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

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СКАЧАТЬ ‘Now you’re both safe maybe you can clear up why you were risking your necks on my balcony?’ As soon as it’s out, I’m cursing the slip.

      Charlie’s narrowing one eye. ‘Your balcony? We’re from the flat next door, the balcony’s shared. Do I take it from this you’re the mysterious absentee landlord?’ He shakes his head. ‘George is a dark horse. He could have told us we were going to be neighbours.’

      I try not to baulk at the word and put on my best ‘office’ voice, which is still way lighter than his. ‘In a place as small as St Aidan, confidentiality is crucial.’ George gave me ‘the talk’ when he took me on, along with a complementary tube of super-glue to apply with my lip gloss. If this was anyone else, I’d let my smile go. Faced by Charlie’s humourless expression, I stay tight lipped. ‘Apparently, the tiniest piece of information in the wrong ear will be around the town faster than you can say “compromising situation”. And obviously, we can’t have that.’ It would have been useful for me not to be so much in the dark here too. At least then I might have avoided the heart attack I almost had when Charlie invaded my space.

      Charlie pulls down the corners of his mouth. ‘If you’ve landed the job at George’s, we’re going to see a lot of each other, I’m in there seeing George most days.’

      I try to look less disappointed than I feel at that news. And in line with company policy I don’t press him to find out why the heck he needs to spend so much time visiting his solicitor. ‘Just don’t expect me to talk to you at the office. With George’s list of banned topics, “Hello, can I offer you a coffee?” is the most I’m allowed to say.’ Which is probably damned useful given he’s not exactly easy to talk to.

      Charlie’s eyes are boring into me again. ‘So you won’t be asking me how many sugars then?’ If there were the merest hint of a smile, it could be jokey. But there isn’t.

      I don’t smile back. ‘Nope, that’s definitely off-limits.’

      ‘Two.’ He gives a sniff. ‘Just so you’re prepared. Keep that on file, please.’

      I can’t ever remember not smiling for this long. Even the pharmacy queue is jollier than this when I’m waiting to pick up Maude’s arthritis medication, and that’s full of ill people. ‘Sweet tooth?’ Although I already know that from the way he hit the macaroons the other evening.

      He pulls a face. ‘I’m anyone’s for a piece of cake.’ Then he lets out a sigh. ‘That’s why Diesel was confused before. We used to pop in here most days for tea with Jenny, your former tenant. Her rocky road slice was spectacular, that’s the reason Diesel was hell bent on battering the door down.’

      ‘You actually knew her?’ I’m intrigued, because thanks to George and his obsession with discretion, I haven’t even got as far as extracting her name from him. Although it’s hard to imagine anyone as tense and gaunt as Charlie ‘popping in’ for ‘cosy chats’.

      ‘Jenny was an author, but she was more an old friend of your grandmother’s than a tenant. She lived over near Rosehill, but she never stayed over, she just came here every day because the views helped her write. The arrangement suited them both. Jenny used the place until you grew up, and the peppercorn rent went towards any repair costs.’ Despite the sullen expression Charlie is as open as George is guarded.

      The more he says, the more my mouth drops open. ‘Go on …’

      ‘The building wasn’t ever in the greatest shape.’ There’s a questioning frown playing around his forehead as he grinds to a halt. ‘But surely George will have told you all this?’

      I give a sudden beam to cover up how much George hasn’t said. ‘Absolutely. But it’s always helpful to get another viewpoint. And she left because …?’

      Charlie’s long sigh is presumably for the loss of his friend, not her cake. ‘She was getting on, the two flights of stairs became too much, and she moved south to be closer to one of her sons.’

      He rubs his chin. ‘The balcony is perfectly safe by the way. It runs all along the front of the building, so both our flats open onto it. It was repaired before I moved in last year, it’s all in George’s files, the cost was shared between us. You do know about that?’ He’s giving me a searching stare. ‘Believe me, I wouldn’t forget a bill that big.’

      ‘Too damned right.’ I try to look the right amount of appalled. Which is hard when I don’t know if I’m reacting to a hundred pounds or a hundred thousand. ‘Remind me to go out there and party. Very hard. I need to get my money’s worth before I leave.’

      He seems to give a jolt, but a breath later he’s back to reaching over for my empty BLT wrapper. ‘Did you say Diesel ate your sandwich? Give me a minute, I’ll make you another.’

      All I have to say here is ‘No’ and I can wave him off along the balcony and out of my day. I know I should be jumping at the chance, if only to let my heart rate get back to normal. Even if he looks grave enough for a funeral plan brochure when he sways he’s still disarmingly close. Another step back, and I’ll topple onto the sofa. On the other hand, the growls coming from my empty stomach are loud enough to have come from Diesel.

      However he doesn’t allow me to squeeze in even a two-letter word before he bashes on. ‘I don’t have bacon, but there’s thin sliced ham on the bone, homemade plum and sultana pickle, and some kind of crumbling cheddar matured in a slate cavern. There’s crusty cobs too, and salad. I could throw a ploughman’s picnic together for us.’

      I try not to make too much noise as I suck back my drool. Then just as I’m gritting my teeth, resolving to say ‘No’ I catch a hint of a smile playing around his lips and my mouth is moving on its own. ‘Great. Sounds brill.’ And that’s that.

      I hold my hands up and admit I’m a slave to my stomach. I also know he’s way too decorative, serious and sure of himself for me to ever hang out with. And I might be a teensy bit of a hypocrite too, accepting snacks from strangers I’d rather run a mile from in normal circumstances. But however off-hand he appears, Charlie Hobson has spilled a pile of proverbial beans, and I can’t help thinking there could be more he can tell me about my grandmother.

      But by the time I’ve worked this lot out, Charlie’s long gone. And Diesel has relocated to the sofa with the best view down the beach.

       5

       In Laura’s flat at Seaspray Cottage

       Real ale and home truths

       Friday

      ‘So how about you, Clemmie, what’s your story?’

      When Charlie arrives back he’s trundling a double-decker hammered metal trolley along the balcony on super-chunky industrial wheels. As I help him ease it through the living room doors I see it’s laden with everything he promised and more, plus hand glazed plates and mugs, and scarily spare cutlery that’s so on trend and triangular it’s hard to tell which are knives and which are forks. There’s also serviettes, fruit juices, and a cluster of chilled beer bottles, pebbled with condensation. It takes approximately ten seconds to load up our plates. Then as he sits down he drops in the question, and I immediately fill my mouth and the next half hour with so much eating that I can’t possibly answer.

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