Phillipa Ashley - Summer at the Cornish Cafe

Feeling guilty, I summon up a smile for her. ‘Hi. Is Uncle Rory at home?’

‘Uncle Rory? I do not know who you mean …’ She eyes me suspiciously and I don’t blame her. What with the attitude, the borrowed combats and the beard, she must think I’ve come to tie up and terrorise the household.

‘I mean my uncle, Mr Rory Penwith.’

She bites her lip nervously before replying. ‘Mr Penwith is here but he has guests with him.’

I should have realised that from the row of vehicles parked outside: a Range Rover, an Audi, and a couple of Mercs. Then, it dawns on me that today must be his birthday.

‘I can see that but I think he’ll find room for one more. Tell him it’s his nephew, Cal Penwith.’

She looks me up and down. ‘You are family?’

‘It may be hard to believe but I am. Can I come in? I won’t steal the silver.’

She tightens her grip on the door frame. ‘They are in the big glass room, having drinks.’

‘The orangery?’

Finally, she nods and stands aside to let me in. ‘Yes. I will take you.’

‘There’s no need. I know my way.’

Leaving my pack on the floorboards, I march past her, across the great hall and down the corridor that leads to the orangery, with the girl’s heels click-clacking behind me. The great hall smells faintly of ashes and wood smoke as it does for three seasons of the year. That’s the only part of Bosinney House that hasn’t changed: the rest has been built on over the years. It’s many times bigger than the house on Kilhallon Park and a hundred times grander. Uncle Rory inherited it from my granddad, who left Kilhallon Park to his younger son, my father. Dad never quite got over being treated as second best but I love Kilhallon, even in the state I left it when I went abroad. I’d never swap it for all Bosinney’s grandeur.

The girl catches up with me. ‘I will tell them you are here.’

I stop and turn. ‘ Don’t do that.’

Seeing the genuine fear in her eyes, I feel ashamed and soften my tone. ‘I’d like to surprise them. Please ?’

With another nod she scuttles off, muttering. ‘I’ll be in kitchen. I’ll fetch more champagne.’

Champagne, eh? Uncle Rory’s idea of extravagance used to be opening an extra bottle of Rattler … maybe they do know I’m coming after all.

The sound of laughter and the pop of corks drift along the corridor. Are they expecting me? It’s not possible or I’d have known about it by now and besides a handful of people, no one knows I’m back in Cornwall.

There’s applause, a few gentle cheers. I didn’t know Rory made a big thing of his birthdays, but maybe this is a landmark one or perhaps he’s made his first million from his financial advisor business. It was doing well when I left, despite the recession.

It occurs to me that I should, perhaps, have warned them first, not just turn up like this … but the truth is that a small part of me was afraid – is afraid – that no one would actually want me back.

The voices become more distinct, glasses chink and I hear a deep laugh – Uncle Rory – and a giggle – my cousin Robyn and my ears strain for the one voice I really want to hear. I walk towards the orangery and pause at the door, observing, assessing … the scene plays out like a surreal movie. These people I once cared for and loved are like actors in a play.

There must be around a dozen people in here, most of whom I recognise. Uncle Rory is downing a whisky – as I thought he would be; my old mate Luke is laughing nervously at something Isla’s mother is telling him. Robyn is handing round a tray of canapés, her face flushed. This is obviously a celebration.

There’s also someone else, whose honeyed hair brushes her bare shoulders, whose dress shimmers in the early evening sunlight and clings to her bottom. Whose slender legs are accentuated in silver heels higher than any I’ve ever seen her in before.

My body tautens like a wire. She hasn’t seen me yet, no one has seen me yet …

‘Jesus Christ Almighty!’

Uncle Rory’s face is purple. He’s lost a bit more hair since I last saw him. Luke’s mouth is open like a goldfish gasping for air. Isla’s mum looks shocked to see me. Robyn freezes, still holding the tray of canapés.

And Isla, she stares at me and her champagne glass trembles in her hand.

‘Cal? Is it really you?’

‘Isla …’ Her name squeezes out from my throat, almost inaudible. I never thought it would be like this. Every ounce of strength has gone.

‘Cal? Bloody hell, I thought you were a ghost!’ Luke suddenly rushes over and gathers me up in a man hug, slapping me on the back so hard I wince.

‘Are you OK, man?’

‘I’m fine. Looking good, Luke.’ And he does. Bigger, beefier, the extra weight suits him and he looks happy. It’s great to see him; I never expected to feel so emotional so I must be going soft. Luke gives me a man hug again, but this time I suppress the wince.

He stares at me. ‘Man, you look thin … I can’t believe this … I just … I don’t know what to say.’

He lets me go and rubs his hand over his face, shaking his head in shock. I don’t blame him. I’ve changed a lot while I’ve been away.

‘Cal! Cal!’ My cousin Robyn launches herself at me, tears streaming down her face, along with the kohl around her eyes. Robyn’s every bit as good a mate as any of the lads – more even. ‘Where have you been? Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?’ Her fingers dig into my forearm but I don’t mind. It’s wonderful to see her again.

‘I don’t know. Admin problems? Leaves on the line? Happy birthday, by the way.’

Uncle Rory downs the rest of his whisky and dumps the glass on a table. ‘It’s not a matter for levity, boy. We haven’t heard from you for months. For all we knew, you might have been dead.’

‘As you can see, I’m not.’

‘Don’t joke! You know damn well what I mean. We thought you’d decided to stay in the Middle East for good.’

‘I almost did,’ I say, with half an eye on Isla, watching me from a few feet away, still dumbstruck and even more beautiful than she looked in that newspaper article. She’s let her blonde hair grow and it’s been cut in a style that manages to be both classy and damn sexy.

‘How long have you known you were coming home?’ Rory asks.

‘A few days.’

His face is almost purple. ‘Then why didn’t you call us? We’ve hardly heard from you in the past two years.’

Isla has abandoned her glass and is hugging herself as if she’s freezing cold. Under the light tan, which I presume she picked up on her last shoot in Cannes, she’s pale as the moon on the sea.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say more to Isla than my uncle. ‘I’ve been … tied up and I couldn’t get away from work that easily.’ I swallow hard. ‘It’s been … complicated.’

‘Too tied up or complicated to phone us or email?’ Luke asks, an edge creeping into his voice. I can’t blame him.

‘Why didn’t you phone or text, if only to say you were on your way home?’ Isla’s voice cuts through the air, more London than in my imagination, yet still with the Cornish lilt. Everyone else may as well be on Mars.

‘It’s complicated,’ I repeat, knowing I can never un-complicate it or tell anyone the real truth. ‘I’ve only been in the UK for a few hours and I did call you .’ With a smile, I switch the focus back to Isla. ‘I tried to call you on the train here but your phone was dead.’

She smiles back, apologetically. ‘Oh … I’m sorry. I’ve changed my phone and my number while you’ve been away. I had to; a fan got hold of it and started stalking me.’

‘A fan ?’