by Lucy Diamond
‘Oh no,’ I said, putting my hand on her arm. ‘Oh, Florence, I’m so sorry.’
She nodded, unable to speak for a moment. ‘I do miss him,’ she said, her voice choked with emotion. She’d gone very pale. She dabbed her eyes with a tissue, then blew her nose and took a long, shuddering breath. ‘I still don’t know if I’m coming or going.’
‘I bet you don’t,’ Rachel said sympathetically. ‘Do you have family nearby, is there anyone who’s been looking after you?’
She dabbed her eyes again. ‘No,’ she said. ‘All our friends are back in Coventry, and it’s too far for me to drive there. My son’s in the States at the moment, he’s working out there as a television producer, so there’s just me.’ She took a sip of tea, then gave us a watery smile. ‘I’m sorry, girls. Listen to me, moping on and on at you. I’m just a silly old lady – don’t take any notice.’
‘You’re not a silly old lady,’ I said, squeezing her hand. ‘You’ve had a really hard time, no wonder you’re upset.’
‘Yes,’ she said. She took a dainty mouthful of the cake. ‘This is very nice,’ she said after a moment. ‘Arthur would have loved it. Victoria sponge was always his favourite.’
‘He was obviously a man of taste, then,’ Rachel said.
Florence’s eyes sparkled. ‘Oh, he was,’ she said. ‘He was a wonderful man. But you don’t want to hear me going on any more. Tell me all about yourselves instead, while I enjoy this cake.’
So we ended up having a good old chat, the three of us, while the rain continued to lash down outside. I moaned on for a bit about splitting up with Matthew, and the other two assured me it sounded as if I was better off without him. Then I made them both laugh by telling them about the Ryan disaster. ‘Oops,’ Florence giggled, her hand up to her mouth like a girl.
‘I know the bloke you mean,’ Rachel said. ‘He tried it on with my mate in the pub the other week. Got a glass of beer over his head for his efforts.’
Now it was my turn to laugh. ‘Don’t mess with the Aussies,’ I spluttered.
‘Too right,’ she said. Then, since we were getting confidential with each other and we still had no customers, she went on to tell us about her man troubles – how she’d originally come to the UK with her boyfriend Craig, whom she’d been with for years, but they’d split up two months ago. ‘It was one of those stupid arguments that didn’t really mean anything, but neither of us would back down,’ she said, fiddling with the sugar packets. ‘Too pigheaded, the pair of us. So when he ended up saying, “Fine, I’ll go off on my own then”, I blurted out, “Okay, you do that.” And I haven’t seen him since.’
‘Oh dear,’ Florence said. ‘Never let the sun set on an argument, that was our motto.’
Rachel raised an eyebrow. ‘Hmm. There have been quite a lot of sunsets since then, to be honest. And . . . nothing. He’s too stubborn to get in touch, and so am I.’
‘Blimey,’ I said. ‘Not even one drunken phone call or text? You are hardcore, missus.’
For the first time since I’d met her, Rachel suddenly seemed vulnerable. ‘I miss him, though,’ she said. ‘And I wish I hadn’t left it so long. I wish I’d had the guts to smooth things over there and then, rather than digging my heels in.’
‘Where is he now?’ I asked. ‘Why don’t you get in touch?’
‘He’s still in London, according to Facebook,’ she said, and gave a sigh. ‘I should get in touch, shouldn’t I?’
‘Yes,’ Florence and I chorused, Florence with such severity in her voice that I wanted to giggle. ‘Swallow your pride,’ she added in a gentler tone. ‘You can’t leave things this way.’
Rachel nodded. ‘It has got kind of ridiculous,’ she agreed. ‘I guess I should make the first move.’
‘Good girl,’ Florence said, patting Rachel on the arm. She was sweet, I thought to myself affectionately. Exactly the nice, caring sort of grandma figure I’d always wanted, dispensing kindly advice from all her years of wisdom.
A couple of dog-walkers came in just then, wanting to warm up with coffees and pasties, and Rachel went to serve them, glad of the chance to duck out of the conversation, no doubt.
‘I suppose I should go home,’ Florence said. ‘Thank you for sitting with me and chatting, it has been a real pleasure. I’m so glad I braved the rain to come out. I try and go somewhere every day for a little walk, otherwise the walls start closing in on me. But now I know how friendly you are in here, and how delicious the cake is, I’ll definitely be back.’
‘You do that,’ I said, helping her on with her coat. ‘Any time, Florence. It’s been lovely to meet you.’
‘Well, I might pop in on Tuesday, then,’ she said. ‘It’s my birthday and I don’t know what else to do with myself.’
‘Definitely,’ I said. ‘We can have a little celebration for you right here, can’t we?’
She smiled, and it was like the sun coming out. ‘That would be wonderful,’ she said, her knotty old fingers shaking as she did up her buttons. ‘I would like that very much.’
An hour or so later, the sun really did come out, and we had a steady stream of people popping in for lunches and drinks. I booked two more tables for Friday evening, and we gave out lots more fliers. ‘Now it really is official,’ I said to Ed later in the afternoon, when I brought some orders in to him. ‘We’ve got proper bookings for Friday night – from people I don’t even know! No turning back now.’
Ed knocked off at about three so that he could go and walk the dog, and Rachel and I covered the last two hours of the shift, which tended to be the quietest part of the day. Ed had said he’d come back and sort out Friday’s evening menu with me later, so I got stuck into the cleaning up while I waited. I actually rather liked scrubbing the kitchen and café area every night. Matthew would have been shocked if he could have seen me sluicing down the walls, floor and countertops, washing, mopping and bleaching, when I’d never bothered doing such things in our Oxford home, but I took a peculiar sort of pride in making it all perfect here, staying in control. Germs begone!
On this particular evening I’d turned up the radio and was singing along loudly to Beyoncé as I mopped the floors, and yes, all right, I was even dancing a bit with my mop and shaking my thing, as if I were some bootylicious megastar rather than Mrs Mop in my old denim shorts and a pink vest-top. And of course, wouldn’t you just know it, at the exact moment I’d thrown back my head to hit the high notes, I heard a knocking at the glass door and spun round to see Ed standing there, looking very much as if he were trying not to laugh at me.
Actually he didn’t even try very hard, now that I thought about it. He was laughing into his hand, as if that disguised anything. I went to unlock the door, feeling like the ultimate prat. The Prat Factor, that’s what I had.
‘Evening,’ I said, pretending I was completely cool about him seeing me singing and dancing with a mop, even though something inside me had keeled over and died. (My dignity, namely.)
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Is this the right place for the Cornwall’s Got Talent auditions?’
Very funny. I decided to play him at his own game. ‘It is, actually,’ I replied. ‘Can I take the name of your act?’
‘Um, yes, it’s . . . Edvis,’ he said. ‘Ah-ha-ha,’ he added, with a diabolical Elvis lip-curl.
I burst out laughing as he launched into the worst hip gyrations I’d ever seen. ‘Oh God, I thought you’d slipped a disc there for a minute,’ I spluttered, when he stopped and struck a dramatic pose. ‘Well, you’ve failed the audition, I’m afraid, but come in anyway. I was just finishing off the cleaning,’ I went on, unnecessarily, mop still in hand. ‘Help yourself to a drink of anything and have a seat, I’m almost done.’
I heard him humming ‘All Shook Up’ as I sloshed the mop around the last corners, and then the sound of a cork being pulled out of a bottle. ‘I brought my own, I hope you don’t mind,’ he said.
‘Course I don’t mind,’ I called back, hearing the wine glug-glug-glugging into
a glass. ‘As long as you pour me one, of course.’
‘Coming right up.’
I tipped the mop-water away, wiped my hands on my shorts and went to join him. We clinked our wine glasses and smiled at each other. He was rather easy on the eye, it had to be said, I found myself thinking. And he had what my mum would have called ‘a lovely smile’, which lit up his whole face.
‘So, let’s talk menus, shall we?’ Ed said, as if I needed prompting.
Of course. Menus. ‘Let’s,’ I agreed. ‘I guess we want to keep it fairly simple.’
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking three starters, three mains and three desserts. No need for anything bigger or fancier, right?’
‘Right.’
‘And we’re aiming squarely at holidaymakers,’ he went on. ‘People who’ll want to treat themselves, have something they might not have at home. We need to give them an experience.’
‘Let’s hope it’s not diarrhoea,’ I quipped. Clearly the younger and more puerile members of my extended family had been a bad influence on me lately. I would have to put in a complaint to Ruth. ‘Sorry. You’re right, of course. An experience – and it should be a Cornish one, too. So let’s have some fresh fish for one of the mains, one veggie dish and one meaty dinner for the carnivores. All lovely local Cornish ingredients.’ I grinned at him. ‘In other words, fish and chips, egg and chips or sausage and chips, yeah?’
He batted me over the head with his notepad. ‘Tell you what, while our punters are eating their egg and chips, maybe you can go around entertaining them with your “jokes”.’ He did that thing with his second and third fingers to show he meant jokes in the loosest sense of the word. ‘We’ll save the mop-dancing and karaoke for the dessert course.’
I laughed. ‘They might even pay me extra to stop,’ I said.
‘Now there’s an idea,’ he said deadpan, putting a pound coin on the table.
I looked from the coin to his face and laughed again. ‘Jealousy is a terrible thing, Edvis,’ I told him, pretending to be sorrowful. ‘All right, let’s get this menu on the road then.’
We finally agreed on red snapper, classic steak (from the happiest and most well-looked-after of Cornish cows) and a mushroom risotto for our mains, a couple of different bruschettas or crab pâté for a starter, followed by a choice of toffee pudding, apple pie and ice cream for our desserts. During this time we had somehow necked most of the Sauvignon Blanc between us and had taken the piss out of each other non-stop. All Ed’s earlier awkwardness and shifty behaviour had completely vanished, and we’d had a real laugh. I thought of the job applications that I hadn’t even read through yet, and felt a pang of sadness that this was only a temporary arrangement. He was so funny and interested in the business, and moreover a bloody great chef, that already I couldn’t imagine working with anybody else.
‘Brilliant,’ I said, rising unsteadily to my feet. ‘Fabulous. I’m going to walk up to Betty’s shop right now and see if she’ll take a few leaflets off our hands, and leave some in the pub too. You wait, we’re going to be packed on Friday, and they’re all going to love it.’
He was smiling at me, his eyes soft and crinkling at the edges.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ he said, getting up too and tucking his notebook in his back pocket. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
I thrust some leaflets into his hand. ‘Here,’ I said. ‘You can deliver these to your neighbours, yeah?’
His fingers closed around mine, and for a second I felt a spark of something between us. Something intense. Something heady. Something – yes, romantic, even.
Then, just as suddenly, he withdrew his hand. ‘Will do,’ he said, turning and heading off in such a business-like fashion that I was left feeling rather dazed, and wondering if I’d imagined the whole thing. Probably. I was a bit tipsy, that was all.
‘Right,’ I said aloud to myself as the door shut behind him. ‘Well, that’s that, then.’
I cleared away our wine glasses, then headed out on a leaflet drop.
I stopped at Betty’s shop first, bracing myself for some rude comment about how I’d insulted Saffron’s family or committed some other terrible crime. I hoped she wouldn’t turf me out again. She’d been civil to me, if not over-friendly recently, but I wasn’t counting my chickens that I’d won her over yet by any means.
‘I’m closing in two minutes,’ she said as I walked in. She was glaring as if I was the most inconvenient thing that had ever happened to her in her ‘convenience’ store. Excellent customer service as usual, from the sweet-talking Betty.
‘It’s all right, I’m not buying anything,’ I said as I approached the counter, which probably wasn’t the best reply, in hindsight. Her eyes became flintier and her bosoms were thrust out like offensive weapons. I was quailing in my flip-flops, but told myself it was just plain ridiculous to be scared. We were two grown women, for goodness’ sake. How bad could this be?
‘Betty, I was wondering if I could leave some of these leaflets here,’ I said, in my nicest, most non-confrontational voice. ‘We’re opening the café for dinner on Friday night, and trying to drum up some bookings. Is that okay?’
She sneered at the leaflet I held out, pointedly not taking it from me. ‘Was this his idea then, that bloke you’ve got working for you?’ she asked.
I stared at her, slightly nonplussed. ‘Well . . . it was a joint idea,’ I said. ‘But I think it could be really good. Might bring some more people to the village,’ I added, hoping to lead her into thinking she could actually benefit from this too.
She shook her head. ‘There’s something not right about him,’ she said darkly. ‘People are saying he’s not who he makes out. I wouldn’t trust him, if I were you.’
I bristled, certain that this was the exact same bitchy, gossipy tone of voice she’d used when talking to people about me. I might not have retaliated if I hadn’t polished off a good half-bottle of wine within the last hour, but as it was, I couldn’t help a reply bursting out of me. ‘Well, I do trust him,’ I told her, snatching my leaflets away again. ‘He’s a really great guy, and an excellent chef.’ I was just about to add a ‘So NER’, but managed to shut my mouth in time.
She raised her eyebrows, folding her fat arms across her chest, so that her large bust rested upon them like a shelf. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ she said shortly, and began tidying the counter display with excess fussiness. ‘Anything else?’
‘No,’ I said turning on my heel and walking away. ‘Nothing else.’
Chapter Seventeen
The leaflets didn’t exactly get welcomed with open arms at the Golden Fleece, either. ‘I would take some, but I don’t think our landlady would be too chuffed,’ the tall, good-looking lad behind the bar said. ‘We do our own evening food here, you see, so . . .’
He was polite, at least, which was more than Betty had been. ‘Fair enough,’ I said, feeling stupid for having asked in the first place. ‘I hadn’t thought about that. No worries.’ Then I spotted his name badge: Jamie. ‘Oh, are you Martha’s boyfriend? The artist?’
He seemed pleased to be referred to as that. ‘Yeah, that’s me,’ he said. ‘You’re Evie, right? The one Annie’s been baking for?’
‘The very same,’ I said. ‘Hey, Martha was telling me you’re going to have your artwork in an exhibition soon – how cool is that! I loved the painting they’ve got in their – ’ I stopped talking, as his face had fallen and his whole body seemed to sag. Oh dear. What had I said?
‘It’s been cancelled,’ he said, dejection written all over him. ‘The council have had their arts budget slashed, so the exhibition isn’t going ahead any more.’
‘Oh no!’ I felt gutted for him, he looked so downcast. ‘What a shame,’ I said. ‘That’s really bad luck. Still, you’ve got talent. I’ve seen it, they’ve seen it, other people will recognize it too. I’m sure this isn’t the end for you.’
He didn’t look particularly optimistic. ‘That
’s what Martha keeps saying, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I dunno. It’s just so disappointing. I was really looking forward to showing my work to people, getting it seen, you know.’
I nodded sympathetically. I could imagine just how frustrated he must have felt, to have had this exhibition within touching distance and then have it taken away from him. It was almost worse, having had your hopes raised and then dashed, than nothing happening at all.
‘I’m sure,’ I said. ‘But don’t give up. You are good, and you never know what’s around the corner.’ I gave him a smile, hoping that sounded encouraging rather than patronizing. ‘Nice to meet you anyway. Always a free coffee for you and Martha in the café.’
‘Cheers,’ he said.
It was raining again as I headed for home, and my toes slithered wetly in my flip-flops. The warm tipsiness I’d felt earlier had disappeared, and I couldn’t wait to get back in the flat and into my PJs, with a cup of tea and some trashy TV to watch. That was one advantage of living on my own, at least – I was able to catch up on all my soaps and TV dramas again, free from Matthew’s pained looks and tuts of disapproval.
But then, as I reached the deck outside the café, I saw that Phoebe was back. She was sitting against the front wall, hunched up with her arms round her knees, as the rain spattered down around her. Tonight there was no jumping up and running away. Tonight she seemed defeated and weary, looking up at me as if to say, Well, here I am again. What are you going to do about it?
I unlocked the door and pushed it open. ‘Do you want to come in?’ I asked. She nodded, and in we both went.
‘Thank you,’ she mumbled. She stood there, limp, her sleeping bag trailing on the floor.
‘Look,’ I said, turning the lights on. ‘I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, but I can’t let you sleep out there in this weather. There’s a spare room here, and you’re welcome to stay. You can have some food and a bath too, if you want. What do you think?’