As I look around a wet black nose collides with my leg. ‘No Diesel, you know it tickles when you lick my knee. And hello Charlie, how can I help?’ I already know the answer to that so I lean over and turn the music down. Then as his nose for icing is unfailing I push the empty bowl towards him and go back to piping my chocolate zig zags. ‘That’s buttercream with Baileys. Quick as you can with the bowl please, I need it for my melt-in-the-middle fondant puddings.’
So much for me worrying about the embarrassment of whatever happened on the balcony late on Tuesday evening. It’s been so universally not mentioned I could almost have dreamed it.
Charlie deposits his usual pile of shite – for want of a better word, he always comes with it – on the table. Then he grabs a spoon and starts on the icing remains. ‘I’m actually here to work.’ He nods at the heap.
‘Baking business?’ I’m not sure I can fit in any extra cooking today.
He laughs. ‘Not with a Fat Max builders’ tape and a laser rangefinder, Clems. I’m here to take a few measurements.’ The corners of his eyes crinkle more when he takes in my blank stare. ‘For the repair estimates?’
‘You’re taking themthatseriously?’ I should have made it clearer:anycost is going to be too much. Every time I think I might have to sell the flat my heart goes into freefall. The only way I can cope is by blanking it totally.
His face falls. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Is this going to take long? It’s just I’ve got a party to prep for and my berry chocolate cheesecake takes a while to set.’
‘No time at all.’ He’s already holding his beeping gizmo on the wall and noting down numbers.
As I collect the dirty bowls and the washing up water splashes into the sink I can’t help feeling that the kitchen has shrunk since the last time Charlie was here. The windows are open to make the most of the cooling breeze while the oven’s on, but as he squeezes past me, moving backwards and forwards with his tape and clipboard, my skin is on fire. By the time I’m done with the dishes and collecting the pudding ingredients together I’m wiping slicks of sweat off my forehead. However much I lust after him I know nothing can ever come of this. The day he made my mental list was when it turned from wish list to impossible fantasy.
As Charlie springs up onto the work surface, I pull a face. ‘What the hell are you doing up there?’
He sniffs as he peers along the top of the high cupboards. ‘Checking the ceiling to see if you need a new one.’ He’s staring down at me. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’
‘I was expecting a few new plugs and switches, not full blown demolition.’ Not that it matters as there isn’t any money for either.
As he goes back to his prodding and poking I can’t help thinking, breakfast meetings as excuses for get togethers are fine. But when he’s going to this trouble, I feel guilty because I’m wasting everyone’s time.
The sad thing with my finances is I’m so close to what IthoughtI needed to hang on to the flat, which makes it agony that it’s being pulled away from me. Another month of parties and the ten grand will be in the bag. Thanks to the amazing and unstinting help of the mermaids and St Aidan Singles we’re close to pulling off what seemed totally impossible back in April. Admittedly, the local appetite for chocolate puddings is bound to wane eventually, although learning to make pastry has opened up the recipe options a lot. By popular request we’ve even had aReturn to Laura’s Rhubarbnight. The rhubarb season’s over in Sophie’s garden now, so we had to order it in bulk from the market, but I’d never have predicted that. I know it’s all down to luck. The secret with the pop-up evenings is we accidentally hit on an untapped market who were happy to devour what we were offering. Thanks to concepts like new ceilings I’m going to have to get used to the idea that it’s going to end as fast as it began. By Autumn everyone will have moved onto something else and forgotten all about their evenings at Seaspray Cottage.
However well my Little Cornish Kitchen luck was holding this far, and however well my first dinner for two went, my time is almost over. I turn around to get the scales at the exact moment Charlie springs down from the work top. There’s a groan from the floor boards as he lands, and next thing I spin straight into his chest. As my cheek collides with his shirt my heart’s tapping faster than Michael Flatley’s feet after six cans of Red Bull.
He puts a hand out to steady me. ‘Jeez, sorry, Clems, squishing the star baker is a sackable offence.’
This close, I’m totally engulfed in the heady Hobson scent again. ‘Go ahead, fire me, I reckon I’m on borrowed time anyway.’ I shiver as my eyes lock on the bare triangle of tanned skin where his shirt neck is open. Then as I let them slide upwards past the lump of his Adam’s apple to the stubble shadows on his chin I catch the rhythmic thud of his heart on his rib cage and I shudder. He’s staring down at me again. And yet again I’ve got this indescribable urge to lift my hand and rub it over his face. To wrestle his head downwards and bury my mouth in his. As I take a step backwards to get the hell out of here, his grip tightens on my arm.
His voice is low. ‘You’re the star here, Clems, not me.’ His lips stretch into a half-smile and he inclines his head. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you …’
There’s a crazy voice in my head.Will I sleep with you? So long as we talk about it first … maybe the night before I go …
His throat clearing breaks the voice in my head off in mid-sentence. ‘These parties you’ve been having, Clemmie …’
My stomach does a somersault. And then another. I consider asking which parties, but that’s futile. ‘Yes?’
He scratches his head, screws up his face and stares at me very hard ‘Were they a commercial venture?’
He’s letting me off the hook here with his business jargon. ‘I’m not sure I’d put it that formally.’
He sighs. ‘Okay, play it your way. In words of one syllable, have you been making money from these Seconds evenings of yours?’
How did I ever think I’d got away with that proposal tip? My chest deflates. I can’t compete with smarty pants; I know when I’m beaten. ‘Occasionally. From time to time. Possibly.’ I feel his glare boring into my skull like a truth drug, but I’m not going down without a fight. ‘Shit, yes, I made money from every bloody one. We aren’t all minted like you, I was desperate to get cash for the roof bill. Do you have an objection to that?’
His voice is high with indignation. ‘Oneverylevel.’ No surprise there then.
I can’t believe I’m saying this. ‘Name some then?’
‘You’re unregulated, uninsured, you’ve got no planning permission …’ He’s spluttering now and falling back on speculator-speak. ‘You could land yourself insomuch trouble here, Clemmie.’
I’m about to whip the proverbial rug out from under his complaining butt. ‘Technically, they’re private parties for friends from the Singles’ Club. If people want to make a donation towards costs and effort we’re not going to stop them.’ I give a sniff. ‘As Nell says, there are a lot of lonely people in St Aidan who are only too pleased to swap an evening alone watching TV for a riotous couple of hours at mine tucking into mocha mousse or Eton mess or white chocolate boozy roulades and copping off with people. We’re actually offering a public service here, so don’t be such a kill-joy. In any case Nell ran it past George, and we’re completely above board.’ My last minute after-thought isn’t strictly true, but he can’t possibly know that.
