It’s the kind of dress you slither on over your silk thong and bra, being careful not to smudge your make-up. The kind of dress you wear with silver heels that you can’t walk in, but it doesn’t matter because you’re going to arrive at the film premiere in a limo, and spend the evening drinking champagne and eating canapés that wouldn’t keep a flea alive.
While Cal went to the architectural salvage yard to look at some pieces for the cottages, I went back to the vintage clothes stall and bargained the stallholder down to fifteen quid for the dress. I really didn’t have time and I really can’t afford it but with my other outfit ruined, I need something new. All those TV people will be there and when the cafe opens – if it opens – I’ll need something glam, although I can’t think at this precise moment whether that event will ever happen. We’ve no planning permission and no staff.
Never mind. The engagement party could be a great networking opportunity if Cal stays sober enough and is nice to all the local businesspeople that might turn up. Hopefully they won’t remember me from the charity ball. Another reason to buy the dress, then.
There was no time to spare when we got home to Kilhallon. Cal and I have spent the past couple of hours covering the shattered pane with hardboard and cutting up the branches. It’s a good job we were busy as neither of us said much all day. I know I’ve been snappy, at the end of my tether after my broken, soaking night and at his lack of sympathy/being back to square one after all that happened between us last night.
Finally, we were done. Cal went to shower and I came back to the cottage. Using Polly’s sewing kit, I just had time to stitch up the tear in the hem and put a new hook fastener on it. Unless you were looking for it, I don’t think you’d notice.
The fabric slithers through my fingers, almost liquid. Oh God, it’s gorgeous. Please, please, let it fit. A shake and the silky material cascades onto the floorboards like a waterfall. In the sunlight other colours ripple through it, sea greens, purples, blues and soft pinks. With its spaghetti straps and plunging neckline, it reminds me of the stars in the gossip magazines, not that I’m aiming to compete, but I do love it. A quick freshen up and I’m shimmying into the dress but before I can zip it up, my phone beeps.
DEMI. ARE YOU READY WE HAVE TO GO NOW.
Caps lock on. Not a good sign.
No point texting Cal back.
To my great relief, I manage to get the zip up. It’s a bit snug round my bum and boobs. I turn towards the window, and the dress glistens like the inside of an oyster shell. My damp hair tickles the bare flesh in the deep back ‘V’ but there’s no time to dry it or put it up and as for make-up: no chance. Goosebumps pop out on my bare arms. Although the wind has died down, the residue of the storm will leave a cool evening. I’ll probably freeze outside but there is no way I’m not wearing this dress.
I lace up my trainers, grab the clutch I found for 50p in a charity shop, a lip gloss and Robyn’s heels. Walking into the kitchen a minute later, I find Cal pacing the tiles and jingling the car keys in his hand.
‘About time too. One more second and I’d have gone without you.’ My phone beeps and he stares at me hard.
My phone beeps again. Another text.
DEMI I’M LEAVING WITHOUT YOU. WHAT R U DOING?!
‘I was getting changed,’ I say.
‘I can see that. I like the trainers.’
‘I thought they completed the outfit.’
A smile tugs at his lips but I’m at a loss to know what it means or what anything Cal Penwith says or does means any more. Last night he saw me half-naked, touched my breasts …
‘Is this OK? My other dress was wet so I decided to get this in Helston.’
He bites his lip and can’t seem to work out what to say next. I shiver, unable to forget last night and lusting after him more than ever. The white shirt, the black jeans, the damp hair. I’ve got it bad, not matter how much I try to deny it. ‘I think you’ll pass muster. Have you got a jacket or something? It might be cool later out of doors after the storm,’ he adds gruffly.
‘In the cottage, probably, but I forgot. You said we’re in a hurry.’
‘Yeah, I did, wait.’
He plucks his tux jacket from the hook in the porch. It’s been there since the ball, where he must have hung it when he came home that morning.
‘Is this any good?’
‘I s’pose so. Thanks.’
He drapes the jacket over my shoulders. ‘Better?’ He should move away now. We’re in a hurry, as he said, but he lingers behind me, his hands resting on my shoulders. He smells of crisp, clean shirt, shower gel and the sharp citrusy aftershave I’ve seen in the bathroom.
‘It’s perfect.’
‘Good. You look lovely, by the way. The dress suits you.’
His breath is warm on the nape of my neck and I catch mine. He hasn’t forgotten last night; how could he? What if he kisses the back of my neck? The tiny hairs prickle in anticipation. If he touches me, I know we’ll carry on from where we left off last night. Instead, his hands fall from my shoulders. The pressure was only light and it makes me feel empty.
‘Come on,’ he says, picking up his keys again. ‘Let’s go and get this bloody thing over with.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
‘That’s it, then.’ Uncle Rory finds me standing on the terrace at Bosinney overlooking the formal gardens. He pats me on the shoulder. ‘Bad luck, Cal, my boy. I’m sorry.’
‘Why are you sorry? Luke got Isla. Isn’t that what you wanted?’
‘You’ve got me wrong. Luke’s been like a son to me since his father died – just as you are and of course I’m happy for him but I know today must be hard on you.’
‘Not as hard as you think.’ If I keep saying that, it will be true.
The manicured grounds stretch out below me and a smart gazebo has been set up on the rear lawn to cover the temporary bar area. Apart from a few stray leaves and twigs in the gravelled walkways, you’d never know that nature unleashed hell here last night. This party must have cost him and Luke – and Isla – a lot of money but they move in glamorous circles these days so I guess they want to put on a show.
Rory beckons to a waiter and waves away the champagne. ‘Can you find me a pint from somewhere?’
‘Of course, sir.’ The waiter nods.
Rory loosens his collar. ‘I feel trussed up in this suit and tie. You’re looking better, by the way, my boy.’
‘Thanks.’
He pats my arm. ‘No one planned any of this, you know, and if you hadn’t gone away …’
‘But I did and maybe that was for the best.’ If I say it often enough, I might start to believe it. Last night with Demi and this morning in the kitchen showed me I can at least feel something again for another woman, even if I don’t know what that something is yet.
‘We can’t change the past. I’m happy to hear you’ve thrown yourself into reviving the park. Your father would be proud,’ Rory tells me. His face is red, he should ditch the tie, in my opinion.
‘He’d be bloody astonished. He’d given up on the place years ago.’
‘Hmm. I tried to tell him and I offered to help but he was having none of it. Is that your new girl?’ He squints at Demi, who’s standing on her own, my jacket draped around her shoulders like a cape.
‘Demi works for me,’ I qualify.
‘Of course. For a moment, I could have sworn …’ he says, patting his trouser pocket. ‘Where are my glasses? She looks like Hannah, Cal.’
‘Nah! My mother’s hair was much darker.’
‘It’s not the hair. It’s the way the girl carries herself. She looks half-wild but still a real looker like your mother was and …’
‘What?’
His eyes disappear into the folds of skin and his brow puckers as he squints at Demi. ‘There’s something else about the girl. I can’t quite put my finger on it.’
I laugh. ‘I never thought you were a romantic and I definitely don’t see any resemblance to my moth
er,’ I say.
He frowns as if he’s deciding whether to continue the argument then grunts. ‘Maybe you’re right. Well, I suppose I’d better bloody circulate. Where’s that waiter chap with my pint?’
I walk down the steps to the lawns towards the gazebo, past women whose heels sink into the lawns and men knocking back champagne like it’s lemonade while dying for a pint. There’s the occasional sympathetic look at me from the odd local who knows my history with Isla although they’re all too polite to mention it tonight, of course. The ones I don’t know, especially the beautiful ones, must be from Isla’s work.
Rory told me the events team were up half the night battening everything down and clearing up the gardens and re-pitching the gazebo. I try not to think of the mess that has to be sorted out at the park too. The cost of it all, and I don’t mean the repairs. Demi and I haven’t spoken about what, almost, happened. Maybe that’s for the best. The image of her last night, below me on the bed, flashes into my mind, and today, in that dress. She’s a cracker too, my father would have said, a little belter. He’d have probably tried to seduce her. Despite all his ‘distractions’, I know he adored my mother. Putting her on a pedestal was perhaps his weird way of justifying his affairs: Mum was in a league of her own.
Feeling guilty about my encounter with Demi, especially as I was enjoying it so much, I swipe another glass of fizz from a passing waiter. If Uncle Rory’s paying, I may as well make the most of getting legless at his expense. I decided after my first drink that we wouldn’t be driving home.
Isla floats into my field of vision: or a version of her. She’s a little stiff and formal, in a black silk cocktail dress and flawless make-up. Stunning, of course, but also untouchable in her own way.
‘Hello, Cal.’
We exchange a brief brush of the lips and it’s like kissing an image on a screen; either that or one of us isn’t really here at all. Sometimes I wonder if I’m back in that hellhole, hearing the gunfire again and the cries of the children, dreaming of home.
‘Are you OK?’ She pulls away from me, gently. Colour dots her cheeks and I don’t think it’s the blusher.
‘I’m fine. Congratulations. ‘Will you be Mrs Wilton after you get married?’
‘No. I’m keeping my name for professional reasons. It’s simpler and anyway, we live in the twenty-first century now, don’t we?’
‘Yes. Does Luke mind you not taking his name?’
She lifts her chin proudly. ‘Luke wants me to be happy, Cal.’
‘So do I. So did I.’
‘Don’t do this today, please.’
‘What? Tell you I still love you? Tell you I regret going away?’
‘It’s too late …’
‘It’s never too late. I know that better than anyone.’
‘You seem to have found solace pretty quickly.’ She glances at Demi, who is at the centre of a group of men. They swarm around her like bees to a honey pot. ‘Demi looks very pretty. Isn’t that your tux?’
My tux slides off her creamy shoulders onto the floor. She does look very pretty. More than pretty, as beautiful as Isla, but in a different way. Like comparing a perfect rose with a perfect cornflower.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way but I hope you know what you’re doing, in that direction …’ she says.
I sip my champagne and keep my eyes on Demi. She laughs as a man – Jack Kincaid – slips my jacket back around her shoulders. His wife shoots daggers at him.
‘I hope you know what you’ve done,’ I say, turning back to Isla.
‘Cal!’ Luke bounds up like an over-enthusiastic Golden Retriever and puts his arm around Isla’s shoulders. ‘How are you? We’ve hardly seen you since you came home.’
‘I’ve been busy with the work at Kilhallon. Congratulations, by the way.’
‘Thanks and as for the busy part, tell me about it. With the business and the party – and last night’s chaos – I’ve not had a moment, either. We must meet up for a pint. It’s been too long since we had a night in the Tinner’s.’
‘It has,’ I say, feeling a little guilty about the lock-ins I enjoyed earlier this summer.
‘Mind you, the Tinner’s isn’t what it was. Robyn’s definitely worth more than working behind the bar of a scuzzy pub.’
I frown at him. Since when did he think he could dictate Robyn’s life choices? ‘Maybe she enjoys it.’
‘She only does it to annoy her dad and me.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she doesn’t,’ Isla interrupts.
Luke tightens his arm around her back. ‘Come on, you can’t monopolise one guest, even if it is Cal.’
I give Isla a little bow, she shoots me a puzzled look and her new fiancé, my old friend, sweeps her off.
With her chestnut hair and that amazing dress, Demi is easy to find. She’s standing a little apart and, for the first time this evening, she’s alone. Her wild curls are now tamed with a glittery clip that really suits her.
‘Who gave you that?’ I ask.
‘Robyn made it for me. It’s not OTT, is it?’
‘You’re asking the wrong man. I’m no fashion expert.’ Damn, why can’t I even bring myself to give her another compliment? I must be afraid of reviving last night’s events.
Her smile fades and I could kick myself. ‘You look great to me and Robyn’s a talented artist,’ I say, trying to soothe her and because she does look great.
‘Thanks, but I don’t really care what you think.’
‘Then why ask me?’
‘Maybe I thought for a little while that you weren’t a moody, grumpy arse.’
‘Then you were obviously wrong.’ I knock back the rest of the champagne. ‘I’m going to find a proper drink.’
I shouldn’t have come today. This party – this life – has made me toxic. Kilhallon is falling apart as fast as I try to build it up. Isla destroys me with a look, even when I thought I was moving on. Now I’ve crushed Demi. She of all people I never wanted to hurt. Last night, in bed … I thought … her body was so inviting, I wanted her and she wanted me.
We were drunk.
Not that drunk.
I was deluding myself. No woman I care about should come within a hundred miles of me.
‘Can you get me a whisky?’ A passing waiter takes the outstretched tenner from my hand. The drinks are on Uncle Rory but I don’t expect to be waited on for nothing.
‘Of course, sir. Anything else with it?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Well, you know where I am, sir.’
I shake my head, a smile on my face. Make that no woman or man should come within a hundred miles of me. ‘I’m flattered by the offer but I’m only interested in a drink.’
‘Shame,’ says the waiter, leaving me amused and impressed at his nerve in trying to pick me up at a party.
The whisky has banked down my fire to dull embers as the sun slides behind Bosinney’s handsome façade. Fairy lights twinkle in the trees and the string quartet has been replaced by a jazz band. More people have arrived, ‘oh-ing’ and ‘ah-ing’ at the splendour of Bosinney and its softly lit gardens, which are at their best now. Uncle Rory must employ a full-time gardener to keep those rose beds looking so perfect. More friends of Isla’s mill about, some of whom I recognise from schooldays, plus actors, crew, business acquaintances of Luke’s, a few relatives too. Demi must be inside the house.
‘Cal. Glad to see you back in the land of the living.’ Dave Patterson claps me on the back while he mashes my bones with his paw. He’s a prop forward with the St Trenyan rugby club and our fathers were mates at school.
‘Thanks, Dave.’ Numbed by booze, I nod. He must know I’m a bit pissed.
‘Who’s the hot brunette I saw you with earlier? Is she why you’re looking so well? Glad to see you’re not moping over Isla.’
‘That’s Demi.’
‘She’s a stunner.’
‘She’s my assistant.’
‘Then I apologise and sympathise. You’ll never m
ake a saint, Cal, so don’t start trying. If she keeps your spirits up at Kilhallon then go for it. How is the old place? I heard you’re trying to resurrect it from the ashes. Big job, but admirable.’
I don’t tell him how last night it almost was ashes. ‘Hard work doesn’t bother me,’ I say. ‘It’s people throwing obstacles in my way that pisses me off.’
‘Really? What obstacles? And which people?’ he asks.
‘The planners turned down my application.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘On what grounds? I heard that you’re trying to build some kind of eco-heaven there. Should have thought it ticked every PC box of this bloody council.’
‘Me too but there were objections on the grounds of noise and disruption, and increased traffic.’
He sighs. ‘From who?’
‘Neighbours. Interested parties.’
‘Any specific ideas?’
‘Possibly, but let’s face it, I can’t prove anything and even if I did, they’re entitled to their views.’
‘But you don’t agree.’
I smile.
‘Hmm. You’ll appeal, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. That’s the Cal I know. For what it’s worth I think it’s a sound plan and even more importantly, a sound investment. It could be what the area needs and I recognise when there’s genuine passion and will to succeed behind a project. God knows, no one has more instinct to survive than you must have.’
‘That’s before I came up against the local mafia.’
He laughs loudly. ‘If you need an ally, I could be interested. My wife is going to skin me if I don’t go and circulate but here’s my card. Talk to me if you want to discuss taking things further.’
With another slap on my back, he lumbers off towards a petite blonde and slaps her bottom, earning a whack on the arm in return. The lawns are dark now, dark grey-green like an angry sea. In the middle of that sea, stands a slender white ghost with chestnut brown hair. She holds out her hands to me, seems to be calling me.
The mermaid of Zennor has come to steal away her lover from the land of the living … I must have drunk more than I thought.
Summer at the Cornish Cafe Page 18