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

by Karen Clarke

  Jack wriggled upright. ‘… and one of the mice had a sword and said…’

  ‘Bitches!’ Romy looked gleeful as she and Jack descended into hysterical giggles.

  There then followed a game of I spy, which Jack proved particularly good at, suggesting ‘Something beginning with C’ which turned out to be ‘claw’. Digby looked shy as we examined his paw and Jack flushed with pleasure when I exclaimed how clever he was, and that I’d never have guessed.

  ‘Spy beginning wiv TREE!’ Romy pointed at the Christmas tree and Jack rolled onto Digby, helpless with laughter, and when she shouted POO! for the comedy value, I knew it was time to calm things down.

  I suggested I make some hot chocolate and while we sipped it, Romy – using her trainer cup for safety – said she was going to ask Father Christmas for a dog like Digby, and Jack told her about the horses when he’d lived with his grandmother; in particular one called Velvet, who blew steam out of his nose like a dragon, which made Romy’s mouth drop open in awe. ‘Want a dragon for Christmas, and a unicorn.’

  Jack explained kindly that unicorns weren’t real, and Romy said they were because she’d ‘seened one in the toyshop’. By this time, her eyelids were drooping, and Jack was doing face-splitting yawns, and when I suggested it might be time for bed, neither offered any resistance.

  Romy balled herself on the sofa, a cushion under her head, and by the time I’d pulled down the chenille throw off the back and placed it around her she was almost asleep.

  ‘I’ll brush my teeth in the morning,’ Jack announced, and I didn’t push it. He let me enter his room and watch him throw off his dressing gown and climb into bed, and when I scrunched his duvet around him, he didn’t struggle – just eyed me drowsily, his pupils enormous in the glow from his rocket lamp.

  ‘Curtains open or closed?’ I was fighting an urge to press my lips to his forehead, guessing he wouldn’t like it.

  ‘Open,’ he whispered, eyes drifting to the window. ‘I want to see if it snows.’

  It struck me out of nowhere that his mother would never share the moment her son saw snow for the first time – or any of his milestones – and I couldn’t help hoping she somehow knew how hard Seth was trying to do the right thing for their child.

  ‘I really hope it does,’ I whispered back, tears filming my eyes. ‘You’ll be able to build a snowman with your dad.’

  ‘A sand snowman,’ he murmured.

  ‘Sand snowman?’

  ‘A snowman on the beach,’ he said. ‘My dad said we can make one together when it snows.’

  ‘Perfect.’ I blinked hard as he shuffled onto his side, palms tucked under his cheek like a boy in a picture book.

  ‘Lamp on or off?’

  ‘Off.’

  I obliged, and the room was bathed by the light of the moon outside, sparkling through the darkness.

  ‘Night, Tilly.’

  ‘Night, Jack.’ I couldn’t resist, after all, kissing my fingers and pressing them to his forehead. ‘Sleep tight.’

  Downstairs, Romy was snoring softly, one arm curled around Teddy, and I switched off the overhead light and beckoned to Digby, figuring he might need to go out. I’d barely got the back door open before he shot into the garden and cocked his leg, and I shivered, hugging myself as I walked round to look at the globe of the moon, silvering the sea in the cove. It was obvious Seth had been hard at work in the garden, transforming it into a space I could imagine Jack playing, though it was impossible to pick out the colours in the moonlight.

  I called Digby back and he obediently returned, slipping past me and running upstairs, where I guessed he’d nose Jack’s bedroom door open and head for the rug by his bed.

  Yawning, I made some coffee, and wondered again how Seth and Bridget were getting on, and why I was having such a hard time visualising them getting to know one another. I could only picture Bridget slumped at the table at home, her braless boobs sagging beneath whichever top of Mum’s or Dad’s she was sporting, and Seth’s face as he ruffled Jack’s hair, filled with hope that his son would turn and look at him adoringly.

  Filled with a restlessness I couldn’t explain, I quickly replied No worries! with a smiley face to Rufus, who’d apologised again for the mess the paint had made, then searched some trade websites as far away as Plymouth and left some enquiries.

  Deciding to check out the workmen’s efforts from earlier, I clicked the brass light-switch in the room next door, and the recessed lighting sprang to life. Three of the walls had been painted a warm shade of primrose, which complemented the pale grey wallpaper on the fourth, and the floorboards were sanded and waxed a rich rosewood colour. I had to hand it to Felicity, if she’d chosen the colour scheme herself – she had good taste. Not over the top, but not too neutral either. The only bum note was the rather formal dining table surrounded by high-backed chairs in the centre of the room, that looked expensive but well-worn, as if they’d come from her own house. Too ceremonial for my taste. I preferred the table in the kitchen, but could easily imagine Bridget in this room, presiding over a healthy well-cooked meal. Not cooked by her, of course, but I would imagine she and Seth could stretch to employing a chef – or maybe Seth would cook as he’d mentioned it was something he was learning to do.

  An image nudged into my head: Seth persuading Bridget to sample his pasta sauce, holding a silver spoon to her lips, his hand underneath to catch any drips, their eyes meeting, then dinner quickly forgotten as passion overtook them, and Bridget began reaching for Seth’s belt…

  My thoughts took a sideways dive, and put Jack in the picture, arms folded, a sullen set to his face, and Romy slinging handfuls of rice at the pair from her potty as she demanded to have her bottom wiped.

  Immediately ashamed, I switched to an image of Seth and Bridget wrapped lovingly in each other’s arms. Not post-coitally – maybe watching a sunset, or sunrise, or perhaps the six o’clock news, or maybe having a quick cuddle before Seth put the bins out and Bridget went off to work – a long commute that would take her away for weeks at a time, leaving Seth lonely, prowling the cottage, raking his hair back, longing for a woman’s touch and driven to calling…

  ENOUGH! I ordered my raging thoughts, wondering what was wrong with me. Maybe I should have invited Rufus over to babysit with me – though try as I might, I couldn’t see him playing I spy or making up silly stories; but whose fault was that? To date, we’d only ever been out for meals and drinks on our own, where I’d spent most of my time rebuffing Rufus’s eager attempts to ‘draw me out’.

  Sighing, I tipped what was left of my coffee down the sink, and ran my hands under the cold water tap, feeling a need to go swimming – which was pretty inconvenient considering it was after ten, and I was in charge of two young children.

  I jumped as the landline on the worktop rang, and snatched it up, before it woke the children. ‘At last-a! Seth-a, my darling, please-a do not-a hang-up-a. I just want to say one thing-a.’ It was a woman, her strong – almost comedy – Italian accent adding an ‘a’ to nearly every word, and I realised at once it was Gina – his fiery ex.

  ‘Seth’s not here,’ I said politely, conjuring a seductive Monica Belluci lookalike. ‘Can I pass on a message?’

  ‘Oh yes, please-a do,’ she said, all husky-voiced. ‘I tried-a to tell-a the woman who answered before-a, but she was… how you say? Un vecchio barbone… an old-a bat-a. No. A bitch-a.’

  ‘She was just looking out for her son,’ I said, surprising myself by defending Felicity. ‘You called him a shit in the message you left, and his son heard.’

  Her gasp was off the scale theatrical. ‘I’m-a so sorry about-a that. I don’t-a want-a to hurt either of them!’ she cried. ‘I know how much he want-a to be with his son. I was so frustrated that I could not tell him this-a, because he blocked-a my number,’ she said. ‘I went-a to a lot-a of trouble to get-a hold of this-a one, to try to tell-a him that-a I understand-a why he had-a to go, that I wish-a him all-a the very best. That I’m so gl
ad-a he’s found-a a new mamma for little Jack-a.’

  How did she know he was out with Bridget? New mamma was a bit strong. But no one knew about their date, apart from Seth and he obviously hadn’t spoken to Gina.

  ‘Couldn’t you just have told him this in the first place?’ I said. ‘Then he wouldn’t have blocked your number.’

  ‘I was so angry then,’ she admitted, her voice now soaked with tears. ‘I loved-a him so much, and couldn’t accept-a that he did-a not want-a me… the most-a beautiful woman-a in all of Italy.’ Wow, she was full of herself. ‘It’s a title the media gave-a me, a long-a time ago, after my first-a film,’ she said silkily, and I wondered whether she was in fact Monica Belluci, using a pseudonym. ‘But is true.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Well, I’ll certainly pass on your message, and thank you for calling.’

  ‘Tell Seth I won’t-a trouble him again, angelo.’ Angel. I immediately thought of Jack, when he’d spoken about going to heaven. ‘My heart is at-a peace now.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Could I sound any more British? ‘Cheerio.’

  After she’d hung up, I stood for a moment, her voice ringing in my ears, feeling as if I’d just nodded off and had a peculiar dream. Then I found a pen and notepad in a drawer and scribbled Gina called to say she’s very happy for you and Jack’s new ‘mamma’ and said she won’t call again, her heart’s at peace now.

  Then I went through to the living room and picked up my mobile to message Cassie and Meg. I’m babysitting tonight. Thoughts?

  Meg replied right away. Ha ha, you nearly had me there!!

  Cassie’s response was a crying-with-laughter emoji, and a gif of a woman in a cab, advising her toddlers to call 911 if they needed anything.

  Laughing softly, so as not to disturb Romy, I typed, Thanks for believing in me and added a crying face.

  Oh my god, has Bridget entrusted you with her offspring?? I could almost hear Meg’s disbelief but knew it was directed at my sister, not me.

  She and Seth are on their date. I’m minding Jack too, at the cottage.

  Cassie’s response made my eyes prick. I bet they love youshe wrote, alongside a big red heart. How’s it going?

  Suspiciously well.

  Seth Donovan’s on a date with your sister? Meg’s eyes were probably bulging. How did that come about???

  I filled them in as best I could, fingers flying over the screen while Romy slumbered beside me on the sofa, and the television played soundlessly in the background.

  I’ll pop into the café tomorrow for a proper catch-up Cassie wrote back, and Meg said she’d hang around after delivering her cake of the day because I need to know whether it’s the start of an amazing love story – or whether Bridget has put him off women for life.

  After promising them all the details, I put my phone down and looked around the room. It was still pretty minimalist, but I figured Seth might not have had anything – apart from his personal items – to bring from Italy, and was more or less starting from scratch. There weren’t even any Christmas cards, but that wasn’t too surprising considering they didn’t know anyone local – and I doubted the crowd that Seth had known were the type to send them. I didn’t write many myself these days, though Mum loved the routine of a Christmas card list, and usually sent out a pile to arrive on the first of December.

  There were no pictures on the walls yet, and no framed photos anywhere, but I spotted what looked like a brown leather wallet wedged down the side of the sofa where I was sitting and tugged it out. It was a small album with plastic pages for pictures to slot inside, and was stuffed with images of Jack, from baby to boyhood, that I guessed Felicity must have put together. There were a few of Seth too as a boy, faded with time, looking a lot like Jack did now. I smiled at the sight of him astride a horse, aged around seven, wearing a riding hat that was much too big and a scowl on his face.

  Another showed Seth in a smart school uniform, solemn-faced, but in another he was smiling as he kicked a ball to a tall man with floppy blond air I assumed must be his dad. The same man – older – appeared again, with Jack on his shoulders, grinning at the camera towards the end of the album. There were no pictures of Jack with his mother, other than the one I’d seen in his bedroom, but I supposed that Seth might have some to show him one day. If Felicity had ever had any, she’d probably destroyed them.

  Putting the album back where I’d found it, I pushed a curl of hair off Romy’s cheek, before slipping upstairs to check on Jack. I could just make out his shape under the duvet in the moonlight, but he was clearly sleeping soundly. Digby, coiled on the rug, didn’t stir.

  I’d intended to go back downstairs, and perhaps find a film to watch, but found myself in the bedroom next door instead. I wasn’t snooping, I told myself. I was curious that was all, looking in from the doorway. There wasn’t much to see. A lamp on a table by the bed was switched on and the bed was neatly made, a couple of shirts flung across the plain duvet cover, as if Seth had tried on a couple before settling for the one he was wearing. An oak wardrobe and matching chest of drawers were the only other furniture, both with a sheen of newness, but there was a framed photo on top of the chest that I couldn’t resist creeping in to take a look at. It was a black-and-white shot of Seth, holding a tiny baby Jack, kissing his forehead even though Jack’s mouth was wide, exercising his lungs. I smiled, somehow reassured by the picture, and was about to back away, when I glanced through the window and saw a sweep of headlights coming from the road leading down to the cottage. I hurried out to the landing, where I had a clear view of Seth pulling up and getting out of his car. He moved round to the passenger side, and opened the door and Bridget emerged, laughing at something he’d said. She stumbled a little in her heels and he caught her arm, and looked to be smiling too, and then her arms were around his neck, and they were kissing, and I didn’t have time to dart away before Seth glanced up and saw me.

  Chapter Twenty

  Heart thumping, I ran back down to the living room in time to hear Seth’s key in the front door, and suddenly they were inside, and Bridget was trying to smother laughter and saying, ‘Shhh!’ in an exaggerated whisper.

  I threw myself on the sofa as she came in, face aglow in a way I couldn’t remember seeing since Romy was born, though the glow had been short-lived and she’d merely looked exhausted. Chad had live-streamed the birth to us in Canada.

  ‘You didn’t drive?’ I said, as though I didn’t already know.

  ‘Had a teensy drink, so left the car at the restaurant.’ She pointed, all gooey-eyed. ‘There she is! My beautiful, beautiful girl.’

  ‘Why, thank you,’ I said.

  Bridget giggled for an unsettlingly long time. ‘I was talking about Romy.’

  ‘I know, I was joking.’ I glanced at Seth who’d followed her through, smelling of wine and good food, and the cold air outside – surely tonight it would snow – but he seemed to be avoiding my gaze. I noticed his hair was rumpled, as if Bridget had run her fingers through it; though it could have been the breeze. ‘I hope you weren’t bombarded with fans, and requests for selfies,’ I said to him.

  ‘Lovely food.’ Seth pushed his keys into his coat pocket, still not looking at me. ‘And no one seemed to recognise me or, if they did, they left me alone.’ His face was harder to read than Bridget’s. ‘How was Jack?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  At last, his eyes landed on mine. ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Cross my heart.’

  Bridget had lurched to the sofa to gaze at a still sleeping Romy, but now straightened and grabbed Seth’s hand. ‘I want a grand tour,’ she said. Her slightly glazed eyes flashed around the room, taking it all in. Despite her assertion that living in a cottage by the sea was ‘romantic’, I knew she’d have expected something grander because of who Seth was, and the images she’d seen online of his villa in Italy. ‘Bit bare,’ she concluded, though her Notting Hill house – from what I recalled from my very infrequent visits – was hardly stuffed with fu
rniture, just expensive ‘pieces’ that spoke more of her ability to be able to afford them, than her own, personal taste. ‘And what’s that?’ She recoiled from the sight of the Christmas tree before sweeping Seth out of the room, heels clacking like a shire horse.

  ‘Can we do this another time?’ I said, as Seth threw me an unguarded look of helplessness over his shoulder, but she was already dragging him to the room next door and I got up and hastily followed.

  ‘Hey, you’ve done a nice job in here,’ she said, after crashing the light on and tottering over to the gleaming dining table. ‘I was telling Seth how good you were at interior design and that he was lucky to have you.’

  ‘You were?’ I found it hard to imagine Bridget bigging me up to anyone, let alone Seth.

  ‘She was,’ Seth confirmed in a meaningful way, and I realised he was letting me know that, as far as my sister was concerned, I was still doing up the cottage – that he’d guessed I hadn’t told her Felicity had beaten me to it.

  ‘Oh. Well, thanks,’ I muttered, a hot wave of guilt moving through me.

  ‘And you think you’ll get it all done before Christmas?’ Doubt clouded Bridget’s features, as if what she’d seen had convinced her I’d need at least a year to make the place look habitable.

  ‘She’s got a team in to help,’ Seth said.

  ‘Ooh, I didn’t know you had a team.’ Far from being sarcastic, Bridget sounded impressed as she sized up the room through narrowed eyes. ‘Good for you, Tilly Campbell,’ she slurred. ‘I always knew you had it in you to be successful, once you stopped being a lazy cow.’

  There was the Bridget I knew. ‘How much has she had to drink?’ I asked Seth. He was looking intently from Bridget to me as if trying to work out how we could possibly be related. I guessed I wasn’t coming out of it well.

  ‘Oi!’ She wagged a finger at me. ‘You know I don’t drink.’ She hiccupped gently. ‘I might have had a couple of glasses of vino, but I’m not battered.’ She was definitely battered. She’d never have used the word battered otherwise, and definitely not with a hint of her old Devon accent.