Coming Home to the Comfort Food Café

by Debbie Johnson

  We’ve come a long, long way since the last time we danced to that song – and I’m incredibly grateful.

  The performance draws to a slow, perfect close, and everybody gets to their feet. They stomp and clap and cheer and wipe away tears, and Edie holds up her paddle – she’s used a marker pen to change the ‘10’ to a ‘100’, which seems about right.

  Martha gives me a jaunty salute as she walks off stage, but doesn’t come over – I suspect she’s feeling a bit emotional as well, and can’t take the mush overload. Instead, she heads towards Lizzie, who wraps her up in a hug and sits with her quietly for a few minutes while she calms down. I’d like to run over there and give her a big kiss, but I know I need to give her space. She’s not alone, and that’s what matters.

  Neither, I remind myself, am I – as Cal looms over me, a sheepish grin on his face, guitar in hand. I stand up, and kiss him on the cheek.

  “Thank you,” I say. “Really. That was … well, it was amazing.”

  “Are you sure? Because it looks like you’ve been crying.”

  “I have. But in a good way. It was beautiful – the best Christmas present ever. Kate would be so proud of her – and of you.”

  He looks flustered, makes a kind of ‘aw shucks’ face, and puts his guitar back in its case. Budbury’s Got Talent has drawn to a close, which is probably a good thing – nobody was going to top that last act.

  Someone has put music on, and tables are being cleared off to the side to make a dancefloor. Edie is on her feet, Becca at her side, doing a lively bop to Santa Claus is Coming to Town. Cherie joins them, and starts shaking her wild hair around like the rock chick she is.

  Cal slips an arm around my shoulder, and I slide into him, wanting to savour every moment. I have no idea what the future holds – whether we’ll stay here or go back to Bristol; and even less idea of how my world will look once Cal leaves for Australia. But for now, tonight, in this one moment, everything feels as perfect as it possibly could. I wish I had some kind of magic pause button that I could press, to hold everyone in the here and now. Frozen in time, hanging in a glittering capsule of loveliness.

  I don’t have that magic button, of course – nobody does – so instead I look at all of these people, at my new friends, and try and lodge everything about them in my memory banks, ready to whip out and smile about when I’m feeling down.

  Cal seems to feel the same, and we stand there for a few moments, surveying the madness of our current kingdom, enjoying the spectacle of a group of drunk people celebrating the coming of baby Jesus in their own special way.

  “Come on,” he says, as we both hear the distinctive opening sounds of Last Christmas by Wham!, “they’re playing our song …”

  “I got my heart broken to this at a school disco in 1993 …” I protest, as he drags me towards the dancefloor. “I still haven’t got over the trauma.”

  “What happened?” he asks, ignoring my objections and pulling me in for a slow dance. The pace has calmed, and there’s actually a distinctly old school disco feel to the cafe right now – Becca and Sam getting all handsy with each other; Laura actually being lifted off her feet by Matt as they smooch around; Frank and Cherie moving together under the fairy lights. Even Edie is in on the act, doing some kind of ballroom-type shuffle with Scrumpy Joe.

  “Well,” I reply, settling into his arms, letting my face rest against his chest, “I had the hots for this kid called Jason Doyle. He was so handsome – tall, hunky, way less acne than most of the boys that year. Looked a bit like Robbie Williams, which was as cool as it got back then. He asked me to dance to this very song, and we had an extremely bad teenaged snog during it – you know the kind, all tongues and enthusiasm, no skill at all, like two snakes trying to swallow the same mouse?”

  “I know the kind,” he says, laughing. “We’ve all been there.”

  “Well, I was ecstatic – thought this was the beginning of a whole big love affair. Kate was sitting it out, watching from the PE benches, giving me the thumbs-up and making rude gestures behind his back. I was already thinking that I’d maybe let him get some over-the-bra booby action on the walk home – don’t know about your adolescence, but during mine, everybody seemed to get their early sexual awakenings either on the walk home, or in the park … anyway. Even after that snog to Wham!, he didn’t walk me home – he walked Sally Aimes home instead! Would you believe it?”

  “My God!” replies Cal, sounding horror-struck on my teenaged self’s behalf. “The bastard! How could he? So, what happened?”

  “Well, I walked home with Kate, which was probably more fun anyway, especially as she didn’t stick her hand up my top. And the next day, I Superglued Jason Doyle’s bike wheels to the concrete floor of the bike shed. They had to cut it off, and there were bits of rubber left there for the rest of term.”

  “So … ultimately a happy ending, then, Zoe-style?”

  “I suppose so,” I say, smiling at the memory. Funny how things that happen to you at that age seem so big, so enormously important, that you don’t realise that a few years on, today’s trauma will be nothing more than tomorrow’s amusing anecdote. Maybe it’s that way until you’re 90, who knows?

  We dance our way past Laura and Matt, and I see her eyes widen as she notices us. Her Mills & Boon mind will be going into overdrive now. I laugh, and relax, and enjoy the moment. Cal is big and solid and warm, his arms have me squeezed comfortably into his body, and I can feel his heart beating beneath my cheek. He smells good, and feels good, and it’s all a damn sight better than 1993, without a doubt. I’m guessing that Cal’s a better kisser than Jason Doyle anyway – he certainly knows how to hold a woman on a dancefloor, that’s for sure.

  I’m blushing slightly as I ponder this, my hands on his back, where I can feel the lean muscle of his body bunch and release as we move, the press of denim-clad thighs against mine, and am grateful for the dim lighting. My body is enjoying this a whole lot more than I’d like it to.

  Just as poor George is vowing that next year, he’ll give his heart to someone special, Cal stills. He stops dancing, and freezes solid on the spot. I drag my face away from its cosy spot on his chest, and look up at him, wondering what’s going on. He’s grinning, his gaze falling behind me.

  I turn around to see what’s happening, and am confronted with a now fully-recovered and mischievous looking Martha – the Kissing Stick gripped solidly in her hands. Lizzie’s next to her, giggling, and together they look like the embodiment of pure evil.

  I open my mouth to say something – possibly something that involves swearing – but before I can get any words out, she’s thrust the broom handle towards us, the mistletoe branch dangling above our heads. She stares at me challengingly, and I return the stare with interest. Little minx.

  I’m fully prepared to break with tradition and ignore it, but Cal has other ideas. He smiles at me, slow and slightly dangerous, dark eyes flashing, and says: “Looks like it’s time to put the ghosts of 1993 to rest …”

  He tilts my chin up with one hand, gently brushes my hair back from my face, and leans down to kiss me. It’s an absolute killer of a kiss – long, slow, deliberate, and very, very effective. One hand bundled into my curls, another on the small of my back, crushing me into him, he takes his time – and there’s nothing at all platonic about it.

  I momentarily forget that I am standing on a dancefloor in front of a cafe-full of people; forget that my teenaged almost-daughter is looking on, steps away; forget that I’d sworn this would never happen. I forget everything, apart from the touch of Cal’s lips on mine; the feel of his broad shoulders beneath my fingertips; the joy of his hands in my hair and his heat engulfing me. I am filled with sudden need, and mould myself into his body like liquid.

  When he finally lets me go, I gasp slightly, from excitement and nerves and the need for oxygen. His eyes meet mine, intense and for once serious, and the rest of the world seems to disappear as we somehow manage to speak without words. The cafe disappea
rs, the people disappear, even George disappears … there’s just me, and Cal, and the lingering sensation of the spark that still seems to be leaping between us.

  We might have spoken, eventually – once either of us was able – but we didn’t get the chance. I’m still in his arms, trembling and slightly terrified, when the whole room bursts out into riotous applause. I glance around, and see that everyone else has stopped whatever they were doing, and is clapping their hands and whooping and stamping their feet. Becca’s fanning her face in a ‘wow, that was hot’ gesture; Martha is laughing so hard she’s dropped the Kissing Stick, and Edie has retrieved her scoring paddles, holding up a 10.

  Cal keeps me in his arms, correctly sensing that I might flee in panic, and laughs along with them. Laura walks over, and punches me lightly on the arm.

  “Well,” she says, clearly delighted, “it’s about bloody time …”

  Chapter 36

  Eventually, the party winds up, and just after midnight, Becca finishes her tour of Budbury with her final stop at the Rockery. The journey has been hilarious, all of us crammed into the motorhome, sitting on each other’s laps and perching on tables. We possibly broke some over-crowding laws, but the roads are completely empty, and Becca is completely sober.

  Still wearing her slinky ballroom outfit and full face of make-up, but now with chunky trainers on her feet, she drives us through the glistening snowscape like a pro, giving us fake tour guide commentary as she goes. Highlights include ‘the famous spot where Midgebo once did the world’s biggest poo’, ‘the world-renowned bus stop where Lizzie once appeared without eye-liner’, and the cornfield where ‘respected vet and pillar of the community, Matt Hunter, first snogged my sister.’ Of course, being a bit drunk, we all find this totally side-splitting.

  She drops off the Jones family at the Cider Cave, Edie, Sophie and Ivy Wellkettle in the village, Willow and Lynnie at their tiny cottage on the outskirts, before making a detour to Frank’s farm and then home. She parks up, and we all crunch our way through the snow back to the houses, saying our goodnights and sharing farewell hugs.

  It’s a beautiful evening – absolutely freezing, but beautiful, the sky clear and dark and studded with brilliantly shining stars; a perfect full moon hanging in the sky like a giant cheese; the fresh layers of snow glistening in its yellow light. The snowman the kids made earlier is still there, wearing Cal’s Kiss Me Quick hat, its carrot nose slightly wonky, its mouth-of-sprouts grinning at us.

  I pat him on the head as we pass, and all troop back inside Lilac Wine. It’s so warm and cosy in there, all the curtains drawn and the heating on, and we all seem to sigh a small breath of relief at being back inside. The snow is falling again, in small, wild flurries, and it feels good to be safe and comfortable indoors.

  Cal has come back with us, allegedly to get his Christmas gifts before going back to Saffron, and there is still an air of unfinished business between us. I don’t know where any of it is heading, and feel edgy and nervous and excited. Also, a little tipsy.

  I remind myself again of that part as I wander into the kitchen, and pour myself a glass of water. It’s not a good combination – tipsy and nervous. It’s making my tummy squish around and my brain fizz; I feel tired and wired at the same time, and even thinking about our Last Christmas kiss is enough to make me gaze off into space and sigh. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed so bloody thoroughly – he wasn’t lying that night he promised me godlike skills.

  I’m standing there, leaning against the counter, sipping my water and wondering just how godlike it could get if we took things further, when Martha walks into the room. She has her boots dangling by their ribbons in one hand, and a packet of Cheezels in the other.

  “I’m knackered,” she says, brandishing the bag. “And I’m stealing these. Need to get in touch with my Aussie heritage. I’m off to bed. And … well, happy Christmas and all that. I wasn’t looking forward to it this year, for obvious reasons, but … I suppose it wasn’t as shit as I’d expected.”

  “Wow,” I reply, grinning at her. “High praise indeed. Sleep well, small evil princess.”

  She grimaces at that, and flounces out of the kitchen. I hear her footsteps on the stairs, and a dull thud when she drops her boots to the floor, and the sound of her door closing firmly. That, I think, just leaves us – me and Cal. No audience. No teenager. No buffer zone. I wonder if I can make a break for it, and go and sleep in the motorhome…

  Deciding that it’s way too cold and way too late for escape plans, I walk through into the living room, pretending to yawn, holding a hand in front of my face. I’m reminding myself of Martha now, which can’t be a good thing.

  As soon as he sees this performance, Cal starts to laugh. He’s sprawled on the sofa, a few buttons of his shirt undone, golden skin peeking out, blonde hair all mussed up and wild, looking like some kind of cowboy Adonis. An amused cowboy Adonis.

  “Really?” he says, once he stops laughing at me. “You’re going to pull the ‘I’m-so-tired-I’m-going-straight-to-bed-to-avoid-you’ routine? What are you so scared of?”

  I make a small ‘hmmph’ noise – nobody likes being called out on their silly behaviour – and ignore the fact that he’s patting the space next to him on the sofa. Instead, I sit on the arm chair, and try to look both prim and unafraid.

  “I’m not scared of anything. Apart from wasps,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at him.

  “Yeah you are. You’re scared of me. Of us. Of that kiss – that pretty damn phenomenal kiss. You’re scared of what might happen if you kiss me again. You’re a great big cowardly custard, Zoe – no getting away from it.”

  Against my better judgement, I have to grin at this. He is, of course, spot on in his assessment.

  “You never told me,” I say, ignoring that assessment, especially as it’s correct, “how you got that scar. And you promised you would.”

  “I’ll tell you,” he responds, “if you move your arse from that chair and at least come and sit next to me. I promise I won’t bite. Unless you want me to.”

  I weigh up my options, and without even knowing I’ve reached a decision, find myself settling down on the sofa. Crikey – it’s like the man has mind-control powers on top of everything else. He immediately pulls me closer, and I end up nestled against his chest, my hand on the flat of his stomach, inches away from the belt buckle. Big gulps.

  “Well, it happened when I was 12,” he says, once we’re still. “No sharks. No crocs. No Russell Crowe in a barfight. Basically, just me, a skateboard, and the back windshield of my dad’s jeep. Went straight through it – dad was more concerned about the car, obviously, being a sensible bloke, but it was pretty nasty. Ended up with a few surgeries, and a lot of stitches in the face. Just like that, my future as a male model was gone.”

  “Is that it?” I say, looking up at him, tracing the pale line of the scar with my finger. “I feel strangely disappointed. I think I’m going to forget you told me any of that, and tell myself it was definitely a shark attack. While you were rescuing Nicole Kidman from cannibals.”

  “That works for me,” he replies, laughing. He catches my hand in his, and kisses my palm gently. It’s not much of a touch, but it’s enough to make me breathe faster, and feel a delicious kind of panic wash over me. My fingers seem to have found their way beneath his shirt, and his skin is warm and smooth over the hard planes of his belly. They drift upwards slightly, meeting soft hair, firm muscle.

  I hear him pull in a breath of his own, and he moves his lips from my hand to my mouth. It doesn’t take much to ignite things all over again, and as he kisses me, he pulls me onto his lap, my legs straddling him, my hair covering both our faces. He holds me close, and kisses me hard, and wraps his fists into my curls, both of us lost in the moment.

  His lips move to my neck, the sensitive skin of my throat, and I seem to be unbuttoning his shirt. He’s a glorious creature, and my fingers fly to touch his flesh, skimming his shoulders, exploring his back
, arching to meet his touch when his own hands start to explore my body.

  I can feel him, hard beneath me, obviously as aroused as I am, and it makes me feel even more hungry for him. I writhe and wriggle, and groan when his fingers find my nipple, as his mouth lingers on my neck, as I hear him breathe out my name. Months of foreplay are suddenly exploding for both of us, and I badly want him naked. Naked, and inside me, and on top of me, and beneath me. I want him everywhere, and know that I’ve wanted him since I first met him – I was just too sensible to do anything about it.

  Being sensible isn’t really an option any more, as I find my hands reaching down, leaving his chest, heading for his waist. For the belt, with the big buckle, that I very much want to remove, along with the rest of his clothing.

  He’s grinning as I start to fumble with it, swearing as I struggle to get it undone, and it gives us just enough time to remember where we are, and what we’re doing, and where we’re doing it. And more importantly, who is upstairs.

  I hear the sound of Martha moving around through the ceiling; a door opening, water running in her bathroom – and I can tell from his reaction that he’s heard it too.

  We both freeze like guilty teenagers, staring at each other in horror as we wait to hear her footsteps on the stairs…

  I jump off him, just in case, and land in an undignified heap on the floor, hair all over the place, face bright red, bra unhooked and bunched beneath my T-shirt. He takes one look at me, and laughs.

  “It’s okay,” he says, offering a hand to help me back up. “We’re safe. Sounds like she’s gone back to bed.”

  I stand up, feeling wobbly and unsteady on my feet, and back away from him as though he’s radioactive.

  “Yeah … but …” I mutter, still in fight-or-flight mode, trying to contort my arms backwards under my top to re-hook the naughty bra.

  “I know. It doesn’t feel right, does it?” he says, sighing and running his hands through his hair in frustration. “Not with her upstairs. If we’re going to do this – and I very much want to do this – then we should do it right.”