The Cornish Cream Tea Bus. Cressida McLaughlin

      Charlie breathed in the paint fumes and decided it was the most glorious smell in the world, because that smell was responsible for the miracle that was Gertie, gleaming like a precious jewel against the grey, oil-stained interior of the garage. So far it was just the base coat, but the vintage bus had gone from cream with forest-green accents to shiny, original, pillar-box red, and the difference it made was startling. She peered in through a window, smiling as she saw the new seating arrangement.

      ‘Uh uh,’ Pete said. ‘I’m not done yet. When I’m done, you can look. Wouldn’t want to ruin the grand unveiling, would you?’

      ‘What if I hate it, though?’ she asked.

      Pete let out an incredulous laugh. ‘You won’t hate it.’

      She grinned at him. She knew – from the peek she’d just allowed herself – that he was right.

      ‘And what’s all this, on the front?’ She walked round to where a winch had been attached, discreet but still noticeable, to the bumper.

      ‘Comes as standard on all my designs,’ Pete said, glancing at some paperwork on his chaotic desk. ‘Cornwall is a sandy place, and even if you’re not going to drive it onto the beach to sleep on it, it’s a safety precaution.’

      ‘I’ve actually got permission from the council to park it on the beach in Porthgolow. There’s a long stretch above the tideline, and the sand is almost as hard as tarmac. Paul, one of the locals, who takes boats out, says it’s perfectly safe for Gertie to live there.’

      ‘But sand is unpredictable,’ Pete said, waggling his pen. ‘Many folks before you have found it invaluable, and it’ll give you an extra sense of security. It’s included, regardless. Top-notch design, top-notch health and safety.’

      ‘Right then.’ Charlie was oddly touched at Pete’s concern for her and her bus, and certainly wasn’t going to complain about having such a good piece of kit included. She had a sudden flashback to the Fair on the Field and shuddered. He was right: a winch could well come in handy.

      ‘You’re one hundred per cent sure about the name and colours?’ Pete asked. ‘Because a repaint will add a fair amount to the bill.’

      She watched him ferreting through bits of paper, a calculator and a spanner sticking out of the pockets of his jeans.

      ‘I’m certain,’ she said. ‘Colours and name. Jules and I had a brainstorming session – even Lawrence got in on it. And now I’ve seen the gorgeous red paint on Gertie, I know it’s perfect.’

      ‘Right, then. Sorted. See you again at the end of the week?’

      ‘You’ll be done by then?’ Charlie bit her lip, not daring to hope.

      ‘Scheduled to finish a week today, as we agreed. But these progress checks are good for both of us. Not to mention seeing this guy.’ He crouched, and Marmite scampered forward on his lead. Pete laughed as he was covered in puppy licks.

      ‘It’s looking brilliant, Pete,’ she said when he and Marmite had finished their love-in.

      ‘You wait until it’s finished. It’ll blow your mind.’

      Once they’d said goodbye, Charlie stepped outside into a brisk, sunny day. Pete’s garage was close to the sea, which gleamed invitingly in shades of cobalt and aquamarine, the waves nothing more than ruffles on the surface. Seagulls cawed overhead and there was a sweetness to the air that spoke of spring and sunshine and the bliss of the summer to come. And this summer was going to include one very special addition, launching on the May bank holiday weekend. She just hoped that Cornwall was ready for it.

      Charlie spent Friday morning turning Juliette and Lawrence’s kitchen into a cake factory. She had been working hard on tempting treats to delight her new customers, although the standard Cornish cream tea – with jam before cream, of course – would be the foundation of her menu. Today she was trying out scones with chocolate chips, a savoury version with red onion and cheddar, and a lightly spiced mix that she would serve with a cardamom and lime cream. But the kitchens in both The Café on the Hill and her parents’ house were at least three times the size of Juliette’s, and within an hour she had various bowls of mix and trays of cooling scones covering every surface.

      Marmite, Ray and Benton had been shut in the front room with Juliette, who was working on the marketing for a new restaurant in Truro. Her dog had expressed his disappointment at not being allowed to help, but Charlie was glad of the freedom to make a complete mess all by herself. Her timer went off and she opened the oven door, a wave of heat hitting her face. She pulled the tray of choc-chip scones out, the chocolate bubbling in places, and searched for a surface to put them on.

      The doorbell rang, and she heard Juliette call out that she’d get it. Charlie was wondering whether she could balance the tray on top of the mixer tap when she was distracted by the patter of tiny paws.

      Marmite yelped as he skidded on the flour-strewn tiles.

      ‘Marmite, no,’ she said, raising the tray of scones above her head as he bounced up at her. And then Ray and Benton appeared. Ray leapt onto the table and dipped his paw into a bowl of spicy scone mix. ‘Ray, please,’ she said, ‘you can’t eat that.’ She scooped the cat up with her free hand, his long Siamese body dangling limply like a soft toy. Benton started to lick the flour from the floor, and Marmite decided that playing with the Persian’s tail was the most fun he could have, even though it had earned him a swipe or two already. ‘Shit.’ Charlie edged around the fight on the floor and made it to the corridor just as Juliette appeared.

      ‘That was only the post, but I …’ She stopped, her eyes widening as she took in the carnage, and then wordlessly took Ray out of Charlie’s arms.

      She leaned on the doorframe, her shoulders shaking.

      ‘What?’ Charlie asked. ‘To create real culinary art requires great sacrifice.’

      ‘You’re sacrificing my kitchen?’ Juliette managed, her laughter no longer silent.

      ‘I’m not used to being so … contained.’

      Juliette stared at her, then at Benton and Marmite tussling on the floor, and then at Ray, stalking off down the corridor, leaving floury paw prints in his wake. ‘Charlie,’ she said, ‘you’re about to open a café on a bus. I know you won’t be baking from scratch there, but you can’t get much more contained than that.’

      This thought had been a constant niggle in Charlie’s head. ‘Fair point,’ she replied.

      ‘Anyway. Carry on. Marmite! Benton! This way.’ Her voice was sharp, and the pets stopped their fight and skittered out of the kitchen. As Juliette left, giving Charlie a winning smile, she took a chocolate-chip scone from the tray. ‘I’ll let you know what I think.’

      ‘Thank you,’ Charlie called, and then turned back to survey the mess. She remembered one of Hal’s mantras: If you find yourself on a sticky wicket, just stop. Stop, breathe, take a moment to compose yourself and then try again. There is nothing that can’t be overcome if you believe