The Café at Seashell Cove_A heart-warming laugh-out-loud romantic comedy

by Karen Clarke

  ‘Nan used to have this on her wall,’ I said, looking it over with a critical eye. It really wasn’t that bad. There was something almost naïve about it, as though the artist had painted impulsively, keen to get down the image (which I had), but somehow it worked.

  ‘She had a lot of your paintings in the attic,’ said Danny. ‘She told me you didn’t like seeing them displayed, that you were embarrassed and made her take them down.’

  ‘I did.’ I remembered Nan saying she used to go up to her attic and look at them sometimes, but assumed it was the sort of thing all grandmothers said about their grandchildren’s artistic efforts. Mum still had a misshapen pottery vase that Rob had made her for Mother’s Day, when in Year Four, while my primary-school attempt at a felt Father Christmas with a cotton-wool beard still made it onto the Christmas tree every year.

  ‘I can’t believe she kept them,’ I said, pulling out picture after picture, all of them beautifully framed. Some were sketches: a pencil drawing of her and my grandfather, standing on either side of his car, smiling in a way I’d imagined rather than seen; and one of Mum and Dad stationed behind the counter of the café. Mum’s hair was a crazy spiral of curls, Dad was holding up two coffee mugs, and there was a profusion of café paraphernalia all around them. There was also a caricature of a customer with big, horsey teeth and flaring nostrils, about to bite into a scone.

  ‘I’d forgotten about that one,’ I said faintly. The truth was, I’d forgotten about them all, but the memories came flooding back as I looked at each one. ‘That was a terrible summer.’ I prodded a painting of a storm-lashed village, the houses and cottages seeming to cower beneath a lowering sky.

  ‘It rained solidly for three weeks,’ said Danny. ‘I still went fishing with my dad every day though. It was pretty miserable.’

  I glanced up. He seemed lost in memories too, and not very happy ones at that. ‘Are your parents still alive?’

  ‘Hmm?’ It took him a moment to refocus. ‘Oh, yes. They’re fine,’ he said, but I had the feeling there was more to it than that. ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘About these?’ I returned my attention to the pictures spread out on the table, feeling a mix of emotions. Pride, that I’d been… not bad. Surprise, that Nan had framed them, even though I’d ordered her not to hang them up. Why had I been so silly? I was aware, too, of a strange sense of loss… for the total absorption I used to feel while painting; the sense that all was right with the world, as long as I had a canvas and a paintbrush in my hand. Teenage feelings; the sort that were bound to fade once real life crept in, but which probably explained the urge I still felt now and then to put pencil to paper and sketch something. ‘Was she going to throw them away?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Danny said. ‘She’s kept her favourite, and asked me what she should do with the rest. I said you should have them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I heard you were looking for some artwork to display in the café.’ He picked up a picture of a younger, mop-haired Rob, sitting hunch-shouldered at his computer.

  ‘And?’ I said, wondering where he’d heard that.

  He swept a hand over the box of paintings, as though it was obvious. ‘So, here it is,’ he said.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘You are joking?’ I grabbed the picture and jammed it back in the box. ‘I can’t put these up in the café. I’d be a laughing stock.’

  ‘What?’ Danny dragged out a different painting, of a tree surrounded by cherry blossom. ‘You think people would laugh at this?’ He danced it in front of my face. ‘It’s brilliant, Cassie.’

  ‘Well… thank you.’ I felt oddly flustered. No one, apart from Miss Finch and Nan, had really looked at my paintings before. ‘But this is teenage stuff, not proper art. And, anyway, I’ve already found someone who’d like to display their work in the café.’

  ‘Cancel them.’

  ‘No!’ It came out so loudly he took a step back. ‘That would be cruel and, even if I did, there’s no way any of this lot will be seeing the light of day, so please just take them back.’

  He lowered the painting and looked at me for longer than was comfortable. ‘You could always paint some new stuff, if you don’t think this is up to scratch.’

  I released a sigh. ‘I don’t paint any more,’ I said, with exaggerated patience.

  ‘Well, that’s a shame.’ Danny stuck out his bottom lip then popped it back in when he saw the look on my face. ‘I’m serious,’ he said, eyebrows pinching together. ‘What a waste of talent.’

  ‘For god’s sake, Danny, why are you doing this?’

  ‘Doing what?’ He feigned an innocent look. ‘Telling you that you’re wasted doing whatever it is you do these days?’

  My stomach gave a nasty lurch. ‘Haven’t my parents told you? I’m brilliant at coordinating events.’

  ‘I’m sure you are, but’ – he wiggled the picture again – ‘this is something special.’

  It was of the tree in our back garden, painted a few days after my fifteenth birthday. I’d been home alone after a bout of flu, and had set up my easel in Rob’s bedroom, which overlooked the garden, and whiled away several hours painting the view.

  ‘Just take them back,’ I instructed, pointing to the door like a teacher ordering a disruptive pupil out of class. ‘It’s all in the past. No point hanging on to them.’

  Danny looked like he had a lot more to say on the matter and I waited, mentally rehearsing a couple of ripostes that would leave no room for argument, but he merely slipped the painting back in the box. Expecting an apology, at least, for not minding his own business, he surprised me by saying, ‘I’ll hold onto them until you’re ready.’

  Irritation bubbled up. ‘This isn’t going to work, you know.’

  Unconcerned, he picked up the box. ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘Don’t presume you know what’s best for me, Danny, because you don’t.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ he said, with an eye-crinkling smile. ‘See you later, Cassie.’ He managed to open the door with his elbow and walk to his boxy white van, which had his name painted in smart navy lettering on the side, before I had time to construct a response.

  I was left with a dull ache in my chest, which I had to soothe with four slices of buttered toast and a pot of fresh coffee. I couldn’t seem to settle after that. I stuffed some washing in the machine, cleared away the breakfast things, then showered and dressed. After straightening my hair to within an inch of its life, I watched ten minutes of Homes Under the Hammer before checking my phone for messages. Nothing from Rob.

  Scrolling through my photo gallery, I found the picture of Adam I’d kept and stared at it, feeling a niggle of unfinished business. We’d barely got beyond the getting-to-know-you stage, still trying to impress each other with witty anecdotes. (I’d had plenty, but it turned out investment banking wasn’t that funny.) We hadn’t even slept together. There’d been one night, after soaking up the London skyline from The Shard, when I’d sensed Adam was going to invite me back to his Canary Wharf apartment for a ‘nightcap’. I’d been dying to see his apartment and had been dropping hints all evening, but he’d had to go back to work to sort out a complex deal and couldn’t get away for the rest of the week.

  And then I’d been fired.

  I started as a text pinged through. It was from Nina:

  I need to return your jeans. What’s your address? Hope all’s well. N xx

  After working together for five years and living together for a month, that was the best she could do? I’d listened to her snoring, heard her singing power ballads in the shower (badly), slipped her painkillers at work when her period pains were bad, and, once, she’d advised me to imagine Carlotta as a screaming infant in a nappy the next time she yelled at me. Yet the tone of her text was as cool as if our paths had barely crossed.

  I stabbed out an equally terse reply: Good thanks, in process of organising local events prior to launching own business.

  I added my address and
paused, finger hovering over ‘send’. We’d never been in the habit of messaging each other, so maybe it was just her way. I quickly typed: How are things with PT?, which was the name I’d given her personal trainer boyfriend, and added three kisses.

  Good, came the instant reply. Best of luck with career. Will post parcel later today X

  Right. So, we were never going to be best buddies, but at least I was getting my favourite jeans back.

  Unsettled at how quickly I’d been expelled from Nina’s life, and reminded once more of work, I picked up my notepad and plonked myself at the dining table, trying to adopt a businesslike frame of mind. I needed to think up some more entertainment fast, or there would only be one event at the café and I couldn’t build a career on that.

  What would get people talking?

  Scrolling through my mental database of Five Star events, I recalled the singer who hadn’t turned up to a wedding reception (she’d sworn she’d let me know she was having her tonsils removed), and the client who’d wanted a maze built for her guests, only for things to descend into chaos when no one could find their way out. Then there was the rooftop bash, arranged by a hapless fiancé who’d had no idea his wife-to-be was terrified of heights. When he snatched off her blindfold in front of 200 guests, she’d screamed so loudly that people on the street below had called the police, convinced she was being murdered. I’d got the blame for that, although I couldn’t have known what the fiancée’s reaction would be.

  ‘You should have been more thorough in your research,’ Carlotta had raged. ‘Always double-check whether there’s something the recipient might not like.’

  ‘How could I, when her fiancé didn’t know and the party was meant to be a surprise?’ It wasn’t often I answered back, and Carlotta’s immobile forehead had quivered with fury as she’d struggled to find a reply.

  She couldn’t, but it didn’t stop her from pulling me off a Wizard of Oz themed party and placing me on coffee and phone-answering duties for a fortnight.

  In danger of losing focus, I quickly reminded myself of all the successes I’d worked on. The client who’d wanted her home transformed into a cocktail bar for her fortieth, with no expense spared, for which I’d managed to source a particularly spectacular lighting set; and a corporate event for 300 people in New York that had gone without a hitch; and there’d been a comedy night for charity that went down a storm…

  Comedy. Everyone loved to laugh, didn’t they? One of the comedians at the comedy night – Andy somebody – had made a point of saying afterwards how much he loved private gigs, because the audiences were generally a lot more forgiving, especially when they’d had a drink.

  OK, so it would be a sober affair at the café, but all the better for appreciating his wit and giving him the attention he deserved. He was quite new on the scene, but had got everyone going with his traditional punchlines.

  I grabbed my laptop and looked up Andy comedian, adding the name of the agency we’d used.

  Andy Farrington. That was him, and he was available for bookings. Before I could change my mind, I called the number.

  ‘It’s a bit short notice, but he’s had a cancellation, so if he could do Thursday instead of Friday, you’re in luck,’ the agent informed me.

  ‘Thursday’s fine.’

  ‘Where is it, again?’

  I repeated the postcode, twice.

  ‘It’s a café?’ she said, sounding dubious. ‘I don’t think he’ll do a café.’

  ‘He might like the novelty factor.’

  ‘He won’t like the embarrassment factor.’

  I’d annoyed her now. About to tell her to forget it, I suddenly remembered what Tilly and Meg had said about the Smugglers Inn. It sounded as if they were in dire need of some decent entertainment, if all they offered was karaoke and a quiz night. ‘What about a pub?’ I said.

  ‘Now you’re talking.’

  She took down the address. ‘OK, that’ll be fifteen hundred pounds for two hours, plus travelling expenses.’

  ‘Fifteen hundred?’ It came out as a screech. ‘He’s not Peter Kay.’

  ‘No, but he’s been on Mock the Week.’ His agent was clearly miffed. ‘You get what you pay for.’

  I thought fast. If Rob managed to find someone to play at the café I wouldn’t have to pay much – they might even do it for free – and, providing whatever else I dreamt up wouldn’t leave me out of pocket, I could just about afford it.

  ‘Fine,’ I said quickly, and made her read the address back to me, before hanging up. Seashell Cove was easy to miss if you’d never been before, and most people hadn’t.

  Fifteen hundred pounds. I cradled my head in my hands and let out a whimper. My savings weren’t going to last long at this rate, and I really needed what little I had left to set myself up – and that included getting business cards printed, building a website (though Rob could help with that) and, more importantly, finding somewhere to live once I was back in London.

  Should I work out a business plan and get myself a bank loan?

  Business plan. Bank loan. Possibly the least sexy words in the English language.

  Panic skittered across my chest as I wondered how long it was going to take to achieve the level of success required to live independently. I was almost thirty, for god’s sake. Other people were getting married and trying for babies, or advancing their careers with promotions and pay rises, and leaping onto the property ladder. They weren’t getting fired and moving back home, while pretending they were on holiday. How long would it take me to get a business going and start turning a profit? A year? Ten?

  Banishing the idea of a bank loan – I’d manage somehow – panic surged to a new level as I realised I’d just organised a comedy act for the pub without the landlord’s knowledge. Finding the number online, I called him right away.

  ‘Sorry, love, no can do,’ said Bill Feathers, when I’d presented him with my fait accompli. ‘We like to showcase local talent, if anything. The regulars wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘Of course they would,’ I said, stunned. He couldn’t turn me down, not when it was booked, and I didn’t have another venue.

  ‘They wouldn’t,’ he argued.

  ‘I’m telling you, they would,’ I said doggedly. ‘Think about it and get back to me by five o’clock.’ I ended the call before he could answer back. If it was a definite no, I’d just have to call the agent and cancel, but I didn’t want to think about that now.

  I still liked the idea of a games event at the café, having helped to organise something similar before. People could bring their own, and if they didn’t have any there was a stash of them in the cupboard under the stairs: Scrabble, Monopoly, Cribbage, an ancient box of Snakes and Ladders, held together with Sellotape, all discarded the year Rob got a Gameboy for Christmas and decided board games were ‘lame’. It wouldn’t cost me a penny.

  That still left me with a couple of days to fill.

  I drank some more coffee, and glanced out of the window to see Sid Turner’s handsome ginger cat, Tommy, slinking across the garden with a purposeful air.

  Cats!

  In New York, Nina and I had scoped out a cat café as a possible venue for a children’s party. It had been amazing, with a variety of cats roaming freely, or curled up by customers as they worked on their laptops, and there’d even been a corner with a camera for viewing kittens online. The party hadn’t happened in the end, as the client objected to the small entry fee, but I’d gone back on a couple of occasions by myself (escaping the sex-mad housemates) and enjoyed the experience of drinking a latte with a purring tabby on my lap.

  What if I could arrange something like that? I was certain there was nothing else like it in the area – probably in the county.

  ‘Back of the net,’ I said, wriggling in my chair, my spirits rising high as I logged online.

  I could do this. I just needed to find some cats.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘Mum, do you know anyone who works at the cat
shelter near Bigbury?’

  Her smile of welcome vanished as she came out from behind the counter and piloted me to a table by the window, indicating to Dad to take her place.

  He excused himself from the customer he’d been chatting to and joined Gwen, who gave me a close-lipped smile that was more sinister than friendly.

  ‘You know we believe you should do whatever you want to, Cassie, but is it wise to get a cat with your lifestyle. Would it be fair?’ Mum’s smile looked sandblasted on. ‘What about when you go back to London?’

  ‘Mum, it’s fine, I’m not getting a cat,’ I said, immediately wishing I could get a cat, even though it wouldn’t be practical. I also wished I could banish the word ‘lifestyle’ from Mum’s vocabulary. ‘I’ve had a good idea; I think you’ll like it.’ Forcing a cheerful tone, I outlined it for her, and when I’d finished she dropped into a chair as if she’d received dreadful news.

  ‘Cats? In the café?’

  ‘It’s a thing, Mum.’ I sat opposite and showed her some images on my phone, making sure they were of the cutest cats, being petted by adorable children.

  ‘But… what about health and safety? It can’t be hygienic,’ she fretted, not even properly taking in the pictures. She looked a bit weary and I wondered, not for the first time, why she and Dad didn’t get a manager in and cut down their hours a bit. I’d suggested it once, a few years ago, and they’d looked at me as though I’d proposed setting fire to the premises.

  ‘We can’t afford a manager,’ Dad had pointed out, adding swiftly, ‘plus, we love being there.’

  There was no doubting they enjoyed what they did, and on the rare occasions they’d taken a break – usually for just a few days – they’d simply closed the café, confident their customers would return once they were back. Family holidays had become a thing of the past once Dad bought the café – not that we’d gone far before, but there’d usually been a trip to Norfolk, or Yorkshire, and even Scotland one year – but now that business had picked up, and would do so again after my events, they really should reconsider employing a manager.