Page 11 of The Cornish Cream Tea Bookshop
‘Fuck fuck fuckity fuck,’ she said, as soon as she was out of sight of Sea Brew. She had promised herself that she would focus on her new home and her work, on getting to know who she really was, before she thought about flirting or kissing or even looking at another man.
Max, she realised, had been put in her path as a challenge. It was bad enough that he ran the best café in town, but she might also end up helping Thea sort out the bookshop’s coffee machine – which would mean working with him – and if that happened she would have to bury her feelings for him deep, deep down.
It would be good for her, she decided, as she walked through the pretty town, with its glistening harbour and autumn sunshine. Ollie was here to restart her life, reachher potential, and live mindfully, and men – Max very much included – were nowhere near the top of her to-do list. She had so many other things to tick off first, before she could even consider letting her attraction to him run riot.
Chapter Six
When the doorbell rang early the next morning, Ollie was making a green smoothie using a recipe she’d found on a well-beingwebsite. She looked at the radioactive green gunk in her Nutribullet – she wasn’t sure the avocado had been a good idea – and went to see who it was.
A delivery man in blue overalls was standing above a large cardboard box on the doorstep. Ollie felt a skip of excitement, because she knew what this was. She thanked him, and dragged the box inside.
She manoeuvred it into the open-plan living area, which really did look like it had come straight out ofCountry Livingmagazine. It was high-ceilinged, with an expansive lounge area, the kitchen along one wall, and glass doors at either end. The walls were pistachio green, the woodwork – window frames, doors and beams – was pine, there was a modern fireplace with a large mirror above it, and two giant, duck-egg blue sofas facing each other.
A bookshelf was fixed along one wall, the spines a bright pop of colour in the serene space. Alongside Ollie’s favourite books from London, there was the haul she’d picked up from the charity shop in Truro. A series of mysteries with bold, Seventies covers had caught her eye, a quick glimpse had told her they were set in Cornwall, and she’d ended up buying all five. She planned to delve into them over Christmas.
Ollie was just about to open the box when she heard a ‘Cooee!’
‘Hi Marion,’ she called. ‘Come through.’
Liam’s housekeeper, a short, lithe woman who had so far been quite brusque with Ollie, appeared in the doorway. She was dressed in an ankle-skimming beige skirt, plum-coloured blouse and oatmeal cardigan. Her blonde hair was cropped short, and her earrings were turquoise studs.
‘I saw the delivery man pull up,’ she said, ‘and wondered if you needed help with anything?’
‘I’ve made it – just about.’ Ollie ran a hand over the thick cardboard.
‘Something nice, then?’
‘Hopefully.’ She knew that answer wouldn’t satisfy the other woman.
Marion Proctor – who had assured Ollie when they met that she was no good at typing, and was happy to continue cleaning, and cooking Liam’s evening meals – was shameless in her nosiness. Liam had said that she was indispensable, that he didn’t know what he’d do without her, but Ollie thought that was as much about her company as the tasks she completed for him.
She went to get a knife while Marion fussed over a gleeful Henry, the dog lying on his back in a state of ecstasy while she tickled his tummy.
‘I ordered these from London,’ Ollie said, sliding the knife along the sellotaped seal. ‘Having all this space, I thought I’d treat myself.’ She pulled open the flaps and peered inside, and then, with a delighted squeal, reached in for the first garland.
It was a string of fabric paper chains, the material silky, the links silver, pale green and pink. Hanging from the chain were tiny, jewelled baubles in buttercup yellow and pale blue. Ollie pulled it out slowly, as if she was a snake charmer in charge of a viper, and Marion gasped.
‘Goodness! That’s a bit fancy.’
‘It’s from a specialist Christmas shop in London. I’ve always loved their window displays, and this year I thought I’d get some decorations.’
‘Must have cost a pretty penny,’ Marion said, a scolding edge to her voice.
‘Some things are worth splashing out for, and I’m not going to have Christmas with zero decorations as well as no—’ she caught herself, pressed her lips together, and went back to the box. ‘I bought a few. Look – this one’s gold and blue, and there’s another one covered in fake snow.’
Marion helped Ollie take the garlands out. She made gentle cooing noises, running her thumbs over the different textures: tinsel and frosting, the smooth glass of an iridescent bauble. Ollie sucked in a breath as she saw the final garland, the one that was sheer indulgence. It was made of thick, bushy tinsel in pearlescent white, the baubles hangingfrom it small and mirrored, and in every colour imaginable. She would hang this one above her headboard. She brushed it against her cheek, the soft tinsel tickling her skin.
‘This the Tiffany’s equivalent of Christmas tat, then?’ Marion asked.
Ollie laughed. ‘Something like that. They’re going to make this place look gorgeous, though.’ She sighed happily, then noticed that Henry was about to clamp his strong jaws around one of the garlands, and hurried over, scooping them back into the box.
‘You know,’ she said, as the older woman helped her tidy up. ‘I bought more than enough for the barn. If you wanted one – or you thought Liam might like one to brighten up his kitchen – then just say. We could have a fun time decorating the farmhouse together, put on a Christmas playlist.’
‘It’s October,’ Marion pointed out.
‘I know, but look!’ She gestured to the glass doors, where the thick frost they’d woken up to was only just being burned off by the sun. ‘If we put our minds to it, we could pretend it was November – December, even.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Marion said. ‘Besides, we don’t go in for fancy stuff here. There’s a mature holly tree out the back that Liam will cut some branches off. There are always plenty of berries left – the birds don’t get them all.’
