Confetti at the Cornish Café Page 5
Mawgan forces a smile. ‘Andi’s partner is a girl, actually.’
‘Andi lives with my cousin, Robyn,’ Cal says, cutting in with a smile even more strained than Mawgan’s. Even though Mawgan went with Robyn and Andi to see their mother in Australia at Christmas, she is obviously still not comfortable with the idea of her sister living with another woman, and a Penwith too.
Mawgan hates Cal for all kinds of reasons but mainly because Cal’s father had an affair with Mawgan’s mum. In Mawgan’s eyes, that caused the break-up of her parents’ marriage and led to Mrs Cade emigrating to Australia. Then there’s the small matter of Cal rejecting Mawgan when they were both young. OK. I get it that Mawgan was devastated by the split and misses her mum, but Cal and I both lost our mothers when we were young. We all have regrets and loss to cope with, but only Mawgan is on a mission to make everyone else’s lives a misery. I wonder how much of this story Ben knows … He seems in awe of Mawgan.
‘Did you say that Andi and Robyn have moved into one of your properties?’ he says, sounding well impressed.
Mawgan smirks. ‘Yes, Cade Developments is quite a big concern these days as I’m sure Demi and Cal will tell you.’ She’s obviously far happier to boast about her business empire than talk about her sister’s girlfriend.
Ben blows out a breath. ‘I always knew you’d get on in life, Mawgs. You never let anyone get one over on you when we were little.’
‘And I always knew you’d be a big star,’ Mawgan simpers. ‘Auntie Georgie used to take us to see him in the local theatre productions during the school holidays,’ she tells Lily.
‘Oh, I’d have loved to have seen him but he’s always been talented. I saw an advert he did for a chocolate bar when he was only around ten. It popped up on a Before They Were Famous show and he looked soooo cute. I bet you could tell me so much about him when he was little.’
Mawgan smiles. ‘I may know a few snippets.’
Ben groans. ‘Don’t start that, Mawgan. We both have a few secrets we’d rather keep hidden.’
‘I’m sure Mawgan is the soul of discretion,’ Cal says smoothly.
Mawgan smirks. ‘As you’ve found out, Cal.’ She turns back to Ben and Lily. ‘We can talk about the old days when we go out for dinner. I can’t wait to catch up with all the gossip, though I’m not sure it’s my dad’s thing to hang out with celebs.’
Lily laughs in delight. ‘What a shame, but the five of us can still have a lovely time: I had no idea that you were all so close and you have to come to the wedding, of course. How cool that you know Cal and Demi too! And I’ll make sure I bring Louie along next time. This whole wedding thing is going to be just awesome.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Two weeks later – second week of March
Cal
‘I can’t believe that we are going to have to play happy families with Mawgan Cade and Lily and Ben,’ Demi tells me in the kitchen at Kilhallon House. It’s been over two weeks since Ben and Lily descended on us and she’s obviously still fuming about them inviting our arch-enemy to be part of a lunch party. I can’t say I blame her but I’ve other things to lose sleep over.
Demi slaps a piece of dough onto the farmhouse worktop and starts kneading it like it might come to life and attack her at any moment. Puffs of flour fly into the air as she beats it into submission.
She catches me smiling at her. ‘What?’
‘Nothing. Only that I’m mighty glad I’m not that dough.’
‘Well,’ she says, crushing her knuckles into the sticky mass, ‘I wish it was Mawgan Cade. I can’t believe she knows Ben Trevone. And to dare come here to muscle in when she knew they were paying a visit. I wish we could ban her from the wedding.’
‘Handfasting …’
‘Handfasting then. Whatever, I don’t want Mawgan sticking her six-inch leopard-skin boots into it.’
‘I can’t dictate to our guests who they can invite – unless that person is a psychopathic nutcase, of course … which Mawgan does qualify as.’
‘Yes.’ Bash. ‘She.’ Thump. ‘Does.’ Whack.
Wow, she really is giving that dough a working over. It reminds me of my mum. She used to use bread making as therapy when my dad had upset her. Yet at the same time, watching Demi knock seven bells out of that dough is strangely soothing. I never stopped being amazed at how Mum turned a bag of flour, some water and a bit of yeast into light and fluffy loaves. The smell of bread baking makes my mouth water even now. We’d toast it and slather it in butter and homemade raspberry jam from her kitchen garden, or we’d eat blackberry crumble made with berries I’d pick from the hedgerows all around Kilhallon. Me, Luke, Isla … it was a happy, simpler time.
We once studied a book at school where someone said the past is another country, or something like it. It feels so true, especially when I think about what happened in Syria with Soraya and Esme. I wonder where she is, or if she still exists at all in this realm. I shake away my thoughts, returning to the present before I turn maudlin.
‘Maybe you can arrange for the owl to be a huge eagle that will swoop down and carry off Mawgan again instead of the ring …’ I say, trying to lighten the mood for myself as much as Demi.
‘Don’t mention the bloody owl. Where am I going to get an owl from?’ she asks, pummelling the dough even harder.
‘An owl centre?’
She glances up and blows a strand of hair that’s escaped her ponytail out of her eyes. ‘Ha ha! Then again, it’s an idea … hmm. There is a birds of prey centre outside St Ives. I could ask them. Why did you have to mention it? I’ve enough trouble trying to create this “totally natural and thrown-together-at-the-last-minute” wedding arch and flower decoration. The truth is that Lily only wants it to look natural and what she really wants is a fashion shoot recreation of her fantasies! Mind you …’ Her voice takes on a mischievous edge. ‘Since it was your idea to have an owl and you’re the one with the DIY skills, I think you should take charge of caring for the wildlife and the arch construction.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘You’re welcome.’ With a smirk, she goes back to kneading with renewed vigour and complaining about Mawgan and owls. If she glanced up from the tabletop, she’d catch me smiling at her. I love the way she tackles any task with a fierce enthusiasm that’s almost comical and yet touching too. I love the way her breasts push together in that old long-sleeved T-shirt. God, I’m shallow but I’m also a man and I’d love to interrupt her bread making now and drag her upstairs to bed.
With that thought, I turn back to my laptop, intending to close the browser, but my eye is drawn to a recent email in my inbox. There among the messages about liability insurance, gas safety checks (yawn) for the cottages and a rogue item asking me if I’d like a much larger erection (I don’t think I could improve on the one I have now, but …) is one that leaps out at me. Its subject line is written in capitals and stops me in my tracks.
PLEASE DON’T GET YOUR HOPES UP …
It comes from someone I rarely hear from nowadays; a good friend who knows that any email from her risks stirring up memories I should have left behind by now. A kind, brave friend who would never send me an email with the word ‘hope’ in it unless that hope was also preceded by a ‘no’.
So to receive an email with the subject line ‘Please Don’t Get Your Hopes Up’ makes my heart rate speed up, my mouth go dry and my hopes soar higher than a gull above the Kilhallon cliffs.
The slap of the dough and the thuds of it being beaten into submission recede when I open the email and read the words from Carolyn, my former boss and a senior manager of the overseas aid charity for whom I used to work.
Hi Cal,
How are you? Still wrestling with rebuilding Kilhallon or is it all up and running now? I hope so. I thought you looked well on it when we saw you in London last autumn, if that’s not too patronising. OK. I guess, by now, the title of this email has you gnashing your teeth and scrolling down for the thing you’re hoping to hear.
So: *PLEASE* don’t get your hopes up.
Promise me?
No, I mouth silently. No, I can’t promise anything where Esme is concerned.
OK. Now that I’ve got the warning over with, even though I know it’s useless to expect you to heed it, I’ll get to the nitty gritty. This is only a glimmer and it may be nothing but as you may have heard, we’ve been able to move back closer to the town where Soraya was killed and Esme was last seen. The refugee camp is as big as ever with new influxes of people daily from other areas but also some of the people who were here when we pulled out. One of my new colleagues was treating a young guy for shrapnel injuries, and called me to give a second opinion. I thought I recognised the guy and when I spoke to him, I realised it was one of Soraya’s extended family, Jaz. You might remember him, because he had a long scar down the side of his face from a shrapnel wound.
He was very grateful and he mentioned you and asked after you. I know you blame yourself for what happened to Soraya but apparently that’s not how her extended family see it. Jaz said they’d been grateful to you for trying to help them. To them Soraya will be considered a martyr and a heroine, which, I know, may not be any comfort to you but …
My stomach turns over. Soraya was a friend of mine, a Syrian nurse who helped me and my colleagues in our work in a refugee camp near the front line. Then I got her involved in smuggling medical supplies and arms to local rebels. As a result of my actions, she ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time and lost her life. I ended up in the hands of insurgents and Soraya’s little girl, Esme, vanished in the chaos of the falling town. Sweat breaks out on my back now and I have to clasp my hands together under the table to stop them from shaking. At Christmas, I finally trusted Demi with the story of what happened to me but since then I’ve tried hard to move on and focus on my life at Kilhallon. I think we both know that I can never move on completely, not until I know what happened to Esme.
I return to Carolyn’s email, feeling sick to my stomach with a mixture of guilt, hope and fear.
I took the opportunity to ask if he had seen Esme, and Jaz said no. He also said that her grandparents hadn’t seen her since that day and that everyone in the immediate family thought she might have died. But then Jaz said that he had heard from friends of his parents who knew the family, and he also said that Esme *might* have been taken in by some of their neighbours and they were headed for Turkey and hoping to reach Greece.
I’m sure you’ve been scouring social media and online tracing services for her. I’ve had a quick look but I’m so busy and I haven’t spotted her or anyone I recognise on there.
Carolyn is right, I have been scouring the sites in every moment of my spare time but I haven’t wanted to let Demi know. She’d only worry about me and it seems selfish to still be focusing on a lost girl when I should have my mind one hundred per cent on the business and on her. But I can’t help myself. If there’s even a chance of finding Esme, I’ll grab it with both hands.
Demi is still kneading the dough into submission and humming along to Radio St Trenyan. I scan the rest of the email.
Cal, I know you will by now be packing your bags to rush to London or even further afield but please, please don’t. Let me try to make some further enquiries and I promise I will send any news – good or bad – the moment I get it. IF I ever hear anything, because this could be another false trail and not have a good outcome. There are thousands – millions – of people displaced and there is still ongoing chaos. Finding Esme could be like finding a needle in a thousand haystacks … but I thought you deserved to hear that there is still a glimmer of hope.
I have to go. It’s been good to have a few moments to write to you and think of home. I think that when my tour here is over, I might be coming back myself.
Until then, take care,
Love, Carolyn x
It’s a minute or so before I can tear my eyes from the email. I let the words sink in before, finally, Demi’s voice brings me back into the room.
‘Of course, they’ve left things way too late and I didn’t expect them to want everything to be organised locally. I thought they’d bring their own wedding planner and a whole pack of stylists …’
‘Sorry?’
Demi stares at me. I feel guilty for not listening. This wedding may seem trivial compared to what I’ve read but it means a lot to her – to Kilhallon – and so it means a lot to me, but I can’t summon up the proper level of enthusiasm at the moment.
Demi puts the dough into a bowl, picks up a tea cloth to wipe some of the scraps off her fingers.
‘You weren’t listening, were you?’ She covers the dough with a tea towel. Her hands are sticky with dough and there’s a floury speck on the end of her pretty nose. She sighs. ‘I don’t blame you. I was having a rant.’
I long to scour the email for any scrap I might have missed but I close the lid of the laptop. I push a strand of her chestnut hair out of her eyes and look down into her eyes. She gazes back at me with a mix of exasperation and lust. At least I hope it’s lust and not fury that I wasn’t listening.
‘You have flour on your nose,’ I tell her.
‘Do I?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t do anything until I’ve cleaned my hands. I’m helpless.’
‘Hold on.’ I rub the tip of her nose. ‘And you, Demi Jones, are never helpless and never will be.’
‘Sometimes it suits me to be so.’
‘Yeah. Maybe. It’s me that’s helpless.’
I cradle her chin in my hand like a delicate porcelain cup. She is so fragile yet so strong. Her doughy hands hang by her side. I kiss her, trying to obliterate all thoughts of the email and the memories it stirs in the taste of her mouth. I pull her against me, hoping to crush unhappy memories. Demi deserves better than a man whose mind is on anything but her.
‘Whoa. I can barely breathe.’
She breaks the kiss, though her eyes are shining with pleasure.
‘Sorry.’
I release her but feel her hands on my bum, pulling me back to her, just not quite so tightly.
Her expression changes to one of concern. ‘Everything OK? You didn’t seem to want to let me go.’
‘Do I need a reason to feel like that?’
Although I promised to share my worries with Demi in future, I’m not going to drop this latest news onto her when it may amount to nothing. She has enough on her plate with running the cafe and planning the wedding and helping to write and produce her cookbook with Eva Spero – not to mention she has had a big change in her own family. It’s still early days in her reconciliation with her dad, his partner, her brother and their new baby who arrived at Christmas.
I kiss her again. ‘I don’t need a reason to keep you close to me.’
Demi lets out a giggle. ‘Your bum is all floury.’
Realising what’s happened, I twist around and a puff of flour dust flies into the air. I brush the back of my jeans, and find tiny pieces of sticky dough clinging to the denim and my fingers.
‘You minx!’
She smirks. ‘That’ll teach you to be more interested in your laptop than me.’
‘Believe me, I’d far rather concentrate on you,’ I say. ‘But the park accounts won’t wait. The accountant read me the riot act about getting the figures in early and the family finances have been in such a mess for so many years that I don’t want to let her down again. Polly did her best but we really need to keep a tight rein on the money. We might have to get a bit of help with the admin. Polly has enough to do as it is, managing the bookings and helping with changeovers and guests’ needs. We can cope in the low season, but when Easter comes, we’ll need more help on the camping side and the cafe.’
‘I’m interviewing some seasonal staff for Demelza’s in a few weeks’ time. I need to get this wedding organised. I’m suppo
sed to be going to a wedding fair in a couple of weeks but I can’t wait for that. We need to get a photographer, florist, cake maker, decorations and a band … Some specialists are booked up years ahead and we only have a few months.’
‘I know you can do it,’ I say to reassure her. She still lacks confidence even though I’m convinced she could be UN Secretary General, England football manager and POTUS if she really wanted to. She’d definitely do a better job than any of them. ‘After getting the cafe ready and helping out with the floods, a wedding should be a piece of cake.’
‘I think organising a wedding could be worse than both of those put together. Lily has sent over the guest list and that’s convinced me we need a professional wedding planner or I’ll end up freaking out before the big day.’
‘That sounds like a really good idea.’
‘In theory but I’ve already tried over a dozen within the county and into Devon and almost all of them were already booked for those dates. I interviewed one last week but she seemed very inexperienced. She told me she’d helped to organise some friends’ weddings but she didn’t have a website and only seemed interested in knowing who the couple were. I haven’t told anyone that it’s Ben and Lily until I’m sure we can trust them to be discreet. I even wondered if this woman had already found out their names. Although I’m not sure how she’d got wind of it.’
‘I could suggest a few names …’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Do they include Mawgan Cade?’
‘It’s a good bet, although I’m surprised she’s told people at this stage, when she obviously wants to keep in with Ben and Lily. Quite a few people know – Polly, Jez, the girls from the cafe and your suppliers will have to know. It’ll probably turn out to be the worst-kept secret in Cornwall and these fans have their ways of finding out.’
‘Tell me about it.’ She sighs. ‘There’s one more possibility I’m seeing next week so’— she holds up crossed fingers —‘let’s hope one of them is suitable or I’ll have to look even further afield … I can’t worry about it too much until after Freya’s christening tea on Sunday.’