Summer at the Cornish Cafe. Phillipa Ashley

you bloody well can’t stay here. I daren’t have you back to work at the cafe but I’ve heard about something on the grapevine that might suit you. It comes with accommodation.’

      I stand up, wincing at the pins and needles in my feet. ‘Really?’

      ‘Don’t get too excited. It might not come to anything and it was only a word from a friend. She works at a caravan site.’

      ‘A caravan site? Er … that sounds interesting, but if there’s work going?’

      She grimaces. ‘It’s in the back of beyond, which is why I shouldn’t get too excited, but you never know. Come to the cafe for a bit of breakfast before we open. I don’t care if Mawgan Cade sees you. I’ll throw something over her myself if she says anything.’

      At the mention of breakfast, Mitch jumps to his paws. I gather up my sleeping bag and my rucksack and follow Sheila. I lied to her. There is no friend or parents’ house. There never was. I’ve been sleeping rough for the past three days since the run-in with Mawgan. Since I left home after a falling out with my dad and his new partner, and had to leave my previous job, I’ve never been in one place long enough – not even a shop doorway – to make long-term friends, and definitely not ones with room to put me and Mitch up. As for the housing office, I want to try and find my own live-in job first. There are hundreds of people who need council accommodation a lot more than I do.

      Sheila slaps a plate of bacon and eggs in front of me and refills my mug of coffee. ‘Here you are. Get that down you.’

      Mitch has already demolished a bowl of Chum and is snoring in a patch of early morning sun.

      The smell of crispy bacon fills my nostrils. ‘You’ve got to open in an hour. I should go when I’ve had this.’

      ‘Not until I know you won’t be on the streets.’

      ‘Have you got the number of this friend with the caravan site?’

      She scribbles on an order slip. ‘Here it is. It’s called Kilhallon Holiday Park.’

      ‘Never heard of it? Where is it?’

      Sheila grins as I lick a trail of egg yolk from the corner of my mouth.

      ‘Around five miles out of town on the coast road. Like I said, I’m not sure the job will suit you but any port in a storm, as they say, and I’ve heard they’re looking for a live-in worker.’

      ‘What about Mitch?’

      ‘It’s in the country, so they might be more accommodating of him. Polly’s lived there for years and I expect she’ll tell you more. All I know so far is that the owner of the place has decided to re-launch the park and needs someone to help out fast so I guess that means they want someone cheap too. So don’t let them exploit you.’ Sheila wipes her hands on some kitchen paper.

      ‘I won’t. Can I use your laptop and do a bit of research on it? Then I can call this Polly woman when they open. If the job’s not advertised yet, I want to get in there first before anyone else.’

      ‘Course you can but don’t get your hopes up. Kilhallon Park may not be what it was.’ She smiles.

      ‘They haven’t seen me yet, have they? I could be exactly what they need.’

      She shakes her head and laughs. ‘Good luck. You and Mitch … and by the way, don’t take this the wrong way, but do you want to have a shower and freshen up, first?’

      With my damp hair wrapped in one of Sheila’s fluffy towels, I put down the phone. Mr Penwith must be really keen for staff because Polly Tregothnan said he’d meet me this afternoon in St Trenyan. She asked for some details so I gave my address as the Beach Hut and said that Sheila had to let me go for ‘financial reasons’ but was happy to give me a reference.

      Not that Polly listened much, she was too busy barking at me and telling me ‘not to be late as Mr Penwith was a busy man’ and ‘had I written down the name of the chain coffee bar he’d meet me at because young people these days never listened to anything in her experience.’ She claimed to be his PA but she sounded more like his mother, to be honest.

      Sheila says Polly can be a ‘bit of a Tartar’, whatever the hell that is, but also reckons Polly has a ‘heart of gold’ which probably means she’s even scarier than she sounded on the phone. I also decided not to mention Mitch at this stage of our conversation.

      After I left the cafe, with an extra bacon butty wrapped in foil and some pouches of food for Mitch, I hung around town looking for waitressing job ads in the cafe windows but in all honesty I liked the sound of working at a holiday park far more. There ought to be more opportunities, despite what Sheila said about not getting my hopes up.

      The meeting is scheduled for twelve-thirty so by twelve-fifteen, I’ve already bagged a table outside a big name coffee bar, and I’m pretending to read the newspaper. However, I don’t think I’ve taken in a single word my stomach is churning so much. Half-past twelve comes and goes, and my hands are smudged with the newsprint. It’s now almost quarter to one and I push the paper away, nerves taking over my brain completely. I glance up the street for the umpteenth time, my heart banging away every time any lone bloke approaches the cafe. I don’t even know how old Mr Penwith is. He could be anything from thirty to seventy.

      The woman who’s clearing the tables comes over to me. ‘Are you going to buy anything?’

      ‘Yeah but I’m just waiting for a … colleague.’

      She raises an eyebrow.

      ‘He should be here soon,’ I say firmly.

      ‘Course he will be.’ She shrugs and goes to clear the neighbouring tables.

      It’s ten to one now, and there’s still no sign of Mr Penwith. Has he changed his mind? Has he already got someone else? Has word of the frappuccino incident already spread beyond St Trenyan? Do Mawgan Cade’s tentacles reach as far as Kilhallon park?

      I laugh out loud, but it’s only nerves and my heart sinks again.

      ‘He isn’t coming,’ I say to Mitch, who dozes in a pool of sunlight.

      Wait. A man has caught my eye. He’s hanging about outside the Shell Shop on the opposite side of the street but he’s watching the cafe and frowning. He wears jeans and a white shirt and a jacket: smart casual. He’s not seventy, that’s for sure. He checks his watch, seems to make a decision and weaves between the queuing cars to my side of the street.

      Slowing his pace, he walks up to the outside tables and glances around him. Oh my God, surely he can’t be Mr Penwith?

      Yet by the way he scans the customers, it has to be.

      I jump up. ‘Mr Penwith?’

      He looks at me, his tanned forehead creases and his eyes flicker to Mitch. ‘Don’t I know you?’ he says.

      ‘Oh God, yes … and I’ve seen you. You were at the cafe when I … That was a one-off, of course. I don’t usually chuck stuff over customers … I mean, that’s not how I usually behave when I’m working …’

      His expression doesn’t change which is not a great sign. ‘So you’re Ms Jones?’

      I squirm with embarrassment. ‘Yes.’

      ‘Hmm. I see. You’re not what I was expecting.’

      ‘What were you expecting?’

      ‘Someone …’ His voice trails off.

      ‘Older?’ My heart sinks.

      He nods. ‘I guess so. More experienced.’

      ‘I told your PA I had extensive catering experience. She mentioned you wanted someone who could turn their hand to a multitude of tasks.’

      ‘My PA?’ He frowns. I don’t think he’s over thirty but he already has fine lines in his face.

      ‘Mrs