Christmas at the Comfort Food Cafe

by Debbie Johnson

  Little do I know. She starts making a wand-waving gesture and segues neatly into miming a person hanging from a noose. That is literally all it takes before Matt shouts out: ‘Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows!’ Ok,she was miming ‘gallows’, but I get it.

  She pauses, gives him a radiant smile, and holds up two fingers.

  ‘Part 2!’ he adds, and everyone bursts into applause. She runs over to him and sits on his knee, and I see that he immediately wraps his arms around her. They are so good together, and I feel a thrill of vicarious pleasure shoot through me. It’s so well deserved.

  One by one, pretty much everyone takes a turn, and I am in hysterics throughout. What makes sense to an inebriated person rarely makes sense to a sober one, and the end result is a mish-mash of flailing arms and legs, strange shapes, face-pulling and in Scrumpy Joe’s case, leaping up and down repeatedly on the spot to successfully act out 21 Jump Street.

  Pretty much my favourite of the night is Edie May, who might be ninety but still has the sense of humour of a nineteen-year-old. She takes those small, careful old-lady steps up to the front of the room, puts her tiny wrinkled hands on her hips, and proceeds to do the most disgustingly suggestive bump and grind I’ve ever seen. At least from someone old enough to be my great grandma.

  I am laughing so hard I can barely breathe, and when I look over at him, I see that Sam has tears streaming down his face and is holding his sides.

  Eventually, after a good couple of minutes of Edie’s frankly horrifying naughtiness, the whole room echoing with laughter, Cherie shouts: ‘Dirty Dancing! For God’s sake, Edie, please, stop!’

  I lean back in my chair and feel in need of an oxygen mask, I’ve been laughing so hard. Sam wipes the tears from his eyes and says: ‘I will never watch that movie again.’

  ‘Well,’ I reply, finally able to breathe, ‘you know what they say. Nobody puts Edie in a corner.’

  By that stage, it’s only me and Sam left to take a turn. Laura calls my name and I get to my feet, still shaking from too much giggling. I take my paper and see written on it ‘Wuthering Heights’. This, I decide, is a tricky one. There are no little words. No clear mime for Wuthering. I could maybe gesture up to the ceiling for Heights, but it would be a while before anyone got that.

  Instead – bearing in mind most of these people are hammered and really won’t remember tomorrow – I decide to go full-on Kate Bush. I grab a tablecloth as a prop and use it like a cape, wafting it around me as I dance and leap and look as balletic as I possibly can. There is a lot of laughter, which I completely understand, and Lizzie randomly cries out: ‘Black Swan – the Magic Mushroom Edition!’, which makes everyone hoot even more.

  I do some swirls and spins and then go for a high leg kick, which isn’t as easy as it sounds in skinny jeans. One of my shoes flies off and clonks Frank on the side of the head. I don’t break character, but I do mouth a quick ‘sorry’ as I flutter around the room.

  By the time I build up to my finale, doing the bit where Kate mimes a window, I am convinced that all is lost – until Sam stands up and yells: ‘I know! Wuthering Heights!’

  I sigh in relief and make that odd nose gesture that for some reason means you’ve got it in charades. Everyone applauds and I take a bow before returning to my seat, where I collapse in a sweaty and way-too-out-of-puff heap. God, that Kate Bush must have been fit.

  ‘That was brilliant,’ he says, patting me on the thigh. ‘A live re-enactment of one of the most erotic memories of my childhood.’

  I’m not quite sure how to reply to this and also don’t have much breath left, so it’s a good thing that Laura finally calls out his name.

  He reads his paper and walks to centre stage. He tells us all it is four words and a film, then bends over and makes a blowing gesture with his hands that to me instantly says ‘this is a man in the throes of a huge fart attack.’

  That’s all it takes.

  ‘Gone With The Wind!’ I shout, while everyone else is still looking confused. He jumps up straight and grins at me across the room.

  More applause, as he makes his way back to me. Laura puts some music on, and a few of them start dancing. I am still worn out from Heathcliffing my way through my routine and stay put.

  ‘So,’ says Sam, sitting so close I can feel his jean-clad thighs touching mine. ‘Was that just as erotic for you?’

  I burst out laughing, which is obviously what he intended, but don’t answer. I’m a bit worried about what I might say, and I’m also aware that we are under surveillance. Laura is studying me from across the room, a hopeful smile on her face.

  I know what she’s thinking. That I get him, and he gets me.

  The only thing she doesn’t get, of course, is the fact that I don’t want anybody to get me right now – because I’m not all that worth having.

  Chapter 7

  We are sitting in the snug of a pub known affectionately – apparently – as the Blue-Arse Fly. This is, I think, because its actual name is the Blue Bottle, and the swinging wooden sign outside it bears a painted version of an olde-worlde-looking glass jar in a dazzling shade of cerulean.

  It’s almost a week since I arrived in Budbury and I am settling slightly better into life here. That’s partly because everyone else has been busy – Lizzie and Nate back in school, Laura and Cherie cooking up wedding plans, Willow running the café without them.

  This has come as a slight relief, and I have enjoyed the last few days – strolling on the beach with Midgebo, collecting interesting-looking sticks and rocks that I must remember to put back; getting to know a few more of the locals, and taking tea with Edie May.

  I’ve done some work, taken a lot of photos, eaten enough to sink a juggernaut and walked for miles and miles and miles. The weather has been cold and clear and crisp, and the views out over the sea have been almost life-changing in their beauty.

  I’ve watched a box set of Mad Men that I found in the games room at the Rockery; practised my Betty Draper accent as a result; listened to a lot of Cherie’s vinyl and spoken to my parents a couple of times.

  I’ve been lazily busy doing nothing, and it’s been very pleasant.

  What I’ve not been doing, though, is engaging with the casual flirtation that Surfer Sam has been offering up on a saucy plate. At least I’ve been trying not to – it goes against all instincts, if I’m honest. Sam is a coastal ranger, and most of his work is outdoors – most of it, in fact, seems to happen in and around the exact location of the cafe. I see him driving around in his jeep, wearing his cargo pants and thick green fleece, and then pretend I haven’t seen him at all.

  So far he’s joined me for a walk on the beach – pointing out fascinating geological features as we went, in an accent that made even that sound sexy – and asked me out for a drink approximately eight times. I’ve always said no, because a) I don’t drink, and b) I am on a sex diet. Not that I used those exact words.

  He’s presented me with a ‘perfectly formed ammonite’, adding ‘there’s more where that came from,’ and a cheeky wink; he’s shared his coffee flask with me down on the beach and he’s smoked several more imaginary ciggies.

  I know – from the general way the man behaves and from what Laura has told me – that none of this is to be taken too seriously. He’s an attractive and naturally flirtatious creature. He flexes his charm muscles on all the ladies in the café, and takes the resulting hoots of derision from Cherie and Willow with great humour. He’s grown up surrounded by women – a mother and a huge gaggle of sisters back in Dublin – and quite clearly likes them.

  The problem doesn’t lie with him. It lies with me. I made this stupid rule for myself – no more one-night stands – and now I have to live with it. So far, it’s been easy. Maybe I just haven’t met anybody tempting in Manchester for a while. Maybe, if I’m being unkind to myself, I’ve simply crossed all the available men there off my ‘been there, done that’ list.

  Sam, however, is a slightly different proposition. He’
s funny and kind and gorgeous and, well, if I’m blunt, looks like he’d be a good shag. I am tempted, and for me, that’s not a good sign. I’ve worked stupidly hard at cleaning my life up and it’s been a battle I’ve fought alone. I’ve not joined support groups or been to the GP or even enlisted the help of my family.

  I quit everything, cold turkey, the day I went with Laura and Lizzie and Nate to the hospital where David was lying, hooked up to the machines that were keeping him alive. The machines that Laura had to decide to turn off. Watching her agony, watching the kids veer between tearful and confused, watching David himself – a man who had been part of my life as long as I could remember – made me realise that I needed to be strong. For myself and for them.

  I was never an alcoholic. Never an addict in the proper sense of the word. I had no physical problem with stopping and always had done, periodically, just to prove to myself that I could. If I wanted to, I could go weeks without indulging – but I’d fallen into a pattern of behaviour that made all my self-destructive tendencies seem normal. It was a part of me that had become accepted – until the day I decided they were unacceptable.

  I’m not expecting medals for this decision. It was my own fault I was in that mess in the first place. But somehow, they’re all tied in with each other – it’s as though I can do absolutely nothing in moderation, including abstinence. I am possibly doing myself a disservice, but it feels a little like if I have one cigarette, I will immediately turn into a cocaine-snorting nymphomaniac sleeping in a crack house on a bed of vodka bottles.

  Same goes for one drink. Or one casual sexual encounter. So, for me, Surfer Sam is more than a cute guy with a good knack for saucy one-liners.

  For me, he is a potential disaster.

  Right now, the potential disaster is at the bar, with my sister, getting the drinks in. Frank and Cherie were with us earlier, but went home after a couple of pints because ‘we’re just old fogies’. Neither of them will be seeing seventy again, but they’re both fit as fiddles and have none of the fogey about them – I suspected they were going home for some hanky panky, but didn’t like to ponder it too deeply.

  I am left sitting at a long, wooden table with Matt, the Hot Vet. The pub is busy and we have a spot right by a gorgeous stone fireplace. The mantelpiece is decorated with holly wreaths and every now and then I hear Christmas music wafting in from the main bar. Less than three weeks to go until the Big Day, and then it’s all over for another year – thank God. Although, to be fair, it’s all his fault in the first place.

  Matt is, as usual, on the silent side. He’s dressed up – by countryside standards – in a smart blue shirt and clean jeans. He’s making his first drink last, and also, I can’t help but noticing, constantly looking at his watch. As I am the designated driver for the night, I’m not sure why he’s so concerned about the time. Or why he’s lagging behind on the drinking front, nursing the pint of Guinness in front of him.

  ‘Do you have somewhere else to be?’ I finally ask. Matt has made my sister the happiest she’s been for years, but this is the first time I have been alone with him. I fight down a sudden urge to quiz him about his prospects and ask him if his intentions are honourable.

  ‘Ah… no,’ he replies, pulling his cuff sharply down so it covers his watch, looking off to the side as though he has something to hide. He wouldn’t make the best of poker players and I think I might have an idea of what is going on here.

  ‘You remember in those early days, with Laura?’ I ask, innocently. His face immediately breaks out into a smile, which is super-sweet. He nods, and I carry on.

  ‘Those days before you properly got together? When Frank and Cherie were still trying to match you up, and kept trying to arrange dates?’

  He is looking increasingly uncomfortable now, which confirms my suspicions. I press ahead, like Carrie Mathison interrogating a suspect in Homeland.

  ‘And that time you all agreed to go out for dinner together, and then Frank and Cherie both came down with mystery illnesses at the last minute, so you two ended up alone?’

  ‘I do remember that,’ he replies, one corner of his mouth twitching into a reluctant grin. I know from my sister that that night ended up with the two of them rolling around in a wheat field, so I’m not surprised it’s a happy place for him.

  ‘Well you’ll also remember that both of you were annoyed with them for setting you up. For manipulating you. For trying to back you into a corner. If that were to happen to me and Sam – say, for example, if you and Laura were to suddenly have to dash home any time soon, to deal with a Midgebo-based emergency or a made-up disaster back at Hyacinth – I’d be annoyed too. Just saying.’

  I sip my Coke and narrow my eyes at him over the top of the glass. I see various emotions flicker across his face, and his expression eventually settles into one of amusement. I realise that he is trying not to laugh at me, which certainly never seemed to happen to Carrie Mathison. I must be doing this wrong.

  ‘I can understand that,’ he says, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest in a slightly challenging way. ‘But I think you’re forgetting something.’

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘You’re forgetting the way it ended. And the fact that Cherie and Frank were one hundred per cent right. Sometimes we just need a little nudge to understand what’s good for us.’

  I would love to debate this one with him, but he is spared my tirade by the arrival of my sister and Surfer Sam. Sam is also dressed up, by which I mean his cargo pants are clean and he’s wearing Timberlands instead of his usual steel toe-caps. His unruly blonde hair is freshly washed and his blue eyes are sparkling over the pint glass he is holding.

  Laura drops four bags of peanuts on the tabletop and places another Coke in front of me. She does not, I note, sit down, even though Sam settles himself in the corner seat, stretching his legs out in front of him so his feet snake under the table.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, looking and sounding flustered. ‘But we have to go. I just had a call from Lizzie and apparently the dishwasher has flooded the kitchen… Matt, are you still all right to drive? It’s lucky you’ve been a slow coach on the drinking front tonight!’

  I have to admit, she is a much better actress than I would have anticipated, and of course she has no way of knowing that she’s already been rumbled. Matt laughs out loud and walks over to wrap his arms around her. He’s so big and tall, all I can still see of her is crazy brown curls popping around his chest.

  ‘Yep, that’s really lucky, isn’t it?’ he says, grinning at me over her head. ‘Come on. We better go home and stop the cottage from turning into Waterworld.’

  ‘Shall I come and help?’ I ask, pretending to be concerned. ‘All hands to the deck?’

  ‘Oh, no, no, don’t worry!’ says Laura, a bit too quickly. ‘She said it was only a small flood, nothing me and Matt can’t handle. You stay here with Sam and enjoy your night.’

  Matt is, by this stage, in absolute hysterics, and my sister is giving him daggers. Sam is looking mystified by the whole thing, which at least shows he wasn’t in on it. I shall refrain from beating him to death with a packet of Planters purely for that reason.

  ‘Come on, you nutter,’ Matt says to Laura, leading her away by the hand. He pauses in the doorway, and gives me a little salute. I return it, grinning back at him. She is a nutter. And it’s nice to see, even if it is irritating in this particular instance.

  I hear them chattering away to each other as they walk to the carpark, towards Matt’s truck. The truck he was allegedly leaving here overnight. I glance out of the window and see her leaning against the door of the van, creased in two she’s laughing so hard. Looks like he told her.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Sam asks, frowning in confusion. ‘And does this mean we can eat all the bags of nuts?’

  By this point I have already torn open a packet and shoved a mouthful in. I hold up my finger to gesture for him to wait for a second before I can speak. Or at least speak wi
thout being totally gross.

  ‘They’re trying to set us up,’ I say finally. ‘Or at least Laura is. I just can’t believe she’s stooped so low as to involve the dishwasher in all this.’

  ‘Yeah. That is low,’ he replies, mulling over what I’ve told him, while he also eats some peanuts. I look at him and he looks at me. We stay like this for a few seconds, until he winks at me and breaks the moment. It makes me laugh out loud, it’s done with such a Carry On-style exaggeration.

  ‘Like what you see, little lady?’ he asks.

  ‘No. I’m just wondering how good you are at catching moving peanuts in your mouth.’

  ‘It’s one of my all-time specialist skills. Take me for a test drive, if you like.’

  He leans back and angles his head into a position that suggests he has played this game before. He opens his mouth and I do an upward throw that arcs high before it drops, and he darts his face rapidly to one side so it lands perfectly.

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘You are almost at international level there.’

  ‘I know,’ he replies, looking proud of himself. ‘I could have played for Ireland. So. Laura’s trying to fix us up, is she?’

  ‘Yes. I think she’s actually been trying to fix us up since the summer.’

  ‘The photos, you mean?’

  ‘Yeah. The ones of you parading around almost naked, strutting your stuff like you were modelling for a Coastal Ranger calendar.’

  ‘That,’ he answers, pointing at me, ‘is actually a genius of an idea. We could do it for charity, with strategically placed belemnites over our man parts…’

  ‘How big a belemnite?’

  ‘That’d be telling, now, wouldn’t it? So – how do you feel about this whole setting-up business? I have to be truthful. I think it’s inevitable. You and me, getting together.’