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

by Karen Clarke

  ‘I might have to take him home,’ Adam said. We exchanged smiles, and I felt myself relax. ‘I like to see art displayed in cafés.’ His eyes drifted to the wall behind me, and I turned to see a customer cradling a cat while looking at my paintings. ‘Proper art, I mean.’

  I stiffened. ‘Proper?’

  He grimaced. ‘Bad choice of word. It’s so subjective, isn’t it, but that sort of thing’s not my’ – he raised his cup and an eyebrow – ‘cup of tea. Or coffee.’

  My gut twisted with embarrassment. ‘Right.’

  ‘Bit too literal, and I’ve always found caricatures rather crude.’ He was still looking over, eyes scrunched in contemplation. ‘I prefer more abstract stuff myself, and am partial to a bit of sculpture.’

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  ‘Local artist?’

  ‘Yep.’ I gulped the rest of my coffee, praying no one would come over and ask me to draw a ‘funny picture’.

  ‘Maybe your parents would be better off sticking with the cats.’ He smiled, as if we were sharing a joke, but my mouth wouldn’t cooperate.

  ‘So, about this evening,’ he said, but before he could continue, the door flew open and a police officer strode in, carrying an enormous cat I realised was Tabitha. Panic swelled. I’d assumed she was still in her carrier.

  ‘Looks like one of your cats got out,’ said the officer, into the pin-drop silence that had fallen. ‘Someone called the police to say they’d seen a lynx.’

  ‘She does have unusual markings,’ said one of the customers.

  I scraped my chair back and stood up. ‘How did she get out?’ My eyes sought Gwen’s.

  ‘She didn’t get past me.’ Gwen puffed out her body to fill her five-foot frame, looking ready to throw a punch. ‘I think I’d have noticed if she had.’ She looked at Tabitha, who really was scarily massive. ‘Poor thing could have got run over.’ Gwen was giving me daggers, as though it was all my fault – which, to be fair, it probably was. I mustn’t have closed the back door properly.

  ‘We found her digging up a flowerbed,’ said the officer, a reproving look on his oblong face. ‘The home owner remembered seeing the sign outside the café yesterday, so I thought I’d bring her here.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’ I stepped forward, aware that Adam was watching with slight amusement, clearly expecting me to take control. ‘As you can see, we’re quite busy and it’s been difficult to keep an eye—’

  ‘You do have a licence?’ He looked around, adjusting his truncheon belt around his rather womanly hips. ‘You’re serving food.’

  Licence?

  Adam stood up, as if to intervene – but I didn’t want a man stepping in to settle things for me – especially one who’d offered me up for the job of a lifetime, on the assumption I was capable of doing it.

  ‘It’s a one-off event, officer, to raise awareness of the plight of homeless cats,’ I said, a hot, tight feeling racing across my chest, as the responsibility of it hit me. One of the cats could have been killed and the others deeply traumatised. They hadn’t asked for their lives to be messed about with. And I could do without being arrested and thrown in prison.

  The officer looked at Mum. ‘You OK with this, Mrs Maitland?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Mum said, ignoring the cat directly in front of her, its paws resting on a glass dome as if about to help itself to a scone. ‘My daughter organises things like this in her sleep. And Liz Fairbrother at the cat shelter gave us her blessing.’

  ‘Oh, I know Liz.’ The officer swung over to the counter and scanned the cakes, one hand absently fondling the placid cat. ‘Could I have a latte and a slice of chocolate fudge cake, please? Actually, make that two slices.’

  As Mum bobbed about, getting him a takeaway coffee, the noise levels in the café returned to normal, and my shoulders sagged as I let out the breath I’d been holding. I felt as if I’d got away with murder. In fact, if anything had happened to Tabitha, that’s what I’d be – a murderer. I wanted to pick her up and hug her, but she was so large, I had no idea how to go about it. I settled for giving her ginormous head a pat.

  I felt Adam’s eyes on me, and wondered whether he was wondering how to retract his job offer, and how quickly he could flee back to London. I straightened, discreetly scratching my wrist, which felt as if it was on fire.

  ‘That was well handled,’ he said, hands in his trouser pockets, eyeing me with a look of such flattering admiration that I wondered whether I was missing something.

  Or, maybe he was.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Keeping tabs on the customers, making sure no one fed the cats cake, advising youngsters to be careful of claws and to not pull the cats’ ears or whiskers, and explaining why they couldn’t just take one home ‘for a bit’ was exhausting.

  Once it became obvious that I couldn’t sit and chat with Adam, we arranged to meet that evening at the Smugglers Inn and he took off to explore the area. ‘It’s a while since I’ve been near the sea, so I’m going to make the most of it.’ He rested his hands on my shoulders and searched my eyes, before grazing my cheek with his lips. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said, his breath tickling my nose. It smelt of coffee, and the peppermint he’d popped in his mouth from a tube he’d pulled from his pocket.

  Tamsin returned in time for the lunchtime rush and there was a lull before schools kicked out, so I sat and did some sketches of the cats and customers, keeping an eye on the door in case Adam returned, and wondered what I was doing. Each time I remembered his comments about my paintings, I shrank with embarrassment, and had to remind myself we were all entitled to our opinions. I should probably have mentioned the artwork was mine, and that I didn’t like sculpture, but the moment had passed too quickly.

  I wondered whether Adam was scoping out somewhere to live in his early retirement. Perhaps he’d want to build his own place, like those people on Grand Designs – a glass-and- metal construction, like an office space – or maybe snap up a listed building, set in several acres, with a pond and an orchard, and a paddock for a pony. I realised I’d drawn out the image in my head, and decided to paint it later, in watercolours.

  No, not later. Maybe never. As a future ‘bespoke’ wedding planner, there’d be no time for painting, never mind sketching.

  By the time the café flooded with schoolchildren and mums and dads, the cats were starting to look jaded, scooting here and there or hiding, and Mum was looking frazzled from constantly shooing them out from behind the counter. At three thirty, Gwen helped me round them up. Docilely, they followed her back to the office, where they clambered into their carriers, looking relieved. It must be hard being the focus of so much attention, no matter how desperate you were to find a new home. And I was certain that most of them had. In fact, a fight had almost broken out over a rather smug-looking Tabitha, with two families claiming they loved her the most, and that she ‘obviously’ preferred them.

  ‘Reckon it worked out all right in the end,’ Gwen said, almost flattening Dickens with the force of her stroking. ‘Still a bit much though, pimping them out like this.’ She gave me a sly look. ‘I saw that bloke of yours, picking hairs off his trousers. Don’t seem like much of an animal person.’

  ‘You’ve just got it in for him because he didn’t want any cake.’ I tried to sound teasing, but didn’t quite pull it off. ‘He’s into healthy eating, that’s all, there’s nothing wrong with that.’ Actually, I’d felt a bit put out that I couldn’t tuck into a wedge of carrot cake, in case he judged me.

  ‘I’ve got it in for ’im, ’cos of what ’e said about your paintings.’

  ‘You heard that?’

  ‘I’d have told ’im to do one,’ she said. ‘Cheeky bar steward.’

  ‘He’s entitled to his opinion.’

  ‘As long as it ’ain’t the wrong one.’ I didn’t know whether to be flattered that she rated my art, or annoyed that she was judging Adam without even knowing him. ‘Not that I know anythink about painting
s, mind. Only thing I can draw is me curtains, know what I mean?’

  In a surprisingly swift movement, she bent to pack Dickens in his carrier, and I concentrated on making sure that all the carriers were securely fastened, with their cargo safely inside. Most of the cats were fast asleep already.

  Danny arrived dead on time, bits of leaf in his hair, his stubble like gorse round his jaw. His jeans were covered in mud stains, as though he’d rolled down a hill, but as usual he radiated health and goodwill.

  ‘All present and correct?’ he said, as Gwen backed out of the office blowing kisses to Dickens. The cat’s face was pressed to the grill of his carrier, and I could have sworn there were tears in his eyes.

  ‘There’s been plenty of bonding, let’s put it that way.’ I watched Gwen pass her arm over her face as she vanished into the café. ‘I reckon all of them will have new homes by the end of the week.’

  ‘That’s great.’ A smile broke through the grime on Danny’s face. ‘It’ll take a load off at the shelter. They’re full at the moment.’

  ‘I’m glad to have helped.’ I felt a flush of pride, now the day was over and had gone without a hitch… apart from one cat escaping, a police officer turning up, and every health and hygiene rule being shattered. ‘Thanks for all this.’ I handed him Tabitha’s carrier, which was significantly heavier than the others, and decided not to mention her little adventure.

  ‘I hear she escaped,’ Danny said, peering inside and pulling a funny face. I didn’t ask how he knew. The police officer was probably his cousin, or he was psychic, or he knew the woman whose garden Tabitha had ended up in.

  ‘She ended up in one of my client’s gardens,’ he said, and I did an eye-rolling tut. ‘What?’ He lowered the carrier, feigning innocence. ‘You can’t keep secrets around here.’

  ‘But I thought you were in Dartmouth today?’

  ‘Not all of it,’ he said. ‘And news travels fast in Seashell Cove.’

  ‘I know.’ I handed him another cat. ‘I grew up here, remember?’

  * * *

  Getting ready for the comedy night, I reflected that it was nice to have met Adam the way I had, rather than on a blind date, or Tinder – which was basically ‘sex and go’. Not that I’d tried it, but I knew it wasn’t for me. I’d never made the first move before, but now I was glad that I’d shoved my business card into Adam’s pocket that day on the Tube train.

  I wiggled into a navy pencil dress with half-sleeves that I hadn’t worn for ages, and paired it with pale pink pointy heels, while humming a tune that had been going round in my head since Rodney’s Dad had played it at the café. Things were going better than I could have imagined. I’d even had an email from the daughter who’d commissioned the dog-photo to say she knew loads more people who wanted pictures of their pets, if I was interested. It seemed impossible that, days ago, my future had hung in the balance. Obviously, I’d have to fulfil my commissions first, but now I had a shiny new job in London that was mine for the taking.

  Grace Dewsbury. Even the name was classy.

  Out of nowhere, a horrible thought struck. What if Carlotta found out I was working for Grace, and called to tell her she’d fired me? The thought made my stomach sway. It was the sort of thing she’d do to be spiteful, and that would be it. I’d be fired all over again, and Adam would hate me. Oh balls. Seized with panic, I dropped on the edge of the bed and scratched my wrist. Should I come clean to Adam? Maybe I could fudge things a bit; say my ex-boss had had it in for me – which wasn’t a lie – and maybe ask Nina to put in a good word.

  Perhaps Carlotta would never find out, too absorbed in her own business to worry about everyone else’s. But event planning was a small world, and word got round.

  How could I focus on planning weddings, if I was constantly waiting for the axe to fall? Or, maybe, by the time Grace heard from Carlotta, I’d have proved myself invaluable, and Grace would see that all I’d needed was a second chance.

  There was no point worrying about it now, I decided, realising I needed a cardigan over my dress to hide the ugly patch of itchy skin above my wrist. I’d just have to wing it and see what happened.

  * * *

  I’d arranged to be at the pub early to meet Andy Farrington, and Mum and Dad were still at the kitchen table when I went downstairs, pushing scrambled eggs around their plates, not speaking. Dad hadn’t returned to the café in the end, saying he’d bumped into an old friend after meeting his accountant. But I’d suddenly remembered he wasn’t keen on cats, since waking as a child one night to find one sitting on his chest; it had crept in through his open bedroom window. He used to tell the story, accompanied by face-twitching horror, and I felt awash with guilt that I’d forgotten all about it.

  ‘Have you heard from Rob?’ said Mum, as I picked up my keys. She looked tired, and I was reminded again of the almost-conversation I’d overheard.

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  ‘No reason.’ A smile chased away the shadows, so I thought I might have imagined them. ‘Just that he’s not been home much these past few days, which is absolutely fine, we’re not keeping tabs on him, or anything.’

  ‘He’s probably with Emma. Or Nick,’ I said, wishing he’d tell them his news and get it over with. I had enough secrets of my own. ‘He’s fine, don’t worry.’

  ‘We’re not worried,’ Dad said, a bit too sharply, but when I looked up from burrowing in my bag to check I’d got my phone, he was smiling. ‘We’ll see you up there, love.’

  ‘Are you bringing Nan?’

  Dad shook his head, fork scraping over his plate. ‘I did ask, but she’s happier doing her own thing.’ He sighed. ‘You know your nan.’

  ‘Maybe you should have insisted, instead of asking,’ I said, still checking for my phone. ‘I think she’d enjoy it.’

  When I looked up again, they were staring at each other, as if they’d heard something unfathomable. ‘What is with you two?’ I finally located my phone in one of the pockets of my bag. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Break a leg!’ Mum called after me, as if I was the one about to perform in front of a live audience. My chest tightened on the short drive there, in case there wasn’t going to be an audience at all, but when I pulled up outside the Smugglers Inn I could see straight away it was busy. Being the only pub in the village, that wasn’t entirely surprising, and when I pushed through the heavy wooden doors I was met with an air of buzzy expectation that boded well.

  Andy Farrington was apparently in a room out the back, pacing up and down, muttering to himself.

  ‘He’s been doing it since he got here, an hour ago,’ said Bill Feathers, who defined the word landlord – big and smiley with a booming voice and a set of impressive sideburns – unlike the whey-faced owner I remembered, who’d refused to let Legal Mystics perform at the yearly talent night. Quite rightly, as we were only fifteen, though we hadn’t thought so at the time. ‘He won’t even have a drink to settle his nerves.’

  ‘Performers are funny like that,’ I said, wondering whether there’d ever been a proper ‘act’ at the Smugglers Inn. The girls were right, it was a bit of a dive now, and the carpet did feel sticky, but it was somehow comforting – like visiting your nan’s and realising nothing had changed since you were a child, down to the chintzy wallpaper in the back bedroom. Not my nan’s of course. Everything was changing there. ‘They have rituals, and are superstitious.’

  ‘He did ask if I could swap my shirt, because “blue and green should never be seen”,’ said Bill, pointing at the silky black number he must have changed into, which strained across his bulky chest. ‘Thought it was because I didn’t look smart enough.’

  Smiling, as he left me to it, I peered round the door to see Andy Farrington in the middle of the badly carpeted floor, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed shut as if trying to locate all the words in his head and put them in the right order.

  ‘Everything OK?’ I ventured. His eyes sprang open and I saw they were full of panic. �
��Cassie Maitland,’ I added. ‘I’m the one who booked you.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks for that,’ he quipped. ‘I’m crapping myself.’ He gave a queasy grin as he shook my hand. It was slick with sweat, and I had to fight the urge to wipe my palm on my dress.

  ‘Over a small gig like this?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter whether it’s here or the London Palladium,’ he said. ‘Nerves always get to me.’ I winced in sympathy. ‘They go away as soon as I start,’ he said, and I realised with a flash of insight that mine never did. Not until things were over, and even then I’d replay everything back in my head, wondering what could have gone better. ‘Just as well, or I’d be a basket case,’ he added. His hair was stiff with product, sticking up at weird angles. Comedy hair, I’d thought, the last time I’d seen him perform. ‘But they come back every time. Good job I love what I do.’ He made jazz hands. ‘It wouldn’t be worth it otherwise.’

  ‘No,’ I said, a hollow feeling in my stomach. I should have eaten before coming out. ‘It probably wouldn’t be.’

  ‘Really, thanks for booking me,’ he said, unexpectedly. ‘Work’s been a bit thin on the ground since I was dropped from Mock the Week.’

  ‘Dropped?’ My insides rolled over. So, that’s why he’d been available at short notice.

  ‘I did a couple of bad-taste jokes.’ Seeing my face, he added, ‘Don’t worry, Cassie, I’ll keep it as clean as a whistle, I’ve learnt my lesson. People don’t want experimental, and I’ll make sure I steer clear of Trump.’

  ‘Who wouldn’t?’ I joked, despite the knot in my throat.

  He let out a high-pitched laugh and clapped his hands. ‘Nice one,’ he said. ‘You should go into comedy.’

  Not if my life depended on it. ‘Well, I just wanted to wish you good luck.’ I prayed he wouldn’t need it. ‘They look like a good crowd.’

  ‘I’ve been booed off stage in seven seconds, been told I’m as funny as piles, had beer chucked over me, and had a heckler who turned out to be my next-door neighbour so, whatever happens, I’ll cope,’ he said, which I found only marginally reassuring.