Read the book: «Summer at the Cornish Cafe: The perfect summer romance for 2018 »
PHILLIPA ASHLEY
Summer at The Cornish Cafe
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Published by Avon
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2016
Copyright © Phillipa Ashley 2016
Phillipa Ashley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © May 2016 ISBN: 9780008191856
Version 2018-05-10
For Rowena Kincaid,
One of a kind
Never give up, for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn.
Harriet Beecher Stowe
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Acknowledgements
Demi’s Recipe Notebook
Keep Reading …
Demi and Cal’s Love Story Continues …
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
‘Good morning, good people of Kernow! This is your favourite local DJ, Greg Stennack, coming to you live and kicking from The Breakfast Show on Radio St Trenyan. So wakey wakey all you lazy folk still snoring under your duvets! The sun’s shining, the surf’s up and it’s a fabulous start to the Easter weekend. Whether you’re a local or a visitor to our bee-yoo-tiful corner of West Cornwall, remember to stay tuned to the county’s brightest and best independent radio station for the coolest sounds, the hottest news and the tastiest commercials from our station sponsors: Hayleigh’s Pasty Shack. Now, let’s kick off the show with ‘Happy’ by Pharrell. Take it away, Pha—’
After emerging from a nightmare in which a giant pasty was attacking me, I find the ‘off’ button on the radio alarm and cut Greg off in his prime. It’s actually a shame to cut off Pharrell too, but I need to get up, have a shower and get ready for work. I can already hear my boss, Sheila, singing along to the radio in the kitchen of the cafe, two floors below my attic room, even though it’s only six a.m.
Did I say six? With a groan, I pull the duvet over my head again but a wet nose nudges its way under the bottom edge and a warm tongue licks my big toe. It’s not only Greg who wants me to wakey wakey.
‘OK, boy. I hadn’t forgotten about you,’ I mumble through the cover.
My dog, Mitch, clearly doesn’t believe me and I let out an ‘oof’ as four paws land on the middle of my stomach.
I throw off the duvet to find a hairy muzzle in my face and a waft of early-morning doggy breath in my nostrils.
‘Eww, Mitch. What did you eat last night? OK. OK. I am getting up!’
After gently pushing Mitch off me, I drag myself out of bed, and cross to the skylight in the roof of the attic. Standing on tiptoes, I tug back the blue gingham curtain, push the skylight open a crack and peep outside. My eyes blink at the dazzling brightness. Although it’s still early, the sky above the little seaside village of St Trenyan is already postcard blue and I can almost taste the salt on the air. A tractor chugs up and down the beach opposite the cafe where I started work a few weeks ago, raking the sand ready for the deckchairs to be laid out.
The masts of boats bob up and down in the harbour at the far side of the beach. A few people are already up, jogging along the flat sand or flinging balls into the sea for their dogs. As the breeze carries the rattle of the tractor and snatches of distant barks through the window, Mitch yips excitedly. I take a deep gulp of the air and close the window. It’s Easter: the turn of the tide, a fresh day and the start of a new summer.
I wonder what this one will bring.
CHAPTER ONE
You can always spot the customers who are going to be trouble, no matter how hard you try to please them, but as I grab my notebook ready to take his order, I know that the man at table sixteen won’t be one of them.
Crammed in a corner under the kitchen extractor fan, that table has a wonky leg and most people only take it as a last resort, but I saw the guy head straight for it, even though there were other seats with better views at the time.
Sheila’s Beach Hut has the best spot of any cafe in St Trenyan, but he might as well be back in some trendy London espresso bar. He pores over an article in The Times, oblivious to the clotted-cream sand or the turquoise sea with its frilly wavelets or the holidaymakers, of all shapes, ages and sizes, sunbathing and playing cricket on the beach in front of the cafe. The water’s too cold even for a paddle this early in the year, but there are some hardy surfers at the far end of the beach, catching the bigger breakers. The Surf School has pushed out its racks of wetsuits and yellow foam boards, and set up its sign, promising to teach anyone to ride a wave in a two-hour lesson. Like, yeah. I’ve lived in Cornwall all my life and I’ve never managed it so far.
I flip over my notebook, pen poised. ‘Can I take your order, sir?’
‘Hmm …’
‘May I get you something, sir?’
‘Double espresso,’ he mutters, without even glancing up from the article in the newspaper. It’s in the features section and there’s a picture of a glamorous blonde standing behind a camera on a film set. Perhaps he’s not so highbrow after all?
‘Anything else with that? Toastie? Cake? We also have some homemade blueberry muffins.’
‘Just the coffee,’ he growls and suddenly flips over the page to the book review section.
OK. Fine if you don’t want one of the delicious muffins that I baked this morning, I think. ‘Coming up, sir.’
‘There’s no need to call me sir,’ he says, then adds a gruff, ‘Thanks.’
I could tell him that he’s nothing special and that I say the same to all the male customers, from twenty-five to ninety-five and anyway, I’ve seen his type before. Though I can’t see his face properly, his arms and hands are deeply tanned, even after the winter. His khaki sweatshirt hangs off his lean body and his black beanie hat is pulled over his ears, though the sun is beating down. Typical surfing wannabe, probably on a gap yah from his job in the City. Probably flew straight to Cornwall from Bondi Beach or a French alpine resort. Probably has his skis and surf board in the boot of his 4x4 on the drive of his parents’ holiday home in Rock. Not that I’m judgemental, much.
Feeling as hot as the pasties in my white shirt and black trousers, I weave my way onto the terrace. Every table, inside and out, is now taken, and people are even perched on the wall overlooking St Trenyan beach. As well as its fantastic views and Sheila’s famous pasties, the Beach Hut has an easygoing atmosphere that makes it a popular spot for surfers, families and dog owners alike.
‘Hey, you there!’
A customer barks at me from table twelve. She can only be in her twenties but has the air of an older, more harassed woman. Judging by the likeness, she’s obviously with her father and a younger sister who looks as if she’s in her late teens – a few years younger than me. Unlike beanie man, the older daughter definitely wants to be noticed. With her fitted black business suit, high heels and heavy make-up, she stands out like a sore thumb from the tourists. None of her party seem happy to be at the cafe, however. The father has a permanent scowl and the teenage daughter is a goth, so maybe she’d look miserable anyway.
The woman in the suit glances at her diamante watch and purses her lips.
‘Excuse me. Did you hear? We’ve been waiting for hours. When are you going to actually take our order?’
Actually, she’s only been here five minutes but I give her my shiniest smile. The customer is always right and I can’t afford to upset any of them because Mitch and I need this job more than you would ever believe.
‘I’m sorry about that, madam.’
‘You obviously haven’t planned your staffing levels accordingly.’
I could tell her the staff consists of me, Sheila, her niece (who turns up as long as there’s no decent surf) and Henry (who called in sick with an infected nipple ring this morning) but I don’t think it would help.
‘Apologies. I’ll pass on your feedback to the manager. Now, may I take your order, please, so we can get you served as soon as possible?’
‘We haven’t decided yet, have we?’ She throws out the challenge to her family. Her goth sister keeps her eyes fixed on her phone while their middle-aged father frowns at the menu and lets out a bored sigh. Fixing on a smile, I answer a long list of queries about the menu and wait for them to make up their minds.
Twenty minutes later, having delivered the beanie man’s espresso, served several other tables and taken a load of orders, Sheila shouts to me over the top of the serving counter in the kitchen. Her face is red as she slides steaming pasties and a slice of quiche onto three plates. ‘There you go. One steak, a cheese and bacon and a spinach and ricotta quiche for table twelve. You said they’re awkward customers, so I’ve given them extra garnish.’
‘Thanks, Sheila. I’m on it now.’
‘And can you clear some tables before you come back, please? It’s mayhem out there but we need to get as many customers as we can over the holiday weekend. I can’t believe the weather we’re having this early in the year. This is the warmest Easter I’ve ever known. If this is global warming, bring it on.’
‘No problem, boss.’
Sheila doesn’t stand for any nonsense but she’s very fair and while the money is only minimum wage, it comes with something far more important to me. She lets me and my beloved dog, Mitch, sleep in the tiny loft conversion above the cafe free of charge. Despite the long hours and the difficult customers, I’m beyond grateful to have a job and a warm place to stay after months of uncertainty, sleeping on couches, in hostels and occasionally even roughing it in the caves along the bay. I don’t mind admitting that it’s been a tough time but Sheila’s kindness had proved there were people willing to help in the world.
Blowing a strand of hair that’s escaped from its scrunchie out of my eyes, I dump my tray of dirty crockery beside the dishwasher. Sheila carefully heaps fresh salad and homemade coleslaw next to the pasty and the quiche. The spicy aromas waft under my nostrils and make my stomach rumble almost as loudly as the extractor fan, but there’s no time for us to eat yet.
‘Demi, wait!’ Sheila calls as I’m half in and half out of the door to the cafe.
‘What?’
‘Can you possibly do something about Mitch’s barking? I don’t mind him staying in the flat while you’re at work but some of the customers have been asking if he’s OK.’
My heart sinks but I nod. ‘I’ll try to get him to settle down in my break. I’m sorry but it’s new for him here and he misses me.’
‘I know but do your best,’ says Sheila with a brief smile. Then she’s gone, already preparing the next order.
From the flat above, Mitch whines again. I really hope I can settle him down but he gets so excited, with so many interesting canine smells and noises drifting up from the cafe. We already went for a jog together on the beach before dawn and I’ll take him for another walk when I eventually get my break.
Back on table twelve, the younger daughter of the family brightens a little as I smile at her and hand over the spinach quiche but her sister and father are stony faced as I serve them.
‘Here’s your lunch, madam, sir. I’m very sorry for the delay.’
‘About time, too. I could have made the pasties myself.’ Her tone is icy. Her eyebrows are also weird, so weird that it’s hard not to stare.
Gritting my teeth, I offer them cutlery wrapped in serviettes. ‘Once again, I apologise for the wait, madam, and I’ll certainly pass on your feedback to the owner.’
‘Make sure you do and you can also inform her we’re not paying for my meal.’
‘You tell her, Mawgan,’ says the father to his older daughter, while the young goth sister glances down at the ground, embarrassed. I feel sorry for her.
‘I’ll have to ask the owner about your bill.’ I feel faintly sick. I can’t just give away Sheila’s food. She’s only the tenant at the cafe and her profit margins are wafer thin as it is.
‘I don’t care … and what’s this? Coleslaw? I specifically asked for no coleslaw.’ Mawgan wrinkles her nose at the pasties.
‘I’ll have it removed immediately and bring a fresh plate, madam.’
Mawgan snatches the plate back. ‘If you do that I’ll be waiting until Christmas.’
‘Whatever you wish, madam.’
Gritting my teeth, I take the tray, desperate to move on to new customers but dreading what Sheila will say about their refusal to pay the bill. It was my fault that the coleslaw ended up on the plate; I must have taken down the order wrong in the rush.
‘Would you like anything else?’ I ask in desperation. ‘Condiments? A jug of water?’
‘Some mayonnaise,’ Mawgan grunts, leaving me wondering what the objection was to coleslaw anyway.
Wondering how I’ll break the news to Sheila about the discount, I head for the condiments alcove at the side of the kitchen, and scoop some mayo from the catering jar in the fridge into an individual pot. Maybe Mawgan will change her mind when she tastes the homemade pasties that Sheila and I slaved over this morning? While I carefully place the pot on a tray, I can hear the odd yip from above but I have to harden my heart.
I reckon no one will hear Mitch anyway above the squawking of seagulls and head back outside. A large group of them has already gathered on the beach wall opposite the cafe, eyeing the lunchtime chips and pasties with their beady eyes and sharp beaks. They’re a menace all over St Trenyan, but the tourists will keep feeding them. The gulls must think Sheila’s is a drive thru.
Make that a dive thru. I’m almost at Mawgan’s table with the bowl of mayo, when I spot three of the big birds circling low over a young family at the edge of the terrace. The mother is trying to manoeuvre a buggy with a baby down the steps to the beach while a little girl clambers down beside her. She can’t be more than four and she has a bright pink ice-cream cone clutched in one hand. Her tongue sticks out in concentration as she negotiates the stone steps onto the sand. I’m in two minds whether to leave the mayo and give the mother a hand when there’s a deafening screech.
Wings beating like pterodactyls, two large gulls launch a double-pronged attack on the little girl. The birds are probably only after the food, but they could do some serious damage by accident.
‘Look out!’
Too late. The mother looks up from the bottom of the steps, there’s a flapping of wings and screeching like nails over a blackboard. The toddler lets out a wail as the gulls attack her ice cream. Dashing forward to try and chase them off, my shin connects with someone’s beach bag, I stagger forward and the pot of mayo flies through the air. It lands, smack onto the back of Mawgan’s jacket, just as if I’d aimed right for it.
Ignoring Mawgan’s shriek and my throbbing foot, I run over to the mum. The toddler stares at her empty hand which thankfully is still in one piece. Pink gloop trickles down her chubby arm, while the seagulls tear the cone to pieces on the sand.
‘Are you all OK? Is the little one hurt?’ I ask.
Her mum crouches down and hugs her. ‘She’s fine. You scared them off just in time. I was so busy with the buggy I hadn’t realised what was happening.’
‘I’m glad she’s OK.’
‘Thanks to you. Nasty things. Don’t cry, Tasha! I’ll get you another ice cream, darling.’
‘You! Waitress! Have you seen my suit?’
‘Sorry,’ I mouth to the mum. ‘Have to go.’
On the terrace, Mawgan holds up her jacket, her mouth set in a fuchsia line. It’s spattered with mayo, just like a seagull pooped on it.
‘I’m so sorry, madam, you can see it was an accident.’
She thrusts her jacket under my nose. Mayonnaise dribbles down it. Her gaze scythes through me. ‘Maybe it was, but my suit’s still ruined.’
‘I – I’ll pay for it to be cleaned,’ I say, though every word kills me to say it and it will take most of my savings.
‘Cleaned? It’s ruined. This suit cost over three hundred pounds. I expect you to pay for a new one. You or your boss.’
The words leave my lips before I can stop them. ‘Three hundred quid? You’re kidding?’
She gasps. ‘What did you say?’
The hipster lowers his Times and stares at us. His dark eyes glint in the sunlight. He frowns, seems about to speak but then raises the newspaper again. A woman nearby giggles nervously and faces look up from their lattes and pasties at the unexpected free entertainment.
‘I … didn’t mean to be rude, madam.’
‘Oh, really?’ She lowers her voice so that only I and her family can hear her. ‘You do know I can make sure you get the sack and never get another job in this town? I don’t let anyone speak to me like that.’
I hesitate, anger bubbling up in me like the fizz in a bottle of pop. Then my cork blows. Just as quietly I say: ‘Neither do I. Madam.’
I’m on the point of fetching Sheila when loud barks ring out from the side alley of the cafe. They sound exactly like Mitch’s barks but he’s supposed to be safe inside the flat. He can’t have escaped, but seconds later a hairy ball of energy hurtles from the rear of the cafe and onto the terrace. Two Pugs and a Cockerpoo start yapping and before I can blink, Mitch leaps at me, barking joyfully. Mawgan’s eyes flick from Mitch to the back door of the cafe and back at me.
‘I take it that’s your dog?’ There’s ice in her voice.
‘Yes.’
‘And it lives here?’
‘Um. Not as such. He’s just staying in the attic temporarily while I’m at work but he wasn’t supposed to get out.’
‘So, you live here too?’
My stomach swirls with unease but I don’t want to let Mawgan see that she’s rattled me and I’m getting annoyed now. The customer may be always right but she also has no right to interrogate me about my private life. ‘Yes, but I really don’t see what it has to do with you.’
She smirks. ‘Rather a lot, actually. I own this building. Your boss is my tenant so she shouldn’t be subletting the place, for a start, and there are no pets allowed, especially not a great big dirty thing like that one.’
‘Mitch isn’t dirty!’
Mitch glances up innocently then resumes his pursuit of a seagull. Squawks fill the air. My heart sinks to my boots. If I’ve got Sheila into bother I’ll never forgive myself. Even as I think the words, I know I must already have got Sheila into deep trouble. Mawgan raises herself up. ‘In fact, I’m going to see your boss right now.’
‘Mawgan …’ the goth sister murmurs.
‘Keep out of this, Andi!’
Andi caves in like a sunken sponge cake but their father beams proudly and folds his arms.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘You do that, but no one treats me like this and if I’m going to lose my job, I may as well go out with a bang.’ I reach for the nearest cold drink, which just happens to be an abandoned raspberry frappuccino and throw it over Mawgan’s skirt.
Her jaw drops and then she shrieks. ‘You little cow! You did that on purpose.’
‘My daughter could sue you for assault,’ says her father as Mitch skitters back to lick up the bright pink slush from the terrace. I glance over at the hipster but can’t see him any more and despite my bravado, I’m shaking inside.
I rip off my apron. ‘Be my guest. My legal team will be in touch.’
I glance around me defiantly and everyone turns their faces away. No one backs up Mawgan but somehow, I don’t think this is going to help Sheila’s Trip Advisor rating either. Oh shit, what the hell have I just done?
Pink slush drips from Mawgan’s skirt onto her shiny stilettos and her voice is barely more than a hiss. ‘You’ll live to regret this.’
Trembling inwardly, I shrug. ‘Actually, madam, I think I’ll look back on it as one of my finest moments.’
CHAPTER TWO
I thought about the waitress all the way out of St Trenyan, knowing I probably should have said something – that I could have stuck up for her – although I’m not sure what good it would have done or if she’d have thanked me for it. My shining armour turned rusty a long time ago and I’ve stopped trying to solve everyone’s woes. No good comes of crashing in on other people’s lives, no matter how well intentioned.
Besides, she didn’t seem to need my help. In fact, I really admired the way she stood up to the Cades … unlike me. The real truth is I wasn’t ready to face them or, at least, risk being plunged headlong into a confrontation with them.
They’re a local family of businesspeople who are well known in St Trenyan and the surrounding area. Mawgan was at my school, albeit she was a couple of years below me. She’d joined the Cade family empire before I went away and it seems as if she’s relishing her role at the helm. Her father, Clive Cade, is obviously proud of her although his younger daughter, Andi, doesn’t look cut out to be a business mogul. You never know with people, however. Before I left St Trenyan for the Middle East, I wouldn’t have thought Mawgan would become as spiteful and petty as she was towards the waitress.
Ignoring my aching knee, not to mention my niggling conscience, I stride out along the path which lurches its way over every tiny cove and sliver of beach. I’ve already had to change my route a few times where parts of the cliff have dropped into the sea. Judging by the rock falls on the beach, there must have been some almighty storms while I’ve been away.
At the top of one of the cliffs, I duck inside an old whitewashed huer’s hut for a break from the sun. Tankers and a cruise ship are tiny specks on the horizon as they head out into the Atlantic and I can taste salt on my lips again so I know I’m almost home. I shrug the pack off my back and stretch my spine.
The desert boots I had to borrow are caked in Cornish mud now, although I still feel self-conscious in the combats and khaki T-shirt. On the upside, the beanie hat and beard meant that I wasn’t recognised in St Trenyan. If I’d stepped into the row with the infamous Cades, they definitely would have.
Squashing down another pang of guilt, I shoulder my bag again. The path hugs the edge of the cliff, the worst of the climbs are over and I can see the black and white lighthouse on the headland in the far distance. The afternoon sun is mellowing, yet the sweat trickles down my spine. A few yards further on, I reach the milestone, which is just a lump of grey granite spattered with orange lichen. The words weathered away long before I was born but I know what it used to say, all the same.
One way lies Kilhallon Park, my home: the other leads to Bosinney House, my uncle’s house – and possibly to Isla Channing. The report in The Times said she was scouting out the locations for a new drama series and that she’d won an award for her last production. I always knew in my heart that she’d make it big, that she was too good to stay in one small place; with the likes of me. Perhaps that’s why I left in the first place, perhaps not – I’ve had too much time to reflect over the past few months.
On the other side of the valley, a group of ruined engine houses cling to the cliffs and on the moor the tower of the church looms above the trees. Some of them are almost bent double trying to escape the gales from the Atlantic.
For a second, I hesitate in the middle of the narrow path, wondering if I ought to go home to Kilhallon Park or to Bosinney House. Uncle Rory will know if Isla’s back. Luke might even be around too as it’s Good Friday. He’s an old buddy of mine and he works as an advisor for my uncle’s finance company, or rather he did when I last heard from him which was months ago now.
A young guy and his girlfriend shake their heads at me, eager to get past on the coast path which has become very narrow here due to a fresh growth of gorse.
‘Thinking of moving, mate, or will you be here all day?’ the guy says with a grunt.
‘Sorry.’ I press against the scratchy gorse and they squeeze past me, muttering something about ‘losers’.
A moment later, I’ve decided – and turning away from home, I head for Bosinney.
Oblivious to the trouble he’s caused at the cafe, Mitch trots after me along the cobbles of Fore Street. The houses and shops of St Trenyan tumble down the steep cobbled streets to the sea, their roofs and windows shimmering in the afternoon sun. A few marshmallow clouds float across the sapphire blue sky and whitecaps sparkle on the sea. Tourists ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ at the shops full of Easter eggs and gifts, hand-crafted chocolate and trendy china, and posh tea towels that cost as much as a morning’s wages. The tang of fish and chips and rich scent of coffee follow me along the street but I need to save every penny now, even more than before.
I was crimson with shame and fighting back tears as Sheila paid me the rest of the week’s wages which I know was more than I deserved. She was almost crying too which made me feel even worse, but she said there was no way she could keep me on. It turns out Mawgan Cade and her family do own the Beach Hut: they bought it when the previous owner, an old lady who’d lived in St Trenyan for eighty years, had to sell up and go into a nursing home. Mawgan hiked the rent up, which is why Sheila’s margins are now so thin.
‘Someone should do something about people like that!’ I said to Sheila, after Mawgan had left.
‘No one dares stand up to the Cades. They have their fingers in too many pies.’
Sheila offered to make excuses for me but I stopped her. In the end I knew the best thing for everyone was for me to leave the cafe as soon as possible before she was forced to sack me. But leaving my job also meant leaving the temporary shelter I’d found too.
‘Come on, boy,’ I say as Mitch sniffs around the bins by the harbourmaster’s office. I find a vacant bench with room for me and my worldly goods. The tourists tend to avoid the working end of the harbour: it’s too far from the souvenir shops and car parks and always smells of fish, but I need time to think. My stomach growls while Mitch curls up at my feet, full of pasty and sighing contentedly. At least he’s happy and, whatever happens, I’ll make sure he’s looked after. I’d let him go to a good home, rather than see him want for anything.
Rubbing my wet face with the back of my hand, I squeeze back the tears and think of happier times, hoping an idea will come. When I was a little girl, Mum used to take us for tea with my Nana Jones every Sunday afternoon. A proper Cornish tea with a brown pot under a woolly tea cosy, flowery china loaded with goodies you don’t see any more, figgy ’obbin, spicy parkin, fairings, and ‘fly pastry’ with currants. She even made a stargazy pie once but I burst into tears when I saw the little fish peeping out of the crust so she never made it again.
Talking of fish, a few yards away from me, a boat has just landed its catch. The gulls circle overhead, fighting and screaming over scraps. The tang of fresh fish fills the air.
‘Maybe they’d take me on as crew?’ I tell Mitch, who drops his muzzle onto his paws. He looks as confident about the plan as I feel.
‘Well, if we’re not going to sea, we need to find a new job and somewhere to stay. Come on,’ I say as much for my benefit as his. Mitch’s ears perk up ready for a new adventure which cheers me up a little too. ‘We’ve done it before and we can do it again,’ I say with a new determination. ‘We’ll just have to make the best of things.’
CHAPTER THREE
By the time I reach Bosinney House, my knee aches like crazy and a young woman I don’t recognise bars the doorway. The frilly white apron round her waist looks odd with the spray-on jeans and pink T-shirt.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ she asks, reminding me of the waitress, apart from the accent, which is definitely not Cornish but from a lot further east. Krakow? Bucharest? For some reason, she also looks scared of me. Maybe I should have had a shave.
Feeling guilty, I summon up a smile for her. ‘Hi. Is Uncle Rory at home?’
‘Uncle Rory? I do not know who you mean …’ She eyes me suspiciously and I don’t blame her. What with the attitude, the borrowed combats and the beard, she must think I’ve come to tie up and terrorise the household.
‘I mean my uncle, Mr Rory Penwith.’
She bites her lip nervously before replying. ‘Mr Penwith is here but he has guests with him.’
I should have realised that from the row of vehicles parked outside: a Range Rover, an Audi, and a couple of Mercs. Then, it dawns on me that today must be his birthday.
‘I can see that but I think he’ll find room for one more. Tell him it’s his nephew, Cal Penwith.’
She looks me up and down. ‘You are family?’
‘It may be hard to believe but I am. Can I come in? I won’t steal the silver.’
She tightens her grip on the door frame. ‘They are in the big glass room, having drinks.’
‘The orangery?’
Finally, she nods and stands aside to let me in. ‘Yes. I will take you.’
‘There’s no need. I know my way.’
Leaving my pack on the floorboards, I march past her, across the great hall and down the corridor that leads to the orangery, with the girl’s heels click-clacking behind me. The great hall smells faintly of ashes and wood smoke as it does for three seasons of the year. That’s the only part of Bosinney House that hasn’t changed: the rest has been built on over the years. It’s many times bigger than the house on Kilhallon Park and a hundred times grander. Uncle Rory inherited it from my granddad, who left Kilhallon Park to his younger son, my father. Dad never quite got over being treated as second best but I love Kilhallon, even in the state I left it when I went abroad. I’d never swap it for all Bosinney’s grandeur.
The girl catches up with me. ‘I will tell them you are here.’
I stop and turn. ‘Don’t do that.’
Seeing the genuine fear in her eyes, I feel ashamed and soften my tone. ‘I’d like to surprise them. Please?’
With another nod she scuttles off, muttering. ‘I’ll be in kitchen. I’ll fetch more champagne.’
Champagne, eh? Uncle Rory’s idea of extravagance used to be opening an extra bottle of Rattler … maybe they do know I’m coming after all.
The sound of laughter and the pop of corks drift along the corridor. Are they expecting me? It’s not possible or I’d have known about it by now and besides a handful of people, no one knows I’m back in Cornwall.
There’s applause, a few gentle cheers. I didn’t know Rory made a big thing of his birthdays, but maybe this is a landmark one or perhaps he’s made his first million from his financial advisor business. It was doing well when I left, despite the recession.
It occurs to me that I should, perhaps, have warned them first, not just turn up like this … but the truth is that a small part of me was afraid – is afraid – that no one would actually want me back.
The voices become more distinct, glasses chink and I hear a deep laugh – Uncle Rory – and a giggle – my cousin Robyn and my ears strain for the one voice I really want to hear. I walk towards the orangery and pause at the door, observing, assessing … the scene plays out like a surreal movie. These people I once cared for and loved are like actors in a play.
There must be around a dozen people in here, most of whom I recognise. Uncle Rory is downing a whisky – as I thought he would be; my old mate Luke is laughing nervously at something Isla’s mother is telling him. Robyn is handing round a tray of canapés, her face flushed. This is obviously a celebration.
There’s also someone else, whose honeyed hair brushes her bare shoulders, whose dress shimmers in the early evening sunlight and clings to her bottom. Whose slender legs are accentuated in silver heels higher than any I’ve ever seen her in before.
My body tautens like a wire. She hasn’t seen me yet, no one has seen me yet …
‘Jesus Christ Almighty!’
Uncle Rory’s face is purple. He’s lost a bit more hair since I last saw him. Luke’s mouth is open like a goldfish gasping for air. Isla’s mum looks shocked to see me. Robyn freezes, still holding the tray of canapés.
And Isla, she stares at me and her champagne glass trembles in her hand.
‘Cal? Is it really you?’
‘Isla …’ Her name squeezes out from my throat, almost inaudible. I never thought it would be like this. Every ounce of strength has gone.
‘Cal? Bloody hell, I thought you were a ghost!’ Luke suddenly rushes over and gathers me up in a man hug, slapping me on the back so hard I wince.
‘Are you OK, man?’
‘I’m fine. Looking good, Luke.’ And he does. Bigger, beefier, the extra weight suits him and he looks happy. It’s great to see him; I never expected to feel so emotional so I must be going soft. Luke gives me a man hug again, but this time I suppress the wince.
He stares at me. ‘Man, you look thin … I can’t believe this … I just … I don’t know what to say.’
He lets me go and rubs his hand over his face, shaking his head in shock. I don’t blame him. I’ve changed a lot while I’ve been away.
‘Cal! Cal!’ My cousin Robyn launches herself at me, tears streaming down her face, along with the kohl around her eyes. Robyn’s every bit as good a mate as any of the lads – more even. ‘Where have you been? Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?’ Her fingers dig into my forearm but I don’t mind. It’s wonderful to see her again.
‘I don’t know. Admin problems? Leaves on the line? Happy birthday, by the way.’
Uncle Rory downs the rest of his whisky and dumps the glass on a table. ‘It’s not a matter for levity, boy. We haven’t heard from you for months. For all we knew, you might have been dead.’
‘As you can see, I’m not.’
‘Don’t joke! You know damn well what I mean. We thought you’d decided to stay in the Middle East for good.’
‘I almost did,’ I say, with half an eye on Isla, watching me from a few feet away, still dumbstruck and even more beautiful than she looked in that newspaper article. She’s let her blonde hair grow and it’s been cut in a style that manages to be both classy and damn sexy.
‘How long have you known you were coming home?’ Rory asks.
‘A few days.’
His face is almost purple. ‘Then why didn’t you call us? We’ve hardly heard from you in the past two years.’
Isla has abandoned her glass and is hugging herself as if she’s freezing cold. Under the light tan, which I presume she picked up on her last shoot in Cannes, she’s pale as the moon on the sea.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say more to Isla than my uncle. ‘I’ve been … tied up and I couldn’t get away from work that easily.’ I swallow hard. ‘It’s been … complicated.’
‘Too tied up or complicated to phone us or email?’ Luke asks, an edge creeping into his voice. I can’t blame him.
‘Why didn’t you phone or text, if only to say you were on your way home?’ Isla’s voice cuts through the air, more London than in my imagination, yet still with the Cornish lilt. Everyone else may as well be on Mars.
‘It’s complicated,’ I repeat, knowing I can never un-complicate it or tell anyone the real truth. ‘I’ve only been in the UK for a few hours and I did call you.’ With a smile, I switch the focus back to Isla. ‘I tried to call you on the train here but your phone was dead.’
She smiles back, apologetically. ‘Oh … I’m sorry. I’ve changed my phone and my number while you’ve been away. I had to; a fan got hold of it and started stalking me.’
‘A fan?’
‘Isla’s a celebrity now.’ Her mother glares at me like Medusa, obviously hoping to turn me to stone while her dad takes refuge in his champagne glass. He always was a man of few words and he’s lost for them now. ‘She’s an award-winning TV and film producer, you know,’ Mrs Channing adds.
‘I know that. I read about the last one in the newspaper. Congratulations.’
‘So you had time to read the papers?’ Isla remarks. She wrinkles her nose like she used to when she was trying not to cry. Like she did when I left her at the station the night I left Cornwall.
‘Actually I did email you on my way down on the train,’ I go on, refusing to let Isla off the hook.
‘Oh, Cal. I haven’t even looked at my emails since yesterday. We’ve all been completely tied up here all day, organising the party … and Luke forbade me to do any work this weekend, didn’t you?’
‘Forbade you?’
‘I forbade myself.’
She puts her glass down on the table but it’s my hands shaking now as I walk towards her. A huge wave of memories thunders towards me and I pull her into my arms. I’m swept away by the sight and smell and feel of her. She is fragile, delicate, a porcelain figure, always way out of my league. Instinct stirs responses I can’t stop and don’t want to, even in the middle of company. I press her against me and her hands seek my spine through my shirt as if she wants to double check I’m real, not a phantom. I inhale her perfume. It’s a new one, sharper and more sophisticated than the scents she used to wear, or is that my imagination?
‘You don’t know how much I’ve wanted this.’ I breathe the words into her hair, which smells even better than I remember it.
‘Cal …’
Her whisper pushes me away, then I realise that her hands are also pushing me away from her too. No. I won’t let her go yet. I could lift her off her feet if I wanted to, and carry her out of here in a second but she is controlling this moment; this moment I’ve hungered and thirsted for so long. There’s deep pain in her eyes and the realisation smacks me in the chest. ‘Isla?’
‘I’m sorry but things have changed.’ Her voice cracks with emotion and it’s all I can do to hold it together.
Changed? Yeah, I guess. You look even hotter than ever, if that’s possible. You smell wonderful too. I want to say the words out loud but something stops me. Instead I lift my hand to her cheek and feel the soft skin under my fingertips.
She smiles and then flinches away from my hand. ‘Please. Not here. Not now.’
Everyone is looking at us; we’re the dancers in the middle of a circle that no one dares to join.
‘Aren’t you going to congratulate the happy couple?’ Mrs Channing, Isla’s mother, speaks.
‘What happy couple? I thought this was a birthday party? Is there something I’m missing here?’ I make my tone light but my stomach churns with foreboding.
‘It is a birthday party but we’ve just heard some more good news. Isla and Luke have announced they’re getting engaged. Isn’t that wonderful news?’ her mother trills.
‘Engaged?’ Shock constricts my throat muscles. ‘You mean engaged to be married?’
Isla laughs lightly. ‘Well, there isn’t going to be a wedding yet. Not for a while.’
‘But probably this year. Definitely early next year,’ Luke cuts in, with an expression on his face I don’t recognise.
‘We haven’t set a date yet, these things take a lot of organising and I’m so busy with work.’ Isla glances at Luke for confirmation.
Robyn links her arm with mine. ‘They told us just before you came in, Cal. Isn’t it an amazing day? Dad’s birthday, the engagement and you coming home …’
Robyn beams. I don’t think she or anyone realises how much I felt for Isla. Before I went away, we didn’t really have a formal relationship. It was definitely on–off and no one considered it serious. Isla obviously didn’t. But the past few months have made me realise that I did. I’ve been in denial about how much I felt for her and I’d resolved to tell her when I came home, if I came home.
My uncle pats Luke on the back. He seems as proud as if Luke were his own flesh and blood, not the son of his former business partner. Rory always had a soft spot for Luke but now there’s clearly a bond between them that wasn’t there when I went away. It’s as if Luke is Rory’s son now.
‘Aren’t you thrilled for them?’ Mrs Channing’s voice cuts through me and she gives me a calculating glance.
‘Oh yes. Thrilled.’ I echo her because I can’t formulate my own thoughts any more. I can’t even think straight.
‘Cal, darling, I’ll fetch you a whisky.’ Robyn scuttles off.
I glance to Isla, clutching her glass so tightly it could shatter any second but Luke’s arm is around my back.
He clears his throat nervously. He knows I fancied Isla, and that we dated for a while before I left but not how much I really felt for her. ‘Hey, mate, it’s great to have you home. Joking apart, I was worried that you might have decided to stay out there.’
‘I thought the same myself, a few times.’ My smile hides an instinct to lash out like a wounded animal. Anyone will tell you my social veneer was never thick, but now it’s paper thin and rubbed to nothing in places. My time in the Middle East has shown me the worst of human nature, including my own. It was a mistake to turn up like this, an even bigger one to come home and expect to find everything as I left it.
‘Cal?’ Isla’s voice is soft, reminding me that these are the people I love and miss, whose company I longed for, but now I’m here, now I know how much things have changed, I’d rather face the warzone I came from.
Ignoring Isla temporarily, I search Luke’s face, interrogate him. ‘How long have you two been together?’
‘A good few months now.’ His tone is overly casual, his smile over bright. ‘Come through to the sitting room. Have a drink. We’ll talk.’
‘No. No, I … thanks for the offer, mate, but I need to get home to Kilhallon Park.’
‘Wait, Cal! Surely you’re going to tell us where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing lately?’
The answer to Isla’s question is so complicated, and yet so simple, that my brain literally hurts. The blood pulses in my temple, a tight band seems to crush my skull.
‘Not now, I’m tired … and I don’t want to spoil your party with my boring stories. Plus, I really should go and see how Polly is. I left a message on her phone but I haven’t heard back from her yet. I hope she’s been OK while I’ve been out of contact.’
Luke flashes me a sympathetic smile. ‘Polly’s fine but you obviously wouldn’t expect her to cope with managing the whole place on her own, with no money coming in since just before you left, after your father passed away. Rory and I did what we could to keep things from falling into complete rack and ruin but we didn’t want to take over.’
I smile at Luke and his arm tightens around Isla’s waist. The sight of him with her is like a jagged knife sawing through my guts.
‘I can see that. Congratulations,’ I say and walk out.
The free sample has ended.
