The Little Cornish Kitchen: A heartwarming and funny romance set in Cornwall. Jane Linfoot
to pull her punches. ‘I’ll give the whale watching a miss. That gives us all day tomorrow to sort the small stuff.’
Which from where I’m sitting sounds like no time at all.
‘Don’t look so anxious, we’ll all help.’ Sophie’s patting my hand, but frankly if she’d been this sympathetic earlier we wouldn’t be in this mess. ‘At least you’ve got the recipes here. You did say you wanted to leave your options open with the flat. This might let you do that.’
‘It’s fine, I’m not worried.’ It’s only a bit of a lie. I know we’re careering towards a complete car crash here. But the fastest way to prove this isn’t going to work is to let the disaster happen. Then we can walk away knowing we’ve all tried our best and failed. The sooner we get this nightmare over, the better. ‘Although …’
‘Yes?’ Nell cocks her head at me.
I’m fingering the recipe cards, looking at the familiar handwriting. It won’t happen again, so we’ve got one chance to credit her. ‘As we’re using all her recipes, could we call it Laura’s Sorbets?’
Plum’s eyes light up. ‘Making it personal is the perfect way to remember her. Laura’s Lovely Sorbets?’
I’m laughing. ‘Even better. I think she’d like that.’
‘Great.’ Sophie’s already on her feet. ‘What are we waiting for? We’ll pick up Milla from dancing, and then we’ll hit the shops and go to mine to practice.’
In Trenowden, Trenowden and Trenowden Solicitors’ office
Sorbet and melting ice caps
Monday morning
‘Morning, Clementine, good weekend?’ As he breezes past my desk to his office, George’s greeting sounds like he’s on autopilot.
‘Great thanks.’ Even if he was taking notice, I’d spare him the details.
As I staggered away from the market stall with Sophie on Saturday afternoon, under a fruit mountain so huge I could barely see the toes of my kitten heeled pumps I’d decided to go with the flow. By the time we reached Sophie’s kitchen, which is literally the size of a barn, I was relaxing into it. The minute we added in Laura’s name it stopped feeling like I was being press ganged, and I began to feel part of the mission. In spite of my huge reservations and doubts, I began to enjoy myself.
Sophie’s a whizz at multi-tasking. Somehow she managed to sort French plaits for Tilly, wade through a marketing report, pass Maisie her organic carrots and chickpeas, stop Marco from crashing his ride-on tractor through the bi-fold doors into the courtyard outside, and shout instructions at me and Milla too. After an afternoon of doing as I was told at her polished concrete work surfaces, I’d liquidised so much fruit and dipped in and out of her stable-size freezer so many times, I swear I’ll be making strawberry sorbet in my sleep forever more. But at least I’d nailed the technicalities and learned how to operate a hand blender without sending a tidal wave of fruit puree up the walls.
The up side of trialing recipes is we all got to taste the sorbets. Pause for a brief sorbet swoon there – the icy crystals hitting my tongue was like an electric shock to my brain. Out of nowhere I could remember sitting at my little table on the balcony, hulling strawberries, with Laura sitting on the planks beside me, her legs outstretched. Me holding her hand, as we hurried out to the ice cream kiosk to get wafers. Standing them up like sails in our sorbet balls. Then later I found the splashy blue and orange flowery fabric of the dress she’d been wearing that day in a patchwork cushion on the sofa. For someone who usually has trouble remembering much beyond last Tuesday, it was a revelation.
By Saturday tea time, we’d made our selection from the samples, bought more fruit for making the full amounts, and trundled it up the stairs at Seaspray Cottage. All without bumping into Charlie. Why did I ever think this was going to be hard?
Then on Sunday, Nell, Plum and I spent the afternoon at the flat, tweeking the sofas and side tables into party order, cleaning the loo, and sorting out the best cups and glasses to use, and still finished in time to go for a hot chocolate at the Surf Shack along the beach.
So now I’m tapping my heels under George’s reception desk, flicking through this morning’s appointments on my screen, willing lunchtime to arrive so Plum and I can get back and crack on with the sorbets.
‘How are you getting on with the flat? I hear you’ve moved in.’
Shucks. So much for autopilot. This time around George is full on warm and interested, with a disarming smile to match.
‘Yes, all fabulous, thanks for asking.’ My throat constricts in panic. I skip straight over the Airbnb people underneath who could have been bonking for England all night on Saturday. Does he know about the flat because he’s put himself down for the Laura’s Lovely Sorbets event? I might be softening to the idea of twenty strangers invading Laura’s living room in return for a discreet yet extortionate cash payment. But I’m damn sure I’m not up for my boss seeing me fall flat on my face when it goes all kinds of wrong, even if he does have kind crinkles at the corners of his eyes. ‘I’m not up to speed here because I’ve been away, but do you go to Nell’s singles’ events?’ Hopefully I make the crucial question sound super casual.
George’s smile fades in a second. ‘Hell, no.’
‘Jeez, I’m so pleased to hear that.’ And that gave too much away. This calls for some serious back pedalling. ‘Any particular reason? I’ve heard they’re excellent, even for people like us who are happy with their “alone” status.’
For a moment, he looks confused. ‘I do long hours here, then take work home.’ Now he’s found an answer he looks happier. ‘Socialising isn’t on my radar, probably how I’ve avoided getting pushed into it like everyone else has.’ Although it’s on his radar enough to know it exists.
‘Great, well I’d better get on.’ I need to wind this up, before I get into any more deep water. ‘This human works best on Monday mornings if coffee is added. Are you ready for one too?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’ The grin that spreads across his face at the offer of a caffeine hit makes his previous one look arctic. ‘Only joking, why not let me make them?’
‘That’s what I’m here for.’ Obviously, I don’t want him at my sorbet evening, but all the same I can’t quite work out why Nell hasn’t snapped this one up for her singles’ group. With lines like that I’d say he has all the makings of a ‘keeper’.
Despite being a twenty-four seven workaholic, it turns out George is just as shit as me about the Monday thing. Four coffees on for each of us, with no visit from Charlie, we finally get to lunchtime, and I’m free to go and make sorbet. Ten hours from now the micro-venue theory will have been tested to destruction, and my life will be back on its old course again. All I have to do is hold my nerve and get through to midnight.
Two hours later, Plum and I are up to our elbows in pureed raspberries in Laura’s kitchen, looking out across the blue sparkling water of St Aidan Bay as we sieve the last double batch.
Plum counts them off on her fingers as she juggles the containers in the freezer, which is rammed. ‘Strawberry, pear and rosemary, lemon, lime and peppermint, water melon, orange and mango, cucumber and mint. There’s just about enough room to squeeze the raspberry in here too.’
‘As Sophie says, they’re gluten-free, dairy-free, suitable for vegetarians, pescetarians, vegans, celiacs and lactose intolerants.’ Now they’re almost done, I’m feeling dizzy, excited and so uptight I’m squeaking when I should be talking.
Plum laughs. ‘Sophie would say that. Better still, they’re bloody delicious, those recipes of Laura’s are on point.’
‘I