Samantha Tonge - Breakfast Under A Cornish Sun - The perfect romantic comedy for summer

‘I offered you a salary hike only last month,’ she protested.

‘Charity, I don’t need,’ I said and Izzy blushed. ‘You can’t pay me more than the other staff.’

‘But you work the hardest,’ she said. ‘If only you weren’t so stubborn, Kate. I know things are tight for you at the moment.’

‘Nice jumpsuit,’ I said, rapidly changing the subject. I admired how her eyeshadow exactly matched the material’s shade of Dory blue. Yes, that was a Finding Nemo reference. Izzy also loved Disney movies and, between us, I didn’t mind watching Frozen with her half as much as I declared. When it came to the staff’s clothes, Izzy was pretty relaxed, as long as our outfits were clean, ironed and covered by one of her branded aprons—think white cloth edged with mini doughnuts and cocktails. Unlike the after-school club job I had before this one, where the way we looked after the kids was as regimented as their uniform. I couldn’t carry on treating children like numbers instead of the individuals.

It was two-thirty in the afternoon—the perfect opportunity for a quick break between the lunchtime and after-school rush. The … let’s call it a café-bar—fulfilled the needs of an array of customers, with its colourful tables and gilt bar. At eight in the morning, we’d serve espressos and cinnamon ring doughnuts to the sleepy breakfast brigade. Mid-morning saw people out to treat themselves to a frothy latte and a chocolate-filled delight. At lunch we bring out the savoury options. Izzy is nothing but inventive and her most popular creations are herbed doughnuts filled with cream cheese. Then, at the end of their school day, children wanted glazed ones topped with colourful sprinkles, accompanied by a fizzy drink.

It’s the evening I liked best though, when we dimmed the lights and put out the cocktail menus. Nothing accompanied a Cosmopolitan better than a prettily iced doughnut filled with orange crème. Or a cucumber gin and tonic slipped down nicely with a cheddar and jalapeno batter ring. And Izzy baked the prettiest mini caramel ones, the size of macaroons, to complement richer toffee Martinis. We had our regular drinkers, as well as the hen party crowds. Take Sheila and Frank. They always dressed up and ordered two Snowballs. At their wedding, in the fifties, the first dance song was ‘My Funny Valentine’ by Frank Sinatra. Sometimes I’d sing it for them. And I mustn’t forget Mrs Sharp and her daughter. They swooned over Izzy’s special tiramisu doughnuts, made from Marsala-infused batter and filled with mascarpone. Mmm.

Sorry. I’m rambling. Thanks to Izzy, I’m a bit of a doughnut geek as well. I yawned.

‘How did the gig go last night?’ said Izzy and wiped her mouth with a napkin.

‘Not a bad crowd. Bit older than usual. In the end I veered away from the trendy stuff and stuck to seventies disco. Gloria Gaynor always goes down well.’

Yes, when I’m not serving cocktails during the evening shift, I race off to sing at some party or in a pub. Big dreams I’ve got. Would love to be a singer-songwriter—if I ever pluck up the courage to perform some of my own stuff. My style is kind of like … Adele’s. But I am less operatic with just a touch of cockney Lily Allen. And some say my voice has the depths of Joss Stone … Hmm, OK, maybe I can’t be tidily pigeon-holed. I like pop, rock and country and could never restrict my songwriting to one genre. Not that I have written anything for a while.

‘Heard any more from Stanley Hotel?’ she said. ‘Is that regular singing slot definitely cancelled?’

My stomach scrunched and I pushed away the last mouthful of cherry gorgeousness, suddenly losing my appetite. I placed my elbows on the table and rested my chin on my hands. ‘Yes. Can’t believe it. My first regular gig for ages and within a week of agreeing the terms, it’s all over.’

‘Do you know why yet?’

‘I rang up last night. The manager didn’t know the hotel was about to go into liquidation. It’s been bought out. This time next year it will be a nursing home. The poor guy was so apologetic—promised to book me for his fiftieth birthday party, later this year.’

Izzy leant forward as my phone rang and squeezed my hand. ‘Something else will come up, lovely. Remember to bring in more business cards for the doughnut counter, the pile is running low. And we’re hosting two hen nights next week … I bet they’d appreciate some fun singing à la Katy Perry or old-school Madonna. I’ll pay you the going rate.’

My chest glowed as I picked up my mobile. Izzy was the best. If I went around to hers because I was still missing Johnny … A lump rose in my throat. Despite all my hopeful Facebook messages to him, over the last ten months, I still never got a response. At the beginning, I’d click obsessively, longing to spot the marker ‘seen’ pop up. And when it never did, my chest felt as if someone has placed me in a vice and turned the handle as tight as they could.

Many an evening, Izzy had invited me over to cheer me up and tolerated watching a few episodes of my favourite historical series on Netflix—as long as she had time for a few rounds of Bejeweled before bed or a catch-up episode of her latest favourite baking show. And she always had a box of tissues on her coffee table—along with, of course, a sample of her latest battered circular creation. A friendship with Izzy would be futile if you suffered from indigestion, but was perfect if your heart was breaking, over a boyfriend.

‘Hello?’ I said, not recognising the number that had dialled.

‘Is that you? Katie?’ said a voice as smooth as treacle.

I shuddered. No one called me that. Not since school. A shiver ran up and down my spine and my mouth felt as if I’d eaten a handful of dry cream crackers. That liquid sugar tone sounded so familiar yet I just couldn’t identify the owner. It sounded like the meow of a cat that had just spied the mouse it wished to pounce upon.

‘Katie Golightly?’

My stomach tightened further as I recalled what an unfortunate surname that had been at school. You see with my love of vintage clothes and retro music, I stuck out from the crowd. A group of girls made up alternative surnames—Godrearily, Goseriously, Goboringly were just a few. I smiled. Thank goodness for Guvnah who taught me spiteful opinions weren’t worth a moment’s thought.

Ooh, quick explanation—my granddad always jokingly called my gran the Governor. When I learnt how to write, Guvnah seemed the obvious spelling and the nickname has kind of stuck.

‘Katie, hi. It’s Saffron!’

I dropped my teaspoon. Size eight, glossy-haired Miss Perfect, head of the spiteful crew.

‘Oh,’ I managed. ‘How nice to hear from you’ would be the polite response, but I just couldn’t squeeze that sentence from my mouth.

‘Surprised you, have I?’ she said in bright tones. As she giggled, I could just imagine Saffron tossing her blonde mane. It was still blonde. I knew that from Facebook. You see, about six months ago, she’d sent me a friend request and one of my worst personality traits is my uncontrollable sense of curiosity. For example, if spam gets sent straight to my junk mail box, I have an overwhelming urge to open it. So I accepted Saffron’s friend request with the lesson still to learn that curiosity might kill Kate, as much as the cat.

A small part of me was hoping that twelve years later she’d be frumpy and dumpy—but no. She was still the golden girl, with lots of friends and worked as an English teacher. Plus she had a fiancé—called Miles.

‘Yes. You have surprised me. It’s … been a while.’

Come on. We were adults. I could do this. The past was the past. Surely I could forget the way she’d dumped me suddenly at high school, after us being best friends for years? We had it all mapped out a junior school, you know—after the sixth form we’d share an apartment in London and own a dog. Saffron was going to be an actress, me a pop star. We’d cook together, go shopping … honestly, the hours we spent discussing the decor of our flat.