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

by Karen Clarke

  ‘Look, Dad!’

  When I raised my head, Jack was pointing at the winding blue flume that dropped into the leisure pool on the other side. ‘Can I have a go?’

  ‘We could go down together,’ Seth suggested.

  ‘I can go on my own.’ Jack levered himself out of the water.

  ‘Be careful!’ Seth called as Jack skittered across to the steps and began climbing the metal stairs without looking back.

  ‘What am I supposed to do with him?’ Seth spoke with such quiet despair I instantly wanted to rest a hand on his shoulder, his cheek – somewhere – and tell him things would be fine. But, the truth was, I had no idea whether they would be.

  ‘Just keep on being there,’ I said, pulling myself onto the side. ‘He probably needs to know you won’t leave him, like you’ve done in the past.’

  I wondered for a moment whether I’d gone too far, but Seth was watching me retrieve my towel. He probably thought my default look was slightly blue and shivering. ‘Are you going?’ he said. ‘It would be nice to chat a bit longer.’ I sensed his unwillingness to be left alone with a son who appeared to reject him. ‘How did you learn to swim like that?’

  I regarded him steadily. ‘Go and be with Jack,’ I said. ‘Don’t take no for an answer.’ I sounded like the opposite of Bridget’s Danish child-rearing guru, who’d probably advocate leaving Jack alone to explore his boundaries, or something. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Once more, I found myself walking away from Seth – even though part of me wanted to stay.

  ‘Why didn’t you?’ said Meg, that evening. I was phoning her from my room, while Bridget attempted to concoct something for dinner. She was a terrible cook, but it was part of her mission as a ‘proper mother’ to provide healthy nutritious meals for Romy, and if I was around I was expected to eat with them.

  ‘Too messy,’ I said. ‘You know I don’t do complicated.’

  ‘But we’re not talking about a relationship with the man—’

  ‘I know, I’m seeing Rufus,’ I said, wondering when he was going to call – and whether I should call him. What did people in ‘grown-up’ relationships do?

  ‘—just be his friend,’ Meg continued smoothly. ‘It sounds like he needs one, from what you’ve told me. And you’re a good friend, Tilly. Look how you’ve been there for Cassie and me this past year.’

  ‘Friends are different,’ I said. ‘I like having friends.’

  ‘Men can be friends, too.’

  I thought about that for a moment. I’d had male friends in the past, but they’d ended up wanting more than friendship and that’s when things had got tricky. Still, if Seth found Bridget beautiful it meant I wasn’t his type, and I’d already told him I was seeing Rufus. His comment about me applying for the role of his girlfriend had been a throwaway one, and any subsequent interest was because I’d saved his son’s life – not because he was attracted to me.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, hearing a ripping sound on the landing. I opened my door and saw Romy tearing pages out of a book and scattering them around her. She looked totally absorbed, her tongue poking out, and actually quite happy. ‘It’ll be a bit weird though, if I’m going to be working for him, and he’s seeing my sister.’

  ‘He’s agreed to go on a date, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes, but once he’s met her, he’ll want to take things further,’ I said. ‘I actually think they’ll be good for each other.’

  ‘Have you told her yet?’

  ‘No.’ I felt an odd little dip in my stomach. ‘I’m saving it for when I can’t eat her dinner, so she won’t smash my plate over my head.’

  ‘She wouldn’t do that?’ Meg sounded deliciously appalled.

  ‘Like I said, you—’

  ‘—don’t know my sister,’ we chorused.

  Meg laughed, then said, ‘Oh, Cassie texted earlier and said there’s a new problem with the floor at the café.’

  ‘Not this again.’ I made a huffy sound. ‘Does everyone in south Devon know there’s a problem with the floor?’ Meg’s laugh sounded slightly forced, and I remembered Cassie’s other news. ‘Is that all she said?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She didn’t tell you anything else?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ So, Cassie really was keeping mum. Keeping mum. I almost chuckled at my private joke. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘The floorboards were wrong, but I’ve ordered some more.’

  ‘And the room will be finished in time for the party on Christmas Eve?’

  I frowned. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, Tilly, I’ve had an amazing idea.’

  Feeling I might need to sit down, I dropped on my bed, catching sight of myself in the mirror on my dressing table. My hair looked flat and lifeless, and my face was raw from the chlorine-water at the pool. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You know my dad has asked my mum to marry him?’

  An involuntary smile travelled over my face. Meg had grown up thinking her father was dead, not alive and well and living in Ireland, completely unaware he had a daughter – until Meg appeared on a television show in the summer and he tracked down her mother, Rose. It was a proper love story, and even I’d been enchanted. ‘I do,’ I said, and allowed myself a smug smile. ‘Have they set a date?’

  ‘No, because you know Mum’s not good at going out, and the thought of even getting married in a register office brings her out in a panic.’

  ‘Y-e-e-e-s,’ I said. ‘Get to the point, Meg, or I’ll be grey by the time you’ve finished.’

  ‘Well, Dad and I have managed to persuade her to come to the Christmas Eve party, and see the new function room, and because she feels comfortable at the café, because it’s familiar, I thought… wouldn’t it be brilliant if they got married there?’

  ‘What?’

  There was the sound of running feet across the landing, and Romy shouting, ‘GHOST!’

  ‘What do you mean, married?’

  ‘I mean, a friend of Nathan’s brother got ordained so he could officiate at his wedding, and he’s said he’d love to marry them. Mum and Dad, I mean. And I know Cassie’s parents applied for a license—’

  ‘The council has to approve fire and safety provisions, first.’

  ‘Which they will?’

  ‘Well… yes, as long as it’s finished in time. Plus, Dad knows everyone in the planning department, so it’ll be fine.’

  ‘And it will be finished in time?’

  ‘Of… of course.’ How could I say anything else?

  ‘Dad’s in on it, obviously,’ Meg rushed on, and I heard in the warmth of her tone how much she loved saying Dad. ‘He’s organised the rings and everything, and invited his family over, so everyone they care about will be there.’

  ‘Wow, that’s quite a plan.’ I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or worried. Hopefully, Rose wouldn’t twig what was happening and run.

  ‘So, it will be ready on time?’

  I looked at myself in the mirror. ‘It will be ready on time,’ I said, with my most solemn expression. ‘I promise.’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘How have you managed to break your arm?’ I shot up from the kitchen table, sending my fork flying. ‘You’re supposed to be on standby, and the floor’s finally dry.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry, Tilly, I didn’t do it on purpose.’ The electrician sounded genuinely wretched. ‘I was showing my nephew a judo move and landed awkwardly,’ he said. ‘I was going to send my brother over, but he’s booked solid until the New Year. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Shit.’ Bridget turned from the dishwasher to flash me a warning look, even though Romy was watching children’s television in the living room. I’d already had to explain that there wasn’t a ghost in my bedroom, I’d been chatting to a friend on the phone. ‘OK, well, thanks for letting me know,’ I said, modifying my tone. ‘You don’t have any electrician mates you could recommend, do you?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, but no promis
es.’

  ‘I need to know as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’ll call you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ When he’d rung off I stared at my phone. How could this have happened on the back of my promise to Meg?

  ‘Trouble?’ enquired Bridget. She’d finished haphazardly stacking the dishwasher, her face still flushed with pleasure that she’d unexpectedly produced an edible meal – albeit fish fingers with potato waffles and peas.

  ‘The mung bean stir fry burnt,’ she’d announced, when I entered the kitchen after talking to Meg, nose twitching at the smell of charred onions. ‘I haven’t got anything left, so we’ll have to make do with processed food tonight.’

  ‘YAY!’ Romy had cheered, clapping her hands, and proceeded to clear her plate with the enthusiasm of a diner at a Michelin-starred restaurant, only pausing to burp, then cackle with delight at her mother’s look of horror.

  ‘Nothing I can’t sort out,’ I said, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt.

  ‘You’ll have to be more organised if you’re serious about your business.’ As she rinsed her hands, I noticed she was still wearing the cheap, gold band that Chad had apparently put on her finger as a ‘statement of intent’ after she fell pregnant with Romy. ‘You should always have a back-up plan.’

  ‘I’ve never needed one,’ I bristled. ‘I’ve never not got a job done on time before.’ That didn’t sound grammatically correct, but she didn’t appear to notice.

  ‘Probably more good luck than management.’ She often seemed put out that things usually fell into place, as if it had more to do with serendipity than any hard work on my part. ‘I suppose it’s because you’re working for friends. They’ll forgive you if you mess up.’

  ‘I won’t mess up.’ I was stung by the unfairness. ‘You’ve no real idea what goes on in my life, Bee, so stop looking for something to criticise.’

  It was the closest I’d come to starting an argument, and a measure of how rattled I was. People I cared about had big plans for the party on Christmas Eve, and the function room was still nowhere near finished with less than a week to go.

  ‘Don’t call me Bee.’ Bridget slammed the dishwasher shut and switched it on. Her hair looked wilder than ever, standing around her flushed face, and her eyes sparked with annoyance. The detritus of her culinary efforts was scattered across the worktop – bits of burnt beansprout, crumpled wrappers, badly diced carrots she’d forgotten to add to the stir-fry, and a swathe of crumbs from the loaf of bread she’d been comfort eating while ‘cooking’. Proof that, in spite of her accusations, she was human too.

  ‘What did you even do, all those years in Vancouver?’ She folded her arms and leaned against the worktop. ‘Loll about, I suppose, while I was working sixteen hours a day.’ She clearly couldn’t wait for me to answer.

  ‘It was your choice to stay behind.’ I put down the cloth I’d picked up to wipe the table with. ‘I wanted to spend time getting to know our grandparents, and help Mum and Dad look after them when they got ill.’

  Bridget’s shoulders slumped. I knew she’d loved Gran and Grandpa. Mum had told me that Bridget missed them terribly when they decided to move to Vancouver, where Grandpa had been born and raised. ‘You got the best bits,’ I said. ‘I was too young to remember them before they left.’

  ‘I suppose.’ The fight flowed out of her. ‘I was pissed off at them for ages.’

  ‘They weren’t in the best of health by the time we moved there,’ I said, though in truth, it was only during the last year or so that things had gone downhill. I smiled, remembering Grandpa, with his hair as white as salt, who’d loved his tools but was rubbish at DIY, and Gran, who’d given the tightest hugs and smelt of lavender hand cream. ‘Also, I was at university for a while,’ I reminded her, keen to put her straight on the ‘lolling about’ issue. ‘And I travelled a lot.’

  ‘Oh, travelling, how lovely.’ She made a sour face, so I decided not to detail the places we’d visited: Niagara Falls, where the air was crisp and cool, and I’d felt the spray on my cheeks as the water plunged with a deafening roar, like a thick, white curtain; the majesty of the Canadian Rockies and the vast, wild beauty of Jasper National Park. She knew anyway, because Mum and Dad had constantly sent her emails and pictures, determined not to lose contact with their eldest daughter, even if she gave every impression of not caring. ‘With Mummy and Daddy,’ she sniped, reverting to being a teenager.

  ‘Nothing wrong with travelling with your parents, if you get on with them.’ The truth was, I enjoyed my parents’ company, whether it was idling in dressing gowns with coffee and the Sunday supplements, or whale watching in Vancouver.

  ‘Is that a dig at me?’

  ‘No, Bridget, it was just an observation.’

  We eyeballed each other for a moment. Time to flip the switch. ‘I got you a date,’ I said lightly. ‘With Seth Donovan.’

  ‘You did?’ Immediately her eyes lit up.

  I nodded. ‘He’s going to take you out for a meal. At The Mill in Kingsbridge.’ I hoped he’d remember.

  ‘Really?’ Her expression had changed from rage to eagerness, and she thudded into the chair opposite. ‘Tell me exactly what he said.’

  ‘Er, he said he’d like to take you out to dinner.’ Seeing she expected more, I embellished a little. ‘He thinks you’re beautiful and he can’t wait to meet you.’

  ‘Oh. My. God.’ Flumping back, she fanned herself with her hand in a very unBridget-like gesture. ‘I’m actually going on a date with Seth Donovan?’ Her voice rose at the end, turning it into a question. I nodded, pleased with the effect my news was having. ‘Is he as hot in real life?’

  I pretended to give it some thought – remembered the sight of his naked stomach and muscular thighs at the swimming pool – and nodded again. ‘Hotter,’ I said, feeling the word somehow did Seth an injustice. ‘I mean, he’s attractive, yes, but there’s more to him than that.’

  Bridget’s forehead rolled into a frown. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He’s… he seems like a really nice person.’ I wasn’t adequately conveying the essence of him. ‘He’s struggling a bit with his son, though.’

  Now I felt disloyal, especially when Bridget looked meaningfully in the direction of the living room, and said, ‘Well, perhaps I can introduce him to some of Frida’s child-rearing methods.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Judging by the angry Cockney accents emerging from the television – reminding me of Gwen – Romy wasn’t even watching CBeebies, she was watching EastEnders. Unless Phil Mitchell was voicing Bedtime Stories. ‘Although Jack’s a few years older than Romy.’

  ‘Like a big brother,’ said Bridget, clearly getting carried away. ‘Frida says it’s good to mix with children of different ages, as they can learn from each other.’ She grabbed a handful of the half-eaten loaf on the table, then dropped it as though it had burnt her. ‘Should I lose weight?’

  It was so unlike her to ask for advice, I was momentarily lost for words. ‘Of course not,’ I said, when the silence had gone on too long. ‘You actually look great at the moment.’ She gave a disbelieving snort. ‘I mean, you might want to tidy your hair, and wear something nice, but you don’t need to try too hard.’

  ‘Really?’ She looked at the blouse she had on – one of Mum’s, with a fussy pie-crust collar. For some reason, Mum was stuck in the eighties style-wise, her wardrobe filled with swishy, long-sleeved dresses, slouchy boots, jumpsuits and frilly blouses. ‘None of my things fit me since I came home.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help on that front.’ My own style was casual, bordering on ‘student’, consisting mostly of jeans, T-shirts, hoodies and sneakers. On special occasions, I might whip out a checked shirt or a drop-shouldered top, and I once wore a maxi-dress, but made it more casual by wearing a biker jacket. Due to my height, and lack of hips and boobs, I couldn’t carry off a girly look, or the sort of power dressing my sister had favoured, pre-motherhood. I didn’t own anything designer, and lost my sense of grav
ity in high heels. ‘We’ll sort something out, don’t worry.’

  ‘Did you give him my number?’ Her eyes had a sparkle I hadn’t seen for… actually, I couldn’t remember seeing them sparkle the way they were right now. ‘Do you even know my mobile number?’

  I didn’t, as we weren’t in the habit of calling each other. Anything of note in my life was relayed to her by Mum in their weekly phone call, and she’d report back to me about what Bridget was up to. ‘I’m going to the cottage tomorrow so I can give it to him then, or, better still, tell me when you’d like to meet and I’ll pass it on.’

  ‘I think I’d like to speak to him myself.’ She was already slipping into bossy-mode. ‘You might get something wrong, or forget altogether.’

  ‘I’d hardly forget something like that.’ I wished she’d have a bit more faith in me. Already, her approval from the day before felt like a distant memory.

  ‘Remember when Todd Fogarty rang the house and asked you to let me know he’d got the mumps and couldn’t pick me up to take me to the cinema?’

  ‘I was seven,’ I pointed out. ‘I only answered the phone because I thought it might be Father Christmas replying to my letter.’

  Bridget rolled her eyes. ‘I can’t believe you still believed in Father Christmas when you were seven.’

  ‘Shush.’ I jerked my head at the living room. ‘You don’t want Romy to hear you say that.’

  ‘I’m not sure I should be encouraging her to believe a strange man creeps into her bedroom every year. What if it gives her a false sense of security and one day, when she’s older, she’s faced with a burglar or worse in the middle of the night and thinks it’s normal?’

  I couldn’t help laughing. ‘Bridget, that’s ridiculous, of course she won’t.’ Seeing she wasn’t convinced, I added, ‘You could always leave her presents downstairs under the tree, to be on the safe side.’

  ‘He’ll still have been in the house,’ she protested, as though she too believed in Santa.