“What colour are my eyes?” he asks, and I turn again, but this time he shuts them tight. I laugh at the expression on his face. I don’t have to see them to know the answer.
“Brown,” I say. “Mine?”
“Blue,” he says and slowly opens one eye and then the other. “Ocean blue. Can I help you there by the way?” He moves on so quickly that I have to skip over the “ocean blue” comment.
“No, I’ve got it,” I say, slicing the lemons.
“Investors declined,” he says in a small voice. I spin on my high heels.
“I’m really sorry. Why?” God I hope my food wasn’t awful?”
“Only one investor was interested: Pauline. She adored the seafood linguine by the way! The rest cooked me up a big fat no. I’m not the right person for them apparently. They really are food snobs. They want Michelin stars; I just want good, affordable, fresh food.” He raises his shoulders. “It’s just so frustrating because Meloria’s is so popular, it does really well . . . Those cottages would make a fantastic second restaurant, but it’s slipping away from me.”
“Can’t you get other investors?” I ask, setting the starters down on the table and taking my seat.
“Who? Do you have a mill you want to throw in, because if you do, I can promise you a great return on your money!” He laughs.
“What happens now then?”
“The cottages will go up for sale, I imagine. No point in me hanging on to them if I can’t develop them.”
“Oh.” My mouth drops. “So that’s where you were going to build the sister restaurant, was it?” It’s all crystal clear to me now. That beautiful location.
“Yeah, that was the plan, but hey, it’s not to be.” He picks up his lemon and drenches his salmon. “It might seem hard to believe, but I’m a very private person.” He sucks the lemon from his thumb and takes a bite from the bread.
“As am I,” I return.
“Who do you confide in then? Claire?” he asks me now quizzically, as he takes an absolutely huge bite. I know what he’s getting at.
“You are full of questions tonight, aren’t you?”
“Always,” he replies.
“Well, one time it was Susan, believe it or not. Not unsuitable stuff or anything like that, but we talked openly about most things. I really miss that. Nowadays it’s probably Claire. Yeah, you’re right, she’s my best friend . . . I tell her everything.”
“Best friends and lovers. That’s . . . that’s wonderful.” He fidgets.
I pause for what seems like an eternity. I eat slowly and take a long sip from my wine.
He looks to me for confirmation just as Claire comes out of her bedroom and into the living space. I can’t resist the opportunity to wind him up.
“Hi there.” She grins at us.
I really can’t help myself. I get up and, with my back to Tony, I wink a few times widely to prepare her for what’s coming. Then I take her face in my two hands and kiss her softly on the lips.
“Hey babe,” I say, and she knows me well enough to grab what I’m doing immediately.
“Hey you.” She pats my bottom softly. “I missed you.” She winds her index finger through my hair.
“I missed you too.” I peck her a kiss on her nose. “Tony was just asking about us about being best friends and lovers . . .”
Tony interrupts, “Not in a weird, pervy way! I was just saying, Claire, it’s great that you share it . . . all . . . I mean.” Tony coughs and flushes slightly. I won’t leave him to suffer for much longer.
“Have you even been with two women, Tony?” Claire asks in a low, husky tone. Her voice is slightly wobbling – she’s biting her cheeks to keep in the laughter.
“Never at the same time, Claire.” I think he’s on to us.
“There’s always a first time for everything.” She runs her hand across the table and he sits back, a look of fear now clouding his features.
“We aren’t lovers, Tony!” I burst out laughing. “We aren’t lovers because neither of us are gay.”
“That’s my husband’s job,” Claire adds in for good measure.
He looks confused at Claire’s remark, but he has more important things to consider. I see him taking a moment as he digests my words.
“Ya bloody divils!” His eyes light up and I blush terribly.
“Well, I never said we were gay—”
“But ya let me think it! Mixed signals, I was getting . . .”
“And why would you care?” It’s out of my mouth before I can blink. He skips over the question, thankfully.
“But I heard you on the phone that day up at the cottages, saying ‘I love you’ to someone, and next thing you are taking the job here and here are the two of you together but not your daughter, so I just put two and two together and got—”
His phone rings out on the table and we both glance down. A picture flashes with the name. Phoebe calling. Caller ID shows me the assigned photo flashing is of a beautiful young girl in a black string top.
“I better take this . . ,” he says hurriedly and immediately I clam up.
“Of course, go ahead. I’ll start the mains,” I say as he picks up the phone and slides his index finger across the screen to answer.
“Hello, darling.” He smiles as he moves towards the staircase and walks down. Am I absolutely stupid? I can’t keep letting this player do this to me. What kind of spell does he have over me when we are together? Whatever it is, I need the antidote! Shaking myself of my stupidity, I begin to make my seafood linguine.
When Tony comes back he sits and I finish cooking and serve our food, and we all three of us have a nice relaxed conversation. Tony talks business and Claire and I listen intently. He really is a mine of information on St Ives.
“Would you like to stay on after the summer season?” he asks Claire.
“Well, I don’t know to be honest. I’ve had a really shit time . . .” The wine is loosening her tongue and I’m glad: it’s healthy for her to talk. “Well, my marriage is over. But it’s all good . . . It’s for the best,” she says.
“If you ever do get the investors to open a second place, Tony, Claire’s an absolutely incredible baker. I mean, out-of-this-world, Great British Bake Off-winner type of talent . . .” I enthuse about my friend as I squeeze lemon on my linguine.
“This is exquisite!” He eyeballs me.
“This pasta is to die for!” Claire pretends to cry.
“So do you bake for a living back home?” he asks, his tone and eyes suddenly curious.
“No she doesn’t, but I kept telling her she should. She was about to set up a business from home . . . before all . . . Well, it’s a bit private to be honest . . .”
“It’s okay, Courtney. My husband told me he’s bisexual,” she says matter-of-factly.
Tony doesn’t comment; he stretches his hand across the table and lays it on top of Claire’s, smothering her tiny hand. He smiles so kindly that I want to put my arms around him. This is completely ridiculous. My sixteen-year-old daughter can’t bear to live with me, I’ve run away to Cornwall like some J1 Visa teenager for the summer, and I’m fantasising about his man? Cop yourself on, please, Courtney Downey, I think to myself again. I curl my toes up tight in my terribly uncomfortable shoes.
He raises his glass. “To new beginnings!” I’m not sure what that means, but we all toast.
Then Claire brings out her dessert. It’s a dark chocolate orange mousse and I slide my spoon through it. Light and fluffy. Tony eats his in seconds.
“Claire, wow. You got serious talent, my girl, that was spectacular.”
Claire’s green eyes sparkle. “Thanks, T. You’re obviously a man of good taste.”
“Seriously, you should be a professional. We could do with someone like you in Meloria’s. I have a feeling our pastry section is letting us down.” Suddenly Tony deflates, somehow, and I just know he’s thinking about the investors again.
“No one ordered dessert that night, did they, Ton
y?” I say gently.
“No . . . Pauline said it was because they were full from the amazing starters and mains, but that’s just what you say when you don’t fancy anything, isn’t it? That’s what I say when I’m at the Ploughboy, but I thought Meloria’s desserts were better than that. We need some of what Claire’s got!”
He catches my eye, and I look at him encouragingly. Go on, I think. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? We both turn and look at Claire at the same time.
“Claire,” says Tony, his eyes dancing again. “Fancy coming down to Meloria’s to do a bit of consultancy?”
“Consultancy?” she says, puzzled.
“Show Keith where we’re going wrong! He could do with some new ideas for puds. You’re just the woman for the job. And I’d pay you, of course. Best money I’ll ever spend, I reckon!” He slaps his belly.
“Me, getting paid to make desserts? Oh Tony, that’s my dream come true!” she gasps, and I see the old Claire sparkle for the first time in weeks. It’s about time she got some confidence back, and I’m so grateful to Tony for bringing it out in her.
“Just one question, Claire.”
“Yes?” she says.
“Death by chocolate or life by lettuce?”
Without missing a beat, even though she’s not familiar with Tony’s random questions, she replies, “Tony, Tony, Tony . . . Do you even have to ask?”
“You’re my kind of woman, Claire.”
And with that, we all clink glasses.
12
“The office hasn’t exactly been mad busy, but people are beginning to hear about us and interest is picking up,” I tell Claire as she leans over the counter. The dinner party was two weeks ago and I haven’t laid eyes on Tony Becker since. I know he’s still chasing the investors, trying to persuade them to change their minds, so I have left him to it. But we are loving our new lives, Claire and I. As time passes, I feel more and more confident and at ease in my own company. Cornwall suits me. I’m beginning to realise that I have to plan for myself too. Plan for my future.
“It will,” she answers now, distracted, reading a pamphlet carefully.
“What is that?” I ask, rearranging my desk.
“Nothing,” she tells me, and folds it away.
“It was something,” I probe. If she didn’t want me to know, she wouldn’t have been reading it in front of me, I reason.
“Okay,” she sighs. “It’s about time I told you. Dr Coleman gave it to me.”
“Who is Dr Coleman?” I ask, concerned.
“She’s my counsellor,” she tells me.
“Wow, Claire. That’s amazing, and so brave of you.”
“Yup. She’s amazing. It really works, this shit . . . Her mother is from the same town in Scotland my dad was born in. Imagine that? Small world. Anyway . . . we are looking at my . . . well, my body.” She runs her hands up and down her torso.
I see an email enquiry land in my inbox, but I ignore it while I listen to Claire.
“Dr Coleman thinks I’m eating my emotions. In fact, she would go so far as to say I’ve always known Martin was bi but ate my knowledge away!” She laughs, but it sticks in her throat. “This is a diet sheet and this is a meeting appointment.” She pulls an orange card from her pocket. “Otherwise known as my old friend-slash-enemy Weight Watchers, and I go tonight,” she declares.
“Good for you! But you never knew Martin was bi. That’s nuts,” I say, marking the enquiry for tomorrow, as it’s five o’clock now and the office is closing. Claire and I are off to Meloria’s for our tea.
“Is it? I’m not so sure, Courtney. I was ginger before ginger was in vogue, was always overweight and had pretty bad acne as a teen, but he accepted me immediately for who I was, which was great in one way but not in another, ya know? Like, he never mentioned my weight, not even as a health issue. I’m not blaming him, but I think I knew from our first date that he was just settling for me, and I think that made me eat more, because I desperately wanted him to love me.”
I just nod. She taps the counter with both hands.
“I knew he needed a certain type of porn to make love to me, and I knew other stuff, which I’m just not comfortable sharing right now. But I did share it with Dr Coleman, and she says I knew . . . and I think I did . . . Saddo, eh?”
“No. Not at all,” I whisper.
“Claire Carney . . . sorry, Claire Campbell, is going to make some changes. I’m going to fall in love with myself. Ha! How about that? I’m going to give Weight Watchers a real go this time, and I won’t ask you to accompany me: this is something I need to do for myself. I’m getting out in that fresh St Ives air and moving my fat chocolate-lovin’ ass!” She slaps herself on the backside. “Don’t you feel like a different person here, Courtney? I do.”
Claire stands aside as a young woman with her baby in a pushchair enters.
“Can I help you?” I ask as she stops in front of the desk.
“Just a few questions really . . . I’ve been staying here the last few weeks, just in an Airbnb, but St Ives . . . it’s just ideal for me and my Julie. I’m on my own with her, you see, and I’ve no real family back in London any more. I’ve a nice home and job, though . . . How does one go about this relocating business?”
I smile at her. “I’m Courtney Downey.”
“Emma Crowley.” She shakes my hand and looks into her pram. “And this is Julie.”
“Oh, what a beauty!” Claire is on her knees, peering in at the baby.
“Sit down, Emma, let’s see what we can do,” I say, glancing at the clock. It’s five past five on a glorious hot summer’s day, but I think Lar would forgive me for keeping the shop open later than planned.
“Can I lift her out?” Claire asks.
“Oh, of course, she’d be delighted, she’s been in there for ages,” Emma says, laughing. “There is just so much to see here, isn’t there? I could walk for hours.”
Claire clicks the strap around Julie and gently lifts the little girl out.
“Hello . . . hello there, my beauty,” Claire goo-goos at the child, but Julie starts to cry gently.
“She’s due a feed actually, sorry – I’ll come back again.” Emma stands, but Claire puts a hand on her shoulder.
“I can do it if you like; I’m just waiting for Courtney to finish up.”
Emma nods in agreement and lifts a ready-made bottle from her bag. I smile as Claire settles the child on her lap on the visitors’ couch and the baby suckles happily.
After I close the office and arrange to meet Emma for a follow-up, Claire and I set out to Meloria’s for dinner.
“Isn’t there a feeling of pinching yourself about where we find ourselves, Courtney?” Claire asks me as we weave through the busy streets of St Ives.
“Oh, totally,” I say.
“Seconds chances like this don’t come around often. I know that,” she says.
“No, we are lucky. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, would you?”
She shakes her head, and we walk towards the front in comfortable silence.
* * *
“Courtney!” Barbara greets me like an old friend.
I hug her and she hugs me back tightly.
“I saw your name in the book: I’ve reserved the best window seat for you.” She leads us to the table.
Claire and I sit and read the menus. From the corner of my eye, I see Tony in the kitchen talking with Keith. They look deep in conversation. I look away quickly, but not before my heart skips a little beat.
“It all looks amazing,” Claire says, “but I’m going to be a dreadful bore and avoid all the carbs and creamy stuff.”
“You’ll have wine, though?” I ask.
“I’m not dead yet,” she spits back.
“Ladies, good evening and welcome to Meloria’s.” Tony hovers over us now.
Claire warmly greets him. “Beautiful spot.”
“Thanks for coming by last week to spruce up our desserts, Claire. You can see if Keith is up
to your standards tonight.” He pauses and leans in closer. “To be honest, we could do with a dessert chef like you, ya know?”
“You’re very welcome, T, and I’m sure Keith will do my banoffee pie justice. And if you’re talking about a job, when I’m all fixed up I might chat to you about that.” Claire smiles back and it’s the first time in weeks I really notice it. It’s a real smile. Her eyes are connected to her mouth.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks.
“Champagne, Tony,” I tell him. “We’re celebrating.”
“Oh, anything I should know about?” he asks, removing a speck from the white tablecloth.
“Life,” I say.
* * *
The food is delicious, and though I have a hankering to get back in the kitchen and feel that buzz again, it is a pleasure to sit back, relax and enjoy myself. Claire – only slightly grudgingly – confirms that Keith’s banoffee pie is up to scratch.
“Not bad,” she says to Tony as he clears the plates away. “That whippersnapper in the kitchen might just make it as a chef one day.”
“Oi, I heard that!” Keith shouts through the hatch and Claire throws her head back and laughs.
“Right then, I’m off,” she says.
“What? I thought we were making a night of it!” I say.
“I’ve got a Pilates class in the morning, Courtney.”
“Wait then, I’ll come home with you,” I say, reaching for my still half-full glass to empty it.
“No no, don’t rush. Just sit here and enjoy the rest of your champagne. I’m sure somebody will keep you company.” She darts her eyes over to the kitchen hatch, where I can see Tony dropping the plates off for Jeff to wash.
“Claire . . .”
“Bye!” And she’s off.
It’s a Tuesday evening so the restaurant is quiet, and the only other remaining table is about to leave. I feel awkward here by myself, but why should I? I close my eyes and hear Alice’s voice in my head: Live in the moment. Perhaps it’s the thought of being alone with Tony that’s making me nervous.
“Can I get you anything else?”
I jump. Suddenly Tony Becker is right there in front of me, like a dream come to life. “No, I’m fine, Tony. Thank you,” I say.
The Importance of Being Me Page 17