Summer at the Cornish Cafe: The perfect summer romance for 2018 . Phillipa AshleyЧитать онлайн книгу.
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