Plum’s smiling. ‘Great idea. I can put some flyers in the gallery for you too.’
Nell’s eyes are wide. ‘It’s like Clemmie did with her pudding evenings, but back to front. People paid to come toherkitchen – this way they’d be paying you to go to theirs.’
The more I’m setting the scene, the more it’s sounding like something I could manage that might also bring in some cash. ‘I’d arrive with drinks and all my own ingredients, and the guests could watch me whizz up a cake or two while knocking back their fizz and eating ones I’d made earlier.’
Ross’s eyes are narrowing. ‘It’s veryBlue Peterand spur of the moment. And much less reliable than office work.’
Plum’s holding back her smile. ‘Spontaneous ideas are often the most successful, Ross.’
Sophie’s hurrying over, keen to join in. ‘And small equals exclusive, so you can pitch the price higher too.’
My own grin is so wide my cheeks are tight. ‘I’ll run it past Clemmie, but I’m thinking I could call it The Little Cornish Kitchen On Tour.’ If she was eager for me to take over the reins while she wasn’t here, I’m sure she won’t mind this.
Plum grins. ‘Brilliant, it’ll keep the name out there while she’s away.’
There’s already a chorus round the garden. ‘The Little Cornish Kitchen’s going on tour? The Little Cornish Kitchen’s going on tour!’
I’m keeping my smile going. ‘It’s not as if it’s going to be for long – it’s only to tide me over while I’m stuck here in St Aidan.’ Three months down the line I’m hoping the haters will have grown tired of making their hateful comments on every word I post, and I can go back to London and gently pick up the YouTube clips and the recipe blog again.
Sophie’s beaming. ‘We’ll clear it with Clemmie, I know she won’t mind.’ Her fingers close on my arm. ‘And don’t worry! We’ll all be here to give you a hand.’
As I look around at Clemmie’s friends, I’m grateful for their enthusiasm but I hope they’re not expecting to betooinvolved. When it comes to work, I’m used to doing things on my own. I’d actually find it easier to put on a mermaid’s tail than accept their help with this, and we all know how much I’d hate to do that!
And while the idea of cooking in front of strangers in someone else’s house is enough to scare the bejesus out of me, being without money would be worse. And the nightmare of working with Ross would be even more unbearable than that. So I’m just going to have to grit my teeth and get on and make this off-the-wall idea a success.
To think I thought that Ross moving in was as bad as it was going to get! But alongside the scary shivers, there’s a tiny part of me that feels inexplicably excited too. If this is me moving forward with my earning, it’s to a completely new place. And that’s got to be good as well as terrifying.
11
In Clemmie’s flat at Seaspray Cottage
Last orders and dirty dishes
Sunday morning
Walter and his mates were so intent on sampling every craft ale going at the beer tent yesterday, by the time they wobbled across the grass to the cake stall we were clearing the last crumbs off the table. But their bulk order for ten boxes of what Walter called ‘them sticky chocolate bricks’ was too big to miss, especially as they paid up-front and added a tip so mahoosive, it had to be down to the amount of Rip Curl brew they’d put away, as much as their generosity.
As for Ross, he went off with Walter and his merry men shortly after. As I didn’t hear the thunder of Clemmie’s high-flush loo other than when I pulled the chain myself, I can only assume that, yet again, he found somewhere better to stay. Which is fine by me.
So this morning, despite the rain that was hammering on the balcony outside my window, I woke up powered by the double adrenalin-shot of a cake orderandmy new idea for generating cash. By six I was crossing the garden with Diesel in his waxed jacket and me in Charlie’s, ready for a dash along the beach before I got down to my big bake. But Diesel had other ideas; given the horizontal rain was whipping up enough grit from the beach to sting our faces, I couldn’t blame him for having one leg-cock then diving straight back into the hall and bolting upstairs.
So while we waited for better weather I weighed out sugar and butter, sloshed around vanilla essence, jotted my umpteenth version of house rules for Ross and made notes for my posters, all with the whirr of the mixer beating brownie batter in the background. And Diesel curled up on the rug by the kitchen doorway in the perfect spot to keep one eye on me working in the kitchen and the other on Pancake, who was sitting by the French windows trying to catch the raindrops as they rolled sideways on the balcony side of the glass, driven by the wind blowing straight off the sea.
By the time I’d got four cooling racks stacked with glossy brownies my poster and rules were still works in progress. The kitchen smelled divine but it looked like an explosion in a cocoa factory and the sink was piled to the ceiling with baking tins and mixing bowls. But with a break in the rain and a sudden burst of blue in the sky Diesel was gently nosing my leg telling me he might be up for a walk after all. As all busy women will tell you, the secret to successful multi-tasking is knowing how to prioritise. So I decided the only way forward was to close the door on the mess and make a run for the beach before the clouds came in again.
When Diesel and I burst back into the flat an hour later shaking our heads and wiping the salt spray out of our eyes, we both look like we’ve been caught in a hurricane. It’s only when I hear the clatter from the kitchen and Diesel lets out a little bark that it hits me we’re not alone. As his legs start to fly the rug whips out behind him, then he powers across the living room. I follow and arrive at the kitchen door in time to see a pile of baking trays cascading to the floor as Diesel launches himself at shoulder height, and Ross in yellow Marigolds whirling away from the sink, soap bubbles clinging to all the way up to his elbows.
I wait for the face licking to subside, but when it comes to my turn to say hello I’m less enthusiastic. ‘Ross, thanks all the same, but Ireallydon’tneed you to do my washing up!’ Talk about taking over! He couldn’t have made a more territorial statement if he’d marched in and flown his family flag off the balcony.
Not that I need reminding, but now he’s here he’s taking up even more of the space than I’d imagined he would. The scent of dark chocolate is already completely overlaid with his man-scent too; fabric conditioner mixed with the kind of body spray that’s so delicious it makes your knees go wobbly.
He gives a shrug. ‘Don’t get your cardi in a twist, Egbert, it’s no big deal. In small spaces I find it’s better to tidy as I go, that’s all.’
It’d be folly to let him call the shots this early in the game. ‘Except this isn’t your area, it’s mine. If we’re splitting up the flat you can take the living room, and I’ll stick to the kitchen and the balcony.’ Thank goodness I’ve thought this through enough to write it down in advance.
He picks up a tray from the floor and lifts one eyebrow. ‘You’re talking about the list of house rules you left out on the table?’
‘They’re not completely finished.’
