Summer at the Comfort Food Cafe

by Debbie Johnson

  They will also involve using some of Cherie’s money, but she really wasn’t lying when she said she had plenty – I remain amazed at the number of zeros on the end of her business bank balance and feel certain she won’t mind me using a little bit of it up. In fact she’s told me so. She’s also given me a raise and the official job title of Restaurant Manager, which will look grand on my real-life CV when I’m back home.

  I have had an unexpected amount of help from Edie May, who knows everything and everybody, and have been just as busy juggling my almost-secret party plans as I am juggling work and the kids.

  Edie seems to think it will all work out and who am I to argue with a ninety-year-old veteran of life? I only wish, with all my heart, that there was a way I could conjure up a happy ending for her – but she seems content enough to help and use the skills she developed as a librarian, and the gossip she’s acquired throughout her time in Budbury.

  My routine has settled into opening the café at eight, working a full day there, and when I need to, staying on until about six dealing with the party. I don’t want the kids accidentally overhearing, and some of the conversations I am having are sensitive – the last thing I need is the sound of those two pummelling each other in the background, or turning the TV up loud enough to drown out my voice with the EastEnders’ theme tune.

  Matt knows that I am not only busy but wiped out as well, and calls in to see me at the end of each of his work days to cheer me up. He comes with small gifts – freshly picked flowers, coffee I haven’t made myself, a bottle of wine for later.

  Mainly, he comes with his smile and his humour and his calm, gentle, self-assured sexiness. He knows that if he touches me a certain way, or kisses me for long enough, or does that thing where he wraps my hair around his fingers and turns my face up to his, that I will quite literally melt into his arms.

  This is as far as it goes and it works well for us both. His self-assured sexiness is giving me the chance to rebuild my own and I am incredibly stoked about the prospect of spending the night with him the week after.

  He never stays long – just long enough to make me feel a bit giddy – and he never pushes for more, either physically or emotionally. He asks if there is anything he can do to help, and he checks on Jimbo, and every now and then he does a few jobs around the café. If only he could also turn into a hot chocolate fudge cake, he’d be perfect.

  I learn, during the course of one of our casual chats, that the village vet he has been covering for has emailed him to ask if he would consider staying on for another year, as her contract in Africa has been extended.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, genuinely not knowing what his reaction will be, ‘Is that good news? Do you want to stay here?’

  He does the looking-over-my-shoulder thing that he hasn’t done for ages and I realise that he is carefully considering his response.

  ‘I think so,’ he replies eventually. ‘I mean, I only came here to escape problems in London, in all honesty. I needed to get away, to spend some time away from it all, get my sense of perspective back. Does that makes sense?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ I say, wondering exactly what went wrong between him and Legs, and how bad it could have been to make this seemingly strong man run away like a wounded animal. I wonder, but I remain strangely reluctant to ask. If it was anyone else, I probably would – I’d give in to my nosiness and try to find out the whole story.

  But we seem to have an understanding, me and Matt, that we keep things on this level. We laugh and joke and fool around and occasionally act like hormonal teenagers who’ve just discovered snogging, but we don’t push each other about the past. We have established a delicate balance that allows both of us to leave it alone, and that works as well for me as it does for him.

  ‘Now I’m here, though,’ he continues, ‘I’m … happy, I suppose. Definitely happier, anyway. So maybe I’ll agree to another year and then take it from there. I’m still technically a partner in the surgery in Clapham, but nobody there is expecting me back at all. I’m a free agent and this seems as good a place as any to spend a few more months. How about you? How are you feeling about going back to Manchester?’

  I look around at the café, and all its strange posters and found objects and dangling mobiles, and know that I will miss this place. I look out of the French doors to the cliffside terrace and down at the bay, and know that I will miss that view too. Finally, I look at Matt, sitting there with his tousled hair and his brawny body and his kind eyes, and I know that I will miss him as well – possibly too much.

  That, however, is a thought for another day.

  ‘It’ll take a bit of getting used to,’ I reply, ‘but it’s where our real lives are. Our home, the kids’ school, my family. This has been … unreal. In a good way. I’m sure I’ll look back on it all some day and wonder what the hell I was thinking, but, well, it’s been what I needed. What we all needed. I’m sure we’ll all take something away from our time here.’

  He is gazing at me in a slightly more intense way than usual, and it looks as though he is going to say something more. Something significant. I feel a tremor of both anticipation and dread at what that might be.

  Instead, he just grins, stands up and stretches tall, and announces, ‘I’m going to go and look at that baby-changer again. It’s still not quite right.’

  Chapter 27

  ‘So,’ I say to Becca, ‘I now have pink hair.’

  ‘I have seen this,’ she replies. ‘And I am awestruck. Was there alcohol involved?’

  ‘There was. Rather too much. It was Cherie’s first night ‘out’ since she came home – although it wasn’t really a night out, it was a night at Hyacinth with me and Willow. Frank drove her here, with her special tall chair to sit in, and he went round to Matt’s to have a pint while we had a girls’ night in. Cherie wasn’t really drinking much – she’s still on strong painkillers, plus obviously doesn’t want to fall over paralytic while recovering from a hip replacement.’

  ‘That would be bad,’ replies Becca, sounding distracted, which tells me she is rooting out the photos that Lizzie has posted online. The ever-present, and for me unseen, companion to all our conversations.

  ‘You look like you’re in some kind of girl band from outer space,’ she says, laughing. ‘Willow with her totally pink hair, Cherie with the pink tips and you with the big pink streak down one side. Maybe you’ll get a record deal or be chosen to represent England in the Eurovision Song Contest … or play the Pink Ladies in a stage version of Grease …’

  I have actually seen these photos, for a change – Willow got Lizzie to take some shots on her phone as well – and I completely understand where she is coming from. Cherie is perched on her tall chair, pink tips flowing over her shoulders, and me and Willow are posing on either side of her, making Saturday Night Fever-style disco shapes with our arms.

  ‘Well, what can I say? It seemed like a good idea at the time. It’s basically all Willow’s fault – it’s not like I would’ve had a box of pink hair dye lying around, is it? She took advantage of us when we were under the influence! ‘

  ‘That,’ replies Becca, ‘is the story of my life. So … hair escapades aside, how’s tricks? How’s the party-planning going? Have you blown up the café yet? Have you blown anything else?’

  I roll my eyes at her long distance. She’s so rude, my sister.

  ‘Party planning is … good. I think. Everything seems to be coming together – I’m just not entirely sure whether I’m doing the right thing or not. I mean, what do I know, really? Maybe I’ll just be causing problems for everyone.’

  ‘You know enough,’ she answers, firmly. ‘You’ve always been the one with the good instincts, Laura, so don’t start doubting yourself now. You know Mum and Dad were on the verge of getting you committed when you said you were moving to Dorset for the summer, but your instincts were right – it’s done you all so much good. So carry on trusting those instincts and it’ll be fine, I promise.’

  That is
a very nice pep talk and I am reminded that beneath the rudeness and the outrageous comments, and the various layers of screwed-up, Becca is always well and truly, one hundred per cent on my side. As allies go, she kicks derrière. She should be part of the pink-hair gang too.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say simply. ‘And … well … Matt.’

  It is about time I told her, really.

  ‘What about Matt?’ she asks, super-quickly.

  ‘It’s … complicated.’

  ‘Have you shagged him?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Are you going to shag him?’

  ‘I don’t know! Maybe … yes, I think I am …’

  Becca is quiet, which is not the reaction I was expecting. I have even removed the phone from my ear by a few inches, in anticipation of her whooping and hollering and general revelry at the thought of me doing the dirty at long last.

  ‘Okay,’ she eventually says, her tone cautious and neutral and various other words that can never usually be associated with Becca. ‘Just be careful.’

  ‘What do you mean? Are you talking about contraception? I know it’s been a long time, but I think I remember how it works …’

  ‘No, silly arse, I’m not talking about condoms. I’m talking about feelings, which believe me, doesn’t come naturally. It’s just that … well, I’ve seen the photos. I’ve listened to the things you’ve said – the gardening, the chatting, the amount of time you’ve spent together …

  ‘I’ve watched this last month unfold. And I’ve seen how close you two have got, even if you haven’t noticed it yourself. I’m not talking about physical stuff – I mean the other stuff. In every picture I see of the two of you, you look so relaxed, sis. You’re always laughing or smiling, or … I don’t know. Kind of glowing.

  ‘You might not realise this, but he means something to you – and to the kids. So … be careful, is all. If it was me, it’d be different – we all know I’ll jump into bed with anyone.’

  ‘That’s not kind!’ I interject – because while Becca definitely has more experience than me when it comes to men, I don’t like her making out that she’s some kind of thoughtless slut, because she’s not.

  ‘You know what I’m saying. I am more than capable of having great sex with someone I find attractive, without it meaning anything at all. I can bonk and say ‘bye. For me, it’s physical – a fuck is just a fuck. To you, it’s a little bit of forever.’

  I feel a bit deflated by this reaction and also unnerved. Perhaps she is right. Perhaps I have been deliberately underplaying the way that Matt has snuck into my life – into all our lives. Perhaps I have been fooling myself into thinking that I, too, can be as cool and casual as Becca.

  Perhaps I’m wrong and sleeping with Matt will result in me falling ridiculously, stupidly, head over heels in love with him. Perhaps I am simply not capable of separating the physical from the emotional. Perhaps she is right to sound so worried. I might be thirty-five, but when it comes to this kind of thing, I am basically a babe in the woods.

  ‘Right,’ I say, quietly. She has popped my balloon and I don’t really know how to react. ‘Okay. I see your point.’

  ‘Aaah, come on, Laura – don’t go all floppy on me! I’m not trying to bring you down! God, I wish I was there so I could explain myself better …’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ I say. ‘I get it. You’re worried about me. It’s just … well, you’ve been winding me up about Matt, and about my lack of a sex life, and … I suppose I thought you’d be pleased. That we’d have a giggle. That it would be fun. Instead, it’s all gone serious again – and I’m … well, I’m so bloody fed up of serious, you know?’

  ‘Ignore me,’ she replies, quickly. ‘Forget everything I just said. I know I’ve been encouraging you, but I genuinely didn’t think it would ever happen – that’s what made it funny. Maybe I’m just shocked. I’m over-thinking it, which is rarely a good thing, especially when it comes to men. Rewind our whole conversation, and instead imagine it like this: good on you, sis! Please, please, please don’t let me knock your confidence or make you question what you’re doing, or make you feel bad. Like I said, you have good instincts.’

  I am trying to rewind our conversation like she suggests, but it is quite difficult to un-hear something once it’s out.

  ‘I shouldn’t have said anything,’ she adds, sounding genuinely regretful. ‘It was stupid of me. I of all people have no right to tell you to be careful – I’ve never had a careful moment in my entire life, and you’re well overdue a little bit of careless. Ignore me. Go for it. Don’t take it seriously, babe – you’re right. You’ve had more than enough of serious. Bang his brains out – and I’ll stick that Princess Leia costume in the post …’

  WEEK 5

  In which I mostly cry.

  Chapter 28

  I put the phone down and look across the counter at Edie May.

  Edie has been here all day and has sat quietly and unobtrusively through a busy breakfast, the lunchtime rush and the post-closing clean-up. Willow has gone home and the place will be peaceful and quiet now until either Matt calls in or one of my children appear demanding food, cash or a ride in mum’s big blue taxi. Lizzie is at the cider cave and Nate is out on a fossil walk with Sam. Jimbo is snoozing away in the doggie crèche and all is well with the world.

  Or at least I hope it is. I am biting my lip, so sharp I taste blood. I feel a headache – one of those tense, nervous kinds – starting to intrude on my temples.

  One of Edie’s many grand-nieces has bought her one of those fancy mindfulness colouring books and she has been perfectly happy perched on her stool, using a pack of rainbow-shaded felt-tipped pens. Intermittently she proudly shows me her work and I have to admit it is lovely – an intricate design of many-shaped hats, scarves and coats, all hanging from an elaborate hat stand.

  She pushes the book towards me, so I can join in on the facing page if I like. What the heck, I think, starting to shade in the feathers of a peacock. Why not? I could do with a bit mindfulness right now. I’ve run out of Rennies and I need a bucket load of Paracetamol. Maybe colouring in will have the same effect.

  My party-planning has taken on a life of its own and I am now starting to feel more than a little consumed with anxiety. I am second-guessing all the decisions that seemed to make perfect sense just a few days ago and worrying that I’m going to accidentally organise the worst party that Budbury has ever seen.

  My intentions have been pure, but I can’t help wondering if I am paving a nice path to hell with them – a path my new friends may be quite keen to speed me towards after the big event.

  ‘All sorted, is it?’ asks Edie, peering up from over her specs to raise her fluffy white eyebrows at me.

  ‘I think so,’ I reply, ‘could you pass me that pink, please?’

  ‘I’m not sure peacocks have pink tail feathers,’ she says, passing the pen anyway. ‘But I don’t suppose it matters, eh?’

  I bite down on a sharp retort. Edie is ninety years old, she’s right about the peacock, and it’s not her fault I’m feeling stressed out.

  ‘What did she say? Is she coming?’ she continues, all the while colouring away. Edie has been the one person I’ve confided in about this aspect of my party plans and I am not entirely sure why. Initially, it was because she used to work in a library and had helped lots of people trace their family trees. I needed to chase somebody down and her advice was actually incredibly useful.

  I’d visited her tiny house that faces directly onto the main street of the village and sat with her in her pretty front room drinking the kind of strong, sweet tea that only old ladies and bricklayers seem to like. She explained that her fiancé was still asleep upstairs, so we both had to whisper in case we woke him up.

  After that initial blow to all things rational, I found myself quite settled, murmuring away and explaining my ideas, while Edie nodded and stirred in more sugar and occasionally asked a question.

  She’d made some suggestions and
pulled a face at others, and clapped her hands in delight at the whole concept. After agreeing that it would all be ‘our little secret’, she’s been brilliant – my sounding board and confidante and sometimes my counsellor.

  I was right to tell somebody and I didn’t want it to be anybody who was directly involved. Willow already has a full plate, Joe didn’t seem right and I don’t really know Ivy well enough. Matt, also, I’d kind of kept in the dark about this part – he knows I’m up to something and I’ve recruited his help on other aspects, but he seems happy to go along with an element of mystery. I was a bit worried that he might try and talk me out of it all, to be honest.

  Plus, if it doesn’t work out, I don’t want half the village knowing – because this isn’t my story to tell.

  Edie, though … well, as we have already established, Edie is not one to shy away from a crazy idea or two. Maybe that’s the other reason I chose to talk to her about it all.

  ‘She’s going to see what she can do. She’s a long way off and she’s not been in the best of health, but she’s going to try. She was surprised, obviously, but … pleased, I think? Oh God, I’m not sure! What if it’s all been a horrible mistake?’

  I can feel my pulse rate speeding up and that headache is solidifying into a real humdinger.

  ‘Calm down, my love,’ says Edie, pausing in her work long enough to pat me on the hand reassuringly, ‘you’re going outside the lines and making a terrible mess, look.’

  I know she’s talking about the colouring book and my now-psychedelic peacock, but the description applies just as well to what I’m doing for the party. I’m going outside the lines and I can only hope that I don’t end up making a terrible mess of that as well.

  Just one aspect of my evil mission – but by far the most terrifying – has been tracking down Brenda, Cherie’s long-lost sister. With Edie’s help, some rooting through marriage certificates and a lot of luck, I’ve managed to find her.