Читать книгу Confetti at the Cornish Café - Phillipa Ashley - Страница 9

‘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 Lily 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.’

‘It certainly is. It’s delicious. Reminds me of Nanny’s strudel.’

‘Your gran was a keen baker?’ I ask, still amazed at his accent. That voice could have come straight out of the drawing room of Polly’s favourite series, Downton Abbey.

He laughs. ‘Oh gosh, Granny never baked. I don’t think she knew what an oven was and she rarely ventured into the kitchens. She had a cook and housekeeper for that sort of thing. No, our nanny used to bake us treats in the school holidays or when we had an exeat. She was from Salzburg and was an incredible pastry cook. Her strudel was my favourite but this is a delicious twist.’

Harry takes off his shades. He doesn’t need false lashes or eyeliner. His eyes are striking enough: sea green with natural lashes to die for. Wow. My mind works overtime, trying to work out why a man who once had a nanny is working as minder to a celebrity couple.

‘May I have another slice, please?’

I like him already. ‘Of course,’ I say, and hand him another plate.

While Harry tucks in to the figgy ’obbin, Lily nibbles a morsel of a mini cinnamon scone. I hold my breath, waiting for the verdict. She puts the rest on her plate and pushes it away from her as if it might bite her back. Oh dear, this isn’t going well, but after dabbing her mouth with a serviette, she smiles.

‘Yum. That was delicious, but I daren’t have any more. I’m getting so fat, aren’t I, Ben?’

‘I dunno. You look all right to me.’ Ben crunches a fairing without glancing up from his screen.

‘Do you want the rest of this yummy scone, Harry?’

Holding the handle of the cup with his little finger crooked, Harry sips his tea. ‘Thanks.’

Lily brings the plate over and puts it in front of him. ‘Now you can get fat like me, can’t you?’

Harry puts his shades back on. ‘You’re not fat,’ he mutters and studies a Demelza’s menu while devouring the scone in one bite.

Ben is still swiping his phone. I hope he’s on Instagram not Tinder.

Nina finds the courage to emerge from the counter for a chat with Lily who suggests she has a selfie with her and Ben. This gives me a welcome chance to escape outside to try and get Cal on my phone. Mobile coverage is patchy at Kilhallon, so I’m not surprised when his answer phone kicks in. Not surprised but pissed off.

‘My partner, Cal, seems to be tied up with an urgent matter at the moment but he’ll be along as soon as possible. I know he’s dying to show you the wonderful space that Kilhallon has for your ceremony. I think it’s drying up outside so while we wait for Cal and the sun to arrive, would you like to run through some menu ideas? We can have all the taster samples ready for you on your next visit and it will be spring then.’

‘That sounds lovely, doesn’t it, Ben?’

Finally, Ben puts down his phone and bends down to kiss Lily’s head. ‘Anything you want, babe. Harry, can you fetch Lily’s scarf from the car? If we’re going outside, I don’t want her shivering, do I, babe?’

‘I’ll be OK, really, Ben.’

‘Harry doesn’t mind. That’s what he’s here for,’ Ben says.

Without a word, Harry leaves the cafe with the remains of a figgy ’obbin in his huge hand.

‘Harry’s ex-military. Paras. His family once owned a huge dump in the Cotswolds but they fell on hard times,’ Ben tells me, sitting next to Lily again.

Lily tuts. ‘It isn’t a dump. It’s a beautiful old place.’

‘Yeah, but he doesn’t own it now, does he? They had to sell it when his granddad blew his brains out after he’d gone bankrupt. It’s a boutique hotel,’ Ben says to me. ‘Quirky great pile, not my thing. Can I have some more coffee?’ He holds up his mug.

‘Of course.’ I spring up, eager to help in any way I can. Still, I can’t help feeling sorry for Harry, losing his family home and having to wait on Ben and Lily. I wonder how he stands being ordered around by Ben, to be honest.

‘Cal should be here any time. Shall we talk about the type of food you’d like for your ceremony and reception?’

While we chat through the menus, Harry returns and stations himself in a corner, leafing through a guidebook on Cornish dog walks. Lily and Ben have been here half an hour and I’m urging Cal to put in an appearance. He may claim to be no PR man, but he can turn on the charm when he wants to and it often seems to have an effect on people. I’m hoping he’ll work his magic on Lily, if not on Ben.

There’s still no sign of Cal but the sun has moved around and is now shining full-on through the windows of the cafe. It may still be February but it’s one of those days when you first feel some real, if faint, warmth in the sun’s rays. The clouds have cleared away to bother people further east, leaving us with a beautiful sky the colour of forget-me-nots. Cal or no Cal, I sense this is the moment to show off Kilhallon while I can. I hope that even sophisticated Lily will be charmed by the setting. I don’t know about Ben but I suspect he’ll go along with anything she wants, which would definitely make things easier for me.

‘Would you like to see the view from the cafe now the rain has stopped and the wind has died down a little bit?’

Lily claps her hands in delight. ‘Oh, I’d love to.’

Having returned with the wrap, Harry offers it to Lily and she fastens it around her neck, under her coat. I zip up my own jacket and we say goodbye and thanks to Nina, telling her we’ll be back later for lunch. Harry and Ben decide to brave the great outdoors without extra layers. I’m not sure even a Cornish gale could blow Harry over anyway.

We step out onto the terrace of the cafe, bracing ourselves against the Atlantic wind. The heavy tables and chairs have survived the winter and are beginning to look weathered, but that’s not a bad thing. We walk through the gap in the low stone wall around the terrace and stand outside on a strip of grass between Kilhallon land and the coastal path. Large pale-grey clouds tear across the sky. Lily’s hair whips across her face and she pulls the strands out of her eyes. I can taste the salt on my lips.

‘Wow.’

Lily takes a deep breath, just like she did when she stepped into Demelza’s.

‘It’s an amazing view. I love the view from Ben’s parents’ house over Mounts Bay but the north west is so wild.’

‘It’s hard to decide which is better,’ I say, aware of Ben standing next to us, not that he seems too bothered as he’s still scrolling through his phone.

‘Is there a signal up here?’ he says, holding the handset up.

‘It’s patchy,’ I admit. ‘But there’s Wi-Fi in the cafe and cottages. We plan to offer Wi-Fi all over the glamping field and events area before your wedding.’

He doesn’t answer me but hmmphs and shoves his phone in his jacket. He joins Lily who has walked the few yards from our land to the coastal path. It’s still windy but I think she’ll be OK.

‘This looks like a scene from The French Lieutenant’s Woman, doesn’t it, Ben?’

‘Yeah,’ he says, standing behind her with his arms around her waist.

‘I haven’t heard of that,’ I say.

‘It’s a book and it was a film before I was born. Isla wants to do a remake but it’s set in Lyme Regis not Cornwall. There’s a scene where the heroine stands in a howling gale almost being blown off the Cobb. I’m hoping Ben will play the hero in it.’

Wow. I think Ben may have actually smiled. Maybe his grouchiness is from pre-wedding nerves or the pressure of his job. I wouldn’t want to live my life under the microscope like they do, even though they’re meant to live for the publicity. I bet they have to do a lot of things they don’t want to as well.

The publisher of our canine cookbook wants my co-author, Eva Spero, and me to do some radio and TV appearances when it comes out later this year. To be honest, the idea makes me go weak at the knees but I guess I’ll get used to it. Cal and I still haven’t quite got over being featured in a Sunday lifestyle magazine last autumn, thanks to Eva who was impressed by our set-up when she turned up to Kilhallon’s launch party last year.

‘Shall we move on to the wedding glade? It’s more sheltered down there,’ I ask, seeing Ben shivering in the wind blowing off the sea.

Lily slots her arm through his. ‘Are you cold?’

‘Freezing my rocks off,’ Ben mutters.

‘Let’s get out of the wind,’ I say, wishing Ben had come equipped for the weather.

On our way to the glade, Harry walks to the left and a little behind, checking around him at intervals. Maybe he thinks an assassin might be hiding behind the cafe bins or the high-banked hedges that protect the camping field from the worst of the Atlantic wind.

Clumps of snowdrops nod their delicate heads in the breeze and early primroses dot the banks that line the lane to the cottages and the edge of the copse. I love the first signs of spring. When I spent a stint sleeping rough, all I cared about was a warm place to stay, but now I’m lucky enough to appreciate the seasons changing from a warm bed and home.

A boy waving a plastic cutlass shoots out of the copse next to us onto the path.

‘Wooo hoooo! Watch out! I’m a pirate!’

‘Jesus! What the—’ Ben steadies Lily as the boy clips her arm.

‘Sorry!’ the boy shouts but races off down the slope towards the yurt field, waving his sword cutlass. He’s wearing a pirate hat and an eye patch but I’m sure I know him.

‘Are you OK, baby?’ Ben asks Lily.

Lily smiles. ‘I’m fine. I’m fine.’

‘Quick! Blackbeard’s after us!’ A little girl in pirate gear shoots out of the copse and clips Ben. He tries to stay upright but slips on the damp turf and lands smack on his bum in a puddle.

The girl shouts ‘Sorry!’ but she’s already on her way, racing down the slope after her pirate friend.

‘Fuck,’ Ben growls, scrambling out of the puddle. ‘You little sods!’ he calls after them, trying to scramble to his feet.

‘Are you OK, Ben?’ Lily reaches down to help him up.

He shakes it off. ‘My jeans are ruined. Little brats could have done me some serious damage.’

I wince. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sure it was an accident.’

‘Whose kids are they?’ he snaps.

‘They’re from St Trenyan.’ I’m in despair wondering why they are here and to be honest more pissed off at the way Ben’s spoken about the children. I recognise them, of course: they’re members of the families who were evacuated here after the flooding. They moved out of Kilhallon last month and into temporary accommodation so I’ve no idea why they’re chasing around the site dressed as pirates today.

‘They didn’t do it on purpose, sweetheart,’ Lily says, taking Ben’s elbow as he gets to his feet. I swallow hard. His designer jeans are soaked with mud and his Stan Smiths are ruined. Where the hell is Cal?

My answer comes a split second later as Blackbeard himself, complete with tricorn and eye patch, jogs out of the copse shouting: ‘Come here, you scurvy knaves. I’ll make you walk the plank!’