Summer at the Cornish Cafe

by Phillipa Ashley

  ‘Um. Sorry. I thought you’d be dressed by now. I mean, I thought you’d be ready. For dinner, that is … shall I come back later?’

  ‘Why would you want to do that?’ Frowning at my obvious stupidity, he pads over to the table where onion skins and chilli seeds lie on the chopping board. The bandages are gone, and I’m not redoing them. He’ll have to suffer, and I do hope the chilli hasn’t got into his sore hands.

  Not that I am focusing on the chilli or his blisters. I have absolutely no idea how that towel is staying up.

  As he turns his back to gather the scraps onto the board, the thin towel stretches across his bum, outlining his muscles. My hormones leap about like popcorn, my body sizzles and I don’t know where to look next. He flips the pedal of the bin with his foot and bends over to scrape the vegetable scraps off the board. The towel tautens over his bottom. I almost have to bite my knuckles in frustration. What’s wrong with me? I’ve turned to complete mush.

  He swings round to face me. Miraculously, the towel stays up. ‘Demi, what’s the matter with you? You look like you’re going to have a heart attack?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s hot in here. With the oven on and whatnot and I must have had the shower up too high.’

  He nods. ‘The thermostat’s on its way out. It is a warm night so I thought we’d eat outside. There’s some cold cider in the fridge. Why don’t you take one out while I put some clothes on?’

  Either he genuinely has no idea what he does to me, or he has every idea and doesn’t care – or he is deliberately trying to fry my brain and hormones at the same time. But I can’t believe he’d lead me on like that. In which case he really has no idea which means he can’t possibly think I could ever be any kind of threat to him in that way. I’m just an employee, a friend at best: part of the fixtures and fittings like the table or the chickens.

  I skip outside, gulping in the fresh air, although it’s so still and dusty it hardly helps but at least I don’t have to look at him any more.

  But, what’s this?

  Beside the back door, Cal has laid two places on the old iron patio table and carried two of the farmhouse chairs into the yard. In the centre of the table, some wildflowers from the meadow are stuck in an old Doom Bar bottle.

  With a chilled cider swilling through my veins and a lot of concentration on a green roof leaflet I found in the recycling bin, I manage to cool myself down a little. Sounds of the Aga door opening and plates clinking let me know he’s back but I don’t offer to help him.

  Shortly after, he carries two plates of curry outside. To my relief, he’s put jeans and a T-shirt on, though the sight of him with hair still damp, and skin smelling of pine shower gel, is raising the temperature again.

  ‘Wow, this is posh.’

  He grins. ‘I’m a man of many talents. Now, would madam care to be seated?’

  The curry was delicious and over the last couple of hours, we demolished a few ciders. OK, make that three for me and four for him – I think – and suddenly I realise it’s barely light enough to read the labels and that my thighs are covered in goosebumps.

  ‘You wouldn’t think it could be so cold after such a hot day,’ I say.

  ‘It was freezing in the desert at night.’

  This is one of the first times I’ve ever heard him refer to his time in the Middle East and I hesitate before responding. I want to hear more about his life before he went away, and what happened while he was away, even though I’m almost afraid to hear it.

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘It’s the radiation loss under the clear skies. It literally can drop to freezing.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised. You must be glad to be home.’

  In reply, he tips the cider bottle to his mouth.

  ‘What made you leave home for such a dangerous place when you could have stayed at Kilhallon?’ With Isla, I think.

  ‘Sometimes I wish I hadn’t.’

  ‘Then why did you?’

  ‘My mother died when I was a teenager and even before that my father was too busy having affairs and mismanaging the park to see that I was going off the rails. One night, not long after Dad had brought home another new woman, I got pissed, took a tractor for an unscheduled tour of the village and ended up in a police cell.’ He laughs bitterly but I sense that this is something he wants to tell me; or has to.

  With another swig of his cider, he carries on. ‘Anyway, I was lucky not to end up in jail but it was my last chance. Isla persuaded me to knuckle down at college, retake my A levels and somehow I scraped the grades to get into university.’

  ‘Polly told me you were training to be a doctor.’

  ‘Yes, but I never qualified. I started a medical degree but I dropped out after two years.’

  ‘Why did you drop out?’

  ‘I don’t think I really wanted to do be a doctor in the first place but my dad wanted me to have a profession, as I wasn’t going to help run Kilhallon, and Isla encouraged me. But I couldn’t handle the pressure of the exams; I started taking some stuff to cope with it all. In the end, I did scrape through the second year exams but I quit anyway. That’s what Dad found hardest: that I’d quit while I was ahead. Anyway, I came home in disgrace and bummed around for a few months, with my mates.’

  ‘And Luke?’

  ‘Yeah, we hung out, but by that stage he was moving on; he was doing his finance exams, turning into a grown-up. Unlike me,’ he adds. ‘Isla was still here and I was just happy to be able to see her. She was doing a TV production course in Falmouth. Eventually I got bored and a friend persuaded me to do some volunteering with a charity that sends out shelter kits. I never expected to care about it as much as I did.’

  ‘It was just a way to pass the time but the work sucked me in gradually until I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. I finally felt that a loser like me could actually make a difference in the world. Over the next few years, I worked for them, going abroad for a few weeks or even months at a time when they needed me to. Eventually, they asked me to do a year-long stint.’

  ‘Is that the group who you were working for recently?’

  He hesitates. ‘No. It was another organisation. One based out there.’ Stopping abruptly, he picks up the dirty plates. ‘I saw some scones and cream in the fridge. Do you want some?’

  ‘If you do. I made them this morning.’

  ‘How could I resist?’ He shoots me a smile that makes me shiver. ‘Stay there.’

  There is no elegant way to eat a scone full with jam and cream. You just have to go for it and embrace the fact that the filling will squidge out and cover your fingers with sticky, creamy bliss. And that you will have to lick the mess from your fingers. I still haven’t overcome my delight in being able to eat when and what I like and even Cal, sitting next to me in all his annoying sexiness, isn’t going to stop me.

  He leans over the table and stares at my face.

  Automatically, I touch my nose. ‘What’s the matter? Do I have a burned nose? I forgot the sun cream while we cut the field. I bet I’m smothered in freckles too.’

  ‘Your nose is rather red but the freckles are cute.’ Cute? Is he flirting with me again? Is it to distract me from more questions about his life in the Middle East? Or am I reading too much into that?

  I stick out my tongue. ‘Yuk. I don’t want to be cute.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Actually if I was being honest, I’d have described you as annoying.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I mutter, thinking the ‘cute’ wasn’t so bad after all.

  ‘And gobby,’ he adds with a smug grin.

  I gasp. ‘You can talk, Mr Moody.’

  His eyebrows rise and then join together. ‘Me? Moody?’

  ‘Yes. And arsey too.’

  He snorts. ‘When am I ever arsey?’

  ‘All the time, and cranky too, not to mention unpredictable …’

  ‘Well, you’re bolshie, Ms Jones, not to mention chippy and your nose is like Rudolph’s.’

  ‘You are so horribl
e, Cal— hey!’

  Lightning fast, he dips a finger into the clotted cream and flicks it at my nose. Cream spatters my cheeks and my eyes focus on a yellow splodge on the tip of my nose. I curl my tongue upwards trying to reach it. Cal rests his chin on his hand and leans across the table. That handsome, sexy, annoying face is far too close for comfort. My body glows inwardly and I hardly dare breathe. ‘That’s a very impressive tongue.’

  His voice, husky and slightly slurred, curls around me and I refocus on him. He holds half a scone piled high with jam and cream, inches from my lips.

  ‘Go on, you may as well eat the rest now. May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb,’ as Polly would say.’

  ‘This is a scone not a … mmmmm.’

  He slides the crumbly scone between my lips. It’s hard to laugh, eat a scone and try not to melt with lust all at the same time. The fact I’m not supposed to be interested in him seems irrelevant and the biggest lie I’ve ever told myself. Surely Cal must know I have a massive crush on him.

  ‘Good?’ he asks, that smile playing on his lips. He must know how I feel about him.

  Through closed eyes, I mumble. ‘Mmm. Delicious.’

  ‘Cal? Are you there?’

  I open my eyes in time to see Cal jump up from the table, wiping his mouth with his hand, smearing jam and cream on his face, like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Isla stands in the kitchen doorway. She wears a simple red shift dress with her glossy straw-coloured hair caught up in a casual pony tail that must have taken ages to look so stylish. She smiles at us, like she’s caught two children misbehaving but is prepared to let us off.

  ‘I couldn’t get an answer when I knocked and the front door was open so I walked in. I hope it was OK?’ She steps down into the yard. I’ve no idea how long she’s been there or what she’s seen or heard of our scone fight.

  ‘If I’m disturbing your dinner, I can come back. I wanted to ask if you’ve decided to come to the party. I haven’t had your RSVP and I have to give the caterers the final numbers ready for the day after tomorrow. Or has it been lost in the post?’

  ‘I’ve been too busy.’ Cal gathers up the empty bottles with his hands. One slips from his fingers and smashes, spraying glass across the cobbles and he curses.

  ‘Oh dear, I knew I should have phoned first but I managed to snatch a quick break from my latest shoot to fly down here.’

  ‘It’s fine. We’d finished,’ he says briskly.

  Had we? Had we even started? We were pissed. Nothing happened. Nothing will happen now she’s here. Isla. So beautiful, so bloody nice.

  Realising I’ve been a spectator for the past minute, I get up, wiping my jammy hands on my shorts. ‘I’d better clear up the glass.’

  Cal bends down. ‘No. It’s my mess. I’ll clear it up in a minute.’

  Isla joins him on the cobbles. ‘What happened to your hands? They look sore.’

  ‘I was demolishing a wall.’

  ‘With a sledgehammer,’ I add.

  She shakes her head. ‘God, Cal.’

  ‘I’ll get some old newspaper to wrap the glass in,’ I say, but no one hears, which suits me. It was a good job Isla arrived or something might have happened that I’d have regretted. That Cal might have regretted. Would we have regretted it? While I find the newspaper from the recycling bag, I turn the possibilities over in my mind and end up tying myself in knots. When I come back, Isla has gathered the largest pieces of glass and together we wrap up the pieces in the newspaper while Cal looks on moodily. Isla’s face is tense and strained.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll throw this lot in the bin on my way home.’

  ‘Please, don’t go because of me. You two seemed to be having a good time.’

  I force a smile because I’m not sure what she means, exactly. She’s probably just being nice. I think.

  ‘We were only mucking about and I was getting cold. Anyway, I’d better take Mitch for a walk.’

  Hearing his name, Mitch lifts his head off his paws. I pick up the newspaper bundle.

  ‘There’s no need to go,’ says Isla firmly. ‘I’m sure Cal can find you a jumper or something to keep you warm.’

  ‘Demi’s perfectly capable of fetching a sweatshirt from her place,’ Cal says.

  ‘I’m sure she is but I wanted to talk to Demi too. I want to ask her a favour.’ She throws me a smile, a warm and friendly smile that confuses the hell out of me.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘This is rather short notice but I was wondering if you could spare the time to help out with the catering for the engagement party at Bosinney. There’s a big event at the country club the same evening so the catering company is short-handed.’ She smiles. ‘Again.’

  ‘I … um … are you sure after the … er … last time?’

  ‘That wasn’t your fault.’ She looks embarrassed. My God, I think she really is that nice. ‘Abby said you worked incredibly hard before Mawgan was such a cow to you. I promise I’ll keep her well away from you.’

  ‘You’ve asked Mawgan?’

  ‘Of course I have, Cal.’ Isla sounds weary, as if she was expecting her visit to turn into a battle. ‘You know very well that the Cades are business associates of Dad’s, and Robyn is very friendly with Andi, not to mention Luke’s involvement with some of Mawgan’s projects.’

  Cal shakes his head. ‘It all sounds very cosy.’

  ‘It’s done now and that’s that. I can’t change the guest list to suit you, Cal.’ Isla sounds frustrated.

  ‘I don’t expect you to,’ he growls. ‘But after the way Mawgan treated Demi at the ball you can’t expect her to wait on your guests.’

  ‘It’s OK. I’m over it.’ I edge towards the door with the newspaper bundle. I don’t want to be a spectator at a lovers’ tiff. Because this is a lovers’ tiff, whether Isla’s engaged to Luke or not.

  ‘So you’ll do it? We’ll pay you double what you got at the ball,’ Isla says brightly.

  Before I can answer, Cal leaps in with both feet. ‘You won’t pay her anything because Demi is already coming to the party.’

  My jaw drops.

  ‘The invitation said Cal Penwith and guest, didn’t it?’

  ‘Well … erm …’ Isla’s perfect brows meet in a frown. I edge closer to the door, dying of embarrassment.

  ‘Demi is my guest so she can’t wait on tables,’ Cal declares.

  I’m too shocked to speak and Isla seems to be the same way. The one person who doesn’t have a say in this argument seems to be me but I’m not sure what to say anyway, or even how I feel about being a pawn in their game.

  ‘Of c-course it did, and Demi is welcome, naturally, but I’d assumed …’

  ‘That I would be alone?’ Cal smiles triumphantly.

  ‘You haven’t replied yet. How was I to know?’ says Isla, coolly.

  ‘Then I apologise but thanks, yes, we’re both delighted to accept the invitation.’

  ‘Well, good. I look forward to seeing you. Both of you, of course, and I’m so sorry I made a mistake with the invitation.’ She directs this at Cal, an edge creeping into her voice.

  ‘Demi has been looking forward to it, haven’t you?’ he says to me. I could kill him for putting me on the spot but I’m also secretly dancing a little jig.

  ‘Thanks for asking me,’ I mutter. ‘Now I have to take Mitch out. He’s plaiting his legs.’

  Why do I feel so angry with Isla when she’s so polite? Is it because she walked in and stopped me – and Cal – from doing something stupid? Because of the way he looks at her now? Because for a crazy moment I thought he might kiss me, and that the kiss might turn into something else?

  I scuttle past her, the newspaper packet clutched tightly against my body.

  ‘Demi. Wait …’ She smiles at me as if I’m a little girl again. She pulls a tissue from her bag and holds it out. ‘You have jam on your nose.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Isla didn
’t stay long after Demi left us. I walked with her to the stables because she said she wanted to see Dexter. I pretended I believed her. It’s warm in the loose box and the earthy scent of hay and horse is soothing.

  Dexter snickers in pleasure as we walk into his stall.

  ‘He recognises you,’ I say.

  She pats his mane. ‘He should do. I rode him often enough while you were away.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Every time I was at home or at Bosinney, I took him for a hack, either with Robyn or on my own. He needed riding, Cal, and it gave me some comfort to be on his back. Argh. Did I really say that?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  She lifts her face to me. With her cheeks tinged with the pink of embarrassment, she looks more beautiful than ever but there’s a brittle edge to her too. She’s lost more weight; and she’s made-up more heavily than I’ve seen her. Or is that wishful thinking? Do I want Isla to be unhappy with Luke? If I’m honest, yes. Does that mean I’m a bastard or that I can’t truly love her? Yet love isn’t benign and altruistic, not my kind of love.

  ‘Is everything OK? Did you really come to ask Demi to work at the party? I should have replied to the invite sooner but I’ve had things to sort out.’

  I can tell she doesn’t believe me. ‘I’m happy for Demi to come,’ she says. ‘And I wondered about inviting you at all. I didn’t want to hurt you but Luke wants you to come. I want you to come. Is that selfish of me?’

  I let this remark pass without an answer. ‘How’s Luke? I haven’t seen him much since I got back. I’ve been busy and Robyn tells me Luke’s not been around much.’

  ‘No, he’s been away on business and, to be honest, I’ve hardly seen him. What with me being up in London and the business for him. And other stuff.’

  ‘What other stuff could possibly keep him away from you?’

  She laughs bitterly. ‘You’d be surprised. There are the Cades, for a start. He spends a lot of time with Mawgan and Clive.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘They’re big clients of the firm. Luke and his father want to keep them sweet. I’m probably overreacting. Hell, I have to spend weeks away when I’m in the middle of a shoot. Now,’ – she smiles and takes my arm – ‘never mind me, how are things with you? Luke told me your planning application was turned down. You must appeal.’