The concept of climbing onto a man’s back, wrapping my legs around his waist and allowing him to carry me down a dark country lane is not one I would entertain under normal circumstances.
These, however, were not normal circumstances – and that is how we made the next part of our journey back to the Rockery. Eventually, after staggering down a particularly steep section of hill, it became apparent that Matt was struggling to cope with both the woman on his back and the fits of laughter we couldn’t seem to shake off. Everything was hilariously funny in Drunk Town.
‘I need a break,’ he’d said, lurching towards a gap between the hedgerows and a metal fence and squeezing us both through. I half-fell off his back and landed on my own, with him collapsing next to me. The sandals had gone flying during my stylish dismount and only one remains visible a few feet away. The other has disappeared off to its own patch of wheat.
Somehow, amid the falling and the collapsing and the flying sandals, we’ve ended up holding hands. And somehow, I don’t seem to mind.
‘So,’ I say, after a few minutes’ silence. ‘Was this actually a date?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replies, his fingers softly stroking my palm. ‘I suppose it depends on your definitions. There were two of us. We socialised. There was alcohol. Too much of it, probably, for those of us who have to get intimate with farm animals tomorrow. We talked. We laughed, a lot. And now we’re lying in a field, looking up at the stars. I’d say it was a date … unless you don’t want it to be. In which case, we can write it all off and forget about it.’
I turn my head to look at him and he’s pretty gorgeous. His hair is bathed in moonlight, his cheekbones are catching the shadows and he’s very, very long and very, very nicely put together. I smile at him and let my hand rest against his thigh. I can feel denim and muscle and heat.
‘I think it was a date too,’ I say, smiling. ‘My first ever.’
‘What do you mean?’ he asks, rolling onto his side and propping his head up on one arm to look down at me. ‘You were married.’
‘I know. But we met when we were seven, me and David. Our first date was to Chester Zoo on a school trip. To be fair, we did hold hands and there might even have been a piggy-back, but there was definitely no alcohol involved. We stayed together all through school and got married when we were twenty.’
I see the look on his face and it is one I’m familiar with. It’s one we got used to seeing; one that David called the ‘you must have been a child bride’ face. We realised that it was very old-fashioned, and possibly downright weird, to be settling down so early in our lives – but we didn’t care. We were happy and happiness has a way of making other people’s disapproval seem completely irrelevant.
‘You’re thinking we were daft to get married so young, aren’t you?’ I say to Matt, feeling slightly disappointed in him.
‘No, not at all,’ he answers, his tone gentle and sad and a little bit emotional. ‘I was thinking how wonderful it must have been to find the person you wanted to share your life with so early on. To miss out on all the game-playing and hurt and wasted effort that most people go through. And I was thinking about how terrible it must have been to lose him.’
I feel tears well up immediately, and can do nothing to prevent them rolling in big, fat blobs down the side of my face. It wasn’t what I was expecting to hear and his sympathy almost breaks me. It’s not so much the thought of David that provokes me, but Matt’s consistent kindness.
He gently wipes the tears away and tucks wayward curls behind my ears. I reach up and twine my fingers into his hair, which is something I’ve been wanting to do all night. It is exactly as soft as I thought it would be.
I want him to kiss me, I realise. I want it very much, to the point where it almost feels like need. I suspect he is too gentlemanly to make a move on a crying woman. I mean, I am lying here touching his hair and letting him touch mine, and our faces are inches apart. But I am also shedding tears after talking about my dead husband. Poor Matt. I am the living embodiment of ‘mixed messages’.
‘Please,’ I say, quietly. ‘Ignore the tears. I can’t help them. Just … see the rest of me.’
Matt nods. And he smiles.
‘I do see the rest of you,’ he murmurs. ‘And it takes my breath away.’
He strokes my skin, fingers skimming over my cheekbone, my jaw, my throat, coming to rest on my bare shoulder blade. He slips the strap of my dress down, just a little, and leans forward. He doesn’t kiss my lips, not straight away. He kisses my shoulders, so soft, so warm, his touch meandering in a sensual trail along bone and flesh, nuzzling the sensitive spot beneath my ears before finally, finally, reaching my mouth.
My heart is beating so fast I’m sure he must be able to hear it and both my hands are now in his hair, holding him closer to me. I feel the subtle touch of his tongue on mine and a strong hand caressing the side of my body, and the hard outline of his thigh and torso pressed against me.
His hand drifts down, sure and maddeningly slow, until it connects with the bare skin of my leg. I gasp and writhe and want nothing more than for him to push that skirt up further, and to pull those straps down completely, and to feel his hands on all the parts of my body that haven’t been touched for so long.
I take my hands away from his hair, sliding them between us, trying to unbutton his shirt. I fumble, trembling, too excited to manage. I tug the shirt instead, so hard I hear buttons pop, and immediately spread my hands over his chest, his sides, his back. Hard body, smooth skin, so much strength and power.
He pulls his mouth away from mine and I feel the muscles of his back bunch up and tense as he moves, lifting his head up so we can see each other’s eyes. He is almost completely on top of me now, and I have one leg hooked over him, my arms wrapped around his back. If he stood up, I could probably hold on.
His gaze is intense and his breath is coming in rapid bursts. He is as aroused as I am, in ways that no man could hide and the feel of him pressed up against me is almost enough to bring me to orgasm. I want to rub up against him and ride the crest of the wave I can feel building, and lose my mind beneath the beautiful night sky, over and over again.
Except … he’s stopped kissing me. And he’s stopped stroking me. And he’s taken his hand away from its gradual exploration of my flesh. He’s looking at me and he’s smiling, and he’s shaking his head.
‘This,’ he says, leaning down to give me one last kiss on the lips, ‘isn’t right.’
He rolls onto his back and his sudden absence leaves me cold in all kinds of ways. As if to compensate, he scoops me up into his arms and pulls me onto his chest. My cheek rests against his warm, bare skin and I slip my arm around him.
‘I disagree,’ I reply, letting my fingers drift around his torso, following the trail of silky hair that runs down to the waistband of his jeans. ‘I’d say it felt very right.’
He places his hand over mine and holds it still. Spoil sport.
‘That’s because you’re very drunk. And because you’ve never been on a date before. And because we’re both … a little bit lost at the moment. I just don’t want you to rush into anything, or do something you’ll regret.’
I stay silent for a moment and ponder what he’s said. I try to concentrate on the words and not the way it feels to be held in a man’s arms again, to feel small and safe and secure there. I’ve slept alone every night for over two years now and I’ve missed this. Not just sex, but contact. Comfort. A physical connection with another human being.
Lying here, like this, wrapped up in Matt’s embrace, his beating heart beneath me, feels both hauntingly familiar and excitingly new. I am sure he is right – and that tomorrow I may feel entirely differently. But in this exact moment, I regret nothing.
‘All right,’ I finally say, gently kissing the golden skin of his shoulder. ‘I understand. And thank you.’
‘For what?’ he asks, running his hands over the crazy landscape of my hair.
‘For taking
me on a date. For giving me a piggy-back. For kissing me. And for stopping me from ravishing you in a wheat field.’
‘Believe me,’ he says, squeezing me closer. ‘That last one was the toughest of all.’
WEEK 3
In which I become a one-woman emergency-rescue service, get rumbled by my own daughter, develop a crush on Bruce Banner and see one too many people stark naked …
Chapter 18
‘I tell you what,’ I say to Jean, my new best friend. ‘Why don’t you just stay here for a bit? Have your lunch. Have a chat. Rest up a while. I finish at two and I can drive you to your next stop.’
‘That would be cheating,’ she replies, though I can tell she’s tempted.
‘I won’t tell if you won’t,’ I add, topping up her coffee without her even asking.
Jean has been in the café all day now and I’m really hoping she’ll hang around for a little while longer.
I knew there was something different about her the minute she walked through the doors this morning.
For a start it had only just gone eight and my only other customer was Frank. She was kitted up in what I now recognise as full walker’s gear, with sturdy, well-used boots, a packed rucksack and a pair of hiking poles.
She wasn’t young, but wasn’t old either – maybe early sixties, I’d say, with the trim body and weather-lined face of a lifelong rambler. Her hair was a little wild, a little greasy and she had the vaguely unkempt look of someone who has been neglecting themselves. It’s a look I recognised.
She’d paused in the doorway, seeing me and Frank sitting there alone staring at her, and was clearly considering walking straight back out again. I’d jumped to my feet and ushered her in, leading her over to the table next to ours.
It was a bright day, but still cool this early. Her lips were tinged slightly blue and her hands were trembling. She was obviously very chilled, despite her clobber, and looked completely exhausted.
Frank gave her a cheery good morning and I bustled around getting her toast, jam and coffee. I’d offered a cooked breakfast, but she insisted that toast was fine. She spoke quietly, hesitantly, as though she didn’t want to be too much trouble.
We gave her her space while she ate, but I kept returning and giving her more to drink and a couple of magazines to read. After Frank left she was the only person in the café until Surfer Sam turned up to collect some cupcakes for a kids’ event he was holding on the beach later. I’d iced the tops in the design of fossils, simplifying the pictures I’d seen of the kinds you might find on the Dorset coast.
‘Nice ammonites,’ said Sam, raising one eyebrow at me and somehow making it sound dirty. His Irish accent was pretty sexy, so perhaps it was just me imagining the dirt. It wouldn’t be the first time.
‘Why thank you, kind sir,’ I replied, packing them up into a box and thinking yet again that Sam and Becca absolutely had to meet. They’d spend the whole time trying to out-double entendre each other.
Well, I thought, looking at his outdoorsy physique and bright-blue eyes, maybe not all their time.
He glanced over at the lady and then back at me. She was reading an OS map and had it spread out across the table, a marker in her hand.
‘Walker?’ he asked. ‘She’s in early.’
‘I know,’ I replied, whispering. ‘And it looked to me like she’d been walking for ages when she got here. Possibly through the night, if I’m honest.’
‘Are you worried about her?’
‘A bit, maybe. Yes. I don’t want to be rude, but I do want to make sure she’s all right.’
‘Don’t worry,’ replied Sam, reassuringly. ‘This place has been welcoming waifs and strays for a long time. Try and keep her here and find out what’s going on and if she needs help. You’ll find that if she stays long enough everyone will chip in. She’ll leave in a better state than she arrived in.’
Sam strode off towards the lady’s table and pulled out a chair. She looked up, slightly taken aback, but instantly disarmed by his broad and open smile. He was wearing his ranger uniform and, of course, he had the voice as well, so within minutes they were chatting away as Sam pointed out spots on the map for her.
After a few minutes, he came back to collect his box of cupcakes.
‘She’s called Jean,’ he said, hefting the box up off the counter. ‘And she’s on a mammoth trek around the whole of the coastline. She started in East Anglia and has been on the road for over a month. Plus, you’re right, I think she did walk through the night, which is just dangerous around here.
‘I showed her some safe paths, gave her a bit of advice about places that aren’t even on the map and told her I’d be back later if she was still around. I hope she is. She seems a bit fragile. Like I said, try and persuade her to stay for a while. Everyone else will help. I’ll let them know.’
I had no idea what he meant by that, but as the morning wore on, it became clear. Cherie emerged from her slumber at about ten to find the place busy with both tourists and locals, and immediately asked me what the story was with Jean. There was something about her – a sense of vulnerability, perhaps – that we’d both picked up on.
‘I don’t know what the story is,’ I said. ‘It’s been non stop down here. You’ll be able to retire to Spain on this morning’s takings.’
‘Excellent news. Gracias. Now go and see what you can winkle out of her and see how we can help. Poor love looks wiped out.’
I’d just pulled a fresh batch of scones out of the oven, so I plated two up with some butter, jam and clotted cream, and took them over. Jean had folded up her maps and was staring out across the bay, her eyes glassy and unfocused.
‘Mind if I join you?’ I asked, sitting down without waiting for a reply. Fortune favours the nosy.
‘I’ve just made these and thought we might test them out before lunch.’
I push the scone over to her and she looks at it slightly suspiciously. Perhaps my reputation as a super-chef has spread wider than I thought.
‘My name’s Laura,’ I said, smoothing butter on my scone. It was still deliciously warm and the butter started to melt as soon as it made contact.
‘I’m working here for the summer,’ I continued, when she didn’t respond. ‘My husband died two years ago and I couldn’t face another summer at home without him. I packed my two kids and my dog into the car and drove here without ever having met the woman who owns the place, visited Dorset or had a job for donkey’s years. My family back in Manchester think I’ve gone mad.’
Jean looked at me, weighing up my words and possibly admiring my efficient scone-eating technique. She gave me a small smile and I’m glad I trusted my instincts. I thought that if I over-shared, she might open up – either that or file a restraining order.
‘Well, grief makes you do funny things, doesn’t it?’ she said, finally taking a small nibble at one tiny piece of the scone.
‘It definitely did with me,’ I replied. ‘But so far, so good. I’m enjoying it here. It’s been … new. And I’ve not felt anywhere near as scared of the future since I came here. I used to be so scared – all the time. Worried I was raising the kids wrong, worried I was going mad. Worried I was going to die too and leave them all alone. Worried about money, about the house, about everything really. I don’t think I realised how anxious I was until now.’
I had, of course, come over here to get Jean talking – but everything I was saying was one hundred per cent true. Three weeks away from everyday life in Manchester and my stress levels were nowhere near the same. Maybe Jean’s walk around the coast would do the same for her, even if she did look like she needed a whole wheelbarrow full of TLC.
‘I’m doing this walk,’ she added, still staring out of the windows at the admittedly gorgeous view, ‘because me and my husband, Ted, were supposed to do it. He’d retired and we’d planned it all. He used to watch that programme, you know, on the telly? Coast. He loved it and he always used to say ‘Jean, when I’ve finished with work, that’s what w
e’ll do – we’ll walk round Britain’. It was a real hobby for him, looking up the routes and plotting out where we’d go and what we’d see.’
She paused, ate another mouthful and drank some more coffee. I had a very bad feeling that this story wasn’t going to end with Ted changing his mind, or Ted meeting up with her at the next hotel.
‘What happened?’ I asked, softly.
‘Stomach cancer,’ she replied, her voice barely a whisper. ‘He’d had a few problems and ignored them, as men tend to do. He was gone in a matter of weeks. This was all booked, all paid for. I thought … I don’t know, I thought it would be good for me. We never had any kids and neither of us have much family left. There was nothing for me to stay at home for and I thought he’d want me to do this. I thought it would help.’
‘And has it?’ I say, biting my lip hard to stop myself from crying.
‘Maybe. I’ve seen some beautiful things. But I’ve seen them all alone. All the cliffs and the sunsets and the sunrises and the storms. It’s not the same, somehow, is it, with nobody seeing it with you? And I’ve got it all mixed up, done it wrong. Missed part of Sussex, lost a few days in Hampshire.
‘Last night, I arrived at the place he’d booked a day late. Luckily they still had a room, but I just couldn’t get to sleep. I was exhausted, but I couldn’t switch off. Just lay there, in that big bed, wishing he was there with me and worrying that I was falling behind with his schedule. So I got up, got dressed and left … it was about three in the morning and I’ve been walking ever since. Until I called here, anyway.’
Her story was all too believable to me and I was thankful all over again for having the children. Pains in the backside as they sometimes were, they gave me a reason to carry on when I lost David. They gave me – and continue to give me – a reason to keep trying. Poor Jean is trying to drag herself out of the pit all on her own.
We chatted for a few more minutes and she ate most of the scone. I know I can’t actually adopt Jean and take her home to live with me, but I kind of wanted to. I settled for making her so warm and content in the Comfort Food Café that she wouldn’t leave just yet.
Summer at the Comfort Food Cafe Page 15