For the next few hours I must try to set personal problems aside and focus on this meeting. If I can ever make it to the publishers’ office.
Juggling a bottle of water, my bag and a laptop bag borrowed from Cal, I queue at the barrier. Am I the only person fumbling for my ticket? The only one wishing I’d worn my old trainers not the heeled suede boots I bought from the big Next at Hayle? It’s hard to deal with the multiple assaults on my senses: the rumble of train engines, the announcements, guards’ whistles and distant sirens. The smells: fast food, coffee and diesel. On the other side of the barrier, police cradle their guns and people hurry past, all with somewhere to go and people to see.
A young woman almost knocks my bag out of my hand and mutters something about ‘looking where you’re going’. Snapping out of my doziness, I try to remind myself I’m a businesswoman now, and a soon-to-be author. Like Kit – except nothing like Kit. He’d be the one telling people to look where they’re going, the one with a purpose. How could I have got him so wrong?
I really thought he was OK. A bit crotchety and stressed out, but not the bitter and nasty individual he’s shown himself to be. He’s worse than Mawgan in one way; at least she makes it obvious she’s a vicious cow, rather than hiding it under a veneer of charm.
No point dwelling on Kit now. I need to find the publishers’ office.
I’d like to try the tube, but I’m so worried about getting lost and popping out on the wrong side of London that I decide to walk, with the help of an app on my phone.
Walking through the streets past the luxury shops ought to be glamorous and exciting, but you could never be alone here, never experience silence apart from the sounds of birdsong, wind and waves. London is exciting, horrifying, scary, amazing. Kilhallon is so small, so remote, a backwater. Is that right for me? Should I be here? Or there?
It’s bitterly cold out on the streets, so I tuck my scarf into my Puffa jacket, glad of the gloves I brought with me. The jacket was a present from Polly, who said it was an unwanted eBay purchase by her daughter. However, the sale ticket was still in it from the discount store in Penzance so I guess Polly must have bought it there for me. It’s slightly too big but looks surprisingly stylish with the oversized soft pink scarf I treated myself to. Teamed with my smartest black skinnies and a newish plain-grey sweater, I feel quite presentable. Not that I’ve any idea what publishing people wear. What if they’re all in power suits like Mawgan Cade? Or floating around in bohemian dresses? In the end, I decided they might look like Isla and modelled my ensemble on that, which makes me laugh at myself.
The skies over London are grey, but the sparkle around me makes up for the gloom. The windows of the shops are eye-popping with their Christmas displays. The choice on offer and the prices on display make my jaw drop. There are luxury candles in beautiful packaging, spectacular shoes that Mawgan would probably kill for, handbags that cost as much as a second-hand car and watches that would buy a house in St Trenyan. I treat myself to a pumpkin latte from a tiny cafe in a side street and thread my way through the shoppers hurrying to and fro. Some are weighed down by their bags.
A guy huddles in a filthy sleeping bag next to the tube entrance. He could be twenty or fifty, he’s so shrunken and grey it’s hard to tell. Most people step over him, without a second glance, but his dog, a terrier, yips at me. I throw a two pound coin in his collecting bowl and long to take the dog home to Kilhallon, though I know the terrier is probably the only thing the man has in the world.
Finally, after a few wrong turns, the river looms ahead of me and I’m outside a huge glass tower that seems to pierce the sky. Security guards stand on either side of the doors and people in jackets, with huge scarves wrapped around their necks, scurry in and out.
‘Demi!’
Eva waves at me and scuttles over on her scarlet heeled boots. She wears an emerald green coat and reminds me of one of Santa’s elves. Oh God, I must not think that or I might burst into uncontrollable giggles. I’m already so nervous and wound up about Cal and Kit, it wouldn’t take much to have me in hysterics.
What? Is that Betty in her handbag? It can’t be …
Two huge black eyes peep over the top of Eva’s Burberry tote. It is Betty! She yips at me when Eva approaches.
‘Demi! You made it, you clever girl. How was your journey? Awful? You did travel first- not cattle-class, I hope?’
‘Um …’
She grabs my arm, almost toppling over with the weight of Betty in her bag.
‘You brought Betty with you,’ I say, stroking the pug’s ears. Betty closes her eyes in pleasure. A little pink tongue laps my fingers, soothingly.
‘Yes, of course, darling. Betty pines for me if I leave her, so I bring her with me – and the editor adores her. We’ll need the dogs for the PR shots, of course. Did you not think of bringing Mitch?’
I picture Mitch racing around the editor’s office, knocking over piles of books and cocking his leg up a table leg, and cringe.
‘Mitch in London? You have to be kidding …’
‘Good point. I suppose he is rather energetic.’ She gazes down at Betty, perfectly at home in her Burberry cocoon. ‘I must admit, Betty is such a city girl. She can’t wait to hit Bond Street with me whenever she comes up. There’s a darling doggy boutique in one of the arcades where the assistants worship her. We just have to go the next time we’re here, but first, let’s get this meeting over. Now, don’t be afraid of your editor. They’re all terribly glossy and bouncy, and all terribly young. Not much older than you, in fact, so just let me deal with them. You smile and nod enthusiastically to everything they say and then we’ll go away and do exactly what we want anyway. Comprendo?’
‘Um …’
How can I tell her I wasn’t that afraid of my editor until she said this? The doors of the tower whoosh open. Betty yaps excitedly, but my tum churns like a washing machine.
‘Smile, darling!’ Eva trills as we collect our passes. ‘This is publishing!’
A couple of hours later, I stagger out of the publishers’ tower, punch drunk with all the information and the surreal nature of our meeting. Eva took it all in her stride, while Betty curled up in a corner on a dog bed specially provided by our editor, who really was only a few years older than me. She also did look a little bit like Isla, or a slightly edgier version of her.
Now, we’re crawling along the streets inside a black cab, with Betty sitting on my lap while Eva feeds me gossip about some of the celebrity chefs whose faces beamed at me from the covers of the books and posters in the publishers’ offices.
We’re going to call our book Dog’s Dinner! Healthy Treats for Canines and their Humans. It will include some of the doggy treats I already offer at the cafe plus the summer lollies I tested for the launch. It will also include some nutritious recipes for on-the-go snacks and picnic food for dog walkers that Eva’s chefs and I will develop together. The editor had already drawn up a proposed schedule and suggested I set to work as soon as possible during my ‘quiet period’ at Kilhallon. She may be really clever and know a lot about publishing, but she’s clearly forgotten that Christmas is about to happen and that I run a seasonal business.
Eva’s told me not to worry, that we have ‘heaps of time’ and that she and her home economics team will do a lot of the work, but I’m not so sure. In this case, I think I might have bitten off more than I can chew.
Eva takes me for lunch afterwards and starts to talk about developing a brand of healthy dog treats called Mitch & Betty’s, but she says she’d need to talk to her marketing team about that and they’d have to discuss it with a manufacturer. It’s all a far cry from me trialling cakes with Mitch in my cottage. In fact the world seems very big indeed. I have a sense of not being part of it, or floating above it or watching another person being me today.
‘So, darling, I’d absolutely love to show you around but I have to get my train back to Brighton. I’ve a dinner meeting with,’ she lowers her voice and whispers the name
of a guy who presents a motoring show. ‘A total bore of course, and a boor to boot, ha ha! But one has to suffer these people. He loves Spero’s to bits so I can’t afford to upset him. You don’t mind me abandoning you in the big city, do you?’ Eva races on like an express train, leaving me flattened on the tracks.
‘No. It’s fine. Really. My train leaves in a few hours and I’d enjoy a look round.’
‘Oh! You’ve time to have lots of fun before then, I hope? You must visit that canine boutique and take something funky home for Mitch. Put it on my account, my love.’
‘No, I couldn’t do that.’
‘You could and you will. Here’s my card. Hand it over and tell them I sent you. Email me a pic of Mitch afterwards. I do think he’d look divine in one of their Pucci scarves.’
I’m sure Mitch would look divine in any scarf, but I have no intention of spending hundreds of pounds on one. So, as Eva kisses me and holds up Betty so she can be kissed too, I plan on walking around one of the parks or maybe taking a bus tour or even just sitting in Covent Garden with a coffee and watching the world go by.
‘Are you sure you’re OK, darling? Only you seem a little absent today? Everything all right at home?’
‘It’s fine. We’re busy with the Christmas rush and we had our Harbour Lights Festival on Friday evening, as well as Christmas trade.’
She claps her hands together in delight. ‘Harbour Lights Festival? I bet it was gorgeous with all those kitsch fairy lights and rugged fisherfolk with their twinkly boats. I so wish I’d been there. It sounds utterly charming.’
‘Charming?’ An image fills my mind of Cal holding Kit against a wall, Kit’s eyes full of hatred for Cal. ‘Yes … it was, erm, very eventful and lively.’
Eva beams and clicks her fingers at Betty, who hops into her bag. She scoops up both in her arms. ‘Well, have a safe journey back to Cornwall and we’ll meet again soon. I’ll be in touch. Toodle pip.’
Holding up Betty’s paw in a farewell wave, Eva skips outside, or skips as much as a small woman carrying a dog in a bag can do. I think I saw the restaurant manager hailing a cab for her. After a few discreet calming breaths, I go to the loo to sort myself out. It’s as I dig out my purse in the marble cloakrooms of the restaurant to check I still have my train ticket after all the surreal craziness of the past few hours that Kit’s business card falls out onto the floor of the cloakroom.
Kit Bannen: Author and Freelance Journalist
He gave it to me a few weeks ago and the card is a bit frayed now and slightly soggy on one end from an encounter with Mitch’s jowls, but I can still make out the mobile number.
Not that I’ll be calling him.
I sit on the padded chair in front of the gilt-edged mirror in the cloakroom and stare at the card.
If I called him, he’d probably cut me off or tell me to get lost.
And Cal would hit the roof if he found out.
Not that I’m answerable to Cal.
Or afraid of Kit.
I put the card back in my bag. Kit told Isla he lived in West London, and that she and Luke must have sometimes drunk in the same pub as him without knowing it. I know where he lives: he had to give his address when he booked the cottage. I have a couple of hours to spare. I could call on Kit and try to reason with him. Ask him why he was so cruel to Cal … I faced down Mawgan Cade and nothing terrible happened so I could try talking to Kit.
No, that would be even worse than phoning him.
And Cal would go nuts if he found out.
I apply one of Tamsin’s latest lip gloss samples in the mirror and touch up my face with a bit of tinted moisturiser.
Cal would never find out if I paid Kit a call, and what’s the worst Kit can do to me?
Then again, Cal and Kit’s relationship – or lack of it – is none of my business. And Cal would say I should put my own house in order before I interfere in his life.
Yet, I am here. So is Kit.
I pick up my bag and walk out of the restaurant. The greeter at the door offers to call me a cab, but I say no thanks.
Outside, the wind is colder and the sun is setting somewhere behind all the concrete and buildings. The shop windows glitter even more brightly and if anything there are more people crowding the pavements.
The tube station is opposite. If I set off now, how long would it take me to get to Kit’s area of West London? I can use my walking app to find his house and I have his address on my Kilhallon booking app.
A text beeps: it’s Cal: All OK?
I smile. He does care about me. Even if I won’t move in with him and he’s volatile and secretive and infuriating, I care about him too. I can’t stand seeing him so unhappy and eaten up with hurt over Kit’s behaviour.
Taking my life in my hands, I scuttle across the road between the cabs and reach the tube station. The line from here would take me straight to Hammersmith without me even changing trains. I know he lives very near a tube station because I heard him tell Polly …
Surely, I can’t make things any worse than they are?
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The terraced house in front of me looks a little like the one on the telly where several people were found cut up and stuffed down the drains. At least three different families must occupy this one house because there are three separate names next to the three buzzers by the glossy dark-blue entrance door with its brass fittings. I don’t know why I thought that Kit might not live here. Perhaps it’s because he’s deceived us about so many things. However, the bottom flat has a name printed next to the buzzer. It says C. Bannen. No mystery there then.
The app made it surprisingly easy to find the building, but now I’m outside, I don’t know what to do. The sensible half of me keeps shouting at me to run away and get on the tube this minute. Yet here I am, standing on the pavement, gazing up at the house. Oh my God, what if Kit’s already spotted me, lurking here on the steps as if I’m checking out his flat to burgle it?
Inside my gloves, my palms are sweaty. Yuk. My heart is beating fast as I lift my finger and buzz Kit’s name.
And my mind’s on the frosty way Cal and I parted.
‘Yeah? Who is it?’
Oh God, he sounds pissed off and he’ll definitely be pissed off when he finds out it’s me at the door.
‘Um … er …’
‘Look, mate, if you’re selling something, don’t bother.’
‘I’m not selling anything. It’s me!’
Pause. ‘Who’s me?’
‘Demi.’
‘Demi?’
‘Demi Jones. From Kilhallon?’
Silence. My heart thumps. ‘I was just passing, and I thought I’d pop in and see how you are …’
He may have sworn but the intercom crackled so I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. There’s a long silence and I am itchy with tension and on the verge of running off as fast as I can.
‘I suppose you’d better come up.’
Click. Burr. He’s gone. Well, he was hardly hanging out the bunting, but he didn’t call the police on me either. I wish I had Mitch with me, though I don’t know what he could do to help.
Taking a deep breath, I push open the door and walk into the gloomy hallway.
Kit answers the door to his flat.
‘If you’ve come to try and promote some brotherly love between us, you’re wasting your time.’
‘I haven’t come to do that. Like I said, I was passing …’
‘Passing? From Cornwall?’
‘I came up to London to visit my publisher. I know. That sounds weird to me too. I’m writing a dog cookbook with the food guru Eva Spero and we had a meeting with our editor today in her office.’
Aware that I’m babbling, I try to stem the flow. Kit stares at me as if I’d said I’d been to the international space station. I’m not sure he can believe what I’m saying, then he grunts, very much like Cal. ‘Which publisher?’
‘Marchmont. Our cookbook’s going to be published by their non-fict
ion imprint.’
He nods. ‘I’m with Marchmont, but the crime imprint. My editor’s office is on the top floor.’
‘I had to go to the third floor. I don’t know anyone else there.’
‘Right.’
‘Is your book finished?’ I ask, worried he’ll close the door.
‘I’m trying to finish the first draft now. I have to send it off by close of play tomorrow, which is why I wasn’t too amused to find a cold caller at my door.’
‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Do you want me to leave?’ I hold my breath.
‘Not yet. Come in.’ He points to a black leather sofa so I sit down. His flat is far messier than I’d expected. There are papers and books everywhere, and dirty plates and mugs litter the coffee table. In the corner of the room, a laptop sits on a small desk, the screen glowing. The high ceiling has an elaborate plaster decoration in the middle which shows me this must have been a grand house once. This situation reminds me of my visit to Mawgan Cade, except I have a horrible feeling that Kit might be an even harder nut to crack.
‘You can say your piece.’
‘I don’t know what my piece is, except I can’t understand why you blame Cal so much for what his father did. Mawgan does the same, but she’s got more reason. Cal rejected her, or so she thinks in her twisted mind. She is completely twisted, you know.’
‘I’m sure she probably is but that’s not my concern now, though I understand her antipathy towards Cal to a degree.’ Kit’s tone is as chilly as the wind swirling outside the window and I’m not sure what antipathy is but I’m pretty sure it’s not friendly.
‘But Cal’s never done you any harm. Is it Kilhallon you want?’ I ask.
He snorts. ‘Kilhallon? If you think this is about money and me wanting to claim my rightful inheritance, you’re wrong. I wanted some kind of acknowledgement that I existed and that I mattered and that Cal actually cared. You can tell me that I’m damaged and bitter if you like, but that’s the way I feel.’
‘Is it about me? Me and Cal?’
He laughs nastily. ‘I don’t think you understand.’
Christmas at the Cornish Café Page 21