Breakfast Under a Cornish Sun (27 page)

‘Sixty-four last count.'

‘Good, but not nearly as many as the hot dogs Geoff handed out last week.

‘I'll be interested to see how Guvnah's painting classes go. If the holidaymakers like them, it got me and Kensa thinking—we could offer more specialised weeks during the quieter winter months, where people could learn an activity.'

The song ended and we sat down to finish our drinks. ‘And what if Lucas was right?' I asked. ‘Him saying that only a miracle will save White Rocks and next year you still go bankrupt?'

Tremain looked at me. ‘As long as I've got you, Kate, nothing else matters. I can work as a handyman or gardener.'

‘With your top off. Using a scythe.'

‘That's sexist!' he said, using the words I'd once used against him.

‘But incredibly sexy,' I said and closed my eyes as our mouths met …

EPILOGUE

And that was it. The tale of my quest to find a Poldark plus-one. Well almost. I'm thinking it would be rude not to fill you in on the latest gossip. You see now—six months later—the new changes have become more concrete. My best mate and Greg are getting on great. Turns out that, like Izzy, he's got the cleverest business brain. The two of them are already pitching a second mini Donuts & Daiquiris to another holiday resort. Just after Christmas, they moved in together and every month or so we've met up. In fact, we stayed at their new pad a couple of weekends ago. They wore matching tie-dye T-shirts and have bought the cutest pug dog. She's called Manhattan, after the cocktail—Hattie for short.

Earl, Shirl and Pearl have all settled in well at White Rocks and lifted a lot of the stress from Kensa. Earl can work wonders with his toolbox and Shirl has the knack of making lush meals out of the simplest ingredients.
Pearl and I sing together as often as we can. She is also the prime doughnut taster. In fact, she is one talented little girl and often visits Guvnah, who says her new young friend is something of a painter.

Talking of Kensa—remember the bank manager I mentioned, who went above and beyond duty to give her help? Seems his interest wasn't one hundred per cent professional. Last November, they started dating and his expert, now hands-on advice—alongside all the rebranding changes—seems to be helping the resort recover. Plus, Tremain's estranged parents get on much better. Kensa found out that her ex had alerted their son to the fact she was struggling to run White Rocks alone. While she didn't accept his invitation to the christening of Tremain's new baby half-brother, Kensa did send a gift and card.

So, I guess that just leaves me to give you an update regarding me and my man. He's still the most swoon-worthy kisser, with mesmeric leaf-green eyes and an air of capability that fulfils all my politically incorrect beta female needs. Plus, he doesn't run around shouting so much. Counselling is helping. Tremain has even become more sociable and joined a local football club. I've moved in with him, too. We have our own chalet at White Rocks. He snores and I hog the duvet. I'd almost forgotten how special those mundane things were.

And then there are the not so mundane things. Like the way he listens to all the new songs I've been writing
and gives me his honest opinion. Or how, a couple of months ago, I finally convinced him to visit Ben's widow, Juliette. I sat in the car outside. He hasn't spoken about the meeting to me yet, but ever since the visit he doesn't seem to mind talking about Ben so much.

Funny, isn't it? What has resulted from my quest to find a smouldering, charcoal-eyed, ruffled-haired Poldark plus-one? My plan didn't go as intended. I guess Tremain is right. In the end, all that matters is to love with your soul, not your sight …

Read on for an extract from GAME OF SCONES by Samantha Tonge

CHAPTER ONE

Word to the wise: never Google ‘Dutch' and ‘Sex' in the same sentence. Mmm, tempted you, haven't I? A graphic image hovered in my mind after I closed the page on my browser.
Really?
How was that even possible? With a brief smile, I put my phone on the coffee table and snuggled back into the black leather sofa. On my lap lay a pen and sheet of paper. For important decisions, I had to map out my thoughts the old-fashioned way. On one side I'd scrawled a list titled HEAD:
reasons for staying together
. On the other, HEART:
reasons for breaking up
.

Breaking up, that was, from my six-foot-four boyfriend, Henrik from Holland. OK, so he was only half-Dutch, thanks to his mum Greta, a divorced liberalist, who strutted around her house half naked. However, he showed several of the stereotypical characteristics of a Dutchman that I'd just discovered on the Internet, in a bid to come to a decision about
our future. Despite Henrik's ever-increasing earnings as a real-estate developer, he counted every single penny. Plus, he could be direct to the point of sounding rude—although I just called that honesty.

On the plus side … what can I say, his lack of inhibition in the bedroom had rubbed off onto missionary-position me. Talk about fifty shades of yay! In fact, on hearing that Christian Grey's safe word was ‘red', for a joke we'd set ours as ‘pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis', the longest word in the English language. Just as well our love life, whilst adventurous, didn't really include risky whips, clamps or cable ties.

A picture of Henrik came into my mind, with his slicked-back oat-coloured hair, Atlas shoulders and Titan height. This guy had the swoon-factor in excess—or at least that's how I used to feel, until recent months. The first time our eyes had locked, his crinkled in a way that made me feel like a teenager crushing on a boyband. What's more he was ambitious—for both of us—could wire a plug, kept fit and cooked a mean bowl of pasta …

Gushing now, wasn't I, as the list under HEAD (to stay with him) grew longer? It sounds shallow, but hands up, I've been constantly bowled over by his Hollywood looks—until lately when, for some reason, his super suave appearance has grated. I know. Ridiculous. Talk about picky. Yet, thanks to my maths degree, I am analytical to the extreme, which means
weighing up
all
the evidence—including my gut feelings. So I'd almost come to a decision—that just this once, I should listen to my heart and tell myself I'm actually
not
being silly. Despite Henrik's considerable physical assets and appealing personality traits, my head needed to listen to my heart shouting that our relationship no longer felt right.

With a sigh, I stood up, went into the bedroom and slipped out of my trouser suit. I yawned. Would my body ever get used to the six a.m. starts, one-hour commute to work and busy days in my power suit? Without concealer, dark rings circled my eyes and at night my brain found it hard to switch off. Henrik was the same, both of us often working in bed on our laptops. But that was good, right? Showed we were motivated and getting the most out of life?

Carefully, I hung up my suit, pulled on cutoff jeans and a T-shirt, and headed into the open-plan kitchen. I tied a cake-themed apron around my waist. After one last look at my list, I tucked it into the front pocket. Now, flour, butter, milk, sugar … what flavour of scone would I bake today? Late-afternoon sunbeams warmed my face and I gazed out of the window, onto the small regimental garden. Such a bright summer's day called for sun-cream-smelling desiccated coconut with a zing of fresh lemon juice …

I sieved the flour and rubbed in the butter, enjoying the sticky sensation. Scones were brilliant—like a blank canvas, you could colour with either a savoury or sweet theme. What's more, gently kneading the dough, after adding the milk and sugar, never failed to lessen worries … It was the one time of day I took an hour out and emptied my mind of sums and equations. Stressed or happy, nothing beat creating something scrumptious out of such basic ingredients. However, you had to be careful not to pummel the mixture too much. Ideally, before you cut out shapes, the dough should still feel crumbly. Over the years I'd picked up the tips for perfect scones—keep the butter cold to improve the rise, too much milk would make the dough tough, and scones do best on a hot oven's top shelf.

I jumped as the front door to our swanky ground-floor Notting Hill flat opened and slammed shut.

‘Had a good day?' I said and turned around to face Henrik. He leant down to brush my lips with his. At five foot ten, my inner cavewoman had always loved the rare experience of a man towering over me. I used to think he'd make a heartbreaker of a uniformed hero, like a scrubbed-up surgeon or cabin-crew member.

‘The best, thanks—but nothing compared to this evening when I'll reveal a surprise.'

He put his shiny briefcase on the laminate floor. Not for the first time, I appreciated how well an expensive
suit showed off his athletic outline. Henrik removed his jacket, slipped off his tie and undid the top two shirt buttons. This revealed a patch of tanned chest that I'd have once found tantalising, in the extreme. Henrik led me to the sofa. My stomach had lurched when he mentioned a surprise, thanks to a recent night out with Greta, who'd texted, asking to meet.

‘My boy is about to propose to you,' she'd said after too many gins. ‘Marriage can get messy—make sure you carefully consider your reply.'

Despite feeling annoyed on his behalf at her indiscretion, I secretly appreciated the heads-up—but hence the pressure on me to make up my mind about her son. I'd rather break up with him before any proposal, to avoid bruising his pride even more—to not witness the hurt on his face if I refused to accept a ring. My mind swirled for a moment. But what else could this surprise be? His eyes shone and his smile exuded warmth, so it was unlikely to be something he'd dislike announcing such as … a promotion abroad or
him
wanting to break up with
me
.

‘Tell me about your day first, Pippa Pattinson,' said Henrik. ‘How is the new team that you're overseeing?' We sat down, hips and legs touching. The list in my front pocket rustled and with a grin he plucked the sheet of paper out of my apron. ‘I can't believe you still have to consult recipes, after all the baking practice you've had. What's on the menu today?' He waved the list in the air, before turning away to unfold it.

With a squeal I draped my arms around his taut waist, jostling for the paper. My heart thumped. What if he read it? Did I really want to split up? Would he be upset or agree with me that things between us had changed? Either way, I wasn't yet ready for a confrontation.

My knotted stomach unfurled as he chuckled and gave it back.

‘It's, um, also a surprise,' I said, cheeks burning as I stuffed the list back into my apron pocket and folded my arms.

His lips twitched into a smile. ‘Bet it won't be as big as mine.'

Henrik had the knack for surprising people, as his mum found out last month. He arranged an amazing fiftieth birthday spa morning for Greta and her best friends, followed by afternoon tea at The Ritz. My arms loosened and out of habit, our fingers intertwined. In truth, his caring nature had been the biggest turn-on of all, although just occasionally I wished conscientious Henrik could be a little less perfect and forget someone's birthday. Again, urgh! Talk about ungrateful. The prospect of a proposal from such an impeccable lover should make me super-happy.

‘Today was OK, thanks. Although the customer-service supervisor is twice my age and probably considers me too young to be training for management.' I shrugged. ‘But that's not new territory for me. She seems
hardworking …' Plus, had the cutest photo of a cat on her desk—must ask her about that.

‘And the vending machine?' he asked, with a serious expression.

I smiled and gave the thumbs up, my heartbeat having returned to its normal pace. It was our little joke—whatever office we worked in or visited, we rated it by the supply of drinks. A rich mochaccino or creamy latte never failed to perk up a gruelling day.

Henrik tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. ‘I'm so proud of you, Pips, you're zooming through the bank's trainee-manager internship. It seems like only yesterday you graduated from university.'

My eyes tingled. More supportive than an underwired bra, how could faultless Henrik not be the ideal man? Yet over the last few months, a slight sense of unease had crept over me, because of phone calls he'd leave the room to deal with … Then there were really late nights at the office and unexpected trips that totted up more air miles than ever … But then why would he bother cheating? He could just end the relationship. When I'd asked, Henrik said, in an excited voice, that the company was developing fast and it meant more man hours if he was going to get a promotion.

I sighed. OK. Really my suspicions were unfounded—Henrik hid nothing in life, including his One Direction CD and tub of anti-ageing cream. So onto the main
reason that I'd recently felt he and I fitted together no better than a phone with the wrong charger … If you'd only ever had one proper relationship to talk of (um, life's been busy,) how do you know if you're really head-over-heels? Movies rave about love at first sight … Sex scenes on telly show couples tearing each other's clothes off. Occasionally I still felt leg-trembly over my boyfriend's movie-star looks, but physical attraction aside, what remained?
Was Henrik my soulmate out of bed, or even in it?

Lordy, now I sounded like Carrie Bradshaw, typing questions into her computer in
Sex and the City
… but tons of thoughts had swirled in my head these last few weeks, without getting answers. Perhaps I'd overdosed on romantic novels, which talked of fairy-tale meant-to-be's. Plus, I should be grateful for our fancy executive lifestyle, despite dreaming as a youngster I would one day own an old-fashioned afternoon teashop.

I know—mad idea, wasn't it? My lips tugged upwards. High-flying Mum and Dad were having none of it. They'd pushed me to do my maths degree, little knowing I attended baking classes on the quiet. Just as a hobby, of course, not that Henrik understood why I'd waste my mathematical brain on creating something that fed your body and not your mind.