The Little Cornish Kitchen: A heartwarming and funny romance set in Cornwall

The biscuits on the platter I’m holding out to guests are shades of sea blue and lavender, and I’m down to my last few. As I was the one who spent the afternoon in my brilliant friend Sophie’s farmhouse kitchen, sandwiching soft buttercream filling into so many hundreds of them I lost count, I already know how delicious they are. They’re a perfect complement to the products we’re here to celebrate, and so light I bet you could easily eat a dozen and still feel you’d like more. Although Sophie, whose event this is, stopped me before I tested that theory to the max. At times, she was watching me so closely she might as well have done the job herself. But with my serious lack of cooking skills I can hardly blame her. It’s not my fault, I just haven’t ever had a kitchen of my own to practise in. It’s no secret. If I come within a yard of a Magimix it’s more likely to result in a blitzkrieg than a bake off.

As Sophie glides in behind me she hisses in my ear. ‘You’re doing a fab job, Clemmie, almost onto the fun bit now, I owe you for this.’ Hopefully she means we’re almost at the part where it becomes party rather than work.

‘You’re not joking there.’ I laugh and take my chance to down another raspberry vodka in a pretty flowery tea cup and snaffle a macaroon to soak it up. Then I brush the crumbs off my boob shelf. If you’d told me when I flew in from Paris yesterday that within twenty-four hours, I’d be out in public dressed as a mermaid I might have got straight back on the plane. But the more cocktails I have the less I care about the public humiliation. Three hours into the event I’ve almost forgotten I look like I’ve got a tail rather than legs.

Sophie turns up the volume again as she moves in on the next guests. ‘The macaroons are home-made to echo the natural simplicity of the Sophie May skin care range.’

It’s not just sales talk. With ingredients like chamomile and seaweed the products really are every bit as amazing as they sound. Her main seller is a hot wash cleanser that makes you feel like you’ve been for a full facial. It’s such a revelation it took her company from nowhere into department stores across the country in a matter of months.

Did I mention her amazing husband, Nate? He’s the one who handles the sales and marketing, and is currently schmoozing the VIPs on the gallery’s outdoor deck. Nate’s been in charge of this evening’s invitations too. Even though he’s managed to ask most people in Cornwall as well as ‘everyone who mattered’ from the rest of the world, he’s been slightly less amazing at the detail. Sophie had factored in at least an hour to clear the professional guests before the locals arrive. But the journo from Time Out is still taking pictures of the macaroon towers as the entire team from Iron Maiden Cleaners clatter in from the High Street. Despite being from London he’s picking his jaw up off the bleached wood floor at the sight of six dry cleaning assistants in their short, bondage-style uniforms. Right now, it’s starting to look less like a tasteful promotion of gorgeous new packaging designs, and more like a free-for-all in a dominatrix bar.

Sophie assesses the damage and waves in a girl with a teapot in each hand. ‘Top up for our guest in the flak jacket, please.’

Not many women could carry off a pastel jump suit, especially one the same colour as their cosmetics boxes. But in the palest mint blue, with her choppy blonde layers and clear complexion, Sophie’s a walking, talking, breathing embodiment of her range. There isn’t a whisper of the sooty eyed fourteen-year-old Goth she once was. Add in her four children, aged from ten to tiny, and her life really does look like she plucked it from the Boden catalogue. Of all our childhood friend group, she’s the one who reached for the stars and grabbed them all. And doing that took a lot more straight talking and butt kicking than her wholesome glow suggests. But so long as she holds off ordering people around until the press leave, she’s pretty much cracked it here.

As we turn to the next guests, I’m taking the biggest steps my cinched-in mermaid skirt will allow, and beaming over my remaining macaroons. ‘Sophie May is all about nurturing and wellbeing … treating yourself … becoming the freshest version of you.’

I may only have arrived back in my hometown St Aidan yesterday, but my lines are already polished. And the best part is, they’re all true. If these products hadn’t been phenomenal I’d never have agreed to dress up in character. Let’s face it, I get enough jokes about my long Ariel coloured hair as it is.

Bigging up the ocean connection was Sophie’s daughter Milla’s idea. She’s always loved that our little group of friends used to call ourselves ‘the mermaids’ when we were kids. Milla became an honorary junior mer-member when she was born ten years ago. As we’re all here to help with the launch, and Sophie still had our light-as-air aqua silk bridesmaid’s dresses in her wardrobe, the rest was easy. Add in a few yards of tulle and fish netting nipped in in all the right places. Throw in shells, strings of pearls, a rock-pool full of dried starfish (assuming that’s how you measure them), some glitter stick and a few strands of the all-important seaweed, and the end result is Plum, Nell and I wandering around looking like we’ve crawled up from the beach and got lost on the way to the ‘Under the Sea’ Disney party.

The next pair of guests are heading towards the door, but they have their Burberry bags open ready as they spot more goodies. As these are the ladies from Marie Claire and Vogue, they have near-goddess status. Sophie loads them up with swag, then passes them a flowery cup and saucer each. ‘One last cocktail before you go? Peach, champagne and elderflower, or raspberry vodka with rosemary and grenadine?’ She waves in the tea pot girl.

Ms Vogue smiles as she sips her drink and rearranges her windblown bob. ‘It’s a whistle stop visit; I’m afraid we’ve mostly been outside enjoying the sea views and talking to your delightful husband.’ No surprise there. Even though he’d never look at another woman, Nate is particularly swoon-worthy and super attentive in all the right places.

Ms Marie Claire waves immaculate pale brown nails at the ragged layers of my skirt – or should that be my tail? ‘The mermaids are a lovely touch. But there’s one last question we have to ask before we go.’ Her voice drops to a whisper and she leans so close her Black Opium cloud makes my head spin. ‘Is it true that your algae scrub treatment is used by Kim Kardash—?’

Apart from the pink glow to her cheeks, Sophie has been unruffled by her high-powered guests. But she’s dipped behind them now, and she’s making desperate throat-cutting signs.

I’m not the best at thinking on my feet, but Sophie’s agonised stare has me jumping in so fast I cut Ms Marie Claire off in mid name-drop. ‘We’re absolutely not at liberty to say.’ No idea where that came from. But I’m pretty damned impressed with my speed.

Ms Marie Claire’s eyes are popping. ‘You’ve signed her confidentiality clause?’ She claps her hands together triumphantly. ‘Don’t say anything more, that’s everything we need to know. We’ll be in touch next week about a feature.’

Sophie’s nodding frantically now, gesturing me to carry on.

I’m racking my brains trying to remember what’s upmarket London-speak for ‘great’. Or anything English would do. All I can think of is chouette, which is French for ‘owl’, but means ‘cool’. ‘Lovely … sick … fabulous … jolly brill …’ As the words flood out, I’m getting throat cutting signs from Sophie again.

By the time my rush has subsided, Ms Marie Claire has downed her drink, taken a sea life ‘selfie’, and as they hurry off to catch their train, I’m already up on Instagram.

I shake my head at Sophie. ‘Shit. They were decisive. What was all that about?’

Sophie gives a guilty squirm. ‘We don’t actually supply Kim. I just couldn’t bring myself to throw away the chance of so much national exposure.’ Her face breaks into a grin as Plum and Nell swish across to join us. ‘Fab team effort here, we’ve just nailed Vouge and Marie Claire. And as it’s so long since we’ve had all you mer-girls together in one place, I need a picture myself.’

When I say Sophie and I go way back, I’m not exaggerating. I mean all the way to our mums meeting up at the ‘Mums and Bumps’ group when they were pregnant. Plum and Nell were very late to the party because we only met them at Tumble Tots. Our whole childhood we danced, played, went to the beach, fought, had picnics and grew up together running wild over long lazy summers. Some of us have gone away and come back again. But somehow we’re all still here for each other, and still the firmest of friends.

Sophie slides out her phone. ‘At least you won’t be on Insta in a bikini top made from scallop shells, which was what Plum originally planned.’

Plum was born ‘Victoria’, but that was never going to work on a round, rosy-cheeked toddler, so to us she’s always been Plum. She pushes back her dark silky hair and squints down her slashed silk neckline to her non-existent cleavage and lets out a groan. ‘Shells were my only hope of making my mer-boobs look bigger.’

Sadly, as fast as she shed her chub I gained it. These days Plum is Topshop skinny but I’m Bravissimo all the way. While some of us struggle to zip up our large size 14s, her skimpy size 8s billow in the wind. But even if she looks every inch the hungry artist, in reality she’s anything but. The gallery we’re in now was a disused chandlery until Plum got her hands on it soon after leaving art college. She stripped it out to use as a studio, and over the years has turned it into a thriving business selling pieces for other artists as well as herself. Although, obviously, it doesn’t quite have the multi-million turnover of Sophie May.

After a swift glance round the lofty white room and the six-foot-high seascapes, Plum turns back to me. ‘A quick warning now the local crowd’s arriving. Word on the street is you’re back to move into a penthouse, Clemmie.’ There’s a mischievous glint in her eye. ‘Most people’s money is on the snazzy new apartments at Rock Quay.’

If you want to keep your life private, don’t come to St Aidan. Although I’ve timed my trip to catch Sophie’s launch party, my main reason for returning is because the sitting tenant’s moved out of the flat I inherited by default years ago. But even if I’d got my hands on a mansion, I’d still have no intention of sticking around.

I can’t help my grin at how wrong the St Aidan grapevine is. ‘It’s more of an ancient attic from what I remember. And believe me, I won’t be here for long.’

Plum winds a strand of hair around her fingers. ‘Bangkok still buzzing? Or is it Stockholm? Or was that Prague?’

I can’t blame her for not keeping up. ‘It’s actually Paris and it’s great, thanks – for now.’ There’s no point saying any more. Plum, Sophie and Nell are so in love with St Aidan’s jumble of pastel coloured cottages clinging to the hillside, they couldn’t exist anywhere else. They’re all as settled as I am rootless. They can’t imagine living without the echo of the waves rushing up the beach, and the familiar clink of the rigging on the boats bobbing in the harbour. If I explained non-stop for a month, they’d never get that for me St Aidan isn’t enough. That after half a day away from Paris, I’m aching for the broad boulevards and big elegant buildings and the round-the-clock roar of the traffic. They don’t get that the world beyond here is huge. And they totally miss that when Paris dulls I’ll move on and feel the thrill all over again somewhere new. Even though my jobs are what they call ‘shit’ ones, and my career trajectory is non-existent, at least they allow me to move. To be free.

Nell comes in for the last macaroon. ‘So what are you doing this time?’ She’s a hot shot accountant, who admits the lure of her job is the salary not the excitement. So, she’s always up for hearing my more outlandish work stories.

I start to take a deep breath but stop halfway. In the five years since Sophie’s wedding, my dress must have shrunk in the wardrobe. A lot. ‘At the moment, I run errands for Maude, who teaches at the Sorbonne. I open her jars of fish soup. Buy her artichokes from the market. Top up her Post-it note supplies. Check she hasn’t got lettuce stuck in her teeth when she leaves the flat. Stuff like that. She’s addicted to tea and needs Liptons on the hour. And a Porn Star Martini on the dot of five.’ I worked my way round the world doing bar work, but lately I’ve progressed to personal assistant positions. And this one sounds a lot more awful than it is. There’s time to dash out between brews. I get Friday afternoons off when Maude goes to her masseuse. Best of all, the job comes with a room and a view. When I stand on tiptoe and wrench my neck I can see the Eiffel Tower from my window. You’ve no idea how magical it is to look out at that shadow of crisscross of pencil lines in the day, the trace of pin prick lights in the dark.

‘Even better, I’ve got a few weeks paid leave while she’s away on a research trip, which is why I’ve made my dash to Cornwall now.’ I’m beaming because this is the first holiday pay I’ve ever got my hands on. The circle of faces is much less impressed than I’d anticipated. I don’t quite get why, but I’m staring at a mix of puzzlement and despair.

When Nell breaks the silence, she’s sounding bright and the subject change is jarring. ‘Well, the good news here is our St Aidan’s Singles scene is buzzing, so it’s great you’ll be around for that. We’re doing Strictly Single Tea Dances at the Harbourside Hotel, Scare Yourself Shitless Ghost Walks, Under the Table Gin Tasting at the Hungry Shark, and our Whale Watching Weekend boat trips around the bay are always brilliant.’ That’s the other thing about Nell. Since her break-up a couple of years ago she’s thrown herself into the Singles’ Club.

How things change when you’re gone. ‘There are whales in the bay?’

Nell’s brow furrows. ‘Not exactly. But the trips are proving better than Loctite as far as couples go.’ The only problem is, she’s so immersed in organising everyone else, so far she’s failed to grab a man for herself. She lets out a low laugh. ‘Leave it to me, we’ll give you a reason to stay in St Aidan, Clemmie.’

What was I saying? My appalled gasp is so huge and unchecked, this time I almost do split my dress. ‘Hold it there. Count me out of any couply activities. I’m a hundred per cent NOT here to hook up.’ The life I live is just for me and I don’t need complications. The few guys I went out with at college were all more effort than fun. Which doesn’t mean I don’t have loads of friends, a lot of whom are guys. In fact, as more people are arriving, I’m bobbing up and down non-stop waving at people over Sophie’s shoulder.

Nell’s not going to be put off. ‘Fine, skip the singles’ events. But there are some really nice, genuine guys in our group. It can’t hurt to introduce you … to one or two?’

If I thought dressing up as a mermaid was bad this is worse. I put up my hand. The one thing I’ve learned in Paris is if you want respect, good service, and halfway decent artichokes, there’s no point coming over all nice and friendly. It’s the ‘don’t mess with me’ ‘mean bitch’ expressions that get the un-burned baguettes. I scrunch my face into my best French scowl. ‘No activities, no introductions, is that clear?’ I don’t wait for a reply. Apart from anything else, I’m bursting for a pee. Not that I’d planned to use the loos tonight given how thoroughly we did up the tail ties. But those mismatched tea cups hold more than you’d think. ‘And now I’m off to the Ladies’.’ As I grin at Nell to show her there’s no bad feeling so long as she’s got the message, I notice her mermaid shell crown is completely skew whiff. Looks like I’m not the only one who’s over done the fruit cup. I turn around, throw my foot forward to stride purposefully away, hit my tail tie, then begin to topple.

‘Whoops, steady there!’ Sophie and Plum catch one arm each and gently ease me upwards until I find my balance point.

Plum’s scratching at the seaweed dangling from her pearl head band. ‘Maybe next time we do this, we need elastic rope around our ankles?’ For an artist, she’s very analytical.

I can’t believe what I’m hearing as I set off again. ‘There’s going to be a next time?’

When I reach the loo, it turns out my fears about finding my pants are completely right. Put it this way – real mermaids are damned lucky they can pee in the sea. I have so much tulle and fish net to untangle before I can go, and I don’t put half enough effort into getting it back into the right place again. As I shuffle back into the gallery my tail’s as saggy as if I’ve collided with one of those heaps of abandoned nets down by the harbour. I feel more like a Strictly dancer who got caught in a wind tunnel than a silver-tailed siren as I press myself against the rough white-washed wall as a group of guys pass, all waving their tea cups in appreciation of Plum and Nell’s costumes.

Despite my firm stand, as I arrive back, Nell’s providing me with a running commentary of everyone in trousers I don’t already know. ‘That was Blue Watch, arriving from the fire station. And I’m sorry but the total hottie in the suit by the Cleanse and Polish stand is someone I don’t know.’ She sends Sophie a querying glance.

Sophie scans the crowd. ‘Hot and then some. I think he’s something to do with some property consortium.’

‘And?’ Nell’s waiting expectantly. ‘The least you can do for a jawline like that is check the guest list.’

Plum and Sophie both start peering at their phones, but Plum’s first to look up.

‘Got him. At a guess that’s Charlie Hobson, he’s down here as “local developer”.’

Nell’s got a gleam in her eye. ‘I may have to Google him on behalf of the singles’ group. Whale Watching would pass a whole lot quicker with that kind of dark charisma in the bows.’