The Little Cornish Kitchen: A heartwarming and funny romance set in Cornwall

Sophie’s on her feet. ‘I know exactly what you mean, Plum. It’s the kind of place that makes you want to come back again and again. Way too good for Charlie Hobnob.’ She’s scooping up Maisie from the sofa. ‘We’ll bring the food, Clemmie, be ready. Brainstorming begins at eleven sharp tomorrow. This is one fight I promise we’ll win.’

So, it’s official. We’re going into battle. That’s Sophie all over. But right now, all I can think of is making my way to the pink haven of the bedroom, and crawling under the quilt.

7

In the flat at Seaspray Cottage

Ice cubes and cold feet

Saturday

I’m standing on the balcony next morning, breathing in the sharp salty air, watching the figures along the water’s edge and the sand clouds whipping up the beach. It turns out ten minutes of having your face blown off is a great way to wake up even if it makes your hair go wild. I’m just about to go inside when a shout drifts up from the garden.

‘Hi, Clemmie, how was your first night at Seaspray Cottage?’

Peering down, I catch sight of a grey wagging tail, then Charlie comes into view, craning his neck to look up, blinking in the sunlight.

‘Great, thanks.’ I’m not telling him that once I’d slept off the beer and champagne, the waves crashing up the beach kept me awake until the tide went out again. Give me the lull of traffic and police sirens any night. ‘How did you know I stayed?’ As if me standing out here at the crack of dawn wasn’t enough of a clue.

If it was anyone other than Charlie, I’d swear he let out a chortle. ‘I reckon the whole of St Aidan hears when you pull that flush of yours. I’m assuming it was you in the bathroom in the night, not intruders?’

Shit. If the sea making it impossible to sleep wasn’t enough to put me off the flat, Charlie Hobson counting every time I visit the loo takes away all the enjoyment of my first night ever with my very own bathroom and spare bedroom. Although I’m determined not to let myself get used to it, a whole flat all to myself, not sharing a loo, with rooms to wander through is beyond awesome. ‘Off for your morning walk?’ Hopefully that’ll take us somewhere less cringeworthy than him knowing how often I pee.

That sounds like another half-laugh. ‘Diesel and I had our morning walk hours ago, this is our lunchtime one.’

Damn again. When did it get so late? ‘Jeez, I’d better go.’

He steps backwards and looks out along the quayside. ‘Nell and Sophie are on their way now. It looks like they’re carrying the entire morning’s output from the bakery.’

‘Thanks for the running commentary.’ As nosey neighbours go he’s scoring a straight ten here. My ‘against’ list is getting longer by the second.

‘You’re welcome, any time.’ He’s missing the irony again. ‘By the way, there’s no need for you to shiver out here doing your Bridget Jones impersonation. There are some silk dressing gowns hanging behind the door in your bathroom.’

I’m gobsmacked, but I ignore the urge to run. Instead I give my long cardi an extra tug downwards and face him out. ‘How the hell do you know that?’ Even if my pants were on show – which they’re absolutely not – I’ve no worries about minimalism or over-exposure because my granny knicker shorts almost reach up to my boobs.

He’s already backing off along the path towards the bay. ‘Laura’s tenant did a lot of tidying before she left, we saw the bath robes when Diesel and I were round for tea one day. Anyway, we must go.’ No doubt he’s rushing off before Sophie comes close enough to collar him. ‘Enjoy your lunch.’

I give the girls a wave, then dip inside. By the time they burst in from the landing I’ve had time to dive into yesterday’s dress, flick on enough eyeliner and mascara to make it look like I have actual eyes rather than slits, and use up the whole of my handbag perfume.

‘Shall we eat at the table in the kitchen?’ I rake my fingers through my hair and bundle it into a bun with a scrunchie, then do a double take because that’s not a sentence I’ve ever said before. One night staying in a flat that’s almost all mine and I’m already sounding like I shop at Waitrose.

‘Good idea, then Matilde can do her colouring while we chat.’ Sophie leads the way and pulls out the fuchsia chair for her. ‘Your favourite colour, how lucky is that Tilly?’ She pulls a face. ‘Four kids in, I’ve decided you can’t fight gender stereotyping. Tilly was screaming for pink as they brandished the forceps.’

As Tilly slips off her unicorn backpack, scrambles up and spreads out her felt tips, it hits me I must have done the same thing at the same table when I was Tilly’s size. As Plum slides in to draw her some butterflies to colour, Nell’s getting her apple juice and waffles, and I’m plumping her cushion, making her comfy. When I think of how much love we all have for Tilly, it reminds me of the look on Laura’s face on the photo in the musical box. She must have done a lot more with me than I realise when I was small. Love comes from so many different places, but having it in our lives makes us who we are. For a second I’m overwhelmed by the feeling, and it’s like an unexpected gift to be back here having a chance to revisit everything Laura gave me.

‘Coffee’s the priority.’ Nell throws a pack on the worktop, and fills the kettle. ‘Let’s hope you’ve got a pot here, Clemmie.’

Sophie’s unpacking the bags onto platters she’s found on the dresser. ‘We’ve also brought every kind of breakfast pastry the bakery makes.’

‘Yummy.’ I’m bobbing in and out of cupboards and scouring the shelves for plates and mugs. ‘It’s a bit of a lucky dip, but here you go, one cafetière.’ As I slide it along to Nell, I come across a cutlery pot next to a knife block, and pick out a handful of bone-handled knives and silver spoons.

‘It looks pretty well stocked.’ Sophie’s taking in the cupboards rammed with utensils.

I’m smiling because the collection of crockery is enormous, yet so random. ‘So long as you’re not expecting to find any two items the same, I reckon we could stay here for a month without needing to wash up.’

As Nell opens the packet the smell of ground coffee drifts into the air. ‘And any time you want matching sets, you can always plunder the flat next door. Charlie seemed exceptionally willing to share his designer kitchen collections.’

I’ll ignore that suggestion. ‘We had no need to borrow those flutes, there are shelves of glasses here.’

Nell wiggles her eyebrows. ‘No harm in accepting help and cementing neighbourly relations.’

‘Knock yourself out, Nell, but after yesterday, for the time I’m here, I’m going to be the kind of aloof neighbour who keeps my distance.’

Nell’s nostrils flare, which is a sure sign she’s pissed off. ‘You might want to think of the Singles’ Club here, not just yourself.’ She seems to be ignoring that he turned her down flat on that one.

I grin. ‘So you have got the hots for Hobson after all?’ Then knowing she’ll deny it on principle even though I’m teasing, I move on to explain. ‘First, he wants to get his hands on the flat, now he’s claiming he can hear every loo flush through the wall so blanking him is the only way to save mega-embarrassment.’ As a cover-all reason for why I’m avoiding him it’s almost worth the shudders of remembering he knows when I wee.

Nell sniffs. ‘You might want to keep him on side when you hear what we’ve hit on for your fund raising.’

Sophie frowns at Nell. ‘Best to talk about that with coffee.’ She stoops down to reach the bottom section of the dresser. ‘You really have got all the equipment here. Your very own picnic basket too, can we have a peep?’

‘Looks like a two-person set from the size. You might have something cute and matching after all.’ Nell was never this ‘couple’ obsessed before her break up. She’d shoot us down in flames if we suggested it, but the way she goes on, even if it’s subliminal, there has to be a gap in her life that needs filling.

As the wicker basket hits the table, my scalp tingles. ‘That’s not for picnics.’ As I undo the buckles a glimpse of blue gingham lining spins me back to when I was small. In my head, I’m standing on a stool so I can reach the work top better, searching through a pile of cards to find my favourites. And I know without looking what’s inside the basket. ‘It’s full of Laura’s recipes.’

As I swing the lid of the basket upwards it’s like opening a window onto the past. ‘She used to copy out the recipes she liked most.’ I’m flicking through a mass of colourful hand written cards, all with scribbled notes and sketches in the characteristically pointy writing, with cut out magazine pictures and photos pasted on too. ‘Oh my, that Pavlova on the flowery tablecloth … apple pie in a summer garden … the most delicious looking syrup tart. Maybe I came here more often than I remember.’ My mouth’s watering.

Nell’s laughing as she pulls out a card. ‘If you were making salmon en croute and soufléed spinach omelettes as a kid, how did you not end up on master chef?’

Sophie lets out a groan. ‘Strawberry and lemon sorbet with mint leaves looks gorgeous.’

Plum’s leaning over her shoulder. ‘And look at the colour of that raspberry one. This is making me so hungry.’

‘Sorbet?’ Nell jumps forwards with a cry. ‘Hold that thought, I’ve just had a lightbulb moment.’

I’m going to have to move this on before my hunger pangs get the better of me. ‘Forget about me holding anything other than a cup of coffee and a pastry. Can we please have some breakfast?’

‘Absolutely.’ Nell swings by with the coffee pot, then pulls up a sky-blue chair. ‘And Soph and I can talk you through you the finer points of our plan.’

‘What?’ I’m mainly interested in how authentic the filling is in the almond croissants. It takes two minutes of ecstasy as it melts on my tongue to discover. It’s amazing.

Sophie brushes a chunk of cinnamon whirl off her chin, and leans over to break Tilly’s second chocolate waffle into pieces. ‘We put our thinking caps on last night and came up with the perfect answer to your cash flow problems.’

‘Bank robbing?’ It’s the only solution I’ve thought of, and I had hours to wrack my brains while the sea kept me awake.

Sophie’s wearing the same rise above it expression she uses when the kids are being especially tiresome. ‘This flat of yours is perfect as a micro venue. And Nell has a database of people in her club all instantly contactable on Facebook. It’s a no-brainer – merge the two, and you’ve got your very own instant “pop up” event.’

‘Then hear the cash registers ring.’ Nell had to add that bit. ‘People are happy to pay for something exclusive. To be honest mostly they’ll be ecstatic to try something different.’

I take a custard slice, bite into it, chew. And I’m still not getting it. ‘Can you explain that again, please? In English this time.’

Nell leans forward. ‘I’ve messaged around my Singles’ Club inner inner-circle and they’re all up for an “evening” at yours.’ Who knows what her finger wiggle speech marks are hinting at there. ‘In fact, it’s so popular, there’s already a waiting list.’

Sitting with my jaw sagging open is such a waste of a good mouthful. ‘What on earth would they do here? Sit and knit?’

Plum jumps in excitedly. ‘That’s another great idea we missed when we brainstormed.’ So, they’ve definitely been discussing it in detail.

Sophie takes a breath and begins again. ‘All Nell’s friends are looking for is a couple of hours to relax and enjoy the views. It’s a spectacular setting, the quirky decor makes it totally unique. And with your flawless customer service skills, if you throw in something lovely to eat, you’re in a perfect position to give them a fab time they’ll be happy to pay for.’

I’ll concede she’s right about the flat, even if she is over playing the positivity to the point of sounding like a lifestyle manual. But they’re forgetting something. ‘I don’t host parties, I go to them. This is way beyond me.’

Sophie gives my arm a squeeze. ‘Why do you always undersell yourself? Don’t worry, you do whatever you feel happy with, and we’ll cover the rest.’

Which is lovely, but there’s one huge hurdle they seem to be overlooking. ‘So are you going to order in takeaways, or are you planning to use caterers?’

Nell’s tutting. ‘For maximum profit, cut out the middle man. If you provide the food, you make on every side.’

‘Me?’ I’m so horrified I let my custard slice drop onto my plate. ‘I’m a bar person, I serve liquid. Lemon slices are the only food I touch. And I don’t actually make anything edible, even for myself, because I don’t have the skills and that’s what chefs do.’ Let’s face it, in most of the bars I’ve worked in food was the last thing on anyone’s mind.

Sophie’s voice is soothing. ‘You follow cocktail recipes no problem. Simple snacks and nibbles are only one step on from that. We’ll do a trial night and see how it goes, okay?’

‘How about “NO”?’ Suddenly I’m not hungry any more, they’ve put me right off my breakfast. Which is a total waste, given the stack of pain au chocolats I’m staring at.

‘One crucial word from earlier …’ Nell’s eyes are sparkling. ‘SORBETS!’ She holds her breath for dramatic effect for long enough to finish her coffee. Then starts again. ‘Sorbets will be easy and effective. They’re fresh and very seasonal. Realistically they’re one step away from ice cubes, and you dish those out all night long without blinking.’

‘And you’ve got loads of pretty glasses and cups here to serve them in too.’ Plum’s nodding, as she shuffles through the handful of cards she’s plucked out. ‘They couldn’t be more simple. All you need is fruit, sugar, a food processor and a freezer.’

Which already sounds like a very long list to me.

Sophie beams. ‘Brilliant. It’s so lucky we found Laura’s basket. Before this the best we’d come up with was tapas or nachos, but all the recipes we Googled had the “extra effort” marker and way too many knives on the skill symbols.’

I’m secretly shuddering at the thought of any knives or effort.

‘That’s decided then.’ Nell’s clasping her hands together to stop herself from full blown cheering. ‘We’re all set for an original and delicious Early Summer Sorbet Evening. I’ll put the word out. Does Monday at eight work for you?’

I manage to hold in my scream. ‘Isn’t that rushing things a bit?’

‘Not if we’re talking ten grand by September.’ Nell’s never one to pull her punches. ‘I’ll give the whale watching a miss. That gives us all day tomorrow to sort the small stuff.’

Which from where I’m sitting sounds like no time at all.

‘Don’t look so anxious, we’ll all help.’ Sophie’s patting my hand, but frankly if she’d been this sympathetic earlier we wouldn’t be in this mess. ‘At least you’ve got the recipes here. You did say you wanted to leave your options open with the flat. This might let you do that.’

‘It’s fine, I’m not worried.’ It’s only a bit of a lie. I know we’re careering towards a complete car crash here. But the fastest way to prove this isn’t going to work is to let the disaster happen. Then we can walk away knowing we’ve all tried our best and failed. The sooner we get this nightmare over, the better. ‘Although …’

‘Yes?’ Nell cocks her head at me.

I’m fingering the recipe cards, looking at the familiar handwriting. It won’t happen again, so we’ve got one chance to credit her. ‘As we’re using all her recipes, could we call it Laura’s Sorbets?’

Plum’s eyes light up. ‘Making it personal is the perfect way to remember her. Laura’s Lovely Sorbets?’

I’m laughing. ‘Even better. I think she’d like that.’

‘Great.’ Sophie’s already on her feet. ‘What are we waiting for? We’ll pick up Milla from dancing, and then we’ll hit the shops and go to mine to practice.’

8

In Trenowden, Trenowden and Trenowden Solicitors’ office

Sorbet and melting ice caps

Monday morning

‘Morning, Clementine, good weekend?’ As he breezes past my desk to his office, George’s greeting sounds like he’s on autopilot.

‘Great thanks.’ Even if he was taking notice, I’d spare him the details.

As I staggered away from the market stall with Sophie on Saturday afternoon, under a fruit mountain so huge I could barely see the toes of my kitten heeled pumps I’d decided to go with the flow. By the time we reached Sophie’s kitchen, which is literally the size of a barn, I was relaxing into it. The minute we added in Laura’s name it stopped feeling like I was being press ganged, and I began to feel part of the mission. In spite of my huge reservations and doubts, I began to enjoy myself.

Sophie’s a whizz at multi-tasking. Somehow she managed to sort French plaits for Tilly, wade through a marketing report, pass Maisie her organic carrots and chickpeas, stop Marco from crashing his ride-on tractor through the bi-fold doors into the courtyard outside, and shout instructions at me and Milla too. After an afternoon of doing as I was told at her polished concrete work surfaces, I’d liquidised so much fruit and dipped in and out of her stable-size freezer so many times, I swear I’ll be making strawberry sorbet in my sleep forever more. But at least I’d nailed the technicalities and learned how to operate a hand blender without sending a tidal wave of fruit puree up the walls.

The up side of trialing recipes is we all got to taste the sorbets. Pause for a brief sorbet swoon there – the icy crystals hitting my tongue was like an electric shock to my brain. Out of nowhere I could remember sitting at my little table on the balcony, hulling strawberries, with Laura sitting on the planks beside me, her legs outstretched. Me holding her hand, as we hurried out to the ice cream kiosk to get wafers. Standing them up like sails in our sorbet balls. Then later I found the splashy blue and orange flowery fabric of the dress she’d been wearing that day in a patchwork cushion on the sofa. For someone who usually has trouble remembering much beyond last Tuesday, it was a revelation.

By Saturday tea time, we’d made our selection from the samples, bought more fruit for making the full amounts, and trundled it up the stairs at Seaspray Cottage. All without bumping into Charlie. Why did I ever think this was going to be hard?

Then on Sunday, Nell, Plum and I spent the afternoon at the flat, tweeking the sofas and side tables into party order, cleaning the loo, and sorting out the best cups and glasses to use, and still finished in time to go for a hot chocolate at the Surf Shack along the beach.

So now I’m tapping my heels under George’s reception desk, flicking through this morning’s appointments on my screen, willing lunchtime to arrive so Plum and I can get back and crack on with the sorbets.

‘How are you getting on with the flat? I hear you’ve moved in.’

Shucks. So much for autopilot. This time around George is full on warm and interested, with a disarming smile to match.

‘Yes, all fabulous, thanks for asking.’ My throat constricts in panic. I skip straight over the Airbnb people underneath who could have been bonking for England all night on Saturday. Does he know about the flat because he’s put himself down for the Laura’s Lovely Sorbets event? I might be softening to the idea of twenty strangers invading Laura’s living room in return for a discreet yet extortionate cash payment. But I’m damn sure I’m not up for my boss seeing me fall flat on my face when it goes all kinds of wrong, even if he does have kind crinkles at the corners of his eyes. ‘I’m not up to speed here because I’ve been away, but do you go to Nell’s singles’ events?’ Hopefully I make the crucial question sound super casual.

George’s smile fades in a second. ‘Hell, no.’

‘Jeez, I’m so pleased to hear that.’ And that gave too much away. This calls for some serious back pedalling. ‘Any particular reason? I’ve heard they’re excellent, even for people like us who are happy with their “alone” status.’

For a moment, he looks confused. ‘I do long hours here, then take work home.’ Now he’s found an answer he looks happier. ‘Socialising isn’t on my radar, probably how I’ve avoided getting pushed into it like everyone else has.’ Although it’s on his radar enough to know it exists.

‘Great, well I’d better get on.’ I need to wind this up, before I get into any more deep water. ‘This human works best on Monday mornings if coffee is added. Are you ready for one too?’

‘I thought you’d never ask.’ The grin that spreads across his face at the offer of a caffeine hit makes his previous one look arctic. ‘Only joking, why not let me make them?’

‘That’s what I’m here for.’ Obviously, I don’t want him at my sorbet evening, but all the same I can’t quite work out why Nell hasn’t snapped this one up for her singles’ group. With lines like that I’d say he has all the makings of a ‘keeper’.

Despite being a twenty-four seven workaholic, it turns out George is just as shit as me about the Monday thing. Four coffees on for each of us, with no visit from Charlie, we finally get to lunchtime, and I’m free to go and make sorbet. Ten hours from now the micro-venue theory will have been tested to destruction, and my life will be back on its old course again. All I have to do is hold my nerve and get through to midnight.

Two hours later, Plum and I are up to our elbows in pureed raspberries in Laura’s kitchen, looking out across the blue sparkling water of St Aidan Bay as we sieve the last double batch.

Plum counts them off on her fingers as she juggles the containers in the freezer, which is rammed. ‘Strawberry, pear and rosemary, lemon, lime and peppermint, water melon, orange and mango, cucumber and mint. There’s just about enough room to squeeze the raspberry in here too.’

‘As Sophie says, they’re gluten-free, dairy-free, suitable for vegetarians, pescetarians, vegans, celiacs and lactose intolerants.’ Now they’re almost done, I’m feeling dizzy, excited and so uptight I’m squeaking when I should be talking.

Plum laughs. ‘Sophie would say that. Better still, they’re bloody delicious, those recipes of Laura’s are on point.’

‘I can’t believe it was so easy. If this is cooking, bring it on.’ Even if I’m joking, I’m still stunned at what we’ve done. If Laura could see me now, somehow, I know she’d be happy.

Plum scrapes the last of the dark ruby mixture into a shallow dish. ‘I had a flick through the recipe basket earlier. Nothing’s too complicated to make, but everything in there looks seriously yummy.’

‘Which kind of reminds me …’ Edible being everyone else’s description of the man in question, not mine. ‘Do you think Nell’s interested in my neighbour?’ I can’t quite bring myself to say his name. When I think of him trying to wrestle the flat away from me I’m livid. But then I catch my stomach disintegrating when I think about the way he looked at me afterwards.

Plum wrinkles her nose and rubs her finger round the rim of the bowl. ‘Nell would never admit it. But she does get extra animated whenever he’s around.’

I’ve no idea why I wish she hadn’t said that. ‘I’d noticed too.’ It’s good to get this out in the open.

‘Then she always claims it’s on other people’s behalf.’ Plum rolls her eyes as she sucks raspberry mixture off her finger. ‘She loves it when she gets couples together at her events. But she always holds back herself.’

I let my lips curl into a smile. ‘Maybe we’ll have to give her a helping hand, one of these days.’

Plum grins. ‘A bloody great push more like.’

It’s funny how differently our lives have all panned out. When Sophie was brave enough to have Milla on her own not long after uni, none of us imagined ten years later she’d have Nate, her business and three more children. Plum and I were always the ones to prioritise life not relationships. Whereas Nell was the one who always had a boyfriend in tow, from the age of thirteen onwards. She settled down early and bought into the whole mortgage and the house on the estate with way more bedrooms than they needed, only to have it all crack up. Last year, quite abruptly, she and Guy decided they’d be better apart than together. He moved to Glasgow, and that was that. One weekend she was enjoying a married mini break in Bridport. The next she had her house on the market and was flinging herself into singles’ karaoke at the Hungry Shark.