The Pretty Delicious Cafe

by Danielle Hawkins

  ‘Yeah, good idea,’ she said, turning back to face me. ‘Lia . . .’

  ‘Mm?’

  She took a deep breath and gripped the edge of the bench behind her with both hands. ‘I owe you an apology. I’ve been a real bitch about your, um, connection with Rob.’

  ‘Hey, Anna, no –’ I started.

  But having screwed herself up to the point, she was determined to say her piece. Holding up a hand to stop me, she continued doggedly, ‘I felt like I had to fight you for him. I – I wanted him to say that I was more important to him than you were – that he loved me more, and – and I’m an idiot, because if he ever did have to choose between us, he’d choose you!’ She finished on a little wail of misery, and burst into tears.

  So did I. Partly in sympathy, and partly from exhaustion. I didn’t want another deep-and-meaningful conversation just now; I wanted to chat about pleasant, undemanding things like cake. But there didn’t seem to be any way of avoiding it, so I took a deep breath, wiped my eyes on an end of the buttercup-yellow scarf and said, ‘Of course he wouldn’t choose me.’

  She cried harder.

  ‘Anna! Do you honestly not realise how much he loves you?’

  ‘I don’t kn-know – I –’

  ‘Hey!’ I said. ‘Come on. You don’t have to choose between the people you love; it doesn’t work like that. It’s not like you only get a certain quota of love and you have to ration it out.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Anna gasped. ‘After what you’ve just b-been through, and I –’

  I looked at her helplessly for a moment, and then got up and went across the room to put my arms around her. ‘Stop it. Listen. You are the person Rob wants to come home to. I know he and I have this funny twin-intuition thing, but it doesn’t worry either of us if we don’t see each other for a few months. It’d worry the hell out of him if he didn’t see you.’

  She gulped, twisted away from me and went to splash cold water on her face. Turning off the tap again she dried herself with a tea towel and said bitterly, ‘I hate being like this. All needy and insecure.’

  ‘Everyone’s needy and insecure. It’s just harder to hide when you’re exhausted.’

  ‘You’re not.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ I cried. ‘Where should I start? My boyfriend’s married. His wife’s better looking than I am. So are you. I have weird psychic tendencies. My father’s never approved of a single thing I’ve ever done. I’ve got horrible frizzy hair . . . Should I keep going?’

  Anna smiled, albeit a little damply. ‘You have not got horrible frizzy hair,’ she said. ‘It’s gorgeous. I found the most amazing hairstyle on Pinterest the other night that I think would look perfect on you for the wedding – I’ll show it to you. It was pinned up, but quite loosely, with ringlets sort of tumbling down the back . . .’

  She went across the kitchen to open the laptop, and we abandoned soul-baring for hairdos with mutual relief.

  Chapter 28

  I was so lucky. My bruises faded in a week or two. Isaac left the district to stay with an uncle in New Plymouth until his sentencing date in April, so there was no chance of running into him. People found new things to talk about, as people always do, I was loved and supported, business was good, the ice-cream sandwiches were a wild success . . .

  And yet.

  I was jumpy, fragile and depressingly prone to dissolving into tears. The thought of being alone scared me, although I’d always liked it before, and Anna picked me up from Jed’s place on the way to work in the mornings and returned me there every night. I worried a lot, going over and over the same weary little litany without resolving anything. How much of what had happened was my fault? What should I have done differently? When was I going to pull myself together and get over it? Why hadn’t I already? How long was Jed, who was quite obviously the best thing that had ever happened to me, going to put up with it? It was a bit rough on the man, after all, to have his nice rational girlfriend transform before his eyes into a quivering bundle of insecurities. He could well start getting a nasty feeling of déjà vu.

  I wasn’t unhappy all the time, or even close to it. But lifting myself out of that pointless round of fears felt like the mental equivalent of walking up a down escalator – you make quite reasonable progress if you work at it, but as soon as you stop, you slide backwards. I’d never realised before how bloody exhausting depression must be. Perhaps, I told myself in high-minded moments, that was a useful insight. I don’t believe that trouble necessarily makes you any tougher or stronger, but it should at least make you kinder.

  * * *

  ‘These things take time,’ Mum said, when I complained to her about my new and alarming glass-half-empty tendencies one afternoon. Anna had gone to a dress fitting and we were alone in the café kitchen. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, love. If you had a broken leg you’d expect it to be sore; you wouldn’t keep on jabbing it and being annoyed when it hurt.’ She was arranging fat, denim-blue hydrangeas in a pottery jug, where they looked the last word in French farmhouse chic.

  ‘How much time?’ I said plaintively.

  ‘Goodness knows. Six months? A year? You’ll just gradually recover, without even realising it, until one day it’ll occur to you that you haven’t thought about it for months.’ She carried the flowers to the counter and set them down beside the coffee machine. ‘The thing is to be kind to yourself. You’re the only person who seems to think you’ve no right to be upset about what’s happened to you.’

  I smiled, sighed, and slid a dirty sponge roll tin into the sink. ‘You’re very wise, did you know that?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said, donning a welcoming smile as a young couple came in through the front doors. ‘A shining example of how to live your life, that’s me. Good afternoon!’

  * * *

  And so February went by, hot and dry and filled with wedding plans. Mum had a minor brain malfunction and let Caroline Marshall redo the ginger and white stripes in her hair, and I had another, so that the first attempt at the wedding cake contained a kilogram of expensive Belgian chocolate but no baking powder. Anna showed alarming signs of relapsing onto her lettuce and water cracker diet, especially after being informed, on ringing Whangarei Party Hire to double-check the size of the marquee, that they had no record of the order.

  The Thursday before the wedding dawned muggy and overcast. Jed was in the shower and I was leaning against the kitchen bench eating yoghurt and reading the tide tables in the local paper when Craig came down the hall. He was dressed for the day in his favourite SpongeBob undies and a pair of swimming goggles.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘You’re looking smooth.’

  He looked at me sternly through his goggles. ‘I don’t want yoghurt,’ he said.

  ‘That’s okay, you don’t have to eat it.’ I smiled at him and had another spoonful.

  ‘But I’m hungry,’ he said.

  ‘Well, what would you like?’

  ‘I don’t want Weetbix.’

  ‘How about toast?’

  ‘I don’t like peanut butter,’ he said, folding his arms across his chest.

  ‘Don’t you?’ I said, surprised. ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since now.’

  ‘Fair enough. Vegemite?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Jam? Just butter? Pickled eels’ feet?’

  ‘I can’t talk right now,’ he said, and marched across the living room to his toy box, narrowly missing his father.

  ‘Morning,’ Jed said, sidestepping him, but Craig gave no sign of having heard.

  ‘He’s on a mission,’ I said, flicking the kettle on. ‘No time for frivolous small talk.’

  ‘Obviously not. Should I be worried that you’ve packed up all your face cream and whatnot?’

  I smiled. ‘I love the way you imply that I’ve completely filled your bathroom with beauty products.’ I had, in fact, removed a toothbrush and a tube of moisturiser from the edge of the bathroom sink. ‘Dad and Mike are arriving this evening, so I
thought I’d better stay home and be a good hostess.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, opening the fridge door. ‘Is your dad allowed to know that you usually sleep here?’

  ‘I guess so. Not that it’s anything to do with him.’

  Jed raised his eyebrows ever so slightly as he put the milk down on the bench beside me.

  ‘Yes, I know, I’m snarky and childish,’ I said.

  ‘I still like you,’ he said, kissing the back of my neck.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Hey, I just got a text from Tracey, wanting Craig this weekend.’

  ‘What did you say?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing, yet. But she hasn’t seen him for a few weeks. I was thinking I could take him down tomorrow night after work – maybe meet Tracey’s mum halfway.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘Oh. Damn.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Friday night – that means you won’t make it to the Leslie extended-family pre-wedding barbecue.’

  ‘Oh, what a shame,’ he said. ‘Bugger. Can’t imagine anything I’d have enjoyed more.’

  ‘Watch it,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘Want me to call in tonight instead?’

  ‘Would you? Only I don’t know what time they’ll get here – it might be past Craig’s bedtime. Shall I text you about six and let you know?’

  He added instant coffee and milk to a mug and stirred it thoughtfully. ‘Why don’t we just wander up anyway after work?’ he said. ‘Keep you company, in case they’re late. Then Anna can go home.’

  I hadn’t considered that, and I sighed. ‘Or I could just get a grip and hang out by myself for a little while.’

  ‘Lia, it’s only been three weeks.’

  ‘Three and a half, actually.’

  He didn’t say anything, but reached out and gave my shoulder a little squeeze.

  ‘Sorry,’ I muttered, swiping a hand across my eyes.

  He abandoned his coffee and put his arms around me, and I rested my head against his shoulder.

  ‘Thank you. I’ll get there. Honest.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s all good. Yo, Craig! What d’you want for breakfast?’

  ‘Weetbix!’ Craig called back.

  ‘Weetbix what?’

  Craig looked up, frowning. ‘Weetbix and milk and sugar?’

  ‘Weetbix please, you turnip!’ Jed said, and Craig giggled.

  * * *

  We opened the café that day, since we’d be closed for the next three. As summer drew nearer to autumn the workload had eased from frenetic to merely brisk, and by four we’d cleaned the windows, restocked all the biscuit canisters and prepared a dinner guaranteed to impress the most critical of fathers. The day had grown steadily hotter and more airless, and the great glossy leaves of the ligularia at the edge of the lawn drooped wearily in the heat.

  Anna’s mother, Deidre, who’d arrived half an hour beforehand with The Dress, was sitting at the butcher’s block with an untouched latte in front of her, conning a list.

  ‘Darling?’ she said suddenly. ‘What’s your celebrant wearing?’

  Anna slid a glass bowl of prawns in sweet chilli and ginger marinade into the fridge and closed the door, pushing her fringe back off her forehead. ‘No idea,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t care less.’

  ‘Well, you don’t want her to clash. Perhaps I should give her a ring.’

  ‘No, don’t. Nothing clashes with cream or blue; it’ll be fine.’

  ‘It never hurts to check,’ said Deidre, writing busily. ‘Now. The champagne.’

  ‘Rob’s picking up all the alcohol tomorrow, and we’ve hired a refrigerated trailer.’

  ‘And plenty of glasses?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Anna.

  ‘And you’re sure the tables and chairs will be delivered tomorrow?’

  ‘They’re not going to be delivered,’ she said patiently. ‘But we can collect them as soon as the boys have put the marquee up.’

  ‘I’ve got all the table linen . . . Maggie wanted to do something with tea lights, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. She’s got that all organised.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Deidre, apparently imagining that she was tactfully concealing her doubts about Mum’s abilities to organise anything at all. ‘Oh, now, Chris and Jeanette are coming up tomorrow, and they’d love to spend a bit of time with you before the wedding. Shall we ask them to join us for dinner tomorrow night?’

  ‘Our family dinner?’ said Anna dryly. Her tentative plan to spend the evening before her wedding with a few university girlfriends had been overruled by her mother’s plaintive appeal for one last family meal.

  ‘Well, it’s up to you, darling, but they’re such dear friends, and it would mean so much to them.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Anna. ‘Why not?’

  I shot her a sympathetic grimace behind her mother’s back. ‘I think I might go and mow a bit of lawn.’

  ‘What a good idea,’ she said, with feeling.

  ‘It’s so hot, Lia dear,’ Deidre protested.

  ‘I’ll see how I go, anyway,’ I said, and stripping off my apron I made good my escape.

  I started mowing at the far side of the lawn, where gaunt manuka scrub cast dappled shadows across the grass. Having assured myself that I was in line of sight of the kitchen windows and therefore perfectly safe, I was contemplating the relative merits of cinnamon and lemon zest in an apple custard tart when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘Aarghh!’ I yelped, whipping around at high speed.

  ‘Crap,’ said Mike. ‘Sorry.’

  I exhaled shakily and hugged him. ‘Sorry. Just being a dick. Hey, Mike.’

  ‘Hey.’ He reached around me to turn off the mower. ‘How’re you doing?’

  ‘Good,’ I said, stepping back. ‘Is Dad here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. Better go and be sociable, then.’

  ‘How’s your mum?’ he asked, detaching the catcher from the back of the mower and emptying the grass clippings into the long grass at the edge of the lawn.

  ‘Okay. A bit stressed, with all this wedding malarkey.’

  He fitted the catcher back onto the mower. ‘Do you want to leave this thing here or put it away?’

  ‘Just leave it there for now,’ I said.

  We started to walk slowly back towards the house. ‘So, is the boyfriend still a good thing?’ Mike asked after a few moments.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Very.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, smiling at me.

  ‘Still going to leave the farm?’ I asked, as we passed the bougainvillea on the north wall of the garage.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Have you told Dad?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘How did that go?’

  ‘Oh, about how you’d expect,’ he said, standing aside for me to precede him up the porch steps.

  Inside, Dad was leaning against the counter with his arms folded and his legs crossed at the ankle. He wore khaki shorts and a white polo shirt, with his wavy pepper-and-salt hair nicely cut, his skin nicely tanned and his forearms nicely muscled. Dad always looks just right – partly because he’s attractive and good at clothes, and partly because he’s so completely, serenely self-assured that if he turned up at a barbecue on the beach in a tuxedo, everyone else would start to feel uneasy and underdressed.

  He nodded to me as I paused in the doorway to kick off my sneakers. ‘Lia.’

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ I said.

  ‘We had half an inch of rain on Monday, but it’s still very dry,’ he said, resuming his conversation with Deidre.

  I went across the kitchen to kiss his cheek, and he rested a hand briefly on my shoulder. ‘Keeping well?’ he asked.

  ‘Um, yes,’ I said, slightly nonplussed. ‘You?’

  ‘Very good, thanks. Yes, we’ll want a week of decent, steady rain before it really looks like growing.’

  ‘Tea, Lia?’ Anna asked, busy with cups.

  ‘Yes please.’ I went to
the sink to run myself a glass of water, and retired with it to the window seat. ‘How’s the speech coming along, Mike?’

  ‘I’ve come to the conclusion that I can’t possibly be funny, but I can at least be brief,’ he said, sitting down beside me.

  ‘Excellent. It’s a shame more people don’t reach that conclusion.’

  ‘So, what’s the schedule for tomorrow?’ Dad asked. He spoke to Anna, but her mother answered.

  ‘Marquee to go up, tables and chairs to be set out, sound system, lighting . . .’ She turned a page of her list. ‘Flowers on the tables will be Saturday morning . . . Maggie’s got some sort of rustic chandelier arrangement planned . . .’

  ‘Oh, good God,’ said Dad.

  Deidre laughed, Mike and I inhaled in unison and Anna closed her eyes tiredly. Looking at her, I decided, not without regret, that taking offence at such comments was an indulgence I was just going to have to resist.

  ‘Wedding cake offcut, anyone?’ I said, getting back up. ‘It’s delicious.’

  * * *

  The conversation, once Anna and Deidre had gone, limped through current lamb prices (dreadful), interest rates (fairly good, I’d thought, but apparently I was wrong), the Northern Gateway Toll Road (a waste of taxpayers’ money) and the alarming dearth of paying customers on the premises.

  ‘But you got here at ten to five,’ I pointed out. ‘And things are quieting down a bit, now. We’re thirty per cent up on last summer’s income, though.’ It’s amazing what being appallingly understaffed does for your profit margin. It’s neither sustainable nor fun, but it sure is great for the overdraft.

  ‘Gross income doesn’t mean anything,’ Dad said. ‘It’s net profit that’s important.’

  ‘We’re twenty-eight point four per cent up on net profit for January and February,’ I corrected, and my tone may, I admit, have been slightly curt.

  ‘Are you? Not bad at all.’

  ‘Bloody marvellous, I’d have thought,’ said Mike.

  Jed’s seedy van (Tracey’s mother, apparently, needed the more respectable green Subaru) came up the drive and stopped beside Dad’s car.

  ‘Who’s this?’ Dad asked, eyeing the van with pardonable suspicion.