Confetti at the Cornish Café

by Phillipa Ashley

  ‘Are you sure you can handle all the planning alongside looking after Freya? It’s not too much pressure, is it?’ I ask Rachel, realising again how much work a small baby is.

  ‘I might regret it at some point. I probably will, but I won’t know if I don’t try. Gary’s already taken over some of the duties after he comes in from work and my mum came round to take care of her last week so I could do some research and pop out to see some potential suppliers. I must admit I’m even more knackered than usual but organising a celebrity wedding is way too good an opportunity to miss. I’m sure it’ll be all right on the day, as long as we prepare properly.’

  My nod and smile hide my real feelings. Yes, so far everything at Kilhallon and Demelza’s has been all right on the day. Even Cal and me. Yet the pleasant tingle of happiness at seeing Freya in ‘my’ place soon fades. The wedding fair is just weeks away. Surely it’s impossible to organise an event like that at such short notice, no matter what Rachel says?

  I also realise I’m going to have to get some temporary staff at the cafe earlier in the season than I thought or we’ll never manage. Even with a great plan, and Rachel’s help, I have a horrible feeling I might have bitten off more than I can chew this time.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Soon it’s time for Rachel to leave and get Freya ready for her bath and bedtime. While I cuddle her, Rachel packs away her laptop and notepad. I gently rub Freya’s back. She’s drowsy and very content after her feed. She reminds me of a baby koala, curled over my shoulder. She’s impossibly cute but I still can’t believe she’s my sister. I definitely can’t see the resemblance that Polly constantly points out – usually when Freya is either wailing or filling her nappy.

  ‘I’d no idea how complicated and stressful weddings could be until I ended up in the middle of one,’ I say. ‘I’ve no idea why anyone wants to go through that kind of drama.’

  Rachel smiles at me and I feel ever so slightly patronised. ‘Really? Have you never thought about having your own wedding?’

  ‘Me? Never.’

  Freya grumbles slightly at the shock of my exclamation.

  ‘What about Cal?’ Rachel asks.

  ‘He’s never thought about getting married either. Not to me, anyway,’ I say quietly.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Rachel grimaces. ‘Sore point?’

  ‘It’s fine. I’m cool. He went out with Isla for a while before he met me. She’s the film producer who persuaded Lily and Ben to hold their wedding here. He’s over her now. He says he’s over her …’

  ‘But you’re not convinced that Cal is really over his ex?’

  ‘I don’t think “convinced” is the right word. I’m only being honest. It was the flooding that finally pushed me to move in with Cal. A homeless family needed my cottage over Christmas and … I finally realised it was the right thing to do.’

  This is only partly true. It was also down to Cal’s decision to be reconciled with his half-brother, Kit Bannen, and the way he had finally shared his experiences in Syria with me. Until then I wasn’t sure I could ever live with such a troubled, turbulent guy.

  Kit is Cal’s half-brother who lives in London. Cal didn’t even know that Kit existed until he turned up at Kilhallon in the autumn. Kit didn’t tell us who he was until the whole story came out at the Harbour Lights Festival and caused a huge bust-up between him and Cal – and me too.

  Cal’s father had strings of affairs while he was married to Cal’s mum. They included Kit’s mother who was down here on holiday when she was a young woman. Kit was the result of a holiday ‘romance’, but Mr Penwith refused to acknowledge him publicly as his son. A sort of peace has descended since Kit returned from his home in London to help with the floods rescue. Kit realised he’d been jealous and vindictive towards Cal and he’s keen to make it up to him. We’ve heard from him a couple of times since then and slowly, I think, they’re both learning to accept and trust each other, though it’s still early days.

  ‘Demi?’ Rachel’s hand is on my arm. I hadn’t realised that I must have been miles away. ‘Tell me if I’m being nosy but it sounds like you needed a big push to move in with Cal?’

  I hesitate because Rachel doesn’t know the full story. ‘I needed to trust him and I needed to give up my independence. It’s not easy learning to rely on someone when you’ve been hurt and let down. Oh shit. I didn’t mean you and Dad let me down.’

  ‘It’s OK. Your dad did let you down. He knows that.’

  ‘Neither of us was blameless but we were both so … lost after Mum died … I’m sorry I was vile to you.’

  She shrugs. ‘Yeah, well. I wasn’t the nicest person either, I’m sure. I didn’t really relish the role of wicked stepmother and I knew you hated me barging into your life and taking your mum’s place. I can’t say I blamed you and I probably wasn’t the most sensitive person in the way I handled things back then.’

  My face colours but I can’t deny that Rachel is right. She said some harsh things to me, even though I probably deserved some of them at the time.

  ‘We were all right and all wrong in our own ways. Let’s forget it. Now I want to concentrate on the wedding because I definitely need all the help I can get.’

  Freya lets out another burp and we both laugh out loud. ‘That’s what Freya thinks of us all, and the wedding too.’

  We fasten Freya into her car seat. ‘She’s right. It’s all a bit mad. I mean, owls flying around with rings? Handfasting? Colour-coordinated flower arches? How did we get here?’ I ask, pulling a face that makes Freya smile at me. Either that or it could be wind again.

  ‘Every wedding eventually turns the sanest, most reasonable person stark staring mad. Which is why me and your dad have never got round to it, I suppose.’

  ‘Yet.’

  Rachel looks thoughtful. ‘Yes. Hmm. I must admit that organising this wedding has focused my mind. Maybe it’s time we did think about tying the knot ourselves, but I have to get this one over with first!’

  I laugh. ‘Well one thing’s for sure. There’s no way Cal and I will be doing it. Hell will freeze over first.’

  ‘What won’t I be doing?’ Cal emerges from behind the counter. He must have come through the staff door but neither of us heard him. He could have been there for five seconds – or five minutes for all I know, and my stomach flips when I realise he might have heard some or most of my conversation with Rachel.

  Rachel glances at me. ‘We were talking about weddings.’

  Cal grimaces. ‘Then I might walk straight back out again. I’ve already had enough of weddings, and especially this one.’

  ‘So much drama, and we’re not even the ones tying the knot, eh?’

  He laughs. ‘Exactly. If someone else’s wedding can be this much trouble, imagine the trauma if it was your own!’

  Rachel is quiet, watching us.

  I think Cal’s joking but you never know. Weddings were never going to be his thing and he has a lot on his mind but I hope he can rustle up some enthusiasm. Then again, if he heard what I said to Rachel … Ouch. I didn’t quite mean that hell would freeze over before I’d agree to marry anyone. Rachel pushed me, she was teasing me and after seeing what’s involved in the whole wedding bandwagon, I don’t think I’d want that hassle, and the fuss and the public show …

  Shit.

  ‘Rachel’s given us some fantastic ideas on how to rescue Kilhallon’s image and for organising the wedding. It’s going to be amazing.’ God, now I can’t even convince myself.

  Cal tickles Freya’s tummy, and she smiles and makes a gurgling sound of pleasure that is definitely not wind. If he heard me, he’s hiding it well. He can’t have. ‘I’m really grateful you’re helping us, Rachel – and Freya too.’

  As if she recognises her name, which she must do now, Freya reaches for Cal’s thumb and grasps it in her doll-sized fist.

  ‘She’s strong,’ he says. Cal glances at me. ‘Like her big sister.’

  ‘I’ll open the door,’ Rachel says.
>
  I carry Freya out to the car. Gulls circle and cry high above us and the smaller birds twitter like mad from the hedgerows and stone walls next to the cafe. Spring is definitely here, which focuses my mind on next month’s big event even more.

  After we’ve waved off Rachel and Freya, Cal follows me into the cafe. He was smiley enough as we said goodbye and said he’d get on to the list of jobs that Rachel and I have drawn up for the wedding fair, but there’s a tension in the air. A chill that goes beyond the cool spring evening. Maybe he did hear what I said about never settling down but, even if he did, why would he care? If there’s one thing I know, it’s that hearts, flowers and hand-fastings are not for me and Cal. We’ve known each other less than a year and been living together for less than three months. I said we’d take each day at a time and that’s working for us. Which is fine. It’s absolutely fine.

  ‘It’s OK. I can lock up without you.’

  ‘I know you can but I’ll still help.’

  I know when it’s pointless to argue with Cal. Most of the time it’s pointless to argue with Cal. He checks the doors to the terrace and waits in the cafe until I’ve turned off the lights and power. I lock the door behind me and we walk back to the farmhouse, chatting about setting up the yurts in time for the Easter season.

  The sun is still bright but under the clear skies, any heat is rapidly escaping and I think we might even have a frost tonight, even here on the coast. Cal goes off to the storage barn to collect some wood for the fire, leaving me to walk into the farmhouse alone. He seemed normal enough, whatever normal is for Cal. I don’t think he even heard what I said to Rachel when he walked into the cafe … so why do I get the distinct feeling I’ve hurt him in some way? And that he’s holding something back?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Cal

  On the early train to London with Demi, I pretend to answer my emails, update the bookings calendar, order some spares for the sit-on mower, but all I really have on my mind is two girls.

  One is sitting next to me now, working on the edits to her cookbook. She’s intent on the screen, frowning.

  I glance out of the window at the trees coming into leaf, and the late March sunshine sparkling on the waves as we skirt the coast at Dawlish. They had to rebuild this section of the line a few years ago in floods similar to those which devastated St Trenyan. It’s good to see it open again and the village getting back on its feet. I wish I could be as optimistic about my personal life.

  The coastline only holds my attention for a few seconds before Demi’s words from last week in the cafe ring out in my mind.

  ‘Well one thing’s for sure. There’s no way Cal and I will be doing it. Hell will freeze over first.’

  No one ever overheard anything good about themselves, my mother would have told me. But those phrases ‘no way’ and ‘hell will freeze over first’ are seared on my mind. I steal a glance at her, tapping away on her keyboard and sticking out her tongue in concentration. Even with a lot of help from the publisher, she’s found this book a big challenge.

  Obviously, she finds me even more of one.

  At least I know where I stand with Demi. Can’t say I blame her.

  She’s young – only twenty-two – whereas I’m ten years older and I’m carrying more baggage than the Paddington to Penzance on a Bank Holiday. I know she’d have plenty of offers and, anyway, lots of people don’t even bother getting married these days.

  My first shot at it never even got off the ground. I never even had the chance to ask Isla. Which turned out to be a good thing …

  We arrive at Paddington at lunchtime and Demi walks to her publishers’ office while I get the tube to our charity office. I’ve arranged to meet her at a pub next to the station before our train home to Cornwall later this evening.

  We part with a kiss and she plunges down the street, carrying a laptop bag, looking for all the world as if she belongs on these streets. My breath catches: she’s come so far from the girl I met at a cafe, desperate and hungry. Watching her blossom over the past year has been one of the highlights of my life: she’s grown alongside Kilhallon. I don’t kid myself that I had a hand in any of that other than providing the occasional opportunity. After emerging from the tube, I take a turn down a side street and to the small suite of offices that are part of a larger block.

  A buzz at the door lets me into the reception area, which serves as a storeroom too by the look of it. There’s chaos as usual with the small team, their equipment and some supplies crammed into every available space. The bustle lifts me. Carolyn texted me first thing to say they were arranging a video call with the actual aid worker who’d spoken to the man who’d seen Esme. I can’t believe that in a few hours I might have a photo and detailed news of her.

  Carolyn’s assistant meets me at the door and tells me to go upstairs to Carolyn’s ‘cupboard’ at the top of the building. Before I even reach her door, halfway up the final flight, she appears on the landing and I know. She doesn’t have to say anything.

  One look at Carolyn’s face: at the grimace of sympathy and I know it’s bad news. I’m wading through the sea, fighting against the current and backwash from the waves. My chest tightens and I can’t breathe.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, and meets me on the landing. ‘It wasn’t Esme. My colleague called. He could have waited for the video conference but he wanted to let us know as soon as possible. I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing. We all thought – hoped – it was her. The girl looked like her and she was the right age and her story of fleeing from the same area sounded too much like a coincidence. But this girl isn’t Esme. A family member contacted one of our aid workers and confirmed who she really is and the little girl has already spoken to them on Skype.’

  ‘I’m glad for her,’ I say, although my skin crawls with disappointment and I want to scream. ‘I’m happy one family has found some relief from this fucking awful mess.’

  Carolyn holds her door open wide. ‘You’re a good guy, Cal, even if you don’t believe it.’

  ‘Yeah. Whatever you say, boss.’

  ‘I’m not your boss now but come inside anyway and I’ll give you the same advice I’d give one of the staff, whether you want it or not.’

  Half an hour later, Carolyn pours me a second mug of tea and sits in a well-worn easy chair next to mine. It’s the chair of doom: the one where she delivers bad news and gives comfort to the staff. We used to joke about it, I even used it myself to hand out tea and sympathy to junior members of staff a couple of times.

  ‘OK?’ she says, holding out a pack of biscuits.

  ‘Chocolate Hobnobs. Wow.’

  ‘I rate this as a chocolate Hobnob moment.’

  ‘Like a three-hankie weepie?’

  ‘Most people round here would rather have biscuits than a Kleenex, even one of those with the balm, and you’re not a crier.’

  Not in public, I think. ‘I’m with them.’ I take a biscuit and dunk it in my tea, not because I want one but because I want Carolyn to think she’s helping. Though I suspect she knows she isn’t. We play this game with the people we love and care for, don’t we? We maintain the lie that we’re OK, because our pain is only doubled when it’s shared, not halved. I’ll play the game again when I face Demi later.

  I bet she gets a better class of biscuit at her fancy publishers.

  Carolyn leans forward in her seat. ‘Will you be OK? Or is that a stupid question?’

  ‘Yes and yes, but that’s not your fault. It’s mine.’

  ‘We’ve been through this. You were offered counselling. Maybe you should consider it again.’

  ‘I have all the comfort I need at Kilhallon. I’ll get over it. It was stupid to have built up my hopes. You did warn me several times this could end in tears – and biscuits.’

  ‘Kilhallon was doing you good – is still doing you good – and this isn’t the end, you know. There’s still a chance she’s alive and well, though I ought not to say that. The tracing sites are pro
bably our best hope.’

  ‘I know all that … You know there’s a cat in hell’s chance of her being found OK. She could be stuck in a detention centre anywhere in Europe. Or taken by traffickers … If she got out of the city in the first place.’ Or much worse, I think and shudder.

  ‘All of the scenarios you mention are possible. However, we don’t have any evidence for them yet. We’ll keep on looking and doing what we can to find her. I’m sorry we can’t spare the time or resources to do more.’

  ‘I should be sparing the time.’

  She sighs. ‘No. You shouldn’t. You should be living your own life.’ She pauses. ‘Cal. I hate to say this, but I have to. Are you sure this quest is about Esme and not about you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How much of this pursuit is about your own guilt after leaving her and Soraya? A guilt, I stress, that you don’t need to carry around with you.’

  There are times when people say things to you that you just can’t answer.

  I dump my mug on the table. ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘Cal. Wait. Don’t go off like this.’

  ‘Like what? Like I’m an idiot. Like I’ve lost her – them – all over again? Like I should dance out of here with a cheery smile on my face?’

  Carolyn calmly looks at me and waits.

  I groan. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it. Not to you.’

  ‘No. You should. Rant and shout all you like. Cry and throw things. I’ve seen a whole lot worse.’

  ‘Shit. I keep saying the wrong things to people.’

  ‘You always said the wrong things to people, way before you were captured. It’s your nature to say the wrong things and to piss people off, whether you love them or hate them. But you say them for the right reasons, usually – because you’re passionate about what you believe to be right. Because you feel deeply about the people and things you love. It may not make you easy to work or live with but that’s the way you are. Now, sit down. Don’t go yet. Give yourself more time.’