by Karen Clarke
‘Do you remember when we got you to try those dating tips we saw on Perfect Match?’ said Cassie, eyes bright with amusement.
Meg swallowed her mouthful of mince pie. ‘I remember that show, it was awful, but we loved it.’
‘We made you try them out on that boy you liked in year six… what was his name?’
Meg snapped her fingers. ‘Lennie Jamieson.’
‘Hold his gaze for three seconds, touch your hair, then smile,’ I chirped, in the manner of the perky dating ‘expert’, who’d had the unfortunate surname, Cox.
‘Only, for some reason, you did them all at once, three times in a row,’ said Cassie.
Meg giggled. ‘You looked like you had a really itchy scalp, and Lennie came over and asked you if you’d got nits.’
‘And you two almost wet yourselves laughing.’
‘You weren’t cut out for flirting, even then,’ said Cassie. ‘Not that you had to. All the boys liked you anyway, you just didn’t notice.’
‘Always got your head stuck in a book.’ Meg’s impression of our Maths teacher was terrible, but she’d got his expression spot on – like a court official serving a summons.
‘Books were way more interesting than most boys,’ I said. ‘Anyway, it was Lennie Jamieson’s loss.’
‘Apparently he’s wanted for embezzlement now and has fled to Spain,’ said Cassie. ‘Danny knows someone in the police who happened to mention it.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘Good job you never got together.’ Meg finished her mince pie and took a bite of Cassie’s. ‘You might both have been on the run.’
‘A modern-day Bonnie and Clyde,’ said Cassie.
‘How’s your portrait going?’ I was keen to get off the subject of Lennie – and men in general.
‘She’s given up on the lingerie idea, thank goodness.’ Cassie’s cheeks were peaky, and she pushed aside her coffee. Definitely morning sickness. ‘She wants something Picasso-style, picking out certain features, which gives me a bit more freedom.’
A commotion at the counter drew our attention. Gwen was presiding over Meg’s cake of the day: a giant Christmas pudding, dark, rich and sticky, which was gently steaming on a plate.
‘What’s she doing?’ Meg stood up. ‘She’s taken the icing off it. It took me ages to make it look like snow.’
‘I think she’s going to set it on fire,’ I said.
‘No way.’ Cassie’s eyes were wide as we moved to the counter to join the audience that had gathered.
‘Tip some on then,’ Gwen was instructing a visibly trembling Jerry, who was gripping a small saucepan, a bottle of brandy at his elbow. ‘A nice big dollop to get a good flame goin’.’
‘Gwen, you can’t,’ said Cassie, in a tone that dared Gwen to disagree.
She didn’t disappoint. ‘It’s traditional,’ she said, a mutinous tilt to her jaw. ‘Warm brandy, hot puddin’ an’ a lit match. What can possibly go wrong?’
‘What about health and safety?’
‘Says the woman wot filled the café with cats six months ago.’
‘You wouldn’t have adopted Dickens if I hadn’t.’
‘Exactly,’ said Gwen, which immediately made us giggly.
‘You only need a spoon full of brandy,’ said Meg, one hand shielding her eyes as if fearing an explosion.
‘Rubbish,’ said Gwen, nudging Jerry’s arm. ‘Go on then, before it goes bleedin’ cold.’
Jerry did as he was bid, while Gwen struck an extra-long match she must have brought in specially.
Around us, nervous laughter rose, along with a few gasps and murmurs of she wouldn’t.
Oh, she would.
There was a collective intake of breath as a shaking Jerry sloshed out the contents of the pan, and Gwen leaned over the pool of liquid on the plate with the flaming match. I shouted a warning and screams broke out as blue flames leapt around the pudding and flared up. Gwen dropped the match and jumped backwards, and when she looked up, her eyebrows had disappeared.
‘Bleedin’ ’ell.’ She snatched off her antlers and scratched her head, and the sight of her puzzled face, combined with Jerry’s horror, and the smell of singed hair had us collapsing with laughter. Jerry sprang into action and tossed a sopping wet tea towel over the flickering pudding, while Gwen grabbed the bottle of brandy and took a hefty swig.
‘Absolute legend,’ someone said, wet-faced with mirth. ‘That’s totally made my Christmas.’
‘My poor pudding,’ Meg wheezed, wiping her eyes. ‘But it was totally worth it.’
After checking no real damage had been done, to the café or Gwen – I suspected from the gleam in her eyes she was hugely enjoying herself – the customers dispersed, replaying the scene on their phones. As if nothing had happened, Gwen snapped her eyes onto me.
‘Where’s them floorboards then?’ she demanded. ‘You need to be gettin’ a wiggle on.’
‘On their way,’ I said, hoarse from laughing, but her suspicious look suggested I was fobbing her off with excuses. ‘I’ll go and see what else I can do, if it’ll make you happy.’ I flipped my eyes up for Meg and Cassie’s benefit. ‘You’re not very good at being patient, are you?’
‘Patience is my middle name,’ she said, pressing her fingertips to the reddening strips where her eyebrows had been, before following me through the plastic divider into the function room. ‘After my great-grandma, Patience Green, a suffragette.’
‘Is that true, Gwen?’
‘On me cousin’s grave.’
‘Maureen’s still alive.’
‘Me ’uvver cousin, Brett,’ she said. ‘’E fell over puttin’ ’is socks on and ’it is ’ead on the garage door. ’E were only seventy-five.’
‘Seventy-five’s quite old.’ I had no intention of asking why he’d been putting his socks on in the garage.
‘Not these days, it ain’t.’
Her eyes – somehow smaller and naked without their furry pelmets – were probing the room as though picturing it finished. On impulse, I reached for one of the paint tins. ‘I might as well make a start on the walls myself.’
‘I fort you ’ad to do the floor first, or you get dust on the paint, or summink.’
‘It’ll be fine as long as I’m careful,’ I said.
‘What about the decorators?’
‘I’m capable of slapping some on myself,’ I said. ‘On the walls,’ I amended when Gwen’s invisible eyebrows rose. Every time I looked at her, I had to bite back a giggle. ‘The decorators will be pleased. They weren’t happy about the schedule being mucked about.’ I didn’t mention they’d warned they might not be able to squeeze the job in this side of Christmas.
‘Not bein’ funny, it’s just I’m in charge while Ed and Lydia are away and I don’t want nuffink goin’ wrong.’ Said the woman who could have burnt down the café.
‘Neither do I.’ I stood up, cradling a tin of paint. ‘Trust me, Gwen, I want the room to be ready for Christmas Eve just as much as you do, if not more. You just focus on sorting out the drink and food and entertainment, and leave the rest to me.’
‘It’s already done,’ said Gwen. ‘Cassie’s bruvver and ’is mate Fletcher’s agreed to do the music.’
‘Oh, that’s good.’ Cassie’s brother had been quite famous before leaving his band to settle in Seashell Cove and become a dad. ‘That’ll be the first time he’s played in ages.’
‘Some of us is organised.’
‘So was I,’ I protested. ‘I didn’t know a pipe was going to spring a leak, did I?’
Gwen looked like she might be about to argue, but the sound of a cup smashing on tiles drew her attention away. ‘He’s a right butterfingers.’ She was no doubt referring to Jerry. ‘That’s the second time this mornin’.’ Her face broke into a devilish grin. ‘I reckon ’e’s doin’ it to attract my attention.’
It was a measure of how enamoured she was that she didn’t rush off and demand he pay for a replacement, like she had when I’d dropped and broken a
saucer during my ill-fated ‘helping out’ session.
‘It might have been a customer,’ I said, and she disappeared so fast I wouldn’t have been surprised to see sparks shoot off her heels.
After fetching the paintbrushes and rollers I kept in the boot of my car – I’d been known to get hands-on with painting before – I rolled up my sleeves and made a start, laughing softly as I thought about Meg’s poor Christmas pudding. On cue, she popped her head round to say she was heading back to the bakery, and Cassie had gone as she wasn’t feeling too good.
‘You’re doing a great job,’ she added. ‘It’s just a shame the floor isn’t down yet.’
‘It will be.’
As I painted, I relaxed and got into a rhythm, enjoying the precision of reaching into the corners, careful not to smudge paint on the wooden ceiling beams.
‘Good job you’re seven feet tall,’ said Gwen, coming in with the phone in her hand to find me on tiptoes, paint splattered down my arm as I nudged the very edge of the brush into the final corner. ‘Not bad.’ She cast a critical gaze round, her naked forehead crinkling. ‘What’s the shade again?’
‘Sea Mist.’ I wiped the back of my hand across my cheek, where a strand of hair had got stuck. ‘Looks OK, doesn’t it?’ I stood back to admire the effect, loving the way it reflected the colours outside – just as it would when the sun was out, or when it was snowing, or raining. ‘It’s designed to blend with whatever’s happening outdoors, like a trick of the eye,’ I explained.
‘It’s what I’d imagine pollution would look like, if it was a colour.’ Gwen’s head was cocked, and I could see she was making a genuine point and had to hide a smile.
‘But could just as easily be a cloud, or a puddle, or a rainbow,’ I enthused. ‘That’s what I love about it.’
‘S’only bleedin’ paint.’ She held out the phone. ‘’S’your sister.’
‘Bridget?’ Surprised into almost dropping the paintbrush, I laid it across the open tin and wiped my hands down my jeans.
‘Unless you’ve got another sister, then yes.’ Rolling her eyes, Gwen passed me the handset. ‘I’ll get you some coffee,’ she said on her way out. ‘I’ll put a bit of brandy in it.’
‘How come you’re calling me here?’ I said, pressing the phone to my ear, realising as I spoke that I’d left my mobile in the car.
‘Because you weren’t answering your mobile.’ Bridget’s voice sounded oddly compressed. ‘I thought you’d be at Seth’s, but he said he hadn’t seen you yet,’ shit, ‘so I guessed you’d be at your other job.’
Other job. I never thought of what I did as jobs. Have a job was being paid for regular employment: working in an office, commuting to work, putting in forty hours or more a week; doing something you didn’t enjoy very much. ‘Yes, I’m, er, here,’ I said. ‘I left my phone in the car.’
‘You should keep it with you at all times, Tilly, especially if you’re hoping to get more work. If potential customers can’t get hold of you straight away, they’ll simply go elsewhere.’
‘I’ll take that on board, boss,’ I said, aiming for levity. ‘Everything OK?’
I guessed it must be, or she wouldn’t be blathering about phones and jobs, but I couldn’t imagine she’d be ringing for a chat either. ‘How was Seth?’
‘Hmm? Oh, fine,’ she said quickly. ‘He sounded distracted.’
Distracted. What did that mean? Was Jack OK? Had Felicity been on the phone? Maybe Digby wasn’t well, or the team hadn’t turned up, or something had gone wrong—
‘Tilly!’
‘What?’ I realised I’d tuned out. ‘Sorry, Bee, I was just, er… checking the fuse board with the electrician.’ Chance would be a fine thing.
‘Oh, right.’ She did a laugh that sounded as if it was for someone else’s benefit. ‘Well, I was just saying that Rufus is here if you’d like to take a lunch break and pop over.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
I drove home wondering what Rufus was doing at my house. He must be at a loose end, though I couldn’t imagine it somehow. Didn’t he have Christmas shopping or something to do?
More importantly, why was I a bit put out at the thought of him turning up out of the blue? Because he hadn’t been invited? It wasn’t as if he’d never been to the house before, and if we were in a relationship, I’d have to get used to it. I could hardly keep seeing him without ever bringing him home.
‘That’s what people with boyfriends do,’ I said out loud. Danny was like part of the family at Cassie’s house, and Meg’s mum had practically adopted Nathan, who sadly didn’t have a mother of his own.
Would Mum and Dad eventually see Rufus as the son they’d never had? I couldn’t quite conjure a set-up where we were all sitting around the table, enjoying a Sunday roast, or watching something together on the television – probably because it was something I’d never done. I had no idea whether Rufus watched anything but sport on TV and, if he did, what he liked. Or what his favourite music/colour/animal/star sign was. No, that was a lie. I did know his star sign, because his birthday was three days after mine, which meant we were both Virgos; though Rufus had more of the traits than I did, being meticulous, practical and reliable – though his recent outburst of love wasn’t exactly typical.
Still, his brother’s wedding was an hour’s drive away, which meant I could fill in the gaps on the way there and back. Maybe I should draw up a list of things to ask – favourite childhood memory, first kiss, would he rather be a ninja or a pirate? (Ninja for me – much cooler, plus I get seasick.) I could ask the big things too – did he want children? Who did he vote for in the last election? Did he believe in the right to die? What was his favourite snack?
I was starting to feel sweaty and nauseous and opened the car window a notch. I was probably hungry. All the hilarity at the café, and then the painting, had worked up an appetite, and I hadn’t had a chance to drink Gwen’s brandy-coffee.
After parking behind Rufus’s shiny, economical, hybrid car, I burst into the kitchen to find him ensconced at the table, opposite Bridget, who’d made an effort with her hair, and was wearing lipstick, and one of Mum’s nicer cardigans – cream with pearly buttons – with a pair of narrow-cut jeans that enhanced her curves. Obviously meeting Seth was having a knock-on effect. Maybe they’d arranged to see each other again.
‘What are you doing here?’ I turned to Rufus, who was rising from the table, smoothing his hands down his trousers, and I noticed a festive bouquet on the worktop, scarlet and green with pine cones, their scent rather overpowering.
‘Just thought I’d pop in and say hi.’ He came over to press a kiss on my cheek and squeezed my upper arm. ‘I brought Christmas flowers.’
‘So I see,’ I said. ‘They’re lovely, thank you.’ No one had ever bought me flowers before. ‘I thought you’d be busy.’ Steering clear of the bouquet, which was inducing a headache, I plucked a clementine from the fruit bowl and peeled it.
‘I got fed up of practising my speech.’ He sat back down, clearly at home in our kitchen as he picked up the mug of black coffee that Bridget must have made. ‘I was wondering what you’d like for Christmas.’
‘Oh, you don’t have to get me anything.’ His face fell and I was pricked with guilt that I hadn’t considered buying him a gift. ‘The flowers are enough,’ I said. ‘Maybe we can have a look at the sales in the New Year?’
He brightened – whether at the idea of shopping, or because I was planning ahead, I couldn’t tell. ‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘There’s some nice leather goods in Tanner Bates, but they’re a bit pricey. Bound to come down after Christmas.’
Still in my jacket, I crossed to where Romy was leaning over a book, painstakingly colouring in. ‘Ooh, a blue Minion, that’s unusual.’ I felt a stab of affection as I spotted the wax crayon clutched in her chubby fist.
‘I like blue.’ She paused to swipe a curl of hair off her forehead and threw me an angelic smile.
‘She keeps saying more than one word.’ B
ridget’s tone was a mix of bemusement and wonder as she moved from the table to the worktop.
‘Blue!’ shouted Romy, and we laughed.
‘Blue’s a good colour.’ I sat beside her and ate a segment of fruit, smiling in Rufus’s direction. ‘I haven’t got long,’ I said. ‘I’m supposed to be working.’
‘Your sister was telling me you’ve quite a lot on at the moment.’ He put down his mug and rested his forearms on the table, lacing his fingers together. He looked as if he was about to interview me; very teacher-like in his pale pink shirt. It was gripped in the waistband of his trousers with a brown leather belt that matched his shoes. ‘You didn’t let on that you were so busy these days.’
I glanced at Bridget, watching us from the worktop where she’d been attempting to make a pie, judging by the heaps of greyish pastry lumped around, and bags of opened flour. The fact that she kept on trying, despite all evidence telling her she ought to give up, made fondness swell inside me. Catching my gaze, she gave a tight shake of her head, and in a moment of complicity, I understood that she hadn’t mentioned to Rufus that I was ‘working’ for Seth Donovan.
‘Well, you know me,’ I said. ‘I don’t want it getting out that I’ve joined the rat race.’
He choked out a snorting laugh that made Romy’s head whip up.
‘Pig!’ She chortled and went back to her colouring.
I watched a tide of red wash up from Rufus’s neck.
‘Sorry,’ said Bridget, in a slightly strangled voice. ‘She didn’t mean… it was just the sound you made…’
‘Oh, it’s fine.’ He waved his hand with a rather weary smile. ‘I’ve been called a lot worse by my sixth-formers. You’d think with the education they’ve had by this stage, they’d come up with something better than pillock.’
‘Oh, I get it,’ said Bridget. ‘Because your surname’s Pinnock.’
A laugh bolted out of my mouth before I could stop it. ‘Sorry,’ I said, when Rufus turned disappointed eyes my way.
