by Karen Clarke
‘Couldn’t you pop a dress on her?’ I said, aiming for a jokey tone to hide my frustration. ‘She’d look lovely in green, with all that flowing red hair.’
Vicky’s head jerked, as if I’d slapped her. ‘But that would be missing the point,’ she said, placing a hand over the woman’s breasts to stop the painting from blowing away.
Pushing my hair off my face, I dragged my eyes from the next picture out of the portfolio – a naked man doing a cartwheel – presumably to demonstrate what a complete muppet he was.
‘You were supposed to be bringing the paintings I saw on your website.’ I fixed her with what I hoped was a relaxed smile. ‘The sunsets and seascapes?’
‘Oh, I know, but I thought they were a bit… safe,’ she said, with a dismissive waft of her hand. ‘I’m in a completely different phase now.’
‘But, you can see these aren’t suitable for the café?’
From the gormless look on her face, she couldn’t.
‘There’ll be children here,’ I said bluntly. ‘And nobody wants boobs and bums in their faces while they’re drinking their tea. They want sunsets and seascapes and…’ I pushed away the picture on the table. ‘Not this.’
Her face was uncomprehending. ‘We should be embracing nudity.’
‘I wouldn’t embrace that.’ I pointed to the cartwheeling man. ‘I wouldn’t want him on my wall, either.’
‘Being naked is a natural state,’ she said with a petulant pout. ‘It’s how we were born.’
My patience ran out. ‘Wearing clothes is natural, especially outdoors. If I stood in a field, flashing my bits, or turned up at a party with my boobs out, I’d get arrested.’
Vicky began to snatch up her things. ‘People are so close-minded,’ she said, quite bitchily. ‘They’re the best work I’ve ever done, yet nobody wants them.’
‘Maybe you should stick with your seascapes,’ I suggested.
‘I wouldn’t be being true to myself if I did that.’ She snapped her portfolio shut. ‘That’s more important to me than money.’
She sounded like Danny, and I wondered what the fuss was about ‘being true to yourself’. Doing what you wanted was all well and good, but what about financial security? You could learn to love what you did, if the rewards meant you didn’t have to worry about paying the bills.
‘Most people just don’t understand art, that’s the trouble.’ Vicky got to her feet. She was tiny, even in heels. ‘I’m sorry for wasting your time.’
‘I do understand about art,’ I was moved to say. ‘I used to paint myself.’ That sounded wrong. ‘I mean, I used to paint. A long time ago.’
‘That’s exactly my point.’ She plucked a cropped denim jacket off the back of her chair and slung it around her shoulders. ‘Everyone who’s ever picked up a paintbrush thinks they know about art.’
‘I know what I like!’ I sang through a smile, even though my teeth were clamped together. Dad was hovering in the doorway again, clearly keen to know what was going on.
‘I wish I hadn’t wasted petrol driving over here, now.’ Vicky flounced away far more elegantly than I’d have managed in heels, leaving me with a confusing mishmash of feelings swilling around in my gut.
As the first drops of rain began to fall, I hurried inside. ‘It’s not happening,’ I said to Dad. ‘Her work wasn’t suitable.’
‘No,’ he said, a look of relief sweeping over his face. ‘They were a bit rude.’
‘They weren’t the paintings I looked at on her website.’
‘Maybe you should have looked at them in person.’ There wasn’t an ounce of criticism in his voice, but all the same I was slammed with a sense of failure. It was the kind of thing Carlotta would have said, with slitted eyes and a steely edge to her voice.
‘I’ll find something else,’ I promised.
‘You don’t have to.’ He sounded concerned – probably imagining the pristine walls littered with pictures of corpses, or mating animals, or something else inappropriate.
‘I want to,’ I said, rolling my sleeves up again. It was warm inside, and I was tempted to slump at a table with a cup of something hot, and the biggest slice of cake I could get my hands on. Sour cherry and pistachio was the special of the day, and Mum was carving out a sizeable chunk for a man with a paunch pushing over the waist of his jeans. ‘I just think the café would look even better with artwork on the walls.’
It suddenly seemed imperative that I do this one thing – the first thing I’d said I would do. Otherwise, I’d have failed at something even Rob could have arranged, and he didn’t know his Monet from his Banksy.
‘Okey-dokey, then.’ Dad was giving me a similar look to the one Nan had given me earlier – they were so alike when they frowned – and I suddenly couldn’t bear it. I felt like a pinned butterfly, only not delicate and pretty.
‘Tell Mum I’ll cook dinner tonight,’ I said, and left before he could object.
* * *
Mooching round the shops in the village, I tried to rescue my positive mood by thinking of some of the Instagram quotes that Nina was such a fan of, often reading them out to me like a mother encouraging a toddler. Stay positive, work hard, and make it happen, had been a favourite, along with: The best preparation for good work tomorrow is to do good work today, and: Easier to do a job right, than explain why you didn’t.
Maybe if I designed a menu for the taster session tomorrow night, I’d feel more in control. There was a cute little arts and crafts shop tucked between the butcher’s and the Old Bakery, where Meg still worked most mornings. It was shut now, the display shelves in the window empty of the loaves, cakes, and pies they used to sell all day, when the aroma of baking would draw people like a magnet, and Mum would send Rob and me to buy a batch of scones for the café if she hadn’t had time to make any.
In the craft shop, I became sidetracked by a selection of sketch pads in varying sizes, and ended up buying two – one for watercolour painting – and a set of waterproof, smudge-proof coloured pencils that cost more than I could afford, but which I couldn’t resist.
My phone rang as I came out of the shop. It was Bill Feathers, from the Smugglers Inn. ‘OK, love, you’re on,’ he said, without preamble. ‘He’d better be good, though, this comedian of yours. Our reputation’s on the line.’
‘You won’t regret it, Bill, thanks,’ I said, wondering what reputation he was talking about. The one for having the stickiest carpets in Devon? Even so, I was smiling when I ended the call. Everything was coming together.
It was only when I got home that I realised I’d forgotten to buy something for dinner, but a rummage through the fridge and cupboards provided the ingredients to make a big dish of macaroni cheese – the one dish I’d perfected, living in London, because it was quick, easy and cheap.
Once assembled, I put it aside to pop in the oven later, and shot upstairs into the back room my parents used as a study, where a newish computer with a printer and scanner attached were housed. Normally, at work, I’d have outsourced the printing of invitations or menus to someone who knew what they were doing, but as that wasn’t an option I opened a document and fiddled about for a while with a graphics programme, wishing Rob was around to help. Nothing I came up with looked right. Maybe it would be easier to do something by hand.
Enthused, I ran downstairs and took out my new coloured pencils, then located the delivery note for the teas and coffees and settled myself at the kitchen table. An hour later, I’d carefully scripted all the different blends of tea and coffee and surrounded them with delicately outlined cups and saucers, spoons and coffee beans, and plump little muffins bursting with fruit.
Back upstairs, I scanned in the page and printed out several copies on standard A4 paper, because there wasn’t anything nicer, and even though they came out black and white, they still looked good.
On impulse, I retrieved my paints from my bedroom drawer, mixed them with water, then painted Meg’s blueberry-and-buttercream cake from memory, resplendent be
neath a glass dome, exaggerating the cake’s dimensions and the purple shade of the fruit, until my mouth was watering. It wasn’t until I heard the key in the door that I realised Mum and Dad were back, and I’d forgotten all about dinner.
‘What’s all this?’ said Dad, as I leapt up and switched on the oven. My fingers were splotched with paint and I wiped them on my top, feeling as if I’d been caught doing something illegal.
‘Just messing about,’ I said, as Mum came through, shedding her bulging bag and fleecy jacket. ‘I forgot the time.’
‘Not to worry,’ she said, efficiently slipping the macaroni into the oven before setting the timer. ‘It was lovely of you to make this, Cassie.’
‘No trouble.’ I shoved my hands in my pockets. ‘I don’t expect you to wait on me hand and foot.’
‘And you’ve done some washing.’ Smiling, she opened the door and started tugging out damp clothes.
‘I should have hung them on the line,’ I said, wondering what was happening to the iron-clad focus I’d always had when working. ‘I got a bit distracted.’
‘It’s OK,’ Mum said, pushing the items into the tumble dryer. ‘The weather’s turned, anyway.’
I looked at the window and saw that it was still raining.
‘This is good.’ I turned to see Dad squinting at my painting. He was supposed to wear reading glasses, but said they made him feel old. ‘You always were good at drawing.’
I plucked it out of his hands and laid it on the worktop to dry properly. ‘What about these?’ I said, showing him the taster menu I’d designed.
‘You did this?’ I nodded, thinking who else? ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it, Lydia?’
‘Yes,’ she said doubtfully, and exchanged a look with Dad that I couldn’t interpret.
‘What?’ I said, alert to criticism.
‘Nothing.’ Dad was wearing the shifty look he used to get when Rob and I begged him to tell us what we were getting for Christmas.
‘It’s obviously something.’
‘It’s just that we were wondering whether you should be working so hard, when you’re meant to be having a holiday,’ he said, shooting a look of apology at Mum.
She was shaking her head so much her curls bounced. ‘We can see how much you love your work, and obviously we want you to do whatever you want, but we’re worried you might be addicted. To work, I mean.’ Redness burst over her cheeks. ‘We’re so proud of you, love, but we don’t want you to burn out, and what about your eggs?’
‘Sorry?’ Gobsmacked by her eruption, I glanced at the novelty egg holder in the shape of a helter-skelter by the fridge. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Do you think you should freeze them, for later?’
Confused, I said, ‘I didn’t know you could freeze eggs.’
‘I read that a famous actress put hers on ice years ago to focus on her career—’
‘Lydia.’ Dad sounded like a man trying to stop a runaway horse, but Mum had got the bit firmly between her teeth.
‘Even if they were defrosted now, she’s probably too old to become a mother, and I wouldn’t want that for you.’ She clapped a hand across her mouth as if she’d just been sick.
‘You’re talking about my eggs?’ I pointed to my lower abdomen, in case there was any doubt.
She nodded. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered through her fingers.
My eyes swivelled from her to Dad. They looked crushed, as if they’d broken a vow of silence and knew there was no going back.
‘I didn’t realise it was something that bothered you,’ I said, astonished that they’d expressed an opinion about my future that didn’t involve the word ‘proud’.
‘Oh, it doesn’t, not really,’ said Dad, but I could see from the looks he was flinging at Mum it was something they’d discussed, probably more than once. ‘We’re not like those parents who are desperate for grandchildren, or think you should be in a relationship or anything.’ Dad made a pfft sound, presumably dismissing the very thought. ‘We just want you to be happy, and not to have a breakdown.’
‘That’s all it is,’ Mum said, flapping her hand as though to shoo away her previous words. ‘Take no notice of us. We want what’s best for you, always have. You don’t have to do anything to please us.’
Looking at their hunted expressions, I tried to work out what I felt. Anger, that they’d discussed me behind my back? Outrage, that my eggs (so hard not to picture them with freckled shells) had been the topic of conversation? Humiliation, that – at twenty-nine – they were worried my childbearing years were already behind me? Strangely, I felt none of those things. Instead, I was disproportionately pleased that they cared enough to worry and, for once, to let me know – even if it was reluctantly – and that they’d felt it necessary to retract their words right away.
‘You two,’ I said, placing my arm around Dad’s waist and drawing Mum in for a cuddle. ‘You’re a pair of numpties, but I love you.’
Chapter Fifteen
‘They smell so good,’ I said to Meg, peering into the tin. ‘What’s in them?’
‘Ginger and lemon.’ She playfully smacked my hand away as I reached for one of the delicious-looking muffins. ‘These are for customers,’ she said. ‘I’ve held a few back if you’d like one.’
‘Maybe later.’
I peered through the door into the café. My stomach was a cauldron of nerves, and I’d developed a new itchy patch above my right wrist that I was trying not to scratch. It had always happened right before an event, but I’d thought this evening would be easier. It wasn’t as if I’d invited 400 guests, or had Carlotta hissing last-minute orders into my earpiece, and no one’s night was going to be ruined if the lighting wasn’t perfect, but I needed to pull it off.
Your future is directed by what you do today. Another of Nina’s quotes. I couldn’t seem to get them out of my head. Don’t wish for it, work for it. At least she’d been true to her word and returned my jeans. They’d arrived that morning while I was updating the café’s Facebook page:
Come and try our new range of teas and coffees this evening, 7–9, and let us know what you think. There’ll be music, and cake, so tell your friends and don’t miss this one-off event!
I copied it onto Instagram with multiple tea- and coffee- and Maitland’s related hashtags.
I’d been careful not to specify what kind of music, as Rob had informed me over breakfast that he was still ‘firming up’ an act called Rodney’s Dad.
‘What do you mean, “firming up”?’
‘He usually visits his granddad on Tuesdays. He’s in a care home. His granddad, not Fletcher.’
‘Fletcher?’
‘Nick’s mate, the one I told you about.’
‘I thought you just said he was called Rodney?’
Rob had looked at me as though I was being deliberately obtuse. ‘Rodney’s Dad’s his stage name, Sandra.’
‘Well, it’s a stupid name.’
‘No, it’s not, it’s meaningful.’
His class didn’t start until ten, and I thought how unfair it was that he looked so fresh when he hadn’t come home until gone midnight, waking the rest of us by clicking on lights and singing a chorus of ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. Not drunk, he’d informed us, when we’d staggered onto the landing to see what was happening. Just happy that Emma had agreed to consider giving their relationship another go, once he’d finished his course and started his new job. He’d had an aura about him that had made me want to simultaneously throttle and hug him.
‘The name’s for his granddad,’ he’d said at breakfast, when I’d continued to look blank.
‘How do you work that out?’
‘His dad’s called Rodney, which means Rodney’s dad is Fletcher’s granddad.’ Rob had picked up one of my new coloured pencils and torn a page from my sketch pad to scribble a crude family tree, complete with arrows and smiley faces. ‘Do you understand now?’
I’d leaned over and dislodged his glasses, which he hated. �
��Why not just use his granddad’s name?’
‘Because no one would take him seriously if he called himself Nobby.’
We’d cracked up then, and for a moment the upcoming event had faded into the background, and I’d wished we could stay in the kitchen messing about.
Now, smoothing my hands down the snug-fitting jeans I’d been reunited with – maybe they’d become my lucky jeans – I wondered whether Rodney’s Dad was going to make it. Time was getting on, and I assumed he’d need to prepare.
As if on cue, my phone buzzed with a message.
Fletch on his way, sis X
Brilliant! I owe you I replied, feeling my shoulder blades loosen slightly. You coming?
Wouldn’t miss it for the world!!
I didn’t like the sound of that, but there wasn’t time to ponder it.
‘Anything else I need to do?’ Mum’s smiling face appeared. After closing the café at six as usual, I’d persuaded her to change out of her work clothes, in favour of a flared, black skirt and scoop-necked top, which I’d brought to the café with a pair of kitten heels and some tights, but it was obvious she didn’t feel comfortable. She kept tugging her skirt down as though it was showing her thighs, instead of her neatly shaped calves, and she was convinced her top was hugging her ‘spare tyre’.
‘You look lovely, Lydia,’ Meg had said, when Mum came out of the Ladies, looking self-conscious as she fiddled with her waistband and pretended to stumble in her shoes. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear make-up at work.’
Mum’s pink lipstick had worn off already, and the hairspray I’d brought hadn’t had the desired effect of fixing her curls in place. Instead, they’d gone limp, so she looked as if she’d been caught in the drizzle still falling outside.
‘You’ve labelled the teapots and checked you’ve got enough strainers?’ I said. ‘We don’t want the cups full of leaves.’
Mum nodded. ‘Yes, and I made myself some strawberry crush, and it was delicious.’
