Читать книгу Summer at the Cornish Cafe: The perfect summer romance for 2018 - Phillipa Ashley, Phillipa Ashley - Страница 12

‘This is your car?’

Demi wrinkles her nose as I kick the brick from under the front wheel of the Land Rover. I don’t trust the hand brake on the sloping car park perched above St Trenyan harbour, until I can get the car serviced.

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘You should lock it. There are thieves around.’

‘One, the door lock’s busted and two, do you really think anyone would want to steal this?’

She takes a longer look at the rusting paintwork, the dented side panel and bumper hanging off and curls her lip. ‘For scrap, maybe.’

I’d like to smile at Demi – she has a habit of making me want to smile – but my facial muscles seem to have seized up after my trip to the bank. Demi took Mitch for a run on the beach while I saw the manager. The probate from my father’s estate was sorted out before I left, and I’ve transferred most of his legacy from my savings to a business account. There wasn’t a huge amount but I own Kilhallon Park and with careful management and some extra investment, I should be able to make the changes I need to re-develop the site. I open the rear door. ‘Mitch can travel in style.’

‘In you go,’ she says, as Mitch hangs back. ‘Come on, get in, you daft dog.’

‘Maybe he’s worried about getting into a strange man’s car,’ I say.

‘He’s probably got more sense than I have.’

Demi hesitates too, her arms folded, her chestnut hair flying in the wind, like the flames of a bonfire.

‘I’m not desperate, you know.’

‘I know you’re not desperate.’ Actually, I think she may be more desperate than she’d ever let on but I can’t take advantage of that: she deserves better, and I don’t want to exploit her. There’s enough of that going on round here from what I can see.

She laughs at me. ‘It’s too late to back out now, Cal Penwith.’

‘Don’t you believe it. Now, get in. We’ve got a lot to do,’ I say, more gruffly than I mean to.

The Land Rover groans up the steep hill from the harbour and onto the moor road. The tax has run out, though Polly told me I can do it online now, and its last MOT was before I went off on my last aid project. I’ll sort it all out soon, for now I have more pressing concerns. I glance at Demi but she’s staring out of the window.

‘How long had you been sleeping rough before you started working for Sheila?’

She turns sharply. ‘How do you know I was sleeping rough?’

‘I can tell someone who has had a tough time. I worked for a charity, remember?’

She shrugs. ‘I do but I told you, I’m not a charity project.’

‘I know that.’

A glance tells me she’s staring out of the window again but then she finally answers. ‘I slept rough for a couple of months.’

‘In St Trenyan?’

‘Truro too. Penzance for a week or two but here mostly.’

Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed her but I’d like to know more about the new employee who’s going to be sharing my home. ‘Any particular reason?’

She waits before replying. ‘I fancied a change, I suppose.’

I leave it, figuring she’ll tell me more when she’s ready. I’m hardly in a sharing mood myself and more importantly, Kilhallon is around the next corner. The road dips, curves sharply and the Land Rover shudders its way around the bend, then I press the gas pedal to the floor to make it up the other side of the hill. I turn the wheel sharply and we rattle over a cattle grid through two stone pillars that frame a narrow gap in the wall. The sign lies on the ground by the pillars but half the letters have weathered away so it now reads Kil l Park.

‘Oh my God,’ Demi mutters.

‘What’s up?’

‘Sheila said this was the back of beyond and now I know what she means.’

‘That’s how I like it.’

‘You must do … I mean, it’s, er, very peaceful and wild out here.’

While steering the Land Rover between the larger potholes, I try to keep a straight face while taking a sneaky glance at her. She holds her rucksack tightly in her lap while Mitch starts snuffling and whimpering in the back. When I put out the feelers for a new assistant, I never bargained on someone like Demi, let alone a great shaggy hound. I’ve no idea what variety he is.

She lets out a squeal as the Land Rover bounces over a particularly deep rut and into a pool of water. ‘There’s no need to look so terrified,’ I say.

‘I wasn’t until you said that.’

‘Thanks.’ I turn the engine back on and coax the Land Rover out of the puddle. ‘Soon be there.’

She wrinkles her nose. It’s a very pretty nose, I have to admit, even though it’s turned up at the moment. Freckles dot her face; she’s so vulnerable and yet fierce too. An image flashes into my mind out of nowhere of a painting my mother hung at Kilhallon of a beautiful girl floating in a river, surrounded by willow trees.

I stop the car in the middle of the yard that was once our car park. Demi stares at the dandelions and grass sprouting between the gravel.

‘Is that it?’

‘Yup.’ I jump down onto the yard, wondering if she’s ever going to get out of the car. Finally I open the door and she slides down reluctantly from the passenger seat, her rucksack in her arms. She looks around her, at the old office block on one side of the yard, and the peeling wooden veranda that served as our reception and the moss-coated 1970s touring caravan blocking the entrance to the barn.

‘You said it was a holiday park …’ she says, her eyes widening as she takes it all in.

‘It was. It is. There’s a lot more to the place than this.’

She glances at me, agonised.

Still clutching her rucksack, she wanders up to the barn, eyes wide at the decaying, tumbledown wreck that confronts her. I wouldn’t blame her if she turned right round and ran back to St Trenyan.

‘I can see we have a lot of work to do,’ she says.

‘You did say you weren’t afraid of it.’

As she walks towards the reception, Mitch scoots past her to a pile of rusting signage that once read ‘Welcome to Kilhallon Park. Your holiday starts here.’

Then he cocks his leg and proudly pisses all over the signs.

I don’t blame Demi for being less than impressed by Kilhallon but when someone who’s been sleeping in a shop doorway is shocked by the state your place is in, well, there’s something seriously wrong. I was a bit taken aback myself when I walked home from Bosinney after crashing Uncle Rory’s birthday party. Though I have to say that the state of my house was somewhat dwarfed by the state of my mind on finding out that I’d lost my girl to my best mate, and it was all my own fault.

Now I’m seeing the place through fresh eyes – Demi’s – and the scale of the task that lies ahead of me comes painfully into focus. Resurrecting Kilhallon is going to be a huge challenge. Why would anyone want to come here on holiday when it’s in this state? After my meeting at the bank I’ve also decided I’ll need to drum up some extra money to refurbish the place in the way I want to.

I know Polly thinks I’ve gone mad but I need to focus on something or I really will go nuts. I can’t do anything about Isla for now but that doesn’t mean I’ve given up on her. She’s not married yet; there’s still time for her to change her mind, although I’m sure Luke would have something to say if he knew how I felt. I keep trying – and failing – to feel guilty about my resentment of him. I ought to wish him well, but the pain is still too raw and I can’t see our relationship healing any time soon.

But first, Demi.

‘There’s Polly,’ I say as our housekeeper bustles out of the front door. She looks younger since she dyed her hair an ash blonde while I’ve been away. The neat bob has taken years off her, not that I’d dare risk such a personal remark to her. However, judging by the glare on her face, she doesn’t look ready to roll out the red carpet for our new employee. But Mitch seems to have taken to Polly and races forward and leaps up at her.

‘Get that dog off me!’ Polly’s from hardy Cornish farming stock. She’s a formidable woman, even though she’s now in her mid-fifties. She pushes Mitch away, not roughly but firmly enough to startle him.

Demi dashes forward and grabs Mitch’s lead. ‘Don’t worry. He won’t hurt you.’

‘I don’t care. I don’t like dogs and neither does Cal. You never mentioned an animal on the phone.’

‘I’ve decided to make an exception for this one, and he can act as a guard dog,’ I say as Mitch cowers under one of Polly’s withering looks. ‘This is Demi, she’s going to be working for us.’

Polly plants her hands on her hips, sizing up our new employee. ‘I know her name. You don’t look like you sounded on the phone.’

‘How did I sound?’ Demi replies, so smoothly I can feel the danger.

‘Polly, if you don’t mind,’ I cut in before there’s a wrestling match right here in the farmyard, ‘I’d like Demi added to the payroll, and a contract and all the proper paperwork done as soon as possible.’

Polly narrows her eyes at me. ‘There’s no need to be so high handed.’

‘I’m sorry. Before you do that, can you find some clean bed linen and towels for Stables Cottage? I’ll help Demi get it into some sort of habitable state.’

‘Of course, boss. I’ll get onto it right away.’

Polly flounces off, muttering to herself. I grit my teeth. Polly’s been used to running the place without me while I was away and I’m out of practice with the social niceties these days. I know things have been tough on her but it’s time we both got used to having other people around again.

Demi pulls a face behind her back. ‘Polly doesn’t look very happy to see me.’

‘She’ll get over it. Come on, I’ll show you around the place.’

Cal leads me towards a wood and glass porch that looks modern, if you count the 1970s as modern, and is tacked onto the front of the old stone farmhouse itself.

‘This is – was – the reception area. Sorry. This sticks in the damp,’ he says, giving the peeling door into the reception a heavy shove.

There’s still a counter in there and the type of dial phone you’d find in a retro shop, with dusty ring binders piled all around it and a faint whiff of damp and food. The metal racks by the window still have leaflets and brochures on them, faded to monochrome by the sun. I’m sure one of them says Escape to Kilhallon Park, 1985 on it. Escape to Kilhallon? They’d be trying to escape from it these days.

There’s a button on the desk with a sticker next to it, on which I can just make out ‘Please ring for attention’.

‘This way,’ says Cal, pushing open a white-painted door that reads Private on a once-gold plastic plaque. We fight our way past old fleeces and wax jackets and Cal curses. ‘Who left that bloody boot scraper there?’ he grumbles. ‘Be careful.’

Sidestepping over the scraper, I glimpse a chink of light as Cal pushes open a heavy oak door.

When I was little, my mum read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe to me. As the coats part, and my eyes adjust, I feel I just stepped into another version of Narnia. Except this Narnia smells of curry and is like a skip – and that’s from someone who’s actually rummaged in a few.

‘This is the sitting room. Obviously.’

He stands awkwardly but I’m fascinated. The windows are tiny with bottle-shaped panes, like an old harbour-side pub, but they’d probably let in more light if someone had cleaned them. Dead ashes powder the air when Cal shuts the door to reception behind him.

He tosses his phone on a huge carved dresser. ‘You’ll have to take us as you find us, as my dad used to say.’

‘My mum said it too but she always tidied up anyway.’ I cast my eyes around the sitting room while Mitch twitches at my feet, itching to give the place a proper sniff.

‘Does your mother know where you are now?’ Cal asks me.

‘I doubt it. She’s dead.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He pulls a face as if I’ve upset him, not the other way round.

‘It’s OK. She died eight years ago.’

He winces. ‘Really? You must have been young to lose your mum.’

‘Thirteen.’

‘When did you leave home?’ he asks.

‘A couple of years ago.’ I shrug as if it doesn’t matter but actually I can remember it to the day and hour. I was eighteen, it was raining and EastEnders was on.

‘Do you have any other family?’

Cal’s voice interrupts my memories and I’m grateful for it. No one wants to be reminded of bad times, especially when there’s guilt attached. ‘A brother but I haven’t seen him for years and I don’t want to see my dad again.’

‘Life throws some crap at us, doesn’t it? I know what it’s like to lose your parents when you’re young,’ he says.

‘Do you?’

‘Yes. My mum passed away when I was a teenager and I lost Dad just before I went away on my last overseas project.’

‘God. I’m sorry. Really.’

‘It happens, doesn’t it?’ he says. ‘Make yourself comfortable if you can find a spare patch of sofa.’

I perch on the edge of an old settee between a pile of old garden magazines and for a while Cal remains standing in front of the hearth. He doesn’t seem to know what to say to me; perhaps he’s wondering what to do with me now I’m here. I’m beginning to wonder what I’m doing here myself. Mitch finally settles at my feet: he’d make himself at home anywhere. Unable to look Cal in the eye either, I focus on the room again. There’s a big oak settle by the fire like you get in old pubs, paintings of horses and dogs, seascapes, boats and fishermen and dead rabbits and pheasants.

‘Sorry. I’ll have to have a word with Polly,’ Cal mutters, gesturing at the state of the room. ‘She’s not used to having to share the house again but she’s been here as long as I can remember. She worked for my father until her husband died and she’s become part of the family.’

‘When did the site last open?’

‘About twelve years ago. There used to be dozens of people working here in its heyday.’

‘Dozens of people?’

Cal hangs his jacket on the back of a dining chair. ‘Hard to believe, but yes. We had a small dairy farm, and some arable land as well as the holiday park, but that was gradually sold off. It may not look much now, but thirty-odd years ago there were holiday cottages and a camping and caravan site here. There was even a swimming pool and a clubhouse and the place was packed, apparently, but the good times were over before I was born.’

‘It’s a shame a lovely old place like this is in this state,’ I say then bite my lip, worried about offending him. I shift my bottom on the old settee to try and find a more comfortable position. I swear I can feel a spring sticking in me.

‘It just gradually went downhill as people decided to holiday abroad. Then my father lost interest completely after Mum died. We haven’t had guests since I went to uni and a place like this goes shabby fast, if it’s not looked after. Other people have made a success of their parks and if I’d wanted to keep the business going, I shouldn’t have gone off to save the world.’

‘What did you do? Was it Africa or Syria? That must have been scary.’

‘Like I said, I was an aid worker for a charity in the Middle East until I ended up needing aid myself. And that’s all you need to know. Although I’m sure Polly will take great delight in filling you in on what she thinks she knows.’ His voice tails off. ‘Meanwhile, we have work to do. First, I’ll show you the kitchen. I’m afraid we all have to muck in with the chores here but you’re a professional so I’m sure you won’t mind.’

So he doesn’t want to tell me exactly where he has been. Fine. There are things I don’t want him to know about me. ‘Oh, did Polly make the curry? I can smell it.’

‘You’re joking. It was a takeout. Polly’s never been a keen cook.’

‘I’ve always loved cooking. I can make a mean biryani and Thai curry, and a vegetable chilli with homemade guacamole. And a lovely fish pie – I used to go down to the harbour and buy the fish straight from the trawlers and I make fantastic pasties, steak, veggie – you should try my bacon and cheese ones. They’re brilliant.’

He smiles and I realise I’ve been bigging myself up massively. ‘It sounds like we might get on, after all. Shall I show you around the park so you can get your bearings and see what you’ve taken on?’

Excitement ripples through me. Sensing my mood change, Mitch sits up. ‘Bring it on,’ I say.

We walk through the farmhouse kitchen and a back porch, also packed with coats and boots, to a large cobbled yard at the rear of the house. A row of cottages faces the house, and they seem to be in better condition than the tumbledown barns and cow sheds at the front, which isn’t saying much. Still, the building across the yard is standing, at least, and has curtains hanging at the windows.

‘That’s where you’ll be staying,’ Cal says, pointing to the end cottage with the curtains.

‘Were those the holiday cottages?’

‘No, they were for staff. The guest cottages are larger and in another part of the park but they need total refurbishment. People want holiday homes that are even better than their own houses these days.’

‘I guess they do if they’re paying a lot of money.’

‘Yes, but I hope Kilhallon Park will have something to suit everyone’s budgets. Come on, I’ll show you the guest cottages and the buildings from the campsite that I plan to replace.’

With Mitch in seventh heaven at being out in the country, I walk with Cal through the rear yard and through a wooden farm gate along a short lane that’s in slightly better condition than the one from the main road. Even so, I have to dodge a few ruts with dried mud in them. The lane is edged by Cornish hedges but the field on the coastal side falls away gently, giving us a wonderful view over the Atlantic Ocean. The sun glints on the sea as Cal strides off in the direction of a row of much bigger cottages a few hundred yards down the lane.

‘The first thing we’ll need to do is have this lane surfaced so that the builders can get access to the guest cottages,’ he says, splashing through a large puddle in his wellies.

A few moments later, we stop outside the guest cottages. They are in a row of four, with stone walls and slated roofs covered in moss. I think they were once whitewashed but the walls are grey and moss-stained now. The tiny front gardens – more sitting-out areas really – of each cottage are a tangle of weeds.

Cal clicks his teeth and lets out a breath. ‘As you’ll see, the shells are sound but they need rewiring, and modern heating and plumbing, not to mention a decorative makeover. We’re going to need to repair the slate roofs too. There’s a lot to do but it’ll be worth it. These old miners’ cottages deserve some TLC.’

‘They could be really pretty. Lots of kerb-appeal,’ I say, channelling the TV property programmes Sheila used to record and watch back-to-back.

‘That’s what the guests are looking for. Something with character and a great view.’

‘All the ingredients are here. You just need to turn them into a great dish.’

Cal laughs. ‘With a lot of elbow grease, I’m sure we can.’

Mitch roots among the dandelions in the garden areas while I wander up to the front door of one cottage. A chipped slate plaque hangs lopsidedly from a nail. I push it horizontal and read the name.

‘Penvenen? What does that mean?’

Cal gives a wry smile. ‘My granny loved the Winston Graham novels and they were big when the TV series was on in the 1970s when the cottages were originally converted to holiday homes. It was her idea to name them after characters in the Poldark novels. So that’s why we have Penvenen, Warleggan, Enys – and Poldark, of course.’

‘I’m sorry, I haven’t read those books.’

‘Nor me, and the TV series was on long before I was born, but Polly says it’s popular again now so we should leave them as they are.’

‘It’s a nice thing to keep the names if they were your granny’s idea. The tourists love that sort of thing. They were always asking how old Sheila’s Beach Hut was. Sheila used to tell them it was a smuggler’s haunt and then they’d order more drinks just to stay longer.’

Cal bursts out laughing. ‘Sheila’s was never a smuggler’s haunt! Even the oldest part of the building can’t be more than a hundred years old.’

‘It worked, though. I think you should definitely keep the names.’

He gives me a sharp look then breaks into a smile. I must admit, he’s cheered up while he’s been showing me the place so I must have done something right. ‘I think you’re going to be very useful around here, Ms Jones. Come on, let’s go and take a look at the camping area.’

As we walk around the rest of the park, an hour whizzes by but I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. Cal took me into the two fields that once housed the static caravans and the camping site. The vans have long gone; he told me that his father ran out of money for replacing the fleet so they were all sold off to people doing self-builds. The camping site and caravans were served by an ‘amenity block’ with loos, showers and washing-up area. That’s in a right old state, almost derelict. There were birds nesting in the showers.

‘And,’ he says, nodding at a large grassy depression surrounded by broken tiles, ‘that was a swimming pool.’

‘I can just about tell …’ I try to be diplomatic. Although the site is large, he wasn’t kidding when he said there was work to do. ‘What’s that?’

I point at a crumbling stone building silhouetted against the late afternoon sun, at the far edge of the camping field.

‘Just an old farm building we used to use for storage of the grass-mowing machines and equipment for the caravans in the winter. I haven’t been in there for years so it’s probably still got loads of random stuff in it.’

‘It’s a shame to leave it in that state.’

‘Yes, I suppose so. It’ll have to be tidied up, at least until we know what to do with it. I haven’t got round to making plans for everything yet. That’s why you’re here. If you have any ideas, just shoot away. Now, shall I show you where you’ll be staying?’

‘Great.’ With a whistle to Mitch, I follow Cal back across the field towards the reception area and staff cottages, but I can’t resist a glance behind at the crumbling, unloved storage building. I wonder …

An idea has formed in my mind but I’ve only just met Cal and I’m definitely not ready to shoot just yet.

‘Here you go.’ A few minutes later, he twists the handle on the door of the end staff cottage. ‘I wouldn’t call this premium accommodation but this is the best of them. I told you it wasn’t much and it’s a bit damp because no one’s been living here for a few years but it should do, if you’re prepared to put in a bit of elbow grease. I’m sure Polly will bring over some cleaning stuff and bed linen, or I will when I get a chance.’

The door opens straight into a little sitting room with a two-seater sofa, covered in a crazy flowery pattern. There’s an empty fireplace and a few pictures on the walls, mostly of vases of roses and trees. The carpet has orange and blue swirls and the curtains are a sort of pink, with abstract tulips. At least, I think they were tulips once and are now splodges. In one corner a narrow open-backed staircase leads upstairs.

‘Sorry, I don’t think it’s been renovated since before I was born.’

‘It’s … um … very flowery.’

‘It’s either this or the box room in the attic of the farmhouse and I’m sure you’d much rather have your own front door.’

‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’

He doesn’t laugh. ‘So you’ll be OK in here?’

‘Yeah …’ Tears clog my throat at the thought of actually having four walls and a roof over mine and Mitch’s heads, then I woman up. I am working for the guy, after all. I deserve a proper roof over my head. ‘It’s fine. Thank you.’

‘You don’t sound too sure?’

I throw him a smile. ‘Honestly, it’s great. Can I see the rest of it?’

‘Sure.’

Mitch runs ahead into the kitchen, which is basic but has a cooker, fridge and sink. There are few dead flies on the windowsill and a whiff of damp, but it’s my own space and that’s what matters.

Cal opens the fridge door and sniffs. ‘I might have to get you another fridge.’

‘I can clean it. It’ll be OK.’

‘If you want to have go, fine, but I’ll get a new one if you need it. You have rights here, including a decent place to live.’

‘Will you just shut up?’ I say, wanting to laugh at his slapped-arse face. ‘And show me the rest of the place, boss.’

‘Please don’t call me that. Polly only does it to wind me up.’

‘OK, boss.’

I picture his scowl as he leads the way up the stairs while Mitch explores his new territory. It’s a sexy scowl, I bet, and his bum and thighs look great in the jeans. Then I rap myself on the knuckles for thinking such thoughts. This is work and he is my employer.

Cal opens a door to one side of the tiny landing. ‘Bathroom, obviously. Should be OK with a good scrub.’

I pop my head round the door and smile at the rose pink suite that reminds me of my granny’s. The bath has a shower over it that’s seen better days.

On the opposite side of the landing, sunlight casts a yellow window pattern on the floor. The open door leads into the bedroom, with more flowers on the wall, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a mattress on the floor. Through the window, across the fields, whitecaps dance on the inky blue sea. I pull back the net curtain and peer through a film of salt spray and grime. The first thing I’ll do is rip the nets down so I can enjoy the view every morning.

‘There’s a spare bed frame in the attic at the farmhouse. I’ll carry it over,’ Cal says. I’m not sure if he was smiling at me or not while I looked out of the window and I don’t care what he thinks.

‘I can do that.’

‘You’d be better off taking the Land Rover up to the petrol station shop to get some food in.’

I follow him downstairs. ‘Me? Drive that old thing?’

‘Yes, unless you want to walk five miles across the fields,’ he smiles, cunningly. ‘Or you can take my horse if you like. He’s a bit skittish but if you can ride, you’re welcome.’

‘No, thanks, I don’t like horses. They’re dangerous.’

‘That depends on the rider. The Land Rover it is. When you’ve settled in, come over to the house to collect the keys and some money. You do have a licence?’

‘Yes. My brother taught me before he left home to join the army.’

He seems surprised. ‘OK.’

The sofa boings as I test the springs. Cal glances at my rucksack and my dirty ripped jeans. Before I even realise, I’m pushing a tangled strand of hair out of eyes, and the pink rises to my cheeks.

‘I’ll ask Polly to find you some work clothes for now and you’d better go into town tomorrow and get a few new things.’

‘I can buy my own clothes.’

‘OK, fine, but if you want an advance on your pay cheque, just shout. Right, I’ll go and fetch this bed frame.’

Half an hour later, Cal struggles over the yard with part of the bed frame on his shoulders. For a lean guy, he’s very strong. I help him carry it upstairs and then he’s off again, dumping an old TV, the fat-backed kind, on the rickety bamboo table in the corner of the sitting room.

‘You can have this if you want,’ he says. ‘My father used to watch it in bed.’

‘Good. I can watch telly later. Sherlock’s on tonight.’

‘Is it? I haven’t had chance to watch much TV lately.’ He laughs in that ‘not remotely amused’ kind of way and I feel I’ve said something stupid but I’m not sure what.

Polly bustles in with a box of bleach and a scowl on her face. ‘I’ve got some cleaning stuff but I’ll have to bring the towels and linen later. You do know there’s no bed frame up there?’ she says to Cal. ‘The old one had woodworm so I chucked it on the bonfire.’

He glares at her. ‘Then it’s a good job I’ve already found a new one.’

Polly shudders when Mitch sniffs at her ankles. ‘You needn’t think I’ll be cleaning up any dog hairs either. Scraggy thing,’ she says.

‘I’m sure Mitch feels the same way about you.’

Polly scowls.

‘Sorry,’ I say, as Cal stifles a laugh. ‘I didn’t mean to be that rude.’

‘Demi’s perfectly capable of looking after the place herself,’ he says.

Polly flounces off; grumbling, but I don’t care how much she moans. I still can’t believe that Mitch and I have a new job and a place to live.

I’m still having to pinch myself later, when I sit round the farmhouse table with Cal and Polly, soaking up the remains of a chicken curry with a piece of naan. Getting to grips with the Aga was a bit of a nightmare, especially with Polly issuing dire warnings about it.

Judging by the empty plates, they seemed to enjoy the food.

Polly stabs a piece of chicken with her fork and Cal wipes his plate round with his last piece of naan.

‘Was it OK?’ I say.

Cal nods.

‘It wasn’t bad,’ Polly says and I wonder if I misheard her. Was that a compliment? ‘Shame you let it dry out a bit,’ she adds. ‘Agas aren’t like normal cookers.’

‘I’ll get the hang of it,’ I protest.

Cal stands up and picks up his plate. ‘Finished?’

Polly gasps. ‘You’re not clearing up!’

‘Why not?’

‘She can do that. That’s why you’ve hired her.’

‘She is not a bloody skivvy, Polly, and she’s been cleaning the cottage and working all day.’

Acting innocent, I swig my beer. Cal walks round to my side of the table and stacks my plate on his. He brushes against me and smells faintly of clean sweat and beer. He’s been working all day too, helping me put the bed frame together and trying to fix the door of the barn.

‘Thanks.’ I ignore Polly’s laser stare.

‘Don’t get used to it,’ he says. ‘I don’t expect you to cook for me every night and you won’t want to eat in here all the time.’

‘I can cook tons of stuff and I don’t mind eating here.’

‘You’ll want your own space,’ says Cal, carrying the plates towards the hall.

‘Yes, you will.’ Polly casts a triumphant glance at me. I wonder what her problem is, apart from worrying about the extra work of looking after me. She needn’t bother.

I finish my beer at the dining table and let Mitch lick my curryfied fingers while Polly goes back to her cottage to watch Emmerdale. In the kitchen, I find Cal cursing and fiddling with the settings on the dishwasher.

In frustration, he stands back. ‘Jesus, you need a PhD to work it out.’

‘Here. Let me have a go.’

A few presses later, I get it to start. ‘We had two at the cafe,’ I explain.

‘Thanks. I’m going to work in the study for the rest of the evening but tomorrow I’ll get your contract sorted out. Can I ask you to be patient with Polly? She’s very protective of me. She is an old friend.’

‘I understand. I’m the newbie. It’s me that has to fit in.’

‘Thanks.’ He hesitates. ‘Will you be OK in the cottage on your own tonight? Kilhallon is a bit out of the way. You might find it too quiet and isolated.’

‘You mean, me being a city girl who can’t live without a nightclub and a Starbucks within spitting distance? It’ll be a change not to sleep in a shop doorway, and besides, I have Mitch for company. We’ll sleep like logs.’

‘Well, you know where I am if you want me or Polly. I’d better get you a phone sorted too.’

While the dishwasher burbles and Cal throws the empty beer bottles in the recycling crate, I hover by the sink.

‘Cal … thanks for the job and the cottage. I mean it.’ Damn the quiver in my voice.

‘You might not thank me when we get the business up and running. There’s going to be a lot to do. Goodnight.’

I hate to admit it, but Cal was right. I couldn’t sleep, not even with a brand new bed and a thick down duvet and my own bedroom with pink curtains. Not even when I got up and made a cup of tea in my own kitchen and sat and drank it while I watched the midnight news on my new old TV. The wind rustled the curtains most of the night and I thought I could hear the waves crashing against the cliffs across the fields.

I don’t believe in ghosts but all sorts of weird and freaky thoughts kept filling my head. I couldn’t go back to bed so in the end I had to unroll my sleeping bag on the carpet and sleep in front of the hearth, with Mitch on my feet. I dreamt I was at home with my mum before everything started to unravel. I thought I’d be happy when I got a job and my own place: if someone would only give me a chance. But no matter what we have, we always want a little bit more.

I woke up early, wondering where I was at first. Mitch was already pawing at the cottage door to be let out so I put on his lead and took him out for a walk. No one else was around so I walked down the valley towards Kilhallon Cove and watched Mitch play ‘tag’ with the waves. On the other side of the cliffs, there was an old engine house. It’s a ruin now, the roof has long collapsed but half the chimney stack still stands.

I walked back to the cottage, fed Mitch and made myself some toast in my kitchen. The cottage still needs work but I’d better go over to the farmhouse and find out what Cal wants me to do. Last night, he said he wanted me to discuss my contract and terms and conditions and I want to get off on the right foot with him. After settling Mitch in the kitchen with a dog chew, I have a bath – oh, the luxury – put on my freshly washed jeans and top and set off.

Polly meets me halfway across the farmyard. ‘You’re out of bed then?’ She raises her eyebrows as if she’s surprised.

‘I’ve been up for hours,’ I say, determined not to rise to the bait.

‘Hmmph.’

‘Is Cal around?’

‘Yes, but you’d better keep out of his way.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ll find out. He’s in his office, last I saw of him. If you dare.’

This is not encouraging news on my first morning but I’m not going to be put off by her.

Greasy breakfast plates are piled on the worktops in the kitchen, and someone’s left the bacon and milk out in the sun. One of the plates has half a sausage left on it and despite the toast I ate earlier, I can’t see good food go to waste so I eat it, enjoying the luxury of not having to share it with Mitch. Sidestepping a piece of tomato squashed on the tiles, I walk down the gloomy hallway and knock on the study door. There’s no answer but I can hear someone tapping away on a laptop.

‘Cal. Are you in there?’

There’s a pause then he grunts. ‘Go away, whoever you are.’

‘It’s Demi.’

‘Go away.’

‘OK.’ I turn away, thinking I may as well clear up the kitchen; that’s what he hired me for. Just as I reach the door, there’s a shout behind me.

‘Come back.’

Cal pokes his head out of the study door.

‘It’ll wait until later,’ I say.

‘No. We’ll get it over with now.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m not at my best,’ he growls.

To be honest, I haven’t noticed loads of difference but I keep that to myself.

‘Sit down,’ he says gruffly, sweeping papers off an old wheeled chair in front of his desk.

I sit; suddenly worried that he might have changed his mind about having me at Kilhallon.

‘I have to finish this email first,’ he mutters, eyes fixed on the screen again. He hasn’t had a shave, again, and he has dark circles under his eyes. He looks awful but drop dead gorgeous all the same.

He glances up briefly, obviously having caught me perving over him. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing.’ Heat rises to my cheeks again. ‘I really can come back later. Polly said you were busy.’

‘She’s right but I’ll be even busier later. Wait a minute and I’ll be done.’

Frowning at the screen, he taps away with two fingers while I try to focus on the study and not on him. It’s like a junk shop – antique shop, if I’m being generous – and bigger than I expected, despite being crammed with stuff just like the sitting room. Two of the walls are lined with bookcases from floor to ceiling; proper old-fashioned leather-bound books as well as paperbacks. The desk must be centuries old and among all the letters and paperwork, Cal’s laptop whirrs softly. If it was me, I’d put the light on because even though it’s a bright April morning, not much sunshine penetrates the dimness.

‘OK. I’m done. Let’s talk about your role here.’

My role? I try to stay serious, while longing to dance around the study, shouting ‘yes!’, listening to Cal outlining what he wants me to do: generally helping around the place and supporting him to get the holiday park back on its feet. He also asks me if I want to go to college in September to do some tourism and catering courses.

‘We need stationery from the office supplies store and I’d like you to get some costs for refitting the reception. You’d better get some new clothes too.’

I glance down at my only pair of jeans and T-shirt, wondering why he’s brought up the subject again. ‘I don’t need a handout.’

‘Fine. In that case, will you accept an advance on your salary? You can pay me back if you like but you may as well get some work clothes and safety boots on the business. The agricultural store on the road to St Ives should have what you need.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, wishing I hadn’t been quite so dismissive.

He pulls out his wallet. ‘Here’s my card so you can get some cash, though we’ve still got an account at the agricultural and office stores.’

‘I could run off with this,’ I joke.

‘Not without Mitch. He’s my hostage.’

I snort. ‘He’d never stay with you.’

‘Want to bet?’ He grins in such a sexy way, I get the funny fizzing feeling low in my stomach. I half-wish he was fat and old and picked his teeth or something, rather than this hot. It would make life so much easier.

The door opens and Polly stands in the doorway blocking out the light. ‘Cal? I thought you’d like to know you’ve had a letter.’

‘Leave it on the desk, please.’

Ignoring him, Polly holds an envelope under his nose. It’s the kind you see in costume dramas, with elaborate, old-fashioned handwriting on the front.

‘I thought I should bring this one over personally.’ She waggles the envelope, a sly gleam in her eye.

Cal looks at it but doesn’t take it. ‘I said, leave it on the desk. Please.’ The please is added with sarcasm, almost menace.

Polly lays it on top of a pile of other papers but makes no attempt to leave.

‘You can go now.’ Cal’s voice is quieter, and his finger taps the table. ‘And you.’

It’s a second before I realise he means me.

‘See you later,’ says Polly, smirking.

I push myself up from the chair. ‘So, do you want any lunch?’

‘Just leave me.’ His head snaps up. God, he looks angry – but that’s nothing to the pain I see in his eyes. I don’t say any more, just do as he asks. He was moody before I walked in here. I don’t know what’s in that letter, but it looks as if it’s almost destroyed him before he’s even opened it.