A Wedding at the Comfort Food Cafe

by Debbie Johnson

‘So now, I try to stay calm,’ he says. ‘I try to think before I react. I try to understand my feelings, and where they come from, and what they might provoke. It’s not always easy, but on the plus side, I’m now really, really good at dealing with dickheads at roundabouts.’

  I shake my head in admiration, and reply: ‘Finn, you are amazing. That is so brilliant. And so brave. I’m … well, I’m sorry if all of this stuff – this stuff with me and Seb – is rattling your sense of zen or whatever. I don’t want to be responsible for upsetting you, or taking away your balance. That’s not fair to you.’

  He nods, and holds me tighter, and replies: ‘I know you don’t, and don’t worry: I love you. You love me. We will get through this. But I need to be aware of what I’m feeling, and understand why I’m feeling it, and avoid doing things that compromise me.’

  ‘Hence the no wow sex rule?’

  ‘Hence the no wow sex rule. I have faith in you, and us, and I’m sure this will all sort itself out – but just ignoring it, and ignoring the way it affects me, isn’t the way forward. Seb has found his way back into your life. He’s here, and the rabbit’s out of the hat. Even if he left tomorrow, it would be there, hanging over us – or me, at least. I’d be wondering if it had stirred feelings up in you, wondering if you were thinking about him, wondering if he was ever going to come back. It’d be like trying to manage a relationship between the two of us with a silent partner looming in the background.’

  That sounds pretty ominous, but Isee what he means. And of course, he’s right. This won’t be easy for either of us – or for Seb, I suppose, but I’m less worried about him. It won’t be easy, but I think it’s necessary.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, sighing as I realise I need to get up, go home, and get some rest. ‘I understand. And I have faith too. I was just … upset, earlier. This is all messing with my nerves as well. But yeah, all right – I shall go along with the no sex rule. I promise I won’t turn up wearing a busty Bier Keller serving wench costume and seduce you or anything.’

  He laughs, and then looks a little distracted.

  ‘No,’ he says, a moment later, ‘please don’t do that. Because it would definitely work – maybe at a later date, Fraulein?’

  ‘Ja, meinen pumpernickel. Definitely. Can I just ask though … I know the no sex rule. But that doesn’t mean we can’t see each other, does it? Because I’ll miss you if it does. I might start stalking you, and secretly hiding in the shrubbery with a pair of binoculars just to catch a glimpse.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ he says, standing up and helping me to my feet. ‘Of course we can see each other. And you’d never be able to hide in the shrubbery – your hair is not exactly tailor-made for espionage.’

  Chapter 17

  A few more days of my allotted Seb time pass relatively quickly. He has wormed his way into my life, and even found a wary welcome at the café. I know that if I told them he was evil, they’d all band together and blacklist him; possibly perform some kind of Wiccan ritual with burning branches and chanting.But he’s not evil. He’s not even bad. He just brings chaos, at a time when I thought I’d put it behind me.

  I live in a bubble of anxiety about the two men in my life meeting, but so far it hasn’t happened. Finn has stuck mainly to Briarwood, and although he hasn’t said it out loud, I think it’s because he wants to avoid a scene. And to give me space.

  Seb has charmed Sandra, Katie’s mum, into complete submission – but she was an easy sell. She even fancies Alan Sugar. He’s won Edie over by talking about his granddad fighting in the Spanish Civil War, because she’s old enough to remember it. And Little Edie is completely smitten with him, the junior trollop, climbing onto his lap whenever she can, wrapping her chubby fingers around his and calling him ‘Bebby’.

  Willow treats him with polite distance, which must be hard as she’s desperately nosy about it all, and Laura has, with my permission, sunk into a state of deep love with his massage techniques.

  Interestingly, it’s only the menfolk who seem to be able to resist his charm – Matt and Tom remain quiet around him, which isn’t unusual as they’re quiet around most people; Van is civil but not overly friendly, and Sam and Cal haven’t even invited him to the pub – which is quite the insult for them.

  They all chat to him, and none of them has punched him, but I sense an underlying hostility that probably stems from their solidarity with Finn. It’s a weirdly subtle display of male bonding, and kind of sweet in its own way.

  My mum, though, is the one who really despises Seb. I can’t work out whether it’s some scary sixth sense she’s got, or an Alzheimer’s thing where he reminds her of someone from the past. Either way, she literally hisses when she sees him. The other day she presented me with a home-made bundle of herbs in a small bag to wear around my neck on a leather thong, explaining that it would help ‘protect my aura’.

  It smells rotten – I think she may have got her herbs mixed up as it pongs of mould – so I only wear it when she’s around, to stop her freaking out.

  I’ve generally managed to keep my cool around him, and am trying to strike a balance between engaging with this whole process, and not getting in too deep. I’ve also managed to avoid spending too much time alone with him, and none after dark – which is a silly distinction as he’s not a vampire or anything, but most of my associations with Seb come from night time. Clubs and parties and late-night walks and hours spent in bed. None of which is good to remember when you’re trying to keep your cool.

  Tonight, though, I’m scheduled to have dinner with him at Hyacinth House at the Rockery. It used to be Laura’s cottage, before she moved in with Matt, and I hope that gives it a bit of good karma.

  I gave him two rules when I agreed: one, that I wouldn’t be drinking, and two, that he had to keep his clothes on. That second sounds a bit weird, but Seb always had a habit of walking around naked, and even used to cook that way. It seemed very dangerous to me, but somehow he always emerged unscathed from his naturist omelette-making sessions, despite his lack of regard for health and safety.

  I drive over to the Rockery, which is a little way inland from the village itself, and leave my van on the communal car park. I decide to call in at Black Rose first, which is the cottage where Matt and Laura and Lizzie and Nate now live.

  I knock on the door, and within about one second, Matt has pulled it open. He stares at me for a moment in what looks like blind panic, and ushers me in.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask, concerned. ‘Is Laura okay? What’s happened?’

  My head is, understandably, filled with potential scenes of disaster – Laura in labour on the kitchen floor while Midgebo licks her face; Laura screaming in pain; Lizzie and Nate with their shirt-sleeves rolled up ready to deliver their new siblings …

  ‘I’m fine,’ he says quickly, shaking off the look of shock and horror on his face. ‘Laura’s fine. I just … she made me watch a video, Auburn. A video of a woman giving birth to twins.’

  I burst out laughing, and punch him on the arm – in a kind way, of course. Matt is big and brawny and must have pulled numerous baby animals out of various creatures, but for some reason this has clearly pushed him over the edge.

  ‘Matt!’ I say, still laughing. ‘You’re a vet – a man of science! You of all people should understand the birthing process. I can’t believe you’re being such a big wuss!’

  ‘That’s what she said,’ he replies sheepishly. ‘And you’re right. Technically, I understand the process. But … well, it’s different with cows, all right? I’m not married to a cow. I’m married to Laura, and I love her, and the thought of her going through all of that … uggh!’

  He physically shudders, and I reach out to pat him reassuringly on the shoulder.

  ‘She’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. Just keep an eye on her – you know what she’s like about hospitals. I reckon she’s going to try and sneak them out at home. And home births are great – in the right circumstances, and when they’re planned. Probably not
so ideal for her, but don’t tell her I said that.’

  Before he has a chance to reply, the woman herself waddles through from the living room, hands resting on her bump, a look of complete satisfaction on her face. I can see that she has very much enjoyed sharing at least some of her pain with her husband, and who are we to begrudge her that?

  ‘Auburn!’ she says in surprise. ‘Do you want to watch the video?’

  ‘Nope,’ I say, quickly and firmly. ‘I’m having dinner with Seb, and don’t want all the bloody vaginas to spoil it. Just thought I’d come in and say hi on my way.’

  Lizzie comes pounding down the stairs, all bouncing blonde ponytail and black eyeliner and exuberance. She’s seventeen, Lizzie, and well on her way to being cool – so it’s nice to see her giddy for a change.

  ‘Yo, Lizzie,’ I say, in my best gangsta voice. She gives me a withering look that tells me I’m way too old for such shenanigans, and replies: ‘Good evening, Miss Longville. Are you going to Seb’s? He’s cooking tapas and I’m coming to take some photos …’

  ‘Oh. Right. Why? And I really hope he has clothes on …’

  Everyone looks understandably confused by this, and I wave it away. ‘Why are you coming to take photos?’

  ‘Because Mum asked me to. She was thinking of introducing a small plate menu at the café next year and thought this might give her some ideas.’

  ‘Not just tapas!’ Laura says hastily. ‘Not just Spanish! I mean, we could have small plates from around the world, like sushi, and, erm, Danish food …’

  I roll my eyes, and give her a hug.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I say, laughing. ‘Finn won’t think you hate him if you start serving tapas. Are you coming as well?’

  She nods, and tells us that she’s nipping to the loo first, as a preventative measure in case she needs to go again during the thirty-second walk around to Hyacinth. Matt trails behind her, looking traumatised and pale.

  ‘How’re you, Lizzie?’ I ask, while we wait. ‘Nervous about your exams?’

  ‘Nah. It’s next year that matters. It’s harder for Josh and Martha this time, waiting to see if they’ve got their grades for their places at uni.’

  Josh has been Lizzie’s boyfriend ever since she moved to Budbury a few years ago, and Martha is her best friend. I know from talking to Willow that she’s been sad about the prospect of losing both of them in one fell swoop this autumn, but she seems to be putting a brave face on it.

  When I ask her about it, she grins and says: ‘I’m okay. I’m looking forward to the babies coming. Perfect timing – I probably won’t even notice that they’re gone, but if I get sick of it all here, I can go and stay with Martha or Josh at uni for a weekend.’

  ‘Well, I can’t fault your logic, and I think you’ll be the best big sister in the whole world.’

  ‘Probably,’ she says, shrugging. ‘As opposed to Nate being a terrible big brother. Unless there’s an X Box game about changing nappies, he’s going to be totally shit at it.’

  ‘I heard that!’ Nate yells from the living room.

  ‘Good!’ she screams back. Lordy, it’s easy to forget how loud teenagers can be. ‘You’re useless!’

  We’re saved from the outbreak of all-out war by the return of Laura, who is wearing fuzzy pinkslippers instead of shoes.

  She sees us staring, and declares: ‘They’re comfortable. My days of stylish living are over.’

  ‘They were never here,’ retorts Lizzie, as she leads us out of the house. ‘You’ve been embarrassing me with your fashion sense since the day I was born.’

  Laura pulls a face, and sticks her tongue out at her behind her back all the way to Hyacinth.

  Lizzie knocks on the door, which must be weird as she lived there until a few months ago, and Seb opens it. Naturally enough, he’s only wearing half his clothes. Low-slung black jeans are in situ and correctly buttoned up, but that’s about it. All three of us stand and stare at him, and even Lizzie – who surely views any man over the age of twenty as old meat – is a little dumbstruck at the display of all that bare tanned chest.

  ‘You seem to have forgotten your shirt,’ I say politely. ‘Have you run out? Would you like me to drive to the nearest retail park and buy you one?’

  ‘You said clothes,’ he replies, gesturing us in. ‘You didn’t specify how many. Anyway, it’s hot, and there’s no air conditioning in the whole of the UK, and I’ve been cooking …’

  From the smells wafting through from the kitchen, he’s been cooking well. I glance at the dining table, and see various dishes laid out: a cold plate of hams and cheeses and olives and tiny stuffed peppers, patatas bravas, croquettes, chorizo, gambas, breads and sauces. It’s a complete feast of deliciousness, and the aromas of garlic and chilli are almost making me drool.

  He grandly gestures to the table, and announces: ‘Voila! All your favourites, querida!’

  His dark hair is damp from a shower, and he looks insanely pleased with himself as he waits for my reaction. I nod, but stay quiet – because these are indeed all my favourites.In fact, it’s like a culinary time machine, whisking me back to all those nights together. Sitting in ‘that Catalan place’ – our little joke, as everywhere was a Catalan place – at 11 p.m., eating and drinking and laughing. Even the smell of it all makes me feel bizarrely homesick for Barcelona, for the first time in years.

  Seb is gazing at me as though we are alone, and as though he knows exactly what I’m thinking. As though he can read my mind. I feel momentarily skewered by it all, and am pathetically grateful when Lizzie intrudes by snapping photos.

  She takes one of Seb and me, staring at each other, and one of her mum, who’s staring at us, and finally starts taking pictures of the food. It breaks the spell, and Laura suddenly begins chattering away about the cooking, asking him for recipes, asking where he got the Manchego from, asking him if it’s okay if she tries a bit.

  Seb happily talks her through it, and gives her a kind of guided tour around the table, spoon-feeding her tiny tastes of everything. She sighs and moans and looks utterly satisfied with her lot in life. Lizzie takes a few more snaps, then sidles over to me, looking at her screen.

  ‘Was he always this good at cooking?’ she asks, flicking through her shots.

  ‘No. He was okay. But not at this level … I guess it must be one of those things he learned how to do more recently.’

  I’m feeling a bit shaky, and that’s not helped when Lizzie holds up a photo to show me. It’s the one of me and Seb, our eyes meeting across a crowded buffet table. It’s intense, and personal, and all together not a moment that I want to be captured forever on film.

  ‘Do me a favour, Lizzie,’ I say quietly, ‘and don’t post that one anywhere?’

  Lizzie’s Instagram account is famous in Budbury – it’s like a still-life reality TV show of everything that goes on in the village and the café. She raises her eyebrows at me, and I add: ‘It’s complicated. There’s a lot of history here, and photos can look odd out of context, and—’

  ‘You don’t want to upset Finn?’ she responds. Clever girl.

  ‘Yep. That. Is that all right?’

  ‘Course. I get it. You know, for an old person, you have a really messed-up life.’

  She gives me a wink to show me she’s joking – I think – and takes a few more snaps before she drags Laura away.

  ‘Come on, Mama,’ she says, leading her mother from the room – I notice as she does that she’s taller than Laura now – ‘it’s time for your cocoa and bed. You’ve got a head start with the slippers.’

  ‘It’s only half past seven!’ splutters Laura. ‘But … well, cocoa does sound nice …’

  They make their farewells, and I hear them chattering away as Seb closes the door and they walk across the path. It makes me smile.

  Seb comes back into the house after waving them off, and I immediately say: ‘Go and put a shirt on, would you? Seriously?’

  ‘Why?’ he asks, grinning and looking satisf
ied with himself. ‘Worried you won’t be able to resist?’

  ‘Yes. Worried I won’t be able to resist walking out right now. Anyway … I know what you’re doing. You’re … peacocking. Trying to prove to me that I still want you.’

  ‘And do you?’ he asks flirtatiously.

  ‘I want you to put a shirt on.’

  He laughs and nods and thankfully complies, grabbing up a black shirt from the back of one of the chairs and slipping it on. He does it slowly though, a bit like he’s an extra in Magic Mike and wants to make sure I’ve noticed how buff he is these days. I have, it’s safe to say.

  I distract myself by picking at the food, and am unable to restrain a sigh at the flavour of the oil I dip a chunk of bread into.

  ‘Is that paprika?’ I ask, daintily wiping a drip from my chin. ‘Like they used to have in that Catalan place?’

  He smiles, and replies: ‘It is. They’ve opened a deli now, attached to the dining room – so I brought it with me in case the English savages didn’t have such things.’

  ‘We probably do,’ I say, casting my eye over the rest of the table, ‘but probably not in Budbury. This is … impressive. When did you become a chef?’

  He looks genuinely pleased, and explains that it was one of the things he used to keep himself busy after his last and successful stint in rehab. That he even went on a course, and spent hours in La Boqueria market learning about produce.

  I remember La Boqueria vividly – it’s an ancient market on La Rambla in the city centre, packed with stalls selling everything from freshly caught shellfish to exotic fruit and hand-made chocolate. It’s an explosion of sights and smells and sounds, and if you get there early enough, you can perch on a tall stool at a bar or café and lose yourself in its weird and wonderful world.

  ‘We used to go there straight from nights out,’ he says, sitting opposite me across the loaded table. ‘Do you remember? We’d still be buzzing, watching the fishermen unload their hauls, drinking black coffee.’

  ‘I remember,’ I reply warily, as he serves me a small plate of patatas bravas. ‘Some of it at least.’