When I stood at that altar, joining hands with Garth to say our vows, I started trembling when the vicar talked about ‘in sickness and in health’. What if something happened to Garth? What if he fell ill and was taken from me? With the twenty-two-year age gap, it struck me that there’d come a point, albeit several decades away, when I might lose him. The thought of him not being in my life made me gasp for breath, causing the vicar to pause to ask if I was okay. Of course I was okay. I was marrying the most perfect man in the world; it was just that the strength of my feelings for him was a little overwhelming at times.
If only he had been perfect.
If only his vows had meant something.
If only …
8
I tensed as I heard Maria’s key turn in the lock the following morning. I still hadn’t decided about hosting the wedding. She’d emailed me the information about obtaining a wedding licence and it didn’t sound too challenging. She’d already pre-empted the biggest objection by proposing a Monday so the main barrier – the one that had kept me tossing and turning all night – was me and my past. Getting engaged at New Year? Celebrating their wedding with a small gathering in the café where the bride was assistant manager? It had so many echoes of my own wedding. The thought of reliving that day again, albeit vicariously, filled me with dread.
‘Morning,’ Maria called. ‘I smell brownies. Maple syrup?’
‘Good guess.’
Opening the oven, I removed a couple of traybakes – salted maple brownies and black forest gateau brownies. I popped a chocolate sponge onto the shelf, closed the oven door again and set the buzzer. In the second oven, croissants and pains au chocolat were almost ready for any customers wanting a takeaway.
‘Anything I can do for you?’ Maria asked, poking her head round the door.
‘No, I’m fine thanks.’
She hovered for a moment, grinning, as though hoping I’d give her some good news. I couldn’t. Her smile slipped and she cleared her throat. ‘I’ll put my stuff upstairs.’
I could hear her footsteps slow and heavy on the stairs. Closing my eyes, I breathed in and out, in and out, slowly, steadily. Maria had given me six and a half years of loyalty. She’d shared ideas to develop the business, she was great with customers, she was a good cook, she was reliable. She’d never asked anything from me, yet she’d given me everything. I was going to have to say yes and hope that I could get my act together before the wedding. It wasn’t like we were talking next month. It was nearly a year away. I could sort myself out in a year. I nearly laughed out loud at that thought – hadn’t managed it in nearly fourteen years so why would another eleven months make any difference?
Maria returned to the kitchen. ‘Do you want a drink?’
Her eyes were red. Oh, no. I’d made her cry. I was a horrible, horrible person and it was all his fault.
‘A black coffee would be great, but there’s something I need to say first.’
‘It’s fine. I understand. It was a big ask.’
I shook my head. ‘It wasn’t a big ask. It was just that… forget it. But I’ve made a decision and, if you’re serious about a Monday working for you, then you can have your wedding in The Chocolate Pot.’ I tried to sound positive and enthusiastic but, when she looked at me doubtfully, I knew I’d failed.
‘It’s okay. We’ll find somewhere else. I don’t want it to become an issue.’ Her voice trembled as she spoke and I hated myself for still being so influenced by my past. Why couldn’t I move on?
‘I want you to have your wedding here,’ I said, my voice strong and enthusiastic. ‘It will be amazing and I’m honoured you think so much of The Chocolate Pot that you want to get married here.’
Maria clapped her hand over her mouth, eyes sparkling. ‘You really mean that?’
I nodded, smiling. ‘I really mean it. As long as I can get the licence, I’m on board.’
She squealed and grabbed me in a hug. ‘Oh my God, Tara. Thank you so much. This means so much to us. Do you mind if I ring Marc and tell him?’
‘Go for it.’
The buzzer sounded shortly after Maria left the kitchen, signalling that the pastries were ready. While I was loading them onto cooling racks, one of our regulars, Colin, appeared for his usual order – pain au chocolat and a white hot chocolate for breakfast, and a plain brownie for his morning break in the shop where he worked.
While I mixed Colin’s drink, I had the strangest sensation of being watched and turned towards the window. A blond-haired man was bending forward, hands cupped either side of his face as he peered into the café. There was something familiar about him, but I couldn’t quite place him.
‘You’re sure I can’t tempt you with a special brownie, Colin?’ I asked. ‘We’ve got salted maple and black forest gateau flavours today, fresh from the oven.’
‘Thanks, Tara, but you know me. Creature of habit. They sound good, though.’
I smiled as I poured his drink into the flask he brought in each day. Creature of habit? I could certainly relate to that. Nearly fourteen years on my own and I was definitely one of those.
Still aware of being watched, I frowned when I saw that the man hadn’t moved from the window, his nose pressed against my clean glass. Who was he? As though realising I’d clocked him, he dropped his hands and backed away.
I nipped into the kitchen to get Colin’s pain au chocolat and brownie. When I returned, the man was gone. It was only when Colin left that it struck me who it had been. Jed Ferguson. The man who’d sold me the building. The man who’d ripped me off to the tune of nearly twenty grand. I hated Jed Ferguson nearly as much as I hated Garth Tewkesbury and I’d have been happy to live out my life never seeing either of them again. What the hell was he doing back in Whitsborough Bay? He was meant to be in Australia. And, more importantly, what was he doing with his greasy nose pressed against my window?
9
Thirteen and a half years ago
When I discovered the truth about Garth and why he’d married me, I knew that my charmed life in London was over. Thanks to him, I lost my second family, my home and my job in one fell swoop. Kirsten and Tim hadn’t done anything wrong but I never, ever wanted to see Leanne again. As far as I was concerned, she was dead to me. I was certain my foster parents would be disgusted with her if they learned the truth, but blood is thicker than water. She was Kirsten and Tim’s only child and, if it came down to a choice, they’d have to choose her. And I understood that, but I couldn’t stick around to watch it happen and face rejection yet again. Plus I was ashamed. How could I have been so naïve? How had I not seen what she was doing?
With only a car full of hastily packed possessions to my name, I sat in a petrol station parking space with a map and a pen. I had absolutely no idea where to go so fate was going to make that life-changing decision for me. I closed my eyes and moved my hand round the map of the UK before bringing the pen down onto the page and drawing a small line. Opening my eyes, I laughed at my new home – The North Sea. Hmm. A boat? A drilling platform? Perhaps not. I followed a straight line west until I hit the coast. Whitsborough Bay. I had a vague idea that it was a popular seaside resort but that was the extent of my knowledge. Holidays with the Sandersons had been abroad rather than in the UK so North Yorkshire was completely unfamiliar to me. Tossing the map onto the passenger seat, I pulled out of the petrol station and drove north towards my new home and new life.
There was never any doubt about what I was going to do when I settled in Whitsborough Bay, or elsewhere if the town was unsuitable. I was going to continue with the passion my dad had ignited in me and what I’d trained for over the past eight years. I’d worked in Kirsten’s chain of bistros, Vanilla Pod, since I was fourteen and had lapped up knowledge from some amazing chefs and baristas as well as learning all about exceptional, efficient service from the front-of-house staff. Garth and Leanne might have taken my family, my job and my dignity, but they couldn’t take my knowledge, skills and experience away from
me. I’d find an empty premises and I’d open my own café. I had no doubts about my ability to run a successful café as, despite Leanne being manager of the Chelsea branch of Vanilla Pod, I’d been the one running it. The only unknown entity was Whitsborough Bay. Would I discover a town over-run with cafés and no space for mine? I didn’t envisage replicating a sophisticated bistro like Vanilla Pod, but I certainly wasn’t looking to open a ‘greasy spoon’ café either. Would my vision of somewhere in-between fit?
I like to think that my parents were watching out for me when the pen chose Whitsborough Bay because it couldn’t have been more ideal. I fell in love with the town from my very first glimpse of the sea. It was mid-afternoon on Monday 10th May – the first day of the rest of my life. The sun had come out to welcome me and it kissed the sea which twinkled like a million stars.
Whitsborough Bay Castle came into view, standing high on a cliff overlooking the sea. I couldn’t take my eyes off it and had to stop and get out the car so I could take it all in. An overwhelming feeling that fate had found somewhere to call home took my breath away and I had to lean against the car, gulping in deep breaths of fresh air.
When I’d calmed down, a man walking his dog smiled at me and made a comment about the lovely weather. Moments later, a couple walking on the other side of the road smiled and said ‘hello’. Both times I had to check round me to make sure they weren’t speaking to anyone else, but there was nobody else there. They’d spoken to me. They’d welcomed me.
Back in the car, I followed brown signs for ‘hotels’ and found myself on a road called Sea Cliff which, true to its name, was a cliff overlooking the North Sea with large hotels and apartment blocks on one side and a wide promenade, parkland and trees on the other.
I checked into the first decent-looking hotel advertising vacancies. The drive had drained me and I couldn’t face traipsing from one hotel to the next. Finances weren’t too much of an issue. My parents had owned our house and property prices had rocketed in London over the years. The sale proceeds plus compensation and a life assurance payout for Dad’s accident meant a substantial inheritance, although I’d have happily traded every penny to have them both back. Kirsten and Tim had been adamant that I wasn’t to touch any of my money. They continued to support me and insisted that I save my inheritance to invest in property or a business in later years when I was ready. I bet they hadn’t expected me to be doing it so soon and so far away from them. I hadn’t expected to be doing that either.
After showering and dining in the hotel restaurant, I felt refreshed enough to explore. It would be dark within the hour but I could certainly wander along the cliff path opposite the hotel and see where it took me. The earlier warmth had long gone and I was glad I’d grabbed a coat. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, threatening to burst at any moment. They weren’t going to force me back to my room, though. After everything I’d been through, a drenching was nothing.
Crossing the road, I hastened past some tall trees. The path widened then split around a grassy area where a colourful wooden rowing boat sat in a flowerbed. I took the right-hand path, closest to the sea, then stopped. Wow! Those trees had been hiding the most incredible view. If it was that good in an approaching storm, I couldn’t wait to see it on a bright day or perhaps at sunrise or sunset. South Bay curved round in front of me, lined with pretty white, coloured, and brick buildings. There was a sandy beach to the left and Whitsborough Bay Castle on the cliff in front of me. Below that, a river led into a harbour where… oh my goodness… there was a red-and-white striped lighthouse. What were the odds? Mum and Dad had definitely drawn me to Whitsborough Bay. Mum had a thing about lighthouses, particularly striped ones. A gifted artist, she’d often drawn or painted lighthouses, although always at night-time and always with a beam of light breaking through the darkness. She’d say that, whenever she felt lost or lonely, she’d look for Dad – her very own bright, shining lighthouse, guiding the way to safety.
Dad would often tell me a bedtime story about a little girl called Pollyanna who lived in a striped lighthouse who needed to remain positive at all times or the light wouldn’t shine to keep the sailors safe. He’d sing a song to the tune of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’:
Pollyanna, little light
Shining bright on stormy nights
Keeping boats away from shore
Saving lives, that’s what you’re for
Pollyanna, little light
Shining bright on stormy nights
As I stood on that clifftop looking down towards Whitsborough Bay’s lighthouse, I could hear his voice so clearly in my head, feel him holding my hand, stroking my hair, kissing my forehead, and telling me he’d always be our lighthouse, keeping us safe and guiding us to happiness. Tears tumbled down my cheeks and I gripped the back of the bench in front of me, gulping in the air, as the wind swept my hair across my face, and the cloud burst, battering me with rain.
‘I’m lost and lonely, Dad,’ I whispered into the wind and rain. ‘I need you to be my lighthouse.’
And, at that moment, a beam of light swept across the sea and I knew he was there with me. They both were.
The next few days were spent exploring my potential new home. There were a couple of cafés on North Bay but otherwise the area was fairly undeveloped. It’s got a hotel, apartments, shops and several lovely cafés now, but the two cafés back then were very much about bacon baps and a coffee served through a hatch and, if you wanted to sit down, you could chance the battered plastic seating on the wasteland next to the building. They definitely weren’t what I envisaged for my business, not that either of them was for sale.
South Bay is the more commercial side of Whitsborough Bay with chip shops, ice-cream parlours, pubs and amusement arcades. There were a couple of businesses for sale along the seafront but they were completely unsuitable, one being too cramped and the other in a poor position, tucked away at the far end.
On the Thursday, I explored the town and came to Castle Street. The moment I walked down the cobbled street, a feeling of peace and calm flowed through me. My step slowed as I gazed into each shop window. There appeared to be a good variety of retailers – a florist, a bookshop, a specialist teddy bear shop, a jeweller’s, a stationery store – and none of them were high-street chains. Then about halfway down on the left-hand side, I spotted a bright orange ‘for sale’ sign and my heart started to race. My pace quickened as I approached the shop and I gasped when I realised that, not only was there a property for sale, it was already a café. Bonus.
I stood at the other side of the street and surveyed Ferguson’s. The sign had seen better days, with the ‘g’ hanging at a peculiar angle and the apostrophe missing. There were three sets of windows, suggesting three storeys, and the top floor had significant height. I wondered whether it was all café or whether there was a flat above the retail space. I hoped there was accommodation as I ideally wanted to live above my café.
Most of the businesses on Castle Street were painted in pretty pastel shades but Ferguson’s was not pastel and was definitely not pretty. It was some sort of putrid-looking mustard-green colour and the whole building was desperately in need of a fresh lick of paint in a completely different shade. A ripped and faded green and yellow canopy was suspended above the ground floor door and windows and a couple of grubby-looking plastic tables and chairs were positioned outside, although nobody was seated in them.
It wasn’t the greatest first impression but most of the other properties on the street were immaculate so I could see exactly how it could look. The poor state of disrepair suggested to me that it would be priced well or that a good deal could be made.
I crossed the street, opened the door to Ferguson’s and took a deep breath, which I very much regretted. The smell of greasy ovens, eggs, and chip pans in need of a change of oil hit me. A sullen young woman momentarily looked up from the till but she didn’t smile or offer a friendly greeting. I made my way to a table towards the back from where I could take
it all in.
Ferguson’s definitely fell into the ‘greasy spoon’ café category – Formica tables, lino floor, all-day full English breakfast on the menu. To be fair to the owners, it was clean – which I hadn’t expected from the outside – but it was soulless.
Looking at the menu, I realised I’d need to order at the counter so I made my way back there and ordered a coffee and cheese toastie. Despite attempting to engage the woman in conversation, I didn’t manage to raise even a smile.
Returning to my table, I studied the three customers. It was nearly noon so I’d have expected the café to be quite a bit busier. An elderly man was reading Bay News – presumably the local newspaper – while drinking tea for one. A middle-aged man was tucking into a fry-up and reading a tabloid newspaper, and a woman in her early twenties was eating a sandwich and reading a gossip magazine. When she finished, she took the plate behind the counter, so clearly she worked there too, which only made two real customers and me.
The building was fairly wide but it was also very deep meaning there was lots of space and the potential to use it far more effectively. In fact, the whole place was full of potential. I could visualise ripping out everything and starting over, creating a warm and inviting place to eat, relax and chat with friends and family.
When it arrived, my coffee and toastie were tasty enough, but the service was slow and uncaring. I was served by the young woman who’d been eating her lunch and I tried to engage her in conversation too, keen to get a feel for how successful the café was, but she clearly hadn’t a clue and seemed anxious to return to the serving counter to do very little except stare out the window.
Starry Skies Over the Chocolate Pot Cafe Page 5
