The Little Cornish Kitchen: A heartwarming and funny romance set in Cornwall. Jane Linfoot
in my entire life is my nails. And although I like a colour change every day I have trouble with them if they get too long.
‘Not meaning to be ageist, but the flat’s bound to be old-person magnolia. A quick lick of warm white and the occasional feature wall will add thousands to the sale price. You have to do it.’ The determined set of her jaw tells me it’s pointless to object. ‘More importantly, think of all the hot guys who come to see George. Once you’re behind that desk, we’ll find you a keeper before you can say, “Power of Attorney”.’
I thought I made it clear last night. ‘Don’t confuse me with Nell here, I’m not the one who’s heartbroken, lonely and on the lookout. I’m single because I love my freedom. I just spent three months not hooking up with ten million Parisians, I don’t see anyone from tiny, dull St Aidan changing my mindset.’
She lets out a sigh. ‘Globe trotting’s great when you’re twenty. But perpetual motion isn’t the answer to inner happiness and harmony when you’re the wrong side of thirty.’
I have to tell her. ‘Quite apart from the Hygge shit, you sound as “stay at home and boring” as my mum.’ She used to love me travelling because it’s what she wanted to do but never did. But since I passed the big three zero she comes out with Sophie’s mantra so often she sounds like she’s on repeat.
‘That would be your amazing mum who’s so un-adventurous she’s currently spending six months on a Peruvian mountain top?’ Her triumphant nod as she pushes through the exit door says she thinks she’s won this round.
‘They’re visiting hillside villages not climbing peaks.’ She and Harry have gone to spend six months working on an out-reach health education programme.
‘You know what I mean.’ Sophie grins over her shoulder at me. ‘And right on cue to prove my point about George’s handsome client base, look who’s coming.’
‘Oh shit.’ My headache was easing, but a full-frontal view of Charlie Hobson speeding towards us across the cobbles has my brain hammering against my skull again. When I party in Paris I can’t find people afterwards even if I want to. Here in St Aidan, it’s not even nine and the guy I’d hoped never to see again is right under my nose.
Sophie jumps in. ‘Hello, Charlie, how are you this morning?’
He wiggles his eyebrows at Maisie but by the time he looks up again he’s frowning at his phone. ‘Running late, but thanks for the party last night.’ As he pops his head round to where I’m skulking behind the changing bag he still hasn’t cracked a smile. That far-away, empty look in his eyes has to come from too many dodgy deals. ‘No tail today? Did someone do a better job of stealing it than me … or did you decide Friday was a good day to be a human?’
I can’t believe what he’s handed me here. ‘Actually, it’s Thursday.’ I pause for the words to sink in. ‘In which case you’re probably a day early for your appointment.’
He pulls a face. ‘Thanks for reminding me.’ He flashes a glance at Sophie. ‘Any confusion, blame the cocktails. Next time you serve dynamite in a tea pot maybe you should warn the guests.’
Sophie rises above that and narrows her eyes at me. ‘There you go, girl, you’re a natural.’ She turns her focus onto Charlie. ‘Put a word in for Clemmie with George, she’s first in the queue to be his new receptionist, just what he needs to put his customers at ease.’
I purse my lips and stay silent. The only way to deal with Sophie in her ‘conquer the world’ mood is to go with her. Then clear up the wreckage afterwards.
‘I will – even if she does make me mix my days up.’ He sighs, then as he swings through the door to his appointment his face finally creases into a grimace rather than a smile. ‘Although any day’s a great day for a deal.’
I groan and wait for the door to close. ‘Did he really say that? And there goes proof that looks and personality don’t always go together.’ Although Maisie seems smitten. And when he finally managed that sardonic wince he did have those creases in his cheeks that make your knees give way. And teeth. Beautiful, not-quite-perfect incisors. ‘Imagine if you had to face that every morning, you’d be so queasy breakfast would be impossible.’ And damn for letting that slip out.
Sophie raises an eyebrow. ‘Queasy? What kind of queasy?’
I push my hand on my stomach to stall the churning and swallow hard. ‘No, you’re right, it would take more than the thought of ugly buildings to put me off my pain au chocolat.’ I think I got away with that. Swooning at alpha males is what we take the piss out of, not what we do. Like everyone else on the harbour, I’ll blame the cocktails.
Sophie’s frown is rivalling Charlie’s. ‘According to Nate, the Hobson signature move is to buy up rows of cottages one by one, then bulldoze them and shoe horn super-expensive flats into the plots. No doubt about it, he’s here to price out the locals and destroy our village.’
‘Trouble on legs then.’ Although I suspect I knew that already.
She nods. ‘The man’s a wrecker. He does exactly the same with large detached villas.’
‘Everything we don’t want here.’ I’m surprised how fighty and defensive I feel considering how happy I usually am to wave goodbye to the place.
Sophie’s nostrils are flaring. ‘He’s hell bent on buying up St Aidan one brick at a time. Although obviously, we aren’t going to let him.’ She gives me a significant stare. ‘We could do with keeping close tabs on him, if you fancy building on your acquaintance. However crass he sounds he’s not short on smoulder.’
Sometimes I think she’s deaf. ‘Absolutely not.’ It comes out so loud, I have to back pedal. ‘Thanks all the same. Now how about seeing this flat?’ And who’d have thought I’d be rushing her into this?
At Seaspray Cottage
Thunderstorms and Surprise Rainbows
Thursday
‘So what do you think, Clemmie? Can you remember any of it?’
Sophie and I are standing outside Seaspray Cottage with our backs to the turning tide as we take in the peeling render, the slender bay windows, and a slate roof that’s shining like hammered silver against the cornflower sky. The paintwork is weathered to the colour of the beach and the letters on the name board are so faded the only way we know we’re in the right place is the balcony above that looks so precarious it could be held up by invisible hooks to the sky. As we make our way towards the front door the slant of the steps makes me stagger.
‘When George said “past its sell by date”, that was an understatement. It’s shot to frigg, end of story. Time to walk away?’ I wasn’t expecting to be proved right quite this soon.
Sophie sounds thoughtful. ‘A lot of people think patina is characterful. In any case, the cottage is bound to get all the weather because it’s placed to get the views in three directions.’
I’m scrunching up my face as I wrack my brain. ‘I don’t remember it being at a dead end.’ Somehow the cottage is marooned beyond the quayside where the road runs out into a small path across the dunes that cuts through to the sea front. With every wind gust the sand’s blowing up the beach, over the low boundary wall, and drifting into the garden that extends back beyond the sides of the cottage. Although it’s small in scale, with its three storeys and repeating windows, it’s larger than it looks at first.
Sophie’s suppressing a smile. ‘As it’s so close to the sea I’m guessing the name is more real than romantic.’
Worse and worse. ‘You mean the water actually blasts against the windows?’ Not that I was enthusiastic to begin with, but imagining cold brine hammering on the glass