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

The more he says, the more my mouth drops open. ‘Go on …’

‘The building wasn’t ever in the greatest shape.’ There’s a questioning frown playing around his forehead as he grinds to a halt. ‘But surely George will have told you all this?’

I give a sudden beam to cover up how much George hasn’t said. ‘Absolutely. But it’s always helpful to get another viewpoint. And she left because …?’

Charlie’s long sigh is presumably for the loss of his friend, not her cake. ‘She was getting on, the two flights of stairs became too much, and she moved south to be closer to one of her sons.’

He rubs his chin. ‘The balcony is perfectly safe by the way. It runs all along the front of the building, so both our flats open onto it. It was repaired before I moved in last year, it’s all in George’s files, the cost was shared between us. You do know about that?’ He’s giving me a searching stare. ‘Believe me, I wouldn’t forget a bill that big.’

‘Too damned right.’ I try to look the right amount of appalled. Which is hard when I don’t know if I’m reacting to a hundred pounds or a hundred thousand. ‘Remind me to go out there and party. Very hard. I need to get my money’s worth before I leave.’

He seems to give a jolt, but a breath later he’s back to reaching over for my empty BLT wrapper. ‘Did you say Diesel ate your sandwich? Give me a minute, I’ll make you another.’

All I have to say here is ‘No’ and I can wave him off along the balcony and out of my day. I know I should be jumping at the chance, if only to let my heart rate get back to normal. Even if he looks grave enough for a funeral plan brochure when he sways he’s still disarmingly close. Another step back, and I’ll topple onto the sofa. On the other hand, the growls coming from my empty stomach are loud enough to have come from Diesel.

However he doesn’t allow me to squeeze in even a two-letter word before he bashes on. ‘I don’t have bacon, but there’s thin sliced ham on the bone, homemade plum and sultana pickle, and some kind of crumbling cheddar matured in a slate cavern. There’s crusty cobs too, and salad. I could throw a ploughman’s picnic together for us.’

I try not to make too much noise as I suck back my drool. Then just as I’m gritting my teeth, resolving to say ‘No’ I catch a hint of a smile playing around his lips and my mouth is moving on its own. ‘Great. Sounds brill.’ And that’s that.

I hold my hands up and admit I’m a slave to my stomach. I also know he’s way too decorative, serious and sure of himself for me to ever hang out with. And I might be a teensy bit of a hypocrite too, accepting snacks from strangers I’d rather run a mile from in normal circumstances. But however off-hand he appears, Charlie Hobson has spilled a pile of proverbial beans, and I can’t help thinking there could be more he can tell me about my grandmother.

But by the time I’ve worked this lot out, Charlie’s long gone. And Diesel has relocated to the sofa with the best view down the beach.

5 (#ulink_b231cfa8-f7d6-5641-abd3-70206cfe43aa)

In Laura’s flat at Seaspray Cottage

Real ale and home truths

Friday

‘So how about you, Clemmie, what’s your story?’

When Charlie arrives back he’s trundling a double-decker hammered metal trolley along the balcony on super-chunky industrial wheels. As I help him ease it through the living room doors I see it’s laden with everything he promised and more, plus hand glazed plates and mugs, and scarily spare cutlery that’s so on trend and triangular it’s hard to tell which are knives and which are forks. There’s also serviettes, fruit juices, and a cluster of chilled beer bottles, pebbled with condensation. It takes approximately ten seconds to load up our plates. Then as he sits down he drops in the question, and I immediately fill my mouth and the next half hour with so much eating that I can’t possibly answer.

I catch glimpses of him over the top of my crusty bread as I chew, and it flashes through my head that if he were on Tinder, every woman out there would swipe ‘Yes’. Including me. Which is way more ridiculous than it sounds, because I’d never go on Tinder. And who knows why the hell the ‘sexy’ word keeps flashing through my brain when there isn’t a suit anywhere in sight today.

‘Anyway, Clemmie,’ he says eventually, ‘are you going to tell me where you fit in at Seaspray Cottage? Or are you just going to swim off into the ocean and make me think eating a ploughman’s lunch on a patchwork sofa with a mermaid was all a dream?’

‘Me?’ I grab my fourth beer, wrench the top off and glug. ‘What’s this I’m drinking?’

He peers at the bottle. ‘They’re a mix. That one’s local brewery, Roaring Waves’ answer to a German Pils. But watch out, they have a tendency to make your legs disappear without warning.’ The low noise in his throat could almost be a laugh. ‘Although you’re probably used to that sensation.’

I almost drop my bottle. ‘Are you implying I get drunk a lot?’ He’s not getting away with that.

He shakes his head and blinks. ‘No, just meaning the way your legs and your mermaid’s tail are interchangeable.’ There’s that almost-smile playing around his lips. ‘For a mermaid settling on land, you couldn’t have found many flats closer to the sea than this one. I can’t understand why you wouldn’t want to stay.’

Even if he’s not laughing outwardly his tone is mocking. ‘Come on, I didn’t take the piss when you turned up with your high-end boys’ toy lunch wheelie.’ That has to be the most macho item ever, I’m betting he grabbed it from Groupon. That or he found it down the harbour and it’s meant for trundling fish around. ‘And while we’re on the subject of toys and size, please tell me you aren’t going to set up one of those monster Australian-style barbie’s on the balcony?’

He gives a sniff. ‘For someone uninvested, you’re coming over as very territorial.’

I screw up my face, and take another gulp of my drink. Considering I’m not a beer person, it’s going down very fast. ‘It all comes down to the “settling” thing. The word actually makes me shiver, that’s just how I’m wired. From the way I feel now, I’m guessing I’m destined to swim around the world forever.’

He pulls down the corners of his mouth as he gets up and strides towards the door. ‘How about cake to soak up the alcohol? I’ll see what I’ve got next door.’

I’m psyching myself up for a second feast on wheels, but when he comes back in he’s only carrying a plate. ‘No sweet trolley then?’

He gives a guilty shrug. ‘If there’s cake in the flat, I eat it. Two measly bits of chocolate brownie is all I could find. Sorry they’re so tiny.’

‘Small, but delicious.’ It must be the beer making me gush even though I’m trying to stick to understatement. The square I’m sinking my teeth into is dark, sticky and so delectably chocolatey it clogs my throat. And small is taking a man-sized view. I wave the remains of my pretty massive slice in the air as I struggle to talk through the cocoa haze. ‘It’s such a shame there’s no such thing as cake take-aways with home delivery. I’d always rather ring for gateaux than pizza.’

He narrows his eyes. ‘Gateaux in Cornwall? You’ll be lucky.’

‘Sorry, I’m mixing up my languages again.’ And coming across like an arse. ‘I just flew in from France.’ And now I’m sounding even worse.

His eyebrows lift. ‘Anywhere nice?’ At least he seems to be overlooking the pretentious prat part.

I try to play it down. ‘Only Paris.’

‘Quite a landlocked place for a mermaid.’ He sends me a sideways glance. ‘But, honestly, I can see why you’d rather be there than here.’

I smile at the recognition. ‘I make do with the rain instead of the sea. There’s nothing quite like wet city pavements shining with reflections from the street lights and the traffic. As soon as my job restarts I’ll be back there and loving it.’ I hesitate for a moment. ‘Gateaux and all.’

His frown is thoughtful. ‘In which case, maybe it’s a good time to mention – if ever you want to sell the flat, Diesel would love some extra space to expand into. Obviously, I’d be offering you a top price.’

As he hears his name Diesel’s tail thumps on the sofa cushions. It’s as if he’s adding his weight to what Charlie just said, while I’m struggling to believe what I just heard. I’m taking a breath, gathering my words to reply. If he was anyone else it would have to be ‘yes’ a thousand times over, for every reason. Let’s face it, before he turned up I’d just spent a full half-hour freaking out at the thought of an electricity bill so I’m not quite sure why my stomach feels like a popped balloon as I look out at the frill of the waves running up the beach. And then suddenly I get it.

‘So this explains it. You send your dog to eat my sandwich, so you can offer me lunch and muscle in on buying my flat?’ My voice is high with indignation. What’s more, I’m furious for allowing myself to eye him up when what he was really here for was to get his hands on Laura’s property.

He screws up his face. ‘Really, Clemmie, that’s not what happened.’

I let out a snort. ‘Fill me with beer then push through another of your deals? That’s low, even for lowlife like you.’

There’s a flash of pain in his eyes, then he takes a deep breath. ‘There was no pressure, I was simply trying to be helpful if that was what you wanted.’

‘Helpful my arse. That was pure opportunism.’ I’m not even sure it’s the right word. Worse still, I’ve got this sinking feeling I’m probably shooting myself in the foot here. But there’s something about the bare faced gall of the man that’s made me so angry. If he was the last punter in the world, at this moment I wouldn’t sell to him.

‘If you choose to see it that way, that’s your problem.’ He’s not even bothering to defend himself.

To reclaim some dignity, I go back to my best clipped office tones. ‘If there’s a sale, George will handle it, I’m sure you’ll be the first to know.’

He shakes his head. ‘We’ve already discussed how sharing George is.’ He just gives yet another sigh and carries on. ‘As I said before, the building needs work. We’ve got extensive roof repairs scheduled for autumn.’

I’m not sure why he’s telling me this now. ‘Great, I’ll cross my fingers it stays fine for you. Let’s hope you don’t get too much of that rain I was talking about earlier.’ I take another swig of beer. My excuse to myself for accepting lunch was to get information, and this far, apart from an offer to buy the flat which floored me, I’ve got approximately zilch. ‘Remind me who’s in the other flats?’

Charlie’s reply is fast and businesslike. ‘Two are let to short-term tenants, and two are let out through Airbnb to holiday makers.’

I’m frowning, tapping the bottle on my teeth, still not getting it. ‘All good. So, your point is?’