Christmas at the Cornish Café. Phillipa Ashley

know what I mean. I can understand him staying a couple of weeks but why would a metrosexual like him want to be away from London?’

      ‘A metrosexual? Kit? Nah. He’s much too rugged for that. He wears a Berghaus coat, for a start.’

      Cal eyes me sharply and raises an eyebrow at my comment.

      ‘Stop laughing at me. He just doesn’t strike me as a hipster. He’s too blokey for the self-obsessed trendy type.’

      ‘“Rugged” and “blokey” eh? Not that you’re interested in the blond hunk, Kit Bannen, of course. He’s only a guest.’ Cal swipes a mince pie cookie from the plate.

      ‘I didn’t say he was a “hunk”, you did and actually he has a deadline on his book and he said he can get on with it better away from the distractions in London. It’s a techno-thriller.’

      Cal huffs. ‘A techno-thriller? He obviously talks to you more than me. He hardly even bothers to nod a hello at me if we come across each other, not that I’m bothered, as long as he pays the bill. You must have charmed him.’

      ‘No. Kilhallon has charmed him.’ Do I detect a hint of jealousy from Cal? That would be nice … then I snap out of my fantasies. Kit isn’t interested in me and vice versa, and I doubt Cal’s really jealous.

      ‘What else do we need?’ he asks.

      ‘Nothing. I’ll set the coffee machine going just before we have a break and bring it out here. People can help themselves to hot water from the machine for their teas.’

      ‘I’m sure they’ll be impressed. This place looks great and the smell of these cookies is delicious.’

      ‘I thought the spices would get everyone in the mood. Thanks for helping me. I can’t ask the staff to stay on. They’ve done enough this week.’

      ‘It’s no problem.’

      Cal chats to me about the accommodation bookings while we push some tables together to make one long ‘boardroom-style’ table for the meeting. We still need to fill two of the cottages for Christmas, and Warleggan is vacant at New Year. The yurt season will be over after half term until next Easter.

      Cal goes into the kitchen to collect some mugs and plates while I add a jug of milk and sparkling white bowls of demerara sugar cubes to the refreshment table. It may be only a meeting, but I want everything to look perfect tonight. One of the tourist officers is coming, along with influential locals, to discuss plans for the highlight of the St Trenyan calendar.

      The festival starts with a lantern procession to the harbour before the big switch-on. The old harbour is decorated with lights in the shape of boats, Christmas trees, stars, shells and starfish, all made up of thousands of jewel-bright bulbs. It’s quirky, random and very pretty. Until Twelfth Night, the quay and nearby pubs, shops and houses are illuminated, the colours reflected in the coal-black waters of the sea.

      There are stalls selling hot food and drink, gifts and a mini funfair on the quayside. The evening ends with sing-along carols with the St Trenyan Fisherman’s Choir. It’s a massively popular tradition with everyone, and it marks the ‘real’ start of Christmas, even though all the shops will already be selling gifts and cards well before then.

      I spot myself reflected in the large window, almost perfectly mirrored by the blackness outside, and think of a time, less than a year ago, when I wasn’t part of the celebrations but an outsider left in the cold. A lump forms in my throat.

      ‘How many are you expecting?’ Cal calls to me from the servery where he’s filling two jugs with water.

      Shaking off the memory of darker times, I join him. ‘A dozen, maybe a few more. I looked at the list and recognised a few of the names. Local businesspeople, councillors, fishermen and the vicar. Are you definitely staying for the meeting?’ I ask Cal.

      ‘Normally I’d rather stick pins in my eyeballs than join a committee, but I’ll make an exception for this one. A lot of the people coming will want to ask questions about Kilhallon. Some of them came to our promo event in August and they’ll be keen to see how we’re doing. Or not.’ He smiles wryly, knowing a couple of the committee members run holiday-let businesses themselves.

      He tears open a blue bag of ice and empties the cubes into the water jugs. ‘Besides, Mum was on the committee for a few years before she became ill. She helped with the fundraising and used to really enjoy it. I think it was a welcome distraction from Dad’s shenanigans.’

      Cal doesn’t mention his late mother very often but I know he misses her. ‘I didn’t know she was part of it. She’d be pleased you’re keeping up the tradition.’

      ‘Yeah, well, Dad couldn’t be arsed to help out so maybe I should do it, if only to show them how much Kilhallon has changed. We should mention our bookings are healthy, of course, even if it’s not strictly accurate, but that we also want to do our bit for community spirit.’ He winks at me. I envy his lashes, damn him.

      ‘There are some lemon slices in a tub at the bottom of the fridge,’ I say, feeling myself growing warm again as I think of Cal’s eyes on me, and his hands too.

      Cal finds the tub and drops the lemon slices into the water while I select a large bottle of apple juice from the chiller. ‘November’s looking a bit thin, but that’s always a dead time of year and hopefully the Christmas lights will lure people into the cottages for the final week of the month, especially now the cafe’s open,’ he says.

      I try to refocus on the business in hand. ‘I must blog about the meeting and post some pics of last year’s lights and some menus for the pop-up cafe we’re having at the festival.’

      I fill another jug with the apple juice and we carry them to the table. The first of the committee will start to arrive in a few minutes. There’s a small parking area behind the cafe that should accommodate most of their cars. Cal opens his tablet and nods at me to look at the Harbour Lights website. It’s a ‘homemade’ site but I think the quirkiness is part of its charm. The photos of the twinkling snowmen and a giant shark fixed on the harbour walls make us both smile. ‘I loved the harbour lights when I was little, even when I was a teenager we looked forward to going down into St Trenyan with our mates.’

      ‘You and Luke? I’d have thought you were too cool for fairy lights.’

      ‘No way. It was a chance for Luke, Isla, Tamsin and me – plus a few others from school – to go down into St Trenyan for a night out without our parents keeping an eye on us. When we were in the sixth form whoever had a car would drive us down and the rest of us would try to sneak into the pubs or persuade someone over eighteen to buy us drinks that we could take outside. There were so many people around drinking and eating in the streets and the stalls that no one would notice. One year we got lashed on dodgy mulled wine from a stall and were as sick as dogs.’

      ‘Serves you right,’ I say, realising that Cal has definitely cut down on his drinking lately. Polly used to nag him about it when he first got home from the Middle East and was even worried, but since Isla left for London – and even before then – the empties have greatly reduced. I didn’t like to see him so pissed every night: it reminded me of my dad, who was even more of an ogre when he’d had a few drinks. After Mum died, he hit the bottle hard, met a new girlfriend and eventually I couldn’t stand the situation any longer and left home.

      ‘I haven’t been to the lights switch-on since I was young, though. I was either away at uni, or too cool or working abroad. Last year, the Christmas lights were the last thing on my mind.’

      His tone takes on a bitter edge; the same edge that I used to hear all the time when I first came to Kilhallon. It surfaces less frequently now but I know that his disappointment gnaws at him. His father passed away not long before he went to the Middle East on an aid project. Although that was two and half years ago, he’s bound to miss his dad and regret that they didn’t have a closer relationship. Then there’s the loss of Isla, of course, but there’s something else that causes him pain. Memories, worries, something