Jane Linfoot - Edie Browne’s Cottage by the Sea - A heartwarming, hilarious romance read set in Cornwall!

I grab the chair that’s close to Cam and as far away from Barney as possible. It’s only when he slides into his seat and I get the full benefit of taut denim stretched across muscly thighs that it hits me. I’m so used to thinking of myself as out of the dating scene I forgot to worry that people could think I was here for entirely the wrong reason.

There’s not even time for me to have a good look at the piles of goodies under glass domes on the counter because the guy from behind the counter is already at the table. The glass he puts down in front of Cam is filled with scoops of colourful ice cream, and topped with wafers and a long spoon.

‘Wow, quick work.’ It’s one of my blurts.

‘Thanks.’ Cam’s eyes are huge, but as he picks up the long spoon, he still hasn’t smiled.

The waiter laughs. ‘Same order, same time every week. We like to be ready for our regulars.’ He turns to me. ‘So what can I get for you?’

‘A small coffee, please.’ Despite the cake stacks, sometimes it’s best to be minimal.

Barney turns to me. ‘Way too boring – this is chocolate central. Look at the chalkboard – you have to be wilder.’

As far as I’m concerned, the board he’s waving at might be taller than the waiter but it’s still just a load of squiggles. At least I remember enough about cafés to wing it. ‘A small coffee with chocolate then.’ There’s definitely a name for it, I just can’t nail what it is.

‘A mocha?’ The waiter beams. ‘One mochaccino, coming up.’ He turns to Barney.

‘Great choice – same here, but I’ll go large.’

It’s not just never being allowed to be on your own that’s off kilter here, it’s also coffee sizing. When the waiter comes back it turns out ‘small’ means enormous and ‘large’ is more like one of those boat things that crosses the channel with cars on. They’ve both got lumps of floating cream approximately the size of the Isle of Wight. Around the island the liquid is so thick and chocolatey I wish I was getting the full benefit. But at least it warms me, and the cream is fabulously thick and sticky as I suck it off my spoon.

Cam takes a bite of his wafer then gives me a hard stare. ‘But why didn’t you have ice cream?’

It’s easier being put on the spot by someone Cam’s size. ‘I was too icy already.’

‘Next time you have to have ice cream.’

If I was shivering before, that thought makes my insides go glacial. ‘We’ll see.’ By next Friday I hope to have come up with a plan that doesn’t involve crawling or gardeners or freezing my shit off on the beach. Or not being able to read the menu at whatever this place is called.

Barney watches Cam working his way down his ice cream, then turns to me. ‘Cam’s ice creams at the Surf Shack are a long-standing Friday night tradition.’

As if that explains anything. And then suddenly it all falls into place. Sadie from Zinc Inc had kids and an ex, and didn’t spare us the details. Single dads and mahoosive ‘daddy loves you more’ sweeteners? Compensatory ice creams don’t come any larger than the one Cam’s wading through now. The warning bells couldn’t be clanging any louder.

Knowing the tussles Sadie and her husband had, if this is a divorce, I need to keep my distance. Run for the hills, and now wouldn’t be a moment too soon. As if Sadie hadn’t drilled it into us single women, going within a country mile of a single dad is too near, especially if they’re using the kids to draw you in.

‘That’s great.’ In my head I’m already taking giant strides towards the door. ‘But you have to be careful with …’ I rack my brain, and for once it comes up trumps ‘… inducements … especially with children.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Barney’s rubbing his lip with his thumb, but by the way his eyes clash with mine he’s being deliberately bloody-minded.

‘Bribery’s never good. And it’s late too.’ Simply by being here, I’m condoning all of it.

Barney’s voice rises. ‘And it’s so wrong to have a blast on the beach and an ice cream to make ourselves feel better?’

I squeeze Cam’s shoulder as I get up and focus on the freckles on his nose, not how sad his eyes are. ‘Sorry Cam, I have to go now. I promised Aunty Jo.’ I hope he’ll understand. And it is the truth. If I’m not back at the gallery when the lights go on again, Aunty Jo will worry. Ring my mother. Send out the lifeboats. I dip in my pocket, pull out some cash and wedge it under the bottle full of fairy lights in the middle of the table.

Then I back towards the door and give them a wave. ‘Okay, see you soon. Love you, bye.’ This time I don’t mind I’ve blurted it, so long as it was for Cam. It’s only as I’m speeding down the steps outside that I remember I should have looked at the numbers on the note.

Day 145: Monday, 26 thMarch

At Periwinkle Cottage

Epic Achievement: Finding Unicorn slices really exist.

If I thought a gardeners’ slideshow was bad there was worse to come. That’s the trouble with a deserted seaside town in winter; now people know we’re here they expect us to come to every event. Somehow we manage to dodge Saturday’s picnic and daffodil walk near St Austell with the gardeners’ club, because they’re all going in cars and, until one of us gets back behind the wheel, Aunty Jo and I don’t have our own transport. It’s one thing getting a lift into St Aidan, quite another committing to all day in someone else’s car. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Beth was pressing us to go to a Dance Till Your Feet Drop Off eighties disco. I couldn’t even fall back on the flashing lights excuse, because she said they don’t run to those. Much as I love retro tunes, dancing in the dark is what you do with besties, not strangers, but some lucky star must have been passing over because Aunty Jo did another of her surprise interventions and insisted our Saturday evening was already spoken for.

So instead we have a riveting night in, watching some ballerina version of You’ve Got Talent – according to Aunty Jo they hadn’t. And between times we carry on de-flowering the kitchen, and try out some paint samples that arrived in mini pots. I head her away from the fuchsia and daffodil palettes she’s hankering after, and insist we start with broken white.

Whenever Aunty Jo’s steered me towards writing practice – which is even more often than she mentions the good times back in happy Harpenden – I’ve headed her off. When I came down to porridge yesterday to find the fridge covered in Dayglo magnetic letters and numbers, she replied to my appalled, ‘What the eff have you clicked on now?’ with a sniffy, ‘I’m sure Cam might enjoy them, even if you don’t.’

She certainly doesn’t hold back with her buying finger. We’ve just had yet another mega delivery now, so I’m sitting next to a pile of paint buckets, rollers and brushes, and she’s unwrapping some oversized sticky labels.

‘So what are they for?’

‘Don’t you love it when things have two uses?’ She picks up a felt tip and starts to write, then leans across and slaps a beautifully written label on the back of the settee. ‘See, s-o-f-a – isn’t that great? I get to do my calligraphy, and you get to take in the words by osmosis.’

‘Osmosis – isn’t that what amoebas do?’ Wherever I dug that up from, I’m damn sure it’s not a flattering comparison.

Her beautifully pencilled eyebrows close together as she concentrates. ‘I have no idea, Edie, I’m just doing what your mum tells me.’

No surprise there then, even though that has to be a first. ‘What are you writing?’ It’s not as though I can read it.

‘Cushion, door, paint pot, microwave, kettle … ’ She sniffs and slaps a label on the table. ‘I’m going to need to order more of these if I’m going to put names on everything.’ Once she begins a task, she’s alarmingly thorough.