he was like that with me once, before everything went downhill for us all. I’ve also made contact again with my older brother, Kyle. He’s in the army and I hadn’t seen him for ages, but we’ve now exchanged emails so the ice is broken.
We’ve moved on in other ways over the winter. Cal has completed the renovation of our final set of cottages so now we have eight in total, plus eight yurts which we’ll pitch again in our glamping field ready for Easter. Our main camping field has another thirty pitches and will also open again at Easter. It’s strange to see the cottage I used to live in redecorated in a simple but contemporary style. The flowery 1970s decor has been painted over with neutral tones and the creaking furniture replaced with inky blue sofas and functional wood. Cal’s done a great job on a budget but I can’t help feeling he’s removed a little too much of the quirky personality of what was my first real home for years. Moving out of it and into the farmhouse with Cal was a big step for me as it meant losing some of my hard-won independence.
The BMW rolls into the car park and there’s still no sign of Cal and no answers to my frantic texts. Luckily, I know that Nina, one of my staff, has arrived early at the cafe to help with the refreshments so Cal and I can focus on looking after Ben and Lily. I’ve texted her to warn her they’re early so at least we’ll have a cosy welcome ready for them in Demelza’s.
There’s still not a whiff of Cal so it looks like I’m on my own – again. Breathe.
The gleaming BMW comes to a halt next to Cal’s dilapidated Defender. Fixing on my cheeriest, sunniest smile, I march over as a man mountain with a shaved head eases out of the driver’s seat.
He opens the rear passenger door wide and stands back.
Two long, slim legs encased in black skinny jeans emerge from the door and a guy a few years older than me drops neatly down to the gravel. He wears a black leather jacket over a black sweater, with Stan Smiths on his feet that are almost as white as his teeth. He glances around him. I can’t see his eyes because of his Aviators but I can see myself reflected in them: my hair’s a wild tangle, my face as pale as the moon framed by the furry trim of my hood.
Pushing the hood off my hair, I come face to face with Ben Trevone, the ludicrously handsome action-hero lead of Knife Edge, heart-throb star of Desperate Poets and voice of a heroic sea otter in the Oscar-nominated animation Ocean Furries. Unlike Cal, I do go to the cinema with my mates, although I admit I borrowed Ocean Furries from one of the kids who was evacuated here after the Christmas floods so I could swot up on Ben Trevone’s latest film.
With a smile that makes my jaw ache, I hold out my hand. ‘Welcome to Kilhallon!’
Ignoring my hand, Ben looks around him. His dazzling teeth gleam against a tan he definitely didn’t get on a Cornish beach. He is very handsome in a smooth, ‘boy band’ way, though not as hunky as he looked in Knife Edge. On the other hand, I’m glad he isn’t armed to the teeth with an AK-47 and a selection of knives.
‘So this is, like, it?’ he asks in an accent that’s a mix of his native Cornish and an American twang – which you don’t hear every day, especially not in St Trenyan.
Panicking inside, I shove my hands in my pockets. ‘Well, er … like, yes.’
He switches his focus from me to the farmhouse and the barn and Cal’s Land Rover. We’ve done a lot of work on Kilhallon but suddenly every slightly wonky plank, moss-covered roof and rusty bumper pops out at me.
‘Uh huh,’ he says.
‘Are we there yet, Ben?’ a thin, small voice pipes up from the far rear passenger seat. Oh, so maybe Lily Craig isn’t with him after all and he’s decided to bring his little sister.
‘Seems like it,’ he says, without turning around as their minder toes a puddle with his biker boot.
‘Can I come out now, then?’ the little voice trills from the depths of the car.
‘If you want, babe, but it’s enough to freeze your bollocks off,’ Ben calls back, craning his neck to look beyond me towards the sea.
‘It is very cold today. There’s been a storm, you see, but in summer, it’s gorgeous up here and I’m sure the weather will be fantastic for your wedding.’
‘Handfasting.’ Ben spits out the word in his Knife Edge voice. Given that he played a robotic ex-soldier primed to wreak revenge on his enemies, I find this slightly disturbing.
‘Handfasting. Of course. As it’s a bit … um … chilly, why don’t we go straight to Demelza’s, our onsite catering centre?’ I babble, making it up as I go along. ‘My team will have hot chocolate and cakes waiting.’
‘Tell her I don’t do dairy,’ the voice pipes up.
Oh God, it must be Lily.
‘Lily doesn’t do dairy,’ says Ben solemnly.
‘I know and I’ve planned for that. There are plenty of dairy-free alternatives at the cafe and we can also discuss the menus and decorations for your celebration. We’ll be much cosier there. You don’t even have to get out of the car, I can show you the way,’ I call above a fresh gust of wind so that the little voice can hear me.
Ben glances over my head towards the track that leads down to Demelza’s, then at his minder.
‘That OK, Harry?’
Harry, the minder, nods slowly. His head is shaven like Jake Gyllenhaal’s in Jarhead but he’s at least a head taller and three stone heavier than Jake must be. The material of his long-sleeved grey T-shirt strains over his huge biceps as if he has a grapefruit stuffed down there. He makes Ben look like a Munchkin.
‘OK, guys, let’s do this,’ says Ben as if he’s about to confront the forces of darkness rather than a hot chocolate and one of my scones.
Ben climbs back inside the BMW and Harry shuts the door, leaving me shivering on the gravel. Harry then opens the passenger side door. He says nothing but nods at me through his own black shades, which must surely be illegal for driving in our dark Cornish winters. Mind you, for all I know he could be wearing eyeliner and false lashes under them, which would be very, very funny.
Squashing down a giggle, which is definitely from nerves not excitement, I take the hint and climb inside the BMW. I sink into the leather seats and Harry points a single finger at the track that leads from the side of the car park down to the cafe. Why doesn’t he speak? Maybe he can’t speak? Feeling slightly guilty in case he really is a mute, I nod vigorously and point in the same direction.
And we’re off, bumping gently down the short track to the cafe. No one says a word but I’m thinking plenty of them. One, Cal had better turn up pretty soon or I will kill him, and two, when he does turn up I will kill him anyway for getting us into this totally weird wedding situation.
Crossing my fingers, toes and any other bits, I tell myself that the only way is up from this beginning. Demelza’s has been closed for a few days as it’s our quietest time of year. Thank goodness I laid out the wedding presentation last night and didn’t leave it until today. Beyond that, I’m praying that Nina and Shamia have had time to get the food on as I promised our guests.
Lights glow in the windows of the cafe, which was converted from an old storage barn last summer. Its stone walls look strong
