Love Happens Here

by Clare Lydon

  Beth didn’t head off at 2pm on Friday, instead popping into the kitchen to whip up a batch of her banana and carrot cakes for the beginning of the following week. Matt and I ate together, shutting the café doors slightly early at 3pm and discarding our aprons for coffee, minestrone soup and wedges of bread.

  “So how’s your first full week been?” Matt said. He dipped his bread and licked the drips from the side.

  “Exhausting,” I said. I mirrored his bread movements, eating quickly as I was famished.

  “Being on your feet all day does that to you. But I still prefer it to sitting all day.” He paused. “Do you fancy a pint after we shut up here? My treat – staff morale and all that. It’s normally just me and Beth, but now we’re expanding…”

  “Sounds great,” I said. “And you have to give me the recipe for this soup.”

  “Trade secret,” he winked.

  We decamped to the local pub at around 4.30pm but it was already filled with swathes of office workers glugging back pints of lager and glasses of wine, their volume getting louder as the afternoon wore on. We managed to get a seat in the corner and Matt got the beers in, proposing a toast when he was back sitting with us.

  “To our new team – welcome, Jess!”

  We all chinked pint glasses but, instead of drinking, Beth put hers down, feeling in her pocket for a tissue.

  “Drink!” I said. “If you cheers and then don’t drink, it’s seven years’ bad sex.”

  Beth immediately grabbed her pint and gulped down a mouthful.

  “Even bad sex would be preferable to no sex so I don’t want to jeopardise my chances of either,” she said. “And where are the crisps, Matt?”

  “We just ate lunch,” he said. A sigh.

  “An hour ago,” Beth said. She tapped her watch and tutted. “God, you’re a rubbish boss,” she added over her shoulder as she got up, her grin wide. “No no, you stay there, I’ll get them...”

  “My mum warned me to never work with family,” Matt said. He flicked some imaginary dirt from his jeans. “So are you out tonight?”

  “Not sure – I might tag along with my flatmate somewhere. You?”

  “Nah – I have to get up early tomorrow to get the food order for next week and then I’ve got my son overnight.”

  “Son?” I repeated.

  “Yeah, Charlie – he’s six.”

  Matt fished out his iPhone from his jeans, tapped the photo icon and up popped an image of his son.

  “This is his school photo from last year – he’s a bit bigger now.”

  “He’s lovely,” I said. I leant in to see a gap-toothed Charlie grinning back at me, his brown hair cut slightly wonky at the front.

  “Is that my little Charlie?” asked Beth. She put two packets of crisps on the table, one salt and vinegar, one cheese and onion.

  “I wasn’t sure what you liked so I got a mix,” she told me. “Are you seeing him this weekend?” she said, turning her attention to Matt.

  Beth sat astride a stool and ripped opened the salt and vinegar, carefully tearing the packet down its spine to open it out flat on the table so the crisps were easily accessible.

  “Tomorrow,” Matt said.

  “Do you want me in then?”

  He shook his head. “Nope – he wants to do some baking so I’m going to take him in and do a bit myself.”

  “Okey doke,” Beth said, putting another handful of crisps into her mouth and not waiting for them all to evaporate before addressing me.

  “So is this one of your locals?” she said. A crisp part whizzed past my left ear and I pretended not to notice.

  “Not really – I haven’t lived here long enough for a local. Could be a contender, though.”

  “Serves beer and crisps but it could do without quite so many of the city idiots,” she said.

  “Don’t knock them, without them we’d be out of business,” Matt said.

  Beth made a ‘humph’ noise, then took another sip of her pint before fixing me with an inquisitive stare.

  “So Jess, any boyfriend?”

  “Beth!” said Matt. “At least wait until the second pint.” He shot me an apologetic look. “Sorry, she’s not known for her subtlety.”

  “What?” Beth said, rolling her eyes. “I was only taking an interest in our new staff member and I’ve held back all week which is a miracle in itself I’m sure you’ll agree.” She paused.

  “So, any boyfriend?”

  I shook my head.

  “Girlfriend?”

  At that Matt grimaced and put his hand up to his forehead, shaking his head. Beth slapped his arm in rebuke.

  “Matt. We’re all enlightened adults here. And you might be very set in your ways and dating purely the opposite sex but that’s not for everyone. I’ve been thinking about maybe trying women lately – men certainly haven’t done it for me so far. Anyway, off the point – girlfriend?” she asked me with a fixed stare.

  This was the moment I always expect whenever I met new people – the ever-rolling coming out process. Straight until proven innocent. At least Beth was making it pretty easy for me and she seemed like she’d be positively upset if I told her no. I didn’t like upsetting people. A thought of Lucy briefly flitted across my brain but I quickly dismissed proclaiming her as my girlfriend, seeing as we’d met once, texted three times and had yet to kiss. The definition of a girlfriend she was not, especially as I still hadn’t worked up the courage to call her or vice versa.

  “Not at the moment,” I said. I blushed despite myself.

  “You see!” Beth said. She put both palms on her thighs and leant back smiling.

  “Am I that obvious?”

  “Not really – just a hunch. And well, if I fancy lurching to the other side I know where to get some tips don’t I?”

  “I wouldn’t take any tips from me. I don’t have a girlfriend, remember?”

  “Join the club,” Matt said. He looked glum. “Perhaps we should start speed-dating in the café during the evenings. Free slice of carrot cake for every punter who gets off with one of the staff. Definite winner I reckon.”

  Later that evening back at the flat, I heaved a box up onto the bed and sliced it open with some scissors, cursing as I cut the top of my right index finger. Inside was Australian stuff: letters, photos and accessories, including a beautiful purple glass fruit bowl that Karen had bought me for my 31st. I’d dithered as to whether or not to bring it home but it was something I’d coveted for weeks before I opened it and so I was resolved to cleanse it of any Karen association through use and love.

  I put it on my chest of drawers for now, then opened a pack of photos that showed Karen and I on a weekend away in Melbourne, arms around each other on St Kilda beach in the summer sun. Although the photos looked idyllic and still made my heart lurch as I looked at Karen’s tanned face and stunning blue eyes, I knew that later on that evening we’d had a huge row at a restaurant after Karen decided to flirt outrageously with the waitress.

  It wasn’t an isolated incident, either – our rows had been getting deeper, longer and more constant towards the end of our relationship and it wasn’t until a few months later that I knew what had changed. I put the photos back in the pack, considered throwing them out but then thought better of it. I wasn’t quite ready yet. It was now nearly seven months since the split and I felt almost cleansed of Karen, but not quite.

  Chapter 11

  A few weeks later the weather changed and only for the better. It was mid-April, so still spring, but it felt like an early summer’s Saturday – the last two days had been alight with heat. Pavements cracked, plants withered, hosepipes snapped into life as their owners swung them around their gardens rodeo-style.

  This morning had begun with a torrential downpour though, which was typical seeing as this was the start of the weekend. All week long I’d been staring out the window as the sun bounced along the street shaking hands and ruffling hair; now it was rain that was stinging the pavements and dampening sp
irits. However, the forecast was for sun later and as I breathed in the smell of warm, damp tarmac through the windows of the flat I knew that would be true – the wet was temporary.

  I pulled my duvet cover up the bed and jumped in the shower, using some fancy new shower gel that Kate had bought recently that smelt of lemons. After a leisurely breakfast I dressed and headed to Porter’s to whip up some delights for the early part of the week ahead – it was my turn for the Saturday baking, which I’d come to love.

  I was also planning to use the time to make a dessert to take to Julia’s for my blind date later. She’d called earlier in the week while I was gulping down some fresh air outside the café, pondering life. It was at times like those I wished I smoked, then at least I could puff away while contemplating and look a bit French and deep in thought. I was stubbing out my imaginary cigarette just as my phone went. It was Julia.

  “Hello, it’s me – where are you?”

  “Being contemplative.”

  “Oh dear – what’s up?”

  “Don’t ask,” I said. So she didn’t.

  “Okay. Well I have some news to brighten your day. Remember Angela?” Her tone had risen as if she was on a children’s TV show.

  “My future wife – how could I forget?” I leant back, putting the sole of my foot flat against the wall of the cafe.

  “She’s coming to dinner on Saturday and so are you. Me and Tom, Jason and Andy, you and Ange.” I could hear the note of triumph in her voice – Julia loved it when a plan came together.

  “You’re too modern, Jules: straight, gay and lesbian couples. Shouldn’t you chuck in a tranny and a bi couple to complete the set?” I said.

  “That’s next weekend. Besides, we can only seat six at the table. So are you on?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  I pushed myself off the wall and stretched my neck into the sunshine.

  “I’m offering you a hot lesbian – can you afford to turn me down?”

  “If I did would it make any difference?” I asked.

  “Stop answering questions with questions.” She paused. “Shall we say 6, then? Then we can have a chat before everyone else descends.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “See you then, hot stuff.” And with that, she was gone.

  So here I was with live football screeching out of the digital radio Matt had recently bought for the kitchen, with a batch of chocolate, coffee & walnut and lemon drizzle cakes on the go. Working in the café sans customers and anyone else was strangely alluring, like sneaking back into the office when nobody was there. I resisted the urge to strip naked and run around – this always worked better in films and sitcoms than in reality – and baked methodically instead.

  Baking was something I’d discovered a talent for and whoever knew it was so therapeutic? All this time I’d been trying yoga and pilates, when really what I’d needed was butter, eggs, flour, sugar and an oven. I mixed together the flour, sugar, baking powder and bicarbonate, whipped up the eggs and melted the chocolate in a glass bowl over low-bubbling water, marvelling as I always did as it dissolved into a puddle of silky brown gloss.

  I allowed myself a brief fantasy about licking some from a pair of pert breasts – perhaps Lucy’s? – but then realised that would involve getting chocolate in places I’d rather not. In my experience, sex and food rarely mixed in a fun, clean way, or perhaps I was just a little bit anal. I wondered again about Lucy: was she back from Sydney yet and had she had a good time? I hoped so but not too great, obviously.

  When the chocolate was glossy, I folded all the ingredients in together, pausing to wipe some residue mixture on the Wonder Woman apron Matt had bought me the week before. A couple of hours later and all the cakes were sitting obediently on their wire perches like show dogs at Crufts.

  It was after lunchtime and I heard my stomach rumbling so I decided to make myself a sandwich and a coffee, taking it through to the counter so I could sit down while eating. This always confused passers-by as they could never work out if this meant the café was open or not. My plan was to keep my head down and shake it sorrowfully at any hopeful knocking on the glass. Today, I was not open for business. Not until later at least.

  I settled myself at the counter with my chicken sandwich and latte, licking my index finger to turn the page of yesterday’s paper. An engine’s roar made me look up briefly as a huge lorry rumbled past Porter’s making the café door vibrate in its lock. When its long body slithered from view, I was astonished to find myself looking directly at Lucy who was walking past the front window oblivious to my stare. She had no idea I worked here and I instinctively picked up the paper to cover my face.

  But Lucy wasn’t alone. She was walking along the path with another woman, smiling and chatting. The woman, who was not unattractive with long blonde hair, leaned in and said something to Lucy. She threw back her head laughing. I felt winded. It was as if someone was filming them purely for my benefit but this was one vignette I didn’t particularly want to see.

  I dropped the paper, realising they weren’t looking in my direction. My neck turned with a heavy crunch as I followed Lucy and her plus one walking down the street, arms now linked. Perhaps that’s why she hadn’t called. We had only met once after all, but I hadn’t forgotten her. Perhaps the feeling wasn’t reciprocated. My face fell into a frown. Perhaps she’d met the love of her life in Sydney who just happened to live in London and here they were, doing that couple thing on a Saturday of walking around the city looking smug.

  I’d lost my appetite and pushed away the second half of my sandwich, chewing on my bottom lip. I might be jumping to conclusions but then again, my eyes could normally be trusted. I felt the hot stab of disappointment.

  Back home, I got down to ironing my party shirt for the evening ahead, not quite managing to vanquish the image of Lucy and her mystery woman from my mind. While I was getting ready, the phone went.

  “Any job news yet?” It was my mum. She sounded breezy.

  “I’ve got a job, I told you.”

  “Yes, but a proper job,” she said. Her tone had now changed to that special type she reserved for telling off her children.

  “This is my proper job for now.”

  “But you’ve got a degree…”

  “That’ll get me a job in sales and I am all out of sales pitches. Besides, I like this job.” I began to chew my left thumbnail.

  “What kind of café is it? And are you cooking? I just never saw you in a café. Is it like on EastEnders?” I could hear the frown in her question.

  “Not quite. It’s just around the corner, run by a lovely guy, sells posh quiche and cake.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Who?”

  “The fella.”

  “Matt. He’s from Guildford. Makes a mean cheesecake.”

  “Is he single?” she asked. Her excitement at me spending all my days with an eligible straight man was barely concealed.

  “He is. 35, solvent, own business and hair. So if you know of any single ladies, throw them my way and I’ll sort them out.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line as she took in the fact I wasn’t including myself in that category.

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” she said. Vaguely contrite.

  “Actually, I’m being set up tonight with a lawyer.” Where had that come from?

  “Oh – what’s his name?” Scrap contrite.

  “Angela. You do remember I’m gay, right?”

  “I was just joking,” she said. She wasn’t. “Where’s that then?”

  “Julia and Tom’s.”

  She spent the next few minutes waxing lyrical about Julia and Tom, declaring them a “super couple”. During her cascade of words I was able to select my jeans and shoes for the evening and unpack a bag of toiletries I’d bought on the way home.

  “What’s rustling?” she said.

  “Nothing,” I lied. I walked from the bathroom to my bedroom and opened my wardrobe.
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  “When are they getting married?”

  “June.”

  “You’ll have to remind me to send a card. Dave and Vera’s daughter married Gary Holmes last weekend – do you remember him from school?”

  “No.” I sighed.

  “I’m sure he was in your year,” she said. “Anyway, she looked lovely.”

  “I’m sure she did.” I wondered if she picked up on my sarcasm. “Listen, I have to get ready.”

  More sighing.

  “Send Julia my love. Are you coming for dinner tomorrow?”

  “No. Kate and I have the boys and we’re taking them to the zoo.”

  “Ooh, lovely. Say hi to Kate. A Sunday soon then?”

  “I’ll call to confirm.” I selected some socks from my top drawer.

  “Make sure you do –and bring Kate too!”

  Maybe she did fancy Kate.

  Chapter 12

  I arrived at Julia’s bang on six to be greeted by Tom flicking one of the corks on his sunhat, worn in my honour.

  “To make you feel at home, Sheila,” he said. He leant in and kissed me on my right cheek so that I felt the bristle of his stubble. When Julia had met Tom at university ten years ago he’d had a full head of hair but now his brown thatch was decidedly thinning. In my absence he’d also put on some weight which he was hiding well with a black T-shirt, but he was still the same warm, welcoming Tom.

  “So have you met this woman I’m being paired up with tonight?” I said. I kissed Julia from behind as she was busy de-veining a bowl of prawns with some cocktail sticks. I screwed up my face at the sight – I loved eating shellfish but not so much the preparation.

  Julia was ready for the evening in green trousers and white shirt, covered right now with a black apron. I could tell from the way her dark hair was still a little static that she was fresh out of the shower and recently coiffured.

  “No, but I’ve seen a photo and she looks just your type – tits, breathing, you know,” he said. “You look lovely by the way,” he added to appease me, which worked a treat as I accepted an ice cold bottle of Stella from him.