Letty disappeared off into the kitchen and returned to the table a few minutes later with a pink-and-green-patterned teapot, a matching teacup and a slice of cake layered with jam and cream.
“Here you go,” she said, putting the things down.
Kat thanked her and took a bite of Victoria sponge cake. “Wow, this is delicious, Letty.”
Letty smiled. “Thank you. I consider that high praise—I know what your standards are like.”
Kat laughed.
Euan got to his feet, pulled his suit jacket back on and came over to them.
“How are you doing, Kat? It’s been a while.”
“Good, thanks.” It was comforting to see Euan. They’d grown up on the same street and while they’d moved in different social circles, with four years between them, he’d always been kind to her.
“And Leo?”
“Growing fast. I can barely catch up with him these days.” She smiled.
“You’ll have to bring him in next time.”
“I will do. He loves this place.”
“See you later, Mum.” Euan gave Letty a hug. “I need to head back to site.”
“Bye, love,” Letty said, putting her hand gently on his arm.
“Bye, Kat.” Euan gave Kat a nod good-bye and walked out, starting up a conversation on his mobile.
“What’s Euan working on at the moment?”
“The old cinema—they’re turning it into a restaurant. He’s done some of the designs for the project. It’s a shame they couldn’t keep it open—but this is better than it sitting empty.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll ask him to keep his ear to the ground for you,” Letty said. “It might be that some work comes up.”
“Thanks, that would be good.”
No use being sentimental. Her old job at the cinema ticket office hadn’t been perfect, even though she’d enjoyed working there, especially the matinees full of friendly pensioners and new mums. Kat sipped her tea slowly, gazing out of the window. Life moved on, and places changed. She’d find a way to move forward too.
An hour later, Kat was waiting by the door to Leo’s nursery, holding a jumper for him. She was glad she’d put it in her bag—the warm day had cooled a little and Leo had only been wearing a T-shirt when she’d dropped him off before her interview that morning.
She’d browsed on her phone at the tearooms and found one new job that might be suitable—as an admin assistant at an estate agents. It was outside town, so would mean a long journey there and back, but she could manage that if she had to.
A meter or so away two mothers were chatting—Amelia, a redhead with a pregnancy bump, and Emma, a dark-haired woman carrying a pink scooter. She knew the women from pickups and drop-offs, and had chatted to them occasionally. Today she kept her eye on the nursery door, waiting to see Leo come out.
“How about this Sunday? Are you and Sam free for lunch?” Amelia asked her friend. “Work has been crazy, so I could do with something to look forward to.”
“Sounds great,” Emma replied enthusiastically.
“Sam and I are taking Lily to soft play in the morning, so some adult company after that would be wonderful. Can’t count on my husband for that!”
Amelia laughed. “It’s a date, then. Do you like rhubarb crumble? We’ve got some rhubarb fresh from the garden and—”
A tickle in Kat’s throat made her cough. Amelia turned, noticed her and looked faintly embarrassed. “Hi, Kat, didn’t see you there.”
“Hello,” Kat said with a smile.
“I was just saying—” Amelia seemed to stop herself. “You know, we must have Leo round for a playdate one of these days. He and Lily get on so well.”
“He’d enjoy that,” Kat said.
They stood quietly for a couple of minutes that stretched out. Finally, the nursery door opened.
Kat looked out eagerly for her son. He was still at the back of the room, taking his time as he walked over. Amelia and Emma greeted their toddlers.
“Well, best be off,” Amelia said, with a smile at Kat. The two women set off with their children, who were squealing with excitement, in the direction of the shops.
Kat clutched Leo’s jumper to her chest. He caught sight of her and, waving a quick good-bye to his friend, dashed over to her with a huge smile. As soon as he reached her he gave her a bear hug, encircling her legs.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Kat said, ruffling his dark-blond hair. “Here, put this on.” She passed him his red jumper and he slipped it over his head quickly.
He looked at her suit skirt and wrinkled his nose. “Why are you wearing those funny clothes?”
“Oh,” she said, looking down and touching the synthetic material. “I had to be smart for something.”
“Boring. I like your green dress better.”
“I’ll put that on when we get home,” she said, smiling. “OK?”
That night, after she’d put Leo to bed, Kat opened the antique wooden cabinet in her kitchen. Inside were glass jars filled with different types of tea—from fragrant Indian blends to refreshing herbals, each one with a handwritten luggage tag attached. She chose a jasmine bud that expanded in the water into a flower, put it in a delicate china teacup and carried it over to the sofa. She picked up the quilt she’d been working on for Leo, made from scraps of old duvet covers, and pushed the needle into the fabric, bringing together colorful sections of material. Each fresh new stitch of white cotton soothed her.
Tomorrow morning she’d apply for the admin job she’d spotted, tailoring her résumé more carefully this time. Yes, it had been two months of unreturned applications, and interviews ending in apologetic shakes of the head, but this could be the one.
She was distracted by a buzzing sound.
Her phone was vibrating on the coffee table, the screen lit up. She reached for it.
JAKE.
The name that used to be half of her world. Now it was a few letters, nothing more.
“Hi, Jake,” she said, picking up.
“Hey,” he said. “How’re things?” His Scottish accent sounded stronger now.
“I’m fine,” she said. “What’s up?”
“Nothing. Listen, Kat, I’m here. Downstairs. The bell’s not working.”
She got up and went over to the kitchen window, peering out. Jake looked up at her from the street and smiled, still talking into his phone.
“Can you let me in?”
2
Thursday, August 14
A village near Bordeaux, France
“No more for me, thank you,” Séraphine Moreau said. Her father, Patrick, offered her the slice of raspberry tart again, ready for her to change her mind, but she put her hand over her plate. “Honestly, Papa, I’ve had enough.”
Patrick drew his dark eyebrows together and set the tart down reluctantly, then shook his head. “Just like her mother,” he said in English to their guests, Ravi and Anna. “They do all the hard work in the kitchen and then let everyone else do the eating.”
A warm laugh went up around the table. Séraphine’s mother, Hélène, nudged her gently in the ribs and whispered behind her hand in French, “They don’t see what actually goes on when we’re baking, of course.” She smiled, toying with the gold pendant on her necklace.
Since Séraphine was a young girl, she and her mother had baked together, the two of them feasting on the freshly picked berries, flaked almonds and pieces of chocolate that never made it as far as the oven.
Today, sunshine warmed Séraphine’s shoulders, bare in a strappy red sundress, and glinted off her wineglass. A few baguette crumbs and an olive stone were all that were left on her plate, remnants of the long afternoon’s dining under the apple tree in the garden of her family’s chateau. The twins, her brother and sister, both eight years old—splashed contentedly in the swimm
ing pool nearby.
“I’m glad you could make it down,” Anna, one of her parents’ guests, said to Séraphine over the narrow table, with its red-and-white gingham tablecloth. “Your mother said you weren’t feeling well earlier.”
“I’m much better now, thank you,” she replied politely. She twisted her wavy dark-blond hair up and secured it with a clip. The late-afternoon breeze was cool on the back of her neck. “It was only a headache.”
Séraphine had been tempted to stay in bed that morning, her mind still buzzing from the events of the past weeks, but in the end distraction had been welcome. Conversation with Ravi and Anna, an English couple who’d recently bought the neighboring chateau, had been relaxed and unhurried, as if she’d always known them. It had been good to practice her English with them, too—over the summer, since finishing her exams, she’d barely spoken a word.
“Mathilde, Benjamin,” Hélène called out to the twins, who were splashing water over the side of the pool as they threw a beach ball to each other. “It’s time to come out now.” She turned back to her elder daughter. “Séraphine, have you seen their towels?”
She picked up the fluffy beach towels on the grass next to her and passed them to her mother. “Here you go.”
Hélène went over to the twins as they clambered out of the pool, shivering slightly.
“Your mother said you like to read. Do you read in English?” Anna asked Séraphine. “I have a few books you might enjoy.”
“Thank you, yes. My favorites are mysteries and crime novels—Agatha Christie, that kind of thing. Classics too. I’m reading Rebecca at the moment—I’m enjoying it.”
“A wonderful book,” Anna agreed.
“I love the part where she describes the laying out of afternoon tea, the performance of it—the silver tray, the kettle, the cloth.”
“Yes. Quite an important part of the day—or at least it was back then,” Anna said. “Most people don’t have the time, or take the time, now. I have to admit I was more in the habit of grabbing a latte than stopping to sip Earl Grey.”
“Séraphine’s always been keen on English culture,” Patrick said to Anna and her husband. “And of course she’s the linguist in the family. My English, well, as you can hear, it’s terrible. Luckily, it comes naturally to her.”
Séraphine felt a flush creep onto her cheeks. “Dad, shhh,” she said, laughing. She looked at Ravi and Anna and rolled her eyes playfully in her father’s direction. “I’m pretty rusty. I’ve finished my teacher training course, but want to improve my English before I start looking for a job.”
“That’s good. Such an exciting time in life—preparing to fly the nest,” Anna said.
Séraphine’s confusion must have shown.
“Sorry—flying the nest, leaving home,” Anna explained.
“Oh,” Séraphine laughed. “That’s a nice phrase. Yes, I suppose so. Though I won’t be going too far—I’ll be looking for work in Bordeaux, private classes to start off with, then a permanent job next autumn.”
“And before that—wouldn’t you like to go to England?” Ravi chipped in. “Now’s the time in life for big adventures. How old are you now?”
“Twenty-three,” she said.
Age didn’t mean much, Séraphine thought. What mattered was how you felt inside. She remembered the sensation of grass beneath her bare feet, by the river the day before. Laughing. Feeling free. The butterfly touch of a kiss on her neck. She felt complete in a way she never had before.
“That’s the way to perfect a language, too,” Ravi continued. “Total immersion.”
“Hang on, Ravi.” Anna nudged her husband. “That’s what we said about coming here, isn’t it? And look—we’re still so incompetent we’ve got these lovely people talking to us in English.” She laughed. “But you’d be more disciplined about it, Séraphine, I’m sure. And you’re already quite fluent.”
“I wish we could invite you to be our guest,” Ravi said. “But now we’ve sold up and there’s definitely no going back.”
“You prefer it here?” Séraphine asked. She was more comfortable talking about them than herself.
“We adore it,” Anna said. “Who wouldn’t? Good food, wine, company . . . We were ready for a change after the kids left home.”
Instinctively, Séraphine glanced at her parents. A look passed between them. Her brother Guillaume had left home the year before, in difficult circumstances, and they hadn’t been at all ready for the change.
“. . . But England’s a wonderful place for a young person, you’d enjoy it.”
“You thought about living there, didn’t you, sweetheart?” Patrick prompted his daughter gently. “Earlier this year you were saying . . .”
Séraphine tensed. “It’s very expensive though, isn’t it? A friend of mine went to London and—”
Anna laughed and wrinkled her nose. “There’s more to England than London, you know.”
“She’s right, Yorkshire’s the place to visit,” Ravi said. “Would you consider going up north?”
“Maybe,” Séraphine said. “I don’t know. Where were the two of you living?”
“In Scarborough. It’s a lovely town. You’re right by the sea, and while—granted—we can’t guarantee the glamour, or the weather, of Antibes or Nice, it’s fun in the summer. The people are friendly, and it’s affordable.”
Séraphine sensed that the others were waiting for her to respond. “It sounds nice. I don’t expect there’d be many jobs, though. Summer’s nearly over.”
“Bet you’ll find some au pair work going,” Anna said confidently. “Hang on, what about Adam, Ravi? Is he still looking for someone?”
Ravi nodded. “I think he is, actually.” He turned to Séraphine. “Lovely guy. He was our neighbor for years—has a ten-year-old daughter.”
“His wife was from here,” Anna said. “They married very young, and lived in France until she passed away in an accident four or five years ago. I don’t know what happened, but it must have been terrible for them. I remember him saying he’s keen for his daughter to speak French, to keep the connection—so he’s looking for someone to live with them and teach her.”
“You’d make a wonderful au pair,” Hélène said, wrapping a squirming Mathilde in one of the warm towels. “Would you like that, darling?”
“Maybe,” Séraphine said, slowly.
Anna was already reaching into her handbag for a pen and paper. She checked her phone and wrote something down. “Here’s Adam’s e-mail. Think about it?”
Séraphine took the piece of paper and smiled politely. “Thank you.”
Evening fell, and while Hélène put the twins to bed, Séraphine and her father carried the dishes inside to the kitchen.
“Are you sure you won’t join us for a drink in the library?” he asked.
“No, it’s fine. I’m a little tired.” She said good-bye to the guests and went upstairs.
In her bedroom, she walked over to the window to close the wooden shutters, pausing for a moment to look out. The well-tended garden and the vineyards beyond were warmly tinted by the gray-pink sky at dusk. Out to the east was the village square, a cobbled area with shops around it, where a market was held once a fortnight. A few meters away was the school she’d gone to, and the church the whole family, including her grandparents, attended every Sunday. The landscape, streets and buildings were as familiar to her as her own fingerprint.
And yet every stone, branch and street corner looked different to her now. Meeting someone who understood her made her realize how much of her real self she’d kept hidden. She drew the shutters and lowered the catch to secure them.
From the room next door came the sound of giggling. She stepped into the corridor and put her head around the twins’ bedroom door. In her sternest voice, she demanded, “Mathilde? Benjamin? Why are you two still awake?”
&
nbsp; In tandem, without a word, they ducked under the covers, rolling onto their sides. Séraphine quietly closed the door and glanced along the corridor toward her brother’s room. Even though he’d moved out, the room still had his football posters on the walls, a rack of his old shoes by the wardrobe. With only two years separating them, Guillaume and Séraphine had been close. She used to sit on the chair in his room and he’d strum his guitar, playing her the new songs he had written, while incense burned in the corner.
Back in her own room, Séraphine turned on a lamp and lay back on her bed. When Guillaume left, a crack formed in their home. In truth, the hairline fracture had appeared earlier and only deepened when he walked out; he had been slipping away from them for over a year—spending most of his time with his band in Bordeaux, rarely bothering to come home at night. As his band grew more successful and started touring in Europe, he’d seemed less happy, somehow. On the rare occasions when he was home he’d appeared disconnected, listless.
Her parents chose not to see the change in him, the deadness Séraphine noticed behind his eyes. He’d finally left before Christmas, saying good-bye but not leaving an address. “A commune,” he’d said to Séraphine in an offhand way. “You can be yourself there, not like in this place, this prison. If you want to find me, come to Bordeaux. Ask and they’ll show you.” He’d walked out with a sports bag in his hand, nothing else.
Séraphine looked up at the shadows on her ceiling. She had always wondered if, when the right person came along, she would know if it was love. If you could be sure, instinctively, that was what you were feeling. She’d had boyfriends before, of course, but she’d never lain awake at night thinking about them. Now she knew: love was an absence of questions, of doubt. It was a certainty that you had found what it was you’d been looking for and there was no reason to go on searching.
She knew how her parents would react, and that was why they must never find out. If she followed her heart, she’d be straying from the good upbringing they’d strived to give their children. She’d be like Guillaume. As bad as Guillaume. Her love—pure and kind and honest as it felt—to them would represent nothing more than defiance.
The Seafront Tearoom Page 2
