by Karen Clarke
‘In that case, I’d better restrict my calories so I can stay longer,’ I said jokily.
‘You’ll do no such thing.’ Misunderstanding, Mum flashed me an old-fashioned look that made me want to hug her again. ‘I hope you haven’t been comparing yourself with those underwear models on Instagram.’
‘Do you mean Victoria’s Secret?’
‘If they’re the ones that hardly eat so that they can parade about in their skimpies, then yes,’ she said. ‘One of them contacted Rob, you know. Said she was a fan of his music.’
‘Blimey.’ And he’d rather live in Seashell Cove, and train to teach IT? ‘What do you think of him giving up the band?’ I was genuinely curious. She and Dad had got so much vicarious pleasure from having a semi-famous son, just as I’d enjoyed having a brother whose music had been played on the radio. OK, so it wasn’t our kind of music, but that hadn’t stopped me from downloading it onto my phone, or my parents from proudly displaying the CDs alongside Bananarama (Mum’s favourite), The Eagles, and Nina Simone.
‘I think it’s brave to recognise when you’re on the wrong path and to step off and do something different,’ she said, in a way that suggested she was parroting Rob, after he’d been brainwashed by Bossy Emma. ‘At least he’s experienced… life.’ She emphasised the word to demonstrate its vast mysteries – as if she had no hope of experiencing it herself. ‘He wouldn’t have done that if he’d stayed around here for the past seven years.’
‘He might not have started drinking either,’ I said. For some reason, Danny Fleetwood’s smiling face burst into my head. ‘He might have been happier.’
‘Of course he wouldn’t.’ Mum spoke with more bite than usual. ‘He’d always have wondered what might have been.’
I studied her back as she peeled potatoes with more force than seemed strictly necessary. ‘I suppose you’re right.’ I finished my pear and pulled a pan from the cupboard for the potatoes. ‘Experience is the teacher of all things.’ It was something I’d heard Carlotta say once, in an unusually reflective mood.
‘Exactly,’ Mum said. ‘And he chose to do it, we didn’t force him. You know we wanted you both to do whatever made you happy.’ She looked at me over her shoulder. ‘You’re happy with your life, aren’t you, Cassie?’ There was such a ray of hope in her eyes I couldn’t bear to extinguish it.
‘Course I am.’ I managed to say it with conviction, glad when a beaming smile transformed her face. I will be, once I’ve sorted out my career, I added silently, in order to keep my expression pleasantly relaxed. In the meantime, I’m happy to be crunching this deliciously sweet, raw carrot.
‘Put that down,’ Mum instructed, tapping my hand with the potato peeler, and, keen to hold onto a sense of normality, I took another bite, knowing she’d warn me affectionately that I’d ‘spoil my appetite’ like she used to, when talks about experiencing The Big Wide World hadn’t been a part of her vocabulary.
‘You’ll spoil your appetite,’ she said, and looked puzzled when I burst out laughing and squashed a kiss on her cheek. ‘Maybe you could set the table,’ she said, flushing with pleasure. ‘If you don’t mind.’
Dinner was a jolly affair, mostly because Rob was so enthused about his course, and with proving himself to Bossy Emma, that he kept up a flow of conversation, which Mum and Dad responded to with bright-eyed eagerness, and partly because I kept deflecting questions about my life in London. I came up with memories from the past: ‘Remember when Dad got fed up with losing at Scrabble and made us keep playing until he won?’, and random compliments: ‘Your hair looks extra bouncy, Mum, what conditioner are you using?’, and I teased Rob about becoming a teacher: ‘You can always resort to playing your keyboard if you’re rubbish.’
‘Is there someone staying in your flat while you’re here?’ Mum said, catching me out over a plate of cheese and crackers. I’d neglected to tell them I no longer had a place to live, and hadn’t yet invented a plausible reason why.
‘I’m, erm, between accommodation at the moment and have been staying with a friend.’ It wasn’t exactly a lie. ‘My lease was up, so I’ve decided to… look for something else.’
‘Shame things didn’t work out with Adam. You could have moved in together.’ Mum paused, as if imagining the pair of us snuggled together on a sofa – or maybe she was wondering whether she should have said it, considering Adam and I were no longer together.
‘What about buying your own place?’ Dad said, and the idea that they believed that my salary could in any way stretch to a mortgage was so incredible that I swallowed a crumb the wrong way and had a coughing fit. ‘Rob’s looking to buy, aren’t you, son?’ Dad seamlessly moved on as I shoved Rob for slapping me deliberately hard on the back.
He nodded. ‘Music royalties,’ he said, to my unasked, watery-eyed question. ‘Got a bit of a nest egg.’
‘Do you know where that saying came from?’ I said, desperate to drag us away from the subject of housing. ‘It originated in the fourteenth century when people would put a real or china egg into a hen’s nest to encourage her to lay more eggs.’ After once overhearing a client ask what it meant, I’d speedily looked it up so that I could wow her with my brilliance.
‘Bit silly, when you think about it,’ Rob said, straight-faced. ‘It’s not like the hen could buy anything with her eggs.’
By bedtime, I was so exhausted that even when Rob re-enacted my least favourite childhood memory by bursting out of my wardrobe to ‘make me jump’, I could barely muster a scream.
‘You’re no fun any more, Sandra.’
‘Piss off,’ I managed drowsily, but fell asleep smiling, and dreamt I was watching a documentary, in which Nan was flying an aeroplane over a field where a shirtless Danny Fleetwood was digging a grave.
* * *
I woke the next morning full of purpose. Striking out on my own meant being in charge of my own destiny, setting my own hours, and being free to take on my own staff. I’d learn from Carlotta’s mistakes by being a kind and encouraging employer, dispensing wisdom, and not treating them like underlings.
Indulging a vision of my future self as the sort of person featured in magazines as ‘one to watch’, I drank the coffee Mum had left by my bed and, once everyone had left the house, I whirled into action. After showering, I dressed more smartly than the previous day, in a pair of tapered black trousers and a dove-grey blouse, a pair of black lace-up brogues completing the outfit. I disguised my purplish hair by fashioning a wide hairband from a scarf that I found hanging on the back of my bedroom door, and was tucking into a power breakfast of bacon, eggs and French toast, when the teas and coffees I’d ordered by next-day delivery turned up.
‘Smells good,’ said the courier, with a hungry look, as I signed for the boxes. ‘Can’t remember the last time I ate bacon. The wife says it’s as bad as smoking.’
‘Only if you eat twenty rashers a day,’ I joked, my mood still riding high, gratified when he laughed all the way back to his van.
I opened the boxes and began pulling out fancy packages and reading the labels, knowing I’d need some rudimentary knowledge of the products before the tasting session.
There was a Nicaraguan blend of coffee beans with complex flavours of hazelnut, cloves, and a tantalising hint of citrus. Should coffee taste of citrus? And what about the Kenyan coffee, crafted from prized peaberries—a particular type of coffee bean, formed when the two seeds of a berry fuse into a single tiny oval. I’d never heard of a peaberry and was certain none of the café’s customers would have either, but part of the fun would be trying them.
Dreamtime tea came in a lavender tin, and boasted a rich, malty rooibos for the base that was blended with flavours of apricots, creamy vanilla and a spoonful of honey for good measure. Sounded more like a cake recipe. Whole chunks of apple make for a moreish midnight feast… It was obviously to aid a restful night’s sleep, but could be marketed as ‘relaxing’, while the Ceylon Orange Pekoe tea, with its brisk taste and long, wiry leaves, was bound to invite d
iscussion.
A wave of excitement pulsed through me as I imagined word spreading about the café’s exquisite new beverages – until I remembered I had no way of getting the stock to Seashell Cove unless I carried it there. It was possible, in a couple of trips – the boxes weren’t exactly heavy – but not very practical, or professional.
I dithered over whether to call the café and ask either Mum or Dad to come and get me, but it was hardly fitting to be relying on my parents for a lift, and I didn’t fancy turning up in a taxi, which might give the impression I was throwing my money around – money I could no longer claim back on expenses. There was a bus that meandered down to Seashell Cove every couple of hours, but I couldn’t quite see myself hopping on public transport.
In the end, I called Nan.
‘Is Sir Lancelot still in the garage?’ It was the name she’d given the old Morris Minor that she’d had for as long as I could remember and which, these days, was probably considered vintage.
‘Where else would he be, ma bichette?’ I smiled at the endearment – my little doe – which Nan had used when I was a child. ‘I don’t drive much, since my shoulder popped out.’
‘Popped out?’
‘When I was learning judo last year,’ she said. ‘It’s not been the same since I threw my opponent down.’
I shook my head. Luckily, that fad hadn’t lasted long. ‘I’ve got some stuff to take to the café and don’t have a car,’ I said.
‘Ma chérie, of course you can borrow him. It’s such a shame he’s tucked away out of sight, he must be desperate for some fresh air.’ She’d always referred to her beloved car as though it were human, much to my grandfather’s embarrassment. He’d preferred his sporty Mazda, and had refused to even sit in Sir Lancelot. ‘He doesn’t have power steering, I’m afraid, and he’s a bit of a gas guzzler, which of course is terrible for the environment.’
‘I’ll take my chances,’ I said. ‘I’m not even sure I can remember how to drive.’ It wasn’t strictly true. On my flying visit home last Christmas, I’d ended up driving Mum and Dad back from the Smugglers Inn after their team won the quiz night, because they’d drunk too much mulled wine, but before I could tell her that I’d walk down and get it, Nan was already speaking.
‘Don’t worry, Cassandra,’ she said. ‘Danny can drive it over and take you there.’
Chapter Eight
‘You didn’t have to do this.’
‘Are you kidding?’ Danny patted Sir Lancelot’s sage-green flank before opening the boot so that I could place my cargo inside. ‘I couldn’t miss a chance to drive this ancient beauty.’ He nodded in a friendly fashion to Sid Turner, who was out on the road with his eyes on stalks at the sight of a genuine classic – albeit it one a bit rusty around the wheel arches.
‘If you need her buffing up, give me a shout,’ he called, brandishing his cloth as if he’d like to bolt over there and then.
‘I will, and it’s actually a he,’ I replied, feeling foolish, trying not to look at Danny as I ducked under his arm and into the passenger seat. I was suddenly glad that I’d made an effort with my outfit. The contrast with his grass-stained jeans and loose T-shirt somehow served to heighten the different directions our lives had taken, and placed me on firmer ground. His untidy hair was sweeping his collar, and his stubble was more pronounced than it had been yesterday. Definitely growing a beard.
As he fired the car into life, he flashed me a wicked grin. ‘Like what you see?’ he said, jiggling his eyebrows.
Annoyed at being caught looking, I turned to look out of the window, hoping my face was hot because of the sun blazing through the windscreen.
‘Just so you know,’ I said starchily, ‘I’m not looking for a relationship.’ Better to get it out of the way. Just because I’d had a weird chemical reaction to seeing him for the first time in years, and he’d gone out of his way to try to charm me, didn’t mean I was willing to play his ‘win you over’ game – because I was certain that’s all it was to him: a game. ‘I’m totally focused on starting a new phase of my career.’
‘All work and no play?’ He sucked in a breath. ‘You know what they say about that.’
‘That I’ll build a successful business and, in a few years, have enough money to do whatever I want?’
He chuckled as he released the handbrake and drove down the road, his broad hands resting lightly on the old-fashioned steering wheel. ‘So, you’re motivated by money?’
‘Just watch where you’re going.’ I didn’t want a conversation about what motivated me. ‘We can’t all pick and choose what we want to do.’
‘I think you’ll find that we can.’
‘Maybe, if you’re living off a trust fund.’
His roar of laughter indicated that nothing could be further from the truth, and I realised that, despite us having shared a year of art classes, I knew nothing about his background. ‘I’m just not driven by cash,’ he said, when he’d sobered up. ‘It’s more important to me that I’m happy with how I spend my time every day.’
‘Doing this and that?’
‘Exactly.’ He glanced at me sideways. ‘Each of my jobs fulfils a different need.’
‘How many do you have?’
‘Needs, or jobs?’
I let the silence swell.
‘Please yourself,’ he said, cranking down the window and poking his elbow out. ‘I’ve got three jobs.’
‘Three?’
‘Sign-writing, gardening and cooking.’
‘You cook?’ I wasn’t sure why that was so surprising, except that his soil-engrained hands didn’t look like they should be handling sausages, or whatever he specialised in. ‘I’m a chef at The Brook in Kingsbridge,’ he said, naming a popular and classy restaurant. ‘Only a few nights a week, mind you. I wouldn’t want to do it full time.’
‘A chef,’ I repeated, adjusting my impression of him. ‘Where did that come from?’
He jerked a shoulder. ‘I used to go fishing with my dad after…’ He paused. ‘Anything we caught, he’d cook. It sparked an interest.’
‘Right,’ I said, picturing a tousle-haired boy bent over a flaming grill. ‘I like seafood.’
‘That’s good, because I was going to invite you to the restaurant one evening next week, and I do a mean cod with chorizo.’
My heart was doing silly things again, so I focused my gaze on the shiny, wooden dashboard, thinking how different it was to Adam’s Alfa Romeo with its red leather seats and state-of-the-art sound system. ‘I probably won’t have time.’
‘I’m sure you can spare a couple of hours,’ he said, turning the car down the curvy road that led to the café. In the distance, the sun was shimmering off the sea and the sand looked almost white. ‘Never get tired of that view,’ he added, pulling the car into the only available space in the tiny car park.
‘Do you live locally?’ I hadn’t meant to ask, but it just slipped out.
‘I do,’ he said.
‘Did you always?’ I hadn’t meant to ask that either. ‘Only, I don’t really remember you from before that last year or so at school.’
‘No, we lived all over the place when I was a kid, because my dad was in the army.’ His fingers drummed the steering wheel. ‘We settled in Kingsbridge after he was… after he left. I was thirteen, fourteen. I live there again, now,’ he said. ‘Nice house, not too far from the restaurant.’
‘Your own?’ Remembering what Dad had said, I realised how little chance there was at the moment of me ever buying my own place.
‘My sister’s, actually. I rent her attic room.’
‘Ah.’ I hadn’t meant to convey disapproval – or maybe I had. Either way, he made the face of a scolding teacher and wagged a finger at me. ‘Don’t judge me, Cassie Maitland.’
My face reddened. ‘I wasn’t.’
‘You’ll like her,’ he said, dropping the act. ‘Louise, my sister, I mean. Most people do.’
‘I’ve already told you, I’m—’
&n
bsp; ‘Not looking for a relationship.’ He gave me the benefit of his smile. ‘It’s OK, I get it.’
‘Good.’ I snapped my seat belt off, ignoring a tiny stab of disappointment.
‘But that’s only because I haven’t won you over, yet.’
I decided to ignore the comment. I didn’t want to encourage him. ‘Thanks for the lift,’ I said politely, getting out of the car.
He leapt out too, a smile still hovering, and I wondered whether he ever looked pissed off. ‘Do you want a hand?’
‘I’m good, thanks,’ I said, retrieving my boxes from the boot.
‘I would come in with you, but I’m installing a water butt for Sylvia today.’ It was odd, hearing him refer to Nan by her name. ‘For collecting rainwater,’ he clarified.
‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’m here on business, anyway.’
‘Clearly.’ He tipped his head at the boxes. ‘You can tell me all about it over our meal at The Brook.’
I felt my scarf slip forward, but my hands were full and I couldn’t do anything about it. ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ I said, tilting my head back.
‘Well, that can’t be true.’ He looked at me for a long moment, while the breeze lifted his hair, and although I tried to look away, my gaze seemed stuck to his annoyingly attractive face. ‘See you soon, Cassie.’
As he walked away, I called after him, ‘Aren’t you taking the car?’
He turned. ‘Sylvia said to leave it with you, otherwise I’d have given you a lift in my van.’
‘But… how are you getting back?’
He jabbed a finger at his feet and a little march on the spot. ‘On these,’ he said. ‘It’s not far.’
‘Sure you don’t want a cup of tea, first?’ Damn. Why had I said that?
Expecting him to accept smugly, I was stung when he shook his head and said, ‘Cheers, but I’d better get back,’ and strode off with a merry wave.
‘Suit yourself,’ I muttered, dragging my eyes away from his departing back. ‘I was only being polite.’