Confetti at the Cornish Café Read online

  ‘I suppose I could keep an eye on the hound alongside my other jobs,’ Polly grumbles.

  ‘Thanks!’

  Leaving Polly muttering about ‘pampered pooches and celebrities’, I skip downstairs and grab an old waxed jacket from the vestibule. I whizz out to the car park via the reception area at the front of Kilhallon House, ready to greet the VIPs. The wind whistles around the farmhouse and cuts through me. Tiny pools of slush lie in hollows in the gravel and hailstones pile up against the former farm buildings that we now use for storage. I wouldn’t be surprised if Polly’s chickens are wearing thermal undies. Lily and Ben could hardly have picked a worse time to visit. I only hope they have good imaginations.

  While I wait for them to roll into the car park, I have a quick glance around the yard outside our reception. Cal must be around somewhere because his battered old Land Rover is parked in its usual place in front of the barn that serves as our storage and maintenance shed. Then again, I suspect he might be trying to avoid this meeting. Celebrities and their lives hold about as much interest for him as a tractor engine does for me. I mean, can you believe he hadn’t even heard of Lily Craig and Ben Trevone?

  Then again, Cal hasn’t seen a lot of TV or films over the past few years. He was involved in his own real-life drama in Syria, one that had a tragic ending for his friend Soraya and her daughter, Esme. At Christmas, Cal finally opened up to me about the terrible events that led to Soraya’s death and the disappearance of Esme in the conflict. I was shocked but I think sharing the burden has brought us closer.

  In fact, everyone at Kilhallon and in the local area had to pull together over the Christmas and New Year period after a tidal surge destroyed many homes in the nearby village of St Trenyan. We provided temporary accommodation for some of the homeless families, including my dad, his partner, Rachel, and their brand-new baby, Freya. They’re living in a rented flat in St Trenyan at the moment while their own home is repaired after the floods.

  That disaster was such an awful business but the silver lining was that it put me back in contact with my estranged father. Freya has given us all the chance to meet up since then and rebuild some bridges. She’s just adorable and it’s strange – in a good way – to see my dad so besotted with her. I keep wondering if he was like that with me once, before everything went downhill for us all. I’ve also made contact again with my older brother, Kyle. He’s in the army and I hadn’t seen him for ages, but we’ve now exchanged emails so the ice is broken.

  We’ve moved on in other ways over the winter. Cal has completed the renovation of our final set of cottages so now we have eight in total, plus eight yurts which we’ll pitch again in our glamping field ready for Easter. Our main camping field has another thirty pitches and will also open again at Easter. It’s strange to see the cottage I used to live in redecorated in a simple but contemporary style. The flowery 1970s decor has been painted over with neutral tones and the creaking furniture replaced with inky blue sofas and functional wood. Cal’s done a great job on a budget but I can’t help feeling he’s removed a little too much of the quirky personality of what was my first real home for years. Moving out of it and into the farmhouse with Cal was a big step for me as it meant losing some of my hard-won independence.

  The BMW rolls into the car park and there’s still no sign of Cal and no answers to my frantic texts. Luckily, I know that Nina, one of my staff, has arrived early at the cafe to help with the refreshments so Cal and I can focus on looking after Ben and Lily. I’ve texted her to warn her they’re early so at least we’ll have a cosy welcome ready for them in Demelza’s.

  There’s still not a whiff of Cal so it looks like I’m on my own – again. Breathe.

  The gleaming BMW comes to a halt next to Cal’s dilapidated Defender. Fixing on my cheeriest, sunniest smile, I march over as a man mountain with a shaved head eases out of the driver’s seat.

  He opens the rear passenger door wide and stands back.

  Two long, slim legs encased in black skinny jeans emerge from the door and a guy a few years older than me drops neatly down to the gravel. He wears a black leather jacket over a black sweater, with Stan Smiths on his feet that are almost as white as his teeth. He glances around him. I can’t see his eyes because of his Aviators but I can see myself reflected in them: my hair’s a wild tangle, my face as pale as the moon framed by the furry trim of my hood.

  Pushing the hood off my hair, I come face to face with Ben Trevone, the ludicrously handsome action-hero lead of Knife Edge, heart-throb star of Desperate Poets and voice of a heroic sea otter in the Oscar-nominated animation Ocean Furries. Unlike Cal, I do go to the cinema with my mates, although I admit I borrowed Ocean Furries from one of the kids who was evacuated here after the Christmas floods so I could swot up on Ben Trevone’s latest film.

  With a smile that makes my jaw ache, I hold out my hand. ‘Welcome to Kilhallon!’

  Ignoring my hand, Ben looks around him. His dazzling teeth gleam against a tan he definitely didn’t get on a Cornish beach. He is very handsome in a smooth, ‘boy band’ way, though not as hunky as he looked in Knife Edge. On the other hand, I’m glad he isn’t armed to the teeth with an AK-47 and a selection of knives.

  ‘So this is, like, it?’ he asks in an accent that’s a mix of his native Cornish and an American twang – which you don’t hear every day, especially not in St Trenyan.

  Panicking inside, I shove my hands in my pockets. ‘Well, er … like, yes.’

  He switches his focus from me to the farmhouse and the barn and Cal’s Land Rover. We’ve done a lot of work on Kilhallon but suddenly every slightly wonky plank, moss-covered roof and rusty bumper pops out at me.

  ‘Uh huh,’ he says.

  ‘Are we there yet, Ben?’ a thin, small voice pipes up from the far rear passenger seat. Oh, so maybe Lily Craig isn’t with him after all and he’s decided to bring his little sister.

  ‘Seems like it,’ he says, without turning around as their minder toes a puddle with his biker boot.

  ‘Can I come out now, then?’ the little voice trills from the depths of the car.

  ‘If you want, babe, but it’s enough to freeze your bollocks off,’ Ben calls back, craning his neck to look beyond me towards the sea.

  ‘It is very cold today. There’s been a storm, you see, but in summer, it’s gorgeous up here and I’m sure the weather will be fantastic for your wedding.’

  ‘Handfasting.’ Ben spits out the word in his Knife Edge voice. Given that he played a robotic ex-soldier primed to wreak revenge on his enemies, I find this slightly disturbing.

  ‘Handfasting. Of course. As it’s a bit … um … chilly, why don’t we go straight to Demelza’s, our onsite catering centre?’ I babble, making it up as I go along. ‘My team will have hot chocolate and cakes waiting.’

  ‘Tell her I don’t do dairy,’ the voice pipes up.

  Oh God, it must be Lily.

  ‘Lily doesn’t do dairy,’ says Ben solemnly.

  ‘I know and I’ve planned for that. There are plenty of dairy-free alternatives at the cafe and we can also discuss the menus and decorations for your celebration. We’ll be much cosier there. You don’t even have to get out of the car, I can show you the way,’ I call above a fresh gust of wind so that the little voice can hear me.

  Ben glances over my head towards the track that leads down to Demelza’s, then at his minder.

  ‘That OK, Harry?’

  Harry, the minder, nods slowly. His head is shaven like Jake Gyllenhaal’s in Jarhead but he’s at least a head taller and three stone heavier than Jake must be. The material of his long-sleeved grey T-shirt strains over his huge biceps as if he has a grapefruit stuffed down there. He makes Ben look like a Munchkin.

  ‘OK, guys, let’s do this,’ says Ben as if he’s about to confront the forces of darkness rather than a hot chocolate and one of my scones.

  Ben climbs back inside the BMW and Harry shuts the door, leaving me shivering on the gravel. Harry then opens the p
assenger side door. He says nothing but nods at me through his own black shades, which must surely be illegal for driving in our dark Cornish winters. Mind you, for all I know he could be wearing eyeliner and false lashes under them, which would be very, very funny.

  Squashing down a giggle, which is definitely from nerves not excitement, I take the hint and climb inside the BMW. I sink into the leather seats and Harry points a single finger at the track that leads from the side of the car park down to the cafe. Why doesn’t he speak? Maybe he can’t speak? Feeling slightly guilty in case he really is a mute, I nod vigorously and point in the same direction.

  And we’re off, bumping gently down the short track to the cafe. No one says a word but I’m thinking plenty of them. One, Cal had better turn up pretty soon or I will kill him, and two, when he does turn up I will kill him anyway for getting us into this totally weird wedding situation.

  Crossing my fingers, toes and any other bits, I tell myself that the only way is up from this beginning. Demelza’s has been closed for a few days as it’s our quietest time of year. Thank goodness I laid out the wedding presentation last night and didn’t leave it until today. Beyond that, I’m praying that Nina and Shamia have had time to get the food on as I promised our guests.

  Lights glow in the windows of the cafe, which was converted from an old storage barn last summer. Its stone walls look strong and welcoming against the backdrop of crashing waves and the wild Atlantic swell. Harry stops the car and jumps out. He holds a huge umbrella over Ben and Lily as they make the dash from the car to the cafe in the driving sleet. I hope Demelza’s can work its magic on our frosty couple, as it has on so many people, but I have a feeling these two will be much tougher nuts to crack.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Please, make yourselves comfortable. We’ll have the coffee and refreshments ready in no time. Sorry, we didn’t expect you quite so soon, but it’s fine. We’re delighted you could make it because Isla told us how busy you are.’ Yes, I know I’m babbling as we walk into the cafe and wildly over compensating but it’s not been the best start to the meeting – and where the hell is Cal?

  ‘We’re usually really late, aren’t we, babe?’ says Ben, allowing Lily to skip ahead of him into the cafe. She’s not much over five feet tall and her massive silver Puffa coat brushes her toes. Add a pair of dainty pointy boots and she reminds me of a very glamorous pixie. Her fur-trimmed hood hides her features but she’s definitely smiling.

  She giggles. ‘Always. We’re notorious for our lateness but we thought we’d surprise everyone today.’

  Lucky me, I think, but I can’t help liking Lily’s sense of humour, which gives me hope she’s possibly as human as the rest of us.

  Yes, I know Demelza’s is my cafe but even after six months, I always think walking inside is like stepping into a cosy, delicious haven. We’ve pulled out the stops to make it welcoming this cold spring morning, arranging early narcissi in stone jars on the window ledges to add a pop of yellow sunshine. Confetti-coloured freesias have been placed on every table and we’ve laid the two tables closest to the window with the vintage china I found at Kilhallon House last summer. Lily and Ben should be able to enjoy the view over the sea from there. The coffee machine is already burbling and the room is filled with the smell of freshly baked pastries. In the background, Cornish folk songs are playing softly. Mentally, I cross my fingers and hope they like the fresh and welcoming atmosphere we’ve tried to create.

  Ben plonks himself down at a table and picks up a teacup as if he’s never seen one before. Lily lingers in the middle of the room. She pulls off her hood and a mane of glossy red hair falls down her back. Although she wears very little make-up, and is swamped by the shiny coat, she’s still stunning. Not like a real human, but a fairy in a children’s storybook. She turns around slowly, and lifts her arms, as if the cafe might revolve around her if she so wills.

  I hold my breath. She could quite easily turn round this second and head out of Kilhallon and that would be that. Because we’re not glamorous, though we’ll bust a gut to be our very best. At the end of the day, we’re only a cosy little place in a wild and beautiful corner of Cornwall.

  Lily sighs deeply as if she’s just finished a particularly hard yoga session. My heart thumps madly. I avoid a strong urge to wipe my palms on my jeans, waiting for this big star’s verdict on my little Cornish cafe.

  Lily stares straight at me, a sad but sweet smile on her face.

  ‘This place is very … soothing. Like being wrapped in a big squishy duvet. It’s very authentic. Yes, I like it. I like it a lot.’

  It’s hard not to let out a huge sigh of relief, even if part of me already wishes that Lily, Ben and Harry would get straight back into their ‘actor mobile’ and drive out of Kilhallon. Yes, it’s exciting to have them here and it would be amazing publicity for the park and cafe but I already can’t stand the tension of trying to live up to their expectations. Calm down, Cal would say, just be yourself.

  But he’s not here, is he?

  Lily perches on one of our old oak settles next to Ben. She picks up one of the vintage tapestry cushions I ‘recycled’ from the farmhouse and hugs it. Ben is on his phone. Harry is sitting at a nearby table with his arms folded. He makes the chair look an infant’s school chair.

  ‘What can we get you all, then, before we discuss menus and food? I thought we’d warm up in here before we take a tour of the rest of the park and the wedding …’

  ‘Handfasting,’ Ben mutters without glancing up from his phone. ‘We’re going to do the legal bit at the register office near our house a few weeks later. No one will be looking for that once we’ve had the ceremony here.’

  ‘Isla said you want a simple ceremony in a natural setting?’ I say.

  ‘Oh yes, we don’t want a fuss, do we, Ben? I can’t stand all those weddings with zillions of people where the bride and groom sit on thrones and everyone arrives by helicopter.’

  ‘Is there a helipad?’ Ben chimes in.

  ‘Sorry, no. There’s a field behind us that the emergency services could use at a push but no helipad.’

  ‘Oh.’ He goes back to his phone.

  Lily smooths down her skirt. ‘Isla said we’d never find a more beautiful setting, especially if the sun comes out.’

  ‘I hope so. We’ll have a marquee, though, so we’ll be fine.’ Fingers crossed again, I think, remembering how Isla’s own engagement party was almost washed out by a summer storm. I won’t forget that day for all kinds of reasons; I had to rescue Cal from the sea after he’d been drowning his sorrows as he watched Isla and his best friend, Luke, celebrate their happiness. It was barely eight months ago and so much has changed. I truly believe Cal is over Isla now, though he said he could never ‘unlove’ her.

  Nina hovers behind the counter, staring at the guests as if she’s in the middle of a dream.

  ‘So, what drinks can I get you?’ I say with a smile, dying to call Cal again but not wanting to let our guests know I’m ever so slightly panicking.

  Lily orders a camomile tea, while Ben opts for a double espresso.

  ‘How about you, Harry?’ I ask. He has to speak now, he has to.

  He grunts.

  ‘He’ll have an Earl Grey with lemon. No milk,’ says Ben, still tapping on his phone.

  ‘Oh … Okayy,’ I say, surprised Harry doesn’t drink liquefied girders. ‘Nina? Would you mind making up the order, please?’

  Nina seems frozen to the spot for a second then scuttles off behind the counter. She turns up the music a little and that, combined with the hiss and sputter of the coffee machine, makes the atmosphere seem far more like a ‘normal’ cafe day.

  I chat to Lily about her journey here while Ben studies his phone and Harry flicks through a copy of a Cornish lifestyle magazine. Harry was sent on ahead by road ready to pick them up from Newquay airport this morning, though they didn’t use Flybe. They chartered a private plane from an airfield in the Cotswolds where they’re renting what Lil
y describes as a ‘cute little cottage’ but which sounds more like a mini stately home. She seems interested in the doggy treats cookbook I’ve been writing over the winter – not that I’ve had that much to do with it as my co-author, Eva Spero, and her team have taken over a lot of the writing. She’s been to Eva’s restaurant in Brighton once and seems impressed that I have a celebrity connection.

  I’m not sure how much of Lily’s breezy girly chat is really her, and how much is just her image. She has an Instagram account with hundreds of thousands of followers. Her fingers hover over a crystal-embellished iPhone. I bet she’s dying to update her Instagram right now so I break off to help Nina serve the drinks and coffee-time treats.

  As soon as I return to the table with a laden cake stand, Lily puts her phone down. ‘There’s a selection of mini pastries and tasters of our cakes. Of course, you’ll have a tailor-made menu on the day and we can work with a local catering firm who have won tons of awards for their wedding food. But for today I thought you might enjoy some of the best of our home-cooked fare.’

  Harry selects a slice of curranty pastry dredged in sugar. He observes it and his nose twitches as if he’s inhaling the scent. Please don’t say he’s going to taste our guests’ food for them … He wouldn’t go that far, would he? He bites off a piece, chews, swallows and lets out a sigh of pleasure.

  ‘Do you mind telling me what this is? It’s really rather good,’ he says, with an extremely posh lilt.

  So amazed am I that he has a voice at all, let alone that particular voice, that I struggle to get my reply out. ‘Um … it’s figgy ’obbin.’

  ‘Foggy what?’

  ‘Figgy ’obbin – layers of feather-light puff pastry crammed with juicy raisins, lemon juice and sugar. That’s the traditional recipe but I also added a few dried cranberries for extra crunch and to brighten it up. It’s a real Cornish winter warmer.’