A Wedding at the Comfort Food Cafe

by Debbie Johnson

  ‘Sure. Understood. I’ll give you a call.’

  Ha. He even has my phone number, presumably also from those pesky divorce letters.

  ‘If you know my number, why didn’t you warn me you were coming?’ I ask.

  ‘Because I knew you’d say no, querida, and I wasn’t willing to let that happen without the chance to see you again.’

  I would have said no, he’s right. And that would have been so much easier.

  He’s smiling again, amused by how flummoxed I am, so I turn around and make a dignified exit. Or as dignified an exit as a woman dressed in a pink dress stomping through sand can possibly make.

  Chapter 12

  Every step I climb back up to the café leaves me more breathless, and more anxious. It’s not a physical thing – I’m fit enough to walk up a hill despite my bad habits – it’s an emotional one.

  Seeing Seb has completely turned everything upside down. The simple joys of life I’d been relishing only minutes ago now feel at risk, jeopardised by his presence. Jeopardised by the effect his presence might have on me.

  Already, I feel tangled up in his web – even if he is only here to apologise, to find some closure, to talk, I feel threatened by it. Threatened by him, and me, and by the spectre of the past tumbling into the present and messing everything up.

  I reach the top of the steps and stand beneath the wrought-iron archway that welcomes visitors to the Comfort Food Café. I catch my breath, and look out at the dance floor. At Sam and Becca doing a comedic bump and grind, and Cherie wafting the arms of her kaftan around like Kate Bush, and Cal’s pink cowboy hat getting thrown into the blueness of the sky, floating back down into his hands as he leaps to catch it.

  I glance around looking for Finn, and instead find Willow, heading towards me in long strides in her pink Doc Marten boots.

  ‘Who was that? Where did you go? What just happened?’ she asks in a rush of concerned words, hands on her hips.

  She sounds on the aggressive side, but it’s only because she’s worried about me. I smile as calmly as I can, and say: ‘That, sister dearest, was an almighty dose of diary irony hitting me in the chops.’

  ‘What?’ she replies, frowning, ‘Diary irony? What does that mean? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think maybe I was feeling a bit too happy. A bit too settled. So the universe had to come and knock me down a peg or two.’

  ‘That’s daft,’ she says, reaching out to hold my hand. ‘You shouldn’t see the universe as your enemy. Was that … your ex? Or am I being mad and imagining things?’

  ‘Yeah. It was. Weird, huh?’

  ‘Weird, definitely. What did he want? And do you want me to track him down and assassinate him with my bare hands and a hair clip?’

  I have to laugh at that. She looks completely serious about it, even though with her pink hair and height she’d hardly be the world’s most anonymous secret killer.

  ‘Not yet,’ I reply. ‘Though I might take you up on it at some point, sis. Look, I’ll talk to you more about this later, but I kind of need to go and find Finn, and have an intensely awkward conversation that I don’t want to have.’

  She nods, and pulls a sympathetic face.

  ‘I can imagine. But it’ll be fine – he’ll understand. I think he was looking for you inside …’

  I give her a quick hug to reassure her, and head off into the café. That’s not quite as easy as it sounds, with so many now quite drunk people between me and the door, all of whom seem to want me to stop and dance.

  I’m not exactly in the dancing mood, but manage to keep a smile plastered to my face as I make my way past them and into the building.

  Inside, the café has been decked out in pink, with pink streamers and paper roses draped over all the dangling mobiles, and all the tables covered in pink gingham cloths. A few people are in here, having a sit-down and a break from the dancing, and I spot Laura and Matt crashed out on the comfy sofas by the bookcases in the corner.

  They’re both eating wedding cake, and look extremely content to be sitting together, watching the world go by. There’s no sign of any imminent twin arrival, and I give them a little wave as I walk by.

  I find Finn with Frank behind the counter, wielding a hammer as he helps fix the coffee machine again.

  ‘Can’t you persuade Cherie to replace that antique?’ I ask as I approach them. ‘It seems to break every other day.’

  Frank looks up and grins at me, his blue eyes sparkling beneath a thick thatch of silver hair.

  ‘Sentimental value,’ he says, pointing at the side panel and telling Finn to ‘whack it there’. Finn obliges, there’s a hiss and a gurgle, and Frank nods his head in satisfaction.

  ‘She’s right as rain now,’ he says, patting the top of the machine. ‘Last another lifetime, she will.’

  He gives us both a little salute, and walks off to wash his hands in the kitchen. I’m left with Finn, who is still holding the hammer, and looking at me cautiously.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks gently. ‘Because you don’t look it.’

  ‘Oh. How do I look?’ I ask, as he hooks the hammer back over the nail where it lives, ever-ready to be used in coffee machine assault and battery.

  ‘You look,’ he replies, turning around and gazing at me, ‘like you’ve seen a ghost. Do you want to sit down? I can get you a coffee if you like …’

  I shake my head. I don’t think I need to be more wired right now. I can already feel my insides sloshing around like a bag of full water balloons, and I’ve bitten my lip so hard I taste blood. I desperately want to sneak outside and smoke twenty cigarettes, possibly all at once, but fight it down. Luckily, I don’t have any, which helps the whole battle.

  Without saying anything further, Finn reaches out and takes me into his arms. He holds me tight, rests his chin on the top of my head, and squeezes me so securely that I feel at least some of the tension fizz out of me. I breathe out, heavily, my face resting against his chest, the smell of his clean shirt and his body calming me even further.

  ‘Whatever it is, it’ll be okay,’ he says, the words low and steady in my ear.

  I nod and mumble something vague in response, and after a few moments of wallowing in his embrace, pull away and look up at him. He’s tugged his tie loose and undone the top button of his white shirt, and he looks supremely dishy. It’s a tribute to his handsomeness that even in a state of stress, I can make time to have a little lech.

  I take his hand and lead him over to one of the small tables in the corner of the room. As soon as we’re settled, I decide to plunge right in before I lose my nerve or even the ability to form sentences. I can already feel my toe tapping furiously on the floor, which is often a sign of a full-on meltdown fast approaching.

  ‘Seb’s here,’ I say simply. ‘You know, Seb, my … husband?’

  He blinks, twice, in rapid succession – which in Finn world is a very extreme reaction. I see him school his face back to normal as he asks: ‘Right. I see. And what does he want?’

  He sounds calm, but I can’t tell how real it is. Maybe he is totally fine with it, and I’m over-reacting, as usual.

  ‘I don’t know … to talk, he says. To apologise. To make amends for everything that happened …’

  ‘Okay. And how do you feel about that?’

  I reach out across the tabletop, and place both my hands over his. I look him straight in the eyes, and reply: ‘Unhappy. Confused. Surprised. Annoyed. All kinds of things. But what I definitely don’t feel is pleased to see him. Hopefully he’ll be gone before too long, and we can get back to normal.’

  Finn squeezes my fingers, and turns his face away to look out of the window. He’s usually Mr Eye Contact, so that feels weird. Like he’s avoiding me. Like he doesn’t want to show me how he feels until he’s had the chance to think it all through and see it from every possible angle. Usually I like his measured approach to life – in fact I marvel at it, it’s so different than mine. But right now, I just wa
nt to feel like things are okay between us.

  ‘I didn’t invite him, Finn,’ I say, keeping my voice even and trying not to show how much I’m freaking out inside. ‘I had no idea he was coming, and would have stopped him if I did. I’m with you, and I’m happy with you, and I don’t want you to feel bad about this. To feel … threatened in any way.’

  He turns his gaze back to mine, his eyes so intense and so blue they make Paul Newman’s look dowdy. He smiles, and says: ‘I don’t feel threatened, Auburn. I feel … concerned. Not about him, but about you. About how this will affect you, and us. Even talking about your life with this man was a head-fuck. Having him here will be far worse.’

  Finn never swears. He’s too much of a gentleman. The fact that he does belies the level tone of voice he’s using, and I hate the fact that he’s upset. He doesn’t deserve it – any of it.

  I start to spiral a little at that point, finding myself treading familiar paths that all end in the one destination: the one where I decide he doesn’t deserve to be lumbered with me, becauseI’m not good enough for him, and I’m a natural disaster in human form, and I’m probably going to mess up his life.

  I want to argue with him, and tell him he’s wrong, that it’ll all be easy and sorted and there are no complications to deal with – but I can’t.

  Instead I nod and blink away tears, and reply: ‘I can see why you think that. You might be right. All I can say is that I’ll talk to him, and try to get rid of him, and put all of this behind us. It might … well, it might even be good, in the end.’

  I haven’t expressed that very well, but I can tell he understands.

  ‘It might,’ he says, smiling gently at me. ‘Seeing him again might prove to you that he’s only a human being, like the rest of us. That he doesn’t hold this superpower over you. That he’s in the past.’

  I’m pathetically grateful for that small speech, and for the effort he’s making to help me through this. And I also think, genuinely, that he’s right – I need to put Seb in the past, as a real-life living and breathing human person, not some creature from legend. He isn’t an evil god, or an Angel of Darkness, or a super-villain – he’s simply a man I used to love.

  ‘How long is he staying for?’ Finn asks.

  ‘Two weeks, he says – but I’m hoping he won’t be here that long. He seems … different.’

  ‘In what way?’

  I hesitate, pondering my answer. ‘It’s hard to put my finger on. Older … maybe less of a dick?’

  Finn laughs abruptly, and it breaks some of the tension from the conversation.

  ‘Well, less of a dick is always good,’ he says, grinning at me. ‘And two weeks isn’t that long. But take it one step at a time, be honest with me about what you’re feeling, and don’t expect me to be perfect, okay? Beneath this calm exterior lies a normal bloke – one who gets jealous and doesn’t always react rationally when it comes to the woman I love, and the man she’s unfortunately still married to.’

  I pull his face towards mine, and kiss him, long and hard.

  ‘I love you,’ I say, enjoying the sound of that on my lips and refusing to let Seb’s sudden appearance ruin it. ‘And you’re not a normal bloke. You’re the best bloke in the world.’

  Chapter 13

  I spend the night with Finn, because I think we both need the closeness and the reassurance.

  The wedding party lasts until almost midnight, despite the fact that the bride and groom were whisked away in their pink limo by tea-time, and we all disappear off in different directions, across fields, into the village, to various farms and cottages, and in our case, all the way up the giant hill to Briarwood.

  It’s a long walk, but I’m both tipsy and adrenalised, and we make it home with severalimpromptu snogging sessions in hedgerows and country lanes. It seems as good a way to break up the journey as any.

  By the time we get to Finn’s flat, we’re both tired, a bit less tipsy, and in my case have a scraped knee from an unexpected encounter with a kerb. What can I say? The pavement somehow leapt up at me, out of nowhere.

  We don’t even make love, we just fall into bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, clinging on tight. I wake up that way too, my head on his chest, one arm slung across his waist, sprawled in a mess of sheets.

  I stare at him while he’s asleep, and try to stay very, very still so I don’t disturb him. I like to do this – to admire the very bones of him, to look at his face, to gently touch the golden blond stubble on his jaw, and feel jealous of his eyelashes. He’s a beautiful man, and sometimes I feel like I need to store up these images to keep in my mind-bank for later. Especially the morning after the wedding, when it feels like so much has happened.

  I’m busily logging the sensual curve of his lips when he makes me jump by suddenly talking.

  ‘Are you staring at me while I’m asleep?’ he says, eyes closed. ‘That’s creepy.’

  ‘I was,’ I reply, ‘but you’re not asleep any more, so it isn’t creepy. It’s just … appreciative.’

  ‘Right … well, thank you. Exactly how appreciative are you feeling?’

  We spend the next hour or so demonstrating our mutual appreciation, before I finally drag myself out of his bed and into the shower.

  When I get back, he’s drifted off to sleep again, long limbs relaxed and languid, tan against the white of the sheets.

  I sit beside him and place a little kiss on his forehead, not wanting to wake him, but feeling the need to say goodbye in some way.

  He lazily opens his eyes and smiles up at me, one hand reaching out to stroke my hair. The sunlight is peeking around the edges of the curtains, and his face is striped in pale yellow.

  ‘I love you,’ I say simply, kissing the palm of his hand.

  ‘I know,’ he replies. ‘I love you too. It’ll all be okay, don’t worry.’

  He sounds confident and reassuring, but I can’t help feeling a bit shaky about everything. Perhaps because I start from more wobbly foundations than Finn, or perhaps because I know myself too well – I am supremely gifted at screwing things up.

  I give myself a pep talk as I leave, doing the walk of shame out into the morning light, and tell myself that two weeks of Seb will not in any way be able to negate what Finn and I have. And, in fact, if I have any control over it at all, he won’t even be here for two weeks. Seb and I meant a lot to each other in another lifetime – but now, we don’t. Simple.

  I am so buoyed up by this pep talk that when I check my phone and see a text from him, I don’t even freak out. In fact, I reply immediately, telling him I’ll see him for lunch the day after – today, I’m otherwise booked looking after Mum while Willow and Tom spend some time together.

  I make it home in record time, having decided right then and there that I’ll take up jogging as a form of stress relief. I must have looked quite fetching, streaking through the fields in my pink dress and trainers, hair flying all over the place.

  It does kind of work though – by the time I get back to our cottage, I’m completely incapable of worrying about anything more pressing then breathing, which certainly boots Seb out of my mind. Clearly all I need to do is keep myself in a suspended state of near physical collapse for the next fortnight and everything will be completely fine.

  I spend a busy and relatively pleasant day with Mum, walking back across the fields to the café to help with the post-wedding clean-up. Saul is there with Katie, and Mum and him team up with bin bags and recycling boxes, while I help Cherie and Frank fold up all the extra chairs ready for the hire company to collect.

  The garden’s a bit of a pink war zone, covered in confetti, party-popper silly string and abandoned pink paper plates, and not especially helped by a galloping Midgebo, who stayed with Frank and Cherie overnight whileLaura and Matt had their one evening away.

  The real honeymoon, Laura insists, will be taken in approximately three years’ time, once the babies are old enough to not poo their pants and to sleep through the night and to possib
ly stay with someone else for a few days. Until then she seems to be anticipating a bleak regime of fatigue, chronic exhaustion and shuffling around in a zombie-like state. That seems overly pessimistic to me, but she’s had two babies already, so she’s coming at this from a position of superior knowledge.

  I keep my mind occupied while I work, rehearsing speeches that I’ll give to Seb the day after. Really good speeches, full of logic, super-calm, delivered with the perfect combination of conviction and civility. I’ve done this before, and it’s always so annoying how the other party never seems to play along with the script.

  I also realise, as I overhear a snippet of conversation between Cherie and Zoe, that I’m not the only person thinking about Seb this morning.

  ‘Spanish, apparently,’ Cherie is saying, scooping used plates into a bin bag. Her hair’s tied up in a shabby bun, and her cheeks are rosy from the sunshine and the cleaning.

  ‘On his own?’ replies Zoe, sounding intrigued. ‘No wife or kids of dogs with him?’

  ‘Nope. Doesn’t even have a Spanish name – Seb Martin. You wouldn’t even suspect until you met him, and even then, it wouldn’t be obvious where he’s from. He has that slight accent that makes him sound a bit exotic and glamorous, and he looks …’

  Cherie trails off as she says this, straightens up, and rubs the small of her back to relieve an ache.

  ‘Looks what?’ Zoe insists, ‘Hideous? Frightening?’

  ‘No,’ Cherie replies, grinning. ‘The opposite. A touch of Antonio Banderas. And a big dollop of Enrique Iglesias. All dark and mysterious, but with these bright eyes, all gold and green and pale brown …’

  ‘Cherie, I think you might need a sit-down,’ says Zoe, laughing. ‘You’ve gone all giddy! What would Frank say?’

  Cherie snorts with amusement, and carries on cleaning.

  ‘He’d offer to dress up like a matador and dance the paso doble around the bedroom!’ she says. Crikey. As Frank is in his eighties, and Cherie in her seventies, I can only admire their energy levels.

  I hover in the background as they chat, pondering whether to step in and confess all or not. It does feel weird, letting them continue to chat about Seb like this, but it would also feel weird to march up to them and say ‘Hey! That’s my hubby you’re talking about!’