Christmas at the Cornish Café: A heart-warming holiday read for fans of Poldark

‘What’s up?’ he asks.

The second batch of pies will definitely be burned if I let on to him how turned on I am. ‘Nothing. Just thinking how wet you are, that’s all.’

He glares at me, but even his glares are sexy. ‘It’s not funny.’

‘I think you looking like a drowned rat – or hamster – is very funny.’

With another stern look that turns me into a puddle, he bends down to take off his Hunters. ‘Any more cheek, Ms Jones, and I may have to sack you.’

The mention of cheek makes me think of his gorgeous bottom, not to mention the warmth of his hand on mine. His arse is thrust into the air as he pulls off his wellies, grunting with the effort. I scoop up his jacket from the tiles and add it to the others hanging in the vestibule that separates the reception area from the main Kilhallon House. Cal pops his mud-spattered Hunters in the drip tray by the kitchen door.

‘I wonder if there’s a Mrs Bannen somewhere,’ he says.

‘He didn’t mention one.’

‘No girlfriend or boyfriend? Both?’ His espresso-coloured eyes hold a hint of mischief.

‘He did say “everyone calls me Kit” so he must have some friends and family. He definitely didn’t want to talk about his work though, so I think he’s had a stressful time in London.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Cal says, standing on the tiles in his woolly hiking socks with a grimace on his tanned face. Even the sight of those rugged socks are turning me on which must mean I’ve got it very bad. At least he doesn’t know quite how bad. Cal and I have been rubbing along in this relationship for the past few weeks. It’s as rocky and twisty-turny as the coastal path, and as uncertain as the weather in our part of the county. One day there are storms between us, the next clear blue skies – and sometimes four seasons in one day. There’s no formal arrangement between us and I have no intention of moving into Kilhallon House itself, but while Polly is away, we sneak nights together in his bed.

You see, Cal may be more than a boss but he’s also not entirely mine. Not that he’s actually sleeping with anyone else, but only part of him belongs to me. His socks, perhaps … if I’m lucky. You see, I still suspect his heart lies with his ex, even though he said that I’d made a mark on him and he begged me to stay just a few weeks ago.

My stomach clenches at the reminder of how new and fragile our relationship is. I remind myself not to start getting any stupid ideas about Cal that involve hearts and flowers, let alone love and marriage.

‘How were the group who’ve rented the yurts?’ I ask him, refocusing on the business at hand, not his sexy socks or his top-notch arse. ‘I was wondering how you’d got on with them. How horrible for them that they travelled here in this crap weather.’

‘They weren’t quite as easily pacified as your mate “Kit”. In fact, judging by their faces and the fact the kids were crying and begging Mummy to take them “to a proper house with real walls”, I’m not sure they’re entirely happy. I’ve had to leave them to settle in, and at least the weather’s improving, they should cheer up soon.’

He lifts up his foot. ‘Damn it, my socks are soaked. I think my boxers might be wet too.’

The heat from the Aga curls around us and steam rises from Cal’s damp T-shirt.

I can’t hide my giggle. ‘You look like Mitch after he’s jumped in a rock pool. You’d better get changed while I make a hot coffee, then you can tell me all about the yurt people.’

‘And you can tell me more about your mate Kit.’

‘He’s not my mate.’

I can’t see Cal’s face as he heads out of the kitchen but I can picture that self-satisfied grin of pleasure at winding me up. At least he cares that Kit might have chatted me up, even if all Kit was really interested in was getting some alcohol and calories down his neck as fast as possible.

Ten minutes later, the tinny intro to ‘Last Christmas’ tinkles through the kitchen. Cal leans against the door frame, drying his hair on a towel. Thank goodness he decided to put a T-shirt on. He frowns. ‘What are you doing? And why the crappy music?’

‘The crappy music you’re referring to, though that’s open to debate, is my Christmas cafe mix and I’m getting into the festive spirit.’

His gaze travels slowly and deliberately from my toes, past my skinny jeans and Kilhallon Park T-shirt to my face.

‘In an elf apron and a Santa hat?’

I plant my hands on my hips. ‘Are you complaining?’

‘Not at all,’ he says, with the lop-sided smile that never ceases to make my insides tingle. His voice is as rich and delicious as the spices in my mincemeat, though I’d rather die than tell him either of those things, of course.

‘You can give me a hand with these,’ I say, nodding to the cooling rack on top of the Aga and handing him a tray from the oven. While Cal transfers the mince pies from the tin to the rack, I rescue the second and final batch from the oven.

‘Is that the last batch?’ Cal asks, dumping the empty pie tins in the Belfast sink.

‘Yes, thanks.’ While I untie the strings of my apron and hang it on the back of the door that leads into the hallway, I know Cal’s eyes will be fixed on my rear, which is a delicious thought although it makes me self-conscious. By the time I turn back to him, however, he’s holding up a cake net and sniffing the plate of crumble-topped pies that was under it.

‘You’ve been busy. It smells great in here.’

‘I’ve been trying out some recipes for the cafe in between checking in the guests. You know we’re going to do most of our own baking, but we’ll have to buy in some of it from outside. Sheila’s going to provide the pasties and the St Trenyan bakery will help with the bread. There’s a young food blogger near St Just who’s going to help out too, when we’re really busy.’

‘What about this lot? Do I get to try some?’ His hand snakes towards the cooling rack. I bat it away. ‘I’m not complaining, but isn’t it a bit early for mince pies?’

‘That’s what Kit said, but these are for work, not pleasure. I’m going to take some shots for our social media pages. Twitter, Instagram and the blog, you know? Maybe make some promotional memes on Canva and I must upload the pics to Pinterest. Have you forgotten that Demelza’s opens the day after tomorrow? I’ve been trialling some seasonal bakes and we need to get people in the mood for booking festive breaks.’

‘I hear you about the cafe, but Pinterest? Canva memes? I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Yes, you do. You just pretend you don’t so you don’t have to spend hours on the Internet.’

He sneaks a pie and bites into it. ‘Fu … ow! Thasstillverhot.’ He pants and dances the other half of the stolen pie from one palm to the other. Crumbs scatter onto the tiles.

‘Serves you right. You couldn’t wait, could you?’

He winks. ‘You know me so well.’

Correction, I think, I know him better. Since I started working at Kilhallon at Easter, I’ve come to realise that no one knows Cal well, not even the people who’ve grown up with him in the little Cornish village of St Trenyan. I don’t think his own family know him completely. Which makes me a total novice in the ways of Cal Penwith, apart from the ways in which I now know him intimately, of course.

Cal blows on the other half of the pie and finishes it in a couple of bites while I cover the rest of them with a clean tea towel and switch on the kettle. After baking all morning, and checking in Kit, I’m more than happy to take a break with Cal while I have the chance. Once the cafe is open and our other guests start arriving over the next few days, I doubt if we’ll have a moment to breathe, let alone share a mince pie and coffee.

‘Want a coffee and another sample?’

‘Thanks, but I’ll make the coffee.’

He scrapes his chair back and fills the kettle while I clean up the table. The oak surface is dusted with flour and scraps of pastry plus the debris of my baking: a beige pastry bowl, old-fashioned scales, a floury wooden rolling pin and old-fashioned pastry cutters in the shape of stars and hearts. I rescued them all from various corners of the farmhouse kitchen and outbuildings when we cleared out decades of junk while we were refurbishing Kilhallon Park over the summer. Cal’s family hadn’t thrown anything away for fifty years, judging by the junk that was piled high in the old barn and workshop and offices.

I hand Cal a flowery china plate with a crumble-topped tart on it. It just happens to have a heart-shaped crust.

He pushes away the Kilner jar of mincemeat to make room for the plate. ‘My, this is posh.’

‘It was one of your mum’s, I think. I found the service in the back of the dresser in the sitting room.’

‘Yes, I remember it … it was a wedding present from Uncle Rory and Auntie Fiona, but Mum never wanted to use it. I think it’s called Old Country Roses. Dad put it away after she died. He said it might get broken, but I think the real reason was because he couldn’t bear to be reminded of her.’ Cal brushes his finger over the gold rim. ‘Probably felt guilty,’ he adds.

Cal’s father died a couple of years ago, and his mum passed away when he was still a teenager. His parents’ marriage was a troubled one. His father worshipped his mum but still had a string of affairs. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why Cal’s own love life has been stormy too. As for losing our mothers when we were young – we have that in common. Mine lost her battle with cancer when I was a teenager and I haven’t seen my dad and brother for ages, but that’s by choice. I ran away from home when I was eighteen. Some people might say that’s why we’re drawn to each other, Cal and I: we share a bond; troubled childhoods, less than ideal family lives.

He pulls me into his arms for a long, warm snog that makes me tingle from head to toe. Phew, it’s not only the Aga that’s making it so hot in here.

‘The pies pass the test then?’ I say when I can finally breathe again. ‘The mincemeat is homemade from my Nana Demelza’s recipe, but I added a local fruit cider for a Cornish twist.’

He licks his lips. ‘Mmm. Cider mincemeat. Nice. They’re delicious, but I may have a burnt tongue.’

I roll my eyes. ‘As if I care.’

‘You know you do.’ With another wicked smile, Cal kisses me again. Tiny flakes of pastry cling to his lips. His mouth is still warm from the pie and tastes sweet and buttery. If I don’t push him away now, we might end up in bed in the middle of the day and I have way too much to do.

With the greatest reluctance, I end the kiss, but Cal keeps his hands around my waist and they feel as if they belong there – have always belonged there – which is a dangerous thought. Cal belongs to no woman or man.

‘Cal, I have so much to do. As well as the cafe stuff, the other guests will be here on Friday afternoon and the other two cottages still aren’t ready. With Polly away, we need to dress the beds and finish hanging the curtains in the bedroom of Warleggan and I still need to do extra shopping for the welcome hamper.’

‘I’ll help you with the curtains and Polly will be back from her daughter’s tomorrow to lend us a hand. So now you have no excuse not to get naked with me.’

‘Naked? What if one of the guests turns up in reception and finds us in bed in the middle of the afternoon?’ I say, picturing Kit Bannen dinging the bell and being answered by creaking floorboards and a When Harry Met Sally re-enactment.

Cal waggles his eyebrows. ‘Who mentioned bed? I was thinking of taking you in the kitchen.’

‘You can’t!’ But even the mention of bed and taking me in the kitchen is driving me insane. My body zings with a peppery lust that’s both sharp and delicious. He blows softly in the v-neck of my T-shirt, cooling the hot skin of my cleavage, but heating up every other part of me.

‘I have to face the yurt family as soon as we’re finished. Come on, this may be our last chance for a while …’ Cal says.

Now, this, I cannot deny.

‘Not for long, then …’

He runs his palm over my bare thigh. ‘Oh, don’t worry, the way you’re making me feel, it won’t take long … but would you mind very much if we do it without the Santa hat?’

CHAPTER THREE

On Wednesday morning I skip down the farmhouse stairs after taking a shower in the bathroom of Kilhallon House. Polly arrives later today so I stayed over at the farmhouse last night while I had the chance. Cal lives in the main house, but, of course, I have my own little cottage across the yard. It’s tiny and the décor’s straight from the seventies: a crazy mix of clashing florals, but I love having my independence.

My place is one of a row of old farm buildings that was converted for the staff that used to work at the original caravan site in the seventies. We’re converting two of the others into low-cost guest accommodation because Cal wanted to offer something at Kilhallon to suit all budgets, not only catering for people with more cash to spend on their holidays. For those who can afford luxury, there are also four larger ‘premium’ cottages on the estate that have been renovated over the summer ready for our first guests – one of which is occupied by Kit.

When I walk into the kitchen, Cal is scrolling through his phone. His hair is still damp from the shower and he’s pulled on a crumpled but clean blue long-sleeved T-shirt and cargo pants. Bare footed, he pads over the tiles and pours a glass of water from the tap. Mitch wanders into the kitchen from the yard too and also heads straight for his water bowl, slurping noisily and splashing droplets over the tiles.

The morning sun streams in through the open door. It’s warmer in here than yesterday, or perhaps I’m glowing after my night-time ‘exercise’. Cal puts down his glass of water and kisses me. The scent of his woody body spray fills my senses, but Cal pulls a regretful face. ‘Sorry I have to leave you, but I need to go down to the yurt field to make sure our guests haven’t decided to leave after the overnight showers. How about dinner here at the house tonight? There’s a nice bottle of Cornish fizz in the fridge.’

‘That’s a free sample from the vineyard that I was going to put in one of the welcome hampers for the guests. Sorry, but I’ll be way too busy to stop for dinner. The cafe’s opening tomorrow and there’s still stuff to do.’

‘What stuff?’

‘I need to clean the floor because the tiler only finished yesterday and it’s still dusty. Then there’s the blackboard to chalk up with the specials because I won’t have time tomorrow, and there’s still a drinks delivery to put away and I need to email everyone to make sure they’re still going to turn up and that no one’s had cold feet about working for us.’

Cal opens his mouth. ‘Why would—’

‘And the courier dropped off the new cafe uniforms here yesterday and they all need ironing. And I still haven’t written a blog post about opening day or scheduled my tweets and I’ll have to upload some photos to Instagram and I need to email the ad department at Cornish Lifestyle to say we do want to be in their pre-Christmas dining feature because the copy deadline was last night and I’m already late.’

Cal holds up both hands. ‘Whoa.’

‘So I can’t have dinner with you this evening no matter how much I’d love to.’

He puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘I’ve worked that much out for myself. Tell you what, why don’t we take a picnic down to the cafe and I’ll help you get ready.’

‘You’ll write the ad copy and upload my photos?’

‘No, but I’ll clean the floor, put away the drinks order and iron the aprons.’

‘You do ironing?’

He tuts. ‘That’s sexist, Ms Jones. I can iron. I did work in a warzone for several years, you know.’

‘Yes, but I don’t expect there was much call for ironing in the desert, was there?’

He smiles. ‘Not often, no. Either way, we’re in this together. I’ll deal with the yurt people and clean the washroom block.’

I pull a face, glad this isn’t my job.

‘And then I’ll meet you at the cafe.’

By late afternoon, the sun is sinking and the horizon is tinged with orange and pink. The lights are on in Demelza’s, highlighting the sparkling clean floor as Cal hangs the last of the freshly pressed Demelza’s aprons on a peg in the staff room.

All our perishables and groceries are stored in the correct places and the new steel kitchen gleams so brightly you can see your face in the surfaces. I’ve double checked the fresh and chilled stores and chalked up the specials on the blackboard. In the end, Cal helped me write some copy for an ad and he’s now sending a ‘friendly’ mass text to make sure the staff are OK and ready for tomorrow.

Throughout the day, I’ve been working on my blog and scheduling some posts for social media. I suspect that it’s going to take all my ‘days off’ when the cafe is closed to get through the admin and marketing.

Cal scrolls through his phone where he keeps an app to keep track of the park bookings. ‘Great. We’ve just had an Internet booking for Poldark Cottage and had an enquiry about two of the yurts from a family who want to celebrate a fortieth birthday party here next weekend. I’ll have to tell the large party that they can have the yurts at the far end of the copse, away from the other two. We don’t want complaints when we’ve promised people peace and tranquillity, but we don’t want to lose a big booking like this.’

‘Oh. If it’s a party, they might want catering provided too.’

‘I’m sure they will, but don’t take too much on yet. You’ve got enough to do with the cafe opening tomorrow. I don’t want the cafe manager having a meltdown in the middle of us launching the empire, do I?’

‘You’re all heart,’ I say, but I know he means it and I must admit, I’ve been feeling knackered lately, even though I’m ‘living the dream’ right now. I’ve come so far from the day I lost my job and my home and ended up sleeping in the doorway of a fish and chip shop in St Trenyan.

Mitch woofs a hello from the corner. He seems totally at home in the cafe, which is great. Canine comfort is one of our USPs. Demelza’s is even going to have a special doggy treats menu for all the four-legged guests who will stay at the park and take their owners on a walk along the coastal path that runs past the cafe.

Cal crouches down to stroke Mitch’s ears. Mitch turns his head this way and that, closing his eyes in pleasure at Cal’s touch. Did I say Mitch was my dog? Even though he’s faithful to me and has stuck with me through a tough couple of years, he’s rapidly becoming our dog: mine and Cal’s dog, even Polly’s dog at times, though she pretends she doesn’t like animals at all, apart from her hens. I caught her sneaking him a treat from the jar when she thought I wasn’t looking, and she let him sit next to her on the sofa while she was watching Countryfile on iPlayer the night before she went to visit her daughter.

Mitch and I, we’ve become as much a part of Kilhallon as the stone house, or the holiday cottages or the cafe.

‘How are the opening-day plans going? Is there anything else I can do to help?’ Cal says.

‘I’m sure there’ll be tons tomorrow. We’ll be chasing our own tails,’ I reply, and Mitch wags his as if he can understand me. ‘I’ve tried to think of everything but there are bound to be hitches and teething problems until we’ve actually served some real customers.’

‘Let’s hope the weather keeps improving so we have lots of people out on the coastal path. The walking festival run by the tourist board should help,’ Cal says.

‘I hope that dog-friendly cafe-trail website and leaflet I signed up to pays off. It’s hard knowing what marketing is worth spending my precious budget on. I’m bombarded with sales people and emails wanting me to part with cash all the time. I guess we’re going to make mistakes along the way. Although I’ve worked in a few cafes now and done so much research and talked to other owners, I still have so much to learn.’

‘Will Eva Spero be coming?’ Cal pops the leftover crust of a cheese and bacon pasty in his mouth. We ate them cold with pickles and salad, washed down with cider.

‘I don’t know. She’s still a bit miffed with me for turning down her job offer, although she said we can work together on the homemade dog treats book and possibly launch them into the market. I’ve had to put it on hold for now, until I’ve got Demelza’s up and running.’ I shrug off a pang of regret about turning down Eva Spero’s offer of a job at her restaurant in Brighton. It was my decision, even though Cal also wanted me to stay here at Kilhallon and run Demelza’s. Then, of course, there’s the small matter of my being in love with him …

Cal pulls me into his arms and for a few moments I enjoy the warmth and comfort of his gorgeous body against mine. I can’t believe how far I’ve come. The project I’ve started overwhelms me sometimes and I have the urge to run away instead of facing down the great big wave that’s rushing towards me, faster and faster.

‘I’d better get some work done,’ I say, escaping his embrace before I’m lost again. ‘Then I really do need an early night.’

He folds his arms, a gesture that only shows off his magnificent guns, honed by all the outdoor work and labour he’s put in on the renovation of the park since he returned from working in a refugee camp in the Middle East. ‘Of course,’ he says with the kind of serious face that’s even sexier than his smile. Despite all my resolve, I know an early night will mean going to bed with him.

Cal scratches Mitch’s belly. ‘If the cottages let, they let, and if they don’t, then we mustn’t panic. Same with the customers for the cafe. It’s going to take time to build up our custom and reputation … and it might be better not to have full occupancy to start with while we learn the ropes.’

I turn away to find the keys, ready to lock up.

‘By the way, I meant to tell you, Isla called me earlier,’ he says.

At the mention of this name, my stomach tightens. ‘Did she?’

‘She’s coming down here from London in a couple of weeks’ time.’

Mitch snickers and yips like Scooby Doo on Red Bull as Cal fusses him. My stomach ties itself in even tighter knots. I knew it had to come sometime. I knew that she’d be back, but I haven’t heard Cal talk about his ex-girlfriend and childhood sweetheart since she left Cornwall a few weeks ago. Even though Isla has been kind to me in the past, part of me hoped she might not come back at all.

I keep my voice casual. ‘Does she still want to use Kilhallon for the film shoot?’

Cal glances up at me. Is that relief on his face that I haven’t reacted to his news, or have I imagined it?

‘Yes. She wants to use the ruined tin mine as a backdrop, and possibly the exterior of the cafe for the filming. Isla says that the far, gabled end could still double up as a farm barn for some of the scenes. She said that Bonnie and Clyde will also want to come and visit to discuss their hand-fasting arrangements at some point.’

These are codenames we’re all using for the very famous and very actor friends of Isla’s. Did I mention she’s a film producer? A stunning, blonde, award-winning film producer with some seriously A-list mates. Two of her friends plan on holding their wedding celebrations at Kilhallon next year, although the engagement is secret for now.

‘Why did Polly call them Bonnie and Clyde – who are Bonnie and Clyde?’ I ask Cal.

‘They were gangster lovers so I think the nicknames are Polly’s little joke. I don’t think she approves of hand fasting. What the hell is a hand fasting, anyway? Sounds like a cross between a DIY skill and an obscene practice. If it is rude, even I’ve never heard of it.’

Cal succeeds in making me laugh out loud even though the thought of catering for a celebrity wedding makes me nervous.

‘So you’re cool with Isla and her crew descending?’ Cal adds, laughing as Mitch moans in delight under his expert belly rubs. How, I ask myself, did my faithful hound turn into such a tart?