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

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       PROLOGUE

      Tuesday October 1^st

      Demi

      ‘Good morning, friends! This is Greg Stennack, your favourite local DJ on your favourite local station, Radio St Trenyan. I’ll be bringing you all the latest tunes and news from our great little corner of Cornwall and cheering you up on this wet and windy October the first. Hey, did I just say it was October? Seems like only yesterday that we were slapping on the suncream and stretching out the beach towels to catch some rays. Oh, wait – that was only yesterday! Hey, never mind, people. Christmas is only eighty-five sleeps away. Now, let’s kick off this wild autumn day with ‘Here Comes the Rain Again’ by the Eurythmics …’

      Hey, thanks, Greg, I’ve nothing against Annie Lennox, but I think I’ll pass.

      With a groan, I bash the radio alarm ‘off’ button with my palm and pull the duvet over my head. That was a mistake. Now that Greg’s not blaring down my ear, I can hear the rain lashing against the windows and battering the roof of my tiny terraced cottage. A moment later, I throw the duvet off me, shivering in the cool October morning. I say ‘morning’, but it might as well be evening it’s so dark and gloomy in my bedroom. The late September heatwave we’d been enjoying at Kilhallon Park broke late last night when a massive storm blew in from the Atlantic and settled over our corner of far-west Cornwall.

      The bedroom door bangs against the wall and four paws land squarely on my legs and a rough tongue licks my face.

      ‘Oof!’

      My dog, Mitch, stands on my stomach, tongue lolling. ‘Thanks, boy, but I’d rather have a wash myself. In the bathroom, preferably.’

      Mitch woofs and jumps onto the floor, wagging his feathery tail.

      ‘I know, I know. You want a walk, but have you heard that wet stuff falling from the sky outside?’

      Mitch leaps off the bed, and stands by, tilting his head this way and that, as if to say: ‘Wuss’.

      I give up all thought of staying in bed. ‘OK. You win.’

      As I swing my legs off the bed, Mitch scampers to the doorway, hardly able to contain himself, excited at the prospect of a walk. After I’ve pulled on old jeans and a fleece, I trot downstairs, grab a quick glass of juice and pull open the curtains. It’s still bucketing down, and the rain is driven by strong winds off the sea, so it’s almost horizontal.

      I grab an old waxed jacket from a peg by the back door and pull the hood over my СКАЧАТЬ