Confetti at the Cornish Café. Phillipa Ashley
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of people where the bride and groom sit on thrones and everyone arrives by helicopter.’
‘Is there a helipad?’ Ben chimes in.
‘Sorry, no. There’s a field behind us that the emergency services could use at a push but no helipad.’
‘Oh.’ He goes back to his phone.
Lily smooths down her skirt. ‘Isla said we’d never find a more beautiful setting, especially if the sun comes out.’
‘I hope so. We’ll have a marquee, though, so we’ll be fine.’ Fingers crossed again, I think, remembering how Isla’s own engagement party was almost washed out by a summer storm. I won’t forget that day for all kinds of reasons; I had to rescue Cal from the sea after he’d been drowning his sorrows as he watched Isla and his best friend, Luke, celebrate their happiness. It was barely eight months ago and so much has changed. I truly believe Cal is over Isla now, though he said he could never ‘unlove’ her.
Nina hovers behind the counter, staring at the guests as if she’s in the middle of a dream.
‘So, what drinks can I get you?’ I say with a smile, dying to call Cal again but not wanting to let our guests know I’m ever so slightly panicking.
Lily orders a camomile tea, while Ben opts for a double espresso.
‘How about you, Harry?’ I ask. He has to speak now, he has to.
He grunts.
‘He’ll have an Earl Grey with lemon. No milk,’ says Ben, still tapping on his phone.
‘Oh … Okayy,’ I say, surprised Harry doesn’t drink liquefied girders. ‘Nina? Would you mind making up the order, please?’
Nina seems frozen to the spot for a second then scuttles off behind the counter. She turns up the music a little and that, combined with the hiss and sputter of the coffee machine, makes the atmosphere seem far more like a ‘normal’ cafe day.
I chat to Lily about her journey here while Ben studies his phone and Harry flicks through a copy of a Cornish lifestyle magazine. Harry was sent on ahead by road ready to pick them up from Newquay airport this morning, though they didn’t use Flybe. They chartered a private plane from an airfield in the Cotswolds where they’re renting what Lily describes as a ‘cute little cottage’ but which sounds more like a mini stately home. She seems interested in the doggy treats cookbook I’ve been writing over the winter – not that I’ve had that much to do with it as my co-author, Eva Spero, and her team have taken over a lot of the writing. She’s been to Eva’s restaurant in Brighton once and seems impressed that I have a celebrity connection.
I’m not sure how much of Lily’s breezy girly chat is really her, and how much is just her image. She has an Instagram account with hundreds of thousands of followers. Her fingers hover over a crystal-embellished iPhone. I bet she’s dying to update her Instagram right now so I break off to help Nina serve the drinks and coffee-time treats.
As soon as I return to the table with a laden cake stand, Lily puts her phone down. ‘There’s a selection of mini pastries and tasters of our cakes. Of course, you’ll have a tailor-made menu on the day and we can work with a local catering firm who have won tons of awards for their wedding food. But for today I thought you might enjoy some of the best of our home-cooked fare.’
Harry selects a slice of curranty pastry dredged in sugar. He observes it and his nose twitches as if he’s inhaling the scent. Please don’t say he’s going to taste our guests’ food for them … He wouldn’t go that far, would he? He bites off a piece, chews, swallows and lets out a sigh of pleasure.
‘Do you mind telling me what this is? It’s really rather good,’ he says, with an extremely posh lilt.
So amazed am I that he has a voice at all, let alone that particular voice, that I struggle to get my reply out. ‘Um … it’s figgy ’obbin.’
‘Foggy what?’
‘Figgy ’obbin – layers of feather-light puff pastry crammed with juicy raisins, lemon juice and sugar. That’s the traditional recipe but I also added a few dried cranberries for extra crunch and to brighten it up. It’s a real Cornish winter warmer.’
‘It certainly is. It’s delicious. Reminds me of Nanny’s strudel.’
‘Your gran was a keen baker?’ I ask, still amazed at his accent. That voice could have come straight out of the drawing room of Polly’s favourite series, Downton Abbey.
He laughs. ‘Oh gosh, Granny never baked. I don’t think she knew what an oven was and she rarely ventured into the kitchens. She had a cook and housekeeper for that sort of thing. No, our nanny used to bake us treats in the school holidays or when we had an exeat. She was from Salzburg and was an incredible pastry cook. Her strudel was my favourite but this is a delicious twist.’
Harry takes off his shades. He doesn’t need false lashes or eyeliner. His eyes are striking enough: sea green with natural lashes to die for. Wow. My mind works overtime, trying to work out why a man who once had a nanny is working as minder to a celebrity couple.
‘May I have another slice, please?’
I like him already. ‘Of course,’ I say, and hand him another plate.
While Harry tucks in to the figgy ’obbin, Lily nibbles a morsel of a mini cinnamon scone. I hold my breath, waiting for the verdict. She puts the rest on her plate and pushes it away from her as if it might bite her back. Oh dear, this isn’t going well, but after dabbing her mouth with a serviette, she smiles.
‘Yum. That was delicious, but I daren’t have any more. I’m getting so fat, aren’t I, Ben?’
‘I dunno. You look all right to me.’ Ben crunches a fairing without glancing up from his screen.
‘Do you want the rest of this yummy scone, Harry?’
Holding the handle of the cup with his little finger crooked, Harry sips his tea. ‘Thanks.’
Lily brings the plate over and puts it in front of him. ‘Now you can get fat like me, can’t you?’
Harry puts his shades back on. ‘You’re not fat,’ he mutters and studies a Demelza’s menu while devouring the scone in one bite.
Ben is still swiping his phone. I hope he’s on Instagram not Tinder.
Nina finds the courage to emerge from the counter for a chat with Lily who suggests she has a selfie with her and Ben. This gives me a welcome chance to escape outside to try and get Cal on my phone. Mobile coverage is patchy at Kilhallon, so I’m not surprised when his answer phone kicks in. Not surprised but pissed off.
‘My partner, Cal, seems to be tied up with an urgent matter at the moment but he’ll be along as soon as possible. I know he’s dying to show you the wonderful space that Kilhallon has for your ceremony. I think it’s drying up outside so while we wait for Cal and the sun to arrive, would you like to run through some menu ideas? We can have all the taster samples ready for you on your next visit and it will be spring then.’
‘That sounds lovely, doesn’t it, Ben?’
Finally, Ben puts down his phone and bends down to kiss Lily’s head. ‘Anything you want, babe. Harry, can you fetch Lily’s scarf from the car? If we’re going outside, I don’t want her shivering, do I, babe?’
‘I’ll be OK, really, Ben.’
‘Harry doesn’t mind. That’s what he’s here for,’ Ben says.
Without a word, Harry leaves the cafe with the remains of a figgy ’obbin in his huge hand.
‘Harry’s ex-military. Paras. His family once owned a huge dump in the Cotswolds but they fell on hard times,’ Ben tells me, sitting next to Lily again.
Lily tuts. ‘It isn’t a dump. It’s a beautiful old place.’
‘Yeah,