I smile at him and nod. This Bacardi is possibly making me a bit more flirtatious than usual. Or maybe it’s the dry roasted peanuts acting as a little-known aphrodisiac. Either way, I feel it – I feel the tug of attraction between us; that’s always been there, ever since I first met him.
‘I can imagine,’ I say. ‘In fact I think that’s the only reason you’ve been asking me out. You’re swimming in a very small dating pool.’
‘Outrageous! You do know there are places outside Budbury within swimming distance, don’t you? I could have a harem in Applechurch for all you know. Or a cougar in Dorchester. There’s even ways to meet people on this wondrous new invention called the internet …’
‘Have you ever tried that?’ I ask. ‘I’ve heard tell there’s a whole world of singletons out there.’
‘I did sign up to Tinder, yes. But I came off it again straight away when my first match was Auburn. I mean, I know we’re in the countryside, but I draw the line at my sister … she’s really not my type.’
‘What is your type then? What was your last girlfriend like?’
‘She was called Annika, and she was Swedish. She worked for the same charity as me, and had that whole blonde-one-from-Abba thing going on.’
‘Ah. Did she take a chance on you?’
‘She did,’ he replies, grimacing slightly. ‘And it’s not one that paid off, because I upped sticks and moved back here, didn’t I?’
‘Oh – was she upset? Are you kind of still together?’
I know this thought shouldn’t bother me – we’re just two friends, out for a friendly chat about friend things, as friends – but I have to admit that it does anyway. Feelings don’t always do what they’re told, I’ve found over the years. I feel low-level anxiety thrum through me at the thought of Van being with someone else, even if she is on the other side of the world.
‘No,’ he says hastily, shaking his head. ‘It’s a transient world. People who work in it sometimes make long-lasting connections, but much of the time we’re on the move. No, we’re definitely not still together, in any sense. Don’t worry.’
I’m about to launch into a response about how I’m not worried, I have no reason to be worried, and that I’m worried that he thinks I would be worried – but luckily we’re saved all of that by the arrival of Willow and Tom. Who looks worried.
Willow is wearing her pink hair tied up into a scrappy ponytail, and a dress that seems to be made of Miss Haversham’s wedding gown, coupled with her usual Dr. Marten boots – extra-long ones that almost come up to her knees. Willow is really, really tall, and really, really slim. Tom is even taller, and must have spent a lot of time since his move to Dorset ducking to avoid banging his head on all the random low-flying beams.
He’s wearing a T-shirt that tells the world The Truth Is Out There, and seems stressed. A bit like Matt, Tom isn’t one of life’s chatters. He’s geeky and warm and always a tiny bit awkward, and is currently clinging on to his phone for dear life.
‘Mind if we join you?’ asks Willow, as Tom troops off to the bar to get us all more booze. We scuttle around making room for their stools, and I end up squashed next to Van in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.
‘What’s wrong with Science Boy?’ Van asks, nodding off in Tom’s direction. ‘He looks like he’s just found out the Force isn’t real.’
‘Hush your mouth, big brother,’ she replies, reaching out to swat him across the head. ‘Of course the Force is real. And he’s … well, he needed a drink. Rough night at genius camp. He has a house full of mega-brainiac boffins at Briarwood, all trying to build time machines or next-generation handheld microwaves or whatever – but one of them at least hasn’t figured out how to use a toaster. Set one of the kitchens on fire.’
She takes in our shocked expressions, and adds: ‘Only a bit. Nothing that couldn’t be solved by me and a fire extinguisher. But I think he’s worried about it all – some of them are young, some of them are borderline other-worldly, and some of them are partying a bit too hard. So he’s playing house dad and not enjoying it.’
Briarwood is a big old Victorian mini-mansion just outside the village, on top of a huge hill. It used to be a children’s home – where Tom was raised after his parents died, and where Lynnie used to work, and where he and Willow first met when she was only eight. Tom seems to have made a bundle of cash from inventing some kind of doo-hickey nobody really understands, and bought the old house when it came on the market earlier this year.
He’s turned it into a kind of hot-house for budding beautiful minds, people who had brilliant ideas but needed the time and space and investment to bring them to life.
They mainly keep to themselves, but every now and then you’ll see a stray wandering around the village or coming into the café – always easy to spot by one or all of the following signs: trendy glasses, awful glasses, bowl-cut hair, long hair, sci-fi reference tops, flannel shirts, odd socks, pens behind their ears, ear buds in the shape of skulls, membership cards to the Stephen Hawking Fan Club, the ability to speak Elvish and/or any of the languages of Middle Earth.
Tom himself fits right in, apart from the fact that he’s also very, very good-looking – if mainly unaware of it, or at the very least unconcerned with it. He’s also back at the table with a tray of drinks, and yet more snacks.
He sits down, raises his glass in a ‘cheers’ that we all join in with, and gives us an uncharacteristically outgoing grin.
‘I’ve solved the problem,’ he announces happily.
‘While you were at the bar?’ asks Van.
‘Of course while he was at the bar – my man is a born solver of problems!’ says Willow, leaning in to give him a quick smacker on the lips. ‘Go on then – hit us with it.’
‘I’m going to employ someone,’ he answers, gazing off at the fire, the cogs of his super-tuned brain almost visible as he fleshes out his plan. ‘I’m going to create a new job – I don’t have a title for it yet, but for the time being, I’ll stick with Star-Lord. Because he or she will be the Guardian of the Briarwood Galaxy.’
Van frowns a little – I guess living in Tanzania has dulled his knowledge of pop culture references beyond Abba songs – but doesn’t ask.
‘And what will Star-Lord do?’ Willow asks. ‘Apart from some cool dancing.’
‘Star-Lord will live at Briarwood, and basically be in charge of the geek squad. He’ll bring order from chaos, and make sure they occasionally sleep, and check the oven isn’t left on after late-night pizza, and be the keeper of the keys to the Red Bull cupboard. He’ll be part-father, part-boss, part-benign-dictator. I don’t suppose you’d be interested, Van?’
Van looks shocked by the very idea, and quickly replies: ‘Me? God, no! Thanks for asking, but that would drive me nuts. Little kids I can handle – adult ones, not. I’m happy to carry on doing the maintenance and gardening for you, big man, but I’m not your Star-Lord.’
‘Okay,’ says Tom, looking temporarily disappointed. ‘No worries. I’ll find him, even if I have to scour the entire galaxy …’
‘Or,’ I suggest quietly, ‘you could go to a recruitment agency?’
‘Or that, yes,’ Tom says, grinning. ‘Anyway. How are you two?’
I finish up my latest Bacardi, and decide that that’s enough. I’m starting to get tempted to rest my hand on Van’s jean-clad thigh, and that wouldn’t be a good idea. Who knows what kind of lovely trouble it could cause?
‘I’m a bit drunk,’ I reply, and stand up. ‘So it’s time for me to leave. Saul will be jumping on my head at six a.m., and it won’t feel better with a hangover.’
I gather my belongings, and Van insists on walking me home – all the way across the street. We manage that without any incidents at all other than a close encounter with a crisp bag that flies at my head in the breeze, and end up standing awkwardly outside my house.
I feel a bit like a teenager who’s been out with a boy for the first time, a feeling that isn’t dissipated by t
he fact that not only is Tinkerbell lying in my windowsill, staring out at us with his all-seeing cat eyes, but noticing a twitch of the curtains as my mother takes a quick peek as well.
‘So,’ he says, grinning at me, blue eyes somehow managing to pick up on the moonlight and look ever-so-slightly wolfish, ‘that was nice. We should do it again some time.’
‘Yes,’ I reply, fumbling for my keys in my handbag and trying not to gaze up at him in a way that might invite A Goodnight Kiss. He’s moved in closer, and he looks so good, and smells even better, and it would be a matter of millimetres for my body to meet his. Holding my keys is the only thing stopping me from reaching out and resting my hand on his chest, just to see what it feels like.
‘It was,’ I say. ‘And we should. And now I’ve got to go …’
I get the key into the door with shaking hands, and slam the door open so hard it bangs the back of the hallway wall.
I dash inside like a woman being pursued by a pack of hyenas, and bang the door shut again.
‘You big chicken!’ I hear him shout outside, before he starts laughing. I peer at him through the frosted glass at the top of the door, watching his hazy image walk back over the road to the pub.
I take a deep breath and try to calm myself down. I have nothing to be ashamed of – now I just need to convince Tinkerbell that’s true.
I lean against the door and breathe hard, and try not to imagine what would happen if I opened the door again. Called him back. Took this to a level that wasn’t just friends being friendly.
I’m too much of a big chicken, like he said. Too frightened. Or, being kinder to myself, just not ready. Kissing someone is just no good if you’re not ready to lose control, to surrender yourself to it – and I know I’m not.
I stand and listen for a few seconds, making sure there’s no noise from above, and tiptoe up the stairs. I go to the loo, and notice the flush on my cheeks that wasn’t just caused by the cold, and close myself into my bedroom.
I slump down on the duvet, and wonder if he’s back in the pub now. If he’s thinking about me. If he even wanted to kiss me at all.
My phone beeps, and I lazily pull it out and look at the screen.
It’s a photo, from Van. A picture of the Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz.
I smile, and read the message: ‘One day, Katie – one day xxx’
I close my eyes and kick off my trainers, and drift off into a sleep full of dreams that make me blush.
Chapter 17
It’s the first Saturday in December, and I am sitting in a Costa Coffee in Bristol, waiting for my dad. This used to be my favourite coffee place, with all the little pastries and biscuits and things, but I think I’ve been spoiled by the Comfort Food Café now. Or maybe I’m just a bit freaked out by being back here, and knowing I’m about to have an awkward conversation.
I’m stirring my mocha while I wait, feeling slightly nervous about seeing him. Mum has continued to take root at my house, and we have continued to try and find a balance that makes it manageable for both of us. I’m not sure if we’re succeeding, but so far, there’s been no need to involve the local constabulary or call an ambulance, which is possibly as good as we can expect.
She has, to be fair, started to make herself very useful – the fact that she has a car and a lot of spare time has definitely made my life simpler when it comes to logistics at least. Having someone to give me a lift to college, or drop Saul off at nursery, has been a rare luxury. It’s only now I realise how insanely hectic our lives were – a carefully orchestrated performance pulling together times, places, and various bus timetables.
If the last weeks of November were nothing but rain, then December is so far nothing but pain. The incessant lashing has stopped, but the temperatures are starting to plummet and the wind is wild and unforgiving. Back in Budbury, especially, you feel it whipping up from the bay, slapping your cheeks and making your eyes water as you walk down the street.
Van, who is still doing work for Frank at the farm and also gardening for Tom, is now bundled up in sweaters and shirts and body warmers and gloves, his tanned skin out of place in a small village in England, making him look like some kind of exotic refugee.
We’ve seen each other a few times, always in the company of others, always as friends – but every now and then I’ll catch him looking at me, and he’ll smile, and the corners of his blue eyes will crinkle up in amusement, and I’ll have to fight off a swoon.
In other news, Tom has a shortlist of potential Star-Lords who he’s planning to interview, and Auburn has asked if she can come along. Just for fun and to see if any of them look like Chris Pratt.
Tinkerbell is now allowed out, and has become one of those cats who owns multiple people – I’ll be crossing the road from the chemist, and see him draped along Edie’s window ledge, or sitting on Becca’s doorstep. It seems to fulfil his need to roam, and he always comes home at night to see his best buddy Saul.
Martha has been to her interview at Oxford, and both Zoe and Cal are understandably pipping with pride – now they have to wait and see if she made it through the selection process. Josh, Scrumpy Joe’s son, is hopefully off to East Anglia to study chemistry, which will be quite a change for both him and for Lizzie.
Lizzie herself seems thrilled with two developments in her teenaged life. One is that she’s started a ‘small business’ doing pet portraits. She’s always taking snaps, Lizzie, and like most teens seems to feel like life hasn’t been lived unless you’ve shared it on social media. But she does have more of an interest in photography than most, and got a new camera for her birthday. Midegbo, Bella Swan, Rick Grimes and Tinkerbell have all been her test portraits, and now she’s promoting herself via Matt’s veterinary surgery.
She’s also delighted about Laura’s news – which has now been made public. I think Cherie had already figured it out, because it takes quite a lot to get one over on Cherie, and she’d already told her sister Becca, but everyone else was shocked. Not, maybe, as shocked as Matt and Laura – when their ultrasound revealed that she’s expecting twins.
Apparently this is more common in ‘geriatric pregnancies’. She was about as thrilled as you’d imagine at the use of that particular term, and is currently walking around in a state of shock as she tries to get used to the idea of not only one baby, but two.
You’ll see her in the café, staring into space as she beats a bowl of buttercream or blends up smoothies, and it’s obvious her head is elsewhere. Cherie’s made an executive decision that she shouldn’t be allowed near knives or the chopping board any time soon, telling her she won’t be able to change all those nappies if she lops her fingers off.
So, in the way of life in Budbury, not a lot has happened – but a lot has happened. It’s the way things work there, marching to the beat of a gentler rhythm than the rest of the world.
Now I’m here, back in the big city, that feels especially noticeable. There are so many cars and vans and buses and bikes. So many people and voices, and so much noise. Everybody seems to be in a hurry all the time, and have that streetwise always-aware look on their faces as they dash from one crowded shop to another – like they’re not being funny, but keeping a close hand on their bags.
I’m probably overthinking it. I usually do. But life in my small, sleepy corner of the world is a lot slower than it is here – and while it was exciting for the first hour of getting swept along by the tide of humanity, blissfully anonymous, I’m now feeling a bit worn down.
I have a heap of bags at my feet at my corner table, mainly for Saul’s Christmas stash, and my hands have finally warmed up after being wrapped around my mug for a good five minutes. The place is packed with fellow survivors of the Great Christmas Shopping Disaster of 2018, all of us with the same weary look. Keeping a chair for my dad is getting harder by the minute, and I’m relieved when I finally see him poke his head around the door and scan the room for me.
He comes over when I wave to get his attention, look
ing a little bit sheepish but none the worse for the emotional wear of what’s happened.
He’s only about five ten, my dad – but compared to me and my mum he always seems like a giant. He has dark hair that’s thinning on top, and a moustache he’s insisted on keeping since the Eighties, and has the tiniest touch of a beer belly. In short, he’s a normal-looking middle-aged bloke, wearing a leather jacket that looks like he stole it from The Sweeney.
We share a hug when he makes his way through the crowds and randomly discarded shopping bags, and he gets us both another coffee before finally sitting down at the table. I’m guessing, from the look on his face, that he’s been feeling a bit nervous as well.
‘So,’ he says, poking my bags with his toe, ‘been shopping for the nipper, have you?’
‘Yep. I’m all shopped out. It’s like a war zone out there.’
‘I know, love – season of goodwill hasn’t quite kicked in yet. Still the season of sharp elbows and queue anger. How is he, Saul? And how are you? And how is …’
He trails off, staring into his coffee for answers.
‘Mum?’ I supply helpfully. He nods, and tries to smile.
‘She’s not so bad, Dad,’ I reply. ‘Seems to be quite enjoying herself in the village. No idea how long she’s staying, but I’m assuming for a bit longer as she asked me to call in at the house and pick up some more stuff for her. I was hoping you could give me a lift there later?’
He nods, looking miserable at the prospect, and stays silent.
I give him a few moments, then have to prod: ‘Well, go on then. Tell me your side of the story. Did you really run off with the woman from the ice cream van?’
He stalls for a while longer by helping a woman lift a pushchair over some abandoned coats, then finally sits back down, looks me in the eye, and says: ‘Well, it’s not quite that simple, Katie.’
‘I’m sure it’s not – but as I’m the one picking up the pieces with Mum, I think I at least deserve to know, don’t you? And anyway – I’ve been worried about you as well.’
A Gift from the Comfort Food Café Page 12
