He ponders this, his eyes fixed on mine as he sips his water, and eventually nods.
‘Like I said, Auburn, I’m not here to mess things up. Or to stop the divorce. I’m here because I wanted to see if there was anything left between us, before we finally make it official. To see if the spark that drew us together in the first place is as bright as I remember.’
‘Seb,’ I say, exasperated, ‘the spark that drew us together never even existed! We were both … young. Stupid. Drunk. High. What we thought we had together wasn’t even real – it was based on a mutual love of a lifestyle that we now both know wasn’t sustainable. In fact it was probably going to kill us just in time to join the 27 Club. It wasn’t a spark, it was … one of those raging bush fires that kills hundreds of people!’
He nods, and lays his hands on the table placatingly.
‘I understand that,’ he replies gently. ‘And so much of what you say is true. But not all of it … not everything. There was something, Auburn – something between us that was special. Pure. I’d never met anybody before you who had that kind of effect on me, and certainly not since. You’re the only woman I’ve loved and wanted to share my life with. I’m not ready to throw that away so easily. And deep down, I don’t think you are either. Not yet.’
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying not to explode. I’m not only angry with him, I’m angry with myself. I’m angry with myself because maybe, just maybe, there’s a tiny part of me that thinks he’s right. That we have unfinished business. That I still care. That I still haven’t quite managed how to learn how to live my life free of his influence. That so long as he can keep pulling those strings, there will always be a part of me that’s a puppet.
That was easier to cope with when he was hundreds of miles away, in another world, another lifetime. When I had him all boxed away in a file marked ‘ancient history’. Now he’s here, all tall and dark and handsome and saying all these things. Confusing me and befuddling me and saying too many things.
Things that I want to dismiss, to ignore, to deny. But I can’t quite do that – because if I do, I’ll always feel like a coward. I’ll always feel like I ran away rather than facing the pain head-on. I’ll always feel like he’s part of me – and I don’t want him to be part of me.
Ironically, I’m coming to the conclusion that the only way to make sure he doesn’t stay a part of me is to let him at least try. Giving both of us the opportunity to realise that it’s totally, completely, 100 per cent over. Giving my relationship with Finn a fighting chance, by having enough faith in it to confront this.
I look up, into the gold and the green and the brown of his eyes, and shake my head in frustration.
‘And after this visit? After you’ve found out whatever it is that you need to find out? Once you’ve finally accepted that there’s nothing left between us, between the people we are now, accepted that it’s over? Then, Seb, you’ll leave?’
‘I’ll leave,’ he says solemnly, crossing his chest in a gesture I associate much more with his very Catholic mother. ‘I promise you that.’
Chapter 15
I call at the café on the way back to the village. I completely failed to eat lunch during actual lunchtime, and don’t even feel much like it now. But I know that if I let my blood sugar do insane things, then the rest of me will follow, and do even more insane things.
Laura has been busy. By the time I make it to the top of the hill and through the doors, it’s obvious that my secret husband is a secret no more.
‘Auburn!’ bellows Cherie, as soon as she sees me. ‘Do you want me to boot him out of the Rockery? Heck, do you want me to boot him out of Budbury?’
I look at her, the best part of six foot and a force to be reckoned with, and decide she probably could boot him out of Budbury if she tried. I grin, and shake my head, and say: ‘No, but thanks for the offer. It’s always good to know I have back up.’
‘Damn right,’ she says, reaching out and pummelling my shoulder in a way that’s probably supposed to be jokey, but is actually quite painful. ‘Always. What can I get you?’
‘Whatever. I’m not hungry, Cherie, but I need to eat. Keep myself on the straight and narrow.’
She looks at me in mock horror, obviously finding it hard to imagine a world where someone isn’t hungry, and sets about gathering up various food items while I perch at the counter. There are quite a few people in today, enjoying the sunshine for walks along the coastal paths and calling here for a drink or a snack. It’s unusually busy, and I see my sister bustling around serving and taking orders.
Zoe, who runs the Comfort Books store next door, slinks into the stool next to me and gives me a nudge. She’s practically a midget, and her legs swing in the air rather than touch the floor.
‘I hear your husband’s turned up,’ she says, raising her eyebrows and grinning. It’s good that I’m giving people such comic relief, I think – spreading a little joy in the world one disastrous life choice at a time.
‘He has,’ I reply simply.
‘And I hear he’s a sexy Spaniard.’
‘He is,’ I say. No denying it.
‘And didn’t you have a fling with that dance teacher last year – Mateo? Wasn’t he Spanish too?’
‘His family was from Portugal.’
‘And Finn’s part Danish?’
‘Yep.’
She grins some more, and nods, and adds: ‘Wow. I can guess which way you voted during Brexit.’
I groan, roll my eyes, and deliberately kick her tiny feet off the stool foot-rest.
‘You look like a ventriloquist’s dummy, sitting on that stool,’ I say, as she rearranges herself.
‘True,’ she replies, laughing. ‘It’s my sexiest look. Anyway … now I’ve taken the urine out of you for a bit, are you okay? Must be weird having him back here. Anything I can do to help? I read a lot of crime fiction. Ican come up withmany ways to kill someone quietly and dispose of the body.’
‘It’s super sweet of you to offer, Zoe, but I don’t need the ginger assassin’s services yet. I think … I think it might be a good thing that he’s here.’
I’m feeling my way around this whole situation, and testing the words out on Zoe. Maybe before I use them on Finn, who knows? Although he’s usually ten steps ahead of me on the whole ‘what’s-good-for-Auburn’ front anyway.
‘How so?’ she asks, looking up at me quizzically.
‘So I can finally put it all behind me. It all ended a bit dramatically, you see – no time for goodbyes or heart-to-hearts or soul-searching. And I thought that was fine – but maybe it’s not. Maybe things that happened to us in the past actually affect our present.’
She widens her eyes, and makes a fake-impressed face.
‘Really?’ she says, sarcastically. ‘You think so? That’s quite a revelation. I think you should call the International Ruling Council of Psychiatrists and Brain Fiddlers and tell them about this breakthrough you’ve made.’ Cherie pauses in front of us and places a tuna and cheese panini in front of me with a small bow. I scoop off a tiny bit of tuna, and flick it at Zoe’s face.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, wiping it off with a napkin without complaint. She lives with a teenager and an Australian cowboy – she’s probably used to food fights.‘My default setting is mockery,’ she adds, balling up the tissue. ‘Seriously, though, you might be right. In fact, you’re definitely right. We all have stuff, don’t we? Stuff from the past that we think is dead and buried and every now and then it sneaks up on us and whacks us over the head with a cartoon mallet. Maybe this is your chance to whack it back. Put it in its place.’
‘That,’ I say, between chews, ‘is the cunning plan.’
She takes advantage of the fact that I’m busy eating to carry on talking at me.
‘If it was me, it wouldn’t go to plan,’ she says, shrugging. ‘Nothing in my life ever goes to plan. I didn’t plan for my best friend to die and leave me to raise her daughter. I didn’t plan for Martha to g
o off the rails and have to move her here to get her away from the city. I didn’t plan to fall for her biological dad, or to stay here. But … I suppose it’s worked out all right, all things considered. I’m sure it will for you as well. Just … I don’t know. Have a bit of faith, I suppose.’
I nod, and chew, and eventually speak: ‘That’s what I’m telling myself. A little faith. And now … I must leave you, my sinister-yet-wise dwarf friend.’
I climb down from the stool, leave some cash for Cherie, and give Willow a wave as I make my way through the crowded tables to the garden.
There’s an honesty box set up out there for people who don’t want to come into the café, and I leave a fiver in exchange for two small packets of Laura’s home-made white chocolate-chip cookies. It’s more than the going rate, but all the extra cash is donated to the day centre my mum attends, so it’s a win-win. Biscuits, and a good deed, all at the same time.
I leave the van in the car park and walk back to the pharmacy, enjoying the fresh air and the sunshine, and hoping the exercise will stop my brain going into overdrive. The more I use my legs, the less I use my imagination, which in current circumstances can only be a good thing.
Katie is gazing out of the window sipping a mug of tea when I arrive, and instantly looks guilty when she spots me. I can tell from the lemony fragrance in the air that she’s cleaned the whole place, and I also spot that she’s rearranged the nappies. A new supply of nail varnishes has been unpacked and arranged on the display cabinet, and I have a sneaking suspicion she’s hoovered as well.
‘Slacking again, are we?’ I ask, mock angry.
She looks momentarily taken aback, then she remembers that she’s a mouse that can roar, and I see her search for a suitable retort.
‘Fiddlesticks!’ she says grandly, looking proud of herself.
Well, that told me. I smile, and wave the cookies in front of her face.
‘I brought treats,’ I say, tearing open the bag and offering her one.
‘How did it go?’ she asks quietly, as she fishes a crumbly cookie from the bag and nibbles at it. ‘If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘It was … okay. Not easy. But okay. We caught up. It was all fairly civil.’
On the outside, at least, I think. Inside, it’s left me feeling raw and vulnerable, and I’m sure Seb isn’t on top of the world either. Revisiting your past disasters is never pleasant, especially when we have so many to choose from.
‘Oh, good. I was a bit worried.’
‘Listening out for sirens, were you? Police helicopters hovering overhead perhaps? Thought you might see my photofit on Crimewatch?’
‘No! Well … maybe a bit. It’s been quiet here.’
I nod, and eat my cookie. It’s often quiet here. It’s one of the reasons I like it. At first, I thought I’d be bored – I was used to working in an inner-city pharmacy in London, which has a completely different customer base and a lot more people queuing up for their methadone prescriptions.
I suppose accepting the quietness, and the slower pace of life, has all been part of the last year’s self-development. Being willing to be still, and enjoy the calmness in a way I never have previously. I think, in some ways, I always needed to be hectic before to keep me distracted from the way I was feeling. It helped to chase away the ever-lurking sense of pointlessness.
Now, I don’t need so many distractions. I’ve found a place where people accept me, and more importantly, where I’m starting to accept myself. Seb being here might disrupt that, but I hope it’s only temporary – and once he’s gone, I’ll feel even better. Maybe I’ll start meditating, or yogic flying, or become a self-help guru, or … well, maybe I’ll be able to stop and smell the roses. That’ll be enough. I do like the smell of roses.
‘I think I might shut up shop early,’ I announce to the non-existent crowds of customers. ‘Katie, you’re off to get Saul from school anyway soon, aren’t you? I think I’ll give Mr Pumpwell a call, see how he’s getting on and how hard he pretends he’s not in pain, and then … well … then I’ll smell the roses for a bit.’
Katie’s head is perched to one side, and she’s looking a little confused. I realise that my interior monologue just became exterior, and shake my head.
‘Don’t worry about it. I’m fine. What have you got planned for the rest of the day?’
She blushes slightly, and gives me a small smile.
‘Ah. Is Van coming around for his tea?’ I ask. ‘Followed by outrageously wild sex?’
I know that’ll embarrass her, which is most of the fun. Sure enough, she looks horrified, then folds her arms over her chest and replies: ‘I wish! With a four-year-old in the house, it’s not so much outrageous as very, very careful … although we’ve already decided we’re going to say we’re playing Twister if he ever catches us at it …’
‘You can’t say that to Saul,’ I insist. ‘He’ll want to join in.’
She ponders this, and I can see she agrees. Back to the drawing board.
‘Bring Saul round to the cottage for a night,’ I say, as I shoo her towards the back room to gather her belongings. ‘We’ll look after him for you, while you and my brother dearest play Twister. You could even go away for the night. Stay in a hotel, drink room service champagne, wear those little slippers with the cardboard feet …’
She nods as she slips on her jacket and picks up her bag.
‘We did get one night together last month,’ she says, ‘where my mum took Saul to Bristol to see her sister. We played an awful lot of Twister while he was gone.’
I decide that the Twister analogy is working well for me, even if not for Saul. It allows me to think about my brother and Katie’s physical relationship in a way that is both suggestive in a Carry On film fashion, but also deliberately obscure. I know he’s a grown man, but I don’t like to have those images in my mind. It’d be weird if I did, I suppose.
‘How is your mum?’ I ask, as Katie waits for me to sort the lights and lock up. Her mother, Sandra, moved to Budbury shortly before Christmas after splitting up with her dad. After a brief attempt at a reconciliation, they now seem decidedly apart – which has come as a big relief to Katie, who was raised with the two of them re-enacting World War II around her.
‘She’s good, thanks,’ Katie replies. ‘I think she might move back to Bristol soon though. It’s been nice for her, staying in Cherie’s flat over the café, working there – it gave her time to regroup. But I wouldn’t be surprised if she makes the devastating announcement that she’s leaving before long.’
I can tell from the tone of voice that Katie will be far from devastated – in fact she’ll probably throw a party. Sandra is quite the drama queen, and Katie is the complete opposite.
We leave the pharmacy together, making small talk as we walk to the van, and I drop Katie off at Saul’s primary school in the next village. The school gates are milling with mums, some with pushchairs, all gabbing away as they wait for their offspring. It looks like hell, and I wish her luck as I pull off into the road again.
I head towards Mr Pumpwell’s cottage, deciding that I might as well visit him in person so he can’t lie as easily. He’s the kind of man who, if asked where his pain lies on a scale of one to ten, will always answer with zero, and will call a broken vertebra a ‘crick in the neck’.
I park outside his cottage and beep the horn twice to give him my usual warning. The cottage isn’t especially pretty or chocolate box – parts of it are very old, parts of it added on higgledy-piggledy as the need arose over different generations.
I can hear the various noises of the animals as I walk towards the cottage door, and wonder if he’s managed to get out to feed them. This used to be part of a much bigger farm, owned by Mr P’s parents and their parents before them and … well, you get the picture. Once it became clear that Mr P wasn’t going to carry on the family line, he made the practical decision to sell off a lot of his land, keeping enough acres around him to maintain his solitude, but easing
the burden of daily life.
Now he has some chickens, a pen of pigs I suspect he keeps more for companionship than bacon, and randomly a very old, very ugly donkey called Belle, who routinely tries to bite the hand of those who feed her.
I knock on the door, wait a couple of beats, then open it anyway, shouting: ‘Yoo-hoo! I’m a burglar coming in to steal your priceless cuckoo clock collection!’
The door opens straight into the kitchen, which is all stone floors and exposed brick walls and low-flying beams that were designed for function more than beauty. Also, I remember as I duck, designed for midgets. The ancient Aga is the dominant feature, along with a massive Belfast sink and a battered kitchen table that’s seen its fair share of action.
‘Through here, Miss Burglar!’ I hear him call, and smile in relief. I suppose a part of me had been a touch concerned that I was walking in on an Edie-with-pneumonia style situation like last year.
Thankfully not – Mr P is sitting in his armchair, his feet propped up on a boxy stool, listening to the radio and looking rested. His skin is a little on the grey side, and I can tell he’s in pain, but he doesn’t seem to be at death’s door yet.
‘Priceless cuckoo clocks, eh?’ he says, his eyes crinkled in amusement. ‘That’d be just the thing! No such luck, though, maid – you’ll have to settle for the priceless company of an old man instead.’
Mr P is nearly eighty, and frankly he looks it. He has one of those weather-beaten, creased-up faces that people get when they’ve spent their whole lives outside, squinting up at the sun, beaten down by rain, blown around the fields. He also has one of the thickest Dorset accents of any of the people around here, probably because he’s lived most of his life in isolation, doesn’t watch the TV, and regards town centres as distilled evil.
‘That’ll do for me,’ I reply, perching myself on the big bay window ledge. ‘So I hear you’ve been stair-surfing, Mr P? And that you refused to stay in hospital?’
A Wedding at the Comfort Food Cafe Page 13