The Cornish Cream Tea Bus. Cressida McLaughlin

a few hours; you haven’t seen it properly yet.’

      ‘First impressions are important, though.’ Charlie thought of the hours she had spent crafting the window displays in The Café on the Hill, hoping to entice visitors inside.

      The Seven Stars was on the seafront at the south side of the cove, its dark stone façade camouflaged against the cliff. Charlie saw again the strange yellow house beyond the jetty. In the sunset’s glow it looked almost fluorescent, and she wondered what it was like inside, with all the rooms full of overpowering light.

      ‘Here we are,’ Lawrence said cheerfully as he held open the door, and Charlie followed Juliette in. In contrast to its dark exterior, the inside of the pub had cream walls and rustic wooden furniture, booths with seats covered in burnt-orange fabric. It was simple and welcoming, and Charlie could imagine long cosy evenings drinking wine by the fire, or the windows thrust open, walls reflecting the water in summer. There were a few people enjoying an early evening drink, and it might have been her imagination, but she thought that the volume of conversation dipped as they made their way to the bar. Juliette and Lawrence didn’t seem to notice, so Charlie focused on the gleaming optics and the overriding smell of cooking fish. She inhaled deeply, her stomach rumbling on cue.

      ‘All right, Hugh?’ Lawrence asked.

      ‘Not too bad,’ said the man behind the counter. He was tall and slender, his ears sticking out below dark hair that was receding on top. Charlie thought he must be in his early fifties. ‘And who’s this with you and Jules?’

      ‘Hi.’ She held out her hand, trying not to smile at his Cornish lilt. ‘I’m Charlie, one of Juliette’s friends.’

      ‘My best friend,’ Juliette corrected, slipping her arm through Charlie’s. ‘She’s here for a few weeks, and we thought it was only fair to introduce her to your fisherman’s pie.’

      ‘Ooh, that sounds great. The smell is incredible.’

      ‘Charlie’s a cook – a baker,’ Juliette continued.

      ‘Oh?’ Hugh’s eyebrow went skywards. ‘D’you work in a restaurant?’

      ‘A café,’ Charlie admitted. ‘Is your fish pie fresh?’

      Hugh grinned, and she silently berated herself. They were in Cornwall – literally on the seafront.

      ‘It’s a melting pot every evenin’, whatever the catch brings in.’

      ‘And Hugh’s sauce – that’s why it’s so good!’ Juliette added.

      ‘It’s not my sauce, technically, but … a family recipe.’ He tapped the side of his nose.

      ‘I can’t wait to try it. I’m starving!’

      They ordered a bottle of wine and took it to a booth, a few heads turning to watch them go. The window had small, thick panes, the glass old and warped so that the sun came through it in whorls of colour. Charlie unzipped her boots and wriggled her toes free, and Marmite, happy to explore beneath the table, pounced on them and chewed gently. She was used to it, and his teeth were still too small to cause any damage.

      As Juliette poured the wine and they clinked glasses, contentment washed over her. She shouldn’t be worrying about what Juliette’s village looked like, or whether the people were all going to be as welcoming as Hugh. She was here to relax.

      ‘This pub is lovely,’ she said, sipping her wine. ‘And clearly it has great food. I’m going to indulge in it all while I’m here – fish pie, wine, ice creams. I might have a couple of treatments in that posh spa on top of the hill.’

      Juliette bristled, and Lawrence gave her a sideways glance.

      ‘What?’ Charlie asked.

      ‘That place,’ Juliette said, ‘is a menace.’

      Charlie frowned. ‘How can a place be a menace?’

      ‘Because it sits up there on the cliff top, catering for people who are prepared to pay three hundred pounds a night for sea-view rooms, God knows what in the restaurant and on spa treatments, and it doesn’t serve Porthgolow at all. The rich people hurtle through the village in their oversized cars, and they don’t use the beach or the shop or come in here. It’s like they want Porthgolow’s landscape and climate, but the thought of stepping outside that glass box and into the real world is too disgusting for them to bear.’ Juliette took a breath, and then a large gulp of wine.

      ‘Wow,’ Charlie said. ‘You’re not a fan, then?’ She remembered the BMW pushing out of the driveway ahead of her.

      Lawrence laughed. ‘Nope.’

      ‘None of the villagers are,’ Juliette continued. ‘I’ve learnt all about it. It even has a private beach so the guests don’t have to mingle with normal people. You’d think a business like that would want to help the local economy, use local suppliers, be a part of the village. It’s hard enough being a newcomer in a tightknit place like this; you have to make an effort, not do everything you can to alienate yourself.’

      Charlie chewed her lip. She hadn’t heard Juliette get this worked up since their gym in Cheltenham had stopped running advanced yoga on a Thursday evening. ‘What about the owners? Don’t they come from the village?’

      Juliette shrugged.

      ‘Daniel Harper,’ Lawrence confirmed. ‘He lives here, a couple of roads back from ours, I think. But he’s pretty much at the hotel all day. And it only opened a few years ago; he came here from Sussex or Surrey, somewhere like that. He’s not born and bred Porthgolow.’

      ‘You know him?’

      ‘Bumped into him here and there,’ Lawrence said vaguely.

      Charlie shot him a perplexed look and Lawrence gave the smallest shake of his head.

      The kitchen door thwacked open and Hugh approached, carrying steaming bowls of fish pie, and the tension was shattered as they soaked up the smell and the steam, the pies’ potato tops perfectly golden and crunchy. A satisfied quiet fell over them as they dug in, blowing on their forks as if that would cool the contents instantly. Marmite scrabbled onto the seat, put his paw on Charlie’s thigh and looked at her beseechingly. Charlie shook her head.

      Hugh returned with bowls of peas, cauliflower and carrots. He laughed when he saw Marmite, and a couple of peas spilled off the dish before he’d put it down.

      ‘Oh God,’ Charlie said, ‘I’m so sorry! I didn’t even ask if dogs were allowed in here.’

      ‘I would have said if they weren’t,’ Juliette mumbled through a mouthful of pie.

      ‘It’s a dog-friendly pub,’ Hugh confirmed. ‘I’d get hardly any custom if I banned four-legged friends. D’you want me to see if I’ve got any treats out back? He’s clearly got FOMO.’

      ‘That would be brilliant. Thanks, Hugh.’ Charlie felt a flush of pleasure as he walked away. She hadn’t even been here a day and already, it seemed, she was making friends.

      After they’d scraped their bowls clean and finished hero-worshipping Hugh’s pie, Lawrence nudged the conversation back to Gertie.

      ‘Do you want me to take a look at her?’ he asked. ‘Juliette said that after the fair she’s looking a bit banged up.’

      Charlie sighed. ‘I was far too slapdash about the whole project. I got the alterations rushed through, and I didn’t stop to consider whether the Fair on the Field was the right place to launch the café bus. It wasn’t fair on Gertie, or the customers.’ She pictured Stuart fighting to rid himself of the banner, and then Oliver with his calm, concerned expression. ‘But I had an email today. The sale on my and Stuart’s flat is finally going through. I should get confirmation in the next couple of days. We had a bit of equity, so …’

      ‘You want to put that into the bus, rather