It was my little niece Isabelle who helped me out in the end. Ten days before Christmas, just as I was starting to seriously panic that I didn’t have anything fabulous for Ed, Ruth rang for one of her sisterly chats with the great news that her husband Tim had been promoted (well done, Tim), her son Hugo had been picked for the school football team (well done, Hugo) and she was hoping to run a marathon in the spring (well done, Ruth). These kind of chats used to kill me with bitterness and feelings of inadequacy, but nowadays I was too happy to feel hard done by or envious in any way, and was able to sincerely congratulate her and her family on all their successes. I know! Grown-up or what?
‘Isabelle wants a quick word – just a sec, darling – okay, so nice to chat to you, love to Ed, our presents to you are in the post. Bye!’
Then Isabelle came on the line. She was a real sweetie, Isabelle, often texting me on her mum’s phone (Wot ice creams hav u got 2day??? Can u post me one???!!!) and apparently telling everyone she wanted to be just like Aunty Evie when she grew up. After filling the role of ‘family loser’ for so many years, for me to have become the embodiment of a nine-year-old’s aspirations took some getting used to – but boy, did it feel great.
‘Hello lovely, how are you?’ I asked her. ‘Are you looking forward to Christmas?’
‘Yes! I was in the carol concert yesterday, I did a solo on my own, you know,’ she said breathlessly.
‘A solo on your own,’ I repeated, winking at Ed who’d just come into the living room. As usual, I was curled up at my favourite end of the sofa and he sank into the other end and gave my foot a friendly squeeze. ‘Well done, Iz, that’s awesome!’
‘I know, I was, like, so nervous, but it went really, really, well. And everyone clapped for, like, ages! Anyway, Aunty Evie, I just wanted to say, my present to you will be a bit late. Because it’s something I made, and it wasn’t quite dry when Mummy did the parcel, so I’ve got to send it later.’
‘Ooh, how exciting, thank you. I can’t wait to see what it is.’
‘It’s a – ’
‘Don’t tell me! Keep it a surprise, remember. But it’s something you made, is it?’
‘Yes. Because made presents are the special-est, aren’t they? And you are my special-est aunty, so I just thought . . .’
‘Oh darling, you’re so lovely. How kind. And you’re right, home-made presents are definitely the special-est.’ I suddenly felt my brain crank into action as I spoke the words aloud. A home-made present for Ed. Yes! Why hadn’t I thought of that before?
‘But Mummy said she’d post it as soon as she could. Maybe tomorrow! So you’ll have it for Christmas.’
‘Thank you. I will pounce on the postman every time I see him,’ I assured her. ‘I’ll phone on Christmas Day, okay? Bye, sweetie.’
I put the phone down, ideas brimming in my mind. A special home-made present. Of course. High-fives to Isabelle. She shoots, she scores!
‘What are you grinning about?’ Ed asked, poking me with his foot.
I tapped my nose in what I hoped was a mysterious and intriguing way. ‘Never you mind,’ I told him. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see.’
I quickly ruled out an entire swathe of home-made present ideas. Cooking – no way. Sewing – ditto. Painting – I wish. But photography . . . yes. I could take a great photo. Maybe one of the bay at sunrise. Or a shot from the cliff. Or . . .
My memory was jogged by the list of ‘Ed’s favourite things’ that I’d recited to the ladies at our recent Girls’ Night In. Surfing. Coffee. Seeing the sun rise, I’d told them. A glass of wine at the end of the day. The view from the cliffs out over the bay. Me . . .
And then it came to me. The perfect, perfect present. Bingo!
‘Yes!’ I cried, jumping to my feet. ‘Genius.’
Ed gave me a quizzical look as I hurried out of the room. ‘Now what?’ he called after me.
‘Nothing!’ I sang irritatingly. I went into our bedroom, wondering where I’d last seen my laptop, just as the phone started ringing again.
‘Hello?’ I asked, trying to hide my impatience as I picked it up.
‘Hi love, it’s me, Mum, just calling for a quick chat.’
‘Oh,’ I said, rather ungraciously, and sank down onto the bed. My mum didn’t know the meaning of the words ‘quick chat’. Now I’d be stuck here for half an hour while she regaled me with all the dramatic (not) ins and outs of her and Dad’s lives, no doubt including a full round-up of news concerning Monty, their Yorkshire terrier. I wouldn’t have minded normally – I often got on with something else, like sorting laundry or reading a book, while she was in full flow – but tonight I was itching to get cracking on my fantastic present idea. ‘How are you?’
I’d obviously set off the Concerned Parent radar with my less than enthusiastic response. ‘Are you okay, love? You sound a bit flat,’ my mum said suspiciously. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘Just tired, that’s all.’
‘Not catching a chill, are you?’ she asked. ‘Because I know how cold it gets in Carrawen, the wind howling down the dunes. I used to worry about you girls when you were little and we were there in the winter, because – ’
‘I’m fine, Mum,’ I said again. ‘We’ve just had the boiler serviced so we’re lovely and toasty. Honestly.’
‘Not too lonely, then? I did wonder how you’d find it when all the tourists had left town. Beaches can be quite desolate places in the winter, especially where you are, cut off from everyone else.’
‘No, it’s great,’ I put in quickly. ‘I’m enjoying it. Anyway, how . . .’
She was not about to be distracted that easily. ‘Well, I hope you haven’t been working too hard,’ she said, talking over me. ‘Because if it gets too much for you, you know you’re welcome to come up and stay with us in Oxford, any time. Me and your dad will look after you, so you can recharge your batteries.’
‘Mum, it’s fine, honestly,’ I told her, verging on desperation. She was so convinced that I was in the grip of some terrible angst or other that it was impossible to stop her. ‘Everything’s absolutely . . . fine.’
‘Only I know how much you love Christmas, and you don’t sound very Christmassy, that’s all,’ she continued, and then went on in this vein for several minutes, until I pointed out (with some relief ) that I could hear her doorbell ringing and shouldn’t she go and answer it?
‘It’s not ringing,’ she replied, confused. ‘Who’d be ringing my doorbell when it’s gone nine o’clock at night? It’s not your dad, he’s watching QI in the lounge.’
The ringing came again, followed by Ed’s voice. ‘I’ll get it!’
‘Oh,’ I said dumbly into the receiver. ‘It’s my bell. I wasn’t expecting anyone.’
‘I’ll let you go,’ she said. ‘I know you’re busy. Remember what I said, won’t you? You’re always welcome here.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
Downstairs in the café, I could hear the front door being opened . . . and then loud exclamations. ‘Oh my God! What are you doing here?’
Chapter Four
I dumped the phone and hurried down to the café to see who it was . . . only to be faced with an unfamiliar tanned guy with the same wide smile and grey eyes as Ed.
‘Evie!’ Ed cried excitedly as he noticed me. ‘Meet Jake, my brother. He’s been in Thailand for . . . what? Eight months?’
‘Something like that,’ Jake said. Weird. He even had a similar voice to Ed. I couldn’t stop staring at him.
‘I didn’t even know you were back in the UK,’ Ed said, slapping Jake on the back. ‘Oh, mate. Good to see you. I can’t believe you’re here!’
‘Hi Jake,’ I said. I hadn’t heard much about Ed’s brother, just that he was younger and always off having adventures around the world.
Ed remembered to finish the rest of the introduction. ‘This is Evie, my girlfriend, by the way – she owns this place. Anyway, let me get you a beer. Come in, come in!’
Jake turned his eyes on me for the first time. ‘Nice to meet you, Evie. You don’t mind if I crash here a while, do you? Just until I’ve got myself sorted.’
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ I said. ‘Come up to the flat, it’s cosier there. And welcome to Cornwall!’
Jake had had a blast in Thailand by the sound of things: wild nights, lazy days and a terrifying amount of cheap Mekhong whisky. It quickly became apparent that he was keen to carry the party on right here in our flat, with a terrifying amount of cheap supermarket whisky. And us.
‘Jake, you are a very bad influence,’ I groaned at around midnight. ‘My liver is begging for mercy, I think I’m going to call it a night.’
‘I’ll be in soon,’ Ed said, looking like he wasn’t about to move for another few hours.
‘Night, Jake,’ I said, blundering tipsily to the living room door. ‘I’ve made up the spare bed for you. See you in the morning.’
‘Night,’ he said.
He was a funny mixture, Jake; I hadn’t quite got a handle on him yet. Although he looked and sounded uncannily like Ed, there was a sharp edge to him that marked him out as different to his brother. When Ed asked about a previous girlfriend, Bridget, there was real rancour in Jake’s voice as he told us, in no uncertain terms, why the relationship had been a mistake.
Once I’d brushed my teeth, I wandered back towards our bedroom with a glass of water – I already knew I was going to have a monstrous hangover in the morning. The living-room door was ajar and I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation as I passed.
‘What are you doing here, Ed?’ Jake was asking in a low voice. ‘I mean – a café? It’s hardly Silvers, is it?’
I froze, unable to go any further. Silvers was the name of the restaurant that Ed and Melissa had owned in the West End.
‘Well, no, but that’s part of the appeal,’ I heard Ed reply with a laugh. ‘London chewed me up and spat me out. Whereas this place . . .’
‘Yeah, but mate, come on. This place is the arse-end of nowhere. And no offence to Evie, but – ’
I stiffened. ‘No offence to Evie’ was not the start of any sentence I wanted to hear in full.
‘ – But she’s not exactly . . .’
‘Not exactly what?’ I shivered at the sudden coldness in Ed’s voice and wrapped my arms around myself, goosebumps prickling on my skin. Then there was silence and I felt sick, imagining Jake pulling some sort of derisory face. Not exactly what? What was his problem?
‘Nothing,’ he muttered eventually. ‘Want a top-up?’
‘Go on, then.’
They started talking about some bloke who’d been their childhood friend and I went and lay down in bed, feeling shaky and uncertain, wishing I’d never heard them. How dare Jake call Carrawen ‘the arse-end of nowhere’? He’d rocked up in pitch darkness, he had no idea how beautiful and special a place it was! As for the comment he’d been on the verge of making about me . . . infinite endings to the sentence boiled up in my mind, not one of them complimentary.
No offence to Evie, but she’s not exactly Melissa, is she?
She’s not exactly your usual kind of woman.
She’s not exactly a looker.
She’s not exactly a catch.
No offence, though, mate. No offence.
Well, offence bloody taken, I thought, trembling with rage and hurt. Consider me well and truly offended.
I was still awake and seething when Ed crashed in an hour or so later, although I shut my eyes and pretended to be fast asleep. I was too upset to talk about what I’d overheard earlier – and he was so drunk, he wouldn’t be coherent anyway. I tossed and turned, trying to stop my brain repeating those damning few sentences I’d heard, but it was impossible to switch off. Then Ed started snoring and I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink. It was a very long night.
The next morning, I was gritty-eyed, short of patience and ready for a bust-up. If Jake dared voice even one negative opinion to me about the café, Cornwall or anything else I disagreed with, there would be trouble, I vowed. Ed’s brother or not.
After a hot shock of a shower, I went into the kitchen and saw that Jake was already up. Not only that, he’d made a large pot of excellent-smelling coffee and was busily frying up a huge breakfast for the three of us. ‘Morning,’ he said cheerfully. ‘God, the views from this place are amazing, aren’t they? I couldn’t really see much last night when I arrived.’
I pressed my lips together, resisting repeating his rude ‘arse-end of nowhere’ comment back at him. ‘We like it,’ I said in a terse kind of way.
‘I hope you don’t mind, I thought I’d do a bit of a fry-up,’ he said. ‘Are you hungry?’
If I’d been properly cool, I might have replied ‘Not particularly’ and stuck my nose in the air, but as I was a) not cool and b) extremely hungry, I muttered a rather ungrateful ‘Yes’ instead and started getting out plates and cutlery. I’ve got my eye on you though, I thought, as Ed shambled in bleary-eyed, his hair sticking up in true hungover style (adorable) and we sat down to eat. I’ve got the measure of you, Jake Gray, don’t you think I haven’t.
A couple of days passed, and Jake was still staying with us. Worryingly, he showed no signs of moving on any time soon. I was starting to get antsy. Not only did I still have tons to do before Christmas – the recipe book hadn’t had a look in since he’d arrived, I was yet to tick off any more stocking fillers on my list, and I hadn’t even started making Ed’s present, for example – but I was also keen to return to the ‘just-the-two-of-us’ tranquillity that I’d been looking forward to for weeks. All Jake wanted to do was party, and the novelty was rapidly wearing off.
‘So,’ I said brightly on the fourth morning of his stay. Ed had gone out to get a newspaper, leaving Jake and me in the flat. Jake was lying on the sofa with his feet up, watching The Muppet Christmas Carol but I felt too twitchy to sit down and relax. ‘What are you planning to do for Christmas itself ?’
Was that too unsubtle? Oh well, needs must.
He was laughing at something Michael Caine had just said, and for a moment I didn’t think he’d heard. Then he turned and gave me a cool, appraising look. ‘Why? Had enough of me, have you?’
Yes. ‘No,’ I said guiltily. ‘Of course not. I was just asking – ’
‘Only winding you up.’ He yawned and stretched. ‘I dunno yet. Probably go and see the olds. Or Melissa. Ed’s wife? She was asking what I was up to.’
WHAT? ‘Oh,’ I said, trying to keep my cool. Inside, my heart pounded, and I felt hot all over. Why had he said ‘Ed’s wife’ like that, when they were getting divorced? More to the point, why was Melissa asking Jake round for Christmas? ‘I thought she was with some other bloke now,’ I added, hoping he hadn’t noticed the way my hands had clenched into fists. ‘Haven’t they got a baby or something?’
Or something. See how casual and not-bothered I could sound, like I couldn’t care less.
‘Yeah, Violet. Melissa and Aidan have split up. She was upset about having Christmas just with the baby, said she still thought of me as family, so . . .’
Oh, did she now. I felt my eyes narrow to slits. Did Ed know about these plans? ‘Wouldn’t that be kind of weird?’ I asked, my heart hammering even harder. ‘Going to spend Christmas with your brother’s ex-wife?’
He shrugged. ‘Nah, not really. We always got on well. Besides, their flat is amazing, like total luxury.’ He glanced around at our small unluxurious living room just in case I hadn’t got the point.
I gave him a cold look in return. ‘But after the way she stitched Ed up . . . ?’ I said, then faltered. Did the guy have no concept of brotherly loyalty? Surely I didn’t have to spell it out to him?
He snorted. ‘Is that what Ed told you?’ he asked, sounding amused.
My face flamed. What did he mean by that? Of course that was what Ed had told me. Was Jake insinuating that he was lying, that there was more to the story than I knew?
‘Hello-o-o!’
&
nbsp; I’d never been more relieved to hear Ed’s voice. ‘Hi!’ I yelled, feeling semi-hysterical. ‘We’re in the living room!’ I didn’t want to continue my conversation with Jake a minute longer. Quick, Ed, I felt like shouting, get in here now and rescue me from hearing any more about your sodding ex-wife.
‘God, it’s Baltic out there,’ Ed said as he walked in and chucked the newspaper down on the coffee table. Then he became aware of the strange atmosphere. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Sure,’ Jake said, eyes back on the T V. ‘Well, apart from Evie trying to get rid of me, that is . . .’
My mouth fell open. The nerve of him! ‘I wasn’t,’ I protested. ‘That’s not true!’
He winked at me. ‘Only joking,’ he said, but I knew he wasn’t. He knew exactly what he was doing. ‘Oh I love this bit,’ he said, turning back to the screen. ‘Michael Caine, you legend.’
Ed gave me a questioning look, but I shrugged weakly. For some reason, Jake was deliberately trying to goad me, but I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of letting him see that he’d hit his target. ‘Fancy doing some more of the recipe book today?’ I asked Ed, trying to keep my voice even. ‘We’re really behind schedule now, so it would be good to crack on.’
‘You’re writing a recipe book?’ Jake asked, turning in interest.
‘Yes,’ I said, defensively, braced for some scornful remark in return. No doubt Melissa would have done a better job than little old amateurish me, in the arse-end of nowhere.
Ed explained the whole thing to his brother and I noticed the interest leaking from Jake’s face. ‘Oh, right. A homemade thing,’ he said dismissively. ‘I thought you meant you’d got a publisher or some kind of contract.’
Christmas at the Beach Café: A Novella Page 3
