In the end I decide that pretending not to have heard is probably the best thing in the circumstances. Cherie would be upset if she knew I was upset about Seb being here. She obviously had no clue who he was when she rented him the cottage, and had no clue who he was when he came to collect the keys, and no clue who he might be married to. You don’t automatically assume that stray Enrique lookalikes are wed to your mates, do you?
I am, however, compelled to listen in when I hear Zoe ask Cherie what he’s doing here – handsome Spaniards don’t usually come to our quiet part of the world on their own, and Zoe has a suspicious mind.
‘Maybe he’s on the run from a crime syndicate,’ she says, staring off into the distance. ‘Or a Mexican drug cartel. Or perhaps he’s a spy, under cover …’
‘Why would a spy be interested in Budbury, my love?’ asks Cherie, obviously amused.
‘No idea. But a lot goes on beneath the surface of these sleepy little places – look at the Wiltshire poisonings then other year! Dorset could be a hotbed of espionage for all we know …’
I can’t help smiling at the thought, as I glance around at the various villagers present today. They all look a bit hungover and sweaty, and are dressed in shabby jeans and joggers and flip-flops and walking boots. It’s not exactly a scene from Casino Royale.
‘Sorry to rain on your parade, Zoe, but I don’t think he’s a spy,’ says Cherie, as she ties up a full bin bag and lobs it onto a table.
‘Why not?’ replies Zoe, sounding extremely disappointed.
‘Because he told me he was here for personal reasons. And when I got a bit nosy – it seems I’m prone to do that – he gave me this dreamy smile and said he was looking for a lost love he’s never quite given up on.’
‘Oooh … a lost love! That sounds almost as exciting as looking for stolen plutonium!’
I’ve done a good job of listening in sneakily so far, standing just enough far away to hear but not be that noticeable, keeping busy with my sweeping brush and not looking at all interested in their conversation.
Hearing myself described as a lost love, though? As a lost love he’s never quite given up on? That’s an eavesdrop too far. That’s enough to make me drop the brush, go light-headed, and rush into the café to lock myself in the ladies’ loo.
I sit on the closed lid, and put my head in my hands, and take some deep breaths. This would all be so much simpler if he really was a Russian spy, looking for plutonium.
Chapter 14
I get into the pharmacy later than usual the next day, as it’s my turn to drop my mum at the day centre she goes to a few times a week. Willow has a big cleaning job on, and Van is working with Frank and Cal at Frank’s farm.
I’m not feeling spectacular. I had a sleepless night, my brain on overtime, working in some kind of evil tag team partnership with my body to make every muscle tense and strung out. When I did snatch sleep, it was riddled with those lovely anxiety dreams where you’re trying to walk through sludge in high heels or trying to open doors with keys that never fit. You know the ones.
Katie has opened up for me, and as I nudge back the door and hear the familiar ding-dong of the old-fashioned bell, I am already looking forward to coffee and maybe a whistle pop. I am prepared for the necessity of starting my day with sugar and caffeine to give me a kick-start.
What I’m not so prepared for is the sight of Seb, kneeling in front of a hugely preggers Laura, massaging her legs.
Katie meets my eye and shrugs as I walk in, then makes the universal ‘cup to lips’ symbol that offers me coffee. I nod, and blink, and temporarily freeze on the spot.
Laura is making noises that by rights nobody but Matt should hear, groaning and sighing in what I have to presume is pleasure.
Seb, dressed in black jeans and a snug-fitting black T-shirt, is chatting to her as he works, in a tone of voice that is kind of hypnotic. Maybe, I think, that’s his job now – he’s a stage hypnotist, and before he leaves Budbury, we’ll all be squawking like chickens every time we hear the word ‘roundabout’ or something.
He doesn’t look behind him, but I’m guessing he knows I’m there from the fact that Laura notices me and says: ‘Auburn – you must keep this man around! The Budbury pharmacy needs a massage therapist!’
I sit down, perched on the arm of the red velvet sofa, and he smiles up at me, still working on Laura but shifting his attention in my direction.
‘Well, it looks like you’re enjoying yourself,’ I say, which is something of an understatement.
‘I am. I’m sure Matt’ll forgive me for saying this, but it’s definitely better than our honeymoon night … that was mainly me passing out after dinner, then waking up with heartburn every ten minutes for the rest of the evening …’
She’s had her eyes closed in ecstasy, but suddenly pops them open again when she realises she might have sounded a bit disloyal.
‘Not that I’d change anything,’ she adds hastily. ‘I mean, Seb is wonderful with his hands, but Matt is the best.’
She blushes bright red, and I take pity on her and laugh. Seb always was good with his hands, I think, feeling a touch of a flush on my own cheeks as well. Whatever problems we had in our relationship, the sex wasn’t one of them – in fact that was the last thing to work.
I shut down this train of thought, as I am also feeling a bit disloyal, and say: ‘Seb, could I have a word with you? When you’ve finished?’
I head out to the small stockroom at the back, passing Katie as I go. She has a mug of tea for Laura, and a coffee which I take from her hands.
‘Who is he?’ she asks in a whisper, glancing over at Seb as he gives a very relaxed Laura a final pat on the knee. ‘He turned up not long after we opened. Laura had called in for a natter, like she does, and they got talking, and before you know it, he was down on the floor rubbing her legs!’
‘Yes, that’s one of his skills,’ I say a tad bitterly. ‘Making women feel so comfortable they let their guard down …’
Katie doesn’t answer that, and I see the concern in her eyes as she stares at me over the clouds of tea steam.
‘Sorry,’ I add quickly. ‘Ignore the angst. That, Katie my dear, is Sebastian – my husband. Technically at least.’
‘Oh! Right … wow. That’s … odd. What’s he doing here?’
‘Looking for missing plutonium,’ I say wisely, not exactly helping her feel less confused. ‘Or something like that. The truth is, I haven’t a clue. I was supposed to be meeting him later, but there you go. He never was very predictable. I better go and see what he’s up to … What time is it, anyway?’
‘Five past ten,’ she says, her eyes darting to the clock on the wall above my head.
‘Well he’s only two hours early I suppose … I’ll get rid of him for now, but will you be okay over the lunch hour?’
‘Of course,’ she says, nodding. ‘Not a problem. By the way, Mr Pumpwell was in hospital over the weekend – he slipped and fell down some steps.’
I make an ‘eek’ face in response – the steps in his home are steep and made of stone and look like something out of a gothic horror story.
‘Is he all right?’ I ask.
‘Reading between the lines, he’s not brilliant – he’s hurt his back – but he discharged himself from hospital as soon as he could, and got a cab home. They gave him some high dose codeine to take with him, but he might need some more. His GP’s going out there today and says he’ll send over any prescriptions later, if we can deliver them.’
For a blessed moment, all thoughts of Seb and his guerrilla massage warfare are bumped out of my mind, and I mentally schedule in a trip to see Mr P that afternoon. The stubborn old sod would have discharged himself even if he’d lost a leg, I suspect. He’ll be worrying about his animals and his land, and won’t be giving a second thought to his long-term health. He has that fatalistic outlook that a lot of older people have, the ‘when your number’s up, it’s up’ attitude.
I nod, and tell Katie tha
t’s fine, and I walk back into the stockroom. I’m so tired it’s all I can do to keep my eyes open.Ironically, after spending the whole night trying and failing to get to sleep in a nice comfortable bed, I now feel like I could arrange myself on one of the metal shelves we use to store toilet roll and manage to drift off.
I sip my coffee while I try to plan what I might say to Seb. I don’t have long, though, as he strolls right in almost immediately, looking around in curiosity.
The stockroom consists mainly of shelving units piled with boxes and plastic pallets, a small kitchen area with a sink and the all-important tea- and coffee-making facilities, and two doors that lead to the yard out back, and to the loo.
I gesture for Seb to follow me outside, as I’m perfectly well aware of the fact that voices carry from the stockroom out into the pharmacy. Everyone in the village will know soon enough who Seb is, but for the time being, I’ll at least try to keep it private.
The yard is tiny and not especially picturesque. Katie has placed a few potted plants out here, and there’s barely enough room for a patio table and two fold-up chairs. It’s mainly the place where I sneak out for cigarettes – although I’ve been doing a lot less of that recently.
Being here with Seb, though, automatically has me reaching into my pocket for a pack that isn’t there. He sees me do it, and grins.
‘I’ve given up too,’ he says, ‘but there are some occasions when it would feel so right, aren’t there?’
‘Yep. So, apart from your impromptu pregnant lady fondling, why are you here? I thought we said we’d meet for lunch.’
I keep my tone civil and polite but firm – not wanting him to knowhow shaken I am by being around him, in case it gives him any ideas about his lost love still having feelings for him.
‘I was just passing – honestly this time! I didn’t even realise it was your place until I saw those pictures on the walls, the ones of you and – Katie, is it? – and your names underneath. I was only planning to have a look around, and I got chatting to Laura, and Katie, and … well, here we are.’
I’d like to call him a liar, but it’s all perfectly reasonable. Lizzie designed the poster for us when we first opened up, me and Katie smiling down from the wall, trying to look all reassuring and professional, listing our various services.
‘I’m impressed,’ he says, when my only response is a nod. ‘You’ve done well. I wouldn’t have expected this to be your dream job …’
He’s smiling wryly at me, and I know exactly what he means – it’s a not-so-veiled reference to our former lifestyle, when prescription drugs were viewed mainly as potential highs.
‘I’m not sure it ever was my dream job,’ I reply, shrugging. ‘But I’m good at it, and it’s useful, and it helps people, which I’ve come to realise is important to me these days.’
‘Me too,’ he answers, his eyes never leaving mine and making me feel under way too intense a scrutiny. The yard is too small, and he is too close, and I am too befuddled.
‘Are you a masseur then?’ I ask, raising my eyebrows. It sounds ever-so-slightly naughty and suggestive, which would be exactly how I’d picture him ending up.
‘Not the kind with happy endings,’ he replies, sounding amused. ‘Mainly sports massage. I do a lot of work with football clubs, tennis pros, that kind of thing. And some voluntary work at a few clinics and shelters.’
‘Saving the world one rub-down at a time?’ I ask cyn-ically.
He doesn’t look offended, and simply says: ‘If you want to put it like that, then yes. But in my own way, I’m helping – people in rehab can benefit from it, and at the shelters it’s sometimes the only human contact homeless people get. So no, maybe not saving the world – but making a bit of a difference to their world.’
I feel immediately shitty for the tone I used. He isn’t bragging, or trying to impress, or buttering me up. And I do know how important human contact can be – I see the benefits it brings when I do my home visits, so I really shouldn’t be mocking.
‘Right,’ I say, desperate to bring this conversation to a conclusion. ‘Great. Well, look, I have work to do – can we go back to the original plan, and I’ll meet you for lunch in a couple of hours?’
Instead of waiting for a reply, I go back inside, bid my farewells, watch him say goodbye to anow very relaxed Laura, and usher him out of the front door.
I fight the instinct to lock the door behind him, and take a few huge breaths to calm myself down as he walks away. I put on my ‘everything’s fine’ face and walk back towards my friends.
Katie is making herself busy dusting shelves that are already spotless – she’s one of those women who cleans when she’s unsure of herself, just one of the things that make her a superb employee – and Laura is holding her tea in both hands, resting the mug on the round mound of her belly. She’ll miss that extra table when it’s gone.
I decide that the quickest way for everyone to find out about Seb will be to tell Laura. She can keep a secret when she needs to, but she’s also a key branch on the village grapevine, and will spread this particular gossip effectively and quickly, thus saving me the job of repeating myself over and over again and answering loads of questions and or listening to women compare him to Enrique Iglesias or other Latin love gods.
‘That,’ I say, flopping down next to her, ‘was my husband. Feel free to tell everyone, you’ll be doing me a favour.’
She does a cartoonish double take, and her jaw drops open.
‘Seb? The massage man? He’s your husband? The one you’re trying to divorce?’
‘The very same.’
‘But … but …’
I watch her as the cogs turn in her brain, and I see her both ask and answer the question that immediately springs to mind: Why would I divorce a man like that? A man who looks so beautiful, and has magic hands, and is so ridiculously charming? Because there must be more to it than meets the eye …
‘Well,’ she says, firmly, ‘all relationships have their stories, don’t they? And I know everyone thinks I’m obsessed with happy endings, but I’m not so naive as to think all marriages are made in heaven. And anyway – I bet Finn can give great massages too!’
He can, as a matter of fact, even without the professional training. I plant his image firmly in my mind, and use it as a kind of talisman to ward off evil spirits.
‘I feel awful now,’ continues Laura, plaintively. ‘I feel a bit like I’ve betrayed you somehow …’
‘Don’t be daft,’ I say as decisively as I can. ‘You had no way of knowing. And even if you had known, so what? He’s only here so we can … sort a few things out before we go ahead with the divorce.’
‘Oh. Right. Is it complicated?’ she asks, raising her eyebrows. ‘Is there shared property, or … a pet? I’m assuming no kids?’
‘No kids. And no pets.And … well, no shared property either. But I suppose we need to have a proper talk before it all goes ahead. At least he thinks we do, which is why he’s here.’
‘And what do you think?’
She’s looking at me with deep concern, her pretty face serious.
‘I think I need to get some work done,’ I reply, dismissing the whole question. It’s too complex, and I’m too tired, and the Seb effect has left me feeling ever-so-slightly unhinged.
She nods, and accepts this, although she clearly knows there is more to be discussed at some point or another.
‘Fair enough,’ she responds, gearing up to perform the seventeen-point manoeuvre that is Heavily Pregnant Woman Standing From Low Sofa. ‘I need to get on anyway …’
By this, I suspect she means ‘get to the café to tell Cherie all about Seb’, which all fits into my evil masterplan.
I help her to stand up, then wave her off, watching her toddle down the street as I wonder what to do next.
As the answer to that question seems to be ‘I have absolutely no idea’, I am way too thrilled when a pharmaceutical rep appears unannounced on the doorstep, wanting to talk t
o me about my current stock of laxatives. I end up keeping her there for an hour, examining the various benefits and costs of her new range, and ultimately order way more than the combined bowels of Budbury will need in a year, purely out of gratitude for having something else to do.
I fill out a couple of prescriptions, help Katie check stock, and ping off a couple of texts to my nearest and dearest. I even jump in front of the till and serve some passing tourists from our fine selection of postcards – all pictures taken by Lizzie – in an attempt to keep my head straight.
By midday, when I set off for lunch with Seb, I’m almost feeling normal again – although that goes right out of the mental window as soon as I arrive at our designated meeting spot and see him sitting in the beer garden, leaning back with his eyes closed, sunlight shining on his dark hair, looking like a cat soaking up the rays.
I walk towards him, giving myself a big telling off as I do. Something about being near him knocks me off balance, makes me feel edgy, tense. Not quite normal. I recognise it as the way I felt for all the years I was with him, and wonder how I managed to escape without becoming a complete basket case. Maybe I didn’t.
I also wonder, as I approach him, if it will ever go away – or if he’ll always have this kind of hold over me. Maybe, if I see him every day for the next two weeks, I’ll get used to it. Maybe familiarity will cure me. Maybe I’ll be able to shake off the Seb effect, and react to seeing him in exactly the same way I do when I see Scrumpy Joe, our local cider maker, or Frank, riding round on his tractor.
It’s a nice prospect, but I’m not quite there yet, I think, as I feel my heart racing and my blood pressure undoubtedly doing something quite unhealthy inside my veins.
He waves at me when he notices me walking towards him, and I see that he’s already bought me a glass of something wine-like. I decide I won’t drink it, because I want it too much – it would soothe my nerves and act like a legal anaesthetic, but drinking for need is a slippery slope that it took me a while to climb back up from. Whatever the outcome of him appearing in my life again, I won’t let it take me down in that way. In any way.
A Wedding at the Comfort Food Cafe Page 11