The Little Cornish Kitchen: A heartwarming and funny romance set in Cornwall. Jane Linfoot
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frowns. ‘She doesn’t look twenty, let alone twenty-five. Although I’m guessing Nell wouldn’t have let her come if she wasn’t. She’s very strict with her age criteria.’
Plum nods at the couple. ‘What did I say about close encounters? If things carry on there you’ll be in line for a “cupid” award on your first night.’
‘A what?’ It sounds horribly as if an assessment’s involved.
Sophie smiles. ‘Don’t look so nervous. Nell awards a “cupid” whenever a get-together ends up with a “get together”. It’s part prestige, part statistical. Apparently, it’s a great way of working out how effective events are.’
Since we were small, Nell’s always turned every activity into an opportunity for calculations. When we collected shells on the beach as three year olds, while the rest of us piled them in buckets and on sand castles, Nell was counting them. It’s strange how our personalities showed so strongly when we were young. By the time we were five Plum was drawing everything in sight and Sophie was organising anything that moved. There was a time when we were teenagers when we thought that she was so brilliant that we were holding her back. But then we worked out she needed us to boss about as much as we needed her to sort us out. Out of all of us, I’m the only one who never showed a talent for anything in particular. I might have travelled a long way in miles, but I’ve made very little progress with my life. Although I’d never admit it to the mermaids, it’s sad that I’ve never been good at anything.
Plum gives a sigh. ‘Nell actually has “Cupid” award league tables.’
‘Please tell me you’re joking?’ I groan, although realistically it needn’t bother me with my one-off evening.
Plum shakes her head. ‘Not at all. In fact, the regular events with the highest cupid scores are always the most popular. For obvious reasons.’
This time my groan’s for Nell. ‘The sooner we get her a new partner the better. Then she can give up being sad and singles obsessed and get on with her proper life.’
Plum wrinkles her nose. ‘There’s nothing sad about Nell from where I’m standing.’
Sophie turns on her. ‘Nor should there be, we’ve worked our butts off and delivered her a stunning event in next to no time.’
Nell’s got a triumphant shine to her eyes as she flattens herself against the bookcase and makes her way around the room edge towards us. ‘The sorbet’s going down a storm. And everyone’s blown away by how quirky and colourful the flat is.’ She waggles a sheaf of papers at Sophie. ‘Here, I brought you the quiz.’
Sophie jumps for the sheets, then dips into the kitchen for her bag. ‘Ooo, this is me, I’ve raided Tilly’s felt tip box for pens.’ She strides as far into the living room as she can, which is approximately one step. Then she claps her hands and puts on her ‘don’t mess with Mummy’ face. ‘Okay, quizzes coming round. Grab a partner, or work in twos, threes or fours. Anything goes, so long as everyone joins in.’
I’m mystified and horrified in equal measure. ‘What’s this?’ I know zilch about anything so party games are my pet hate, especially when participation’s non-negotiable. And Sophie’s sounding insistent.
Nell waves away my concern. ‘Don’t worry, you’re excused. Quizzes are a singles’ tradition. We even do them when we’re whale watching or out on walks. Collaboration’s excellent for pair bonding, and not everyone hates trivia as much as you.’
I’m glad she remembered. ‘How do you not run out of questions?’
It seems like a valid point, but she ignores it. ‘It’ll give us breathing space to circulate with more drinks and get the next round of sorbets ready.’ She has to be talking metaphorically about the space because truly, there isn’t any.
‘Okay, I’ll look after fizz and scooping.’
Which is exactly what I do, with as much washing up as I can manage in between. Sophie’s apologising for the endless stream of glasses she’s bringing in, but for someone like me who’s used to working a busy bar, that part’s a picnic. When I finally have a second to look at my phone, it’s already eleven, and the guests are sighing over cups filled with raspberry and mango ices.
As I make my way to the open door, dip under the silk scarf and slide out into the soft darkness of the balcony for a few seconds of quiet, there are so many compliments drifting past me I’m almost blushing: ‘… sooooo pretty, I could eat them all over again’ ‘… saving the best ’til last’ ‘… the icy mango is orgasmic …’
I know I’ve had so much help, but there’s a warm feeling spreading through my chest that’s due to much more than too many gins. It isn’t over yet, but for now I couldn’t be any happier. I can’t help a flutter of excitement when I think Nell, Plum and Sophie’s crazy ‘pop up’ idea might actually work.
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