ‘Ah, Daniel, owaree?’

‘Good, thanks,’ Daniel replied. ‘I don’t have long, I just wondered if you knew anything about a busthat’s parked in the beach car park? It’s a vintage-style double-decker, but it’s pretty shabby. I don’t think it’s been there long, but …’ He sighed. ‘I’m keen for it to be moved to somewhere more … appropriate. I’m worried somebody’s dumped it there.’

Charlie flashed Juliette a look. ‘Who is this joker?’

‘That,’ Juliette replied, ‘if you haven’t yet worked it out, is Daniel Harper. Esteemed owner of The Crystal Waters Spa Hotel. Isn’t he charming?’ Her voice was dripping with sarcasm, which was so unlike her that Charlie felt completely upended.

‘I’m not sure, Daniel,’ Hugh was saying. ‘I hadn’t noticed a bus, but I’ve been here all day. Mebbe …’ His eyes slid towards their table.

Anyone could have made the deduction. A new face in the pub, an unexpected vehicle in the car park.

Daniel followed his gaze, and Charlie was pinioned to her seat by a pair of very dark, very direct eyes. She thought she saw Daniel flinch, but that might have been her imagination, or maybe she was the one who had reacted. Her cheeks burned. Her consternation at his unkind words about Gertie, his imperiousness and his direct stare, in a face that was, Charlie was just about capable of noticing, seriously, sternly handsome, all combined to make her feel even more at sea.

Daniel Harper turned fully to face their table, leaned against the bar and folded his arms across a wide, strong chest. His hair was slightly longer at the front, a curl of it softening the line of his forehead. ‘Do you know anything about that bus?’ he asked, without any hesitation, any introductions, or an ounce of embarrassment.

‘Nice to meet you too,’ Charlie said, finding her voice. ‘Now, what is it that you think I can help you with?’




Chapter Six (#ulink_0a9c6fbd-b660-5f93-a282-da1a6ff29601)







‘So you do know about the bus? Is it yours?’ Daniel took a step towards their table, his dog following loyally, and Marmite’s yelps increased in pitch. Daniel looked in alarm at the Yorkipoo, who was now pawing frantically at Charlie’s jumper. It was not, she thought, the best way to start what was clearly going to be an uncomfortable conversation.

‘Yes, it’s mine. I’m Charlie, by the way.’ She half stood, keeping a firm grip on Marmite, and held out her hand.

Daniel leaned forward and shook it, then stepped back again. He glanced at Lawrence and then Juliette, nodding briefly.

‘Daniel,’ Lawrence said, in a low, serious voice that sounded very unlike him.

‘Hi,’ Juliette mumbled.

‘You were saying something to Hugh about me having to move it?’ Charlie said. ‘The car park is open to the public and free, unless I’ve read the signs wrong.’

‘It doesn’t look right there,’ Daniel replied. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s true. It almost looks abandoned.’

‘It doesn’t look abandoned! I had an accident last week and she needs patching up, but Gertie is a beautiful bus and she’s in very good condition, considering her age.’ His lips twitched at her impassioned use of the bus’s name, but she kept going. ‘It’s not like she’s taking up space that would otherwise be occupied, and unless you’ve got a bus phobia then I can’t see how it’s causing you a problem.’

‘It couldn’t be parked outside wherever you’re staying? For … how many days?’

Charlie rolled her eyes.

‘She’s staying with us,’ Juliette said, putting her hand on Charlie’s arm. ‘And our road’s far too narrow to park the bus. She’s going to be here for at least a couple of weeks—’

‘Probably longer,’ Lawrence added.

‘So that’s good, isn’t it?’ Juliette beamed, and Daniel’s eyebrows knitted together.

‘There’s nowhere else it can go?’

‘I don’t see why it has to,’ Charlie said. ‘Do you own the village? Are you the mayor or something? You certainly act like you’re in charge.’

‘No, of course not,’ Daniel said. ‘But my hotel is—’

‘More important than anything else?’

Daniel folded his arms and stared at her. In the ensuing silence, his dog took a few steps forward, angling his nose up towards Marmite. Marmite whimpered and burrowed into Charlie’s armpit.

‘You’re staying in Porthgolow for a few weeks?’ he asked eventually.

‘Possibly the whole summer,’ Juliette replied for her.

‘Great.’ Daniel’s gaze didn’t leave Charlie’s, and she knew that she couldn’t look away; she couldn’t let him win.

‘I’m really looking forward to getting to know everyone here,’ Charlie told him.

‘And I can’t wait to see what the locals think of the bus.’ Daniel’s eyes shone. ‘They’re quite protective of their way of life. You’ll find that out sooner rather than later.’

‘Oh, I think I already have. Thanks for the lesson.’ She smiled sweetly.

Daniel shook his head and sighed. He tugged on the German shepherd’s lead just as Marmite inched forwards, his fear fading. ‘Nice to meet you, Charlie. Lawrence, Juliette.’ He nodded a brief goodbye and led his dog away.

‘See what I mean?’ Juliette said, once the door had closed behind Daniel. ‘He is selfish, obsessed with that hotel and completely uncaring.’ She folded her arms, and Lawrence reached over and squeezed her hand.

Charlie sipped her drink. Her friend was so mild-mannered and always saw the good in people, so for her to be so vehemently against Daniel was unusual. He certainly hadn’t endeared himself to Charlie, but he hadn’t come across as a monster, either. He was obviously passionate about his hotel, and confident to the point of arrogance, but she had seen amusement and intelligence in his eyes, and couldn’t believe he was entirely thoughtless. She was sure there was something more personal to Juliette’s dislike of him – something that she was reluctant to share. She wondered how she could tease the answer out of her.

‘So, back to Gertie,’ Juliette said, topping up their glasses. ‘When do we start work on her?’

It was a week later and Gertie was gone from the car park.

Charlie walked down the hill with Marmite, the sun almost absent today, just a weak pulse behind rolling clouds as if it was trying to push open a heavy door. She glanced up at Crystal Waters, and wondered if Daniel had thrown himself a party when she’d driven Gertie out of Porthgolow. Then again, from what little she’d seen, he didn’t seem like the partying kind. He’d more likely poured himself a large whisky in his walnut-panelled office and thrown fish chum to the sharks swimming in the glass tank underneath the floor. Charlie shook her head to clear the image; she’d been watching too many Bond films with Lawrence and Juliette.

But Gertie wasn’t gone because of what Daniel had said in the pub, or because he’d subsequently pulled strings with some Cornwall government cronies. Gertie was gone because Lawrence’s friend, Pete, who ran a surfing supplies shop in Newquay and refurbished camper vans in his spare time, had taken on Charlie’s project with gusto. He had listened to her and Juliette’s ideas in a hipster café overlooking Newquay sands while they drank coffee out of Kilner jars, and turned around the plans within a couple of days.

His realization of her ideas was amazing, and Charlie had been in a perpetual state of excitement ever since, picturing the tables with cup-holders built in, so that Charlie could drive the bus with customers on it but without fear of spillage; the scarlet and royal-blue seat covers, the kitchen area downstairs complete with sink, fridge and compact oven; a built-in coffee machine that would have no chance of slipping off the counter. The plans were as breathtaking as the price of the renovations, but once Charlie had heard them, she couldn’t imagine anything less for Gertie.

The sale of the flat had gone through, and she’d been able to put down the deposit for the work. Now Gertie had gone to stay in Pete’s workshop for the next month, to be gutted and rebuilt, with the necessary water tanks and generators, everything plumbed in, fixed and decorated. Charlie was looking forward to the final result with a heady mix of excitement and extreme nerves. At the same time she had been applying for her food handlers permit and her trading consent. Her food hygiene was up to date from working in The Café on the Hill, and even though she had concerns – mainly from the reactions of some of the locals – that she wouldn’t be welcome in Porthgolow, Cornwall Council seemed happy for her to have a pitch on the hard-packed sand at the top of the beach. Charlie couldn’t help but wonder if that was because, even in their eyes, the village needed livening up.

She pushed open the door of the Porthgolow Pop-In, the general store which, beyond the milk, bread and newspapers, was a treasure trove of weird and wonderful objects. Myrtle Gordon looked up from the Jackie Collins paperback she was reading, her glasses low on her nose.

‘Hi Myrtle,’ Charlie called tentatively.

‘Your dog, ’ees not peeing on my paintwork, is ’ee?’ she called. ‘If ’ee is, you can pay for it.’

Charlie felt herself blush. ‘He won’t, he’s just been— he’ll be fine.’

‘Good to know,’ Myrtle replied coldly, and went back to her book.

Charlie walked down the narrow aisles, marvelling at the Matchbox tin cars, the intricately designed thimbles and the Houdini-themed playing cards that looked as if they’d been there for at least thirty years. Antiques Roadshow would have a field day in here, she realized, as she picked up a figurine of a ballet dancer. It was heavy, possibly pewter, and she wondered who would want it as a souvenir of their time in a Cornish village. Not that she had the nerve to ask Myrtle about her shop-stocking policy. It was clear that the older woman wasn’t a fan of newcomers to the village. Or, at least, not a fan of her.

‘What y’after?’ Myrtle called, after a couple of minutes.

‘Picking up some biscuits,’ Charlie called back.

‘Not down there. Over by the tea and coffee.’

Charlie was about to respond when the bell dinged and a young voice said, ‘Morning Mrs Gordon.’

Myrtle’s voice softened. ‘Myttin da, Jonah. What can I help you with?’

Charlie had established, after a couple of confusing encounters, that “myttin da” meant good morning in Cornish.

‘We need some more sun lotion,’ Jonah said. ‘Dad asked me to come and get it.’

‘Next to the toilet paper.’

‘Cheers. How are you anyway, Mrs Gordon?’ Charlie thought Jonah sounded far too young to be asking such polite questions.

‘Not too bad, cheel. And yourself?’

‘I’m grand, thanks.’

Charlie peered around the corner of her aisle. Jonah, the cheel – or child, looked about eleven, with his blond hair spiky at the front, a bold yellow T-shirt and his legs, below shorts, as thin as sticks.

Jonah turned towards her and held his arm out. ‘I’m Jonah. My mum and dad run SeaKing Safaris from the jetty. Nice to meet you. You’re staying with Juliette and Lawrence, aren’t you? It’s your bus that’s caused a stir, isn’t it?’

‘Wow. News travels fast here.’ Charlie shook his hand.

‘Bleedin’ bus,’ Myrtle muttered. ‘What’s it for, anyway? Driving grockles around?’

Charlie frowned.

‘She means tourists,’ Jonah said, grinning. ‘We take the grockles out on the water, and you’re going to drive them around in your bus.’

‘Unless you are one,’ Myrtle added, drumming her fingers on the table. ‘Juliette said you were staying a few weeks. Tha’ right? Not longer?’

‘I’m going to see how it goes,’ Charlie said, her palms suddenly slick with sweat. Why was everyone so keen for her to leave so quickly? So much for a relaxing holiday.

‘What’s your dog’s name?’ Jonah asked. ‘He’s a Yorkipoo isn’t he? A cross between a Yorkshire terrier and a poodle.’

‘That’s right. He’s called Marmite.’

‘Great name,’ Jonah said, laughing.

‘Bleddy ridiculous if y’ask me,’ Myrtle muttered. ‘Dog and name.’

Charlie wondered if she really needed biscuits after all.

‘You should come on one of our SeaKing trips, if you’re staying for a while,’ Jonah said. ‘They’re great fun, and you get to see all sorts of wildlife. Here’s a card.’ He turned back to the shop counter where Myrtle had a plastic stand full of local business cards and leaflets: The Eden Project, Land’s End, Trebah Garden and SeaKing Safaris.

‘I’d like that,’ Charlie said, taking the card. It seemed Jonah knew how to ride above Myrtle’s curtness. He might only be young, but she could learn a thing or two from him.

‘We’re not too busy during the week,’ he added, not meeting her eye. ‘But if you’re desperate for a weekend slot, I’m sure we could fit you in then, too. Now that you’re local.’

‘Great. I’ll check my calendar.’

Charlie waited while he paid for the sun cream and left, flashing her and Myrtle a winning smile as he closed the door behind him. She put her biscuits on the counter.

‘Lovely lad, that one,’ Myrtle said. ‘Solid head on young shoulders.’

‘Are the safaris any good?’ Charlie blurted, shocked that she was suddenly being spoken to like an equal.

‘Never bin,’ Myrtle admitted. ‘Don’t particularly have sea legs, which isn’t ideal, I know, living somewhere like here. But they’ve a good reputation. You should take ’im up on it. They could do with a few more customers.’

‘I got that impression,’ Charlie said quietly.

The weather had been typical for April; flashes of bright sunshine chased down by heavy rain showers that seemed to linger in the cove. Charlie had already been walking in the rain, sheltering inside a large orange mac, the hood pulled low, the plasticky fabric making her skin sweat. She loved watching the rain patter onto the sea, and had walked to the end of the jetty while the waves churned and broiled around it, the horizon a wavering line of charcoal.

It was understandable that the beach was quiet; it wasn’t swimming weather, unless you were incredibly hardy, and while there was Myrtle’s shop and the pub, a bed and breakfast and SeaKing Safaris, there was no ice-cream shack or café; nothing for families who wanted to spend a whole day on the sand and have the necessary amenities at hand.

‘Aren’t there any public toilets?’ she asked, and Myrtle looked up from her book.

‘Why? You caught short? I’ve one out back if you’re desperate.’

‘Oh no, I just … wondered.’

‘There was a block at the edge of the car park,’ she said, tapping her fingers against her lips. ‘A while ago. But it got so run-down the council demolished it. No funds for a replacement, supposedly, despite a few of us makin’ noise. You’d think Mister High-and-Mighty in his sparklin’ palace might have helped, but no such luck.’

‘Daniel Harper, you mean?’

Myrtle wafted a hand in the vague direction of Crystal Waters. ‘It’s out of place, I reckon. All cold glass and metal in a simple seaside village. He could’ve gone to the Seychelles if he wanted to charge sky-high prices. Or Padstow. He’s an outsider, knows nothin’ about the place. I can see Porthgolow for what it is. Some areas could do with an update. But we’re friendly enough,’ Myrtle added, and Charlie tried not to snort. ‘He’s tarnishin’ that reputation, turnin’ it into a village of two halves. Anyway,’ she said, tapping Charlie’s hand. ‘These your biscuits, then?’

Charlie nodded. Myrtle put her custard creams and bourbons in a brown paper bag, Porthgolow Pop-In stamped on the side. As she strolled back to Juliette’s house, detouring to take Marmite onto the beach and throw a sea-smoothed stick for him over the damp sand, Charlie thought she might have made progress with Porthgolow’s general-store owner. It seemed that – in a place where not all the locals were happy with an influx of new, younger residents – Daniel Harper was the ultimate enemy. And if even Juliette thought he was bad news, then there must be something to it.

Charlie blinked and gasped as a huge plume of sea spray hit her in the face.

‘Whoa, that was a big one!’ Paul called above the sound of the engine. He was steering and, on this breezy Wednesday morning, Charlie, Juliette and Jonah were the only passengers. Charlie needed to have a word with him about being business savvy. She had insisted on paying for her and Juliette’s tickets, even though he had at first protested, saying she was Juliette’s friend and needed to be shown Porthgolow from the sea. But even then, the tour was in no way viable.

Hal, the kindest man she’d ever known, hadn’t run his tour if there were less than eight customers, otherwise he wouldn’t break even, let alone make a profit. Charlie couldn’t imagine how much the fuel for this trip was costing, let alone Paul’s time, the fact that he could be promoting his business instead of taking out a couple of residents – one of whom had already been on the tour – and his son. Juliette had also told her that Paul had recently had to get a part-time job as a courier – a time-consuming occupation in Cornwall – to supplement the income the Kerrs were getting from their main business. This seemed especially sad when the SeaKing Safaris experience was so brilliant; Charlie had seen seals, cormorants and razorbills, and even a pod of five dolphins that had swum alongside the boat for a while as if they were in some kind of Disney adventure.

Jonah hadn’t held back, and she now knew more than she’d ever thought possible about common and bottlenose dolphins. Thousands of people would love this tour. Why weren’t they coming? Charlie was sure it was mainly because they didn’t know about it.

‘Have you offered your marketing services to them?’ Charlie asked Juliette out of the corner of her mouth.

‘Yes,’ Juliette hissed back. ‘Paul and Amanda said they’d think about it, but I’m not sure they have the money at the moment. I’ve even offered mates’ rates, but I can’t go any lower because then I’d be losing out.’

‘Vicious circle,’ Charlie said, nodding. Juliette was a digital marketer, producing websites, social media plans and campaigns for small businesses. Charlie knew the jobs she liked best were working with people local to her, so she could meet face to face even if what she produced was online. Charlie could see already that several of the businesses in Porthgolow would benefit from Juliette’s services; she just needed to find a magical pot of money to pay for it all.

‘It’s much bumpier at the front,’ Jonah said as Charlie was hit with another face-full of water. ‘This type of boat is called a RIB – Rigid Inflatable Boat, and because of the design, the bow cuts through the waves and it’s light, too, so it sort of rides them.’ He was leaning against the side of the boat, looking calm and authoritative in a blue waterproof coat, his lifejacket black and stylish as opposed to Charlie and Juliette’s, which were the colour of road cones.

‘Bumpy is fun!’ Charlie said. And it was. Salt was good for the skin too, wasn’t it? Loads of expensive products used sea salt. Perhaps after a day on the waves she would have a perfectly exfoliated, dewy complexion. Chance would be a fine thing.

Paul turned the RIB around, and Charlie took in the coastline, heading north towards Padstow, south towards Newquay, and then the cove of Porthgolow, cut out as if with a hole punch from the land. She could see the clusters of houses, the pale strip of the beach, the spray rising up as waves battered the rocks on either side. She also had an excellent view of Crystal Waters, which sat snugly against the cliff, its gardens running down to the very edge. She wondered how much work had gone into securing the foundations. There had obviously been no expense spared.

And then Charlie’s gaze was drawn to the other side of the cove, and the little yellow hut.

Jonah must have followed her eye-line, because he said, ‘That’s Reenie’s place. She’s an old mermaid who lost her tail and has been cursed to live out her days in the sea-shanty cottage. She never speaks to anyone.’

‘Jonah,’ Paul called, ‘don’t talk rubbish!’

Charlie was taken aback. She had believed Jonah was a fountain of knowledge, gathering facts like pebbles. But he believed in mermaids?

‘It’s true,’ Jonah protested.

‘According to who?’ his dad asked, steering the RIB towards the jetty.

Jonah dropped his head and shrugged. ‘She’s strange.’

‘Eccentric, maybe,’ Paul called. ‘But that doesn’t mean you have the right to make up stories about her.’

‘Flora liked it!’

‘Flora is six and obsessed with The Little Mermaid.’ Paul laughed, giving Juliette and Charlie a good-humoured eye-roll.

‘Well,’ Jonah said, folding his arms. ‘I’ve seen her, early in the morning and in the evening, standing on the edge of the cliff and signalling with some sort of light. I think she’s communicating with her mermaid friends who are all still underwater. That’s why she doesn’t talk to anyone in the village.’

‘Of course she does.’ Paul lined the boat up against the jetty and waited for his son to jump onto the stone so he could throw him the rope. ‘She talks to Myrtle, and she pops into The Seven Stars occasionally for a cheeky half. She’s a normal, probably very lovely woman, who likes to keep to herself. Anyway,’ he added, jumping onto the jetty and helping first Juliette, then Charlie, onto dry land. ‘When have you been up early enough to see her winking her mermaid light at dawn?’

‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Dad,’ Jonah said, and stalked off towards the road.

Paul took his baseball cap off and ran his hand through salt-and-pepper hair. ‘Don’t know what to make of that one sometimes,’ he admitted. ‘Now, did you enjoy your tour? Anytime you want a repeat trip, just let me know. As you can see, the boats aren’t exactly heaving.’

As they walked home, Juliette gave Charlie a pointed look. ‘Don’t say anything.’

‘I wasn’t going to say a word.’ Charlie gave her friend a butter-wouldn’t-melt smile, and felt her insides knot with excitement. Soon, her café bus would be ready, and she had decided – almost the first day she had arrived, if she was honest – that she was going to use it to bring life back to Porthgolow. She only hoped that the village residents – so far a mix of friendly and fearsome – would be on board with her idea.




Chapter Seven (#ulink_c54492d2-d50b-5ebc-8351-b1f8e265b578)







Charlie breathed in the paint fumes and decided it was the most glorious smell in the world, because that smell was responsible for the miracle that was Gertie, gleaming like a precious jewel against the grey, oil-stained interior of the garage. So far it was just the base coat, but the vintage bus had gone from cream with forest-green accents to shiny, original, pillar-box red, and the difference it made was startling. She peered in through a window, smiling as she saw the new seating arrangement.

‘Uh uh,’ Pete said. ‘I’m not done yet. When I’m done, you can look. Wouldn’t want to ruin the grand unveiling, would you?’

‘What if I hate it, though?’ she asked.

Pete let out an incredulous laugh. ‘You won’t hate it.’

She grinned at him. She knew – from the peek she’d just allowed herself – that he was right.

‘And what’s all this, on the front?’ She walked round to where a winch had been attached, discreet but still noticeable, to the bumper.

‘Comes as standard on all my designs,’ Pete said, glancing at some paperwork on his chaotic desk. ‘Cornwall is a sandy place, and even if you’re not going to drive it onto the beach to sleep on it, it’s a safety precaution.’

‘I’ve actually got permission from the council to park it on the beach in Porthgolow. There’s a long stretch above the tideline, and the sand is almost as hard as tarmac. Paul, one of the locals, who takes boats out, says it’s perfectly safe for Gertie to live there.’

‘But sand is unpredictable,’ Pete said, waggling his pen. ‘Many folks before you have found it invaluable, and it’ll give you an extra sense of security. It’s included, regardless. Top-notch design, top-notch health and safety.’

‘Right then.’ Charlie was oddly touched at Pete’s concern for her and her bus, and certainly wasn’t going to complain about having such a good piece of kit included. She had a sudden flashback to the Fair on the Field and shuddered. He was right: a winch could well come in handy.

‘You’re one hundred per cent sure about the name and colours?’ Pete asked. ‘Because a repaint will add a fair amount to the bill.’

She watched him ferreting through bits of paper, a calculator and a spanner sticking out of the pockets of his jeans.

‘I’m certain,’ she said. ‘Colours and name. Jules and I had a brainstorming session – even Lawrence got in on it. And now I’ve seen the gorgeous red paint on Gertie, I know it’s perfect.’

‘Right, then. Sorted. See you again at the end of the week?’

‘You’ll be done by then?’ Charlie bit her lip, not daring to hope.

‘Scheduled to finish a week today, as we agreed. But these progress checks are good for both of us. Not to mention seeing this guy.’ He crouched, and Marmite scampered forward on his lead. Pete laughed as he was covered in puppy licks.

‘It’s looking brilliant, Pete,’ she said when he and Marmite had finished their love-in.

‘You wait until it’s finished. It’ll blow your mind.’

Once they’d said goodbye, Charlie stepped outside into a brisk, sunny day. Pete’s garage was close to the sea, which gleamed invitingly in shades of cobalt and aquamarine, the waves nothing more than ruffles on the surface. Seagulls cawed overhead and there was a sweetness to the air that spoke of spring and sunshine and the bliss of the summer to come. And this summer was going to include one very special addition, launching on the May bank holiday weekend. She just hoped that Cornwall was ready for it.

Charlie spent Friday morning turning Juliette and Lawrence’s kitchen into a cake factory. She had been working hard on tempting treats to delight her new customers, although the standard Cornish cream tea – with jam before cream, of course – would be the foundation of her menu. Today she was trying out scones with chocolate chips, a savoury version with red onion and cheddar, and a lightly spiced mix that she would serve with a cardamom and lime cream. But the kitchens in both The Café on the Hill and her parents’ house were at least three times the size of Juliette’s, and within an hour she had various bowls of mix and trays of cooling scones covering every surface.

Marmite, Ray and Benton had been shut in the front room with Juliette, who was working on the marketing for a new restaurant in Truro. Her dog had expressed his disappointment at not being allowed to help, but Charlie was glad of the freedom to make a complete mess all by herself. Her timer went off and she opened the oven door, a wave of heat hitting her face. She pulled the tray of choc-chip scones out, the chocolate bubbling in places, and searched for a surface to put them on.

The doorbell rang, and she heard Juliette call out that she’d get it. Charlie was wondering whether she could balance the tray on top of the mixer tap when she was distracted by the patter of tiny paws.

Marmite yelped as he skidded on the flour-strewn tiles.

‘Marmite, no,’ she said, raising the tray of scones above her head as he bounced up at her. And then Ray and Benton appeared. Ray leapt onto the table and dipped his paw into a bowl of spicy scone mix. ‘Ray, please,’ she said, ‘you can’t eat that.’ She scooped the cat up with her free hand, his long Siamese body dangling limply like a soft toy. Benton started to lick the flour from the floor, and Marmite decided that playing with the Persian’s tail was the most fun he could have, even though it had earned him a swipe or two already. ‘Shit.’ Charlie edged around the fight on the floor and made it to the corridor just as Juliette appeared.

‘That was only the post, but I …’ She stopped, her eyes widening as she took in the carnage, and then wordlessly took Ray out of Charlie’s arms.

She leaned on the doorframe, her shoulders shaking.

‘What?’ Charlie asked. ‘To create real culinary art requires great sacrifice.’

‘You’re sacrificing my kitchen?’ Juliette managed, her laughter no longer silent.

‘I’m not used to being so … contained.’

Juliette stared at her, then at Benton and Marmite tussling on the floor, and then at Ray, stalking off down the corridor, leaving floury paw prints in his wake. ‘Charlie,’ she said, ‘you’re about to open a café on a bus. I know you won’t be baking from scratch there, but you can’t get much more contained than that.’

This thought had been a constant niggle in Charlie’s head. ‘Fair point,’ she replied.

‘Anyway. Carry on. Marmite! Benton! This way.’ Her voice was sharp, and the pets stopped their fight and skittered out of the kitchen. As Juliette left, giving Charlie a winning smile, she took a chocolate-chip scone from the tray. ‘I’ll let you know what I think.’

‘Thank you,’ Charlie called, and then turned back to survey the mess. She remembered one of Hal’s mantras: If you find yourself on a sticky wicket, just stop. Stop, breathe, take a moment to compose yourself and then try again. There is nothing that can’t be overcome if you believe in yourself enough. She did believe in herself, and she believed in her bus. She dusted off her floury hands, and got back to her baking.

On Saturday morning, with her friends’ kitchen restored to its original beauty, Charlie, Juliette and Marmite headed purposefully out of the house. Charlie had set up social media accounts for her new business venture, but as Gertie had been approved a pitch on the beach, she thought it only right to approach the other business owners in the village face to face. Besides, there was nothing better than word of mouth, and she had already established that some of the locals were suspicious of her and her bus. Instagram wasn’t going to help her build those bridges.

‘You didn’t have to come,’ she said to Juliette as they made their way down the hill. It was a fresh day, the sea sparkling as it was whipped up by the wind, and Charlie was glad she’d worn a warm jumper. ‘It’s not like Porthgolow’s huge.’

Juliette shrugged. ‘Lawrence had to work at the last minute, and I could have stayed inside ruing our missed trip to Penzance, or I can come with you instead and be useful.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘That’s OK.’ Juliette waved her concern away with a hand. ‘We always knew he’d have to be flexible, and lots of the work is at weekends. Anyway, you can’t tackle this whole place on your own.’

Charlie was about to reply when Amanda Kerr, Jonah’s mum, intercepted them on the seafront.

‘Hi girls,’ she said, slightly out of breath. ‘How are you?’

‘Good thanks, Amanda.’ Juliette replied. ‘We were coming to see you, actually.’ She glanced at Charlie to continue.

‘We wanted to tell you about The Cornish Cream Tea Bus.’ It was the first time she’d spoken the name aloud to someone other than Juliette, Lawrence or Pete.

Amanda frowned. ‘What’s that, then?’

‘My bus,’ Charlie continued, feeling a stab of uncertainty. ‘The one I drove down in. It’s getting a makeover, coming back to Porthgolow as The Cornish Cream Tea Bus. We thought, as a fellow business owner here, you should know about it. We’re having a grand opening on the beach next weekend.’

‘Based here?’

‘For the time being,’ Charlie said. ‘I’ll spend some time travelling round, but it’ll be parked on the beach over the summer. Serving a selection of sweet and savoury treats, hot drinks—’

Amanda groaned and pushed her dark curls away from her face. ‘So there’ll be somewhere in the village we can buy a decent coffee? God. Hugh is a sweetheart, but he doesn’t open until eleven and his machine makes some fancy kind of instant. You have no idea how many times I’ve come off the boat with numb fingers, dying for a hot, sweet latte. Jonah said you were an asset to the village, and he does go over the top, but on this occasion he might be right. Grand opening next Saturday? The Kerr family will be there, don’t you worry.’ She squeezed Charlie’s shoulder and walked away.

Charlie waited until Amanda was out of earshot, then squealed and grabbed Juliette’s hand, bouncing up and down so that Marmite got overexcited and wrapped himself up in his lead. ‘She’s coming! They all are! That’s five people, Jules, even if Jem is only two. Let’s split up. Which direction do you want to go in?’

Charlie wasn’t surprised when Juliette said she would work her way round the south side of the village, towards the jetty and The Seven Stars. Charlie was a bit disappointed – she had been intrigued by Jonah’s story, and had wanted to see Reenie for herself; though not because she believed for one second she was an ex-mermaid. Charlie didn’t know that she wasn’t a business owner, and it would surely be a courtesy to tell her about the village’s new café.

But Charlie didn’t think asking Juliette to have a civil conversation with Daniel was a recipe for success, and besides, Charlie might have been intrigued about Reenie, but she was equally keen to see Daniel again, not to mention the inside of his luxurious spa hotel.

The walk up Porthgolow’s north cliff was calf-crunchingly steep, and by the time she had reached the top, there was a trickle of sweat running down her back. She’d also had to carry Marmite for the last bit because he’d started whining, and he was a lot heavier than he looked, especially when scaling such a severe hill.

She found a gate built into the stone wall and pushed it open. A chalky, golden path meandered through gravel interspersed with shrubs and herbs, and there were solar lights spaced along the paving slabs for when it got dark. It smelt fresh and aromatic, and Marmite scrabbled to be put down so he could investigate.

The path wound its way round to the sliding glass doors and the bay trees that Charlie had noticed on her journey into the village. She peered into the wide, polished foyer, and the doors opened. A woman stood behind the pale stone reception desk, her dark hair pulled into a neat ponytail, her high cheekbones expertly defined with pearlescent blusher. Their eyes met, and then the woman saw Marmite.

‘No dogs allowed, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘But you can tie him up outside.’ Charlie saw a metal railing and a bowl of water. She spent a few minutes fussing over her dog, and then stepped inside The Crystal Waters Spa Hotel.

It was beyond luxurious, in natural, calming colours of pale stone, sage green and cobalt blue. There was an expansive curved sofa, and a low table that looked like a giant pebble. The wall opposite the main doors was also glass, looking out over more spruce garden, a sunken swimming pool and then the sea, shimmering invitingly beyond. Discreet screens flush with the walls played images of beautiful people having massages, lazing in the outdoor hot tub or smothered in mud masks, intermingled with close-ups of exquisitely delicate plates of food and sunsets over the water.

The floor looked like granite, pale grey with a hint of quartz gleaming through, except that in the centre of the space there was some kind of design. Gleaming golden stones were embedded in the rock, set in a concentric circle, their sizes decreasing towards the centre. It was like the reflection of a beautiful chandelier, though the room was lit by discreet spotlights set into the ceiling. Charlie was almost scared to take another step.

‘How can I help you today?’ the woman at reception asked. Her voice was as polished as her appearance, but Charlie detected a hint of a Cornish accent.

‘I’m looking for Daniel Harper,’ she said, forcing confidence into her voice.

‘I’m afraid Daniel’s not here. Is there anything I can help with?’

Charlie read her nametag: Lauren Purview.

‘It’s something I need to see Daniel about, if that’s OK?’

Lauren gave her a friendly smile. ‘Of course. He should be back within the next half an hour, if you’d like to wait? I can get you a coffee, or—’

‘Could I have a look outside?’ Charlie blurted.

‘Certainly.’ Lauren consulted the screen on her desk. ‘We have nobody booked for the hot tub, so you’re very welcome to look around this level of the gardens. Just use that door to the right of the seating.’

‘Thank you.’ Charlie did as she was told, and found herself standing beyond the glass, on yet another winding path.

None of the shrubs was tall – she imagined so they didn’t block the view from reception – and the gravel was almost purple. She breathed in the fresh, buffeting air, the sea stretching ahead of her like a blue canvas. The path wound round to the right, to where the garden ended and a few steps led down to the tiled edge of the outdoor pool. The wind was too cutting for it to be comfortable, but even deserted it looked inviting. Mirroring the outdoor pool, beyond yet another glass wall, was an indoor pool. It was on a floor below the foyer, and from this viewpoint Charlie could see how the building had been expertly moulded into the cliff, using its various contours and levels. Inside, people lay on loungers, and she glimpsed the curved edge of a Jacuzzi.

She stepped back, not wanting to pry, and returned to the garden, spotting the hot tub Lauren had mentioned and that she’d seen in the pictures screened on the reception wall.

It was close to the edge of the cliff, and looked terrifying rather than relaxing. She edged forward and saw, to her relief, that beyond it the drop wasn’t sheer, but a gentle slope down to a ledge a few feet below. Beyond that ledge, the ground fell steeply to the water. She decided, then, that she might be able to enjoy herself, perhaps with a glass of bubbly to calm her nerves, were she to win the lottery and convince Juliette to overcome her hatred of the hotel’s owner and join her. She tiptoed forwards, wondering how scary the view was when you were actually in the hot tub.

‘Hello.’

Charlie jumped and jolted forward. Her heart started pounding.

‘Lauren said there was someone outside who wanted to see me, and I believe that must be you, seeing as you’re the only person here.’

Charlie turned to find Daniel Harper, his dark eyes amused, arms folded over his chest, wearing a shirt the colour of cornflowers.

‘I did – I do. This is a lovely spot.’

‘There’s nothing like it.’

Charlie wondered if, beyond the trace of mockery in his eyes, he was actually capable of smiling. ‘And your guests don’t find it … scary? Being so close to the edge?’

He peered down, his gaze following her pointing finger, as if he’d never seen the view before. ‘I don’t think so. I haven’t had any complaints, and nobody’s thrown themselves into the sea. So on the whole I’d say it was fine. But what can I do for you? I did wonder if you were still here; your bus has disappeared from the car park, which was absolutely the right thing to do. I’m glad that you—’

‘It’s coming back,’ Charlie rushed. ‘But to the beach this time. I’m launching it next weekend as The Cornish Cream Tea Bus.’

She watched his face closely.

‘The Cornish Cream Tea Bus,’ he repeated slowly. ‘Is it for children?’

‘It’s for everyone.’

‘It’s staying in Porthgolow?’ His eyes had lost their amusement.

‘I’m going to travel round Cornwall, but I’m launching it here, and I won’t be out and about the whole time. It’s going to be a new feature of the village.’

‘It will ruin the atmosphere.’

Laughter came spilling out of her. ‘What atmosphere? It’s as dead as a dodo, and we’re only a week from the May bank holiday. This village needs livening up. It needs something bright and friendly and affordable to draw the crowds. It’s such a beautiful place, but it’s not being loved enough.’

‘How would you know that?’ Daniel’s voice was sharp. ‘You’ve only been here a few weeks.’

She hesitated. ‘You can’t deny that it’s looking a bit tired.’ She gestured in the direction of the cove, then gasped as she teetered off balance a mere ten feet from the cliff edge. ‘Crystal Waters may be modern and glossy and immaculate, but you can’t say the same for the pop-in and the B&B, or even Hugh’s pub. Gertie is going to help bring Porthgolow back to life.’

Daniel rolled his eyes, which was the most expressive thing she’d seen him do. ‘Gertie belongs in a fun fair.’

‘We are going to go to fairs and festivals, but most of the time she’ll be here. And before you go and check –’ she held up a finger, silencing him before he’d opened his mouth – ‘I have got my trading consent. It’s all legal, so you can’t go looking for ways to shut me down.’

‘I wasn’t going to …’ he started, then sighed. ‘This is unexpected, OK? And it’s not in keeping with Crystal Waters.’

‘Why not? Because everyone who stays here is allergic to carbohydrates? I’m selling Cornish cream teas.’

‘I guessed that.’

‘And who can resist a good Cornish cream tea?’ she continued. ‘Hot, crumbly scones with thick, slightly sweet clotted cream and fresh strawberry jam. I’m going to do some flavoured creams with a hint of rose, lavender or honey. Earl Grey and Assam tea. All with those views of the cove, the way the sun curves into every crease of it.’ Excitement bubbled inside her.

Daniel didn’t reply immediately, and Charlie thought she’d won him over. He was staring out to sea, a wistful expression on his face. Eventually, he met her gaze.

‘On a bus?’

‘Not just any bus. The Cornish Cream Tea Bus. Gertie reborn. You have to come and see her, she’s going to be magnificent!’

‘Not sure I’d put the words “bus” and “magnificent” together in a sentence.’

‘But you’ll come?’

‘I’ll have to see how busy we are,’ he said.

Charlie resisted the urge to do a fist pump. ‘You’ll be the quietest you’ve ever been, because all your guests will be down in the village, eating cream teas.’

Daniel shook his head slowly, as if dealing with a tiresome toddler, but a flicker of a smile dented his features. ‘I very much doubt that.’

‘At least follow me on Instagram.’ She pulled her phone out of her pocket and scrolled to the app, where her new account, @CornishCreamTeaBus, had four photos: arty shots that she’d taken in the garage, of Gertie’s headlights, showing off the glorious red paint, and a couple she’d snapped in Juliette’s kitchen of her new scones. #OneWeekToGo and #CornishCreamTeaBusLaunch adorned her captions, and she’d spent a solid hour the previous evening following Cornwall and foodie-related accounts, including Crystal Waters which, she had to admit, had a stunning grid.

She felt warm breath on her cheek, and turned her head slightly. Daniel was looking over her shoulder, close enough that she could see each individual eyelash. She willed her heart to stop pounding. Chances were, he could hear how fast it was going.

‘What do you think?’ she asked.

‘Your photos are good,’ he admitted. ‘The bus is red now?’

‘Back to her original colour. I thought it would stand out more.’

‘It almost matches your hair.’

It was a throwaway comment, but the fact that he was telling her he’d noticed her appearance made her insides flutter.

‘Do you follow Porthgolow Hideaway?’ she asked, tapping it into the search bar and holding up the page for Daniel to see. ‘I found it last night, and I wondered who was behind it.’ It was a page dedicated to pictures of the village: stunning sunsets and sunrises, the sea and sky in every conceivable mood – stormy, calm, wild and vibrant. It highlighted the very best of Porthgolow, each picture charming or atmospheric. And it had over twenty thousand followers.

‘I follow it,’ he said. ‘But I’ve no idea who’s taking the photos. I don’t have time to be a social media spy, but if you do, then go ahead, and let me know when you find out. I might be able to set up some kind of partnership with them.’

‘You want me to do all the work so you can have all the glory?’

‘I get to pay for all the glory. That’s how a partnership works.’

Charlie gritted her teeth and stared at the sea, telling herself to calm down. She turned to find him busy on his own phone, and a moment later a notification appeared on her screen: @CrystalWatersCornwall started following you.

‘Thank you,’ she said grudgingly.

‘How did you get the villagers to agree to this, anyway?’

‘What do you mean, get them to agree? I want the community onside, but I didn’t realise that I needed them to give me permission.’ Charlie frowned. ‘Paul Kerr was the one who suggested the beach would be the best place to park, and the council have agreed to my pitch and given me my trading consent. And as for everyone else, that’s what today is about. Letting the locals know my plans, and telling them about the launch. I’m not sure what else I can do.’

Daniel slid his phone in his pocket and grinned at her. Charlie couldn’t believe how much it lit up his face. His eyes were no longer suspicious and calculating, but he still looked wolfish; he was still completely sure of himself. ‘What about Myrtle? She’s going to be at the front of the queue on Saturday, is she?’

Charlie sighed. ‘Not everyone’s convinced yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Once the bus is here, once people can sample what I’m selling, they’ll be smitten.’

‘I can almost believe that,’ Daniel said. ‘Still, Porthgolow can be a tough crowd—’

‘Says the man who just told me my bus belongs in a fun fair.’

‘I’m prepared to defer my judgement.’

‘How very gracious of you.’

Daniel laughed. ‘Fancy a tour of the hotel? I could show you the spa facilities, the restaurant. We have a five-course à la carte menu.’

‘Sometimes people just want a bit of stodgy, sugary cake.’

‘And sometimes,’ he said, stepping closer, ‘they want something more extravagant. Sometimes they want the best.’

‘I am the best.’ Charlie lifted her chin in defiance, and immediately felt stupid. What was this? A pre-boxing-match showdown? She waited for Daniel’s pithy reply but it didn’t come. He looked at her coolly and then turned away.

‘I need to get on,’ he called as he walked. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’

‘Uhm, not at the moment. Thanks.’ She followed him back through the beautiful gardens and into the foyer, where he promptly said goodbye and disappeared through a door behind the reception desk.

Charlie said goodbye to Lauren and went to find Marmite. As she made her way down the hill, a snoozing puppy in her arms, all in all she felt relieved with the way her visit had gone.

It was understandable that Daniel was sceptical about the charms of The Cornish Cream Tea Bus; it wasn’t anything like his slice of cliff-top luxury. But he hadn’t turned her away. He’d said her photos were good and he’d followed her on Instagram; he hadn’t discounted coming to the launch on Saturday.

As she reached the bottom of the hill, eager to see how Juliette had got on, she wondered why Daniel’s approval mattered to her so much. Did she want to show Juliette that he wasn’t as evil as she thought he was, or was it simply that he had been against her bus from the start, and she wanted to prove him wrong? All she knew was that standing close to the edge of the cliff, at the same time as standing close to Daniel, had done nothing for her levels of composure.




Chapter Eight (#ulink_3b9f1dee-a6d1-5af1-bb07-32dce08be2e0)







Charlie stood on the end of Porthgolow’s jetty, looking back at the village that, in the last few weeks, had become her home. She didn’t know for how long – Juliette had told her she could stay as long as she liked – but she knew she wasn’t ready to go back to Ross-on-Wye, or her parents’ house. She crouched alongside Marmite, who was peering over the edge of the jetty, and looked at the sea spilling out in every direction. Porthgolow’s quaint, haphazard vista was behind her, Reenie’s yellow hut to her left, Daniel’s shimmering empire at her right side.

Soon, there would be a new addition to the landscape. She was picking Gertie up later that day. Her Cornish Cream Tea Bus was finished, and she had heard the pride in Pete’s voice when he’d called to tell her it was ready. She couldn’t wait to see it. But Lawrence was working and Juliette had a meeting, and she needed one of them to drive her to the garage, so she would have to be patient.

She stood up and tugged gently on Marmite’s lead, and a flash of light caught her attention. A short woman was standing in front of the primrose-yellow cottage, long dark hair straggling out behind her. She was holding something, and it was that object that had caught the light. Charlie couldn’t see what it was from this distance, but she found herself raising a hand in greeting. She held her breath, and watched as Reenie’s arm rose into the air, mirroring Charlie’s gesture. Then she turned and, in a moment, had disappeared inside her precarious little house.

Charlie made her way back to Juliette’s with a spring in her step.

‘A wave,’ she said to her friend as they hefted tins of scones and cookies, cakes and doughnuts first into Lawrence’s arms and then their own, and walked out into the fresh air. ‘An actual wave. It reminded me a bit of the perplexed greeting Tom Hanks gives Meg Ryan at the end of Sleepless in Seattle.’

‘I think Reenie’s more Castaway than Sleepless,’ Juliette said, grimacing under the weight of her boxes. ‘But a wave’s more than I got. I think she was pretending not to be in when I tried to talk to her the other day, which was a bit harsh considering her place isn’t the easiest to get to. There’s not a path all the way, you have to navigate over rocks, and if it’s damp they can be treacherous.’

‘Has anyone ever seen her leave the house?’ Lawrence asked. ‘Seen her in the pub or the shop or anywhere?’

They reached the bottom of the hill and Lawrence’s question was forgotten as Gertie, in her new, Cornish-Cream-Tea-Busglory, came into view.

The three of them paused to gaze at her.

The day of the grand opening was calm, hardly any wind to whip the waves into a fervour, but the cloud cover was thicker than Charlie would have liked. There was a break over the horizon, where opaque rays spilled out and raced down to meet the sea’s surface. Charlie’s dad called them the fingers of God, though he wasn’t remotely religious. But at this point, with the still, blue water, the cliffs rising up either side, and Gertie, resplendent in her new red coat and gleaming with possibility on the sand, it did seem almost magical.

‘Let’s stock her up, then, shall we?’ Lawrence grinned and, despite his boxes, managed to give Hugh, who had appeared at the door of The Seven Stars, a quick wave. ‘Coming to have a look, Hugh?’

‘Of course,’ the landlord replied. ‘I’ve held off having coffee so I can sample some of Charlie’s, along with a slice of carrot cake, if there’s any?’

‘Carrot cake is here somewhere,’ Charlie said, raising her stack of boxes. ‘Give us ten minutes to set up and I’ll give you the grand tour.’

‘I’ll be over dreckly,’ he called.

She resisted the urge to hug Hugh, and wondered if his enthusiasm would spread through the village. Her chat with Myrtle had been chilly to say the least, and the young woman who had answered the door of the bed and breakfast seemed distracted and uninterested. Charlie had been left sleepless the night before, imagining her and Gertie sitting, deserted, on the beach, while villagers passed by as if she didn’t exist.

But being here, seeing the bus in situ, and with her arms full of fresh cakes, her worries seemed laughable.

The inside of Gertie was as impressive as her exterior. As Charlie unlocked the door she was delighted all over again by the transformation. On the lower deck, at the end where customers got on, there were four tables. The benches were padded with red fabric on one side, blue on the other, and the cream tables had elegantly curved edges. The walls had been repainted in fresh, bright cream, and the light from the large windows added to the airy feel.

Beyond the tables was Charlie’s kitchen. It had a countertop and sink, with a small oven below for heating up scones and sausage rolls, and a fridge for storing perishables. Next to the driver’s cab there was a shiny new coffee machine, with mugs in red and blue stacked up alongside it. The bottoms of the mugs perfectly fitted the cup-holders in the tables, and they had plastic lids that could be used when the bus was moving.

Around the roof of the lower deck, and again on the upper, were glowing, LED fairy lights. With wall space at a premium, Charlie had wanted something special for when the days were dull and the sun failed to shine brightly.

‘Just beautiful,’ Juliette murmured, as they placed their cake boxes on the counter. Charlie started up the coffee machine, checked the filter was full of beans, ran the tap in the sink and switched the oven on. She still marvelled at how all these mod cons could work on her uncle’s bus as easily as if she was in a house.

‘Check upstairs?’ Juliette asked.

‘You go,’ Charlie said. ‘I want to make sure everything’s ready here. Can you fill the vases?’ They had bought clutches of red carnations and vibrant cornflowers, perfect for the vases that slotted into the circular cut-outs in the middle of each table. Their primary role was for teapots – the teapots themselves designed specially so they would fit snugly in – but when people didn’t want a whole pot, or wanted coffee or a cold drink, a spray of flowers would brighten up the tables.

Between them, they had thought of everything. Pete had improved the tiny toilet behind the stairs, had ensured the layout on the top deck – where the majority of customers would sit – had as much seating as possible without it seeming crowded. Marmite had his own crate below the driver’s seat in the cab, so when Charlie brought him on board he wouldn’t stray into the kitchen. An old-style bell-pull had been installed – replacing the more modern buttons – so that guests could get Charlie’s attention from anywhere on the bus.

She had even got an old-fashioned ticket machine so that customers could go away with a reminder of their visit on board The Cornish Cream Tea Bus. It had been an expensive renovation, but worth every penny. Now all she had to do was make a success of it.

She began snapping photos, adding them to her Instagram story, all with her custom hashtag: #CornishCreamTea BusLaunch. She arranged the cakes and scones and took photos of them on their stands, snapped an arty shot of the sea out of the windscreen, and another of the row of gleaming mugs stacked on top of the coffee machine. She had two different tea options on her menu: one was simply scones, cream and jam – the traditional Cornish cream tea – and one that was more like a full afternoon tea, with sandwiches to start, mini cakes and puddings, and then the scones to finish.

‘Hello?’ a voice called, as she was putting the cheddar and red onion scones in the oven to heat up. ‘Can we come aboard?’

Charlie recognized the woman, who had platinum hair cinched in waves around her face, from the bed and breakfast. She had obviously been paying more attention than Charlie had thought. She was accompanied by a man whose skin was as dark as hers was pale, his deep brown eyes warm with kindness.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Welcome to The Cornish Cream Tea Bus. Take a seat, either down here, or there’s lots of space upstairs. I’ll come and take your order in a moment.’

The woman looked around approvingly. ‘I must say, it looks wonderful.’

‘Thank you,’ Charlie beamed. ‘I’m very happy with it.’

‘Almost puts our dining room to shame,’ the man added, reaching up and pulling on the cord running round the top of the windows. A clear bell sounded, and he laughed even as he apologized. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. I haven’t seen one of these in years.’

Charlie waved away his apology. ‘It’s very tempting to pull it – I’m going to have to get used to false alarms. Maybe I need a sign explaining what the cord is for.’

‘It’s so nostalgic,’ the woman added. ‘What made you want to do this? A café on a bus?’

Charlie leaned against the counter. ‘The bus was my uncle’s. He ran tours on it, but he died earlier this year. He left me Gertie – the bus – and I’m a baker, so while I was happy to have it, I knew I couldn’t just take over from him. But cakes, afternoon tea … I thought I could combine the two.’

‘It’s ingenuous,’ the man said. ‘We went for a traditional style for the B&B, but after four years … well, I wonder if we need some sort of overhaul?’ He looked at his wife. ‘Do something a bit different?’

She nodded, her smile slipping. ‘We haven’t even introduced ourselves. I’m Stella, and this is Anton. You’re staying with Juliette, aren’t you?’

‘That’s right. I’m Charlie. Juliette invited me here for a holiday. This …’ She spread her arms wide, laughing self-consciously. ‘I’m not that great at taking time off, and I can always drive the bus home again. But I thought that, while I’m here, Porthgolow could do with a bit of brightening up.’

The vigorous nods from Stella and Anton suggested that they agreed with her.

An hour later and Gertie was a hive of activity. Paul and Amanda had brought Jonah, and their two daughters Flora and Jem, and had commandeered one of the tables downstairs, which meant that every time a new customer appeared, Jonah was able to regale them with facts about the bus – both what Charlie had told him after extensive interrogation, and what he already seemed to have in his young, encyclopaedic mind. Charlie and Juliette tried not to giggle while they frothed cappuccinos and prepared cream teas. Even though it was only half past ten, her signature Cornish cream tea was destined to be the most popular item on the menu.




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