The Little Cornish Kitchen: A heartwarming and funny romance set in Cornwall. Jane Linfoot
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inside, hoping I don’t have the foggiest what he’s talking about. ‘Ill effects?’
His face cracks into a grin. ‘St Aidan Sirens’ Charter, rule sixty-seven, stealing tails is strictly forbidden.’
Shit. So, he is looking at me and seeing a mermaid. And he must have seen my ‘worst moment’ too. I grit my teeth, but before I can mumble a reply, Sophie jumps in.
‘No sea life was harmed during the launch party. You know how stringent our wildlife and nature policies are, you drafted the damn things. Shall we move on now?’
‘Sure.’ George sounds reluctant. ‘They were fabulous costumes though. I’ll pass that on to Charlie Hobson too. He’ll be very relieved to hear you survived and won’t be suing.’
Oh my days. I could have done without a name check for my grumpy accidental tail stealer. I can’t blame George for letting his mind wander off his legal job first thing on a Thursday morning, but someone needs to get this man back on task before I expire with embarrassment. ‘Weren’t we talking about matriarchy?’ Maybe I was listening after all.
‘Right. Thanks for the reminder, Clementine. Passing property down the female line is well documented, but the point in your case is, whatever her son’s actions, Laura didn’t want you to be short changed. Looking through the papers, it’s obvious she wanted the best for you. And she was also wise enough to let the flat on a long tenancy, so you only took possession and had the deeds transferred into your name when you were mature enough to handle it.’ He sends a glance Sophie’s way to check she’s approving. Although, if she wasn’t, realistically she’d have butted in by now and shut him up. ‘So now the tenant has finally moved out, I assume you’re here to pick up the keys before we finalise the legal side?’
Sophie’s nodding enthusiastically enough for both of us.
Although I’ve known about this for the best part of fifteen years, it’s as if I’m staring the enormity of it in the face for the first time. And being called Clementine is so rare it actually makes me feel like he’s talking to someone else rather than me. Not that I mean to behave like a spoiled, ungrateful bitch, but there’s something holding me back. I frown and drag in a breath. ‘I wasn’t ready for a key. Not quite today.’ Although realistically, if not a key, what was I expecting? ‘Actually, I’m not sure I want the flat at all. Now it comes to it, I don’t even want to go there.’
George’s forehead furrows as he takes in the level of my reluctance. But then he smiles the kind of smile that stretches all the way through to his voice. ‘Don’t worry, knowing the background I completely understand. If you’d rather sell, the market’s strong. We could arrange for the contents to be cleared, and handle the sale for you?’
Better and better. ‘Okay …’ I’d got my head round spending a couple of weeks in blustery old Cornwall, but this way I can head straight back to Paris and ease my itchy feet.
George picks up a picture from the desk and starts to rub some invisible dust off. ‘The flat’s a little tired, or as the agents say, “ripe for restoration”. But with those open vistas across the bay, no doubt buyers will be queueing up.’
‘It has sea views?’ The mention of restoration had Sophie quivering, but her last lurch of excitement is so large she almost launches Maisie over the desk. ‘Where is it exactly?’ She whips round and fixes me with the same ‘ravenous wolf’ look that took her cosmetics from her kitchen table to John Lewis best-sellers in under ten years.
I give a clueless shrug. ‘Somewhere between the harbour and the sea front. The last time I was there I probably wasn’t tall enough to see out of the window.’ I went there as a child, before Laura moved to be closer to her son. I can picture a velvet chair the colour of a flamingo. A musical box. Serious amounts of cake and icing. Then my mum pulling me across the cobbled quayside, hurrying us back up to our cottage up the hill.
George puts down the photo and looks up. ‘It’s a top floor flat in Seaspray Cottage, the rambling pile at the far end of the quay.’
Sophie lets out a shriek. ‘Not the place with peeling paint and the long ocean facing balcony?’
‘That’s the one.’ He nods.
She rounds on him. ‘Shit a brick, George, if you’d told me that I wouldn’t have let Clemmie mess around for weeks. I’d have had her on the next plane home.’
He’s laughing at her now. ‘However much you bully me, I can’t tell you all my secrets.’
She sniffs. ‘You never actually tell me any.’ Then she turns to me. ‘Are you bat-shit crazy, Clemmie? Of course, we’ll take the damn keys. You’re looking, not committing, okay?’
The reminder of commitment sets my alarm bells jangling. ‘What about repairs? And common areas? And meter readings?’ If I sound absurd and random it’s because these are my mum’s questions not mine. In the depths of my bag there’s a crumpled reality-check list she wrote out for me before she left for South America. If I’d intended to use it, I’d have read it more carefully.
George blows out his cheeks. ‘The Residents’ Committee handles most things. They’ve been a bit fierce with their rules over the years. But let’s deal with the detail down the line.’
Sophie catches my appalled groan. ‘Sweat the boring stuff later, Clems. Only when you have to. Do you have the keys?’ Then her hand shoots out across the desk, George’s drawer opens and the keys drop into her palm before I’ve stopped choking. She jingles them at George as she shoves Maisie and I towards the door. ‘Expect us back in half an hour.’
‘Lovely to have you in the office, Clementine.’ Before you can say ‘soggy cereal’, George has my hand and its contents in the kind of power press that could crush molecules.
Whatever the theories on disappearing dark matter, when I get my palm back it’s entirely crispie free. Maybe George won’t be quite so pleased when Maisie’s breakfast resurfaces on his designer suit.
He calls after us. ‘Make sure you work your magic, Sophie Potato. St Aidan could definitely do with another mermaid.’
As Sophie propels me past the empty desk in reception, I let out a shocked squawk. ‘Did he just call you Sophie Potato?’ That was her name from when we were kids, because she refused to eat anything other than Smash. It went nicely with Nellie Melon and Victoria Plum.
She lets out a laugh. ‘First rule of great business, keep your enemies close and your solicitor closer. He can be quite playful once he lets himself go, those childhood names of ours are a great way to get him to loosen up. When he hears you’re Clemmie Orangina, there won’t be any more of this Clementine shit. Have you noticed how much he sounds like he’s got a poker rammed up his butt when he gives you your full title?’ There’s no room for a reply, because she’s spotted a cardboard sign that’s propped on the desk where the receptionist should be sitting. She snatches it up. ‘Yay, Trenowden, Trenowden and Trenowden have a short-term vacancy for a front of house assistant. Their usual treasure Janet is off because her daughter’s had twins. How auspicious is that? Talk about good timing and heaven sent all rolled into one.’
I’m picking up my jaw off the floor as she rams the sign into her changing bag. ‘Tell me you’re not stealing their sign?’
Her grin is inscrutable. ‘Borrowing’s a better word. Winning for Beginners, watch and learn. No point leaving the job ad lying around when the perfect applicant is already in the building.’
As I screw up my face, I’m squeaking. ‘You’ve got four children, a factory, and a marketing team. How do you have time to do extra hours?’ Sophie has always been big on moonlighting, and huge on ambition. But even for a high achieving workaholic, adding this job in is ridiculous.
She lets out a laugh. ‘Not me, silly, this one’s got your name all over it. It’ll be a perfect fit while you refurbish the flat. Let’s face it, you’re going to need to earn something to pay for paint. And seeing