The Cosy Croissant Café

Chapter 1

1

The Harbourside, St Aidan

Window Boxes and New Leaves

Sunday

‘A summer by the sea might not be what we’d planned, Pumpkin, but it may turn out to be awesome.’

As I’m talking to a pony, I’m not expecting an answer, and we both know I’m reassuring myself as much as him. Getting Pumpkin all the way from Somerset to Cornwall on a sunny Sunday when the narrow winding streets of St Aidan are heaving with visitors means there’s been no time for regrets about the life we’re leaving behind.

Arriving on the harbourside with a bright chestnut Shetland pony who shakes his blond mane as he takes his first breaths of sea air means an audience is unavoidable and Pumpkin insists on getting an ear scratch from every group of visitors we pass. His hooves are clattering on the cobbles as we finally leave the brightly coloured boats bobbing in the harbour and head off towards the beach path.

I give a firm tug on his lead rein when he tries to snatch a mouthful of daisies from the window box of the last of the little stone cottages that line the quayside. ‘The flowers here might be at nose height, but they’re not there for ponies, mister!’

As I hitch up my rucksack of essentials I feel the vibration of my phone in my pocket. I’m guessing it’s my big sister, Scarlett, checking in on us.

Me having to move out of the bedsit where I’ve spent the last few years wasn’t ideal, especially when I have a pony in tow, but Scarlett has come to our rescue and offered us the use of her Cornish holiday home while she’s away in the States. It’s all been a bit rushed and I’m hoping to slip into town quietly so she can bring her other half, Tate, up to speed with the arrangements before he hears it from anyone local.

When it comes to organisation, Scarlett is epic. Within a couple of hours of me jumping at her offer she’d sorted a space by the harbour for me to leave the horse trailer, organised a local parking permit for my car, had a fencer to check that the field her cottage stands in is pony-proof, and a botanist to check there were no poisonous plants. And if this is her now, she’ll be ringing from the departure lounge at Heathrow to fill me in on any last-minute instructions.

‘Great you’re there safely, Betty! What colour is the sea?’

I look out across the bay. ‘The water’s deep turquoise, the sun is making it shine like fish scales, and there are lines of white breakers racing towards the shore.’

She gives a wistful sigh. ‘Tell me some more. I need a last Cornish fix before I fly away.’

I look around. ‘The seagulls are calling as they follow a fishing boat, the pink and white cottages look like Lego houses stacked up the hillside behind me. We’re walking past that cafe made out of planks, and it’s so busy the queue is spilling off the deck and onto the sand.’

She moans. ‘I’m so going to miss the Surf Shack.’

I catch sight of the painted menu board. ‘However delish the ice cream sundaes are here, once you get to New York you’ll be all about the cheesecake and the hot dogs…’ I always forget she’s practically vegan so I add, ‘They’re bound to have fabulous meat-free versions.’

Scarlett and I are four years apart and other than sharing our surname and our auburn hair tone we couldn’t be more different. I try to sidestep the sensible stuff, where she grabs it with both hands. As a child, while I was making flower petal dinners for butterflies she was strutting around in Gran’s cast-off high heels, taking shorthand notes and picking out her wedding cake from the Marks and Spencer Complete Guide to Celebration Icing .

Her entire childhood was spent trying to fast-forward to adulthood, and at thirty-two she’s made a name for herself as a buyer in the fashion industry, she has an architect husband, Tate, and they live in a gigantic house that they built themselves in the coolest suburb in Manchester. Thankfully they stopped short of kids, because much as I love her, I’m not sure Scarlett has the space to add a child into the whirlwind that’s her life.

Obviously they had to put their spare energy into something, and the next best thing to a baby was a holiday home, which is how Pumpkin and I ended up here in the picturesque village of St Aidan at the furthest westerly edge of the country.

I’m not implying that Scarlett wouldn’t do a wonderful job if she and Tate did choose to have a family. As kids she was like a tigress when it came to defending me– she once flattened an entire bus shelter of lads when they had me in tears calling me ginger-nut– and since we lost our mum she’s been there for me without question.

My jaw is on the floor at what she’s achieved in her life, but even thinking about the commitments she’s made turns my knees to jelly. I’ve had a string of hot dates and calamities rather than relationships, my jobs since uni have been temporary or freelance, and I’d run a mile before I stepped into the same room as a mortgage leaflet. All the way to twenty-eight my hello-clouds-hello-sky attitude to accommodation has worked like a charm. And then, very abruptly, it’s turned around to bite me on the bum, which is how I’ve landed here. But it’s basically all because of Pumpkin.

Most people assume Pumpkin is our childhood pony, but our mum actually rescued him when Scarlett left for uni. As a lifelong single parent, she’d brought us up to be independent and self-reliant, but having given us the tools to fly, she didn’t want the thought of us leaving her on her own to hold us back. Ever practical, with the empty nest racing towards her, she jumped in and filled it with the kind of horse-child who would never leave home, and then took him to work with her in her job as an art therapist at the local hospices.

If Mum had had any idea that she was going to develop a brain tumour serious enough to need surgery, she would never have taken Pumpkin on. As it was, her cancer came out of nowhere and galloped at a million miles an hour. One day, she was at the optician with blurry vision, the next we knew, she was packing her hospital bag ready for her operation. She was so upbeat we never took it in that she may not come home again.

When she died the summer after I turned twenty, there was never any question of us not keeping Pumpkin. At first Scarlett and I juggled our lives and shared the pony care between us, but once her career took off it was down to me.

I’ve spent the last six years rubbing along in deepest Somerset where we grew up, staying in a make-shift room in the stable yard at an animal sanctuary, which came free with Pumpkin’s board and lodging in return for me giving a hand around the yard and having a steady nerve with a pitchfork at haymaking time. Thanks to my degree in media studies, I now write freelance pieces for the living-the-rural-dream aspirational blogs and magazines that millennials can’t get enough of and which are inhaled like oxygen by city dwellers with burnout. So long as I miss out the bits about freezing my butt off in the winter, and the strawberry fields next door getting decimated by summer drought, I’ve had the perfect authentic base for me to create the rural content there’s so much appetite for.

We always knew the lease on the sanctuary was precarious, but no one imagined how fast plans would be passed for a housing development, or that bulldozers would be moving in to flatten the buildings around the yard within days of them serving notice.

Luckily the other local rescue centre was able to take in most of the animals along with the owner and her ancient caravan. But Pumpkin and I were always slightly on the outside and it was quietly understood that we’d make our own arrangements. Which is how we came to be jumping across to a new county, and arriving at our stop-gap here in Cornwall.

My vegan slip-up has refocused Scarlett, and she’s onto her local contacts. ‘If you lose your key, Zofia, the cleaning person, has a spare; she comes on Mondays. For cake, coffee and friendly chat there’s Clemmie’s Little Cornish Kitchen at the end of the beach; Plum’s at the gallery up the hill; Floss is at the beach huts before the hotel; Nell delivers free-range eggs and Zach is bringing the hay. Anything else you need, they’ll be happy to help; you’ve met most of them when you’ve visited.’

I’m pleased I read up on this. ‘It’s all in the welcome pack you sent?’

‘Well done for doing the homework, Betsy.’ She stops for a moment. ‘You can turn Pumpkin straight out into the field when you get to the cottage. It’s so lucky we chose a place with land and an outbuilding that will double as a stable.’

It’s that adjoining patch of ground that is the lifesaver here for Pumpkin and me, along with my sister’s heading off to be with Tate for five months while he sorts out the expansion of his company’s New York office.

The cottage I’m heading to is Scarlett and Tate’s refuge, an old boathouse that was lovingly restored, piece by beautiful piece. It’s so precious I’ve never known them to let people stay without them being there themselves; Scarlett wouldn’t be doing this for me now if I wasn’t desperate, so I won’t be letting her down. I’m determined to tiptoe in, and when I leave in October it’ll be as if I’d never been there.

I’m walking while we talk, and suddenly I get the first glimpse of the long slate roof nestling into the side of the next cove and my tummy churns with excitement. ‘We’re almost there, Scarlie. I’m so grateful. Anything you want me to do just say?—’

She’s straight back on topic. ‘The builder’s just finished an outdoor shower area. If you could see your way to giving that a test run? ASAP!’

‘Of course.’

‘No need for a swimsuit, Tate’s sited it so it’s totally private. With a town full of hot surfers, you’re going to have a fun-packed summer!’

As if I’d be disrespectful enough to go naked in someone else’s brand-new shower. And despite being renown for my long trail of exes, thanks to one awful experience I’ve avoided men altogether for the last couple of years. As I’ve not ever shared that with Scarlett, who doesn’t seem to have noticed, it’s a relief to keep up the pretence and hide behind the jokes.

Scarlett carries on. ‘Oops, looks like we’re boarding. I’d better go.’

‘Love you, Scarlie, travel safe, talk soon.’

Whenever I’ve visited here before, I’ve always been struck by the sense of calm you get when a place has been designed to perfection. As we turn up off the beach and take the grassy path towards the low stone building with its ash-grey window frames, that feeling engulfs me again. There’s not a chip of gravel out of place, and the timber gate to the field is perfectly balanced as it swings open.

‘Just the kind of short, rough grass that will keep your waistline under control, Pumpkin.’ The fence looks as secure as Scarlett promised, with the cottage sitting half in, half out of the field, but I have a quick check around myself because you can’t be too careful with a pony. Then I unclip Pumpkin’s lead rope, give him a tap on his rump to signal he’s free to go, and smile as he canters off, kicking his heels. A few minutes later, when he’s grazing quietly, I climb the stile into the hillside cottage garden, and pull out the key Scarlett sent me.

Scarlett knows I’m a scatter brain, and thinks she can overcome that with her forward planning. Obviously I’ll try my hardest not to mess up, but I haven’t locked my room for six years so I know I’m going to have to up my game here.

I push the door open and step into a long kitchen/living space that could have come straight off the pages of Elle Decoration . I ease my bag off my shoulders, marvelling at how such a sleek kitchen can smell of baking even when there’s no one here to cook in it. Then, as I wander over to a square window that overlooks the field to check on Pumpkin again, I have two surprises. Not only is the window open, but there’s a tray of pastries on the windowsill.

This is Scarlett and her attention to detail. As if it wasn’t enough that she’s letting me stay here, she’s also had one of the friend-slash-helpers she mentioned earlier drop in with a baked-goods welcome gift. When I take a swirly bun and sink my teeth into it it’s warm, delicious, and has some kind of delectable toffee pecan thing going on. In fact, it’s so moreish it reminds me how ravenous I am, and I eat three more straight off. I’m heading back for a fifth when I notice the trail of flakes I’ve dropped across the floor, so I leave the rest to have outside with coffee later.

My next stop is the bathroom, which is off the lobby that leads to the bedroom, and described by Scarlett as ‘compact and entirely unsuitable for claustrophobics’. I’m grateful to have a bathroom at all, and since it’s just me I won’t have to close the door. I take three goes to watch the soft-close loo seat shutting, then I’m out again.

As I leave, I notice the recessed shelf above the wash basin is stacked with an array of products that definitely weren’t here on my last visit. It’s completely out of character for Scarlett, who likes everything tidied away, but I take down a bottle of L’Occitane almond oil shower gel, pop open the top and breathe in the scent. I have to say the Aldi version I have in the car falls a long way shorter than the comparison articles claim.

I’m putting the bottle back on the shelf when my phone pings with a message from Scarlett.

How is the new drench? Is the thermostatic mixer working?

Another ping.

There’s ten minutes before we take off. Please, please, PLEASE try it then I can tick it off my list.

This level of persistence is why she’s come so far in life. But it’s warm outside, I’m wearing so many layers that my clothes are sticking to me after the walk, and it’s not like I have any other pressing commitments. And if I’m doing this for Scarlett, I can borrow her pricey shower gel.

I grab a towel from the bathroom cupboard, remember the need for speed, and throw off my clothes as I cross the kitchen. By the time I arrive on the raised terrace, and reach for the shower control, I’m stripped down to a T-shirt and some briefs. A second later a waterfall of warm water is cascading over my face and I’m luxuriating as a froth of gorgeous-smelling L’Occitane bubbles washes over me. Taking in the slatted wood side screens and the rectangular bronze shower heads, I add outdoor showers to my mental list of topics to write about over the next few weeks. Buoyed up with excitement, I give a second generous squirt of shower gel. I’m reaching to turn the temperature up a notch, when I hear a cry behind me.

‘Hey! This is not a public shower!’

So much for Scarlett’s privacy claims! Although… unless the person shouting has come across the field like I did, they’ll have had to get through a locked gate to reach the courtyard on the garden side of the house. When I whip round to see who’s speaking, I take in tousled dark brown curls and board shorts that are clinging in all the wrong places. Worse still, he’s leaning against Scarlett’s wall and swinging a towel over his shoulder like he owns the place.

I give a cough. ‘Back at you. If you’re looking to wash the salt off your Havaianas, you could try the Surf Shack, a short stroll along the beach?’

He’s laughing quietly to himself. ‘Nice try! Why not dry off, leave quietly, and we’ll say no more about it?’

What can I say to someone who’s completely wrong but won’t admit it, all while wearing a soaking T-shirt that’s now entirely transparent and pants that have disappeared right up my bum?

I forget the rest, and launch in. ‘Whoever you think you are, I’m afraid this place is mine for the next few months. That’s even my horse in the field.’ That should be more than enough proof for anyone. ‘So I suggest you admit you’ve made the mistake of a lifetime, and get the hell out of here. Like, now!’

He blows out his cheeks. ‘Okay. Let’s hypothetically accept your claims are true.’ He frowns as his eyes focus. ‘Whose shower gel do you think you’re using there, pony girl?’

My eyes snap open and I stare at the bottle in my hand. ‘It belongs to my sister, Scarlett, who owns the cottage.’

His nostrils flare as he draws in a breath. ‘It’s actually my gel. And it’s in Scarlett’s bathroom because her husband, Tate, arranged for me to look after this place while they’re abroad.’

‘B-b-b-but…’ I seriously doubt Tate would have, because he knows this is Scarlett’s sacred space. My heart falters, then it leaps again as I grab my phone from the table. ‘I’ll talk to Scarlett. She’ll sort this out.’

She picks up on the first ring. ‘Betty, how’s the shower? Does the thermostat work?’

‘All good.’

‘That’s the news I was waiting for.’ I imagine her punching the air, laughing. ‘It’s a double, don’t forget to make the most of that. Switching my phone off now, see you on the other side.’

‘Scarlett, wait! There’s a guy…’ Too late. I’m talking to myself.

What the hell do I do now? I’m not used to ordering people around, but my instinct tells me I need to be firm here.

I force my face into a smile. ‘Well, Mr Occitane, it’s going to be the morning before Scarlett can confirm to you that I’ll be the one staying here. You’ll need to make alternative arrangements tomorrow, but I’m happy for you to stay until then.’

As a person who just got forced out of their home, I’m reluctant to evict him on the spot, and if he leaves first thing, it’s no big deal. With one sizzling hot guy who refuses to accept he’s in the wrong, I’m lucky it won’t be for longer.

I beam at him again. ‘So if that’s all okay with you, I’ll get back to my shower.’

He laughs. ‘It’s big enough for two, you know?’

I ignore that and wave the plastic bottle at him. ‘I’m done with the gel if you’d like to take it.’ I toss it towards the house and he springs and snatches it out of the air in exactly the show-off, athletic way I knew he would, then grins at me.

‘Message received, loud and clear. I’ll take mine inside.’

I’ve no idea why my cheeks are burning. Hiccups like this are what keep life interesting; in a few hours’ time I’ll wave him on his way and get back to my very peaceful summer.

And I’ve got at least ten minutes to regain my cool before I have to face him again.