36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Clemmie and Laura’s Recipes from The Little Cornish Kitchen
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
“You know, Adelie penguins, they spend their whole lives looking for that one other penguin and when they meet them, they know. And they spend the rest of their lives together.”
Josie Geller, Never Been Kissed.
The Deck Gallery, St Aidan, Cornwall
Siren song and crashing waves
Wednesday
‘Would you like some mini macaroons to go with your complementary samples?’
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
