Read Breakfast Under a Cornish Sun Online
Authors: Samantha Tonge
Breakfast Under a Cornish Sun
SAMANTHA TONGE
lives in Cheshire with her lovely family and a cat who thinks it's a dog. Along with writing, her days are spent cycling, willing cakes to rise and avoiding housework. A love of fiction developed as a child, when she was known for reading Enid Blyton books in the bath. A desire to write bubbled away in the background whilst she pursued other careers, including a fun stint working at Disneyland Paris. Formally trained as a linguist, Samantha now likes nothing more than holing herself up in the spare room, in front of the keyboard. Writing romantic comedy novels is her passion.
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Breakfast Under a Cornish Sun
Samantha Tonge
Thanks for always believing in me, Mum. I miss you more than words can say.
Table of Contents
Taut bare chest boasting a natural-looking six-pack. Muscular arms wielding a scythe. Raven curls rippling in the breeze. Smouldering expression tense as the grass-cutting implement is raised in the air. The hint of manly, musky perspiration. All this set against rugged Cornish countryside â¦
Mmm. Thanks to scenes from my
Poldark
box set, any free window of time in my head is easily filled. For those of you unfamiliar with the hit Cornish mining television series, book yourself a doctor's appointment. You must be seriously loopyâas in out of the loop!
OK. Apologies. Perhaps that was a bit rude. Not everyone, like me, is a self-confessed geek when it comes to historical books and filmsâfor example, did you know the original title for
Pride and Prejudice
was
First Impressions
? Talking of which, I probably didn't look my most appealing at the moment, having just bitten into a black cherry doughnut. I suspected a
splodge of the filling had stuck to my nose. But mmm ⦠the oozing maroon sauce tasted almost alcoholic and offered the same effect as a cheerful cocktailâthat is a feel-good warmth flowing down my throat to the rest of my body.
Eyes closed, I made an appreciative noise as I savoured another bite, its piquant flavours heightened by a mouthful of rich hot espresso.
âDreaming of unpaid overtime, are, you? Honestly, Kate, stop being such a workaholic.'
âHa, haâaren't you funny?' I opened my eyes. âNot that paying me more would be a problem, due to the profit this place makes. In fact, perhaps I was dreaming of a huge pay rise.'
I grinned across the table at my boss, Izzy. I say âboss'âshe's become more like my best friend, in the two years I've been waitressing at Donuts & Daiquiris. I knowâstrange name, people usually think of that sugary snack as accompanying caffeinated drinks. I never know whether to tell people I work in a café or bar as it's both. Come six o'clock, purple neon lights shoot across the room and tall glasses replace ceramic mugs.
Izzy loves neon. Adores bright colours and her appearance in the morning never fails to cheer me up. Imagine the shortest ash-blonde hair, accompanied by a slash of scarlet lipstick and clothes that look as if they've been dipped in a rainbow. Tie-dye is her favourite. What a contrast to brown-haired, less conspicuous me, who
prefers muted, autumnal coloursâironic, considering I'm a very unmuted singer.
âI offered you a salary hike only last month,' she protested.
âCharity, I don't need,' I said and Izzy blushed. âYou can't pay me more than the other staff.'
âBut you work the hardest,' she said. âIf only you weren't so stubborn, Kate. I know things are tight for you at the moment.'
âNice 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 apronsâthink 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 afternoonâthe perfect opportunity for a quick break between the lunchtime and after-school rush. The ⦠let's call it a café-barâfulfilled 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 âMy 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.
âHow did the gig go last night?' said Izzy and wiped her mouth with a napkin.
âNot 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-songwriterâif 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.
âHeard any more from Stanley Hotel?' she said. âIs 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. âYes. Can't believe it. My first regular gig for ages and within a week of agreeing the terms, it's all over.'
âDo you know why yet?'
âI 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 apologeticâpromised to book me for his fiftieth birthday party, later this year.'
Izzy leant forward as my phone rang and squeezed my hand. âSomething 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 âseen' 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 Netflixâas 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 tableâalong 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.
âHello?' I said, not recognising the number that had dialled.
âIs 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.
âKatie 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 surnamesâGodrearily, 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 explanationâmy 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.
âKatie, hi. It's Saffron!'
I dropped my teaspoon. Size eight, glossy-haired Miss Perfect, head of the spiteful crew.
âOh,' I managed. âHow nice to hear from you' would be the polite response, but I just couldn't squeeze that sentence from my mouth.
âSurprised 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 dumpyâbut no. She was still the golden girl, with lots of friends and worked as an English teacher. Plus she had a fiancéâcalled Miles.
âYes. 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 knowâafter 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.
