The Cornish Cream Tea Bus

‘Jules?’ Charlie laughed nervously. ‘I’m not trying to be negative, I—’

‘You bought Gertie?’ Juliette hissed. ‘Is this an April Fool’s joke?’

‘It’s after midday.’ Lawrence glanced at his watch. ‘So technically it wouldn’t count.’

‘I thought that’s what you wanted?’ Charlie said. ‘You said my café bus idea could work, but it needed more thought. There’s no way we can do that with the bus stuck in Gloucestershire. What if we needed to measure the interior for appliances?’

‘I meant more generally,’ Juliette said. ‘That this could be a chance for you to relax, Char, to let the ideas percolate. Not start working on some kind of café bus action plan.’

‘What’s wrong with an action plan?’ she asked. Marmite lifted his head, his tail twitching as he took in the new surroundings.

Juliette sighed. ‘Nothing is wrong with an action plan. I use them all the time for my marketing projects. It’s only that I thought this could be a proper break for you. You’ve got your sabbatical, and I thought you were finally coming round to the idea of having an actual holiday.’

Charlie was about to respond when her dog jumped onto the table. ‘Marmite, no!’

But Juliette reached over and scooped him into her arms. ‘He’s so gorgeous, Char. Small and fluffy, and funny.’ Marmite wriggled in an endearing way. ‘Ray and Benton will love him.’

‘If he doesn’t torment them. I should apologize now for whatever ridiculous hijinks my puppy gets up to.’

‘That little mite can be forgiven anything,’ Lawrence said, ruffling his fur.

‘That is exactly the problem.’

They left for Porthgolow’s pub early that evening. As they turned left at the end of the road, to head towards the seafront and The Seven Stars, Charlie’s breath caught in her throat. The sun was hovering above the sea, the red, pink and peach of the sky intensely vivid. The whole of Porthgolow seemed trapped in its glow, as if the cliffs weren’t grey but golden, the windows of the houses catching hold of the sunset like fireflies.

‘Bloody hell,’ Charlie said softly, faltering so that Marmite walked into her and started fighting with her boot buckle.

‘I know,’ Juliette breathed.

‘It’s fucking awesome, is what it is,’ Lawrence finished. ‘The best thing about living here.’

‘Porthgolow means cove of illumination,’ Juliette explained as they continued towards the pub, their steps slow and deliberate against the steep decline of the hill. ‘There’s something about this particular spot on the coast, the way the cliffs curve inwards like a hug, that means it holds the light in a certain way as the sun sets. It always looks spectacular in the evenings, even in winter.’

‘It’s stunning,’ Charlie said. ‘I know that sunlight usually shows up every flaw, but somehow, here, it hides the cracks. It makes this place look magical.’

‘It is magical,’ Juliette replied. ‘You’ve only been here a few hours; you haven’t seen it properly yet.’

‘First impressions are important, though.’ Charlie thought of the hours she had spent crafting the window displays in The Café on the Hill,hoping to entice visitors inside.

The Seven Starswas on the seafront at the south side of the cove, its dark stone façade camouflaged against the cliff. Charlie saw again the strange yellow house beyond the jetty. In the sunset’s glow it looked almost fluorescent, and she wondered what it was like inside, with all the rooms full of overpowering light.

‘Here we are,’ Lawrence said cheerfully as he held open the door, and Charlie followed Juliette in. In contrast to its dark exterior, the inside of the pub had cream walls and rustic wooden furniture, booths with seats covered in burnt-orange fabric. It was simple and welcoming, and Charlie could imagine long cosy evenings drinking wine by the fire, or the windows thrust open, walls reflecting the water in summer. There were a few people enjoying an early evening drink, and it might have been her imagination, but she thought that the volume of conversation dipped as they made their way to the bar. Juliette and Lawrence didn’t seem to notice, so Charlie focused on the gleaming optics and the overriding smell of cooking fish. She inhaled deeply, her stomach rumbling on cue.

‘All right, Hugh?’ Lawrence asked.

‘Not too bad,’ said the man behind the counter. He was tall and slender, his ears sticking out below dark hair that was receding on top. Charlie thought he must be in his early fifties. ‘And who’s this with you and Jules?’

‘Hi.’ She held out her hand, trying not to smile at his Cornish lilt. ‘I’m Charlie, one of Juliette’s friends.’

‘My best friend,’ Juliette corrected, slipping her arm through Charlie’s. ‘She’s here for a few weeks, and we thought it was only fair to introduce her to your fisherman’s pie.’

‘Ooh, that sounds great. The smell is incredible.’

‘Charlie’s a cook – a baker,’ Juliette continued.

‘Oh?’ Hugh’s eyebrow went skywards. ‘D’you work in a restaurant?’

‘A café,’ Charlie admitted. ‘Is your fish pie fresh?’

Hugh grinned, and she silently berated herself. They were in Cornwall – literally on the seafront.

‘It’s a melting pot every evenin’, whatever the catch brings in.’

‘And Hugh’s sauce – that’s why it’s sogood!’ Juliette added.

‘It’s not my sauce, technically, but … a family recipe.’ He tapped the side of his nose.

‘I can’t wait to try it. I’m starving!’

They ordered a bottle of wine and took it to a booth, a few heads turning to watch them go. The window had small, thick panes, the glass old and warped so that the sun came through it in whorls of colour. Charlie unzipped her boots and wriggled her toes free, and Marmite, happy to explore beneath the table, pounced on them and chewed gently. She was used to it, and his teeth were still too small to cause any damage.

As Juliette poured the wine and they clinked glasses, contentment washed over her. She shouldn’t be worrying about what Juliette’s village looked like, or whether the people were all going to be as welcoming as Hugh. She was here to relax.

‘This pub is lovely,’ she said, sipping her wine. ‘And clearly it has great food. I’m going to indulge in it all while I’m here – fish pie, wine, ice creams. I might have a couple of treatments in that posh spa on top of the hill.’

Juliette bristled, and Lawrence gave her a sideways glance.

‘What?’ Charlie asked.

‘That place,’ Juliette said, ‘is a menace.’

Charlie frowned. ‘How can a place be a menace?’

‘Because it sits up there on the cliff top, catering for people who are prepared to pay three hundred pounds a night for sea-view rooms, God knows what in the restaurant and on spa treatments, and it doesn’t serve Porthgolow at all. The rich people hurtle through the village in their oversized cars, and they don’t use the beach or the shop or come in here. It’s like they want Porthgolow’s landscape and climate, but the thought of stepping outside that glass box and into the real world is too disgusting for them to bear.’ Juliette took a breath, and then a large gulp of wine.

‘Wow,’ Charlie said. ‘You’re not a fan, then?’ She remembered the BMW pushing out of the driveway ahead of her.

Lawrence laughed. ‘Nope.’

‘None of the villagers are,’ Juliette continued. ‘I’ve learnt all about it. It even has a private beach so the guests don’t have to mingle with normal people. You’d think a business like that would want to help the local economy, use local suppliers, be a part of the village. It’s hard enough being a newcomer in a tightknit place like this; you have to make an effort, not do everything you can to alienate yourself.’

Charlie chewed her lip. She hadn’t heard Juliette get this worked up since their gym in Cheltenham had stopped running advanced yoga on a Thursday evening. ‘What about the owners? Don’t they come from the village?’

Juliette shrugged.

‘Daniel Harper,’ Lawrence confirmed. ‘He lives here, a couple of roads back from ours, I think. But he’s pretty much at the hotel all day. And it only opened a few years ago; he came here from Sussex or Surrey, somewhere like that. He’s not born and bred Porthgolow.’

‘You know him?’