The Cafe by the Sea

by Jenny Colgan

  “Completely fucking made up.”

  “There you go,” said Colton. He raised his glass to Joel. “Everyone falls under its spell sooner or later. The entire damn place is woven out of clouds.”

  “Whatever you say,” said Joel.

  The waiter, looking terrified and slightly breathless, handed over a huge basket.

  “Here you are, sir!”

  Plates, knives, and more whisky arrived without anyone appearing to do anything. Colton drew out the oatcakes together with two rounds of dark yellow butter—one studded with crystals of salt that caught the light, the other plainer and darker—and three cheeses: the hard, the soft, and the mix.

  Flora took a breath; there too was some of her mother’s chutney, and her chili jam. She couldn’t work out how it had gotten in there. Quick-thinking Innes, it had to have been. Fintan was desperately searching for somewhere to put out his cigar. He looked nervous and proud.

  Colton frowned.

  “Seriously, if your plan here is to poison me with bacteria . . . I mean, this stuff is full of bacteria . . .”

  “All cheese is bacteria,” said Fintan. “Your body currently has about a hundred and thirty billion different strands of bacteria in it.”

  “Yes, that’s why I drink probiotics.”

  “Really? I thought it’s because they taste like strawberry milk shakes.”

  “That too.”

  Fintan got up and picked up a small knife. Leaning over the heavy oak table, he carved thick wedges of all the cheeses. He settled back down and gave everyone a challenging look.

  Oddly, Joel went first, ignoring the oatcakes and simply scooping up a large piece of the blue cheese and popping it in his mouth. Everyone watched him closely—Flora making the most of the opportunity to look at his lips—as he blinked, quickly, as if slightly surprised by something, then brought his hand down from his mouth.

  “Well,” he said.

  “What are the first symptoms?” said Colton. “I mean, do you just start puking or what?”

  Deliberately Fintan took a piece of the soft cheese and spread it on a slice of bread. Flora grinned and dolloped chutney on a piece of the rye before adding a chunk of cheese on top. God, she had forgotten how good it was. She didn’t want to appear greedy, but they’d had no dinner, and it was all she could do not to grab the entire lot and stuff it in her mouth. Washing it down with twenty-five-year-old Laphroaig, she realized, was also an absolutely perfect combination.

  Joel couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a woman eat with such genuine pleasure. He found his mind wandering briefly to whether she had other appetites she couldn’t control. Then he put the image out of his mind and focused on his client.

  “Okay, okay, what is this?” said Colton. “Last one to eat the deadly cheese is a coward? I should warn you, my nutritionist told me I’m probably lactose intolerant.”

  “What are the symptoms?” asked Flora curiously.

  “Mood swings, tiredness . . .”

  “Maybe you’re just a grumpy bastard,” said Fintan, and there was a slight pause—nobody, but nobody ever made fun of Colton Rogers, mostly because he spent a ridiculous amount of time with people whose lives depended on him paying their salary. Then Colton laughed and made to cuff him.

  “Uh-uh,” said Fintan, feinting out of the way. “Try it.”

  Colton’s face was comical to watch. If Flora, as a massive cheese fanatic, had adored Fintan’s creation, it was nothing to how a man raised on American cheese and finally tasting something so full and bursting with flavor and richness and full-bodied depth and nuttiness was going to react.

  “Good God in heaven,” he said eventually. “Jesus. Joel, you tasted this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you ever had anything like it?”

  “I have spent some time in France.”

  “I have spent some time in France,” mimicked Colton. “You pussy. I bet you didn’t get anything as good as this there.”

  “No,” said Joel, sounding surprised at himself. “I don’t think I did.”

  Colton cut himself another thick wedge, then another. Suddenly Flora realized that Innes had put the fruitcake in the basket, and she immediately instructed the Americans on how to take a bite of the cake, a mouthful of the hard cheese, and a sip of the smoky, peaty whisky, washing them all down together.

  For a time there was no sound except for some slightly orgasmic noises that could easily be misinterpreted.

  “My God,” said Colton eventually. “I mean, my God. I mean.”

  “Taste the butter,” said Flora evilly.

  “You’re trying to kill me.”

  “Not before you’ve had some butter. Try the salty stuff on the rye. Nothing else.”

  Colton tasted a corner and waved his hands about.

  “Christ. Right, now you’ve ruined me for butter.”

  Fintan smirked.

  “You haven’t touched the blue.”

  Colton looked at it regretfully.

  “Oh Christ, man, I don’t think even I can go that far. I’m just a Texas boy, you know! Mozzarella on pizza and Monterey Jack on everything else. That’s all I know.”

  “You have to try it,” said Fintan. “You want to be accepted . . .”

  “You want me to eat cheese that actually has veins in it? Blue varicose veins?”

  “Buk buk baaaaaaaak.”

  Colton smiled.

  “Can’t do it, my friend. There’s a line.”

  In answer, Fintan jumped up and cut a slice off. He came round the table and started advancing. Flora was absolutely startled. Colton blinked several times. It was apparent that nobody had treated him like this for a long time. Possibly ever. How strange it must be, thought Flora, to be so rich that everyone tiptoed round you. Was it nice? Was it strange? Did anybody ever know?

  But the two of them had taken off onto the beach, Colton laughing, holding his hands up over his face, an expression in Fintan’s eyes Flora had never seen before. The sullen, guarded look was gone, as he pretended to wrestle Colton to the ground to make him try the cheese. In the end, he rugby-tackled him down onto the sand. Flora’s hand flew to her mouth.

  How could she have been so blind? So caught up with her own life, her own dramas and feelings? Fintan had been a quiet teenager, but there had never really been any debate in the house, had there? He would go into farming like all the other lads, make a good living, keep the circle of the seasons turning, go to Inverness a couple of times a year, bet on some horses, maybe. Watch the shinty. Find a good, strong local lass. That was just what boys on Mure did, and she hadn’t questioned it any more than her ancestors had.

  She watched as a giggling Colton sat in the sand, finally acquiescing to try a bit of the cheese, then screwing up his face in mock horror.

  “You never knew,” said Joel quietly, gazing steadfastly at his whisky glass. She was so shocked she barely heard him, but when she realized he’d spoken, she was struck by something: she’d never heard him speak gently before. To anyone.

  “Half my friends are gay,” she stuttered.

  “And it never even crossed your mind?”

  “Things have been . . . complicated with my family,” said Flora. Joel raised an eyebrow.

  Colton and Fintan came back up from the beach, still giggling slightly.

  “This is,” said Colton, arriving back at the wooden table, “possibly the strangest business dinner I’ve ever had.”

  “We haven’t really discussed any business,” said Flora, looking at Fintan’s flushed face.

  “What are you talking about? It’s obvious,” said Colton. “This was a pitch, right?”

  “What?” said Flora.

  “Local suppliers,” said Colton patiently, as if she was an idiot. “You guys are going to do it? Reopen the pink house? Hire as many folks as you want. I’m in. It’s a good plan. I like it. Can you get moving before the council meeting?”

  “What?” said Flora.

&nb
sp; Fintan put out his hand to stop her.

  “Sure,” he said.

  “I suppose I’d better have an opening party,” said Colton, looking around. “Ugh. I hate parties. But I can knock off meeting everyone at once too. Great.”

  Fintan glanced at his watch and his face fell.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’ve got milking.”

  Colton blinked.

  “But it’s early,” he complained, glancing at the light horizon. He looked at his watch. “Oh yeah,” he added. “Huh. Will you look at that. Normally I’m bored by now.”

  Fintan smiled awkwardly.

  “Right, shall we go, sis?”

  “But . . .,” said Flora, feeling slightly fuddled in the head. What was happening?

  “Okay,” said Colton. “Set up the pink house. Organize the party. Lobby it up. Then we’ll be good to go.”

  “But . . .,” said Flora again. She felt pressure on her left shoulder. It was Joel, maneuvering her toward Bertie and his little boat.

  “This has been great,” said Colton. And he stuck out his hand to shake Fintan’s, and held on to it for rather too long.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  There was white all around. The sky was white; the sea was the palest gray, reflecting the strange light straight back until it felt as if she was sailing across a blank page, the ripples in the waves sentences stretching out behind her. She was on a ship, an old creaking sailing ship, its bare masts high—where were its sails? Someone was missing. Who was it? Stop! she found herself shouting. Stop the boat! Stop it. But nobody was listening, and they powered on. Someone had gone over the side, and she wanted to reach them, but the ship was going farther and farther away, and she was shouting, but nobody could hear her and nobody would stop . . .

  It was probably—no, certainly—the whisky, but Flora woke bolt upright at 3 A.M., her mouth dry, from a strange white dream of ships and ice and cold. Her thin duvet was half thrown off, the house freezing.

  She’d protested all the way home in the boat, and Joel and Fintan had, absurdly, ganged up on her and told her they’d discuss it the next day.

  The first thing she noticed was her phone blinking. She rubbed her eyes, pulled a blanket round her trembling shoulders, and picked it up.

  It was work: memos, plans, a flurry of ideas, from Joel. But it was the middle of the night.

  Aren’t you asleep? she texted.

  He replied immediately.

  It’s BROAD DAYLIGHT. How can anybody sleep in this?

  Flora thought nothing of it. She’d been accustomed to going to bed in bright sunlight since she was a child, and conversely, of course, going to school in the pitch-dark in the winter months.

  Draw the curtains? she suggested.

  They’re dirty.

  Flora felt for him. The Harbor’s Rest was pretty grim, after all.

  Why couldn’t you stay at the Rock?

  Apparently they’re still finishing the bedrooms.

  Seriously, could they have been worse?

  That’s a very good point. I should have pushed it. Three walls would have been better than this.

  Flora smiled at her phone.

  A bit of salt spray aids a restful night.

  That’s an island saying, is it? I might suggest to the landlady that a bit of cleaning spray aids a restful night.

  Oh come on. Admit it. It’s not so bad here.

  I never said it was.

  Joel was enjoying their conversation. It felt strange just to be chatting like this, especially late at night. Not after anything. Not a booty call. He frowned. She wouldn’t think . . . No. She couldn’t. She was the office junior, right? It was clearly professional. It was just that she was easy to talk to. And Christ, he really couldn’t sleep.

  He jumped up and paced the room. The peeling wallpaper was making him depressed, but outside it looked unearthly and rather beautiful.

  Is it safe to take a walk here?

  Be careful of the wild haggis. They can be tricky. But you can run away from them; they have one leg shorter than the other from stomping round and round hills.

  Hahaha.

  Flora looked at the message, feeling suddenly excited.

  Where are you going for a walk?

  I thought I’d start at Broadway, then head up to the shopping district, then maybe stop off to eat in Chinatown . . .

  Hahaha.

  Joel pulled on his overcoat. He felt restless.

  Dunno. Harbor? Everything’s shut.

  It’s 3:30 A.M.

  There was a long pause. Finally Flora typed:

  Would you like me to come down?

  He squinted at his phone. He normally . . . Well. He did well without company. The lone wolf, Dr. Philippoussis called him. He looked out again at the pale water.

  If you like.

  She scrubbed her face, grimaced at her hair, and plaited it back so it fell over her shoulder, then stuck a bunnet on it. She hauled on her jeans, a striped T-shirt, a fisherman’s sweater, and some big boots. She absolutely did not look like someone out to seduce anyone, she told herself sternly. Well, maybe another fisherman. Certainly not her slick, hot London boss whom she was meeting in the middle of the night. No.

  And actually that was quite far from her mind as she headed for the stairs. What she really wanted to discuss was Colton’s crazy idea that she and Fintan were going to somehow take over his catering. This needed to be nipped in the bud sharpish.

  She drank a large glass of freezing water to flush the whisky out of her system, then made up a thermos of strong coffee. Bramble had perked up as she walked into the kitchen, and Flora nodded to him that he could come along. She stepped out of the farmhouse into the bracing freshness of the morning air, even though morning, technically, was several hours away.

  Never busy at the best of times, at this hour Mure felt like the moon; it felt like everyone else on earth had simply disappeared, that it was the very end of everything. A light haar was still lying on the land, giving a dreamy quality to every shape looming out of it: the hilltops swathed in bottomed-out clouds, the telegraph poles vanished, the freshness of the air changing to dankness as you walked through great banks of mist.

  Flora saw him before he saw her, standing by the harbor wall, staring out to sea. He looked utterly out of place in his well-cut coat and stylish shoes, like an astronaut washed up on a strange shore he didn’t understand, who had found everything he had been sure of in his life completely alien to him.

  Bramble whined inquiringly, and Flora bent down. “He’s all right,” she whispered, rubbing the dog’s soft ears. “It’s okay.” Please like dogs, she thought, crossing her fingers.

  Bramble, soothed, shot off across the cobbles of the harbor.

  Just at that moment, Joel turned round, to be greeted by a huge, slightly muddy, overenthusiastic dog leaping up on his expensive clothes. He nearly toppled over, trying to both push and welcome the dog at the same time, then turned to see Flora laughing a few feet away, the fog settling around her like a living thing.

  “Yes, all right, very funny. Thanks for having me attacked by a horse,” he said as she approached.

  “BRAMBLE!” she shouted. “Come here, you bad dog.”

  Bramble totally ignored her, as usual, and bounded off to have an early-morning dip. Joel looked down at his muddied trousers.

  “I wonder if Colton will cover my dry-cleaning costs.”

  “We’ll get Fintan to ask him.”

  He looked at her and smiled. She looked so different from the girl he’d hardly noticed in the office. In the big old sweater, no makeup, just the pink of her cheeks, her hair tumbling out from underneath the cap, and those strange watery eyes.

  He looked at what she was carrying.

  “Is that . . . is that a thermos?”

  “It might be.”

  “Are we going fishing?”

  “Do you want coffee or not?”

  Joel smiled.

  “I want coffee more
than anything in the entire universe.”

  “I thought you’d have been calling room service to get it for you.”

  “They have room service?”

  “Not normally,” said Flora, thinking privately that Inge-Britt might prove amenable in this case. “Maybe if you asked nicely.”

  “I always ask nicely!”

  She gave him a look and he was taken aback.

  “Well, for New York,” he admitted grudgingly.

  Flora poured him a cup, sweet and hot. He took it appreciatively, and even said thank you, and they sat on the harbor wall and looked at the low-rising sun.

  “I can nearly see it, you know,” Joel said, gazing at the horizon. “I can see what Colton sees in this place. It’s like . . . it’s not like anywhere else.”

  The haar had lifted now, and the colors of the dawn were fading in and out of the clouds, giving a striped effect to the water, stippled pink and gold and yellow beneath the eerie white sky.

  “It’s not,” agreed Flora.

  “You look at home here.”

  Flora shrugged.

  “Well. I’m not. Look. The project . . .”

  “I know it’s irregular,” said Joel.

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “I was thinking . . . Did you read my notes?”

  “No,” said Flora. “I was asleep. Do you never sleep? Are you Batman?”

  A thought struck her.

  “That would explain a lot.”

  Joel smiled.

  “Really?”

  “I didn’t read your notes.”

  “Well,” said Joel. “Basically, this is a PR job. If you could organize something like—say—a pop-up shop in that pink building. Get local people on his side. Plus the party. Plus selling your cheese or whatever the hell it is that Fintan wants to do. I mean, that would swing it, wouldn’t it? Convince people that he’s got the best interests of the island at heart. Then it goes our way. Then we take millions of dollars from his future business. I’m being frank with you here.”

  “I see that,” said Flora. She sighed. “But I have a job! A proper one, not running a shop.”

  “That is a proper job,” said Joel. “And also, I have a load of paralegals. Most of whom could handle your briefs.”