by Laura Kemp
She’d ask; but hang on, he’d said he wouldn’t be in for his usual flapjack this morning because he was starting work very early – there was a conference in Cardiff he was going to with his team and they had a train to catch. Could he have done all of this before he’d gone? It was a big call. But yes, he was a romantic bugger: he spoke like a poet and saw beauty in dandelions.
Here came Gwen, practically doing the cha-cha-cha through the shop; she might know something.
‘Was it you?’ Gwen panted, reaching Mel at the counter. ‘Was it you?’
‘Me?’ Mel said, all high-pitched, ‘Hardly! I was fasto all night. What about you? Are you the queen of hearts?’
But even as she asked, Mel knew she was way off target. Gwen didn’t go up ladders – that was Gwil’s job and if it had been him, then surely Gwen would have known.
‘No! I heard something in the night, though, Gwil said I was hearing things! To think if he’d gone out to look we’d know who it was,’ she said, patting her rollers. ‘It has to be Rhodri. Even if he didn’t do it.’
‘What?’
‘He inspired it is what I mean. It’ll have been someone who was in the pub on Saturday, someone who heard him and had a vision. To prove us wrong, because I won’t lie, I thought he was talking out of his derrière myself.’
She spread her arms wide and took a breath. Stick a gold sequin dress on her and she’d be Shirley Bassey, Mel thought.
‘Because those hearts look smashing! Absolutely smashing! Who cares if he did or didn’t do it – what he did was plant a seed. And look at the impact it’s had already, put smiles on all our faces. I bet you’ve been busy.’
‘Yes, I have. Had lots of people coming for a nose.’
‘It’s so simple, but effective. It’s a bloody marvel. And this …’ she said, waving an envelope that was in her hand ‘… was waiting for me on the mat this morning.’
As Gwen picked up the pince-nez glasses which hung on a chain round her neck, popped them on the end of her nose and took out a card, Mel saw a crimson heart on the front.
‘It says: Welcome to the Village of Love.’
‘Any signature?’
Gwen gave the card to Mel who saw the words had been inked by individual letter stamps so there was no handwriting to analyse. It made her feel all warm that somebody had taken the time to do this without wanting any credit for it.
‘Well, well, well,’ Mel said, handing it back.
‘Isn’t it just!’ Gwen echoed. ‘It’s a sign, it is. That we can fight the development and we can bring back the tourists.’
‘To get ourselves back on the map as the Village of Love!’
Then Mel had a thought which sent her into a spin of excitement. ‘We’ll be famous, we will! We might even make it on the BBC Wales news! This is like the kiss of life!’
She felt ecstatic and full of hope. It had been a long time since she’d known that feeling. This had come at the right time for her: just when she’d been at her lowest ebb, a rush of love had picked her up. If they could build on this, maybe they could prevent the housing development and it might save her shop too.
‘I’d better go and take my rollers out, then!’ Gwen cackled. ‘See you later. We’ll grab Rhodri when he’s back and see what he knows.’
‘Okay, deffo,’ Mel said, drifting off, staring into the steam of the kettle, floating in the cleavage of a love heart. She would make a start on sorting through her stock, clear a bit of space, speak to her suppliers and see if they had any love-heart bits and pieces like key rings and mugs. And what fun she could have if she got some themed napkins and a couple of moulds for the kitchen – she could serve heart-shaped fried eggs, poached ones too. How beautiful this place would be with some red fairy lights! Even a mural … if only she had the courage to pick up a paintbrush. As thrilling as the idea was, Mel didn’t know if she had it in her to do it.
But there was one thing she was certain of, and she could feel it bursting within her: if her heart couldn’t beat for any man ever again, it could beat for Dwynwen.
10
‘But you can’t go, Ceri, you can’t!’ Gwen said, stabbing the bar with a finger. ‘All those ideas you had. A new menu. Fresh fish Friday, quiz night … you can’t just come up with some fabulous ideas then not do them.’
‘You don’t need me to do it,’ Ceri sighed, adding lemonade to make a lager top. ‘I told you, I never meant to get the job. It happened by mistake. I was only here for a holiday.’
‘But Seren’s off next week.’ Gwen was eyeballing her now, looking desperate. Surely they could cope, she and Gwil? Three farmers and a dog didn’t need that much looking after.
‘You could go behind the bar yourself …’ Ceri tried. You know, what with her being a landlady.
‘Don’t be rid-ick-a-lus. There’s the bookkeeping …’ How long can it take to add up six pints and a can of Fanta?
‘… I’ve got a food hygiene course …’ What? In Preparing Anything That Isn’t Lamb or Chicken Curry?
‘I’ve responsibilities at home,’ Ceri added firmly.
‘But you’re a breath of fresh air, you are. Don’t leave us. Tell her, Rhodri, tell her not to go.’
‘Go where?’ he said, pulling up a stool. ‘Pint of Reverend James, please.’
‘She’s only handed in her notice.’
A look of something crossed Rhodri’s face. Ceri had seen it in folk before. She had a think – it was the look of a dog who’d been told his walk had been cancelled: disappointed but powerless to do anything about it.
‘And you’re surprised, Gwen? That’s what people do. They come and they go.’ He shrugged.
‘Seren!’ Gwen yelled her name as she came in to take over from Ceri. ‘Stop her going!’
‘I’ll do nothing of the sort. Run, Ceri, run for the hills and don’t stop until you find a twenty-four-hour supermarket, a hairdresser who can do more than a perm and a non-instant coffee.’
Ceri high-fived Seren as they swapped places.
‘Have a drink,’ Seren said. ‘It can be your leaving do. And look, Rhodri’s even out of his leave-nothing-to-the-imagination Lycra for the occasion.’
‘Sometimes I do wear normal clothes, you know. If only to stop you ladies treating me like a piece of meat.’
Ceri couldn’t help but laugh, especially as he delivered the comment with a moustache of foamy booze. He seemed to be easy company, able to take the piss out of himself, melting into the circle here without need for a fanfare but holding his own, comfortable in his own skin. He was, admittedly, easy on the eye, too. A red checked shirt done up to the top accentuated his broad shoulders, which weren’t shoulders now she came to think of it but man shelves. And he was even in tight jeans – blimey, geek chic had made it to Wales, then. Big strong thighs tapered down to cyclist’s calves and blue Converse.
‘Glass of wine then, please, white, dry,’ Ceri said, sitting beside him, getting a whiff of the old Brut. Maybe he was on his way to a date? She’d seen it enough in her days as a barmaid, fellas coming in for a bit of Dutch courage beforehand. Seren clocked it too.
‘Meeting anyone, Rhod?’ she said, wiping the wood down, not letting him see what would definitely be playful eyes.
‘Obviously! Mel, of course.’
Ceri was surprised to feel something – not jealousy or envy or anything bad. It was a warmth from knowing he was good boyfriend material. If you were into that sort of wholesome thing. It didn’t surprise her that they were a couple – they seemed very close, as if they’d been together for years.
‘I know I always say this but I’ve never worked out why you two aren’t together,’ Seren said.
Oh! They weren’t! Her heart skipped a fraction – there was no harm in window shopping.
‘Yeah. But we’re just friends. Like brother and sister.’
He too
k another drink, completely unperturbed. All credit to him for not doing a shifty squirm there; most blokes under pressure would’ve found something offensive to say about the woman in question to bail themselves out. He could’ve easily pointed out she was cuckoo, for starters.
‘I’d drive her up the wall with the way I reuse everything! And I’d bore her to tears.’
Bless him, he was self-deprecating and self-aware too. Seriously, Dwynwen could make poster boys out of him and Logan: two eligible bachelors within a spit of each other would have the hordes here in a minute.
‘We’re meeting to talk about the Village of Love. What we can do next. You’re all very welcome to chip in.’
‘You sure it’s not you, Rhodri? Behind the bunting?’ Gwen asked, with narrowed eyes.
He’d been suspect number one since the village had woken up to the love hearts, which had really perked the place up: Dwynwen was understandably fixated on the whodunnit. During her shifts, Ceri had had to stop herself guffawing at Gwen and Gwil’s good-cop, bad-cop cross-examination routine on anyone who’d stepped over the threshold. One poor fella, who used a walking stick, had even been asked if he had an alibi!
‘I’ve told you a thousand times. No!’ he said, with good-natured exasperation.
‘I don’t believe you,’ Gwen said, as if she was cranking up the heat on her interrogation.
‘I wish it had been, because it’s genius! Don’t you worry, someone will come forward – it’s human nature to want to claim the glory, eh? Anyway,’ he said, turning to Ceri, ‘what’s this about you going?’
Their company felt so natural, she had the urge to let it all out – to tell them who she actually was. But she didn’t know these people really: she was in a false lull, that was all.
‘I’ve got a business back home. I need to get back. I was only here for a break.’
‘Ooh, what kind of business?’ Seren said, leaning in.
‘It’s in the beauty industry,’ she said.
‘Like a beauty therapist?’ Seren asked.
‘Kind of.’ She felt bad glossing over the details, but she was enjoying the freedom these last few days had given her: no being stopped for selfies and no #makeup updates on her social media accounts. ‘I came here to scatter my mum’s ashes. She was from this area, it’s what she wanted.’
‘And I thought it was man trouble! You know, woman turns up alone for some space …’
‘No. No man to blame.’
Ceri hadn’t considered relationships in a long time. She and Dave had parted ways after seven years together because they’d wanted different things. It hadn’t started out like that. They’d met at the club when she was twenty-two, same age as him; he was one of the regulars, and he wasn’t laddish like the others. Quieter, considerate, nice manners. She’d fallen comfortably in love with a man who wanted nothing more than what they already had. Great expectations, he’d say, caused bother. They’d never moved in together like couples they knew: both of them shared the desire to do it properly. Tash had flown the nest when she was twenty-one, seven months after meeting Kev. Ceri suspected she wanted to play house to erase the memory of having a disappointment for a father. Prove to herself not every man was feckless – luckily Kev was up to the task. Ceri, though, didn’t think the same way. She’d been born out of love, and she didn’t feel the need to rush. But then Mum fell ill.
Dave was great about that – he understood Mum needed her. And he didn’t see why they had to go out if Ceri wasn’t working. He knew she’d wanted to stop in to look after her mum. So he’d bring some of his mother’s shepherd’s pie for the three of them, or sometimes he’d turn up with a box set of Mum’s favourite TV shows, like Dallas and Dynasty, and they’d be happy as Larry. He liked her idea of relaxation, too – her hobby meant he knew where she’d be: in the kitchen rather than out at the gym, eyeing up blokes. But things changed when she started vlogging DIY make-up tutorials under the name Cheap As Chic. Talking to yourself again, are you? he’d say, not realising her audience was growing all the time. Dave viewed it with suspicion: it wasn’t the real world. But that was why Ceri loved it: talking shades of this and spoonfuls of that, unimportant stuff that made her and her followers happy.
He’d get the hump when she was busy editing her videos – because it took an age to get the technicals right. She was obsessed, he’d fume. She put it down to him wanting attention – so she suggested she did a men’s range and he could be her guinea pig: how about beeswax for a more matte finish on his perma-gelled blond spikes? Or a gentler moisturiser rather than his tears-to-the-eyes astringent after-shave? With blue eyes bulging, he’d told her in the frankest terms he was all man, ta very much. And that’s when he’d floated the idea she was beginning to act above her station. By then she’d started making a bit from advertising on her site and she’d offer to get the chips on a Friday. He’d almost conked out at the suggestion. Their differences were beginning to show: they might have had the same values, but they didn’t have the same ambition, which was a dirty word where she grew up.
Maybe she should’ve reined it in but by then it had become both her passion and her escape from caring for Mum. And why did she have to choose between Dave and her hobby? Which was fast becoming a little source of income, thanks to her chirpy videos, makeovers of Jade and trialling samples which company PRs had started to send her. Not enough of an income to jack in the job. That would come. Followed by Dave having had enough and walking away. The night when he’d said it was over, she’d told him she could see a time coming when she could support them both and he could cut his hours. She might as well have cut off his balls. He was the one who did the providing.
She poured her heartache into Cheap As Chic and she found herself quite a following on YouTube, which led to sponsorship and endorsements and all the trappings a girl from Crewe would die for. She’d be a fool to turn anything down, Jade would say, and it felt sweet that her BTEC in business had actually come in handy. No one before then had ever assumed she’d be up to much. She didn’t blame them – she hadn’t had any faith in herself either. That was what years of being a barmaid did to you. Making money had been a thrill – she wasn’t going to complain about those noughts in the bank – but she found it was the achievement that mattered more. Self-belief, she treasured most of all. And it got her through the downside of her good fortune: the loneliness and the piss-takers who never picked up the bill, particularly if they were her date for the night. Love wasn’t for her, not at the moment.
‘There is no man,’ she repeated firmly.
‘What about your mam then?’ Gwen said. ‘We might know her!’
She’d love to find out more but Mum had left years ago, way before any of this lot were either alive or living here.
‘I doubt it. She left in the Seventies.’
‘So what’s taking you back?’ Seren asked. ‘Why do you have to go?’
It was a good question. What did she have to go back for? No man, no kids, not even family, really. She didn’t want to go back to Crewe to see Tash celebrating a viewing or an offer on her childhood home. Nor to Alderley Edge, where it was all about what you looked like and what you were wearing. She had got used to her wellies now, and there was no point trying to flatten out the curls in her hair with all the salt in the air and the rain. And her skin, well, it felt much better without all the make-up she usually wore. Which was basically a betrayal of her own business. How about friends? Only Jade to speak of. But they’d known each other since the workingmen’s club and their bond wouldn’t be broken by an extra week away.
It would only be for the business. Trouble was, there were meetings lined up and new products to sign off; she needed to see her accountant, too, and how long did she have before her absence made people ask questions? But Jade had said it was all going swimmingly. She had her laptop with her if anything urgent came up – there had to be a café with wifi somewhere
around here. The bottom line was that Ceri didn’t feel prepared to return to the world she lived in – she still felt worn out emotionally. She’d sort of enjoyed herself in Dwynwen and she was feeling the benefits. As if her creases of stress were being smoothed by the waves, the slower less complicated pace of living and the benevolence of the villagers. As if her mother’s hand was on her brow, her cooling palm soothing her forehead, as she did when Ceri was small. Her shoulders were no longer knotted and her frown had melted away. Yet the rational voice inside her head told her it was entirely loony to stay in the back of beyond. Perhaps that’s why she liked it here …
‘It’s hard, there’s stuff at home …’ she said, a bit dashed her heart had surrendered so readily to her head. ‘You know, life.’
But Gwen had sensed her hesitation and went for it.
‘Can it wait another week? Stay here, help us out, can you? Weather is supposed to be lifting, it is.’
A ceremony for Mum without waterproofs – it was an enticing prospect and not just climate-related. Because she wanted to hold on to Mum for as long as she could – the beach wasn’t going anywhere and Ceri was no way near going on the beach. Rhodri jumped in.
‘And I know you could easily leg it and my course isn’t compulsory but—’
Shit! The course! She’d forgotten it.
‘… if you stay you could come along.’ He was begging with his big baby browns which did make her swoon a bit.
‘I can’t stay just because of that!’ she laughed.
‘You would if you knew the others who were due to attend have wised up to the fact they can get out of it. They’ve postponed with various flimsy excuses. You’re the only one coming. I’m going to look a right Billy No Recycling Offender Mates to my boss if she asks … This can’t fail before it’s even begun.’
It was the silliest reason but somehow he won her over. Or, more likely, it proved she hadn’t the strength to say no, which meant she hadn’t the strength to go back to work. And hadn’t she said she’d do good while she was here? Immediately, she got up and put on her coat.