‘Fine. It’s been a long day and there’s an even bigger one coming tomorrow.’
I’m already thinking of throwing caution to the wind and dragging him off to bed when Cal says, ‘Are you really too tired for some therapy?’
‘Perhaps you’re right. It might do me good.’
His face lights up and we lock up the cafe, and Mitch scampers ahead on our way back to the house. He doesn’t have a care in the world and I envy him his simple doggy life sometimes.
I don’t want to be part of a love triangle, because someone always gets the sharp end. Isla and her fiancé, Luke – who was Cal’s best mate years ago – have moved to London from Cornwall, to ‘make a fresh start’. Apparently, Isla suspected that Luke was having an affair with a local ‘property developer’ called Mawgan Cade. I wouldn’t put anything past Mawgan, but I can’t see why Luke would jeopardise his relationship with Isla for a woman like Mawgan. But what do I know? Mawgan is manipulative and would sell her granny if it achieved her aims. Plus, Luke’s a weak and selfish character if you ask me; and Isla deserves better. As long as ‘better’ doesn’t turn out to be Cal again.
He hugs me and his chest is warm and firm against my body. If I let my guard down too far, I could easily start thinking how wonderful it would be to spend the rest of my life at Kilhallon with Cal. It’s an idyllic place that sucks you in, just like Cal draws people to him. Just like the wreckers who used to shine their lights to lure people onto the rocks in storms. Except that was a myth. I need to get real and, reluctantly, I slide out of his embrace.
‘Do you think we can cope?’ I say.
‘Of course I think we can cope. We’ve come a long way – both of us – and everything will be OK. Wasn’t that what you were always telling me when we started work on the place? When we were refused planning permission and the appeal failed because of the Cades’ opposition? When I ripped my hands open demolishing the walls? When the tree fell through the farmhouse window? When you almost walked out on me to work for Eva Spero in Brighton?’
‘Maybe I should have,’ I joke, thinking of how close I came to quitting and heading off to Brighton before the place had even opened. ‘This is a massive thing for me, Cal. It’s very exciting, but I’m also terrified.’
He slides his hand under my hair, lifting it from my neck, caressing my skin. His palm is rough from the work he’s been doing, yet the effect is like being stroked with warm velvet.
‘Shh,’ he says in that gentle, half-amused voice that turns me on and irritates me at the same time. ‘It’s OK to be nervous, but the important thing is that you stick with me. That’s what we’re going to carry on doing: sticking together.
Even as I close my eyes and abandon myself to his touch and soothing words, there’s a part of me holding back. A part that can’t forget the Cal who left a trail of broken hearts when he went away to the Middle East. The teenage Cal breezing his way through the girls of St Trenyan: Isla, even Mawgan Cade. Even his father was sleeping with half the women from here to Truro, if you believe the rumours. My friend Tamsin warned me about him and even Mawgan said he’d break my heart. She may be right about that one.
‘I promise you Kilhallon will succeed and Demelza’s will be open for business as scheduled, and nothing’s going to stop us.’ Cal pours soothing words into my ear. ‘Now come to bed before I explode.’
Me too, I think. Mitch settles down in his bed in the farmhouse kitchen. Cal takes my hand and leads me, trembling, up to his room again. He’s right, of course, I mustn’t expect too much of the business; but even more importantly, I mustn’t expect anything at all from him.
Coffee machine: on.
Air conditioning: on.
Ovens: on.
Sunshine: off, for now, but judging by the pale-blue patches peeking through the clouds, it’s clearing up, which is just what we want to tempt customers out onto the coastal path and into the cafe for our opening day.
I repeat the words again, because I don’t believe them: It’s opening day at Demelza’s. Opening day at my cafe. Six months ago I had no job, no home and no prospects and now look at me: manager of my own tiny empire.
Nina shouts from the side door. ‘Demi! Demi! Come quick. Mitch has done something terrible!’
I run after her to the rear of the cafe, picturing Mitch with his teeth sunk into a toddler. The white fishmonger’s van is parked outside. Harry, the driver, is cursing and shaking his fist at Mitch, who’s chomping his way through a pack of fish from a safe distance.
‘There goes your smoked mackerel order,’ Harry says. ‘Only turned away for a minute to get the shellfish out of the van for Nina and the crafty hound had the polystyrene off the packs and was wolfing them down.’
Plastic wrappers and polystyrene snow litter the grass. Mitch licks his chops and looks up at us as if to say, ‘You have a problem?’
‘I tried to grab them off him but he was too quick for me,’ Nina wails. ‘I’m sorry, Demi. Shall I tell everyone that the Fisherman’s Lunch is off? We’ve got bit of smoked salmon, but that won’t last long.’
‘Leave it on until we run out of the salmon, then tell everyone we’ve sold out. I don’t want to take something off the menu on our first day.’
I glare at Mitch, though, from the way Nina shouted, I’m relieved that his antics are nothing worse. ‘Mitch, you’re in trouble when I get hold of you. You can forget coming anywhere near my bed tonight. Your breath will stink for a week!’
Harry carries the rest of the order into the back of the cafe. We can’t afford to waste expensive food, but I guess if Mitch guzzling the mackerel is the worst thing that happens on opening day, we’ll be doing OK. With my nostrils closed, I tether Mitch in the shade by the back door with a bowl of water and his rope chew. I’ll ask Robyn to take him when she turns up. I go back inside the cafe with a smile that says I’m cool about ‘little mishaps’ like losing a small fortune’s worth of smoked mackerel.
The team is buzzing about in the cafe, servery and kitchen, preparing for our first day. My breath catches at the sight that greets me. They all look super smart in their teal-blue Demelza’s Cafe aprons – and Jez the chef, who’s in whites. His charcoal-coloured ponytail dangles from the back of his teal chef’s cap. He’s pushing forty, but still a lean, mean type who lives to surf. He also happens to be a very good chef. We were lucky to get him, but the part-time hours enable him to make the most of the gnarly surfing conditions and quiet beaches during the autumn and winter.
Nina’s back behind the server, checking the operation of the till for the umpteenth time. I met her when we both worked as waitresses at a ball earlier this year. She’s the same age as me and helps her mum run a kennels and dog rescue centre over the moor from Kilhallon. With all the dog walking and her triathlon training, she’s super fit. Her spiky orange hair reminds me of a pixie.
Shamia, currently filling the condiment area, is my order taker. She’s wearing a teal-blue headscarf to match her apron. She looks the most confident of anyone, to be honest. She’s a former dinner lady and now a food blogger. She will be lending us a hand on weekdays while her little boy goes to nursery school, and at the weekends when her husband can babysit.
My official title is Cafe Manager, but I’m also the general dogsbody, greeting people, clearing tables and helping out on the counter. I love the baking and cooking, but I’ve had to leave most of the hot food prep to Jez.
There’s only one person missing.
Just as I think Robyn Penwith, Cal’s cousin, has cold feet about helping us, there’s a rap on the glass