Katie's Cornish Kitchen Page 2

  Chapter 2

  Perrinby, Cornwall

  Katie inhaled a deep breath, her heart hammering out a concerto of anguish as she realised that, at that precise moment, she should have been walking down the aisle to pledge her everlasting love to Dominic. Instead, she was standing on the doorstep of a quaint seaside café boasting a location that would have caused even the most jaded of estate agents to drool: to her left the pretty village green, complete with duck pond and whitewashed bandstand with a splash of late spring daffodils; a little further to her right a golden sandy beach, currently playing host to a handful of intrepid holidaymakers and a gaggle of bobbing sailboats.

  One of the techniques Agatha had taught her when she’d arrived in Bali, battered and broken, and thinking she might keel over from the enormity of everything that had happened to her in such a short space of time, was to force herself to focus on the present. So, with difficulty, she erased the painful wedding day image that had popped into her head uninvited, slotted the heavy iron key into the lock, pushed open the door and took a few moments to survey her surroundings.

  Even though the fabric of the building seemed structurally fine, there was at least six months’ worth of grime to tackle and a brigade of dust bunnies danced on every available surface, not to mention the faint aroma of disinfectant and neglect. It was a world away from the shiny, stainless steel kitchen she was used to in London where she had created her sugar-paste masterpieces under François’ expert tutelage.

  But that life was in the past, a place she knew she shouldn’t linger for long, so she raised her chin, squared her shoulders and resolved to channel her inner Agatha as something else her friend was fond of quoting sprang to mind – every difficult journey started with a single stride. She closed her eyes and conjured up the vision that had morphed from blurry to crystal clear as ideas had bombarded her exhausted brain on the flight from Bali to Singapore, Singapore to Heathrow, and whilst she was handing over the keys to her sunny flat in Hammersmith to her po-faced landlord who couldn’t wait to move the next tenant in.

  Now that she could see the interior of the café, its dimensions were even better than she had dared hope. Golden shards of sunlight flooded through the magnificent bay window, which was encircled with an upholstered window seat that Katie could already see draped in the turquoise, lemon and white batik throws she’d brought back from Bali, then softened with a battalion of embroidered cushions.

  She wanted to create a calm, welcoming ambience where her customers could relax and take a few precious moments away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life, so she would transform the clinical ice-blue walls with a fresh coat of ivory – or perhaps saffron? – paint and hang dreamcatchers and hand-painted papier-mâché mobiles from the ceiling. She thought of the set of carved Balinese masks she’d tucked into a corner of her suitcase, intended as a gift for Cara but which she now planned to repurpose as wall art. She knew Cara wouldn’t mind; what she’d never had, she’d never mourn.

  The thought of her best friend sent a warm feeling through Katie’s veins. Cara was the first person she’d called when she’d cleared customs, and her friend had been delighted to hear she was home, but less so that she was heading straight off to a tiny village in Cornwall to open up a mothballed café instead of partying hard in the wine bars and nightclubs of the West End – her personal prescription for the recovery from heartbreak. However, after listening to Cara rage for a couple of minutes about ‘Dastardly Dominic, the Destroyer of Dreams’, she had skilfully turned the conversation round to one of their favourite subjects – food.

  ‘I want the café’s menu to reflect not only the essence of Cornish cuisine, but also to include a few Balinese flavours too, as a nod to what Agatha’s trying to do in Bali, Carr. I also want there to be as little waste as possible so I’m going for a pared-down choice of savoury dishes and cakes, and as far as possible, I want the ingredients to be fresh, locally sourced, and free from artificial additives. The coffee’s going to be Fairtrade and there’ll be a selection of herbal teas, and all the crockery and cutlery will be recyclable with zero use of plastics.’

  ‘It’s a fabulous mission statement, Katie. Agatha’s Beachside Café sounds like the sort of place I’d love to spend a couple of hours aligning my chakras.’

  Katie had wanted to keep their conversation upbeat and positive so she hadn’t gone on to confide in Cara that she only had three months to make her venture work. Three months! It wasn’t long to totally transform this careworn Cinderella into a sparkling princess and turn a profit so the business could not only pay its own running costs, but also make a contribution to Agatha’s much-loved cookery school. Maybe if she was reopening the café in the summer months when the tourists descended on Cornwall in their droves, but it was the beginning of March.

  Suddenly, the warm feeling in her chest was replaced by a ripple of panic as reality slapped her in the face like a wet fish. Doubts started to circle and the bubble of enthusiasm for her new adventure burst, sending her fragile confidence crashing down. There was no way she could do everything she had planned by herself, and have the café open before the Easter holidays in three weeks’ time. Even if she threw herself on the mercy of the artist who owned the attractive gallery next door, offering to cook him or her an authentic Balinese meal in exchange for a few hours with a paintbrush (and sweeping brush), it was still a pointless exercise.

  And yet, what else did she have to do?

  She couldn’t go back to London – she had nowhere to live. And she would go stir crazy moping about in the flat above the café unless she filled every minute of her day with physical activity so that the demons who pursued her every waking hour would not follow when her head hit the pillow. And last, and by no means least, she had to give it a shot for Agatha’s sake, didn’t she?

  Katie gave herself a shake, stepped over the threshold, and turned a complete circle, taking a mental inventory of the eclectic mix of varnished pine tables and chairs crying out for a coat of pastel pink and sky blue, maybe peppermint green and soft ivory, until her gaze landed on the wide expanse of white marble countertop. A familiar tingle fizzed at her fingertips, and the urge to break out the bottle of antibacterial spray became too much to resist.

  She kicked the door shut behind her, smiling at the jolly jingle of the brass bell, and went off in search of a pair of Marigolds so she could make a start on pacifying the insistent call of her hygiene monsters. The craving to scrub, to clean, to polish, was almost overwhelming – an itch that she was desperate to scratch. When she had started to work for François Dubois her colleagues had initially teased her about her preoccupation with cleanliness until they realised that it was a trait that only extended sessions with a trained therapist could cure – something she had refused to consider. She knew what the root cause of her issues was and she had no intention of going there.

  Anyway, she had managed to banish her Queen of Clean tendencies when she’d met Dominic and had started to believe that, maybe, at last, there was someone in her life she could trust not to abandon her. Of course, things hadn’t turned out that way and so her demons had poked their heads above the parapet once again. Her pragmatic side told her that she had to come to terms with the fact that the only person she could truly rely on was herself – but that thought terrified her so she had shoved it into the darker crevices of her mind to be unravelled at a later, much later, date.

  Having gathered a selection of cleaning products from the cupboard under the sink, Katie dragged her suitcase up the flight of stairs at the back of the café and ditched it in the flower-bedecked bedroom overlooking the village green. She took a moment to appreciate the uninterrupted expanse of the deep blue ocean that could be seen from the elevated vantage point, then she skipped back down to the kitchen, filled a bowl with hot soapy water, grabbed a pair of ancient yellow Marigolds, and made a start on the bay window, the focal point of the whole café.

  Before she knew it, she was in the zone, humming
a Balinese tune whilst scrubbing away the tension of her long journey. She almost had a coronary when the front door burst open causing the brass bells to jangle with ferocious indignation.

  ‘At last!’

  Katie’s heart crashed against her ribcage. She spun round so fast that instead of greeting the café’s first visitor with grace and poise, her foot landed in the bowl of now-murky water sending a splash of heat to her cheeks.

  ‘Ooops,’ she muttered, trying to quash a nervous giggle whilst surreptitiously removing her soaking-wet Skecher and making a valiant attempt to compose herself in the face of the tall, dark, handsome stranger standing in front of her, eyeing her up and down as though she was the local comedy turn, before shooting out a smooth, well-manicured hand.

  ‘Greg Forbes, Forbes & Mortimer,’ he said, gifting her with a smile so white she almost reeled from the glare. His eyebrows rose high into his forehead as if expecting her to recognise him, and what? Swoon?

  Katie accepted his outstretched palm, totally unprepared for the strength of his handshake, and couldn’t prevent a small yelp from escaping her mouth, which she managed to disguise as a cough.

  ‘Katie Campbell. Pleased to meet you, Greg.’

  She took in his broad shoulders, clad in a beautifully cut designer jacket, with a starched white cotton shirt cracked open at the neck to reveal just a tantalising glimpse of mahogany chest hair. Their handshake had given him the opportunity to reveal a chunky gold Rolex, which he shook back into his cuff, his lips turning upwards slightly as he saw his mission had been accomplished.

  Katie smirked. Whilst recent events had reminded her that she wasn’t the best judge of character in the world, even the most unobservant of onlookers would have guessed which business Greg was in, if not from his sartorial choices, then certainly from the way his sharp eyes flicked around the room, sizing up its ample proportions, its southerly aspect and tantalising glimpse of the sea, whilst the words ‘beachside’ and ‘bijou’ were clearly zooming around his brain. She chanced a quick glance out of the window and when she saw the shiny BMW Z3 with alloy wheels and tinted windows lingering at the kerb like a sleek black panther ready to pounce on its unfortunate prey, her suspicions were confirmed.

  ‘Good to meet you, too, Katie. You’ve no idea how happy I am to see you here.’

  Greg stuffed his hands into the pockets of his suit trousers and settled his gym-toned buttocks against one of the tables as if he owned the place. A burst of heavy, spice-infused cologne mushroomed into the air between them like a nuclear fall-out cloud, causing Katie’s nostrils to tickle and her lips to twitch. Greg met her eyes, bared his teeth again and, even though her heart was frozen in an impenetrable block of ice and she was completely immune to any kind of flirtation or flattery, Katie knew she was about to be treated to a high-octane charm offensive.

  ‘I’ve been trying to locate the owner of this beleaguered little place for months. No one in the village seems to have the faintest idea where the elusive Agatha Carmichael might have disappeared to. Of course, it didn’t take much digging to find out what happened, and I’m the last person to blame her for escaping to pastures new. Can I ask, are you a relative of hers?’

  ‘No, I’m …’

  ‘Good, good, well, Katie, I might just be about to make your friend Agatha a very happy woman.’

  ‘You are?’

  Greg vacated his perch on the rickety table and went to peer out of the newly sparkling front window that overlooked the row of shops on the other side of the village green – a hairdresser’s, a smart bridal boutique, and a pretty florist’s shop whose plate-glass window was filled with a cornucopia of colours – before twisting his head to survey the art gallery next door with the matching bay window. However, it was when his gaze settled on the sparkling sea to his right that she saw his lips twitch into a satisfied smile, and she could almost see the pound signs rolling through his eyes like a fruit machine.

  ‘So, if you’d just give me Ms Carmichael’s contact details, I’ll be on my way and you can get back to your … your scrubbing?’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes, of course, I’ll just …’

  ‘You know, instead of spending your holiday in Cornwall cleaning, you really should take in a few of the wonderful wine bars and seafood restaurants the area has to offer. If you need someone to show you around, I might be able to find a window in my diary next Tuesday?’ offered Greg in the affected drawl that seemed to match his personality perfectly.

  Katie found her handbag and began to riffle through the assorted paraphernalia until she located her mobile phone, praying that it still had a trickle of battery left. If she was even remotely thinking of re-joining the dating game, which she definitely was not, Greg Forbes would not be a swipe right!

  ‘Actually, I’m not on holiday. I’m staying in Perrinby for a couple of months, but I don’t think I’ll have much time to do the tourist thing, I’m afraid.’

  She turned round to find that Greg had followed her across the café to the marble counter and was standing peering over her shoulder; so close that when she saw the glint of expectation in his eye she was reminded of a pet ferret her ten-year-old neighbour had kept when she was growing up with her mother in Norfolk, which caused her to pause as she scrolled through her list of contacts.

  ‘What do you want Agatha’s number for exactly?’

  ‘I’m going to make her an offer she can’t refuse.’ He smirked, raising his bushy eyebrows in a suggestive manner as he continued to loom over her, invading her personal space.

  A niggle of anxiety began to worm its way through Katie’s stomach, so she moved away from him towards the front door in case she needed to make a swift get-away. And yet, her curiosity was piqued.

  ‘What kind of an offer?’

  ‘Well, I would have thought that was obvious.’

  Greg looked at her as though talking to a particularly dense toddler, his nose wrinkled with disdain as he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, revealing an expanse of purple silk lining, and whipped out his business card with a proud flourish.

  ‘Here!’

  He handed Katie a rectangle of thick cream parchment embossed with gold lettering, which confirmed that Gregory A. Forbes was indeed the CEO of Forbes & Mortimer, high-end property developers.

  ‘As I said, I’ve been trying to contact Ms Carmichael for some time, but she’s proved as elusive as the Scarlet Pimpernel. Maybe she should consider taking up a position as an international spy!’ Greg laughed at his own joke, a braying guffaw that reminded Katie of a strangulated donkey. ‘Once she’s heard what I’m prepared to shell out to add this scruffy, run-down shack to my portfolio, I’m sure she’ll snap my hand off.’

  The niggle of discomfort morphed into anxiety, but for a totally different reason.

  ‘May I ask what you intend to do with the café?’

  ‘And the flat upstairs – is it one bedroom or two, by the way?’

  ‘It’s two, but …’

  ‘Even better!’ Greg’s eyes glinted like the diamond in his pinkie ring. ‘It’ll make a superb luxury apartment for some wealthy escapee from the London rat race to enjoy a taste of the real Cornwall, and, as an added bonus, once the renovations are complete it’ll add a little bit of sophistication to this run-down seaside village. Any idea who owns the field at the back of here with those awful wooden hobbit houses on?’

  Katie worked hard to conceal her reaction, to maintain her expression of polite interest in Greg’s plans. Two things bounced around her brain as she slipped her phone into the back pocket of her jeans whilst Greg took the liberty of poking around in the kitchen – opening cupboard doors, switching on the lights, and generally impersonating the equivalent of a used car salesman kicking the tyres.

  First of all, she knew there would be a reason why Agatha hadn’t left a forwarding address with one of the other business owners in Perrinby, and she should check in with her friend before handing over her personal details. But secondly – and thi
s was the overwhelming emotion swirling around her veins – what if she could do this? What if she could make Agatha’s Beachside Café a success? And how would she know unless she tried?

  She glanced out of the bay window at the spectacular view of the beach beyond; the sand washed in a golden glow from the midday sun, a lone jet-ski rider skimming the surface of the waves like a pond-skater, a toddler collecting pebbles and shells in her castle-shaped bucket. Closer to home, she could see the ducks going about their daily business, and the owner of the bridal boutique in the process of waving goodbye to a beaming client and her chattering entourage. Ignoring the stab of pain that the unbridled joy on the bride-to-be’s face caused her, Katie made her decision.

  ‘I’m sorry, Greg, but I think I should check with Agatha before I hand over her phone number.’

  She gave him her brightest smile, but to her utter astonishment Greg’s face clouded, his jaw tightened and he whipped his fists from his pockets, slamming them down on the wooden table in front of her with such force that he sent a chair, and her heart, crashing onto the floor.

  ‘God! Will you just hand it over? Anyone would have thought this Agatha woman’s one of those privacy-obsessed celebrities instead of a common-or-garden domestic science teacher on the run from her failed marriage.’

  Katie gaped at Greg in astonishment, but before she could say anything further the door of the café burst open to reveal a man with the most piercing blue eyes she had ever seen, his unruly blond curls sporting a natural just-tumbled-from-bed look, and his previously white T-shirt covered in splashes of paint and clay.

  Despite the tenseness of the situation, her first thought was where had he left his surfboard?