The Cornish Beach Hut Café

Chapter 1

1

Just outside St Aidan, Cornwall

Sequins and a following wind

Wednesday

W ouldn’t you know it? After three hundred miles of trouble-free driving since London, half an hour before St Aidan I opt for the short cut down the lanes, and now my trusty Mini convertible is at a standstill, stuck behind a line of cars.

I groan at Shadow the dog, who lifts his big brown head briefly, then settles back across the back seat, buoyed up by the bags I couldn’t fit in the boot. ‘It’s only April, it’s not even warm enough for us to have the hood down. Surely the holiday hold-ups can’t have started already?’

As I smack the flat of my hand on the steering wheel, even singing along to Miley Cyrus’s ‘Flowers’ doesn’t help any. I hope this first snowflake of doubt about moving back to Cornwall doesn’t become an avalanche of all the downsides I’ve forgotten in the decade since I left. As I look over the hedge to the expanse of pale blue sea beyond the fields, and catch my first glimpse of St Aidan, its picturesque pastel-coloured cottages stacked across the hillside in the curve of the bay, I hang on tight to the wave of wild optimism that brought me here.

When my mum rang me at the end of January to ask if I would like to buy the beach hut her friend Ivy was selling for a knock-down price, it felt like serendipity. True, a dilapidated shack on the sand dunes in a village at the edge of the world wasn’t anywhere on my radar at the time, but with my life in London crumbling around me, it felt like the lifeline I’d been waiting for.

Four years earlier I was in my late twenties and everything I’d ever wanted had finally clicked into place. I was a team manager at a buzzy post-industrial bar called The Circus, where the only things loftier than the drink prices were the high-wire performers. I was in love with my adorable boyfriend, Dillon, a hot-shot engineer and childhood friend with whom I’d reconnected with in St Aidan town centre the New Year’s Eve I was twenty-three. Home was a swanky rental in N16, and we were sure enough about our future to have secretly made our own wedding rings. There we were, researching honeymoon destinations, debating whether to spend the savings on a flat deposit, a fabulous elopement or the wedding of the decade. Speeding towards the public announcement of our engagement. And then one routine cervical smear test result blew all that out of the water.

Except that’s not entirely true. My cancer diagnosis knocked the breath out of us, but after that I threw everything at it, and Dillon was with me all the way. When I wasn’t able to work, I couldn’t have asked for better support. When I went back to waitressing and it wore me out, I even managed to reboot my career, and started doing audio-book narration instead.

But it was as if that battle used up an entire lifetime of love. Before I was ill, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. But by the time I had the tentative all-clear, our relationship was over too.

Dillon took the fabulous promotion in Dubai he’d been holding off on and paid a year’s rent on our flat to give me some breathing space. For spending money, I let out the spare room to an Estonian PhD student called Elise, who was mostly out at the lab. Then I threw myself into my work.

And for a few quiet months it felt like I’d cracked it. Then one minor surgical procedure left me with a throat rasp from the breathing tube, which means my voice now gives out a few pages into the manuscripts I read, so working my new job wasn’t possible. And sadly, however big the tips, I’m way past picking up my old job, because I’m simply not that extrovert, life-of-the-party woman who persuaded revellers to buy round after crazily priced round. As I feel now, I doubt I could give cocktails away.

When I first arrived in London in my late teens, I vowed I’d stay for ever, but lately my luck has run dry, which is why, when the beach hut came up, I jumped at the opportunity. A place so sleepy that nothing ever happens might once have been my private nightmare, but it’s the perfect refuge for where my life is now. Four walls and a roof are all I need; they might be a million miles away from the fifth-floor luxury living with a basement gym I’m giving up, but at least they’re mine. If I hide myself away and live very quietly, I should be able to make my savings last until I’m able to ease back into my audio-book work again.

There’s a sympathetic snort from Shadow in the back seat, but before I can thank him for his doggy solidarity on traffic issues, I catch sight of the signage on the car in front of mine in the queue and my sinking heart gives a skip.

The Little Cornish Kitchen! Delicious afternoon teas and events, Seaspray Cottage, St Aidan!

My fairy godmother must be looking down on me more than I know!

The Little Cornish Kitchen is run by Clemmie, one of my older sister’s besties, whom I’ve known my entire life. As a figure in a blue flowery dress appears around the back of the car, pushing back a mass of auburn curly hair, I’m already out on the road and grinning.

‘Clemmie! This is the best surprise ever! What’s going on?’

Her cheeks are flushed as she nods at the child asleep in the back seat of her vehicle. ‘Bud and I were out delivering a tray-bake order. Everyone stopped because a dog was out in the road, but a driver in front caught him and now they’re all zooming off.’

I tense as I think of Shadow running loose in traffic, then relax again as Clemmie’s arm flops onto my shoulder. Since Shadow and I rescued each other, he’s done a great job at plugging the gaps that opened up in my life when Dillon and I parted. Who needs a partner when you’ve got a large hairy dog who sneaks on the bed the second the light goes out, and shares your addiction to custard creams?

Clemmie’s beaming. ‘You’re the surprise here!! Who’d have thought we’d ever see London devotee Florence May moving back to St Aidan?’

Definitely not me, that’s for sure. But I keep that to myself, go in for the hug then pull back when I collide with her bump. ‘Nice work, Mrs Hobson! You’re already bigger than when you had Bud!’

Clemmie clutches her stomach. ‘It’s a boy this time. He’s due in a month, which is why I’ve been having these practice contractions all week.’ She blows out a breath and leans back on the car wing. ‘Between us, Flossie, when the traffic in front stopped, I was pleased to get out and rub my aching back.’

Clemmie, my sister Sophie, Dillon’s sister Plum and a lovely woman called Nell are a group of friends who go all the way back to when our pregnant mums met at the Mums and Bumps group thirty-six years ago. Obviously, Dillon was already there, and I came along a bit later, but even as we’ve moved elsewhere, we’ve always all met up back in St Aidan.

Wall-to-wall weddings go with our age group, and some summers there was one a month. Around the time I was turning up here bloated from the steroids, having lost every bit of hair including my eyebrows with the chemo, Clemmie and her partner Charlie were trying for a baby and being endlessly disappointed. And Nell was another one who thought kids were never going to happen for her and her partner George.

When you’re thirty and struggling to conceive you’re right on the outside, especially at parties, and as my own chances of ever having a family of my own dwindled too, Nell, Clemmie and I stuck together. Being alcohol-free, we couldn’t even console ourselves by necking the free booze and getting off our faces. We sat through so many receptions, waving our mocktails and rolling our eyes at those lucky women who’d stopped taking their pills and caught on the first try.

But eventually Clemmie got lucky. Her and Charlie’s last-chance IVF baby, Bud, arrived last year. The whole village had shared their struggle to become parents and was equally delighted when Clemmie’s surprise second pregnancy turned up out of the blue last Christmas.

Clemmie brightens and pushes herself upright again. ‘Nell’s baby’s due around the same time.’

Anyone other than Clemmie and Nell, I might have found their pregnancies hard to watch, but no one deserves a happy family more than those two. From Clemmie’s screwed-up face, it’s clear she’s still not ready to get back into the car, so I put my urgency to see my new home to one side, and carry on with our catch-up.

‘Did Bud enjoy her first birthday?’

Clemmie opens her eyes and blows again. ‘You bet!’

When I look again, she’s turned and is holding onto the edge of the car roof. ‘Everything okay there, Clems?’

She waves away my concern. ‘I’ve rung Charlie, he’s on his way to drive us home.’ She tenses again, then smiles. ‘Enough about babies. Tell me about this beach house you’ve bought. Sophie pointed it out from across the bay when we were at theirs.’

What I haven’t said yet, is that Sophie is ‘Sophie May’, the multi-national cosmetics magnate who began her business on her kitchen table as a single mum in her twenties and now advertises in Good Housekeeping and dresses in pale aqua to match her products. She’s as tiny, blonde and polished as I am sprawling, dark and messy. She also has a gorgeous husband, Nate, four kids and a clifftop castle called Siren House. It’s good that I never make comparisons; the only thing I ever did better than her was being a teenage goth.

I’m not sure how much Clemmie’s taking in, but I say it anyway. ‘It’s more a shed than a house, but I’ll be over the moon if it’s half as pretty in real life as it looks on Google Satellite.’

Clemmie stops and stares at me. ‘You haven’t seen it yet?’

‘It was fully checked out by Mum.’ What’s not to like about a beach hut? – especially one at the tired, deserted end of town I prefer. ‘I fast-tracked the sale because of the dog-friendly garden. It’ll be Shadow and me, and seclusion by the sea.’

Clemmie frowns at me. ‘You do know St Aidan won’t be that peaceful with us lot here…?’ She clamps her hand to her stomach again. ‘Fuck! Sorry, Bud!’

As students in a flat-share in my early twenties, we watched every episode of One Born Every Minute , so I know the signs. I don’t want to panic, but if she’s swearing like that this baby could be here a lot sooner than next month.

‘Would you like to sit down, Clemmie?’ I reach into my car for a rug and as I shake it out on the verge another car’s drawing up.

By the time the driver gets out, Clemmie’s on all fours in the field gateway.

‘Everything okay here? Do you need any help?’

I’m staring up into slate-grey eyes under dark curly hair, breathing in the kind of sophisticated aftershave that makes my knees go weak. Add gin and kiss thoroughly … is not any thought I should be having when my bestie is doubled up in agony on the grass and I’m starting my new single life .

I pull myself together. ‘I’m Florence. My pregnant friend Clemmie is having contractions. Could you possibly phone 999 and say the words “rapid labour” while I check she’s okay?’

Clemmie lets out a wail. ‘No one needs an ambulance, Floss! A few minutes down here and I’ll be… Arrrggghhh!’

As the guy gets straight through and starts giving the details of our location, the echo in my head tells me it’s not the first time I’ve seen those dark curls and that half smile. Then it hits me that I’m not in Stoke Newington anymore with nine million strangers – in St Aidan everyone local looks familiar because they all are.

He catches my eye. ‘The nearest ambulance is fifteen minutes away, they’re doing their best to get someone here.’

As he returns to his phone Clemmie grabs my hand. ‘I’m so sorry, Floss, you’re the last person who should be helping me through this.’

I kneel down beside her and dab the sweat off her forehead. We both know she’s right. Before I was ill, having kids had never crossed my mind, but when the chemo snatched that possibility away from me, it changed my mindset in ways I couldn’t have predicted. I try not to make a big thing of it, but when I know I won’t ever be pregnant or give birth to a child of my own, keeping babies at a safe distance is a self-preservation instinct.

But Clemmie didn’t plan for this – I have to dig deep, and get on with it. ‘I might be the best person to help! A woman at The Circus went into labour once, so it’s not my first time!’

That puts a stop to her contractions, and she turns to look at me. ‘Don’t leave me hanging – tell me what happened?’

I shouldn’t have started this. ‘An off-duty paramedic leaped into action and caught the baby in his T-shirt.’ I call up to the guy on his phone. ‘You’re not a doctor by any chance?’

He shakes his head. ‘Sorry, I’m a metallurgist.’

Damn. It was worth a try.

Clemmie’s eyes are level with my boobs as she pants. As she reads the logo on my chest, her face clears with the recognition. ‘The Libertines at Reading, 2010 … I was there, with Sophie! ’

I grin. ‘This used to be her T-shirt.’ It felt like an auspicious choice to wear for coming back. When I dressed the part and slung it over my spangly bikini top this morning I didn’t intend being out in a force ten gale blowing off the sea.

Clemmie’s gasp turns to a wail. ‘Sophie will have kittens if you catch Arnie in that! ’ Her calling the baby by name makes him sound alarmingly like a living, breathing person rather than a bump.

I laugh because what people forget is, if you stand up to Sophie she’ll usually back down. ‘It’s my top now, she shouldn’t have given it away.’ Then the full weight of what Clemmie said sinks in. ‘How close is this baby?’

The guy kneels down on the grass beside us. ‘I’ll put the emergency centre on speakerphone. They’re asking, can you see the head yet?’

I wait until Clemmie opens her eyes again. ‘Is the head there, Clems?’

There are damp strands of her hair sticking to her forehead as she lets out a whimper. ‘I think it might be.’

‘Shouldn’t we be waiting for Charlie?’ I’m playing for time here, but I untuck my vest from my shorts just in case. ‘He can’t be far away, he’s going to be devastated if he misses this.’

‘I might need to push…’

I’m all about the practicalities here. ‘What about your pants, Clems?’

‘I gave up on those weeks ago…’ Her next groan is so loud it obliterates any relief her answer just gave me.

The guy is keeping up a running commentary into his phone as Clemmie’s face turns redder. ‘She’s on her knees, pushing now, and her friend Florence is beside her, steadying her hips.’

The sound of a siren might be blowing on the wind, but I could be dreaming that. And I might be the one steadying myself as I grasp Clemmie’s waist, not the other way around.

A woman’s voice is echoing across from the phone. ‘You and your baby are going to be fine, Clemmie, we’ll talk you through… Grasp the baby as it comes, Florence… Hold on to it firmly…’

I peel off my vest, drop back behind Clemmie, and push past the flowery fabric of her dress. My most valuable cargo to date was a tray of diamond sparkle champagne cocktails someone paid thousands of pounds for, but the small body I’m reaching for with my outstretched fingers is so much more precious.

I gasp as the full weight of a baby lands in my hands. He’s warm as I pull him tightly against the skin of my bare midriff. I should be shouting, so everyone can hear, but the most I can manage is a whisper. ‘I’ve got the baby, Clems! He’s really heavy!’

As she collapses sideways onto the rug, I move in beside her. ‘You’ve done it, Clemmie, Arnie is here!’

What the hell happens now?

The next seconds stretch to an age, then there’s a small splutter, and a cry that turns to a wail. I take in a crumpled face and tiny fists as I sit back on my heels and try to pull the vest around him.

As I slide him onto Clemmie’s chest her cheeks are wet with tears and she’s shuddering. ‘Thanks, Floss. I d-didn’t expect this when I set off!’ She looks down at the bundle in her arms. ‘He’s beautiful, isn’t he?’

I swallow back a sob. ‘Another redhead too.’

Her eyes go wide as if she’s had another thought. ‘If you want a custard cream blondie, help yourself from the car!’ She clasps my hand. ‘They are still your favourite?’

Then there’s a blur of bright red vehicles and blue lights further along the road and as the tyres skid to a halt on the gravel I’m thinking this must be a mistake.

‘Didn’t we call for an ambulance?’

The first two men are already kneeling down beside us. ‘We firemen are the local first responders; you’re in safe hands with us.’ He pauses to grin. ‘If in doubt, Blue Watch will sort you out!’

The second one frowns at me. ‘We’ll fill in until the paramedics arrive. The next bit is the umbilical chord, then the placenta.’

I drop a kiss on Clemmie’s cheek. ‘I’d better make room for the professionals!’

As I hear the emergency centre hand over to the crew on the ground a third guy is looking down at us. ‘Clemmie Hobson! Having a baby by the side of the Truro road is taking natural childbirth to extremes!’ He does a double take as he sees me. ‘And Florence Flapjack-face too! Back to set the town on fire, I presume?’

As I scramble to my feet it’s not lost on me that I’m surrounded by enough talent to fill a uniformed worker calendar, but my goosebumps are all down to the person in the dark suit trousers and white shirt standing back by the hedge.

I have nothing to lose here, I might as well own what everyone knows anyway. However old I grow, there will always be someone in St Aidan to call me by my childhood nickname and remind me of the time I was trying to smoke a paper towel for a dare in chemistry and accidentally set the school alight. It’s hard to re-compose myself as a sensible thirty-something, when my boobs are falling out of a bra top with diamond trim that’s two sizes too small and my cheeks are sticky with tears, but I give it my best shot. Then another car draws up, and as Charlie jumps out, I run off to prepare him.

‘Clemmie’s-by-the-hedge-she’s-had-the-baby-they’re-both-fine!’ I race to get to the end part, but Charlie still turns the colour of the Green Fairy absinthe cocktail we used to serve at The Circus.

Then an ambulance pulls to a halt behind the fire engine, and the paramedics come towards us carrying a stretcher. Charlie drops to join the group on the rug, and I dash round the cars to check on Bud and Shadow, who are both still asleep. I’m wiping my hands on a paper towel someone gave me, when I look up to see the guy who called the ambulance shaking a T-shirt at me.

‘Have this if you’re cold.’

‘I couldn’t possibly…’ Asking how to give it back could be misread as a chat-up line.

‘It’s old stock. “White XL” isn’t a judgement, it’s the only size left.’ He squeezes my shoulder and glances at a very sleek wristwatch. ‘I’m Kit, by the way – that was a perfect catch you made there. If we’re all done here, someone is waiting for me in Penzance, and I have a long drive home after that.’

I’m hugging the T-shirt to me, aware that he’s backing away. ‘We couldn’t have done it without you, Kit.’ I’m also aware how much I’d like to stop him from leaving, which is completely ridiculous. I’m pointing at his legs. ‘Your trousers are covered in mud. Charlie will have some to lend you if you have time to drive to the village?’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘I have three more clean pairs in the car, I can soon change.’ His eyes widen as he reads my face. ‘Being impeccable is part of my job description.’

I block the image of him stripping off on the verge – or hotter still, struggling into a new pair in the passenger seat – and force my mind onto the task in hand. ‘If you could give me your deets, I know Clemmie will want to thank you herself. If you’re going to help deliver anyone’s baby a cake maker is a good choice. You’re pretty much guaranteed a lifetime supply of Little Cornish Kitchen chocolate brownies. I will not be holding back on mine!’

I’m hearing myself going full-on with the confectionery bribery. Who is operating my mouth here?

I should simply ask what his aftershave is, so I know to avoid it in future, and shut the eff up.

There’s a beat of silence. ‘Is home far away ?’ I can’t believe I was the one who said that too, but now I have I may as well sort out if I know him. ‘You’re not from round here? ’

He hesitates and turns, with a perplexed expression. ‘Home is a little fluid right now, but I’m definitely not local. Not yet, anyway.’ He’s almost back at his car. A few minutes more and he’ll reverse away and be gone.

‘And your number?’

‘I’m really not expecting thanks.’ As he opens the car door, I have a sense he may be testing me. Or teasing me. Then he gives in. ‘Nice to meet you both, anyway. If you want to get in touch, it’s all on the merchandise.’ His face breaks into a smile for a moment as he waves. Then his engine turns over, and he’s gone.

I push my arms into the T-shirt sleeves, look down to straighten it, and when I read the words printed on the fabric my heart turns to stone.

tOgether fOrever

www.KitAshton@Love2LoveAtelier

Covent Garden

Of course! He’s from my London past, not here!

If anyone can understand someone looking totally different a few years on it should be me. What’s unexpected is that losing the man bun and being so much more lean and wasted has made him so sexy. What’s more, his ‘together’ promises are total bollocks! He’s the metallurgist who made the wedding rings Dillon and I never got to use, and we had the very same T-shirts in the right sizes. ‘ Forever apart ’ would have been a better epitaph for us.

I whip my arms out of the sleeves and spin the T-shirt round so I don’t have to see the words, but when I look down this time there’s that calligraphy that was everywhere four years ago.

ALL YOU NEED IS

LoVE

Looking at that I actually get a bit of sick in my mouth.

As I stare out and watch the parallel lines of surf etched across the blue of the bay, I thank my lucky stars that Mr Forever-Together is already a dot on the horizon. I’d just hate anyone here to know that Dillon and I ever went down that road.

I sniff and stamp my foot, wanting to shout at the wind because I’ve had it up to here with couples and love. ‘Some of us are committed to futures alone – there’s nothing wrong with that!’ I mutter to myself.

As I hurry back to Clemmie, and the start of my brand-new solo life in St Aidan, I’m hoping this will be as exciting as it gets.

But obviously, having bought a beach hut without seeing it first, there is plenty of potential for more surprises.