‘Normally I’d rather stick pins in my eyeballs than join a committee, but I’ll make an exception for this one. A lot of the people coming will want to ask questions about Kilhallon. Some of them came to our promo event in August and they’ll be keen to see how we’re doing. Or not.’ He smiles wryly, knowing a couple of the committee members run holiday-let businesses themselves.
He tears open a blue bag of ice and empties the cubes into the water jugs. ‘Besides, Mum was on the committee for a few years before she became ill. She helped with the fundraising and used to really enjoy it. I think it was a welcome distraction from Dad’s shenanigans.’
Cal doesn’t mention his late mother very often but I know he misses her. ‘I didn’t know she was part of it. She’d be pleased you’re keeping up the tradition.’
‘Yeah, well, Dad couldn’t be arsed to help out so maybe I should do it, if only to show them how much Kilhallon has changed. We should mention our bookings are healthy, of course, even if it’s not strictly accurate, but that we also want to do our bit for community spirit.’ He winks at me. I envy his lashes, damn him.
‘There are some lemon slices in a tub at the bottom of the fridge,’ I say, feeling myself growing warm again as I think of Cal’s eyes on me, and his hands too.
Cal finds the tub and drops the lemon slices into the water while I select a large bottle of apple juice from the chiller. ‘November’s looking a bit thin, but that’s always a dead time of year and hopefully the Christmas lights will lure people into the cottages for the final week of the month, especially now the cafe’s open,’ he says.
I try to refocus on the business in hand. ‘I must blog about the meeting and post some pics of last year’s lights and some menus for the pop-up cafe we’re having at the festival.’
I fill another jug with the apple juice and we carry them to the table. The first of the committee will start to arrive in a few minutes. There’s a small parking area behind the cafe that should accommodate most of their cars. Cal opens his tablet and nods at me to look at the Harbour Lights website. It’s a ‘homemade’ site but I think the quirkiness is part of its charm. The photos of the twinkling snowmen and a giant shark fixed on the harbour walls make us both smile. ‘I loved the harbour lights when I was little, even when I was a teenager we looked forward to going down into St Trenyan with our mates.’
‘You and Luke? I’d have thought you were too cool for fairy lights.’
‘No way. It was a chance for Luke, Isla, Tamsin and me – plus a few others from school – to go down into St Trenyan for a night out without our parents keeping an eye on us. When we were in the sixth form whoever had a car would drive us down and the rest of us would try to sneak into the pubs or persuade someone over eighteen to buy us drinks that we could take outside. There were so many people around drinking and eating in the streets and the stalls that no one would notice. One year we got lashed on dodgy mulled wine from a stall and were as sick as dogs.’
‘Serves you right,’ I say, realising that Cal has definitely cut down on his drinking lately. Polly used to nag him about it when he first got home from the Middle East and was even worried, but since Isla left for London – and even before then – the empties have greatly reduced. I didn’t like to see him so pissed every night: it reminded me of my dad, who was even more of an ogre when he’d had a few drinks. After Mum died, he hit the bottle hard, met a new girlfriend and eventually I couldn’t stand the situation any longer and left home.
‘I haven’t been to the lights switch-on since I was young, though. I was either away at uni, or too cool or working abroad. Last year, the Christmas lights were the last thing on my mind.’
His tone takes on a bitter edge; the same edge that I used to hear all the time when I first came to Kilhallon. It surfaces less frequently now but I know that his disappointment gnaws at him. His father passed away not long before he went to the Middle East on an aid project. Although that was two and half years ago, he’s bound to miss his dad and regret that they didn’t have a closer relationship. Then there’s the loss of Isla, of course, but there’s something else that causes him pain. Memories, worries, something to do with what he saw or went through in the Middle East. Something unimaginable that I’m sure still affects him way more than he ever lets on.
He pushes the tablet away. ‘What about you?’
‘I never really took much notice of the lights. My main aim last year was finding a warm place for Mitch and me to stay. I’d just lost my job in Truro and was sofa surfing around friends and friends of friends. On the night of the lights, I was between sofas and hanging about until the people had left and the lights had been turned off until sundown the next day.
He winces. ‘I had no idea.’
‘I remember how I felt after the lights went off and everyone had gone home. The place seemed twice as dead as it had before the switch-on. Mitch and I bunked down in an alley not far from Tamsin’s Spa.’ I also remember the smells of hot food, buttered rum punch, stollen, saffron cake, spicy mulled apple cider, rich hot chocolate, and the way they curled around me and drove me insane. Plus the feeling that I’d never been so lonely or such an outsider. Cal gathers me into his arms. Perhaps I didn’t hide the shiver as well as I thought I had.
‘I’m sorry. It must have been tough.’
Tears sting my eyes and make me wish I’d never mentioned last November. I genuinely don’t want Cal’s sympathy – so why did I have to say so much? ‘Some of the poor people I saw had so many problems, I could have cried for them. Some will never get off the streets. I’m the lucky one. Look at me now: hosting an event for the village bigwigs. Who’d have thought it?’
He smiles briefly. ‘Even so … Feel free to hit me, but have you given any more thought to contacting your family? Your father? Your brother? Sorry, I don’t even know his name.’
‘It’s Kyle. My dad’s called Gary.’
‘OK …’
‘And you’re right, I have given it some more thought and I still don’t want to speak to them. I don’t know exactly what Kyle’s doing now or even where he is and I refuse to ask my dad.’
‘But you know where your dad and his partner live?’
‘Near Redruth, as far as I know, that’s where they were living when I last spoke to him. Last I heard, Kyle joined the army. He left home before I did and went to share a flat with a mate in Truro, but I’m not sure that worked out, so he signed up. We weren’t close and he used to spend as much time as he could out of the house at his mates.’
‘Your dad must have been on his own a lot after your mum died.’
‘I suppose so. I was in the house though; he could have spoken to me if he’d wanted to. He just used to sit in his chair and drink cans and channel surf. I may as well have not existed, but he’s got her now. Rachel.’ I slap on a smile, feeling I’ve already raked over far too many old memories. ‘I thought you were in the army, remember, when I first saw you with the combats and bag?’
Cal rolls his eyes. ‘Yeah, I do, but I wasn’t.’
‘Do you remember where you were this time last year? During the Christmas lights?’
He glances out of the window into the darkness. ‘I wasn’t exactly having a fun time, either.’
His phone buzzes from the table, the sound magnified by the table top and the high ceiling of the empty cafe. He grimaces, then glances at the screen.
‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’
He turns back to me, a grin on his face. Goosebumps prick my skin: I know what that look means.
‘No. I was thinking we might have time for a quick bite before the committee arrive. A hot vampire bite.’ He bares his teeth and while I pull a face at him, warm feelings stir at the jokey reminder of the nickname I had for him when we first met. He grazes the skin at the side of my neck with his teeth and it tingles. His breath is warm and I close my eyes in pleasure, trying to blot out the insistent throb of the mobile phone.
‘There’s no time,’ I murmur. ‘The
committee will be here in twenty minutes.’
‘So? I like living dangerously. You told me to do it.’ His phone stops buzzing. ‘I told you, they can wait.’
He kisses me, it’s deep and hot and it sparks a swirling sensation low in my stomach. I’m shaky with lust. He tangles his hands in my hair, tugging at the roots without realising, but so gently that the tension just drives me even more crazy.
‘Come on. Into the staff room.’ His voice is husky with desire as he leads me through the kitchen and into the store-cupboard-sized room that serves as our staff room. It’s warm in there, and the air smells of the pine disinfectant we keep in the cupboard. He backs me against the lockers and they rattle loudly.
‘What if they’re early?’
‘They can wait.’
He shuts the door behind us while I pull off my Demelza’s sweatshirt and T-shirt. Cal unzips his jeans and slips them down, along with his boxers. Still standing, with me braced against the lockers, Cal lifts me onto him. We’re face to face and then he’s inside me. I melt like butter on a hot scone under his touch and close my eyes to everything around me. The cafe, the lights, the dark night, the world, all are gone in those few intense, nerve-jangling seconds. There’s only me and Cal, one person, for a brief, dark, hot moment. I wish it could go on and on.
‘Whew.’
My face rests on his shoulder, my cheek skimming the soft wool cotton of his sweater. His fingers rest lightly on my back, beneath my shoulder blades and he whispers to me as I come back to awareness, like a swimmer surfacing in the cove to the sky.
‘Demi, I’ve been thinking.’ His voice is tender, serious and I’m not used to that.
‘Always dangerous,’ I breathe, still half-drowsy after the intensity.
‘That maybe, we should think about, if you don’t mind, well …’
My eyes are open. His phone buzzes again. It’s closer now. I hadn’t realised he’d even picked it up or brought it with him.
‘Damn it.’ Almost falling over, tangled by the jeans still around his ankles, he pulls up his jeans and delves in the pocket. ‘Bloody thing.’
Leave it, I say silently. Leave it and say what’s on your mind.
He glares at his phone, and he mouths at me, ‘Sorry,’ then: ‘Hello, Isla, no, I’m not busy. How are you?’
I don’t think he’s realised that he’s turned his back on me as if he doesn’t want me to hear his conversation. While he’s talking to her, his jeans slip down his hips again, leaving his pants halfway up his muscular bottom. I struggle back into my top and sweatshirt and slip past him into the tiny washroom. I close the door but can hear him, ‘hmm-ing’ and ‘OK-ing’ and the odd ‘fine’ and the final ‘OK, take care, see you soon’.
He comes out into the cafe while I scoop coffee into the filter machine. There’s no time to make cappuccinos and lattes tonight.
‘Sorry for that,’ he says. ‘It was Isla, making arrangements to come down for the shoot in a few weeks’ time. It means opening the cafe especially, because she asked if you’d cater for the cast and crew for the day. It’s extra work, but they have a decent budget and she thought we might as well have the business rather than handing it over to the outside caterers. Will that be OK?’
‘That’s awesome.’ I try to sound cheerful, because we do need the business and the publicity during and after the shoot and when the series – a historical drama about a highwayman and his aristocratic mistress – is aired will be priceless. Isla’s going to be here anyway so we may as well profit from it. It is good of her to help us – Cal – out.
‘It’s only for a day, possibly a day and a half, depending on the weather.’
‘Great. Did you know your flies are still undone?’
‘Hell. No.’ He glances down and then up at me, a wicked grin on his face. ‘That would have shocked the vicar. She’s on the committee.’
‘I’m sure she’s seen it all before. Is that headlights?’
Through the window, I spot twin white beams wavering as a vehicle makes its way over the bumpy track from the farm. The road will serve as access to the camping field in the summer but it’s not exactly public-highway standard yet. Behind the lights, I spot two more sets of lamps. The first car stops a few feet from the cafe.
Cal goes to unlock the door and groans. ‘Please, no …’
‘What?’
‘That’s Mawgan’s car.’
‘No. God, I had no idea she was on the committee.’
‘She isn’t, according to the minutes they sent me. What the hell is she doing here?’
‘I don’t know, but we’re about to find out.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Hello, Demi, how nice to see you again.’
‘Mawgan,’ I reply through gritted teeth while she pulls off crimson leather gloves. ‘What a surprise. We didn’t know you were on the Harbour Lights committee.’
She throws us an angelic smile. ‘Well, strictly speaking, I’m not, because I’m far too busy for a regular commitment, but Cade Developments is making a significant contribution to the fund this year so the chairwoman invited me to join you tonight.’
‘Great,’ says Cal, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
‘Cade Developments takes its responsibility to the local community very seriously,’ Mawgan adds, dropping her gloves on a table and peering over Cal’s shoulder at the cafe.
Yeah, by hiking up rents, blocking our plans and intimidating local people, I think, not that we can prove any of it. I’m amazed the Harbour Lights committee has allowed Mawgan to contribute, though I guess they can’t afford not to, in all kinds of ways.
‘Cade Developments only has a responsibility to make money no matter what the cost to the community,’ Cal replies. ‘So what are you really doing here, Mawgan. Spying?’
‘Cal. We have more customers. Help yourself to refreshments,’ I say to Mawgan, steering Cal towards the door before we all come to blows, verbal or otherwise.
A glamorous forty-something lady in a leather biker jacket, pointy snakeskin boots and a dog collar sashays in. It’s the Reverend Beverley Fritton, the vicar of St Trenyan. If the Rev Bev recognises me, she doesn’t let on. She once bought me a coffee and gave Mitch a meal, all without trying to convert me to anything other than Game of Thrones. She and her much younger curate, who I suspect is also much more than her assistant, made me hot rum chocolate and let me and Mitch bunk down in her snug for the night. She may have forgotten me, but I haven’t forgotten her.
‘Wow, this is awesome,’ she declares in her broad Birmingham accent, her auburn ponytail swinging round as she does a 360-degree twirl in the middle of the cafe. She sniffs the air and sighs in ecstasy. ‘And what is that amazing smell? Did I forget to set my alarm and wake up on Christmas Eve?’
‘They’re mincemeat cookies: very easy to make. I can let you have the recipe.’
‘I’d love it, though I can barely boil an egg. This place was a wreck of an old barn when I was last up here. What an amazing transformation, isn’t it, Mawgan?’
Though I can tell it’s killing her, even Mawgan wouldn’t be openly catty in front of the Rev Bev and she grinds out a reply. ‘It is. Who’d have ever thought a wreck like Kilhallon would scrub up so well?’
My reply, also involving scrubbers, is a nano-second from escaping my lips, but it’s Cal’s turn to shoot me a warning glance and the Rev Bev continues to torture Mawgan by lavishing praise on the ‘a-maz-ing’ job we’ve done on the cafe. The door opens again and more of the committee troop in. I recognise the harbourmaster – or should I say, harbourmistress – and Josh, the boat skipper, who used to deliver seafood to Sheila’s. Thank goodness Mitch is safely snoozing at the farmhouse, I’d hate him to spend the evening sniffing Josh’s trousers.
‘Have a look round and help yourselves to drinks and cookies while I get the coffee,’ I tell everyone, glad to have something to do that will keep me out of Mawgan’s way. More people arrive and Cal greets them. Soon, the noise level in th
e cafe is deafening as people help themselves to cookies and drinks, ‘oh-ing’ and ‘ah-ing’.
St Trenyan’s harbourmistress is chairing the meeting and calls everyone to order. Cal joins in, agreeing to make a modest donation to the cost of the lights, though we can’t match Mawgan’s contribution. I pluck up the courage to mention our ‘pop-up’ Demelza’s stall at the festival, which will sell hot food and drinks and showcase Kilhallon as a resort, and manage to wangle a great position for it right on the quayside by the Fisherman’s Choir.
The harbourmistress thanks Mawgan for her ‘generous’ support, which is met by grudging mutterings of thanks. I glance sideways at Cal and see him with his lips pressed tightly together. Mawgan might have backed off from destroying our plans for Kilhallon, but there’s no way she’s given up hating us. I distract myself by working out the menu I can offer at the switch-on. Jewelled cookies to match the lights, perhaps … mulled cider … caramel sea salt brownies …
When the meeting breaks up, most people hang around, helping themselves to more cookies and ‘networking’, aka gossiping. I gather up the used crockery onto a tray and take it into the dishwashing area in the kitchen.
Mawgan appears in the doorway to the kitchen, holding out her empty mug.’
‘This is cosy.’
‘Can I help you, madam?’ I say, sarcastically. I know she’s trying to provoke me and she can’t behave too nastily in this company, especially when she’s trying to act the generous local businesswoman, but I’m on my guard. Most of the people here loathe the Cades, but some rent their business premises from Mawgan’s lettings company and can’t afford to upset her. Even though she’s backed off from some of her worst practices, I don’t believe for a moment that she’s given up on hurting Cal by destroying Kilhallon or wrecking his life some other way. Mawgan’s view of relationships and family is warped to say the least.
She dumps her mug on the drainer. ‘No, thanks. I see you’ve carved out a nice comfortable little niche for yourself up here. You and Cal. So, how’s business? Made your first million, yet?’
Christmas at the Cornish Café Page 6