A Wedding at the Comfort Food Cafe

by Debbie Johnson

  I repeat this to myself over and over again during the next half an hour, as the warm sunshine gets warmer, and the booze wears off, and I start to yearn for a glass of cold water. By the time I finally arrive at Briarwood, I’m hot and bothered and also starting to realise something: I have to tell Finn about Seb.

  I should have told him about Seb ages ago, but I didn’t tell anyone about Seb. Now the cat is not only out of the bag but probably having kittens back at the café – it’ll only be a matter of time before someone else casually mentions it to him, which would be unfair and crap and also embarrassing for both of us.

  I bypass the main room of the building, which is vibrating with death metal music as I approach. Them crazy kids sure do like their death metal. I glance at the big bay windows, and see them at work: skinny jeans, bright hair, rock T-shirts, piercings, glasses, a life-size replica of ET. That’s a new one, and it makes me smile as I walk through the entrance into the hallway.

  The house itself is probably Victorian, and was once the home of local landed gentry who fell on hard times. It later became a children’s home – a kind of posh private orphanage – where Tom himself spent a few key years after his parents died. That’s where he first met Willow, when we were all kids – Lynnie, in her pre-Alzheimer days, used to work here, doing yoga and art workshops with the young people.

  It fell into disrepair after that, until Tom came back and did CPR on it. Now it’s lively and loud and full of energy and that makes me so happy. I walk down to Finn’s office, where he also has living quarters, and where he will also have one of those lovely water coolers that make that nice glugging sound as it fills your glass. Bliss.

  I pause outside his door, and quickly swipe some of my hair out of my face. My hair is long and straight and deep red, which is where I got my name. All of us siblings got given names that suited our appearance when we were born – Willow long and lean; Van with a funny ear; Angel a little cherub.

  It’s also, right now, a bit sticky and glued to my cheeks. Not a good look. Once I’m satisfied that I’m as tidy as I’m going to get, I knock on the door to warn him and go inside.

  Finn is sitting behind his desk, looking god-like. He’s tall and big and broad and thanks to his Danish grandfather, has silky blond hair that he keeps a bit long, crystal blue eyes, and today, like most days, golden stubble. His face is dominated by high, wide cheekbones, and a slightly crooked nose, and, the minute he sees me, a smile that immediately sends a tingle down my spine.

  ‘God dag, Mein Herr,’ I say, blending Danish and German on purpose because I know it exasperates him.

  ‘Guten morgen, mon petit chou-fleur,’ he replies quickly, leaning back in his chair.

  ‘I love it when you call me a vegetable,’ I say, perching myself on the corner of the desk and looking around the room. I spy some weird booty in the corner, with the word ACME scrawled on the side in marker pen, and ask: ‘Is that a box full of dynamite?’

  ‘Almost. It’s a box full of fireworks. Confiscated from a particularly explosive member of the brains trust.’

  This kind of thing happens a lot here. It’s one of the reasons Finn was brought in in the first place. Fireworks. Huh. How stupid. How juvenile.

  ‘What time does it get dark these days?’ I ask, my mind filling with Catherine wheels and rockets.

  ‘No,’ he says simply, grinning at me. ‘You can’t have them. You’re explosive enough without the fireworks. What are you doing here? Not that it isn’t lovely to see you, but I thought you were at Laura’s do?’

  He pauses, looks me up and down, and says sadly: ‘I can’t believe you were at a party at the café and didn’t bring me any cake.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and I genuinely am. It’s kind of a sin, that, coming back empty-handed from a visit to Comfort Food heaven. Cherie has done her usual trick of figuring out his particular favourite – some mad Danish rice pudding with almonds and cherry sauce – and serves it up to him so often he should be the size of a sumo wrestler.

  He’s not, though. He’s just about perfect, especially today. He does a lot of rugged things like surfing and sailing and hiking, and it’s not an enormous stretch to imagine him at the helm of a longboat planning a raid on the unsuspecting turnip farmers. As a result of all this outdoorsy-ness, he has one of those year-round touch-of-gold tans that makes his eyes pop and his stubble glow. Yowsers.

  He’s sitting there, wearing a white shirt with the top few buttons open, which always gets me going. There’s no dress code at Briarwood, but he wears these semi-formal shirts when he’s working, saying it differentiates him from the others and makes them treat him more like a grown-up.

  He definitely looks like a grown-up, and I’m already wondering if he has time for a quick trip into the adjoining boudoir for some adult time. I remind myself of why I’m here, and shake it off. Almost.

  He’s holding a letter which he’s obviously been reading, and I stall for time by asking: ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s an invitation. To a conference.’

  ‘Oooh! A conference! How exciting – can I come? Will there be a swanky hotel suite and rude movies? Will there be free pastries and name tags so I can pretend I’m someone else? What’s it about? I love conferences!’

  He quirks one eyebrow, amused, and replies very deliberately: ‘It’s about Institutional Financial Processes for Non-Accountancy Qualified Managers, and I’m staying in a Travelodge.’

  ‘Oh … maybe not then. I think I’ll leave you to it. When is it?’

  ‘Few weeks away. Are you all right?

  ‘Sort of. I’ve been better. Okay,’ I say, rallying my thoughts. ‘I kind of have something important to tell you. Not bad, but important. But I also kind of really fancy you right now, and am hoping that I can get you naked some time very soon. So the choice is yours – talk or sex?’

  He taps his long fingers on the desk surface, and gives me a feralgrin that does nothing at all to help me calm my reckless libido.

  ‘Well, that sounds intriguing,’ he says, and I can tell from the readjustment of his sitting position that I’ve definitely piqued his interest in more ways than one.

  ‘On the one hand,’ he continues, ‘I’m a man, so every instinct I have says sex first, talk later.’

  I’m hoping he goes for that option, but something tells me he won’t. He’s too darned clever to fall into my evil trap like that.

  ‘On the other … I might feel cheap if I let you have your wicked way with me, and then you tell me something unpleasant afterwards. So, reluctantly, I have to go for talk first. And, depending on what it is you want to talk about, maybe sex later.’

  I nod my head, and bite my lip, and realise that there isn’t a simple way to do this – other than to just do it.

  ‘Right. Well. The thing is, I should have told you this earlier, I realise that, but the thing is …’

  He sits, still and silent, his blue gaze steady and calm and irritatingly unyielding. I could probably crack that cool exterior if I whipped my bra off and jiggled my boobies in his face – that’s always worked before –but I know I shouldn’t. I know he’s right.

  ‘The thing is, I’m kind of married.’

  I stare first at my knees, which are bopping up and down nervously without me even giving them permission, and then up at him.

  He still looks steady, but not quite as calm. He glances away from me, at the window, for a few seconds, before turning back in my direction.

  ‘You’re married?’ he repeats, his voice low and an awfully lot less playful than it was a few minutes ago. Which I suppose is understandable.

  ‘Yep!’

  ‘But you’re not with him?’

  ‘No! God no!’ I say, emphatically. I have the sudden realisation that he was perhaps thinking this is all a lot worse than it is. My fault, for not explaining myself properly.

  ‘No,’ I say again, grabbing hold of one of his hands and holding it in mine. ‘It’s not like that. It’s not like
one of those stories you read on the internet where I have a secret life, and a husband and triplets waiting for me on the Isle of Wight or whatever. Nothing like that, honestly. I got married, years ago, when I was much younger and much stupider and living in Spain, and we split up. I came back home, and I’ve not seen him or spoken to him in years. Years! He literally doesn’t exist in my life at all, apart from on paper. It’s completely over, and has been for so long, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, and …’

  I trail off at this point, because I can’t think of anything else to add. He notices that I’ve stopped, and I see him churning it all over in his mind.

  ‘So,’ he says, slowly, ‘to recap – you got married to a man I don’t know. The relationship broke down years ago. You’ve not seen him since. I wasn’t at all part of the reason for it not working?’

  Finn, I should have twigged earlier, was bound to worry about that. He is the product of a supremely messy divorce – his dad had an affair, and it turned into one of those lovely scenarios where two grown-ups decide to use a child as a bargaining chip. As a result, he’s fairly straightforward on the whole subject. He would never, ever forgive himself if he’d contributed to the collapse of a marriage.

  ‘I absolutely 100 per cent promise you that you were not.’

  ‘And I’m working on the assumption that now you’ve told me part of it, you’ll tell me the rest at some point?’

  ‘Of course I will,’ I reply. I’m going to owe this story to a lot of people.

  Finn nods once, firmly, and stands up.

  ‘All right,’ he announces, walking from behind his desk, grabbing my hands, and pulling me into his arms.‘Then I see no reason why we shouldn’t proceed directly to the sex.’

  Chapter 4

  We do in fact proceed directly to the sex, passing ‘go’ several times. It’s all pretty spectacular, which it usually is with Finn – but even more so this time. I suppose it’s the hint of drama, making it all feel more real and more special.

  We’ve never even had an argument, so this is the closest we’ve got to make-up sex, and I find myself feeling quite emotional when I’m lying in his arms afterwards. His little flat is getting dim, the spring sunshine fading to a dusky evening, the last rays filtering through the closed curtains as we hold each other close.

  There had been a moment there – when I’d told him, and he was all strong and silent on me – that I’d felt such a rush of panic. Panic that I’d lost him. Panic that this would all be over before it even properly began. I hadn’t even noticed how much I was starting to like this man until then – but I suppose I’m not the most self-aware of women, being the sort who can persuade herself to forget she’s actually someone else’s wife.

  I run my hands over the silky fair hair on his chest – he’s not one for manscaping, I’m glad to say – and sigh into his skin. He has me bundled up tight against him, and is grinning the grin of a chap who knows he’s just shown a lady an especially good time.

  ‘I really am sorry I didn’t tell you,’ I say, quietly, running the risk of ruining the moment. ‘If it’s any consolation I didn’t tell anybody.’

  ‘Not even Willow, or Katie?’

  ‘Not even. And then today, at Laura’s bash, it all kind of came tumbling out. It was a race against time to get here and tell you myself before one of them told one of the menfolk, and you found out by accident and ended up hating me.’

  ‘I could never hate you, Auburn, you pillock,’ he says, sounding as romantic as it’s possible to sound with a sentence involving the word ‘pillock’.

  ‘You might say that now,’ I reply, semi-serious, ‘but you should give me some time on that front … Anyway, I am sorry. It was all so long ago, and feels a bit like a dream sequence or a flashback in a film. Like something that happened to a different person – my crazy alter-ego or my evil twin sister.’

  He laughs, and twines his fingers into my hair, and I feel him holding strands of it up so the sun can fall through it. He’s fascinated with my hair, the weirdo.

  ‘I suppose it does perhaps lead us on to the bigger conversation, though, doesn’t it?’ he says. I feel him tensing ever so slightly beneath my palms – so subtle I barely notice it, but in Finn world a major event. He’s usually Mr Cucumber.

  Of course, I get what he means, but I don’t have to like it – even if he is right.

  ‘Does it have to?’ I ask, sounding like a teenaged girl whining about doing homework when she wants to watch Love Island. ‘I like things just the way they are. You, me, naked, in bed on a work day. That’s pretty perfect.’

  ‘It is,’ he agrees, turning my face up so we’re looking into each other’s eyes. ‘Pretty perfect. And it’s not like I’m going to go all demanding on you – I know this is new. I know we’re both taking baby steps, that we both have our issues. But it’s also not … casual, is it?’

  I remember my panic earlier, when I thought I was losing him. I remember how I smile whenever I hear his name. I remember the fact that this man blows my mind in bed. No, this isn’t casual – but I’m not quite sure what it is, either.

  ‘No,’ I reply, stroking his face, running my finger over the bump in his nose and kissing its tip. ‘Not casual. I really like you, Finn. I’m happy when I’m with you – even when you have clothes on. But my life is … complicated. Actually, that’s a cop-out – it’s not my life, it’s me that’s complicated. I’m a work in progress, but I can’t promise I’ll ever be simple.’

  ‘The fact that you’ve told me you’re married to another man kind of tipped me off to that – as has knowing you for the last few months. What makes you think I want simple, anyway? Maybe I like complicated. Maybe I’d be bored if you were straightforward. Maybe I’m an emotional masochist who likes getting involved with savage redheads.’

  I think about it, and shrug. Maybe he is. Or maybe he’ll reach the point where I drive him mad enough for him to jump back into his longboat, and sail across the North Sea to escape my savagery.

  ‘You’re not simple either,’ I say, prodding him in the ribs. Offence is the best form of defence. ‘You do this whole cool, inscrutable Nordic thing, and you might fool everyone else – but I know there’s more to you. You’re not just saunas and A-Ha.’

  ‘They were Norwegian, you philistine,’ he replies in mock horror. Of course I knew that – but I enjoy winding him up a bit.

  ‘All the same to me. Anyway … as for the bigger conversation, I suppose my half of it goes something like this: I like you. I don’t want this to end. And if I think about it all too deeply, I’ll do my usual thing of tying myself up in knots and convincing myself there’s a disaster looming on the horizon. So, can we carry on getting to know each other, and feeling our way through this?’

  He runs a hand down my side, over my hip, and onto my naked backside, which he squeezes.

  ‘Like this?’ he asks.

  ‘Well, it’s not quite what I meant, but I’m not complaining.’

  He leaves his hand there, and kisses the top of my head.

  ‘Yes,’ he says, after a few moments. ‘We can carry on doing that. I like getting to know you. It’s fun. But I didn’t like getting a shock like that one, so could we avoid that in future please? I don’t mind you being complicated, Auburn – but I do mind being kept in the dark. As long as we’re honest with each other, I think we’ll be all right.’

  I throw one leg over his hips in lieu of replying, because I found that last statement a bit scary. I mean, it’s not like I go around lying all the time … no, actually, I do. I’m renowned for my tremendous fib-telling capacity. But that’s just jokey stuff, like claiming I couldn’t buy a round in because I’d left my wallet in the ladies’ loos at Hogwarts – stuff nobody believes anyway.

  That stuff doesn’t matter. But the bigger stuff – like the fact that I’m secretly married, and why the marriage went horribly wrong, and big lost chunks of my life that I’m ashamed of and never talk about – matters. Not telling him might
not technically be lying, but I can’t imagine he’d see it that way.

  I need to woman up, and make some changes.

  Chapter 5

  Laura is half-sitting, half-lying, all groaning, on the couch in the Budbury Pharmacy. The shop opened last year, and scarily I’m the person in charge. That fact never ceases to amaze me. I even have keys to a big cupboard full of some seriously heavy-duty drugs – not that we have much call for it in our village.

  My average customer tends to need the odd asthma inhaler or some diabetes meds or antibiotics. Nobody’s breaking bad, and most of my regulars are in fairly decent health. That might not be good for business, but it’s definitely good for morale.

  To make things work, we also sell a lot of extra stuff – toiletries and gifts and suncare and baby things and my personal favourite, the sugary whistle pops that you can both suck on and make music with. Multi-tasking at its finest.

  Sometimes we’re super busy – by Budbury standards – and sometimes we’re not. Today is definitely a ‘not’ day. Katie is off at her son Saul’s school for a parent–teacher thing, and I’ve been bored all day. That’s never good for me, being bored – I tend to start planning world domination, or smoke sixty fags, or bite my nails down to my knuckles.

  I was delighted when Laura wobbled her big round self into the store, as soon as I’d determined that she wasn’t here because of any health problems. She’s doing well, Laura, cooking two whole human beings in her tummy – but she is an older mum, and she was already a teensy bit overweight (in the way of all good cooks), and twins is always a shade more complicated.

  She waved off my questions about her health, and slumped down onto the sofa, huffing and puffing and muttering something about how I should get a crane installed to help pregnant ladies get around.

  The sofa is quite low, so I see her point. It’s also bright red velvet, designed in the shape of a giant pair of lips – a gift from Cherie Moon when we opened up.