“You’re going to do all that on your own, while dealing with your ‘family emergency’?”
“Yes. I am.”
“Fine . . .” Jess paused. “OK, I hope I don’t end up regretting this, but let’s talk next Wednesday. You need to have most of the content ready for subbing by then, and the absolute outside date I can give you for the rest is Monday the twenty-ninth. And that’s it, Charlie. If you let me down, there is no way I will be able to recommend you to take over as my replacement.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll have everything done. Thank you.” Charlie felt a wave of relief wash over her. “I won’t let you down, Jess. I promise. This is going to be the best edition of the magazine yet.”
“I certainly hope so.”
17
Wednesday, September 17
Charlie had had it all planned out—she’d pick Jacob up from nursery, then Flo up from school and they’d all go to the playground together. That would keep them occupied for at least an hour, giving Pippa some relative peace at home with Gracie.
“It’s raining!” Flo protested, covering her head with her hands theatrically. “We can’t play. The swings are all wet.”
“It’s raining,” Jacob said, echoing his sister’s whine. “We can’t play.”
For once, Charlie had to admit that her niece and nephew had a point. Storm clouds were thick in the sky, and the current drizzle looked like it was only going to get worse. She looked around for other options, and with delight and relief, caught sight of the Seafront.
Inside, at Letty’s stool by the till, there was a man about Charlie’s age. Broad-shouldered with dark-blond hair—the kind of guy Charlie might look twice at if she didn’t have other things to think about right now.
Flo rammed her scooter into the glass cabinet, shaking the cake stands. A couple of customers looked over and Charlie cringed.
“Flo, Jacob—see that table by the window? Let’s see who can get there fastest, shall we?”
Her niece and nephew skidded across the floorboards, and then clambered onto chairs.
“Sorry about them,” she said to the man. “I promised we’d go and play but then the heavens opened.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s fine.”
“Is Letty not here today?”
“She’s had to go out, but she’ll be back later this afternoon.”
“And you are . . .”
“Euan,” he said, holding out his hand for her to shake.
“Letty’s son?”
“Yes,” he said. “Has my reputation preceded me?”
“No.” She laughed. “It’s just . . . You look like her. Your eyes.” They were a striking light blue.
He smiled. “Yep, people sometimes say that.”
“She mentioned you to me. Said you were the real self-starter in the family.”
“I keep myself busy, I suppose,” he said. “Although I kind of enjoy it when Mum asks me to help out here. Time seems to go slowly. And the Seafront is my second home—I practically grew up in these four walls, after all.”
“You’re lucky.”
“So, what can I get you?”
“Could I have a cup of . . .” She looked at the jars on the wall, recalled the distinct aroma of each one when the lid was opened. “I think I’ll go for the jasmine tea today, please.”
“And for the kids?”
“Two of your finest gingerbread men, please.” She pointed at them in the glass cabinet.
“Three, did you say?” Euan said, a glint in his eye as he brought the plate out.
“Three would be even better. Rainy-day rules, right?”
“Absolutely. These are freshly made too. Busy day?”
“You could say that. Up at six, and yet I still didn’t have time to eat anything.”
Euan arranged the gingerbread men on a tray.
“And could you do a couple of babyccinos?”
“Baby whats?” Euan wrinkled his nose and laughed.
“You know. Mini cappuccinos, for kids. Frothy milk, chocolate sprinkles?”
“Sure,” he said, getting some cups down. “Babyccinos, eh? And I thought I’d heard it all.”
When Charlie went up to pay, Euan was serving a middle-aged couple. He chatted easily with them. Laughter-lines formed at the corner of his eyes as he smiled. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, revealing strong, tanned forearms and hands, as if he worked outside. He glanced over at Charlie fleetingly and caught her eye.
As she waited, she noticed a scrapbook lying on the counter. On the front were the words: The Seafront: 1913 to the present day.
She opened it—inside were newspaper cuttings dating back to the early days of the tearoom. The first photo showed men and women constructing the building.
“Sorry to keep you,” he said. “Is it the bill you’re after?”
She nodded. “This is fascinating stuff,” she said, pointing to the scrapbook.
“Oh yeah. The whole history’s in there,” Euan said. “This place has stood through two world wars.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. The year after my grandparents opened the tearoom, the town was bombarded by German warships. Nineteen people died, the lighthouse was destroyed—but the tearoom survived.”
“Impressive,” Charlie said, continuing to browse through the pictures.
She turned the page, and saw a photo of Letty when she was young, in a pair of flares and a flowery blouse, a man with a mustache by her side.
“He’s handsome,” Charlie said, pointing at the man.
“That’s my dad, John.”
“Is he still around?”
“Very much so.” Euan smiled cheekily. “Why, are you interested?”
Charlie laughed. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen him in here, that’s all.”
“He and Mum are separated. He doesn’t come here. Hasn’t for years.”
“Oh, I see. Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,” she said, sensing that she’d touched on a sensitive subject. She closed the scrapbook and rummaged in her handbag for her purse.
“It’s OK,” Euan reassured her. “I’ve never believed in having secrets—but Mum, well, she’s different in that way. You won’t find the personal side of the story in that scrapbook.”
Charlie heard a hammering on the window and looked around to see Flo’s face, mouthing demands for her to come out.
“I’d better be going.”
“What was your name?” Euan asked. “So I can tell my mum you dropped by.”
“Charlotte—Charlie.” She smiled. As she turned to leave, she found herself wondering if he might still be watching her.
To: Kat
From: Charlie
Hi Kat,
Please tell me you have some free time? The reviews you sent over are fantastic—you’re a natural. I knew you would be.
The deadline is approaching so quickly and I need to have all the content ready soon, but things are still crazy over here. School runs. Glitter. Mud. I’m struggling to get anywhere farther than the Seafront at the moment.
Any chance you could get out and see some of the other tearooms on our list? Maybe Séraphine could join you? We still have some room in the budget, so I’ll make it worth your while, I promise!
Charlie x
* * *
To: Charlie
From: Kat
Hey Charlie,
Of course! It would be a pleasure. Call me when you get a minute and we can talk it through. I’ll have a word with Séraphine in the meantime.
Kx
18
Wednesday, September 17
“My mum painted these for me,” Zoe said, pointing to two square canvases. One painting was of an elephant, the other of a little house, in yellow, pink and purple. “She used to paint all
kinds of things. Mostly from her imagination.”
“Ils sont très beaux,” Séraphine said. She picked up the elephant canvas and took a closer look. “She’s chosen some lovely colors, hasn’t she?”
“Oui—violet, rose et jaune . . .” Zoe switched effortlessly between English and French as she spoke, describing the painting, not even seeming to notice when Séraphine spoke to her in her native language.
“Where did your mother do her painting?”
“She had a room, it was next to the stables—she said the light there was good. That’s what she’d say, but me and Dad both knew it was because she could see the horses from there. She was happiest when she was near them . . .”
Zoe paused, and then continued.
“Maman would paint when Dad was looking after me. Sometimes she’d go to that room after I’d gone to sleep. I could see from my bedroom that the light was still on in her window.”
“Where did you find these paintings?”
“In a box under my bed. I didn’t want to put them up when we got here. But maybe now . . .” She glanced down and Séraphine thought for a moment that she might cry. Instead, she looked back up and nodded her head determinedly. “I think I’m ready.”
“Right. Well, why don’t we do it then?”
“OK,” Zoe said, getting up. “Will you help me? Dad keeps the hammer under the sink.”
“Let’s go.”
An hour later, the two pictures were up on Zoe’s wall, the little house hanging over her dressing table and the elephant by her bed. After their first conversation about Marianne, it had taken Séraphine aback how quickly Zoe’s attitude had changed her. It was as if there was a reservoir of emotion that had been waiting for the right person to tap into it. The frostiness had disappeared and made way for warmth. Something had happened that she’d never imagined could—Zoe was opening up to her.
“It’s quite babyish, isn’t it?” Zoe said, touching the painted elephant’s trunk. “But I don’t care.”
“I think it looks lovely,” Séraphine said, straightening it slightly.
“I was smaller when she painted it.”
Zoe sat back on her bed, and pulled one of the purple satin cushions onto her lap.
“Do you enjoy painting?” Séraphine asked.
“Yes.” Zoe shrugged. “I’m not very good though.”
“I bet you are. Did you see that there’s one space left?” She pointed to a blank area of wall by the door.
“Do you think I should paint something?”
“Yes. You’ve got some paints, haven’t you?”
Zoe nodded.
“Paint anything you’d like.”
“I want to do a picture of my mum. How I remember her.”
19
Thursday, September 18
At eight in the morning, the sky lightening to a gray-blue, the South Bay was quiet. The shutters on the shops and restaurants were down, and the only sound was the gulls overhead.
Charlie needed a run to clear her head. How Pippa did it, she had no idea; the last few days had left her completely exhausted. Back in London she would put her iPod in and jog by the canal before work, dance music prepping her for the day ahead. She hadn’t wanted to run with music today, though. Up here, away from the city, it was quieter. She didn’t want to block out the world and create a bubble, as she usually did.
Thud, thud, thud. It felt good to hear her feet on the tarmac, the sound of her efforts. After a few hundred meters, her skin grew warm.
Thud, thud, thud.
Sweat began to trickle down her back, but with each step she took, calm returned.
Thud, thud—
BAM.
Charlie’s body buckled.
Something had knocked the backs of her knees sharply, pushing her legs out from under her and knocking her hard onto her Lycra-clad side. She grazed her elbows as she hit the floor.
“HEY,” she called out, shocked, her elbows and hip stinging and sore.
She looked around, dazed, and was met by a furry muzzle and a pink tongue licking her shoulder.
“Wha—” she began, pushing the animal away.
“Bagel! Bagel! Get off her!” Euan grabbed the dog by its collar. “Charlie, I’m so sorry, are you OK?” He helped her to her feet.
Her shorts had a rip at the side, and there was grit in the scratches on her elbow and thigh. “Just about.”
“Thank God,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” Then, turning to the dog: “Sit, Bagel. SIT.” Reluctantly, the dog sat down, tongue still lolling.
“What happened?” She leaned against the sea wall, trying to get her breath back.
“He ran into you. I’ve only had him a week and I haven’t quite worked out this extendable lead yet. Well, I’ve worked out how to extend it, but not how to . . . Again, I’m so sorry.”
Charlie looked at the dog suspiciously.
“He’s on probation,” Euan explained. “He’s a rescue. My friend Adam is a vet and took him in. I’m up for a challenge, but I have to say I’m wondering whether I’ve bitten off more than I can chew this time. So to speak.”
The dog whined and tilted its head.
Charlie crouched to the dog’s level. “Can we start over?” she asked. Bagel raised a muddy paw and she shook it.
“OK,” she continued. “He’s forgiven. But you? You might have to work a bit harder. How do you intend to make it up to me?”
Charlie and Euan were sitting outside Rosa’s, a coffee shop by the pier, with croissants and two cappuccinos. Bagel was barking at seagulls nearby, his lead held tightly by Euan. The seafront was slowly starting to wake, with one or two people emerging from their houses, and in the distance Charlie could see the lights go on in Letty’s tearoom.
“It’s good you get time to run—are your children at home this morning?” Euan asked.
“No. I mean, yes, they’re at home—but no, they’re not mine.” She smiled. “They’re my sister’s kids.”
“Oh, right, I see.” His face relaxed and he smiled. “I just assumed.”
“I’m the super-auntie.” She laughed. “Or something like that. They’ve been keeping me pretty busy. There’s Flo—she’s the eldest, then Jacob, and finally the new baby, Gracie.”
“A new baby, that’s lovely. Is that what brought you up here?”
“Yes—or at least it was . . . It’s a long story.”
He opened his mouth to speak and she shook her head.
“I won’t ask,” he said.
“It’s a lot to explain, but suffice to say my sister needs a hand at the moment.”
“So did you get time off work to come here?” Euan asked, breaking off a bit of croissant.
“I’m actually still working—kind of.” She smiled. “I persuaded my boss I could do my research here. I write food and drink reviews, and I’m editing the next magazine, which has a section dedicated to tearoom.”
“Cool job,” said Euan. “Now I understand why you were so interested in Mum’s tearoom.”
“Exactly. Although Kat’s persuaded me to leave them out of the feature. She thinks some things are best kept a secret, and I’m starting to understand what she means.”
“Yes. I’m not sure how Mum would cope with a flood of gastronomic enthusiasts quizzing her about her scones. She’s happiest when she has time to chat to the regulars. I tried to talk her into building a website last year, but she just laughed and said why try to fix something that’s not broken.”
“It’s true. What she does, she does well.”
“I know. I leave her to it these days,” Euan said.
Euan smiled at Charlie, and she felt her shoulders, hunched from the stress of the past few days, start to soften. There was something about him that put her at ease. They were silent for a moment.
“Do you enjoy
the reviewing?” Euan asked gently. “It sounds a dream job.”
“Oh yes. I love it. I’ve always been obsessed with food, so getting paid to try out other people’s cooking works for me.”
“You must get a lot of perks.”
Charlie nodded. “I get invites to new restaurant openings in London, pop-ups on rooftop terraces, boat parties, that kind of thing, and I’m working my way up to . . .” Charlie paused, suddenly aware that she was reeling off a spiel that sounded hollow.
“What is it?” he said.
She laughed wryly. “I’m not going to lie, it’s the same as any job. It has its great points, but a lot of the time I’m commuting, answering e-mails at midnight and stuck in pointless meetings when I want to be writing.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Euan said.
“What is it you do?”
“I’m an architect. See the cinema?” He pointed to the building on the corner nearest to them. “We’re turning part of it into a restaurant.”
“It’s a fabulous building. Art Deco, right? You’re not going to knock it down, are you?”
“No, definitely not. It’s a conversion—we’ll be retaining the period features, but enabling the space to work in a very different way.”
“I like the sound of that. I’ll have to come back and see it when it’s done.”
“Should be finished by the summer, hopefully, although the buyers want it yesterday. I enjoy the planning stage, but negotiating with them is the part of my job that reminds me it’s work.”
“How do you find time to help out at the tearoom?”
“I make time, when I can. I’d rather work late once in a while, if that’s what it takes. Although, to be fair, often I’m just enjoying the scones along with the rest of you, so it’s not all hard graft.”
“It must be nice for Letty, having you nearby,” Charlie said. She thought briefly of her own parents and how rarely she saw them these days. It was easier that way, of course—not to have to deal with her mother’s questions and her dad’s unpredictable outbursts, but she was also dimly aware that one day they wouldn’t be there, and that then she might feel differently about it all.
The Seafront Tearoom Page 11
