The Café at Seashell Cove_A heart-warming laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

by Karen Clarke

  Not like Adam, whose salary could have supported a Third World country.

  ‘You didn’t do anything with your art, then?’ I said, at the same time that Danny said, ‘Your hair’s a different colour.’

  ‘It’s Plumberry.’ The words were laced with a hefty dose of defiance and I wondered why I was behaving as if I’d never spoken to a good-looking member of the opposite sex before. Adam had been (was) extremely handsome, albeit in a more textbook way; square-jawed and clean-shaven, with a rugby-player’s physique from early-morning gym sessions, and intensely dark brown eyes. ‘A mixture of plums and berries,’ I added, as if more explanation was required.

  Danny tilted his head, squinting his eyes as the sun reappeared. ‘I’d say it was more Ribena.’

  ‘Ha, ha.’

  ‘I happen to like Ribena,’ he said.

  Not sure what to do with my hands – more used to clutching an iPad to look things up, or my work phone so I could take calls at all hours of the day or night – I stuck them in the pouch at the front of my top and moistened my lips with my tongue. ‘I’m thinking of growing it out,’ I said, as he appeared to be waiting for an explanation. ‘It’s not really me.’ Why had I told him that? ‘It fitted with my image, I suppose.’ I wished he’d stop looking at me like that. As if he’d dug up a Roman coin and was trying to work out its value.

  ‘What image was that, then?’

  ‘I’m in event management.’ I couldn’t quite summon the requisite enthusiasm, so it came out sounding as interesting as filing legal documents. ‘With a big company based in London. At least, I was.’

  ‘Yes, your mum told me.’ He bashed his spade into the ground and leaned on the handle, so his face was close to mine. He had a grazing of stubble around the lower half of his face, and I wondered whether he was growing a beard, or just too lazy to shave. ‘And you reckon purple hair’s essential for planning events?’

  ‘It’s not purple, it’s—’

  ‘Blueberryplumble. I get it.’ A grin lifted his well-drawn lips. Stop looking at his lips. ‘Your parents are insanely proud of you, you know.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  He straightened. ‘They certainly told me all about it.’

  I grimaced, trying to hold his gaze and not think about my stupid hair colour. ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘I could hardly connect the woman they were describing with the girl I shared art classes with.’ His eyes gleamed and widened. ‘The girl who sketched a not-very-flattering caricature of Miss Finch when she was supposed to be doing a self portrait.’

  ‘I didn’t like looking at myself.’ Embarrassed, I glanced down to see I looked pregnant with my hands bunched in my pouch, so I snatched them out and folded my arms instead. Why hadn’t I brought my bag so I could fiddle about with it, like normal women? ‘Anyway, she liked my drawing.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Danny, one finger stabbing the air. ‘So how come you ended up planning all these a-MAZING’ – his impression of Mum was uncanny – ‘events for high-profile clients, instead of doing something arty?’

  ‘How come you’re digging gardens?’ I shot back, unwilling to enter into a defence of my choice of career with Danny Fleetwood, of all people. ‘You were pretty good, too, as I recall.’

  ‘Ah, so you did notice me?’

  His teasing grin sent all my blood to my face. ‘Hard not to when you were constantly messing about. Sometimes, all you did was flick paint at your canvas, and pretend you were the next Jackson Pollock.’

  ‘Still got a good grade though, didn’t I?’

  ‘So did I.’

  ‘I know,’ he said with a slow nod. ‘Because you were really good.’

  His words produced a warm glow in the pit of my stomach. My temperature gauge was all over the place. ‘I liked painting, that was all,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to take it any further.’ I remembered Rob’s words from earlier, about his music. If I had pursued art, I’d probably hate it now, like he’d gone off music. ‘And, anyway, I wasn’t that good.’

  If I’d been half hoping Danny would disagree, I was disappointed. ‘Sign-writing’s a form of art,’ he pointed out.

  ‘It’s writing with paint.’ I was being horribly unfair, but couldn’t seem to stop myself carrying on. ‘And isn’t it a dying trade? Most shops use vinyl lettering these days.’ I’d picked up that nugget from a feature I’d read online about the urban art scene in London. I might not paint or draw any more, but I liked reading about people who did.

  Danny pretended to look hurt – or maybe he really was. ‘It’s a bit more than writing with paint,’ he said. ‘There’s been a revival. Businesses like the personal touch, something bespoke. Like your parents, for instance.’

  ‘How did you end up at the café?’ Embarrassment was making me blunt. ‘Nothing better to do?’

  ‘Christ, you’re grumpier than I remember.’ He swung back and held his arm out, as if to ward off an attack. ‘Tilly Campbell recommended me, do you remember her?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘I bumped into her when I came back from Spain.’

  ‘You’ve been to Spain?’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised.’ His smile was bright with mischief. ‘I haven’t been holed up in my bedroom for the past ten years, playing with my Gameboy. And that’s not a euphemism.’

  I didn’t want to think about him doing anything in his bedroom, but found I was picturing him lounging on a revolving (why?) king-sized bed in his pants, and had to work hard to overcome a powerful blush.

  ‘I spent a year over there, honing my trades,’ he said. ‘Lived with a Señorita for a while, but it didn’t work out.’

  ‘Thanks for that update.’

  ‘Listen, while you’re around we should have a drink and catch up properly,’ he said, as if I hadn’t just been unnecessarily sarcastic. ‘I’m not seeing anyone at the moment, if that’s what’s bothering you.’

  ‘Why would that bother me?’ I said. ‘I don’t care whether or not you’re seeing anyone.’

  ‘Are you seeing anyone?’

  ‘Maybe.’ It was hard to understand why he was still smiling that stupidly sexy smile, which he probably practised in front of a mirror, when my body language was anything but inviting. My mind volleyed to Adam’s face. He had a lovely smile, too, which showcased his perfectly aligned teeth. ‘Does it matter if I am?’

  ‘It might do, if I want to win you over,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be treading on anyone’s toes.’

  For a second, I felt as if I was falling. ‘Why would you want to win me over?’ Especially when you couldn’t be bothered the last time. The words didn’t make it to my lips. ‘You’re not even my type.’

  He threw back his head and laughed. ‘I’ve thought about you sometimes, over the years,’ he said, bringing his gaze back to mine. ‘Wondered how you were doing.’

  He’d probably said the same thing to Tilly, who I imagined was still about ten times more his type than I ever would be. ‘Funny, because I haven’t thought about you at all,’ I said. ‘We can’t have spent more than two days together, tops. In a classroom with other people, years ago. Where you mostly made fun of our teacher behind her back.’

  ‘Listen, about the leavers’ party that night,’ he said, his eyes scrunching, as if suddenly remembering he hadn’t bothered to turn up. ‘I had a good reason for not being there. I really wanted to let you know, but couldn’t find you, and—’

  ‘You had a better offer,’ I chipped in, remembering the girl I’d seen him with, who’d looked a lot like Jennifer Hartwell from what I’d made out, and everyone knew that boys couldn’t resist her. ‘It’s fine, it’s all in the past and, anyway, I got off with Lenny Jamieson.’ Everyone had known of Lenny Jamieson’s heart-throb status, and with his habit of choosing a lucky recipient every week to ‘go out with’ it wasn’t unfeasible that it could have been my turn.

  ‘Really?’ His smile didn’t falter.

  ‘Yes, really. We spent mos
t of the night snogging.’

  He teased the spade out of the ground and hoisted it over one shoulder, looking every inch a seasoned gardener, down to his mud-encrusted boots. ‘Well, maybe it’s time I made it up to you,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let me win you over properly this time.’

  I had no idea why my heart was flipping about like a fish. ‘Isn’t there anything better to do around here?’

  Before he could answer, Nan returned, carrying a mug in each hand, her robe flapping dangerously around her ankles, and I experienced another little shock at how different she looked. ‘Here you are,’ she said, handing us each a drink.

  ‘What is it?’ I peered inside, preparing myself for something home-made and herbal, probably featuring dandelion leaves, which I’d have to force down to be polite.

  ‘Tap water,’ she said. ‘I know you’re probably used to drinking it out of bottles, but – as you’ve already pointed out – all that plastic’s incredibly bad for the environment.’

  ‘I’m not actually, I just… you were gone for a while, that’s all, I thought you were…’ Leaving us alone together. ‘Making something… else.’ I watched Danny’s throat ripple as he guzzled his drink in one go. ‘You usually drink coffee.’

  ‘No more, unless it’s decaf and fair trade,’ Nan said. ‘Plus, I’m cleansing at the moment, purifying my body.’

  Unable to cope with the image this presented, I gulped some water then handed the mug back. ‘Listen, Nan, I’ll let you get on,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to pop by and say hi.’

  ‘You should join me for a meditation session some time.’ She grasped my hand. ‘You seem very tense, Cassandra.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ I laughed lightly to prove it, aware I must look anything but, with my shiny red face and a pulse twitching beneath my right eye. ‘I’ve got lots of plans for while I’m here.’ I sensed Danny listening and tried to stay focused on Nan. ‘I’m arranging some events for the café.’

  ‘You work too hard, chérie.’ She squeezed my hand, a smile creasing her eyes. ‘What are these events?’

  ‘I’ll keep you posted.’

  ‘That means she doesn’t know,’ said Danny.

  I rounded on him. ‘It means mind your own business.’ I sounded more like a truculent teenager than the career woman I was striving to be. ‘What are your plans?’

  He grinned. ‘Well, I was planning to carry on doing a bit of this and that, as usual, but now I have a new challenge to look forward to.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Although his words had been directed at me, Nan had misunderstood. ‘He’s trying to find me a jeune coq.’

  ‘Beg pardon?’ said Danny.

  ‘She means cockerel.’ I frowned at Nan. ‘It’s French.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Danny gave me a stagey wink. ‘Looks like I’ve got two challenges on my hands.’

  I could hardly say, ‘I don’t want to be a challenge,’ with Nan listening. Instead, I said, ‘I’ve really got to go,’ and glanced at my watch as if I had a vital appointment. ‘I’ll speak to you soon, Nan.’

  I turned and hurried away on legs that felt strangely wonky, aware of their eyes on my back and trying not to wonder whether they’d talk about me.

  I’d thought coming home would be a port in a storm – a chance to regroup and start over – but, if anything, I felt more unsettled than I had when I’d lost my job.

  Chapter Seven

  I spent the afternoon skulking around my parents’ house like a convalescent, reacquainting myself with the past – hardly anything had been thrown out or replaced since the 1990s – and ended up in a chair in the garden with an old Harry Potter from my bookshelf.

  ‘What are you doing out there?’ Mum called from the patio doorway what felt like just minutes later, yanking me away from Hogwarts.

  ‘Just relaxing, like you suggested.’ I waggled my book at her and she came over, still wearing her café uniform, her face pink from her exertions.

  ‘I thought you’d be reading one of your business books,’ she said, eyebrows rising. I thought guiltily of my unpacked rucksack in my bedroom, mostly stuffed with sketch pads and the clothes I hadn’t been able to fit in my suitcase. ‘That won’t help your career.’

  I dragged on a smile. ‘Maybe my career will involve witchcraft and wizardry in future.’ I flourished the book like a magic wand and she gamely looked down at her outfit with a look of exaggerated astonishment.

  ‘Cinderella shall go to the ball!’ she cried, pressing her palms to her cheeks.

  I smiled properly, pleased she was being playful. ‘And you don’t even have to cook dinner,’ I said, feeling generous. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Her expression reverted to ‘my daughter’s so special and clever she shouldn’t be allowed to do normal things’. ‘Mind you, I don’t cook every night any more,’ she admitted. ‘Sometimes, your dad and I just have a sandwich when we get in, so we have the evening free to—’

  ‘Please don’t say what I think you’re going to say.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to mention making love, Cassie.’

  ‘Oh god, you said it.’

  She batted a hand at me. ‘I was going to say, do whatever we like.’

  ‘And now your offspring are home, cramping your style.’

  ‘Oh, no, not at all, it’s lovely having you to stay.’ She sounded genuinely horrified I might think otherwise. ‘We want to make the most of you both, because Rob will soon be back with Emma, by the sound of things, and you’ll be off goodness knows where.’

  My nerve-endings pinged. Her words implied an end date to my visit, which meant I shouldn’t be reading in the garden – I should be getting on with organising my future. ‘And I’m very happy to cook dinner for you,’ Mum continued. ‘I ordered some parmesan and rosemary stuffed chicken breasts from the butcher’s specially.’

  ‘Sounds… lovely,’ I said. ‘But I’d have been happy with fish fingers and oven chips.’ It had been my favourite dinner as a child.

  ‘Oh, no.’ Mum’s forehead crimped. ‘We can’t feed you frozen food when you’re used to eating out at fancy restaurants.’

  ‘For god’s sake, Mum, I don’t eat out every night,’ I said, unable to smooth out a snap. My fine-dining experiences had been few and far between, and I was no stranger to beans on toast for dinner. ‘I’m perfectly happy to eat whatever you’ve got in the fridge. Stop treating me like minor royalty.’

  ‘I’m not.’ I saw the hurt in her eyes and wished I hadn’t said it. ‘We just want you to have a nice visit,’ she said.

  There was the ‘V’ word again. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I said humbly. ‘I’m sure I will. Have a nice visit, I mean.’

  She smiled. ‘I hope so, love.’ She sounded so doubtful I got up and gave her a hug, glad when she relaxed against me. ‘Silly muffin,’ she said, patting my back before pulling away and turning back to the house. ‘Did you go to your nan’s?’

  ‘Yes. Have you seen what she’s been up to?’ Glad of the change of subject, I followed her indoors. ‘She’s going environmentally friendly and throwing out all her stuff.’

  ‘So I gather,’ Mum said, entering the kitchen and looking around as if she’d never seen it before. ‘Danny suggested putting her things in storage, but if she wants to downsize, it’s really up to her.’ My heart stuttered at the mention of his name. ‘He’s been a godsend, actually.’ That was the word Nan had used. ‘Did you see him while you were there?’ Mum retrieved a tray of plumped up chicken breasts from the fridge and placed it on the counter. ‘He’s been doing her gardening for a while.’

  ‘He’s a proper jack of all trades.’ There was a bit of an edge to my voice, and seeing that Mum was about to protest, I added, ‘He’s making her an outdoor toilet, did you know?’

  I’d hoped it would elicit a stronger reaction than a chuckle.

  ‘Mum! He shouldn’t be encouraging her.’

  ‘It’s one of her fads, and if she’s happy we’re
happy, though it’s a shame she doesn’t have much time for us any more.’ As Mum rinsed her hands at the sink, I noticed how worn they looked from constantly washing them at the café over the years. She never remembered to rub in the moisturising creams that Rob and I bought her, despite requesting a new one every birthday. They were lined up on the windowsills in virtually every room. ‘Remember when she wanted to learn to fly a plane?’

  ‘I certainly do.’ Nan had booked some lessons at a flying school in Umberleigh, but turned out to be horribly airsick.

  ‘And then there were the Tibetan bowls,’ Mum reminded me, switching the oven on. ‘Part of her musical phase.’

  ‘Oh god, that was awful,’ I said, groaning. I’d been helping to arrange a charity fun run when Mum had sent me a recording of a noise like discordant church bells, accompanied by a low droning sound, which turned out to be Nan, bashing a series of different shaped bowls with a wooden spoon and humming under her breath.

  ‘I blame that man she was seeing,’ said Mum. ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Gregory, I think.’ It had been hard to keep up with Nan’s boyfriends. ‘She met him at the garden centre.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Mum shoved the tray of chicken into the oven and set the timer. ‘What your grandfather would make of it all, I’ve no idea.’

  ‘He couldn’t complain after the way he used to carry on.’ I plucked an overripe pear from the fruit bowl and bit into it. ‘And anyway, I think this is more than a fad.’ Blocking out all talk of her dying, I thought of Nan’s make-up-free face, and how knowledgeable she’d seemed about what she needed to make her new lifestyle work. ‘Maybe this is what she’s been looking for since Grandpa died.’

  ‘Well, good for her, I guess,’ Mum said, her smile in place as she took some carrots from the fridge and emptied out a bag of potatoes. ‘Mashed or roasted?’

  ‘Both?’

  ‘Good girl.’ She gave a satisfied nod, seeming to forget I was supposedly used to eating more exotic fare. ‘I think you should stay here until you’ve at least got your boobs and hips back.’