object further, I cave in. ‘OK, but I warn you, I’m a horrible boss and if you’re so keen, you can help me clear the last of the stuff from the outside tables.’
It’s twenty-past four and a few people had lingered outside, draining their teapots and chatting in the last precious rays of the afternoon sun. However, the clouds are rolling in, so even they start to pack up and leave. Kit helps me gather up the dirty crockery, empty sugar packets and pots of strawberry jam and clotted cream.
‘Looks like you’ve had a busy opening day,’ he says, following me to the bin store at the rear of the kitchens.
‘Yes, the walking festival brought us some good custom and once the sun came out, we had passing trade. Plus George, of course. I need to warn you that he and his mum and dad are staying in Penvenen Cottage. It’s the other end of the row from you, though, so you shouldn’t hear him.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure.’ Kit holds up the bin lid while I throw in the rubbish. ‘If I do, I’ll have to get some ear plugs or turn up my music to full volume.’
I wince. ‘Sorry about George. I’m guessing you came here for some quiet away from the office.’
He glances away from me then throws me a pained smile. ‘Actually, I may have been economical with the truth about working in an office. I tend to take my office with me wherever I go. I’m a writer.’
I resist shouting ‘Yessss’, because I knew he did something creative and arty. Instead I ask politely. ‘Oh, do you write books?’
‘Yes. Thrillers. Correction: a thriller. I haven’t even finished my first yet, though my deadline’s racing up fast.’
‘Sounds exciting. Do you have a pen name?’ I ask him. To be honest, I’m doing most of the clearing up while he talks but I’d much rather it was that way.
‘I will do, I expect. I don’t know for sure because I’ve only just got my first book deal and it’s all new to me. I was a journalist before I became an author and before you ask, it was as an editor for a very dull trade publication about renewable energy. My new thriller is about a woman scientist who finds a way to generate power from water that’s going to change the whole world and do away with the need for fossil fuels. Naturally a lot of countries with less than ideal human rights records aren’t very pleased about that, while others would do anything to get their hands on her research.’
‘That sounds … intriguing,’ I say. ‘I don’t have tons of time to read anything except recipe and business books at the moment, but your book sounds right up Polly’s street. She loves crime and thrillers, the gorier the better. Sometimes I worry she might secretly be plotting to murder us all in our beds.’
Kit’s sea-green eyes glint with humour. ‘I’ve already met Polly earlier today. I popped up to your reception to pick up some leaflets about the local area. She’s certainly an interesting woman. I reckon I could get enough material for a whole series of novels from her tales about the local area, if I wanted to set a book here.’
‘She’s definitely unique,’ I say, surprised that Kit has charmed Polly so fast, and even more surprised that she’s made such an impression on him. Polly is a hard woman to please and can be plain speaking to the point of rudeness, but Kit is a guest so she was obviously being polite.
Kit is silent, thoughtful, for a second or so, toeing a clump of grass with his running shoe. ‘Look, I’m sorry I was such a grumpy sod when I turned up yesterday. You must have thought “miserable git, hope all the guests aren’t going to be like this”.’
‘No … I was thinking poor you, arriving in stinking weather after a terrible journey.’
‘You’re a good fibber, Demi.’ He opens the bin again for me to throw in the final bits of rubbish.
‘No fib. It’s true.’ Or half-true, I think. I was sorry for him, but I also did think he was a miserable git.
‘OK, you’re good at the customer relations, then. I’d never be any good at serving the public. I’d cause any place that I ran to be closed down or I’d be bankrupt within a week. I’m not very good at hiding my feelings, you see. It’s a good job my work requires me to be where people are not.’
‘Isn’t it very exciting, being an author?’
He smiles again, as if I’ve missed a huge point. ‘Most of the time it’s squalid. Spending far too much time in your own company, with the terror of the blank page. You know how it is …’
‘Not really. I tend to have terror of the soggy bottom.’
He does a double take.
‘Of my pies and pasties. If you don’t get the temperature right.’
‘Ah.’ He laughs politely at my lame joke. ‘You do have a proper job, however, whereas I make up stories for a living. Or not, at the moment. I’ve been struggling with my plot lately. And my characters. And the actual words.’ He grimaces but in a charming way, a tiny bit like Cal. He really is handsome when he smiles, though nothing like as handsome as Cal, and of course Kit is blond, whereas Cal has dark, brooding good looks. I guess blonds can be brooding too. I snap out of my thoughts as Kit goes on.
‘You must have thought I’d come here to get away from work, but the reason I was so tetchy was because I’ve come here to work. Normally, I tend to avoid telling people I’m a writer because they ask all sorts of awkward questions. Some people think having a book published is like winning the lottery: just an unexpected lucky windfall you landed on top of your regular job, but you know yourself that any degree of success takes a lot of hard work,’ he says with a nod at the cafe.
‘That’s true. I imagine some people think that running a cosy little tea room would be a great way of escaping a real job too. I’ve worked in catering before so I had an idea of what was involved, but it’s a completely different ballgame being responsible for the cafe rather than simply serving customers.’
He nods and pauses, looking awkward. ‘Sorry I was grumpy when I arrived. I promise to behave from now on.’
‘It’s fine. I know how to handle tricky customers.’
‘Yes, I’ve experienced your people skills first hand. You were very good at calming me down. In fact, you’re very good at all of this.’
He waves a hand at the cafe and the park. I feel myself blushing. I’m not used to the flattery, and not sure I like it that much.
‘I think that will do for out here. Let’s go back inside,’ I say.
Kit follows me in. Shamia is wiping down the last few tables inside the cafe while Nina washes up the items that can’t or didn’t fit into the dishwasher. Without the spurts and gurgles of the coffee machine and the buzz of customers, it seems quiet. The dishwasher hums softly and there’s the odd thunk and clink of pots being washed as a backdrop. Jez has gone so the girls chat to each other about some of the stranger requests and comments we’ve had today. Robyn offers to check the online review sites. I think she cajoled her student friends into writing a few. I’m not sure I can face reading them, but I know I have to, to get some feedback and politely respond to any negative comments.
That thought makes me feel faintly sick. I remember Sheila ranting when she steeled herself for her weekly reviewers’ ordeal. That pleasure’s
