only a guest. As long as he doesn’t start wailing the place down and chucking food on the floor like George, he can be as quirky as he likes. More importantly, his money’s as good as anyone else’s and it looks like we’re going to get rather a nice chunk of it.
Our opening long weekend of trading has been exhausting, but that’s way better than having to stand around with nothing to do. My marketing efforts are paying off and word has got round that we’re now up and running. I know a lot of locals will have turned up out of curiosity over the weekend and that we need to work hard to keep them coming back, as well as attracting tourists, but I was so happy to see the cafe buzzing on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. There’s no time to let up, however, and I’ve spent today – Monday – trying to catch up with admin, ordering and planning.
I must admit I could have quite happily collapsed in my cottage this evening, but tonight is another important occasion for Kilhallon. We’ve opened Demelza’s especially to host a meeting of the St Trenyan Harbour Lights committee. The Harbour Lights Festival, held on the last Friday in November, attracts thousands of people to the village, both from Cornwall and further afield at a time of year when St Trenyan really needs a boost.
‘I still can’t believe Kit Bannen wants to stay here for so long,’ Cal says to me midway through laying out mince pie cookies on a table in the cafe.
‘Until the week before Christmas, according to Kit. I meant to tell you sooner, but we’ve both been so busy with work that I forgot. The resort’s your job, of course, but I checked out the booking calendar while you were at the wholesalers and I’ve already said he can have Enys Cottage. We had another couple booked into Enys for half term but it’s easier to upgrade them to Penvenen than move Kit out just for a week. Was that OK?’
‘I guess so but this longer-term stay will cost him a lot of money. Why does he want to hunker down in the middle of nowhere at this time of year?’
‘Boy am I glad you’re not doing the marketing for this place,’ I say with an eye roll.
‘You know what I mean. I can understand him staying a couple of weeks but why would a metrosexual like him want to be away from London?’
‘A metrosexual? Kit? Nah. He’s much too rugged for that. He wears a Berghaus coat, for a start.’
Cal eyes me sharply and raises an eyebrow at my comment.
‘Stop laughing at me. He just doesn’t strike me as a hipster. He’s too blokey for the self-obsessed trendy type.’
‘“Rugged” and “blokey” eh? Not that you’re interested in the blond hunk, Kit Bannen, of course. He’s only a guest.’ Cal swipes a mince pie cookie from the plate.
‘I didn’t say he was a “hunk”, you did and actually he has a deadline on his book and he said he can get on with it better away from the distractions in London. It’s a techno-thriller.’
Cal huffs. ‘A techno-thriller? He obviously talks to you more than me. He hardly even bothers to nod a hello at me if we come across each other, not that I’m bothered, as long as he pays the bill. You must have charmed him.’
‘No. Kilhallon has charmed him.’ Do I detect a hint of jealousy from Cal? That would be nice … then I snap out of my fantasies. Kit isn’t interested in me and vice versa, and I doubt Cal’s really jealous.
‘What else do we need?’ he asks.
‘Nothing. I’ll set the coffee machine going just before we have a break and bring it out here. People can help themselves to hot water from the machine for their teas.’
‘I’m sure they’ll be impressed. This place looks great and the smell of these cookies is delicious.’
‘I thought the spices would get everyone in the mood. Thanks for helping me. I can’t ask the staff to stay on. They’ve done enough this week.’
‘It’s no problem.’
Cal chats to me about the accommodation bookings while we push some tables together to make one long ‘boardroom-style’ table for the meeting. We still need to fill two of the cottages for Christmas, and Warleggan is vacant at New Year. The yurt season will be over after half term until next Easter.
Cal goes into the kitchen to collect some mugs and plates while I add a jug of milk and sparkling white bowls of demerara sugar cubes to the refreshment table. It may be only a meeting, but I want everything to look perfect tonight. One of the tourist officers is coming, along with influential locals, to discuss plans for the highlight of the St Trenyan calendar.
The festival starts with a lantern procession to the harbour before the big switch-on. The old harbour is decorated with lights in the shape of boats, Christmas trees, stars, shells and starfish, all made up of thousands of jewel-bright bulbs. It’s quirky, random and very pretty. Until Twelfth Night, the quay and nearby pubs, shops and houses are illuminated, the colours reflected in the coal-black waters of the sea.
There are stalls selling hot food and drink, gifts and a mini funfair on the quayside. The evening ends with sing-along carols with the St Trenyan Fisherman’s Choir. It’s a massively popular tradition with everyone, and it marks the ‘real’ start of Christmas, even though all the shops will already be selling gifts and cards well before then.
I spot myself reflected in the large window, almost perfectly mirrored by the blackness outside, and think of a time, less than a year ago, when I wasn’t part of the celebrations but an outsider left in the cold. A lump forms in my throat.
‘How many are you expecting?’ Cal calls to me from the servery where he’s filling two jugs with water.
Shaking off the memory of darker times, I join him. ‘A dozen, maybe a few more. I looked at the list and recognised a few of the names. Local businesspeople, councillors, fishermen and the vicar. Are you definitely staying for the meeting?’ I ask Cal.
‘Normally I’d rather stick pins in my eyeballs than join a committee, but I’ll make an exception for this one. A lot of the people coming will want to ask questions about Kilhallon. Some of them came to our promo event in August and they’ll be keen to see how we’re doing. Or not.’ He smiles wryly, knowing a couple of the committee members run holiday-let businesses themselves.
He tears open a blue bag of ice and empties the cubes into the water jugs. ‘Besides, Mum was on the committee for a few years before she became ill. She helped with the fundraising and used to really enjoy it. I think it was a welcome distraction from Dad’s shenanigans.’
Cal doesn’t mention his late mother very often but I know he misses her. ‘I didn’t know she was part of it. She’d be pleased you’re keeping up the tradition.’
‘Yeah, well, Dad couldn’t be arsed to help out so maybe I should do it, if only to show them how much Kilhallon has changed. We should mention our bookings are healthy, of course, even if it’s not strictly accurate, but that we also want to do our bit for community spirit.’ He winks at me. I envy his lashes, damn him.
‘There are some lemon slices in a tub at the bottom of the fridge,’ I say, feeling myself growing warm again as I think of Cal’s eyes on me,
