by Karen Clarke
Meg and Tilly leant forward with intent expressions.
‘Your life sounds amazing, Cassie.’ Meg sighed passionately, her eyes twice their usual size. ‘I was so jealous when I heard how well you’re doing.’ If it had been anyone else I’d have assumed she was taking the mickey, but Meg wasn’t like that. ‘No wonder you haven’t been back in I don’t know how long.’
‘I didn’t get much time off,’ I started to say, but Tilly interrupted.
‘Didn’t you meet Kanye West?’ There was a twinkle of wonder in her eyes. ‘Is he as, you know, off-the-wall, shall we say, as he seems?’
‘I only really saw him from a distance, at a charity auction in New York,’ I admitted. A very long distance. On a television screen. In my room. I’d been too ill to attend the auction, after coming down with a chest infection on the back of the worst cold I’d ever had. ‘He seemed OK.’
‘Were North and Saint with him?’ Meg spoke eagerly, as though she was familiar with the family. ‘Sam’s a Kardashian fan,’ she added, which almost caused Tilly to choke on her tea.
‘He didn’t have the children with him,’ I confirmed. At least that much was true.
‘And you had an amazing apartment over there?’ Meg seemed as hungry for details as my family.
‘I shared a place in Manhattan with my colleague Nina and a couple of staff from the American office while we were there.’ The couple had indulged in frequent and noisy sex, meaning I’d spent what little free time I’d had walking the streets, as Nina was seeing a lawyer at the time who kept whisking her out for meals. She’d put on a stone while we were there. ‘It overlooked the Hudson River.’
‘Wow,’ Meg breathed, and I just knew she was picturing the place where Monica from Friends had lived, imagining me with a Ross-type character, and Nina looking like Jennifer Aniston. She’d been obsessed with Friends back in the day. I’d been surprised when she started seeing Sam, with his fair-haired, boyish good looks, when she’d once declared Joey Tribbiani to be her ideal man. ‘And you have a place in London?’
‘I did,’ I said, dabbing my finger into the cookie crumbs on my plate, wondering how much to tell them. ‘I just moved out, actually.’
‘What was it like?’ I knew Tilly would be far more interested in my room dimensions, colour schemes, and lighting than whether or not I’d lived with anyone.
‘Small,’ I said, honestly. In fact, it had been quite nice – what the estate agent had called ‘a hidden gem’ set off a roaring main road full of betting and charity shops, but calm and cosy inside, and a big step up from the house that Trudy and I had shared with a DJ, and a fashion student who could never afford her share of the rent. ‘And expensive.’
‘Obviously. It’s London,’ said Meg. ‘But you must earn a fortune, doing what you do.’ She’d never been embarrassed to talk about money – unlike me.
I noticed her squinting her eyes in the sunshine. ‘Do you want to swap seats?’ I indicated the parasol, keen to move away from my financial status and life in London. ‘It’s nice and shady here.’
‘I’m fine.’ She scooched her chair closer to mine. ‘You must know loads of people,’ she said, as if she spent her days in isolation. ‘Living in the city.’
‘I… suppose so.’ I’d met lots of people, but wouldn’t have said I knew them.
‘It’s got to be more exciting than here.’ Although Tilly made a dead-eyed face, I got the impression she was perfectly happy where she was, and I suddenly couldn’t bear for either of them to know how uncertain my future was. Or that I’d been fired from my ‘amazing’ job. And they definitely didn’t need to hear about the pockets of loneliness I’d felt whenever I’d had time to examine my life and the things I didn’t have – a partner, children, or close friends. I’d never made it to Italy to stay with Trudy, despite repeated invitations, and with our old connections broken we’d gradually lost touch. Apart from Nina, there hadn’t been time to form any new friendships, and ours hadn’t been the sort to involve wild laughter, gossip, swapping clothes and singing. ‘It is exciting,’ I said with a forced note of determination. ‘But I’d gone as far as I could at Five Star and it’s time for a change now.’
‘Isn’t it risky, striking out on your own when you were doing so well?’ Meg said, and I didn’t know whether to be admiring or annoyed that she’d thought to ask.
‘To be honest, I’m looking forward to the challenge.’ The back of my neck was growing hotter by the second. ‘And there’s a lot to be said for being a big fish in a smaller pond.’
‘Ooh, a small pond, are we?’ Tilly put on a la-di-da voice. ‘You do talk quite posh now.’
‘I had to lose the accent,’ I said, remembering how Carlotta used to make fun of it when I started at Five Star. ‘I learnt to en-un-ci-ate properly.’
‘If you hang around long enough, you’ll soon be talking like us again,’ said Meg.
‘How come you don’t have a Canadian accent?’ I asked Tilly, desperate to divert the spotlight away from me.
She shrugged. ‘I guess I’m a Devon girl through and through.’
Or maybe she had a stronger sense of her own identity than I did. The thought was oddly depressing.
‘You look the part, too.’ Meg eyed my hair and outfit, seeming unwilling to move on. ‘I love your top.’
‘Thought I’d make an effort.’ I felt as self-conscious as if I’d stepped out in my pyjamas.
‘Remember when you used to wear your dad’s stripy shirt under a pair of dungarees with one strap falling down?’ Tilly gave a wicked grin.
‘Ah yes, my “artist” look.’
‘I really thought you’d go somewhere with your art. You were good.’
Not another one. ‘I still draw for fun sometimes.’ I thought of my sketch pads in my rucksack, and then of Danny Fleetwood. ‘Guess who I bumped into at my Nan’s?’
‘Danny Fleetwood, I expect,’ said Tilly, fanning herself with her hand. ‘He’s even hotter than he was back then.’
A blush crept over my whole body. ‘Is he?’ I’d never told them about Danny asking me to the leavers’ party. Maybe I’d had an inkling he wouldn’t turn up. Plus, our mantra that year had been ‘sisters before misters’ – we weren’t interested in the ‘loser’ boys at school. If they’d wondered why I kept glancing at the door that night, they’d never said.
‘He’s definitely hot.’ Meg spoke with authority. ‘I don’t remember him from school, but when I saw him painting the sign for the café I thought he looked a bit like that actor in Outlander. Jamie something?’ Tilly looked blank while I gulped my tea, which had gone cold, for something to do with my mouth.
‘Are you seeing anyone at the moment?’ Meg asked. ‘He’s single, you know. Danny, I mean.’
Once again, Adam filled my head. ‘I met someone recently,’ I said, which was true. ‘It’s very early days, though, and he’s… working a lot at the moment so…’ I let the words hang, wishing I’d been honest then, realising Meg was about to dig for details, quickly added, ‘Listen, we should all stay in touch.’
‘That would be brilliant.’ With touching eagerness, Meg got her phone out so we could exchange numbers, and Tilly did the same. ‘I don’t even know how we drifted apart; it feels like I only saw you both yesterday.’
‘Legal Mystics forevah,’ said Tilly, and we performed the fist-bumping movement we’d perfected long before it was a thing. ‘Maybe we should re-form.’
‘Never Ever,’ said Meg, and when we collapsed into giggles I realised it was the first time I’d laughed properly in months.
‘It’s Water under the Bridge,’ I managed.
‘I’ll stick with drinking Black Coffee,’ Tilly gasped, and when we’d run out of All Saints titles to pun, she said, ‘So, when are you going back to London?’
My face froze. ‘Actually, I might be staying around for a while, depending how things pan out.’
‘You are going back eventually, though?’ Meg daintily dabbed the corners of her ey
es with a napkin. ‘It sounds like your skills would be wasted around here, and there’ll be no chance of you meeting Kanye West again.’
‘Talking about work?’ It was Mum, with a fresh pot of tea in her hand and a proud smile on her lips. ‘She can’t stop you know, even while she’s on holiday.’
‘Oh?’ Tilly glanced from me to Mum, as if intuiting something in my expression.
Mum put down the teapot and picked up our crumb-scattered plates. ‘She’s organising some events for the café for her portfolio, aren’t you, Cassie?’ She said ‘portfolio’ with excessive relish.
‘Ooh, like what?’ Meg rested her chin in her hand and looked at me with admiration. ‘We could do with some entertainment around here.’
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘That’s what I thought.’
‘W-e-e-e-e-ll, we do have the Smugglers,’ Mum seemed moved to point out. ‘They have a quiz night, but Cassie thinks it’s old-fashioned.’
‘I never said that,’ I protested, hating that Meg and Tilly might think I was being pushy.
‘That pub is definitely stuck in the past,’ said Tilly. ‘I went for a drink there with my dad and they’ve still got the same carpet they had before we went to Canada.’ Her expression was comical. ‘I didn’t realise pubs still had carpets.’
‘I like it, it’s retro.’ Meg seemed to be enjoying the exchange in a radiant, shiny-eyed way that made me think that perhaps she and Sam didn’t have many friends outside their relationship. ‘And they still do karaoke.’
‘I’ve got plenty of ideas,’ I said, my earlier enthusiasm flooding back. ‘The first is an exotic tea-and-coffee tasting session. Shall we say next Tuesday evening, seven until ten, Mum?’ I might as well get the ball rolling. ‘That’ll give us time to spread the word.’
‘I’m not sure…’ she began. ‘Ten’s a bit late.’
I managed not to roll my eyes. ‘Nine, then.’
‘Sounds great.’ Meg beamed. ‘I’ll make an extra batch of cakes.’
I smiled at her, glad I hadn’t needed to ask. ‘That would be brilliant.’
‘I’ll be there,’ said Tilly. ‘I’ve got quite the discerning palate, I’ll have you know.’
‘Oh, thanks, Tilly.’ Already, I felt more supported than I had for a while. It was just a pity that Mum didn’t look so keen.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, catching her round the waist for an awkward hug. ‘You’ll be home in plenty of time to get jiggy with Dad on the sofa.’
‘Sounds a bit risky, though,’ said Meg, as Mum walked away, pretending she hadn’t heard. ‘Do you think Maitland’s customers are ready for the exotic?’
Chapter Ten
Of course, I knew Meg didn’t mean ‘risky’ in the sense that someone might die from drinking an earthy coffee from Peru, and she immediately qualified her words with, ‘But I’m sure they will be once they’ve been to your taster session.’
Then, when Tilly added, ‘I must admit I like my tea like my men – strong, hot and sweet,’ a panicky feeling built in my stomach, and I quickly invented a call I had to make, implying it was future-work related.
‘I’ve got to get to work too,’ said Meg, while Tilly pulled some sturdy-soled shoes from a neat little backpack ready for her coastal walk. I’d noticed a group of people in walking gear starting to gather outside the picket fence.
‘You’ve done a great job with this place,’ I said to her, realising there were a lot of topics we still hadn’t covered.
‘Thanks.’ She smiled up at me as she teased her sneakers off. ‘I enjoyed it.’
‘Hey, you know where to find us, so don’t be a stranger,’ Meg said as we stood, engulfing me in a sweetly perfumed hug. ‘I love your purple hair, by the way.’
‘It’s Plumberry,’ I said, into her shoulder.
‘Great to see you again, Maitland, you’ve done Legal Mystics proud.’ When Tilly gave me a funny boy-scout salute, I wished I’d told them about losing my job and why I was really back home. I hovered for a second, wondering if there was still time, then imagined their expressions hardening into disappointment and knew I couldn’t do it. I could tell that Meg, at least, liked knowing someone whose life she thought was vastly different from her own – someone who’d ‘mingled’ with music stars. And, anyway, I reminded myself, tweaking the sleeves of my blouse, that life could be mine again – just on a smaller scale this time, and without Kanye West being involved.
Brushing on a smile, I ‘ironically’ air-kissed their cheeks before backing away, causing them much hilarity when I bashed into the same table the American had been sitting at earlier, and sent a teacup flying.
At least it hadn’t broken, I reflected, driving home, which took longer and was more tiring than it should have been, thanks to Sir Lancelot’s prehistoric steering system, which made me feel as if I’d been lifting weights for an hour.
Once indoors, I made some coffee and opened my laptop, trying to get into a working frame of mind. I had a quick look on TripAdvisor, amazed and proud to see how many positive reviews there were for the café, all praising the warm, friendly service, fantastic views of the cove, and the ‘scrummiest cakes in Devon’. There was also an astonishing amount of love for Gwen.
She’s like Mo from Eastenders! Absolute star!
* * *
I love Gwen. Reminds me of my late grandma!!
If her grandma had been related to the Kray Twins, maybe.
If you go to Maitland’s, make sure you’re served by Gwen. Legend!
Baffling.
Remembering I’d promised to find some artwork to hang on the walls of the café, I typed in ‘local artists South Devon’ and spent an enjoyable half-hour browsing websites, but nothing appealed. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for exactly, but I knew abstract squares in primary colours, and black-and-white close-ups of eyeballs wasn’t it.
On impulse, I ran upstairs to drag my sketch pads out of my rucksack and shuffled through the pictures I’d drawn at the flat, whenever I’d had a spare moment. Some were of whatever my gaze had happened to land on – a lamp in the shape of an owl, and a box of half-eaten pizza – and some were views from my window (buses featured a lot). Most, though, were of trees in the nearby park, some with branches twisting up like witches’ fingers to the sky, others heavy with blossom, or intricately laden with leaves. I’d always liked trees – something about the solidity of them, and how vital but timeless they were. Miss Finch, my art teacher, had been unimpressed by what she called my ‘nature’ paintings. She’d pushed me to experiment, but I’d been happiest creating recognisable scenes and people, as well as the occasional caricature.
In a rush of nostalgia, I opened the bottom drawer of my dressing table and glimpsed the paints and brushes still tucked away inside. The sight of them made my fingertips tingle and I picked up one of the brushes and stroked its soft bristles. I hadn’t painted for years; I hadn’t progressed beyond A level and had probably forgotten how. Sketching was easier, requiring only a set of pencils, and had proved to be a fun way to pass what little free time I’d had outside of work.
I slammed the drawer shut and went back down to my laptop. After sourcing a number for an artist called Connor Daley, who painted childlike seascapes he described as having ‘a lot of depth and emotion’, I gave him a call.
He barked out a tetchy ‘Hello?’ that made me blink. ‘What do you want?’
‘Oh, hello, my name’s Cassie Maitland, and I’d like to ask if you’d be interested in exhibiting your work.’ I was pleased by how well I’d slipped into ‘professional’ mode, even though talking to strangers on the phone still made my palms go clammy.
‘You’d like to ask me, or you’re going to ask me?’
I clicked on an image of his face. He looked to be in his forties, and about as friendly as he sounded. His angry blue gaze sliced through the screen, as if he’d been snapped in the middle of a terrible argument.
‘I’m asking you,’ I said, keeping my voice upbeat, mindful of the time
Carlotta had caught me holding the phone away from my ear as a client held forth about why she needed to change her wedding venue less than a week before the big day.
‘Why not just say that, then?’
I mentally counted to five. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you, Mr Daley, but I’m looking for local artists to display their work in my parents’ café, and after looking at your website, I think that your—’
‘Café?’ he spat. ‘You want me to put my work in a café?’
Anyone would think I’d suggested displaying his paintings in a public toilet. Weren’t artists supposed to be grateful when people offered to exhibit their work?
‘It’s a very nice café,’ I persisted, standing up and moving across the room, surprised by the sight of my grumpy face in the mirror above the fireplace. I was certain I’d been smiling, but my mouth was turned down at the corners and there was a crevice between my eyebrows. I gave myself a hard, instructive stare and hurried back to my laptop. ‘I promise you the café’s very popular, so lots of potential customers,’ I said, in a sweet, syrupy voice. ‘We stopped the cock-fighting ages ago.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘It was a joke,’ I said. ‘Meaning, we’re really quite enlightened in this part of the world.’
His response was a grunting sound of disgust and I wondered whether he’d adopted the clichéd persona of a tortured artist, or was just a horrible person. ‘Where is this café?’ He might as well have said ‘prison’ or ‘bear pit’.
‘Seashell Cove near Salcombe.’ It was quite a tongue-twister, but I managed not to mess it up.
‘Seashell Cove?’ He couldn’t have sounded more scathing if I’d told him it was in North Korea. ‘Why would I want to exhibit my work in a place no one’s ever heard of?’
‘Why wouldn’t you?’ A smouldering flame of anger wiped away my smile. ‘Plenty of people have heard of it. Look on TripAdvisor, if you don’t believe me. The café’s called Maitland’s and there was an American there this morning.’ Well done, Cassie. Very mature.