I grab my phone, which is skittering around on the table, and see a number I don’t recognise. I ignore it, and concentrate on bringing myself back to consciousness, trying to remove the very squashed walnut from my skin. It doesn’t want to come off, and clings like a limpet to my cheek.
The phone rings again, and I swear at it, advising it to go and do things to itself that are obviously impossible, as phones don’t have arses.
I pick it up, noting that it is now 11.30pm, and hit ‘answer’.
‘Hey – it’s me. Fancy a walk?’
It’s Sam. The accent is a dead giveaway, and he sounds slightly tipsy. Monday is one of his days off, which explains that at least.
‘No, I don’t fancy a walk. Why are you calling me at this ungodly hour?’
I would ask how he got my number, but the answer will obviously begin with an L, end with an A, and have an AUR in the middle.
‘Well I was just passing…’
‘No you weren’t. I’m in the middle of nowhere and you live in the village, three doors down from the pub.’
‘I was just passing,’ he repeats, ignoring me, ‘and I saw that your light was on.’
‘That means nothing. I could have been asleep.’
‘You’re not asleep, though, are you? You’re talking to me.’
‘I could be sleep-talking,’ I reply, straightening out my legs and shaking the cramps from my toes.
‘Well, if that’s the case, why don’t you sleep-walk downstairs and I’ll show you all the tiny nocturnal creatures that only come out at night.’
‘Is that a euphemism?’
‘Only if you want it to be. Though if we’re going with that, forget I said tiny. Come on, Becca. Take pity on me. I’m all beered up with nowhere to go, sitting down on the beach all alone. Frank jibbed me off an hour ago, Matt’s over at Laura’s and I have no playmates. Take pity on a poor wee Irish lad, why don’t you?’
He lays on the brogue thick as butter at that point, which does at least make me laugh.
‘Five minutes,’ I say, smiling. ‘I need to de-walnut myself. Don’t ask.’
It takes slightly longer than that, as my mind is so fuzzy I am initially bouncing off walls as I stagger around the flat trying to find my fleece. I avoid looking in a mirror, knowing that my hair will be as stylish as Donald Trump’s. Besides, any man who wakes a woman up in what is – for her – the middle of the night deserves what he gets.
I take the tie-dye blanket down as well, as I know it is likely to be below freezing point outside.
I find Sam waiting on one of the boulders on the bay, stretched out flat, arms dangling loose at his sides, as though he is moonbathing. The waves are rolling up onto the sand, frothing silver and coming close, but I assume that we are safe – him being a coastal expert and all. Although he is a drunken coastal expert, so I’ll keep an eye on the situation.
I trudge towards him, glad of the blanket, and kick one of his ankles with my boot. He jerks back to life and sits up, presenting me with such a killer of a smile that I can’t help but return it. He is dressed in his usual ensemble of cargo pants and fleece, and also has a woollen hat pulled down around his ears, blonde hair peeking out around the edges.
He pats his lap, as though expecting me to actually go and sit on it, and I ignore him and plonk myself down next to him on the boulder instead. The snow seems to have been washed away now, although I can still see starlight reflecting off the dusty white surfaces of the cliffs further along the coast.
‘So, where are all the tiny creatures?’ I say, gazing around us.
‘Ah… well, some of them are so tiny you can’t see them. Some of them you might just hear, like the occasional tawny owl. There’ll be badgers around, but not on the beach. Maybe bats.’
‘Mainly just drunken Irish men, then?’
‘Yes. There’s always at least one of those knocking around all environments, urban or rural, in my experience. Give me some of that blanket. Your hair looks interesting.’
I pass him some of the tie-dye and we end up squashed together, wrapped up in it, which was undoubtedly his plan all along.
‘My hair took me hours to style, you pig. How dare you?’
He laughs and sneaks his arm around my shoulders. It is cold, and I am tired, and I give into it, leaning against him and enjoying the contact. This is harmless, I tell myself, knowing that I am possibly lying.
‘This is nice,’ he says, pulling me closer and sniffing my interesting hair.
‘It’s not disgusting,’ I reply, noting his aromas too – the outdoors, woodsy shower gel, beer.
‘It could be even nicer if you invited me back up to the flat, you know?’ he adds, nudging me.
‘Not going to happen.’
‘Why not? Go on, give me one good reason. We’re both consenting adults. I know you fancy me – oh yes you do, don’t bother spluttering! And, you know, I’m not a complete arsehole.’
‘That rules you out, then,’ I say, removing the hand that has found a place on my thigh. ‘I only ever sleep with complete arseholes.’
‘Is that a rule, or more of a guideline?’
‘A cast-iron rule. I find it’s much easier that way.’
He pauses for a moment, and I wonder if he might have gone to sleep again.
‘I know you’re joking,’ he says, eventually, in a serious tone that makes me glad I’m not looking at him. ‘But I wonder why you’d even think like that. It’s all a cover, this bluster of yours, isn’t it? And that includes sleeping with arseholes. Maybe if you took a chance on a nice guy, a decent guy who actually sees something in you beyond the bluster, something good would happen. Something different.’
I stay quiet. I am scared of what might come out of my mouth if I speak, and need a moment to gather my thoughts. I’m still sleepy, and I’m crushed up against a very hard male body for the first time in years, and the person who owns that body is someone who I could very easily get to like. A bit too much.
‘I suppose,’ I reply, when the silence has stretched to breaking point, ‘that you could be right. But I’m just not ready for anything like that right now, Sam. And I know you could persuade me otherwise. I know that if you kissed me, I’d like it. I’m just asking you… not to. Is that okay?’
He gently strokes my hair and nuzzles into me. I can feel his breath warm on my face, and the reassuring grip of his arms around me.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says, his voice light again – deliberately so, I know – ‘I’m not going to kiss you. I’ve had a skinful and wouldn’t be at my best.
‘When I do kiss you, Becca, it’ll be because we both want it, and we’re both ready. And it will be an absolute cracker of a kiss, I promise.’
Chapter 10
I feel like I have a bit of a hangover, which isn’t really fair. I didn’t get much sleep, though, after that conversation with Sam, and have now been plunged into one of my worst nightmares.
Really, it is hideous. Scary beyond belief. Stomach-churning.
I am trapped in a Christmas-themed wedding-dress shop.
The café is closed and I am here with Cherie and Laura, for no apparent reason. I would have been much happier at home, shoving my hand in a blender and pressing the ‘boost’ button.
Instead, I am sitting on a red-velvet chaise longue in Bath, listening to Bing Crosby tell me what colour Christmas is. The whole place is bedecked with ‘tasteful’ decorations – not that there is any such thing, in my opinion – and the tree is topped with a tiara and veil. It’s like my own private Ida-hell.
Luckily, I think, we are nearing the end. We’ve had lunch – very pleasant – and the ladies have had a few drinks. I am driving, which always neatly gets me out of the drinks situation, and now they are having a final prance around in front of the mirrors.
Cherie’s dress is, I have to say, perfect. Perfect for her, anyway. It’s red satin, fitted in a simple Empire-line shape that flatters her larger-than-life figure. I can imagine that on Chris
tmas Eve, when she ties the knot and has her hair and face done, she will look stunning. Like a Hollywood starlet sixty years on.
Laura, her matron of honour, is wearing a similarly plain dress in deep green, which makes her eyes pop and her figure sizzle. It’s going to be one sexy wedding.
‘It could be you in the wedding dress, soon, my love,’ says Cherie, reaching out to tuck one of Laura’s ever-stray curls behind her ear. ‘You never know.’
Laura blushes, which she doesn’t do that often, and looks bewildered.
‘Oh, I’m not sure about that,’ she mutters, defensively, which suggests to me that she has at the very least considered the possibility. I’ve also noticed that although she is still wearing her wedding and engagement rings, they are now on her right hand – the symbolism of which isn’t lost on me. David is still part of her, but she’s acknowledging the fact that she is moving on.
Personally, I can’t see any reason why there won’t be another wedding at some point. One look at her and Matt tells you everything you need to know – there is so much kindness there between them, so much care and respect mixed in with the naked lust. They are perfect together, and it’s only their pasts holding them back.
Which, I suppose, is a sentence that could be applied to all of us, in some way or another. I have refused to join in with the fancy-dress show, or with the free champagne that is being constantly topped up by a sales assistant who seems to be already half-cut herself.
‘If you and Matt do get married,’ I say, sipping my coffee, ‘can we do it in the Caribbean? And not at Christmas?’
‘If me and Matt do get married,’ she replies, pointing a finger at me and laughing, ‘I’m going to make you wear a bridesmaid’s dress that looks like a giant meringue. With hair like Cyndi Lauper in the eighties.’
‘Funnily enough, that’s always been a deeply held dream of mine, so bring it on… now, not to rush you lovely ladies or anything, but how much longer do you think we are going to be?’
‘Why?’ says Cherie, starting to unbutton her dress with absolutely no shame. I am told by Laura that she often walks round naked, and hope I am not about to be treated to a sneak preview of Frank’s wedding night.
‘Do you have a hot date you need to dash back for? I hear you were out on the beach with Surfer Sam late last night…’
I have absolutely zero idea how she knows this. I’ve not mentioned it to anybody, and as far as I know he hasn’t, either. I am beginning to suspect she has some kind of giant Eye of Sauron-type affair going on at Frank’s farmhouse, and uses it keep us all under a benign state of surveillance. Cherie Moon – Big Sister.
I can tell from Laura’s briefly widening eyes and the way her mouth purses into a surprised ‘O’, that it’s news to her as well. News she likes the sound of. Bloody hell. It’s like living in a romance novel with these two around.
‘No, I’m just aware of the fact that it’s started to snow again and somebody needs to get you two old lushes home safe and sound.’
Laura peers through the velvet curtain that leads through to the main shop floor, and nods as she sees that I am right. It’s falling in thick clumps, the wind blowing it around in small tornadoes and she knows that we have at least an hour and a half’s drive ahead of us, even if the traffic is kind.
The girls – and despite the fact that they are both older than me, I can use no other word to describe this giddy pair – speed it up after that. The dresses are proclaimed perfect, as neither of them plans to either gain or lose huge amounts of weight in the next few weeks, and packed away along with various accessories. Willow’s frock is also boxed up, on a hope-for-the-best basis as she couldn’t get away long enough for the fitting.
We drive home listening to Abba’s greatest hits, which is the only compromise we can reach. Laura wanted her tried-and-tested driving music, Meatloaf, and Cherie was lobbying for Bob Dylan. We all quite happily sing along to Mamma Mia, and arrive back in Budbury some time later.
The snow has settled a little here, but not too seriously, and I do a quick round trip to drop Cherie off at the farm and Laura at the Rockery.
I was intending to go straight back to the flat, but instead find myself just calling off at the café for supplies. For some reason, I don’t want to be alone quite yet. This is an unusual feeling for me, and I have the sneaking suspicion that all of the girliness of our day has rubbed off on me.
I have made up a take-away pack of leftover smoked bacon and wild-mushroom quiche, some thick slabs of home-made granary bread and a couple of banana muffins that I know will still be fine; three portions of each. There are some distinct advantages to living above a café.
Once I’m done, I get back into the car and head for the village. It’s not a long walk – probably about ten minutes along the footpaths – but I don’t fancy it in the snow.
I park up by the side of the community hall, and first make a quick detour into the Pet Cemetery. I only know it’s here because Lizzie told me, and I want to pay my final respects to Jimbo, Laura and David’s late, great Labrador. He passed away over the summer after a long life full of sausages, chewing shoes and inappropriate farting.
The snow has settled properly in this small, square patch of remembrance, and the tiny graves and crosses are coated in white. I notice miniature paw prints and the tracks left by birds, and see a vibrant green and red holly bush giving the place some colour.
I wander aimlessly for a few minutes, collar turned up against the wind, taking a sad pleasure in reading the stories behind the graves – like Poplar, the cat who thought he was a dog; and Nibbles, the ‘best rabbit that ever lived’, and Dave (great name for a dog), the German Shepherd who loved snuggles.
It’s a bittersweet place, melancholy and yet warm, and I say a quick prayer for Jimbo once I find him. I add in David as well, feeling slightly foolish – my religious beliefs are pretty much non-existent, but somehow I feel it is the right thing to do. I ask them both to keep an eye out for Laura and Nate and Lizzie, and even wish them a happy Christmas. Unheard of. I must be going soft in my old age.
Mission accomplished, I walk back into the main street of the village and get my bag full of food from the boot of the car. I pass the pub and the butcher’s shop and the gift store and the darkened windows of the tearooms, and eventually come to the door I am looking for.
The place where, for some reason, I have been drawn on this snowy afternoon, sleep-deprived and light-headed with forced jollity. The place I think, without any evidence at all, will give me a bit of peace.
I knock on the brightly coloured door of the tiny terrace, and wait for an answer.
The door is pulled open and she stands there, all five foot nothing of her, wearing a beige cardigan and tan-coloured tights and a pair of fur-lined tartan slippers.
‘Becca!’ says Edie May, her face screwing up in delight. ‘Come on in, my lovely – you’ll catch your death out there!’
Chapter 11
Edie’s house, much like Edie herself, is tiny, neat and quirky. There are lots of old-lady touches – like those lacy covers on the arms of the chairs, and a toilet-roll holder in the shape of a knitted doll, and a collection of pottery shire horses. But there are also some flash gadgets that I’m sure have been provided by her extensive family of nieces and nephews and their children.
She has a cable TV box with a zillion channels – ‘but never a thing to watch!’ – and her own iPad, which she seems to use as a coaster. There’s a telephone with huge buttons, obviously designed to help someone with ninety-year-old eyesight, and an electronic weather forecasting device that I’d quite like myself. I could press it every morning in Manchester and get told by a robotic lady voice: ‘The weather is shit today.’
In one corner is a small but very exotically decorated fake Christmas tree, which screams Cherie Moon at me – because I’m not sure that Edie would have chosen to dangle glitter-sprayed ornamental gourds from the branches.
Despite never having married o
r had her own children – and despite the fact that she has apparently lived under the illusion that her long-dead fiancé is alive and kicking for many years now; upstairs asleep at the moment, I’m told – she is clearly a much-loved and much-cherished person. I know that Cherie in particular adores her, as does Laura, and it’s very easy to see why.
As she bustles around in her miniscule kitchen, she chatters away about the weather and about the wedding and about the wonderful time we’re all going to have at it. She exclaims with huge joy about the food I’ve brought, tucking away her fiance’s portion in the fridge so he can enjoy it later, and eventually settles down in an armchair so big and so squishy it looks like a throne. A very homely throne, like Edie is the Queen of Easy Living.
I am on an equally comfy sofa, a huge mug of steaming tea in front of me, along with a banana muffin. I’m not really hungry at all, and am only eating so I can keep Edie company as she pecks at her cake like a little sparrow.
‘So,’ she says, after she’s licked her wrinkled fingertips free of crumbs, ‘how are you enjoying your time here, my lovely? Getting plenty of rest?’
The way her eyes flicker over me tells me she suspects otherwise. That, given the dark circles under my eyes and my zombie-like state, would probably not take a genius to figure out. Still, she looks a bit like Miss Marple, so I automatically respect her detective skills.
‘I’m not very much into rest,’ I reply, leaning back into the hug of the sofa and giving her what I hope is a reassuring smile.
‘No, I see that. A restless soul! But, you see, things are different here. You’re away from your real life now. All you have to do is give it a chance, and I’m sure something magical will happen.’
Hmmm. I fight back a comment about magically reappearing fiancés, because that would be cruel and unnecessary. Edie, to be fair, has lived for nine whole decades of Budbury life and probably knows more than I do. About everything, ever.
‘I’m not sure about magic, really, Edie. To be honest, I’d settle for a good night’s sleep.’
Christmas at the Comfort Food Cafe Page 8