The Cornish Affair Read online

  “Isn’t he gorgeous?” Martha said enthusiastically.

  I was completely taken aback. I could tell that she was being serious. Gorgeous? Oliver?

  “Look sweetie, I won’t keep you as you’re busy entertaining the serfs with ale and cakes in the big house-”

  “Very funny,” I said, wishing that she was here to lighten the load.

  “I just wanted to tell you that I was faxing you that recipe I found for you for salmon done in red wine and oranges, it was a great favourite with King James the first, all that general excitement over Spain and oranges, I suppose, anyway it looks stunning. Try it, and let me know what you think. Come up here soon and we’ll have dinner. Give my love to lovely Oliver, he’s a dish!”

  I said goodbye and went back into the kitchen thoughtfully. So Martha thought he was a dish, did she? I don’t know what sort of dish she had in mind. I gave him a surreptitious look. OK, I suppose. But hardly Martha’s type, I would have supposed, which just goes to show how wrong I can be.

  There was a general exodus from the kitchen, and I waved goodbye to everyone, having promised that we would all got to The Ram tonight so that Harry and Oliver could sample the Cherrywood Devil.

  Harry took Nancy off to the office so they could read the latest instalments of Angelique, and Oliver sat at the table with his head in his hands.

  “Is it always like this round here?” he asked.

  I nodded, clearing away the various cups and glasses from the table.

  “How in the name of God do you get any work done?” he said, looking at me with incredulous eyes.

  “Well, you know… things just get done, I suppose. Anyway,” I went on defensively, “Pritti gives me lots of ideas for stuff, she’s a fantastic cook and-”

  “What about you? Don’t you need some time alone to concentrate?” he asked looking intently at me.

  I usually got loads of time to myself, I felt like crying out, and the reason it was so busy here today was that they all wanted to come and have a good look at the freak off the telly! I bit my lip and continued to wash up in a dignified silence.

  “Why don’t you have a dishwasher?”

  Quite a few reasons, actually, I inwardly fumed. Where shall I start? The first is that the plumbing at Penmorah goes into a cess pit and can barely cope with a washing machine, the second is that I have a lot of old china and glass and silver that wouldn’t go in one, the third is that I don’t want one, and the fourth is that it’s none of your damned business. Although there was a fleeting guilty thought that I’d been having more and more of the burdens of being a caretaker to Penmorah and the possible joys of a modern house with modern plumbing.

  “Do you know Martha? Martha Miller?” I said, completely changing the subject.

  I’m not sure why I asked this, but it was a relief to be asking him questions instead of the other way around.

  “Martha? Yeah, sure I do. Nice woman… although I had dinner there once and had to leave early because of her bloody cats.” Oliver said, making notes in a very professional looking book that put my food splattered notepad to shame.

  “What did she cook for you?” I asked curiously, thinking back to the time when she’d made me some god awful mediaeval pike dish that tasted of mud. We’d laughed our socks off and had gone round to her local Italian where we’d had far too much wine and enjoyed the attentions of the waiters and the every present over large phallic pepper grinder that all such restaurants seem to order in bulk, and then send all the male staff on some pepper grinding/libido course, (complete with lascivious leer).

  Oliver groaned, “Oh don’t remind me, it was an eel soup – that was when she was deeply into her mediaeval period, salt cod and flowers floated in it. Truly revolting, but she whipped up an omelette, I seem to remember. She’s a very good historian, I just wish she didn’t take her work home with her, that’s all. Oh, and of course, it would be great if she got rid of her damn cats, as well.”

  “We can’t all get rid of our pets just for you,” I replied tartly.

  Oliver grinned at me.

  “No, no, I realise that. It’s just so awful having a damn allergy to something that is so endemic. And I do think it’s very nice of you to have accommodated my rather wimpy affliction with such good grace.”

  I looked sharply at him to see if he was being sarcastic or not. It seemed not, but I wasn’t sure. I decided to move on to safer grounds.

  “So, about these onions,” I said, “Nobody was very keen on them, were they? I still think cheese would go down well at some point, although the chaps at the factory won’t like it, they have a lot of trouble with the machine that grates to a specific portion, and they’ll have to or then we get in the hassle of hand finishing which, of course makes it much more expensive to produce for such a low return product-”

  “You really do know about this stuff, don’t you?” Oliver interrupted.

  “Of course I do!” I said indignantly.

  I bloody well should do, after all the interminable factory tours I’d done, not to mention the lunches with food technicians, marketing chaps (male and female) and consumer taste panels.

  I glared at him, my feathers well and truly ruffled. I probably looked like Nelson when I left the door open, letting in cold raw January wind.

  “Sorry, I just forget what I’m doing really. I’m used to creating something that I either cook in a restaurant or that people can re-produce at home, this mass market stuff isn’t really my thing.” Oliver said apologetically, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes.

  “Why are you doing it then?” I asked promptly. Knowing, of course the answer.

  Oliver spread his arms out wide, palms facing the ceiling.

  “Money. I was offered an obscene amount of the filthy lucre, too much to turn it down. Harry persuaded me that if I did it, I could then concentrate on my writing for a bit…”

  I let his words drift over me. Just what the world needs, I thought scornfully. Yet another lavishly produced cookery book, complete with luscious colour photographs of some rustic ponced about Tuscan bean dish served in roughly hewn peasant olive wood bowls. I turned away from him, and busied myself at the sink. Probably it’ll have pictures of him in some fake kitchen, swigging glasses of wine with trendy looking mates hanging about.

  “… and the kids really deserve it, they’re great.”

  What? Why is he talking about kids? I glanced sharply towards him, and saw that he was laughing his head off.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked, embarrassed that I haven’t heard one word that he’s said.

  “You! You’re really funny when you’re caught out! You didn’t hear a word of that did you? I think I lost you when I said the word book, didn’t I?”

  Now then, I’d like it set on record that I rarely blush. I mean, rarely if at all. Frankly with my colouring I just can’t afford to, and I was unfamiliar with the feeling. Two hot spots of colour were flaming in my cheeks, I could feel that, and a slight stickiness had developed in the palms of my hands. Why I should be so mortified about being found out at not listening properly to someone, I simply don’t know. But I was.

  “Kids, you definitely said something about kids. What was it?”

  Oliver was still laughing at me, which, to be honest, I found it a bit of a cheek. And patronising. None of us like to be accused of not having a sense of humour (although you can be sure when people proudly tell you ‘I’m dead funny, me’ you can guarantee that they’re not.) But I can usually dredge up a smile at the very least, even when it’s me that they’re laughing at. So I pasted on that sort of slight seasickness face that Nancy says I get when I try a fake smile, and it seemed to make him laugh even more.

  Bastard.

  I flashed him A Look.

  That was seemingly the worst thing I could do, it practically set off hysterics in him. He was doing that man thing that they do, to indicate general all round mirth, you know, slapping his thighs with his palms, and throwing his head ba
ck a lot. I waited patiently for him to finish.

  As I was waiting I studied him closely, and I could begrudgingly see that he was quite attractive – but not my type at all. The only thing that I liked about him, was the way he moved. You know how some people are just naturally comfortable in their skins? Well, he was. He was a muscular man, but he moved very gracefully, deftly, with a purpose. The other thing that I begrudgingly admired about him was that he’d made himself thoroughly at home here. He was moving about my kitchen as if he owned it. I mean, obviously I didn’t like it, but there was something attractive about that amount of self confidence.

  The late afternoon sun was glinting off the dark hair on his legs, and as my eyes travelled across him, I did actually wonder if he was wearing anything under his skirt, sorry, kilt. Kilt as a fashion statement, that is.

  I poured myself a glass of water and sampled the last batch of roasted onions.

  He caught my eye and grinned.

  “Commando stylee,” he said.

  I choked on the onion, and splutteringly sipped at my water. Oliver was roaring his head off again.

  “It wasn’t difficult to tell what you were thinking, most women do, when they see me in my kilt,” Oliver said confidingly, still grinning his head off.

  Arrogant, cocky sod, I thought to myself, but I did find myself grinning back at him.

  I asked again, this time owning up to having drifted off. “I’m sorry, what were you saying, something about kids? What kids? Do you have any?”

  “No, no, not my children. The kids at the school I’m involved with, I’ve promised them that the next book will be for them, it should sell well on the back of the TV series, and god knows they deserve it. It’s a bit of a project I’ve got going to get children involved in the kitchen. Don’t let me get on my soapbox, but I really believe that a lot of social problems are caused by families not cooking and eating together.”

  I thought about it, and even I couldn’t find anything to sneer about. I agreed whole heartedly with him. Children do need to potter in a kitchen and learn about good food. Of course they do. It’s an obvious thing that we should all be encouraging.

  I smiled at him, feeling some relief, at least there was something I liked about him.

  He sensed a thaw in the relationship, and took advantage of it by making me sit down with him to decipher my notes so that he could transfer them to his book. As I sat there squinting at my own handwriting, (what did ‘not virgin, more like old tart’ mean?) I was very aware of his physical presence. It wasn’t just that he was large, but he seemed to take up more than his fair share of space, if you know what I mean. His arm was close to mine, and I made absolutely sure that I didn’t accidentally touch it at all.

  “Oh, I know what it means! Jace bought me some new olive oil to try, and I thought it was more of an old tart than a virgin, if you see what I mean,” I cried out.

  Oliver sighed, and noted in his book that the olive oil wasn’t acceptable.

  The kitchen was remarkably quiet, which was fairly unusual here. The cacophony made by Baxter and Nelson, not to mention Nancy, me and visitors, normally had a background of radio 4, or music (usually chosen by Nancy who had an eclectic taste to say the least, and owned everything from Frank Sinatra to Radiohead) and I missed it. I wasn’t used to this hush. I could even hear Oliver’s pen moving over the paper.

  I stood up, and slotted a cassette into the terribly old machine that we used in the kitchen. It whirred for a minute, and then the unmistakable sounds of The Sex Pistols came bellowing out.

  Olive looked up in surprise, “Good god, I wouldn’t have put you down as an old punk!”

  I turned the volume down, and sat down again.

  “No, I’d love to be able to tell you that I could pogo along with the rest of them, but actually, this is Nancy’s. I think she was a friend of Vivienne Westwood. There wasn’t a lot of punk going on in Cornwall when I was that age, the local kids had to make do with cadging a lift to St Ives or Penzance.”

  “What did you do?” he asked.

  I considered the question.

  “Well, most of the time I stayed in. That probably sounds sad, but it wasn’t. My parents always had loads of parties, and weekend guests, and, well, I sort of had my social life here, I suppose.” I said defensively, aware that it did in fact sound a bit pathetic.

  “I see,” he said neutrally.

  The excitement of greeting guests and showing them to their rooms, used to make me shiver with delight. The preparation of the dinners, the magical evenings spent sitting on the stairs as a child, listening to their grown up talk, I had found thrilling. My father had always made a point of saving me a treat that he would bring up to my bedroom, a scoop of caviar (fish jam and considered not for little girls, which had made it doubly delicious to me) a forbidden half glass of champagne, a chocolate covered cherry had all found their way under my bedclothes.

  My mother too, found ways of including me when I was a child, a hidden look from her at some woman’s outrageous dress, or hairstyle made me feel so grown up, or a sly wink indicating that a guest really was a bit of a eejit, used to make me understand that this was what grown up life was all about.

  I sighed.

  We hadn’t had a party at Penmorah for ages.

  Maybe it was time for another one? How about a dolphin party? That was something worth celebrating. I would look out the old house guest book, and invite everyone – all the artists from the coast, the writers, the boozy poets, the mad playwrights, the lot. Michael and Thea would have approved. The idea seized me, and I began to gabble in my excitement to Oliver.

  “I think you should do whatever it is that’s going to make you happy,” he replied.

  Which did strike me as rather odd, because I am happy. Aren’t I?

  “Nancy, Nancy, Harry!” I called out towards the office, “We’re going to give a party, one of the old ones, a proper party. You know, where everyone gets horribly drunk and there are scenes of debauchery and someone proposes and someone else threatens suicide and nobody leaves till six in the morning and we find an unconscious poet in the bath – it’ll be great!”

  Chapter Ten

  I continued the party plans in my head as we all walked down to The Ram later on. I was determined to invite everyone. Not just the people from Port Charles, but all my parents old friends, as well. I hadn’t kept in touch with them as well as I should have done, it was too hard. They all reminded me of past good times, and I had let the connections drift apart.

  I’d invite some friends from London, too. Martha would come down, I was sure, she loved it down here, but I would definitely not let her do the catering or we’d all be eating swan pie or something else equally Elizabethan like minced sparrow fricassee.

  The evening was mild, with a breeze blowing in from the sea. I automatically looked around for Baxter when we reached the road, but then realised with a jolt that he was at The Ram already, probably ordering the drinks in.

  “I hope you like real ale,” I said to Oliver who had been walking beside me.

  He was still wearing his kilt, and I rather relished the reaction of The Ram to it.

  He made a face, “To be honest, I don’t really like beer that much, but I’ll give it a go.”

  We turned into the village and Nancy pointed out various houses to him.

  “Who lives in that one?” he queried, pointing to a small cottage choking in wind chimes and wisteria.

  “Miranda, our local tree hugger. She also reads palms, and has two very beautiful looking children from two different fathers. She makes a lot of tat to sell to all the emmet shops, and does the rounds of all the surfing festivals,” Nancy said informatively.

  Harry laughed, “Oh dear, I do remember her, actually. The last time I was here she made a bit of a play for me in The Ram, she invited me back for a lentil burger!”

  Oliver laughed and hit Harry on the shoulder, “Not madly you?” he said.

  Harry shuddered. “No
t madly anyone, I’d have thought. Though, in case you hadn’t noticed, this is the country. They do things differently down here.”

  “Don’t be so rude,” I said, pushing open the door of the pub.

  I was delighted that Baxter came straight to me – I had been worried that he wouldn’t be speaking to me, but he was delighted to see me in that over eager way that all canines have which makes us humans feel good.

  The reaction to Oliver was quite satisfactory. Although, if I’m honest I would have enjoyed a bit of stunned silence, instead of the good humoured interest and bantering that went on.

  The word had spread round Port Charles that we had a celebrity amongst us, one from TV, albeit channel 4 which wasn’t as impressive, obviously as if it had been the local channel broadcast from Plymouth. Will and Richard, who’d met him earlier on that day, greeted him like an old friend introducing him round the pub, and to Sam.

  “What about doing a book signing down here then Harry?” I said teasingly, “Make a bit of change from The Ivy, don’t you think?”

  “It was the River Café for his last one, actually,” Harry replied absentmindedly, “He’s certainly popular with the ladies, isn’t he?”

  I looked over to the bar, and saw that Oliver was indeed surrounded by the local female population, including Miranda who was wearing a diaphanous bit of tie dye. She was hugging a copy of his cookery book to her, and earnestly asking if he was going to write another, only this time a ‘veggie’ one.

  I looked around the pub, hoping, of course to see Jace here. He normally was. But not tonight.

  Nancy had ordered the drinks, and Sam brought them over to us.

  “Proper star he’m be,” he said admiringly, gesturing towards Oliver with his head. “I wonder if he’d cook that thing off the telly that he did last week, looked a right treat it did.”

  “Good god, Sam! Do you watch cookery programmes?” I asked curiously.

  Sam gave me a scornful glance, “Not all publicans live off pork scratchings, you know,” he said sternly.