When I walk into the kitchen, Cal is scrolling through his phone. His hair is still damp from the shower and he’s pulled on a crumpled but clean blue long-sleeved T-shirt and cargo pants. Bare footed, he pads over the tiles and pours a glass of water from the tap. Mitch wanders into the kitchen from the yard too and also heads straight for his water bowl, slurping noisily and splashing droplets over the tiles.
The morning sun streams in through the open door. It’s warmer in here than yesterday, or perhaps I’m glowing after my night-time ‘exercise’. Cal puts down his glass of water and kisses me. The scent of his woody body spray fills my senses, but Cal pulls a regretful face. ‘Sorry I have to leave you, but I need to go down to the yurt field to make sure our guests haven’t decided to leave after the overnight showers. How about dinner here at the house tonight? There’s a nice bottle of Cornish fizz in the fridge.’
‘That’s a free sample from the vineyard that I was going to put in one of the welcome hampers for the guests. Sorry, but I’ll be way too busy to stop for dinner. The cafe’s opening tomorrow and there’s still stuff to do.’
‘What stuff?’
‘I need to clean the floor because the tiler only finished yesterday and it’s still dusty. Then there’s the blackboard to chalk up with the specials because I won’t have time tomorrow, and there’s still a drinks delivery to put away and I need to email everyone to make sure they’re still going to turn up and that no one’s had cold feet about working for us.’
Cal opens his mouth. ‘Why would—’
‘And the courier dropped off the new cafe uniforms here yesterday and they all need ironing. And I still haven’t written a blog post about opening day or scheduled my tweets and I’ll have to upload some photos to Instagram and I need to email the ad department at Cornish Lifestyle to say we do want to be in their pre-Christmas dining feature because the copy deadline was last night and I’m already late.’
Cal holds up both hands. ‘Whoa.’
‘So I can’t have dinner with you this evening no matter how much I’d love to.’
He puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘I’ve worked that much out for myself. Tell you what, why don’t we take a picnic down to the cafe and I’ll help you get ready.’
‘You’ll write the ad copy and upload my photos?’
‘No, but I’ll clean the floor, put away the drinks order and iron the aprons.’
‘You do ironing?’
He tuts. ‘That’s sexist, Ms Jones. I can iron. I did work in a warzone for several years, you know.’
‘Yes, but I don’t expect there was much call for ironing in the desert, was there?’
He smiles. ‘Not often, no. Either way, we’re in this together. I’ll deal with the yurt people and clean the washroom block.’
I pull a face, glad this isn’t my job.
‘And then I’ll meet you at the cafe.’
By late afternoon, the sun is sinking and the horizon is tinged with orange and pink. The lights are on in Demelza’s, highlighting the sparkling clean floor as Cal hangs the last of the freshly pressed Demelza’s aprons on a peg in the staff room.
All our perishables and groceries are stored in the correct places and the new steel kitchen gleams so brightly you can see your face in the surfaces. I’ve double checked the fresh and chilled stores and chalked up the specials on the blackboard. In the end, Cal helped me write some copy for an ad and he’s now sending a ‘friendly’ mass text to make sure the staff are OK and ready for tomorrow.
Throughout the day, I’ve been working on my blog and scheduling some posts for social media. I suspect that it’s going to take all my ‘days off’ when the cafe is closed to get through the admin and marketing.
Cal scrolls through his phone where he keeps an app to keep track of the park bookings. ‘Great. We’ve just had an Internet booking for Poldark Cottage and had an enquiry about two of the yurts from a family who want to celebrate a fortieth birthday party here next weekend. I’ll have to tell the large party that they can have the yurts at the far end of the copse, away from the other two. We don’t want complaints when we’ve promised people peace and tranquillity, but we don’t want to lose a big booking like this.’
‘Oh. If it’s a party, they might want catering provided too.’
‘I’m sure they will, but don’t take too much on yet. You’ve got enough to do with the cafe opening tomorrow. I don’t want the cafe manager having a meltdown in the middle of us launching the empire, do I?’
‘You’re all heart,’ I say, but I know he means it and I must admit, I’ve been feeling knackered lately, even though I’m ‘living the dream’ right now. I’ve come so far from the day I lost my job and my home and ended up sleeping in the doorway of a fish and chip shop in St Trenyan.
Mitch woofs a hello from the corner. He seems totally at home in the cafe, which is great. Canine comfort is one of our USPs. Demelza’s is even going to have a special doggy treats menu for all the four-legged guests who will stay at the park and take their owners on a walk along the coastal path that runs past the cafe.
Cal crouches down to stroke Mitch’s ears. Mitch turns his head this way and that, closing his eyes in pleasure at Cal’s touch. Did I say Mitch was my dog? Even though he’s faithful to me and has stuck with me through a tough couple of years, he’s rapidly becoming our dog: mine and Cal’s dog, even Polly’s dog at times, though she pretends she doesn’t like animals at all, apart from her hens. I caught her sneaking him a treat from the jar when she thought I wasn’t looking, and she let him sit next to her on the sofa while she was watching Countryfile on iPlayer the night before she went to visit her daughter.
Mitch and I, we’ve become as much a part of Kilhallon as the stone house, or the holiday cottages or the cafe.
‘How are the opening-day plans going? Is there anything else I can do to help?’ Cal says.
‘I’m sure there’ll be tons tomorrow. We’ll be chasing our own tails,’ I reply, and Mitch wags his as if he can understand me. ‘I’ve tried to think of everything but there are bound to be hitches and teething problems until we’ve actually served some real customers.’
‘Let’s hope the weather keeps improving so we have lots of people out on the coastal path. The walking festival run by the tourist board should help,’ Cal says.
‘I hope that dog-friendly cafe-trail website and leaflet I signed up to pays off. It’s hard knowing what marketing is worth spending my precious budget on. I’m bombarded with sales people and emails wanting me to part with cash all the time. I guess we’re going to make mistakes along the way. Although I’ve worked in a few cafes now and done so much research and talked to other owners, I still have so much to learn.’
‘Will Eva Spero be coming?’ Cal pops the leftover crust of a cheese and bacon pasty in his mouth. We ate them cold with pickles and salad, washed down with cider.
‘I don’t know. She’s still a bit miffed with me for turning down her job offer, although she said we can work together on the homemade dog treats book and possibly launch them into the market. I’ve had to put it on hold for now, until I’ve got Demelza’s up and running.’ I shrug off a pang of regret about turning down Eva Spero’s offer of a job at her restaurant in Brighton. It was my decision, even though Cal also wanted me to stay here at Kilhallon and run Demelza’s. Then, of course, there’s the small matter of my being in love with him …
Cal pulls me into his arms and for a few moments I enjoy the warmth and comfort of his gorgeous body against mine. I can’t believe how far I’ve come. The project I’ve started overwhelms me sometimes and I have the urge to run away instead of facing down the great big wave that’s rushing towards me, faster and faster.
‘I’d better get some work done,’ I say, escaping his embrace before I’m lost again. ‘Then I really do need an early night.’
He folds his arms, a gesture that only shows off his magnificent guns, honed by all the outdoor work and labour he’s put in on the renovation of the p
ark since he returned from working in a refugee camp in the Middle East. ‘Of course,’ he says with the kind of serious face that’s even sexier than his smile. Despite all my resolve, I know an early night will mean going to bed with him.
Cal scratches Mitch’s belly. ‘If the cottages let, they let, and if they don’t, then we mustn’t panic. Same with the customers for the cafe. It’s going to take time to build up our custom and reputation … and it might be better not to have full occupancy to start with while we learn the ropes.’
I turn away to find the keys, ready to lock up.
‘By the way, I meant to tell you, Isla called me earlier,’ he says.
At the mention of this name, my stomach tightens. ‘Did she?’
‘She’s coming down here from London in a couple of weeks’ time.’
Mitch snickers and yips like Scooby Doo on Red Bull as Cal fusses him. My stomach ties itself in even tighter knots. I knew it had to come sometime. I knew that she’d be back, but I haven’t heard Cal talk about his ex-girlfriend and childhood sweetheart since she left Cornwall a few weeks ago. Even though Isla has been kind to me in the past, part of me hoped she might not come back at all.
I keep my voice casual. ‘Does she still want to use Kilhallon for the film shoot?’
Cal glances up at me. Is that relief on his face that I haven’t reacted to his news, or have I imagined it?
‘Yes. She wants to use the ruined tin mine as a backdrop, and possibly the exterior of the cafe for the filming. Isla says that the far, gabled end could still double up as a farm barn for some of the scenes. She said that Bonnie and Clyde will also want to come and visit to discuss their hand-fasting arrangements at some point.’
These are codenames we’re all using for the very famous and very actor friends of Isla’s. Did I mention she’s a film producer? A stunning, blonde, award-winning film producer with some seriously A-list mates. Two of her friends plan on holding their wedding celebrations at Kilhallon next year, although the engagement is secret for now.
‘Why did Polly call them Bonnie and Clyde – who are Bonnie and Clyde?’ I ask Cal.
‘They were gangster lovers so I think the nicknames are Polly’s little joke. I don’t think she approves of hand fasting. What the hell is a hand fasting, anyway? Sounds like a cross between a DIY skill and an obscene practice. If it is rude, even I’ve never heard of it.’
Cal succeeds in making me laugh out loud even though the thought of catering for a celebrity wedding makes me nervous.
‘So you’re cool with Isla and her crew descending?’ Cal adds, laughing as Mitch moans in delight under his expert belly rubs. How, I ask myself, did my faithful hound turn into such a tart?
‘Sounds great,’ I say, trying to make myself feel as enthusiastic as I sound. The publicity that would come from a film being made here is exactly what we need for the resort and my cafe. In fact it’s priceless and I should be welcoming Isla and her crew with open arms. ‘We should have any teething problems ironed out by the time they get here.’
Cal gives Mitch’s tum a final tickle then straightens up. ‘Isla said she didn’t want to disrupt business any more than was strictly necessary. She asked me if you’d email her or call to arrange the best time for her visit. It’s better if you two liaise together rather than me passing on messages. I’d probably get it wrong anyway and then I’d be in trouble with both of you.’
‘True. Who knows what havoc you’d create if we left the arrangements to you.’ My smile makes my jaw ache, along with my heart and conscience, but I can see that Cal’s pleasure at my apparent approval is genuine. Even though Isla has made it clear she’s no longer interested in Cal beyond ‘friendship’, I’m not convinced. Cal has been honest enough to admit he couldn’t simply ‘unlove’ Isla.
And if I’m honest, I never expected him to.
He knows I really like him and the sex is amazing, but does he have any inkling that I’m crazy in love with him? I don’t think it would be a great idea for him to find out.
‘Demi?’ Cal touches my arm. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine. It’s been a long day and there’s an even bigger one coming tomorrow.’
I’m already thinking of throwing caution to the wind and dragging him off to bed when Cal says, ‘Are you really too tired for some therapy?’
‘Perhaps you’re right. It might do me good.’
His face lights up and we lock up the cafe, and Mitch scampers ahead on our way back to the house. He doesn’t have a care in the world and I envy him his simple doggy life sometimes.
I don’t want to be part of a love triangle, because someone always gets the sharp end. Isla and her fiancé, Luke – who was Cal’s best mate years ago – have moved to London from Cornwall, to ‘make a fresh start’. Apparently, Isla suspected that Luke was having an affair with a local ‘property developer’ called Mawgan Cade. I wouldn’t put anything past Mawgan, but I can’t see why Luke would jeopardise his relationship with Isla for a woman like Mawgan. But what do I know? Mawgan is manipulative and would sell her granny if it achieved her aims. Plus, Luke’s a weak and selfish character if you ask me; and Isla deserves better. As long as ‘better’ doesn’t turn out to be Cal again.
He hugs me and his chest is warm and firm against my body. If I let my guard down too far, I could easily start thinking how wonderful it would be to spend the rest of my life at Kilhallon with Cal. It’s an idyllic place that sucks you in, just like Cal draws people to him. Just like the wreckers who used to shine their lights to lure people onto the rocks in storms. Except that was a myth. I need to get real and, reluctantly, I slide out of his embrace.
‘Do you think we can cope?’ I say.
‘Of course I think we can cope. We’ve come a long way – both of us – and everything will be OK. Wasn’t that what you were always telling me when we started work on the place? When we were refused planning permission and the appeal failed because of the Cades’ opposition? When I ripped my hands open demolishing the walls? When the tree fell through the farmhouse window? When you almost walked out on me to work for Eva Spero in Brighton?’
‘Maybe I should have,’ I joke, thinking of how close I came to quitting and heading off to Brighton before the place had even opened. ‘This is a massive thing for me, Cal. It’s very exciting, but I’m also terrified.’
He slides his hand under my hair, lifting it from my neck, caressing my skin. His palm is rough from the work he’s been doing, yet the effect is like being stroked with warm velvet.
‘Shh,’ he says in that gentle, half-amused voice that turns me on and irritates me at the same time. ‘It’s OK to be nervous, but the important thing is that you stick with me. That’s what we’re going to carry on doing: sticking together.
Even as I close my eyes and abandon myself to his touch and soothing words, there’s a part of me holding back. A part that can’t forget the Cal who left a trail of broken hearts when he went away to the Middle East. The teenage Cal breezing his way through the girls of St Trenyan: Isla, even Mawgan Cade. Even his father was sleeping with half the women from here to Truro, if you believe the rumours. My friend Tamsin warned me about him and even Mawgan said he’d break my heart. She may be right about that one.
‘I promise you Kilhallon will succeed and Demelza’s will be open for business as scheduled, and nothing’s going to stop us.’ Cal pours soothing words into my ear. ‘Now come to bed before I explode.’
Me too, I think. Mitch settles down in his bed in the farmhouse kitchen. Cal takes my hand and leads me, trembling, up to his room again. He’s right, of course, I mustn’t expect too much of the business; but even more importantly, I mustn’t expect anything at all from him.
CHAPTER FOUR
Coffee machine: on.
Air conditioning: on.
Ovens: on.
Sunshine: off, for now, but judging by the pale-blue patches peeking through the clouds, it’s clearing up, which is just what we want to tempt customers out onto the coa
stal path and into the cafe for our opening day.
I repeat the words again, because I don’t believe them: It’s opening day at Demelza’s. Opening day at my cafe. Six months ago I had no job, no home and no prospects and now look at me: manager of my own tiny empire.
Nina shouts from the side door. ‘Demi! Demi! Come quick. Mitch has done something terrible!’
I run after her to the rear of the cafe, picturing Mitch with his teeth sunk into a toddler. The white fishmonger’s van is parked outside. Harry, the driver, is cursing and shaking his fist at Mitch, who’s chomping his way through a pack of fish from a safe distance.
‘There goes your smoked mackerel order,’ Harry says. ‘Only turned away for a minute to get the shellfish out of the van for Nina and the crafty hound had the polystyrene off the packs and was wolfing them down.’
Plastic wrappers and polystyrene snow litter the grass. Mitch licks his chops and looks up at us as if to say, ‘You have a problem?’
‘I tried to grab them off him but he was too quick for me,’ Nina wails. ‘I’m sorry, Demi. Shall I tell everyone that the Fisherman’s Lunch is off? We’ve got bit of smoked salmon, but that won’t last long.’
‘Leave it on until we run out of the salmon, then tell everyone we’ve sold out. I don’t want to take something off the menu on our first day.’
I glare at Mitch, though, from the way Nina shouted, I’m relieved that his antics are nothing worse. ‘Mitch, you’re in trouble when I get hold of you. You can forget coming anywhere near my bed tonight. Your breath will stink for a week!’
Harry carries the rest of the order into the back of the cafe. We can’t afford to waste expensive food, but I guess if Mitch guzzling the mackerel is the worst thing that happens on opening day, we’ll be doing OK. With my nostrils closed, I tether Mitch in the shade by the back door with a bowl of water and his rope chew. I’ll ask Robyn to take him when she turns up. I go back inside the cafe with a smile that says I’m cool about ‘little mishaps’ like losing a small fortune’s worth of smoked mackerel.
Christmas at the Cornish Café Page 3