Confetti at the Cornish Café: The perfect summer romance for 2018 . Phillipa AshleyЧитать онлайн книгу.
Why did you have to mention it? I’ve enough trouble trying to create this “totally natural and thrown-together-at-the-last-minute” wedding arch and flower decoration. The truth is that Lily only wants it to look natural and what she really wants is a fashion shoot recreation of her fantasies! Mind you …’ Her voice takes on a mischievous edge. ‘Since it was your idea to have an owl and you’re the one with the DIY skills, I think you should take charge of caring for the wildlife and the arch construction.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘You’re welcome.’ With a smirk, she goes back to kneading with renewed vigour and complaining about Mawgan and owls. If she glanced up from the tabletop, she’d catch me smiling at her. I love the way she tackles any task with a fierce enthusiasm that’s almost comical and yet touching too. I love the way her breasts push together in that old long-sleeved T-shirt. God, I’m shallow but I’m also a man and I’d love to interrupt her bread making now and drag her upstairs to bed.
With that thought, I turn back to my laptop, intending to close the browser, but my eye is drawn to a recent email in my inbox. There among the messages about liability insurance, gas safety checks (yawn) for the cottages and a rogue item asking me if I’d like a much larger erection (I don’t think I could improve on the one I have now, but …) is one that leaps out at me. Its subject line is written in capitals and stops me in my tracks.
PLEASE DON’T GET YOUR HOPES UP …
It comes from someone I rarely hear from nowadays; a good friend who knows that any email from her risks stirring up memories I should have left behind by now. A kind, brave friend who would never send me an email with the word ‘hope’ in it unless that hope was also preceded by a ‘no’.
So to receive an email with the subject line ‘Please Don’t Get Your Hopes Up’ makes my heart rate speed up, my mouth go dry and my hopes soar higher than a gull above the Kilhallon cliffs.
The slap of the dough and the thuds of it being beaten into submission recede when I open the email and read the words from Carolyn, my former boss and a senior manager of the overseas aid charity for whom I used to work.
Hi Cal,
How are you? Still wrestling with rebuilding Kilhallon or is it all up and running now? I hope so. I thought you looked well on it when we saw you in London last autumn, if that’s not too patronising. OK. I guess, by now, the title of this email has you gnashing your teeth and scrolling down for the thing you’re hoping to hear.
But, Cal, I’m going to preface this nugget of news with the same warning as in the subject line, because I know you too well.
So: *PLEASE* don’t get your hopes up.
Promise me?
No, I mouth silently. No, I can’t promise anything where Esme is concerned.
OK. Now that I’ve got the warning over with, even though I know it’s useless to expect you to heed it, I’ll get to the nitty gritty. This is only a glimmer and it may be nothing but as you may have heard, we’ve been able to move back closer to the town where Soraya was killed and Esme was last seen. The refugee camp is as big as ever with new influxes of people daily from other areas but also some of the people who were here when we pulled out. One of my new colleagues was treating a young guy for shrapnel injuries, and called me to give a second opinion. I thought I recognised the guy and when I spoke to him, I realised it was one of Soraya’s extended family, Jaz. You might remember him, because he had a long scar down the side of his face from a shrapnel wound.
He was very grateful and he mentioned you and asked after you. I know you blame yourself for what happened to Soraya but apparently that’s not how her extended family see it. Jaz said they’d been grateful to you for trying to help them. To them Soraya will be considered a martyr and a heroine, which, I know, may not be any comfort to you but …
My stomach turns over. Soraya was a friend of mine, a Syrian nurse who helped me and my colleagues in our work in a refugee camp near the front line. Then I got her involved in smuggling medical supplies and arms to local rebels. As a result of my actions, she ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time and lost her life. I ended up in the hands of insurgents and Soraya’s little girl, Esme, vanished in the chaos of the falling town. Sweat breaks out on my back now and I have to clasp my hands together under the table to stop them from shaking. At Christmas, I finally trusted Demi with the story of what happened to me but since then I’ve tried hard to move on and focus on my life at Kilhallon. I think we both know that I can never move on completely, not until I know what happened to Esme.
I return to Carolyn’s email, feeling sick to my stomach with a mixture of guilt, hope and fear.
I took the opportunity to ask if he had seen Esme, and Jaz said no. He also said that her grandparents hadn’t seen her since that day and that everyone in the immediate family thought she might have died. But then Jaz said that he had heard from friends of his parents who knew the family, and he also said that Esme *might* have been taken in by some of their neighbours and they were headed for Turkey and hoping to reach Greece.
I’m sure you’ve been scouring social media and online tracing services for her. I’ve had a quick look but I’m so busy and I haven’t spotted her or anyone I recognise on there.
Carolyn is right, I have been scouring the sites in every moment of my spare time but I haven’t wanted to let Demi know. She’d only worry about me and it seems selfish to still be focusing on a lost girl when I should have my mind one hundred per cent on the business and on her. But I can’t help myself. If there’s even a chance of finding Esme, I’ll grab it with both hands.
Demi is still kneading the dough into submission and humming along to Radio St Trenyan. I scan the rest of the email.
Cal, I know you will by now be packing your bags to rush to London or even further afield but please, please don’t. Let me try to make some further enquiries and I promise I will send any news – good or bad – the moment I get it. IF I ever hear anything, because this could be another false trail and not have a good outcome. There are thousands – millions – of people displaced and there is still ongoing chaos. Finding Esme could be like finding a needle in a thousand haystacks … but I thought you deserved to hear that there is still a glimmer of hope.
I have to go. It’s been good to have a few moments to write to you and think of home. I think that when my tour here is over, I might be coming back myself.
Until then, take care,
Love, Carolyn x
It’s a minute or so before I can tear my eyes from the email. I let the words sink in before, finally, Demi’s voice brings me back into the room.
‘Of course, they’ve left things way too late and I didn’t expect them to want everything to be organised locally. I thought they’d bring their own wedding planner and a whole pack of stylists …’
‘Sorry?’
Demi stares at me. I feel guilty for not listening. This wedding may seem trivial compared to what I’ve read but it means a lot to her – to Kilhallon – and so it means a lot to me, but I can’t summon up the proper level of enthusiasm at the moment.
Demi puts the dough into a bowl, picks up a tea cloth to wipe some of the scraps off her fingers.
‘You weren’t listening, were you?’ She covers the dough with a tea towel. Her hands are sticky with dough and there’s a floury speck on the end of her pretty nose. She sighs. ‘I don’t blame you. I was having a rant.’
I long to scour the email for any scrap I might have missed but I close the lid of the laptop. I push a strand of her chestnut hair out of her eyes and look down into her eyes. She gazes back at me with a mix of exasperation and lust. At least I hope it’s lust and not fury that I wasn’t