Coming Home to the Comfort Food Café

by Debbie Johnson

  I feel my heart rate soar as I imagine that … if we’d just been doing it wrong, then what would right feel like? I nod, and take a few more steps away. I need a bit of distance. I need to cool down. I need to not be looking at his bare chest, the fair hair snaking down his stomach. I need to not still be thinking about the way it felt to have those big hands touching my body.

  “I’m going to bed,” I say, quickly, turning to leave before I can change my mind. “Erm … thank you?”

  I’m not sure that’s an appropriate thing to say, but feel that I have to say something.

  “My pleasure. And Zoe?”

  I pause as I reach the doorway, look back at him. Long and lean and still very clearly ready for action.

  “Yes?”

  “This is to be continued, all right? Don’t go to bed regretting this, or conjuring up reasons to pretend it never happened. The lyrics to Last Christmas do not apply here, and this is not 1993. Your heart would be safe with me.”

  I nod, and scurry up the stairs on all fours, like a terrified monkey.

  Chapter 37

  I wake up the next morning with the strangest of feelings. It takes me a while to recognise it, as it’s not a hangover, self-loathing, or the desire to go straight back to sleep.

  No, I think, as I stretch out my legs and arms and luxuriate in the warmth of the duvet – it’s actually happiness.

  We had a great Christmas, against the odds. We did a good deed helping Peter. We had a civil conversation with Barbara and Ron. We exchanged amusing gifts. We had a barbecue in the snow, and a party with our friends. Martha kind of told me she loved me, even if she called me a tramp while she did it. We only cried about Kate a little bit. And, of course, I think – realising that along with the happiness there’s a hefty dose of horny – things got a little bit scorching hot with Cal.

  I allow myself to wallow in the memory of that for a few minutes, recalling the way he kissed me, the sensation of having his hands on my bare skin. His final comments … to be continued…

  I have no idea where it’s heading, but I want more of it. Even if it’s only for a few days. All my previous caution seems to have evaporated; resistance seems futile when a man can kiss like he can. At the very least, it will be fun – and Lord knows I’m probably way overdue a bit of fun.

  I know that beneath that, under the physical attraction and the curiosity and the basic lust, there is more to this. That my feelings for him are a lot more deep than fancying him. That he has carved out a place in my life that will entirely possibly feel unfillable once he’s left – but for now, I concentrate on the good stuff. The fact that I’m warm, and headache-free, and actually looking forward to the day and what it might hold. Time with Martha, time with Cal, time to enjoy each other while we still can. This is time that Kate never got, and I plan to make the most of it.

  Maybe I’m finally getting all mindful in my old age. Or maybe I’m so excited at the thought of some world-rocking sex that I’m managing to over-ride all my usual reservations. Who knows?

  I drag myself out of bed, and don’t immediately freeze – that means the heating is on, which means it might be later than I thought. I glance at my watch and see that it is, in fact, almost 11am, and I have had a humungous sleep-in. No wonder I feel good. So good, I half expect to see tiny bluebirds fluttering around my head when I look at myself in the mirror.

  No such luck – just the usual halo of hair – but that’s okay. The bluebirds must be the invisible kind. I get dressed in leggings and my David Bowie T-shirt, and make my way onto the landing in bare feet. I feel light and breezy and almost giddy, and do wonder if I’m not perhaps still a bit high from everything that happened the day before. From Martha’s obvious contentment, from the cafe community, from finding myself sitting on top of a gorgeous and supremely gifted cowboy Adonis. A cowboy Adonis I feel I can trust – who told me my heart would be safe with him.

  Whatever it is, I like it, and hope it sticks around.

  Usually when I feel like this, I poke at it with a big stick made entirely of ‘yes, but …’ You know the kind of thing – I’m sure all women do. The ‘yes, but – what happens next?’ The ‘yes, but – this is too good to be true!’ the ‘yes, but – he’s leaving in a few days and what if you have a messy meltdown?’

  Today, I build a big, solid wall between me and Yes, But –my very own psychological Great Wall of Zoe.

  Instead, I look forward to coffee, and possibly cake – it’s still Christmas, so it’s allowed – as I tiptoe down the stairs. I’m pretty sure Martha will be up by now, but creep down just in case. I’m almost at the bottom when I hear sounds from the living room, and know that she’s not only up, she has company.

  I can hear her and Cal chatting, and sit on the bottom step for a minute. The sound of his voice has sent me immediately into a world-class blush, and I need a moment to let it fade. He must have come over earlier – or maybe he never left, and crashed on the sofa, feeling as tortured with frustration as I’d been when I escaped to my room.

  I hold my flaming cheeks in my hands, willing them to cool down, and listen to them talk. I’m not trying to eavesdrop – that’s really not my style – but the door is partly open, and I can’t help but over-hear.

  “I know,” says Martha, her voice low, obviously trying not to wake me up and not realising I’m already there. “I’m really excited about it. But I’m worried as well – about Zoe. She might go nuts.”

  “You can’t assume that, love,” replies Cal, his tone reassuring and calm. “But we do need to talk to her about it, don’t we? Probably today.”

  I hear Martha making a kind of ‘uggh’ sound, and can picture the grimace that comes with it. I’m interested now, and feel a stirring of concern in my tummy, and know I should walk through that door, or shout good morning, or start singing – anything to let them know I’m here. But I don’t. Because I’m a deeply flawed human being.

  “Yeah, okay. We’ll tell her today, and hope for the best. Are the flights all sorted?”

  “Yes,” he replies. “We leave on the third, as planned. Stopover in Singapore, and we’ll be in Sydney after that. I can’t wait for you to see the place, Martha. It’s beautiful.”

  When she replies, her previous hesitancy seems to have faded, and instead she sounds excited.

  “It’ll be great. You can show me where you grew up, and I can meet my grandparents – weird! – and see a koala or whatever. And then … I suppose everything will be different, won’t it? After that.”

  “It will be different – but hopefully even better. Is this still what you want, love? Because it’s not too late to change your mind. I know it’s a big change, and if you’re not happy with that, I’ll understand.”

  There’s a pause here, while presumably Martha thinks about what he’s saying. During that pause, I sit with my hands holding my tummy, on that bottom step, wondering if I might be sick at any moment. I’ve come into this conversation half-way through, uninvited – but it’s hard not to pick up on what they’re talking about.

  They’re talking about leaving, for Australia. Together. Both of them.

  “No,” says Martha, firmly. “It is what I want. I want to see Australia, and I want us to be together, Cal – but are you sure? I mean, I’m a pain in the arse – just ask Zoe. I’m a lot of responsibility, and not a lot of reward in return. Are you sure you’re up to it?”

  “Zoe does not see you like that, and you know it,” replies Cal, sounding a bit annoyed with her. Defending me, even as he’s planning to leave me. “And yeah, I’m more than up to it. Plus, Martha, if we’re going to be living together from now on, maybe you could try on ‘Dad’ for size instead of ‘Cal’ …”

  He’s clearly joking with that last one, and she laughs in response. I, on the other hand, feel like I might never laugh again.

  “Okay, Dad … we’ll tell Zoe today, then. I am not looking forward to it. Get ready with the fire extinguisher, ‘cause she’s going to go off bi
g time …”

  At this point, I hear movement, and the sounds of them standing and up. They might be heading out for a walk, or into the kitchen, and I need to scarper. I don’t want to be caught here like this, perched on a step, looking half-feral and fully loaded with confusion and pain. I don’t want to be the person Martha thinks I am – about to ‘go off big time.’

  I scurry quietly but quickly back up the stairs, and into my room. I close the door behind me in case either of them comes up, and sit on the bed to try and get my shit together.

  This, of course, is harder than it sounds. I huddle there, completely shell-shocked by what I’ve just heard.

  I turn it around in my mind, trying to see it from different angles and perspectives, trying to convince myself that there’s some way I’ve misunderstood. But whichever way I look at it, I can’t – I’ve just heard Martha and Cal planning to leave together, planning to live together, and plotting how they’re going to break the news to the nutter upstairs.

  I’m trembling by this stage, adrenaline coursing through me as I process it all. And, I realise when droplets plop down into my lap, I’m curled into a ball and crying.

  I’d woken up so happy. I’d decided I could trust Cal. I’d built my Great Wall of Zoe. I’d defeated the Yes, Buts … and it turns out I shouldn’t have bothered. Because now it just made it even harder to face up to the fact that all the Yes, Buts were in fact true.

  I feel sad, and alone, and betrayed – and the worst thing is that none of these feelings are new to me. They’re always there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for a chance to escape and take over. Waiting for a chance to say ‘I told you so.’

  People lie. I know this. People lie for all kinds of reasons. They lie to help themselves; to protect themselves; to hide away from truths they don’t like. Martha lies, I lie, we all do it. And men … well, I think, bitterly, men lie as well. It’s not exactly unheard of for a man to lie in order to get into someone’s knickers, is it? I’d just expected better of Cal – and I suppose that’s where I made my mistake.

  I’d lied to myself as well, which is where the damage has really been done. I’d tried to imagine me and him as fun – tried to ignore what was really going on with my own emotions – and now I was paying the price. Because Cal wasn’t just fun – I was in love with him. Completely, totally, and hopelessly. Or at least I was in love with my idealised version of him – the version where he didn’t lie, and scheme, and secretly plan to take my fake-daughter thousands of miles away to live with him.

  I try not to blame Martha. She’s just a kid. A kid who’s gone through too much – who can blame her for wanting to leave? For wanting to start afresh, with the only parent she has left? It’s not like I’ve offered her a great alternative, is it? I’m not her dad, and I certainly can’t offer her koalas. I try not to blame her … but I can’t deny it hurts. I suddenly feel that every step forward we’ve made, every hope of progress I had, has been an illusion – moving us here, leaving my job, it was all for nothing.

  Or … not nothing, I remind myself. Moving us here led to Cal coming into her life. And bitter as I might feel about my own pathetic role in all of this, maybe this will be the best thing for her – maybe she’ll be happier there, with him, on the other side of the world. Maybe at least one of us will get a happy ending.

  I wipe my face with the duvet, and take some deep breaths. I don’t want to be the nutter upstairs – I don’t want to ruin Martha’s chance at that happy ending. I don’t want to be a burden to her. But I can’t do this right now – I can’t go down those stairs and pretend everything is all right, and flirt with Cal, and eat cake, and wait for the hammer blow to come. I just can’t. I need some time and space and solitude to sort it out in my head, and be the person I need to be.

  I need to forget my own disappointments, my own dashed hopes and dreams, and come to terms with it – but to do that, I need to escape. I need to do something I’ve become extremely adept at over the years, and run away for a while. Not forever – I promised myself I would always stick around for Martha, and I will. For as long as she needs me. But for now, maybe for a day or so, I need to run.

  I shove a few things in my backpack, pull on socks and Crocs, and tie my hair back into a bushy ponytail. I grab my phone and keys, and don’t allow myself any more time to think about it. If I think about it, I’ll start crying again, and if I start crying again, I might never stop – and then where would we all be? They can live without me for a night – in fact, it seems like they can live without me forever.

  I glance around at my room – at my scattered books and make-up and ginger-filled hairbrush – and wonder if I’ll ever feel quite so comfortable again. This has been a real rug-pulled-from-feet experience, and I feel like slapping myself for slipping into what I now realise was a false sense of security. It’s as though I’ve learned nothing from life.

  I tiptoe down the stairs once again, this time feeling very differently. No bluebirds now – just carrion crows circling what’s left of my self-esteem. I quietly open the front door, and then I run – for my car, for the open road. For home.

  PART FOUR

  The Woman Who Fell to Earth

  Chapter 38

  I’m back in my flat, swamped with relief that I decided against letting it out after all. I’d have been left standing on the doorstep, looking through the window like a Dickensian urchin, watching as strangers lived out their lives in my home.

  It smells musty and unlived in, but it’s still home. I noted as I parked the car, after a stressful drive through snow and sleet, that Kate’s house is looking in tip-top form. Barbara and Ron have obviously been doing their jobs well; the small forecourt is spotless, the paint on the front door has been topped up, and the brass knocker is shining. I have no doubt that if I let myself in, I would be able to use the world’s cleanest toilets.

  I don’t, though. That would be too much for me right now – confronting Kate, and the ghosts that swirl around those rooms. Way too much.

  I called at a service station on the way back, and have come equipped with milk and bread and a bag of Krispy Kreme doughnuts that I probably won’t eat. I’ve made a mug of tea, and put the heating on, and closed all the curtains. It’s evening, and already dark. The sounds of city life are intrusive and noticeable after so long in Dorset – cats yowling, car doors slamming, the occasional siren.

  I welcome it all – it’s different, and I need different. I need to stop thinking about green fields and coastline that stretches on forever and cafes full of comfort and people full of kindness. I need to stop imagining a future where I kept all of that, where Martha stayed, where Cal … well. Where Cal existed at all.

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned how to do over the years, it’s cope with disappointment. I have so many techniques for this I should probably write some kind of self-help guide: What To Do When Everything Turns To Shit – Again.

  Some of it involves tea, which I have. Some of it involves music, which I also have – Bowie’s Diamond Dogs is playing in the background. Some of it involves sheer bloody-mindedness and the will to survive at all costs.

  Sadly, for the time being at least, I seem to be all out of that. It’s not the kind of thing you can pick up at a service station, or download from iTunes. It comes from within – and at the moment, the well is dry.

  This is also a familiar feeling, and one that I know will pass. I just need to regroup. To toughen up. To hide the tender spots away, and pretend I never had them in the first place – apply the emotional plasters that will give me the strength I need to go on.

  Once I have that, I’ll go back. I’ll smile and react well when they tell me. I’ll wish them all the best, and I’ll drive them to the airport, and I’ll wave them off as though I’m excited for them. I’ll make promises about staying in touch or coming to visit, and Martha will be able to start her new life free of guilt or worry about poor old me. I’ll do all of that, and then I’ll collapse. But that’s
okay – she won’t be there to see it, and neither will Cal.

  I tell myself all of this as I sit there, alone, surrounded by the person I used to be. The person who went to festivals and stuck posters on her walls and wore tie-dye T-shirts. The person who made herself a tiny shelter in this flat, and lived a small, contented life. The person who never dreamed of meeting someone like Cal, or being a mother, or taking the risk of plunging herself into a community of friends. Maybe I can be that person again, one day.

  One day – after they’ve gone.

  They’ve noticed I’m gone, of course. I’ve had three missed calls from Cal, and several snarky texts from Martha. Even one from Laura, which tells me they’ve been over to Hyacinth looking for me.

  I reply to them both in as reassuring way as I can. ‘Needed a post-Christmas break,’ I say to Martha. ‘All that mushy stuff got on top of me. Be back tomorrow.’

  She’ll get that, being Martha – she’s also a bit afraid of the mushy stuff. Cal, of course, has assumed that I’ve done a runner because of what happened between me and him the night before, and I go along with that. It’s easier.

  ‘Be back tomorrow,’ I say to him. ‘Thought we both needed some time to cool down.’

  Now, excuses made and promises to keep, I allow myself the luxury of facing up to how I actually feel: absolutely bloody dreadful. I wish Kate was here, to give me a hug and tell me it’ll all be okay in the end. Or that I had parents I could turn to. I even ponder visiting Barbara and Ron, but soon come to my senses.

  By about eight o’clock that night, I’m on my fifteenth mug of tea, and have only managed to eat half a doughnut. I know this isn’t good, that I need to look after myself, but my stomach isn’t playing along and refuses to co-operate.