Christmas at the Comfort Food Cafe

by Debbie Johnson

  He gestures to a table in the corner, and I follow him over, clutching a fresh coffee and nodding to Ivy and Sophie as we pass. I notice Sophie, who is twenty and home from university for Christmas, eyeing him up as we go by, and can’t really blame her. He’s quite the specimen as he takes off his body-warmer and unfurls himself into a chair.

  I sit down, and stay quiet, fearing that if I speak, I might suggest something inappropriate involving a can of squirty cream.

  ‘You’re looking at me funny,’ he says, as he stirs his Pot Noodle and takes his first mouthful. A look of pure bliss crosses his face. He’s easily pleased.

  ‘Am I?’ I ask, leaning back and crossing my arms over my chest.

  ‘Yep. You’re looking at me… lustfully. I suspect you’re having dirty thoughts.’

  ‘I cannot confirm or deny that accusation,’ I reply.

  ‘You’re looking at me lustfully because I am a well-fit Irish stud muffin.’

  ‘That might be true. But you’re currently a well-fit Irish stud muffin with Pot Noodle hanging out of the corner of his mouth.’

  He wipes his face and laughs, not in the slightest bit embarrassed. I like that about him. I like most things about him, I realise – not just the way he looks, but the way he smiles and jokes with everyone. His honesty and openness and his love of all things to do with his job. The way he simply seems to make people feel better, just by being around. I’ve known him for less than a fortnight and already know I will miss him when I get home.

  ‘Been for a run,’ he says, after a few more moments of eating.

  ‘I guessed that,’ I answer. ‘I’m quite the detective.’

  ‘Bit sweaty now. Going home for a shower. You could always come with me, if you want to wash some of those dirty thoughts away… it’s big enough for two.’

  I smile at him and shake my head. The thought of Sam naked, running water splashing over those broad shoulders, over the pretty hot tattoos I know he has under that lycra top, is not a displeasing one. But… well. No.

  ‘I appreciate the offer,’ I say, biting my lip a little as I look at him. I’m feeling a bit nervous, but decide to push on. Opening up to Edie has done me the world of good, so I might as well see if I’m on a roll.

  ‘The thing is, Sam…’

  I pause, trying to choose the right words, and he pauses along with me, putting his fork down and pushing the pot away.

  ‘Yes?’ he says, after the pause seems to transform into a complete full stop. ‘What is the thing, Becca? Go on. Joking aside, you can trust me. What is the thing?’

  I am at a crossroads here. I know I could say something random, like ‘the thing is, I have a hot date with Sylvester Stallone this morning’, or ‘the thing is, I’m like the Wicked Witch of the West, and I dissolve under running water’. I know he’d understand, that he’d appreciate I was stalling, and that he’d let me. He’s a very gentle soul beneath the charm.

  But also… I could not do that. I could do as he says and trust him. That’s not something I normally do – but as Edie pointed out the night before, my ‘normal’ just doesn’t seem to be working out too well for me any more. I sigh out my indecision and take a leap of faith.

  ‘I’ve had problems, over the years, you know,’ I say, holding the coffee mug like a comforter as I meet his eyes. They’re blue and kind and looking at me very intensely. ‘With all sorts of things. Too many recreational drugs. Too much booze. Too many meaningless relationships…’

  He simply nods, and lets me catch my breath before I continue.

  ‘But I kind of gave it all up, a few years ago. All of it. At once. And in my mind, it’s all connected – a whole pattern of behaviour that I’m trying to leave behind. A package deal I want rid of. So, I might be bonkers – in fact I am – but if I have a drink, I feel like I won’t stop. If I have a puff of one of those special cigarettes we all know Cherie has, I’ll be lost. And if I get in the shower with you, Sam…’

  ‘Then you think it’ll all come tumbling back down on you.’

  ‘Exactly. At the moment, all my vices are still too tied in with each other. I hope, one day, that I’ll be able to separate them all out. Have a glass of wine. Have a… well, spend the night with someone. But at the moment, I’m just not sure enough of myself to risk it. Does any of that make any sense at all?’

  He’s silent for a moment, looking through the windows down to the sea. Then he reaches out, and places his hand over mine. It stays there, gentle and tender, until he gives it a quick squeeze and smiles at me.

  ‘Bizarrely, it does make sense. I think you’re under-estimating yourself, and I think that at some point, you’re going to have to test some of those theories out. Self-control like that can only last so long. But I understand. And much as I’d like to whisk you back home with me, I get what you’re saying, and why you’re saying it. You’re safe with me, Becca. Because while I might come across as a bit of a lightweight, I’d never mess with anyone’s mental health. It’s too precious. I’m glad you told me, and I’d like you to know just one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That I’m here if you need me. And no, before you say it, I don’t mean if you decide you need a one-night stand – although hey, I’m only flesh and blood, and I probably wouldn’t say no – I mean if you need to talk about it. Or if something goes wrong, and you fall off that tower you’ve got yourself perched on, all alone. Just promise me that if it does, if you need help, you’ll come and get me, okay? Because you’re not in Manchester now. You’re here, with us, and you don’t actually need to do it all alone, all right?’

  I’m feeling a little teary-eyed by this point, and am also conscious of the fact that Cherie and Willow are pretending to chat among themselves by the counter, but are actually watching us like benign hawks.

  I stand up. Shake out my limbs. Lean down to drop a casual kiss on Sam’s blonde head. And say: ‘I promise, Sam. And… thank you.’

  Chapter 14

  It’s happening. It’s really happening – exactly the way Cherie had predicted. We are in a tinsel-coated function room with an actual glitterball hanging from the ceiling and the DJ is rocking out the Christmas play-list from hell.

  Everyone – including Edie – is dancing in a big circle, kicking their legs and shrieking along to ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day’.

  Everyone apart from me, that is. I am sitting quietly in the corner with a Diet Coke, hoping nobody notices my absence, already feeling a bit overwhelmed by all the ‘pampering’ we’ve endured through the day.

  I am thoroughly exfoliated, thoroughly buffed, thoroughly moisturised, and thoroughly miserable. There is a room upstairs with my name on it, and I am yearning for my bed.

  I glance at my watch and see it is only 10pm. I then glance at the dancing circle, and see that they are showing no signs of tiring. Cherie, Laura, Willow, Ivy and Sophie, and some ladies I don’t even know but look like they went to the same School of Rock Chic that Cherie attended – all long hair and reckless abandon and bare feet.

  We’re at a place called Wildbriar Manor, and it’s literally in the middle of nowhere. The grounds are perfectly coiffed and look like they’ve been pampered themselves, and a light dusting of snow has coated everything I can see through the floor-to-ceiling windows outside. The building is old – the kind of old that comes with mellow stone and thatched outbuildings – and has probably seen a thing or two in its time.

  Probably, though, not Edie May – a ninety-year-old dancing queen wearing black leggings, a stick on pink bunny tail and bouncing rabbit ears. Or Cherie and her posse. Or the men, who I know are still outside, drinking in a heated marquee after a day of being macho. It’s a strange segregation, and I have a feeling that before the night is out, at least some of the hens and the stags will manage to be somehow reunited.

  I am half hoping that they all come back in before the end of the disco, as I would pay good money to see Matt, who can be slightly uptight if Laura’s not with
him, busting some moves to Slade.

  I see Laura herself, flushed with all the dancing – and possibly all the gin and tonics she’s been necking – break away from the group and walk towards me. Her hair is flying in wild curls, and her rabbit ears are flapping as she approaches. The pink strand of hair she used to have has now been dyed green, so it will better match the bridesmaid dress she’ll be wearing at the wedding in a couple of weeks’ time.

  She flops down next to me and takes a swig of my Coke without asking. I resist the temptation to stab her in the hand with a fork.

  ‘Uggh,’ she says, wrinkling her face up in disgust. ‘It’s just Coke! I thought there’d be some Jack Daniels in it. What’s up? You don’t have to drive anywhere tonight.’

  ‘You never know. I might need to ferry someone to A&E for a hip replacement the way this shindig’s shaping up. It’s like Glastonbury at a nursing home.’

  ‘Cherie’s already been there, done that on the hip replacement, and her new one seems to be bionic… I think it’d take more than a bit of bopping to break any of these ladies, don’t you? I know this is your idea of hell, but I’m having a ball. Get yourself a proper drink, you’ll enjoy it more – or at least hate it less.’

  I look at my sister, and try to assess how drunk she is. On a scale of one to ten, I’d say she’s only at a six, so I decide – again – to take the plunge. Sam had a point about me not doing everything on my own, and I can only keep my shameful sobriety a secret for so long. Because stupidly, it does feel somehow shameful – not the fact that I’m sober, but the fact that I’ve never shared any of it with her.

  I had my reasons. She was too fragile before, too caught up in her own justifiable grief to be lumbered with anything else. But now? Now she is laughing and smiling again. She’s growing. She’s found her place in life – and, from the dreamy expression that appears on her face whenever she mentions him, Matt is also proving to be more than adequate in the boudoir department.

  She’ll never forget David, which is as it should be, but she’s so much stronger – maybe strong enough now that I can show a bit of weakness.

  ‘That’s the thing, sis. I don’t do that any more,’ I say, hoping she can hear me above the racket.

  ‘Do what? What thing?’

  She looks confused, and I don’t blame her.

  ‘I don’t drink. I don’t do drugs. I don’t sleep around. I don’t do any of it any more.’

  She stares at me, frowning as she tries to register what I’ve said, the look on her face telling me it simply does not compute.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she replies. ‘You’ve always done those things. It’s part of what makes you… you. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying they were good things – but… why? And when?’

  ‘The day David died,’ I answer, simply, giving her a few moments for her mind to catch up with the new reality. The new reality where her crazy, rock ‘n’ roll party-girl sister has turned into the most boring woman on the face of the planet.

  To give her her due, she figures it out pretty quickly. She might spend half her life experimenting with icing sugar, but she’s not stupid.

  ‘The day David died…’ she repeats, whispering the words. For a moment, the room is quiet, as the DJ eases into the next song. It’s blissful right up until the moment that ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas Time’ starts up, and everyone begins to sing along with it. Ah, how I love the festive season.

  ‘You did it for me,’ she says, eventually. ‘For us. You cleaned up your act because I needed you…’

  She lays a warm hand over mine, lacing her fingers into my fingers, and I see tears suddenly swimming in the green of her eyes. Irritatingly, the same seems to start happening to me, in some kind of freaky sympathy response, and I blink away the moisture. I. Will. Not. Cry.

  ‘Not just for you,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘That might have been the initial reason, but now I know it was the best thing for me as well. It probably saved my life, if I’m honest – you know how I was.’

  ‘I do know how you were,’ she replies, smiling sadly. ‘And I never quite figured it out. It all got so much worse after that Christmas you split up with Shaun. You partied before then, but after that, it all just got so much more… self-destructive. And I never knew why. I still don’t. What happened to you, Becca?’

  ‘That’s a story for another day. Can’t do too much sharing in one go, Laura, I’ve got a rep to protect.’

  She smiles and nods, and squeezes my hand.

  ‘All right. I’ll hold you to that. I’m still struggling to get my head around this one… nothing? Really? You don’t do any of it any more?’

  ‘Nope. I am Clean-Living Cathy.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve not… you know, Sam? I thought you two were perfect for each other. I sent you all those pictures of him and everything…’

  ‘I know you did, and believe me, they were very much appreciated. Just because I’m not in the market to buy doesn’t mean I can’t window-shop. And Sam is – well, Sam is lovely. A different time, a different place, who knows?’

  I find myself gazing out of the windows again as I say this. I know he is out there somewhere. And I know I shouldn’t be thinking about him, but I can’t really help it. He’s somehow crawled under my skin without any effort at all.

  ‘Well, thank you. For doing that. For helping us all when we needed you… but…’

  ‘But what?’ I say, bringing my eyes back to my sister.

  ‘But… you can’t live like this forever, can you? And I understand what you’re saying. And I know that in your mind, you’ll have given up everything or nothing. You’ll have gone to extremes even in this. You won’t have cut down on the drinking, or reduced your romantic liaisons. You’ll have cut them all out, at once. That’s good – it really is – but have you ever thought about what else you’re cutting out?’

  ‘No, but I have a feeling you’re about to tell me…’

  She laughs, and I laugh with her. Each time I make one of these confessions, I feel slightly lighter – less constricted, less trapped by my own demons. Less alone.

  ‘You’re cutting out the potential for something good to happen. It’s like deciding you’re going on a low-carb diet and missing out on all the good stuff in brown rice… or something a bit more sexy than that! You know what I mean. I’ve seen the way you and Sam look at each other. It’s hot. It’s like, you know in horror films where someone has to kill a zombie or a vampire? And they spray some kind of aerosol in front of them and set it on fire with a lighter? It’s like that. Like there’s a fire between you. I’m not sure if ignoring that is necessarily the right thing to do, that’s all…’

  I have to grin at her little speech, I really do. She’s somehow managed to compare Sam to brown rice and describe my love life as something from a horror movie, and still made sense.

  ‘You may be right, sis. But I’m just getting through life the best I can. I’m trying not to screw up, and that doesn’t come naturally to me. And anyway… looks like those ladies are calling your name…’

  She follows my finger as I point to the dance floor, and sees that they have formed a small circle, with someone performing in the centre of it like a comedy version of Saturday Night Fever. While we’ve been chatting, Edie has waltzed with an imaginary partner – probably not for the first time – and Willow has done a spot-on robot.

  Now they are waving Laura over, and it’s clearly her turn in the spotlight.

  She looks back at me, a half-smile on her face, bunny ears sparkling as the disco lights sweep over us. I know part of her wants to just sit here with me and talk this out, but the other part – the part that’s made up of gin and tonic – wants to get her party on.

  ‘Go,’ I say, gesturing at the laughing women and the sparkling glitterball and the DJ who is creased up laughing as he watches. ‘I’m fine. Do that thing Dad used to do where he pretended he was a cowboy throwing a lassoo…’

  ‘Or that other one, where
he pretended he was bouncing a ball? Or driving a big rig and pulling the hooter?’

  ‘Any of Dad’s classic moves will get you a standing ovation. Now shake your tail feather, girlfriend – I have a serious date with another one of these de-licious Diet Cokes…’

  She bounces to her feet and scoots over, just as the DJ starts playing ‘Mary’s Boy Child’. Cherie clasps her into one of her mammoth Big Mama hugs, and everybody cheers as Laura starts to do her thing.

  I see her moonwalk badly around the group, and then segue into a Running Man that bears absolutely no relevance to the music being played, and moves to a completely different beat than the song.

  Ah yes. It’s definitely beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.

  Chapter 15

  I am dreaming of a giant pink bunny rabbit with a machete when I get woken up. All things considered, it’s probably a good thing – that bunny did not look fluffy, or friendly. It looked like it wanted to chop me up into little pieces and eat me with a nice Chianti.

  I’m happy I’ve slept at all – perhaps a revelation a day keeps the insomnia at bay, who knows? I’ll have to start making things up soon, just so I can get a bit of kip.

  I’m not sure what has woken me up initially, and just lie there, still, slightly flustered as the image of the demonic rabbit slowly clears from my mind.

  I look around, and see nothing but my hotel room, in shadow apart from the bathroom light, which I’ve left on with the door pulled to. I’ve learned that the countryside dark is a lot more serious than city dark, and now tend to leave at least some night-time illumination to stop me from repeatedly stubbing my toes if I wake up.

  I let my slightly erratic breathing calm down, and listen. Within seconds, I hear it – tapping on the window of my balcony door. For one second, my heart whoops up and down in fear, somehow convinced that the rabbit is not only real, it’s managed to find me…