The Beach Café

by Lucy Diamond

  I clicked on it, intrigued. And then, as I read her message, I felt myself stiffen and my heart sank to the floor. The Oh my God! loop stopped abruptly, and a new one appeared in its place. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit!

  Hi Evie,

  How’s it going? Tried phoning you earlier, but the phone rang and rang. Off gallivanting are you, madam? (And when are you gonna get that answerphone sorted out FFS? Twenty-first century now, you know.)

  I was hoping to chat, as I’ve got something serious to tell you. I don’t quite know how to say this, so I’ll just come out with it. I’ve found out something really awful about Ed. I remembered you saying he was being cagey about the restaurant where he used to work, and now I know why. One of those weird things: Carla and I were clearing out the stock room at the shop and there was a pile of old newspapers that hadn’t gone in the recycling. Managed to knock over a bucket of water, so spread one out to soak it up – and there was a picture of ED in the paper. Thought I was imagining it, but definitely him. Turns out he was charged with assault a few months ago, and the restaurant – his restaurant – went bust. All sorts of dodgy dealings uncovered in the paperwork too: a big financial mess. He is now bankrupt, and the whole thing sounds pretty nasty. His real name is Ed Gray, so google him and you’ll see what I mean.

  Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I do think it all sounds v dodge. Best to get a new chef in asap, I reckon. Don’t touch him with a bargepole!

  On a more cheery note, I . . .

  I couldn’t take in any more. My head was spinning, as if I’d just come off the waltzers at a fairground. Ed – my Ed – charged with assault? Bankrupt? Dodgy financial dealings? No. No! I couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. Please let it not be true . . .

  I leaned back in the chair, unable to equate this bombshell with the Ed that I’d grown to know and – yes, all right, fall in love with. Not to mention having had recent rampant sex with in my actual workplace a mere two hours ago. This couldn’t be real. I was in some sort of weird dream, that was it. I was drunk and dozing, and my mind was playing crazy tricks on me.

  I pinched myself. Ow. Okay, not a dream, then. I was actually sitting here, in real life, and the bomb had just dropped.

  I read through Amber’s email again, trying to unravel it more slowly this time, in case I’d got it all wrong. I hadn’t. The words were every bit as ugly and shocking as they had been two minutes ago. Shit. If it was true, then . . . I stopped myself before I got any further. It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. Newspapers made mistakes all the time, didn’t they? And maybe Amber herself had got the wrong end of the stick. She’d used the newspaper to mop up some water, after all – maybe the water had smudged the newsprint and the photo, maybe it wasn’t even Ed in the first place.

  Maybe.

  But the more I thought about Amber’s words, the more I had the creeping dread that, actually, there might just be a ring of truth in them. I hated to admit it, but the facts fitted: he had a temper, I’d seen that for myself when I thought he was going to punch Ryan. And there was the way he’d been so paranoid about customers recognizing him, the way he’d refused to have his photo taken for the newspaper – it fitted. Why else would a chef as talented as Ed run off down to Cornwall in the first place and hide himself for weeks on end, if he wasn’t ashamed of what had happened? So much for my theory that he’d left London because of a broken heart. This was way messier.

  ‘Oh, bollocks,’ I moaned, feeling despairing. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to tell me anything about his restaurant. No wonder he hadn’t given me so much as a full name. I put my head in my hands, badly wanting all of this not to be true. Well, there was only one way to find out.

  I opened up a new page on the browser, brought up Google, then hesitated. I felt cowardly, hunting him down online like this. Shouldn’t I just go straight to him and ask him, hear it from the horse’s mouth?

  Yes. Of course I should. It was absolutely right that I did. But it was two in the morning, and I couldn’t wait any longer. I needed to know everything right now, before my brain imploded with questions.

  Ed Gray chef, I typed into the search box, hating myself a bit for it. Then, before I could change my mind, I clicked the Search tab.

  A second later the screen was full of links. I forced myself to look at them. There were links to the Guardian, The Times, BBC News, Independent, and I caught sight of the words ‘bankrupt’ and ‘violent misconduct’ before I’d even got halfway down the page. I wanted to cry. Right, so it looked as if it was all true. These were good, reputable sources. They couldn’t all have got the story wrong, it was there in black and white again and again. Now what should I do?

  Don’t touch him with a bargepole, Amber had advised. Well, it was a bit late for that, wasn’t it?

  It was the middle of the night, I had drunk gallons of wine, and I should have crawled back to bed and conked out to give my brain a rest. But obviously I wasn’t going to do that. Obviously I wasn’t going to rest until I’d obsessively combed through every single article about Ed, gleaning every fact it was possible to glean, and torturing myself just a little bit more with each passing website.

  Three o’clock came and went, and my hot chocolate sat there, undrunk and no longer fitting its description. This is what I found out: Ed had owned and managed a West End restaurant called Silvers, which served modern British cuisine with a twist, according to the online Time Out review. Its average score on the Toptable website was four stars. ‘Great food, we’ll be back,’ one reviewer had written. (Not now, they wouldn’t, I thought darkly.) As well as all that, I’d also discovered that Ed had run the place with his wife – yes, his wife – Melissa, although they had split up, since the allegations of Ed’s violence. (‘OUT OF THE FRYING PAN’ the headline in the Sun had read.) She had filed for divorce, he had filed for bankruptcy, and then they had both gone into hiding.

  What a lovely story. What perfect bedtime reading. The only thing missing was ‘And they all lived miserably ever after’.

  My mind was still whirling, trying to make sense of it. Betty had hinted there was something dodgy about him, hadn’t she? I remembered. Had she known all along? And why had Ed wanted to get involved with my café in the first place, given what had happened to Silvers? Was it all some elaborate scam, one of those ‘long con’ tricks you saw on Hustle, where he’d planned to fleece me the whole time? Was I being set up?

  No. Surely not. I wasn’t that bad a judge of character, was I? I had trusted him, I liked him, he had seemed genuine to me. But then again, he had turned out to be a violent criminal, and I hadn’t spotted that one, had I?

  Face it, Evie. Once a sucker, always a sucker.

  I turned off the PC when my brain started to ache, and sloped off upstairs, to spend the rest of the night tossing and turning and trying not to weep into the pillow.

  I must have dropped off eventually, because I woke with yet another roaring hangover, feeling as if I was about to expire any second, with a raging thirst and a pounding head. The events of the night before tumbled into my mind one after another, resulting in a crescendo of despair. Hurrah – Jamie’s party!

  Oo-er – shagging Ed!

  Oh shit – turned out he was a lying, violent, bankrupt crook.

  Uggghh – I had the worst hangover ever and felt like never getting up again.

  ‘It’s great to be alive,’ I croaked sarcastically and shut my eyes, hoping I’d completely imagined the later events of the night before. But I hadn’t, had I? Not even my own evil imagination could punish me so viciously with such a God-awful twist of events. What was worse, I realized with a groan, was that I was going to have to confront Ed with what I’d found out. How could I not? How could I pretend everything was normal?

  Oh, fabulous. Today was already a complete write-off and I’d only been awake two minutes.

  Somehow or other I forced myself into the shower, where I scrubbed fiercely at my skin as if I could scrub off my memories of
the way Ed had touched me, the way his body had felt against mine. Nope, it wasn’t working. In fact, just thinking of those things only made me feel even more gutted that our fledgling relationship had collapsed so quickly. Oh, Ed . . . Why did you have to turn out so bad? I thought wretchedly. Especially when I’d thought you were so damn good, too.

  I couldn’t stomach any breakfast. Had no enthusiasm whatsoever for the thought of dishing up food and drinks all day. Had no enthusiasm for anything, come to think of it, other than returning to the solace of my bed and staying there for several months. I looked pale and pasty and rough as old boots. For the first time ever, I seriously considered not opening up the café at all, just hanging up the ‘Closed’ sign and shutting everyone out.

  Then I imagined Jo’s look of disappointment if I did such a thing. Remembered the nice words everyone had said about the café last night. Remembered that, at the end of the day, I was a businesswoman and I just had to view this as an unfortunate business experience. Forget romance, forget lovey-dovey nonsense. It was all a load of cobblers – and high time I realized as much. And I’d done nothing wrong in this mess; it was Ed who’d tried to pull the wool over my eyes. I would hold my head high, tell him to sling his hook, and take on one of my chef applicants in his place.

  ‘Just an unfortunate business experience,’ I muttered to myself as I went to switch on the coffee machine. Happened to everyone. I’d get over it in time. Eventually.

  Then I froze. The two aprons were there on the counter, the ones Ed and I had worn the night before. Mr – what had I called him? – Cocktober, that was it, I remembered with a grimace. It didn’t seem all that funny any more. In fact, it made me want to cry. I snatched them up and stuffed them into the washing machine in the kitchen, out of my sight.

  ‘Morning, gorgeous!’

  I heard Ed’s voice and his footsteps, and stiffened. How I wished I hadn’t found out all that stuff last night. If I’d still been in the dark about his past I could have called back, ‘Morning, handsome!’ or something equally light-hearted and flirty right then; we could have had a smooch and a fumble right here in the kitchen, smiled into each other’s eyes, felt happy and smitten, and probably ragingly horny too.

  Instead, I felt hollow. There was an ache inside me, and not just from my hangover toxins. He should have told me, I thought miserably. He shouldn’t have played me for a fool.

  ‘Morning,’ I said quietly, pushing shut the washing-machine door. Deep breath, Evie. Might as well get this over with.

  He stopped in the doorway when he saw my face. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, concerned.

  I shook my head. ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Not really. Ed—’

  ‘If this is about me not staying, I’m so sorry,’ he interrupted. ‘I felt horrible, walking off last night. I’ve only got another week dog-sitting, and after that I’ll be able—’

  ‘No,’ I said, cutting him off. ‘It’s not that.’

  There was an awkward silence then. ‘Oh,’ he said, confused. ‘Well, what’s up? You’re not regretting what we did, are you?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Well . . . no. I don’t regret having sex with you, anyway.’

  He flinched as if he didn’t like my turn of phrase. Tough. The gloves were off now. ‘Evie, you seem really cold. What’s going on? I don’t understand.’

  I folded my arms across my chest. ‘I don’t understand either, Ed Gray,’ I said, spitting his name out. ‘I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me about your wife, and about your restaurant going bust, and you facing assault charges. I don’t understand that at all.’

  There was a terrible, throbbing silence when I’d finished speaking. He looked aghast, and my heart sank a little bit further. So it was true, then. Even though I’d seen all the damning news articles and photos of him online with my own eyes, there was still a tiny piece of me that had hoped it wasn’t really true. Wrong again, Evie.

  ‘How did you . . . I mean, when did you . . .’ His voice trailed away, and he hung his head. I’d never seen him so unsure of himself, so broken-looking. ‘It’s not what you think,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘Really,’ I said flatly. ‘The thing is, Ed, I don’t know what to think.’ I took a deep breath, hating this conversation already. ‘I liked you. I really did. I thought you were a good person. But now I’ve seen all that stuff online, I—’

  He looked up sharply. ‘What do you mean?’

  Now it was my turn to be hesitant, as I saw the defensive, almost angry light in his eyes. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night, so I went to check my emails,’ I began, deciding not to add in the bit about wanting to write a gooey, gossipy email about him. ‘My friend, Amber, had emailed me saying she’d seen something about you in the papers, and . . .’

  He was bristling now, his jaw set, his body tense as if he was about to fly into a rage. ‘Oh, right, let me guess, you decided to do some detective work, did you? Did a spot of googling and found out some juicy titbits?’ He slammed a fist down on the worktop, and I stepped back, remembering the assault allegations and feeling jumpy. ‘Well, that’s great. Really glad you did that. Made your mind up about me now, have you? It’s all there in black and white, so it must be true.’

  ‘Stop shouting at me,’ I said. ‘And yes, all right, I did look you up. And it’s lucky I did! Were you going to tell me any of that stuff, or were you just going to keep stringing me along like an idiot?’

  There was silence for a moment. I was starting to think he was going to agree that, yes, he had been planning to string me along like an idiot, when he shook his head. ‘What’s the point?’ he muttered bitterly. ‘What’s the fucking point?’

  He stormed towards the door and I stared at him, my brain catching up a second later. ‘Wait – what are you doing?’ I called after him. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Where do you think?’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘I can’t stay here if you believe all that stuff.’ He stopped at the door and looked at me, his eyes cold, as if he hated me. ‘I quit.’

  And with that, he walked out of the café, while I was left gawping after him, my mouth open in shock. Right. Okay. So what now? Had I just lost my chef as well as everything else?

  I put a hand to my face, reeling. Well, it looked like I had. And really, what else had I expected? Him to say, Oops, yes, you got me, but it doesn’t change anything, does it? It wasn’t exactly a surprise, him leaping on the defensive and making a quick exit. I would have done too, if someone had just rumbled me as a violent, lying criminal.

  I felt a twist inside, though, as those words came into my head. Because I still couldn’t quite apply them to Ed in any real sense. He didn’t seem like a bad guy. He had always been so lovely. Yeah, but he didn’t actually deny any of it, did he? my brain pointed out helpfully. Didn’t seem in a hurry to give his side of the story. Talk about shifty. Talk about acting guilty!

  I let out a groan and went to make myself an espresso. A triple one. I needed something to jerk me out of myself, to shock my body into remembering that it was awake and needed to function properly. One thing was for sure: with the argument hanging over me, and no chef on the premises, it was going to be one long mutha of a day.

  The door opened and I turned hopefully. Was Ed walking back in to make amends, to explain?

  No. It was Rachel and Leah, both looking annoyingly cheerful and hangover-free. Damn. ‘Morning,’ I said, trying to hide my disappointment.

  ‘Hi, Evie,’ they chorused.

  I found myself glancing quickly at the counter, my guilty conscience suddenly nagging that I might have left a pair of knickers on it, or there might be a smear of . . . well, you know. Dried fluids. It looked clean enough, but I would make sure to give it a surreptitious scrub-down when I got the chance.

  ‘Um, coffee?’ I said, remembering my manners.

  I made us all drinks, then showed Leah the ropes. ‘I don’t think Ed’s going to come in today, so I’ll ring a temp agency, see if we can get someone to c
over for him,’ I said, making this up as I went along. ‘But I may have to step into the kitchen to do the lunches if not, okay? Rachel will look after you, though, so let’s see how we go.’

  Let’s blag it as usual, in other words, I thought grimly to myself. Although hanging out in the kitchen on my own did have a certain appeal, I had to admit. Not half as much appeal as Ed being there, doing the cheffing, but at least I wouldn’t have to wear my serving-the-public face all day. At least I could keep my head down and stay behind the scenes. Mind you, it did mean I would have to do all the cooking, I realized a split-second later. I wasn’t sure I could stomach the smell of frying eggs and bacon, without vomiting everywhere.

  I didn’t have any luck with the three temp agencies I tried. ‘Might be able to get you something tomorrow,’ was the best offer I had.

  ‘Yes, please,’ I said wearily, although privately I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that. Surely Ed would come back and we could sort things out?

  The sound of the café door opening interrupted my thoughts, and I left the office quickly, hoping it was Ed, reappearing purely thanks to the force of my telepathy. I didn’t mean what I said. Sorry to walk out on you. The least I can do is explain . . .

  It wasn’t Ed. Still, it was the next best thing at least – Phoebe. She came in on her own, looking rather uncertain. She was wearing a khaki vest-top with a denim skirt and purple sequinned Converse on her feet; all clothes I didn’t recognize. Her parents must have brought them for her.

  ‘Hi,’ I said hurrying over. ‘Are you okay? I’m so glad you came in; I would have hated you to disappear back to London without a proper goodbye.’ I hugged her tightly, feeling emotional about the thought of her going. Her hair was glossy and smooth, and she smelled clean and perfumed. All traces of the beach bum had gone; this was a city girl who’d come in today.