by Karen Clarke
‘It’s such a shame.’ Meg looped a tendril of hair behind her ear, her face wreathed with worry. ‘Family’s so important,’ she said.
I looked at my two oldest friends, wondering how I’d survived without them for so long. I’d been seventeen when I’d moved to Canada with Mum and Dad, and after finishing college Cassie had fled to London where she’d lived and worked for years. Only Meg had stayed in Devon, pursuing her cake-making dreams, and the day after my return, I’d found her working at the Old Bakery and engaged to her childhood sweetheart. We’d picked up our friendship as if we’d never been apart, and Cassie’s return six months later had sealed our little circle. Now, we saw each other whenever we could, which wasn’t as often as I’d like as Meg was in love with someone new, as well as being in charge of the bakery, and Cassie – also madly in love – had more commissions than ever for her artwork.
Increasingly, I felt as if I was stuck in the past, while they’d reframed their lives – not in a bad way (and they never judged me like Bridget did), but by inhabiting a world I knew little about, with their satisfying jobs and healthy relationships. It was a world I’d been happy not to inhabit, but seeing how content they were had fuelled the notion that I was the one somehow missing out.
‘Family’s only important to Bridget now she wants it to be,’ I said, taking a bite of my cupcake and pausing a moment to savour the sweetness on my taste buds. It’s enough to make your ears smile was something Dad said whenever he ate something delicious, and Meg’s cakes had that effect. ‘She couldn’t wait to leave home the minute she turned eighteen.’
‘I don’t know why, when your mum and dad are amazing.’ Cassie licked her fingers. ‘It’s not like she had a terrible childhood, or anything.’
‘I think she sees it very differently,’ I said. ‘Not that it was terrible, but that I had it easier than her, being ten years younger, and because they’d tried for so long to have me and spoilt me rotten.’
‘There’s nothing rotten about you, Tilly.’ Meg’s smile was wide and warm, and I couldn’t help noticing her rosy glow, which was partly due to meeting Nathan and dumping her fiancé, who’d taken her for granted for years, spending most of his free time cycling in different time zones.
‘You should have told her about saving that little boy,’ said Cassie, wiping her lips on a paper napkin. ‘Surely that would have impressed her more than anything.’
‘It would have sounded like showing off and she hates that.’ A memory of Jack’s terrified face came flooding back. I hoped his experience wouldn’t have lasting effects – except to remind him not to rush into the sea after his dog. ‘I only told you two because I needed to get it off my chest. It was starting to feel unreal.’ In fact, once I’d left Bridget to tend to Romy and put the kettle on, I’d fallen into a deep sleep on top of my bed, only stirring to shuffle under my duvet, and when I’d woken that morning, I’d wondered whether I’d dreamt the previous day.
‘You do know his mother’s dead, don’t you?’ Meg picked up her tea and blew on it.
‘Seth’s?’
‘His son’s.’ She puffed out a little sigh. ‘Seth Donovan is a tragic widower.’
‘That’s awful.’ I remembered Jack huddled in his bed, and the photos I’d seen on the wall – the one with the woman I’d assumed must be his mum. ‘Was it recent?’
‘A few years ago, he was only three, I think. Probably too young to properly remember her.’ Meg looked at Cassie, who was twisting her shiny hair back into a ponytail. ‘Isn’t that what your mum said?’ As the owners of Maitland’s Café, Cassie’s parents got to hear the local gossip first-hand.
‘It was a car crash,’ said Cassie, dusting crumbs off the front of her chunky red sweater. ‘Danny mentioned it. He’s a motor-racing fan, and was gutted when he heard Seth Donovan had retired.’
‘He was world champion for four years in a row, but lost to Lewis Hamilton a couple of times and decided to pack it in.’ Meg gave a delicate shrug. ‘What?’ she said, when Cassie and I exchanged smiles. ‘He came in the bakery once, in disguise, but one of the customers guessed who he was.’
‘How?’
‘Something to do with his tan, and his spectacles looked like they didn’t have real glass in them, and he was wearing a hat even though it was sunny.’
‘Inspector Poirot, eat your heart out,’ I said.
‘Apparently, he sold his amazing house in Italy last year and moved back to Britain. His parents had been raising his son, but Seth’s got him back, at least for now. There’s an issue around custody.’
‘You gave him a good grilling then?’
‘Of course not.’ Meg clattered her cup down. ‘The customer didn’t say anything until Seth had left the shop with a couple of loaves and a lemon drizzle cake,’ she said. ‘We googled him after he’d gone.’
‘What would we do without the internet?’ My curiosity was not so much piqued as flaring in bright pink neon. ‘What else did it say about him?’
‘That he’s an only child, his parents live in Surrey, his father’s an art historian, his mother does something with horses, and it was his uncle who got him interested in motor-racing after taking him to Silverstone when he was eleven.’
‘Is that all?’
Meg crinkled her nose, thinking. ‘He married quite young, his wife was a model, and before he came back to Britain he was seeing an Italian woman—’
‘I was joking,’ I said, smiling as I tried to insert a feisty brunette into the cottage with Seth and Jack. ‘I’m impressed by your powers of recollection, though.’
Meg grinned. ‘Big Steve at the bakery got a bit carried away,’ she said. ‘I think he’s got a little crush on him.’
Cassie toyed with her half-eaten cupcake. ‘Are you really going to redesign his cottage?’
‘Big Steve’s?’
She tutted. ‘You know who I mean.’
‘Never mind a bleedin’ cottage, what about this place?’ Gwen materialised, a cloth in one hand and a bottle of squirty cleaner in the other. Only she could make both items look like weapons. ‘You do know them floorboards ain’t gonna lay themselves?’
‘I do.’ I gave her a winning smile. ‘And you know I have to wait until the floor is properly dry.’
‘It’s dry enough,’ she said, eyes pinched. ‘I checked this mornin’ when I got in. Crawled over it on me ’ands and knees, I told you.’
I’d checked my phone whilst stuffing my face with toast at home as Bridget attempted to foist burnt porridge on me, and had noticed some missed calls from the café. Gwen had even fired off a text: The floor’s dry, where the bleedin’ ’ell are you? spelt exactly like that, so I’d heard her cockney accent as plainly as if she was standing next to me. ‘You know I trust your judgement, Gwen, but in this case, you have to trust mine, and – more importantly – Ted the floor man’s judgement.’
‘Nuffink to do wiv judgement,’ she said, frowning so deeply she developed a monobrow. ‘It’s a fact.’ She seemed more bullish than usual and I almost recoiled when she thrust her face close to mine and said, ‘That room will be finished in time for the Christmas party, won’t it?’
‘I told you it would, and it will,’ I said, surprised by her vehemence. ‘I always keep my word.’
‘Yeah, but fings ’ave already gorn wrong wiv the leak, and now you’re behind schedule.’ Gwen sprayed cleaner at the next table without looking. ‘You’ve a deadline, in case you’ve forgotten.’
‘I met my deadline when I fixed up the café last year.’
‘That’s true, she did,’ said Meg, sticking her hand up like I remembered her doing in high school. ‘I was here, and she did a fabulous job.’
‘She did,’ agreed Cassie, with a grin. ‘I couldn’t believe my eyes when I came back and saw what she’d done.’
‘Why, thank you.’ I modestly bowed my head. ‘It was my pleasure.’
In all honesty, it had been the first time since completing my degree at Vancouver Island Universit
y that I’d felt a strong creative pull, having mostly dabbled while living over there. When Meg had mentioned that the Maitlands were thinking of updating their café, I’d leapt at the chance to flex my design muscles.
‘Come with me.’ Gwen beckoned me with a jerk of her head.
‘What?’ I glanced at the counter. Surely she didn’t need my help. Jerry was back, looking self-conscious in a ‘Santa’s Little Helper’ hat, firing terrified glances in Gwen’s direction every few seconds, and Cassie had given herself the day off from painting the mayoress so she could help out if the café got busy.
‘Floor,’ Gwen barked, rubbing the table next to ours as if trying to remove its surface. ‘Come and see.’
‘Blimey, OK.’ Exchanging looks with Meg and Cassie, I stood up, feeling an ache across my shoulders from where I’d held onto Jack the previous day. ‘Get some more tea in,’ I said to Meg – almost forgetting she didn’t work at the café any more. ‘I’ll be back.’
The function room was chilly without any heating and I gave a little shiver. Feeling Gwen’s presence behind me, I swung round. ‘You really don’t need to worry,’ I told her, my voice echoing around the empty space. She’d tucked her cloth in her trouser pocket, and the spray cleaner dangled from her belt hook like a gun from a holster. ‘Ted will be popping over again later, and once the floorboards are down, the painters will come and do the walls, and when the lighting’s sorted it’s just a case of making the room look Christmassy for the party.’
‘That’s a lot of whens and ifs and buts.’
‘There weren’t any ifs or buts.’
‘I’m plannin’ summink,’ she burst out, looking around as if to check no one was listening. ‘At the party.’ Her biceps bulged as she belted her arms across her ample chest. ‘That’s why I want to know it’s definitely goin’ to ’appen.’
‘Planning what?’ It didn’t sound good whatever it was, but that was just Gwen’s demeanour. If she announced she’d won the lottery, her delivery would make it seem sinister.
‘’Is nibs.’ This time, her head jolted in the direction of the café.
‘Sorry?’
‘Jezza.’
‘Who?’
Rolling her eyes, she said, ‘Jer-e-my,’ exaggerating the syllables.
‘Jeremy?’ I could only think of the Labour leader, Jeremy Corbyn, but had no idea why Gwen would be talking about him. ‘Jeremy who?’
Her glare could have crushed glass. ‘Jerry,’ she ground out through gritted teeth.
Understanding dawned. ‘Jerry behind the counter?’
Her eyeballs rotated. ‘No, Jerry the bleedin’ mouse, who do you fink?’
An image of her chasing him, cartoon-style, around the café, brought a giggle to my throat. ‘What about him?’ I managed, guessing Gwen wouldn’t like me laughing at her. For all her machismo, she was a surprisingly sensitive soul. As if on cue, Dickens appeared, swaying around her calves while purring violently. She picked up the black and white cat and pushed him against her cheek. ‘Look at ’is smilin’ face,’ she cooed, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards. I had to admit he did look smiley, despite only having one eye. ‘I’m plannin’ to snog ’im under the mistletoe.’
I glanced from her to Dickens. His whiskers were vibrating against Gwen’s face and her eyes were screwed shut, as if in unbearable ecstasy. ‘Snog him?’ Had she lost the plot?
Her eyes flipped open. ‘Jerry,’ she growled. ‘’Ave you listened to a bleedin’ word I’ve said?’ Dickens shot out of her grasp and disappeared – probably back to his velvet cushion in the office where he lounged most of the day, like a Saudi prince. ‘Who do you fink I was talkin’ abart?’
‘But, why do you want to snog Jerry?’ Maybe I was losing the plot. I simply couldn’t imagine Gwen snogging anyone. Her mouth didn’t seem designed for kissing.
‘Why do you reckon?’ Gwen strode across to the windows and looked out. The view was obscured by a veil of rain, and there was nothing much to see.
‘It’s supposed to snow this week,’ I said. ‘Did you know, the winters are so harsh in Montreal they built an underground city? I went there once, it was weird. We didn’t get much snow in Vancouver, apart from one year, when—’
‘Ain’t it obvious why I want to snog Jerry?’ She glowered at me over her shoulder, clearly not interested in the weather here, or in Canada. ‘I fancy the pants orf ’im.’
I considered myself unshockable – even Bridget’s return hadn’t rendered me completely speechless – but found myself lost for words.
‘You’ve gotta admit, ’e’s pretty ’ot.’ To my astonishment, her cheeks had turned a mottled shade of scarlet
‘Well… I…’ The truth was, I’d barely registered Jerry as anything more than a panicked face above a Maitland’s shirt, and although he seemed perfectly natural and at ease with the customers, ‘hot’ was not a word I’d have chosen to describe him.
‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’ Gwen’s tone was urgent now. ‘I wanna make sure ’e’s on board before we go public, like, though I know ’e wants me, I recognise the signs.’
I wondered what signs they were, when he seemed to go out of his way to avoid even looking at her, and tried and failed again to picture Gwen’s lips attached to a man’s. I knew she’d been through an unpleasant divorce in the past, and up until now had given every impression of being a man-hater. ‘Snogging him at the Christmas party will be pretty public,’ I pointed out.
Her eyes stretched. ‘I’m not a tart,’ she said, as if I’d accused her of plotting to have wild sex with him, in front of a thousand people. ‘The party will create the right atmosphere, that’s all.’ She sniffed. ‘When the moment’s right, I’ll get ’im in a corner and Bob’s your randy uncle.’ She tracked the room’s dimensions, as if imagining how she’d tackle poor unsuspecting Jerry into submission.
‘Right,’ I said quickly. ‘Do you, er, does he, um… are you sure you’re not misjudging the situation, Gwen?’
She gave a terrifying chuckle. ‘’E wants me.’ She passed a hand across her close-cropped hair. ‘’E just don’t know it yet.’
She left me standing there, mouth half open, imagination spinning, and after I’d gathered my wits and checked the floor myself – it was definitely dry to the touch – I made my way back to where Cassie and Meg were chattering as if they hadn’t seen each other for weeks. I was about to break my promise and relay what Gwen had said – knowing it wouldn’t go any further – when I heard someone say my name.
‘She’s over there wiv ’er mates,’ said Gwen, and I turned to see Seth Donovan walking towards me.
Chapter Seven
‘You’re not very good at disguises, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
Seth waggled his tortoiseshell frames. ‘What, these aren’t convincing?’
‘They don’t even have proper lenses.’
‘Is it that obvious?’ Smiling sheepishly, he whipped them off and stuffed them under the dashboard. We were sitting in his car – an elderly, midnight-blue Renault – parked on the narrow road that led to his cottage.
‘Is this part of your disguise too?’ I touched the worn fabric of the seat. ‘So people won’t recognise there’s a former racing driver in their midst?’
He put a hand over his eyes and let out a groan. ‘I take it everyone knows.’
‘Well, I didn’t yesterday, but I do now.’ Why was I attempting to coax out a smile when twenty-four hours ago I’d lashed out at him for not taking care of his son? Maybe it was because I needed to ask him if he’d take my sister out to dinner. Or because Meg’s sad-eyed description of him as a tragic widower had got under my skin. As he’d approached me in the café, I’d noticed things I hadn’t before; tension around his shoulders, a rigid set to his jaw, and a wariness in his eyes. It was as if he’d been thrust a thousand miles out of his comfort zone, and was only just holding himself together.
Even so, surrounded by ordinary people in the café drinking coffee,
reading the papers and working on laptops, he’d stood out. Not just because he was attractive – though he was, even in fake glasses – but there was a sheen to him; an aura that marked him as different. Although he was wearing an ordinary black Puffa jacket over a V-neck sweater, with a faded T-shirt underneath, it was obvious he was used to a warmer climate, and the sort of service that probably came with silver platters and deferential nods – not a raucous, ‘Ain’t you gonna buy anyfink, you tightwad?’ from Gwen, and a nervous titter from Jerry that made me think he was either desperate to please her, or petrified of being fired.
I looked at Seth now, gripping the steering wheel while the engine ticked over, blowing warm air through the vents. ‘And your hat looks too new.’
He snatched off the green woollen beanie and bunched it in his hands, leaving his hair sticking up on one side. ‘Don’t you think you only recognised me because we met yesterday?’
I grinned. ‘Everyone recognised you,’ I said. ‘You stand out like a…’ I tried to think of something wittier than ‘sore thumb’.
‘Like a stranger in a small seaside café?’ A glint of humour brightened his gaze.
‘I was going to say like a Goth at a rave, and the café’s not that small,’ I said. ‘At least, it won’t be soon. And everyone in there was far too British to mention they knew who you really were.’
I’d been hyper-aware of several sets of awestruck eyes on us, and Cassie and Meg trading knowing smiles when he asked if he could talk to me in private, before leading me out to his car.
‘Why were you looking for me anyway?’ I said. ‘Especially if coming out is such an effort.’
‘Because you ran away from me before I had a chance to thank you properly for what you did.’
‘You did thank me,’ I reminded him. ‘I accepted your thanks. End of story.’
‘But I want to do something for you in return.’
The wind buffeted the car, making it rock, and rain pattered on the roof. The radio was on low, playing a Sam Smith song, making the car seem smaller and less full of air.