The Christmas Cafe at Seashell Cove: The perfect laugh-out-loud Christmas romance

by Karen Clarke

  ‘Even so, he must be shaken up,’ I persisted, remembering the boy’s wide-eyed shock as I’d approached him in the water. ‘You should check he’s OK.’

  ‘I did and he is.’ Seth’s voice was curt. ‘He’d hardly have run all the way back here, otherwise.’

  I supposed he had a point. Through the gloom, I noticed a set of smallish damp footprints on the bottom two stairs, and the tinny howl of an animal floated down – presumably (hopefully) from a computer game.

  Slightly unsettled, I dropped my boots by the door and trailed Seth down the passageway, noticing a couple of wood-panelled doors on my left. One was open, and I glimpsed a room with a hardwood floor, empty apart from a mole-coloured sofa, and a wide-screen television hanging on the wall. It was obvious Seth and Jack hadn’t lived here long. There was no real sense of the occupants; not like at home, where every room reflected my parents’ tastes, and mingled scents of ironing, coffee and Mum’s favourite flowers wafted through the air. At least, they had before Bridget returned, and the smell of frustration and bad cooking had taken over.

  There weren’t even any Christmas decorations that I could see, unlike our living room at home, which was like a (tasteful) Santa’s grotto – ostensibly for my niece’s benefit, but really because we loved Christmas.

  The cottage was warm, but dusty, and I swallowed a sneeze as Seth pushed through a half-open door at the end of the hall and beckoned me inside.

  The kitchen was nicer – old-fashioned but cosy, with a grey flagstone floor and a dark red Aga slumped against the far wall. An inglenook fireplace drew my eye, furnished with hooks for pans, conjuring images of toasting forks and marshmallows. Digby, curled on a stripy mat in front, completed the picture-book image and thumped his tail in greeting.

  ‘He must be shattered after his adventure,’ Seth said, bending to fuss him, before moving to the sink to fill a squat, copper kettle. After the dimness of the hallway, the kitchen felt interrogation-bright, light flooding through a sash window above the butler sink. ‘You should take your clothes off.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Seth turned, and I saw that his eyes were topped by a strong set of eyebrows, and put him in his late-thirties. ‘You’ll catch your death, as my gran used to say.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ I dropped my jacket, sweatshirt and T-shirt onto a polished oak table, next to a bowl of rosy-skinned apples. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting out of these wet jeans.’

  His brows lifted a fraction. ‘Go upstairs and have a shower, while I make a drink,’ he said, grabbing a tea towel and rubbing his hair until it stood in peaks. ‘There’s plenty of hot water, and clean towels,’ he added. ‘I’ll find you something dry to wear, and then you can tell me how I can repay you for saving my son’s life.’

  Chapter Four

  Following Seth’s directions, I ran up to a narrow landing and through the second door on the right. Behind it was an airy but old-fashioned bathroom, with turquoise wall tiles, orange-pine fittings, and mushroom-coloured vinyl on the floor. I slipped inside and turned the key in the lock, Seth’s words ringing in my ears. What did he mean, repay me? I’d been in the right place at the right time and happened to be a strong swimmer, that was all. Anyone would have done the same.

  Still charged up, I yanked Seth’s sweater over my head and wrenched off my jeans and bra, noting that the shower was attached to the wall above the bath. There were several inches of water inside, and a faint ring of scum clinging to the surface. Jack clearly hadn’t emptied it when he stepped out, and he’d left his Star Wars pyjamas on the floor. There was an unopened bottle of shower gel on the side, suggesting he hadn’t washed himself either, and I pictured an irate Seth, trying to persuade his son to bathe – perhaps even bribing him, the way Dad had once bribed me, promising I could have riding lessons if I kept my room tidy for a month. (I’d gone off wanting a pony by then, so it didn’t really work.)

  Keen to get warm – still shivery, in spite of the heat coming from an old-school radiator on the wall – I tugged out the plug and watched the water gurgle away before climbing into the bath. I switched on the shower and adjusted the temperature, dragging across a thick plastic curtain to stop water spraying the floor, indulging a brief fantasy in which I created a brand-new, country-style bathroom, with weathered-oak wall panelling and flooring, and a roll-topped bath with bronze taps positioned beneath the frosted glass window.

  At least there was nothing wrong with the plumbing; as Seth had promised, the water was hot and plentiful, but the shower gel smelt overwhelmingly male – a pungent aroma of Italian limes and pink peppercorns, according to the blurb on the back; an expensive brand I’d seen advertised by a famous footballer. I wondered whether Seth had bought it to appeal to Jack – part of the bribe to get him in the bath. Maybe the boy was into football. Maybe Seth was. In fact, now I thought about it, hadn’t the gossip I’d heard had something to do with his career? Or rather, his ex-career. Something sporty he’d retired from, but what?

  I couldn’t see any shampoo so used a squirt of shower gel, and once I was done, squeezed water from my hair and pulled back the curtain to reach blindly for a towel. The air was fuggy with steam, but it had cleared enough for me to meet Seth’s startled gaze.

  ‘What the…?’ I grabbed a hand towel, which barely reached my thighs, while Seth froze in a half-crouch, a pile of neatly folded clothes in his arms.

  ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to have finished yet.’ He discreetly lowered his gaze and placed the clothes on the toilet lid. ‘I’ll leave these here for you.’

  ‘You could have left them outside the door.’ I wondered whether he’d been spying on me. Unlikely, given that the shower curtain could have hidden a bevy of naked women, and he’d already seen me soaking wet in my bra. ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘I’m afraid the lock doesn’t work.’ His voice was apologetic and ultra-polite – hardly the tone of a pervert. He turned to leave, still carefully averting his gaze. ‘I didn’t want you to come out with nothing to wear.’

  ‘Well… thanks.’ I was equally polite.

  ‘I’ll pop your jeans in the dryer.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’ My knickers were balled inside, along with my soggy socks.

  ‘It’s no problem.’ He scooped everything off the floor, including Jack’s pyjamas.

  ‘I’ll be down in a moment.’

  ‘No rush,’ he said, as though we were discussing the state of the economy at the sort of dinner party I wouldn’t be seen dead at. ‘There’s a hairdryer in my room, if you’d like to use it.’

  ‘No need,’ I lied. My hair was growing out and needed more attention these days, or it ended up a hybrid of flat and wavy. ‘You blow-dry yours, do you?’

  As soon as I’d said it, I realised he probably had a girlfriend – or wife – and the hairdryer was hers. Not that there was anything wrong with men blow-drying their hair, but I preferred a wash-and-go attitude.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ He tossed his head and patted the back of his hair with his free hand. ‘It needs a lot of help to look like this.’ With a rather camp swivel he stalked out, closing the door behind him, and I realised I was smiling.

  Dropping the skimpy towel, I stepped out of the bath and after drying myself, pulled on the jogging bottoms, rolling up the cuffs, before tugging on a pair of wool socks that were almost a perfect fit, and the sweater that had dried on the radiator. There was no underwear, and the clothes were obviously Seth’s, so maybe there wasn’t a wife or girlfriend. Thinking about it, the place lacked a female influence. No feminine toiletries, either. I peeped inside the pinewood cabinet above the sink, but there was only a pack of toothbrushes, some toothpaste, and a bottle of cough medicine on the shelf. I guiltily shut the door and studied my reflection in the misty, mirrored front, surprised for a second that I looked more or less the same as I had when I’d left home – apart from the slicked back hair. And maybe my face – losing its summer tan – was a little flushed, deepening the gr
een of my eyes, but that would be the hot water. Turning away, I opened the window, cold air tightening the skin on my cheeks. The rain had stopped, and rays of weak sunshine washed across the cove, turning the waves to a silver-tipped shimmer as they broke onto the sand.

  Aware Seth was waiting, probably wondering what I was doing, I left the bathroom and was about to head downstairs, resisting the urge to check the view from the landing window, when I heard what sounded like a stifled sob from one of the other rooms.

  Jack.

  I hesitated, one hand on the wooden post at the top of the stairs. It seemed wrong to ignore the sound but, equally, I didn’t feel it was my place to rush in and comfort the boy – if indeed he was crying, and the noise wasn’t coming from his computer game. My experience with children, prior to Bridget coming home with her daughter, was zero. By choice. The thought of being responsible for a small human being was terrifying to me.

  But when the sound came again – definitely crying – I found myself padding towards a scuffed door at the end of the landing and pressing my ear to the paintwork. I knocked, but there was no reply, so I turned the knob and pushed. ‘It’s only me, the lady from the beach.’ Nice one, Tilly. Not at all creepy. ‘Hello?’ A muffled snort emerged from a cabin-style bed pressed against the far wall, and I could just make out a hump beneath a moon-and-stars patterned duvet cover. ‘Are you OK?’ Stupid question.

  I crept further into the room, which was filled with light from two long windows, one with the same outlook across the cove. It was neat and tidy inside, for a boy’s room. The last one I’d encountered belonged to Cassie’s brother Rob, and had looked like it should be cordoned off and declared a crime scene. Apart from Jack’s bed, which had a desk area underneath, there was a white wardrobe and matching chest, and a shelf that ran the length of one wall, neatly lined with books, toys, and stuffed animals. The floorboards looked freshly sanded, covered with a patchwork rug in rainbow colours, and a floor lamp shaped like a rocket stood by the window. It was clear an effort had been made to make it look nice and welcoming.

  ‘Is it all right if I come in?’ I ventured, even though I already had. The duvet lifted as Jack turned onto his side, and I had a glimpse of his knobbly spine before it fell again. ‘Should I take that as a no?’ I’d defaulted to a jokey tone as I moved closer, noticing a discarded iPad thrown to the bottom of the bed. ‘What game were you playing?’

  The answer seemed unlikely to inspire conversation, as I knew next to nothing about computer games. I picked up the iPad, but the screen was blank and smudged with fingerprints, and didn’t respond to my attempt at switching it on. Laying it down, I spotted a small gallery of framed photos on the wall by the bed, of Jack with various family members – mostly grandparents, judging by the ages (none with Seth, I noticed) and one in particular caught my eye. A much younger Jack, with neatly-parted hair, his wide-eyed smile injected with mischief, was in the arms of a woman about my age, with red-gold hair cascading over her shoulder and a smiling, cat-like face. Clearly his mum, despite their different colouring.

  ‘Go’way.’ Jack’s voice was muffled by the pillow, but there was no mistaking his meaning, or the anxiety crackling through the duvet.

  I hovered a hand above the cover. ‘It’s probably delayed shock,’ I said, not sure why I was persisting, but there was something about his tidy room, the photos, and the sad little heap in the bed that was making my throat itch. ‘That’s why you’re upset.’

  ‘I’m NOT upset.’

  It was practically a roar, and I jumped so dramatically it nearly made me laugh. ‘I heard you crying just now.’

  ‘I wasn’t crying because of that.’

  My hand stilled. ‘Oh?’

  He sniffed, but didn’t say anything else.

  ‘I nearly drowned once.’ I said it in a conversational, hopefully non-threatening way, and immediately had a flashback to the classy Greek resort we’d holidayed at when I was six, with its interlocking pools and lagoons, where I’d spent practically the whole holiday. I was a keen swimmer, even then, and hadn’t wanted to come out. Bridget, ten years older and fed up of ‘keeping an eye’ on me, had been swotting up on her maths homework (she’d been the brainy one) and didn’t see me bang my head on the side of the pool and slip under the water. Luckily, the lifeguard had, but I’d never forgotten that feeling of looking up at the surface and not being able to reach it. ‘I was sick afterwards,’ I said to the shape of Jack. ‘Not straight away, but that evening, after dinner. My dad said it was shock.’ He’d felt guilty for asking Bridget to watch me while he and Mum ‘had a rest’ in their room, and they didn’t let me out of their sight for the rest of the week, while Bridget coped with her guilt by ignoring me more than usual.

  ‘Jack?’ The duvet rose and fell in time with his breathing, and although I thought it unlikely he’d gone to sleep, I guessed he was pretending in the hope that I’d leave him alone. ‘I like your dog,’ I said, a final, lame attempt to get a response. ‘I always wanted a dog, but my sister was allergic so we couldn’t have one.’ When that didn’t produce so much as a twitch, I sighed and backed towards the door, one eye on the duvet, and started when Jack said, ‘His name’s Digby.’

  Even though I knew, I said, ‘That’s the best name for a dog. If I’d had one, I’d have called it something silly like… Fleabag, or Winnie the Poodle.’ Was that a muffled giggle? ‘Sherlock Bones?’ Deciding to quit while I was ahead, I left the room and gently closed the door.

  ‘Did you really nearly drown?’

  Spinning round, I met Seth’s gaze once again. ‘Bloody hell, you’re everywhere.’ I clutched my chest, wondering how many shocks my heart could take in one day. And I’d thought slicing cake was stressful.

  ‘You were gone a while.’ In the shadowy light of the landing, his eyes looked darker than before. ‘I wondered what you were doing.’

  ‘I was seeing if Jack was OK.’ I swallowed. ‘I thought I heard him crying.’

  A host of emotions tramped over Seth’s face. ‘Did he tell you to go away?’

  ‘He did.’

  Seth rubbed a hand around his jaw. ‘I’ll send Digby up to keep him company. He loves that dog more than anything.’

  I trotted downstairs after Seth, my heartbeat not quite returned to normal. Everything seemed heightened, as though I’d been slipped a drug that had sharpened my senses, and I couldn’t stop staring at the hair on the nape of Seth’s neck. ‘He prefers the dog to me.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’ I jumped again when he turned to look at me at the foot of the stairs, and I heard myself say, ‘You’re not from around here then?’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ he said. ‘I was born and bred in Surrey, but I came here on holiday decades ago with a friend. His parents had a holiday cottage down the coast, and I remember having a brilliant time.’ His smile transformed his face, wiping at least five years off. ‘When I was looking for somewhere to settle with Jack, it popped into my head, and this cottage had been on the market a while so…’ He tilted his head. ‘I’m guessing you’re local, though your accent isn’t very strong.’

  ‘Ivybridge,’ I said. ‘I’m working up at the café.’ I pointed behind me, as though it was on the landing. ‘Not in the café as such, I’ve been overseeing an extension—’ I cut myself off. ‘Anyway, I’d better go.’ Jumping to the foot of the stairs, I pushed my feet into my boots, not bothering to lace them up, and reached a hand to the door.

  ‘You can’t go yet.’ He seemed put out, as if I was an absconding house guest. ‘What about your clothes?’

  ‘I’ll get them another time. We can do an exchange.’ I gestured to his sweater. ‘I’ve got to go and pick up some paint.’ I also needed to return to some semblance of normality.

  Seth’s brow furrowed. ‘But I’ve made some coffee.’ He sounded almost flatteringly dismayed. ‘And we haven’t talked about how I can repay you.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I do,’ he said, pushin
g a hand through his hair. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘It really isn’t.’ I pulled open the door, a gust of wind forcing my damp hair into my eyes. ‘Just watch him more closely in future.’

  ‘Tilly, wait…’ He started towards me, but I was already outside.

  ‘I’ll see you around,’ I called, and jogged away without glancing back, certain I could feel his eyes on me all the way back to the café.

  Chapter Five

  The first sound I heard as I entered the house, an hour later, tins of paint stashed in the boot of my car, was my niece banging a spoon on a pan lid (her favourite pastime). The second was Bridget, clapping and cheering as though her daughter had just composed her first symphony. I scoped the hallway for an invisible route to the stairs, hoping I wouldn’t be spotted, which was pretty much how I’d felt since the night my sister returned a month ago, cradling two-year-old Romy like a priceless vase.

  ‘Hi,’ she’d said, into the stupefied silence that had followed. Bridget rarely travelled up from London, and never alone, and we’d been innocently watching Say Yes to the Dress (even Dad had been reduced to a puddle of tears when one of the fathers saw his daughter’s meringue-like creation), and we couldn’t quite comprehend that she was there, looking less like the Bridget we thought we knew.

  ‘I need some bonding time with my daughter,’ she’d announced, pressing a squirming Romy against her shoulder. ‘I’ve taken a few months’ unpaid leave from work, rented out the house, and I’m moving home for a while.’ She’d audibly swallowed before continuing, as if on the verge of sobbing – except Bridget considered crying to be a weakness. ‘My daughter’s so precious and perfect…’ another pause, while she scattered kisses on Romy’s soft swirl of hair, ‘and I won’t have her messed up by that… by becoming the product of a broken family.’