can wait.’
He shuts the door behind us while I pull off my Demelza’s sweatshirt and T-shirt. Cal unzips his jeans and slips them down, along with his boxers. Still standing, with me braced against the lockers, Cal lifts me onto him. We’re face to face and then he’s inside me. I melt like butter on a hot scone under his touch and close my eyes to everything around me. The cafe, the lights, the dark night, the world, all are gone in those few intense, nerve-jangling seconds. There’s only me and Cal, one person, for a brief, dark, hot moment. I wish it could go on and on.
‘Whew.’
My face rests on his shoulder, my cheek skimming the soft wool cotton of his sweater. His fingers rest lightly on my back, beneath my shoulder blades and he whispers to me as I come back to awareness, like a swimmer surfacing in the cove to the sky.
‘Demi, I’ve been thinking.’ His voice is tender, serious and I’m not used to that.
‘Always dangerous,’ I breathe, still half-drowsy after the intensity.
‘That maybe, we should think about, if you don’t mind, well …’
My eyes are open. His phone buzzes again. It’s closer now. I hadn’t realised he’d even picked it up or brought it with him.
‘Damn it.’ Almost falling over, tangled by the jeans still around his ankles, he pulls up his jeans and delves in the pocket. ‘Bloody thing.’
Leave it, I say silently. Leave it and say what’s on your mind.
He glares at his phone, and he mouths at me, ‘Sorry,’ then: ‘Hello, Isla, no, I’m not busy. How are you?’
I don’t think he’s realised that he’s turned his back on me as if he doesn’t want me to hear his conversation. While he’s talking to her, his jeans slip down his hips again, leaving his pants halfway up his muscular bottom. I struggle back into my top and sweatshirt and slip past him into the tiny washroom. I close the door but can hear him, ‘hmm-ing’ and ‘OK-ing’ and the odd ‘fine’ and the final ‘OK, take care, see you soon’.
He comes out into the cafe while I scoop coffee into the filter machine. There’s no time to make cappuccinos and lattes tonight.
‘Sorry for that,’ he says. ‘It was Isla, making arrangements to come down for the shoot in a few weeks’ time. It means opening the cafe especially, because she asked if you’d cater for the cast and crew for the day. It’s extra work, but they have a decent budget and she thought we might as well have the business rather than handing it over to the outside caterers. Will that be OK?’
‘That’s awesome.’ I try to sound cheerful, because we do need the business and the publicity during and after the shoot and when the series – a historical drama about a highwayman and his aristocratic mistress – is aired will be priceless. Isla’s going to be here anyway so we may as well profit from it. It is good of her to help us – Cal – out.
‘It’s only for a day, possibly a day and a half, depending on the weather.’
‘Great. Did you know your flies are still undone?’
‘Hell. No.’ He glances down and then up at me, a wicked grin on his face. ‘That would have shocked the vicar. She’s on the committee.’
‘I’m sure she’s seen it all before. Is that headlights?’
Through the window, I spot twin white beams wavering as a vehicle makes its way over the bumpy track from the farm. The road will serve as access to the camping field in the summer but it’s not exactly public-highway standard yet. Behind the lights, I spot two more sets of lamps. The first car stops a few feet from the cafe.
Cal goes to unlock the door and groans. ‘Please, no …’
‘What?’
‘That’s Mawgan’s car.’
‘No. God, I had no idea she was on the committee.’
‘She isn’t, according to the minutes they sent me. What the hell is she doing here?’
‘I don’t know, but we’re about to find out.’
‘Hello, Demi, how nice to see you again.’
‘Mawgan,’ I reply through gritted teeth while she pulls off crimson leather gloves. ‘What a surprise. We didn’t know you were on the Harbour Lights committee.’
She throws us an angelic smile. ‘Well, strictly speaking, I’m not, because I’m far too busy for a regular commitment, but Cade Developments is making a significant contribution to the fund this year so the chairwoman invited me to join you tonight.’
‘Great,’ says Cal, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
‘Cade Developments takes its responsibility to the local community very seriously,’ Mawgan adds, dropping her gloves on a table and peering over Cal’s shoulder at the cafe.
Yeah, by hiking up rents, blocking our plans and intimidating local people, I think, not that we can prove any of it. I’m amazed the Harbour Lights committee has allowed Mawgan to contribute, though I guess they can’t afford not to, in all kinds of ways.
‘Cade Developments only has a responsibility to make money no matter what the cost to the community,’ Cal replies. ‘So what are you really doing here, Mawgan. Spying?’
‘Cal. We have more customers. Help yourself to refreshments,’ I say to Mawgan, steering Cal towards the door before we all come to blows, verbal or otherwise.
A glamorous forty-something lady in a leather biker jacket, pointy snakeskin boots and a dog collar sashays in. It’s the Reverend Beverley Fritton, the vicar of St Trenyan. If the Rev Bev recognises me, she doesn’t let on. She once bought me a coffee and gave Mitch a meal, all without trying to convert me to anything other than Game of Thrones. She and her much younger curate, who I suspect is also much more than her assistant, made me hot rum chocolate and let me and Mitch bunk down in her snug for the night. She may have forgotten me, but I haven’t forgotten her.
‘Wow, this is awesome,’ she declares in her broad Birmingham accent, her auburn ponytail swinging round as she does a 360-degree twirl in the middle of the cafe. She sniffs the air and sighs in ecstasy. ‘And what is that amazing smell? Did I forget to set my alarm and wake up on Christmas Eve?’
‘They’re mincemeat cookies: very easy to make. I can let you have the recipe.’
‘I’d love it, though I can barely boil an egg. This place was a wreck of an old barn when I was last up here. What an amazing transformation, isn’t it, Mawgan?’
Though I can tell it’s killing her, even Mawgan wouldn’t be openly catty in front of the Rev Bev and she grinds out a reply. ‘It is. Who’d have ever thought a wreck like Kilhallon would scrub up so well?’
My reply, also involving scrubbers, is a nano-second from escaping my lips, but it’s Cal’s turn to shoot
