Summer at the Cornish Cafe. Phillipa Ashley

study, shouting ‘yes!’, listening to Cal outlining what he wants me to do: generally helping around the place and supporting him to get the holiday park back on its feet. He also asks me if I want to go to college in September to do some tourism and catering courses.

      ‘We need stationery from the office supplies store and I’d like you to get some costs for refitting the reception. You’d better get some new clothes too.’

      I glance down at my only pair of jeans and T-shirt, wondering why he’s brought up the subject again. ‘I don’t need a handout.’

      ‘Fine. In that case, will you accept an advance on your salary? You can pay me back if you like but you may as well get some work clothes and safety boots on the business. The agricultural store on the road to St Ives should have what you need.’

      ‘Thanks,’ I say, wishing I hadn’t been quite so dismissive.

      He pulls out his wallet. ‘Here’s my card so you can get some cash, though we’ve still got an account at the agricultural and office stores.’

      ‘I could run off with this,’ I joke.

      ‘Not without Mitch. He’s my hostage.’

      I snort. ‘He’d never stay with you.’

      ‘Want to bet?’ He grins in such a sexy way, I get the funny fizzing feeling low in my stomach. I half-wish he was fat and old and picked his teeth or something, rather than this hot. It would make life so much easier.

      The door opens and Polly stands in the doorway blocking out the light. ‘Cal? I thought you’d like to know you’ve had a letter.’

      ‘Leave it on the desk, please.’

      Ignoring him, Polly holds an envelope under his nose. It’s the kind you see in costume dramas, with elaborate, old-fashioned handwriting on the front.

      ‘I thought I should bring this one over personally.’ She waggles the envelope, a sly gleam in her eye.

      Cal looks at it but doesn’t take it. ‘I said, leave it on the desk. Please.’ The please is added with sarcasm, almost menace.

      Polly lays it on top of a pile of other papers but makes no attempt to leave.

      ‘You can go now.’ Cal’s voice is quieter, and his finger taps the table. ‘And you.’

      It’s a second before I realise he means me.

      ‘See you later,’ says Polly, smirking.

      I push myself up from the chair. ‘So, do you want any lunch?’

      ‘Just leave me.’ His head snaps up. God, he looks angry – but that’s nothing to the pain I see in his eyes. I don’t say any more, just do as he asks. He was moody before I walked in here. I don’t know what’s in that letter, but it looks as if it’s almost destroyed him before he’s even opened it.

       CHAPTER SIX

      I knew it had to happen. I knew it was coming but that doesn’t lessen the pain or make it any easier to take. I brush my fingers over the embossed script, and the handwritten insertion of my name. It sounds so formal and so final. Did Isla write it herself – or her mother? I can’t believe it was Luke’s idea but maybe I don’t know him any more.

       WE’RE ENGAGED!

       Isla and Luke

       invite

       Mr Calvin Penwith

       to celebrate their engagement with them

       On Saturday June 25th

       from 7 p.m.

       At Bosinney House, St Trenyan

       RSVP to Isla Channing

      The date is more than two months away, which makes me feel that Mrs Channing has had a hand in the invites. She obviously wants to send a signal out to the world that Isla and Luke are officially together. She never liked me and perhaps I don’t blame her if she thought I was making Isla unhappy by trekking off abroad all the time.

      Perhaps Luke wants to send me a signal and formalise the engagement. Last night, all I could think about was Luke lying in bed with Isla and contrasting it with the times I lay with her in the barn here at Kilhallon, and in the warm dunes and the cool cave on the beach.

      I’d been with her on that last night before I went to the Tinner’s Arms for a farewell drink with my mates. Luke had warned me that evening to tell Isla how I felt but I’d held back. I thought she already did know without me saying it and as for marrying her, I thought we were too young, that we had years to do all that stuff when I’d got back from the Middle East. I could never have married her then, I told myself, until I’d at least tried to help the people I saw on the news and the internet. How could I sit here at Kilhallon, in my comfortable home, doing nothing, when I had the skills to help those people? What kind of a man would I be? What kind of a husband and father …

      Two years is a long time to wait; when you’ve hardly heard a word and when you think all hope is lost. But the irony is that it was the thought of Isla that kept me going through the long, dark days and months. A few times, I’d have topped myself if it hadn’t been for her, when things got too terrible to bear.

      I can’t tell her the truth, of course, the reason why I was away so long and why I couldn’t contact her for the past few months. When I first went on my trips abroad I used to send her ‘vintage’ postcards – my retro joke – but on my last assignment, there were no cards to buy or even shops still standing in most places. It was a miracle if I could get a decent signal or Wi-Fi or even access to a computer and, if I’m honest, I’d been so wrapped up with my work I sometimes didn’t have a moment to even think about home. When you’re dealing with people in a life or death situation, your priorities tend to change but I should have made more effort. Perhaps I can’t blame Isla for thinking I wasn’t interested any more. Then, when I finally wanted to speak to her, and had time on my hands at last, it was impossible.

      I slam the lid of the laptop shut and throw the invitation on the floor.

      Is it really too late? Maybe I should ride over to Bosinney now and speak to Isla on her own? If I see her face to face, I can let her know how I feel and change her mind. The study door slams behind me as I hurry out to the yard.

      ‘Cal, can you come and look at this tractor?’ The mechanic from the garage calls over to me.

      ‘Not now, mate.’

      ‘But it needs a new clutch. It can’t wait any longer.’

      ‘Not now!’

      ‘OK but it’s your funeral.’ He folds his arms. ‘And without a working tractor, you won’t be able to do a lot of the work you’ve planned here.’

      ‘OK. Good point.’ After I’ve heard Baz tell me how much work the tractor needs and how much it will cost, I seek solace in the stables with the one creature that doesn’t seem to have changed, and who is waiting patiently for me. At least Polly made sure my horse, Dexter, was taken care of while I was away, even if the park fell down around her ears.

      Dexter snickers softly and stamps impatiently as I tack him up. I mount him and catch sight of Demi with a clipboard, in front of the admin block. I asked her to do some research on other resorts and give her opinion on what facilities she thought we needed and how the park should look. She’s no expert but that’s what I wanted: a fresh pair of eyes to view this place as if she might love to come on holiday here herself.

      Have I done the right thing in bringing her here? She’s a bright girl and she’ll probably be out of here in a year, maybe less. She’ll want more than I can offer