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

by Karen Clarke

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’ It was nice to hear him more relaxed about doing things with his son. ‘There’s a pantomime on at the Little Theatre near Salcombe,’ I said, remembering going to see Dick Whittington there with the school when I was six, and being vaguely terrified by all the shouting of He’s behind you! ‘I think they do a matinee.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘You could start a yearly tradition.’

  A short silence followed. Customers continued to dip in and out of the bakery, and a waving, big-bellied Santa drew up on a full-size sleigh with flashing lights, pulled by a big yellow van instead of reindeers, drawing excited glances from passing children.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ Seth said, as a tinny, and rather ghostly rendition of ‘Little Drummer Boy’ filled the air.

  ‘Father Christmas collecting money for charity.’ I became aware of competing male voices, singing ‘Silent Night’ on the other end of the line. ‘Sounds like the team are auditioning for The Voice.’

  ‘The team are painting the staircase and landing today.’ For a second, I thought about asking to borrow the team for the café, except they were on a deadline too. A Felicity Donovan deadline. I could only imagine the wrath it would incur if the work wasn’t completed on schedule, to her exacting standards. ‘I’ll be glad when they’re done to be honest,’ Seth continued. ‘It’s intrusive having people in the house, and Digby’s not up to going for another walk.’

  ‘At least you’re letting them get on with it.’ I recalled a couple of jobs where clients had badgered me constantly, changing their minds about what they wanted, and another who’d fired the decorator because he’d had the cheek to take a tea break. ‘A couple more days and they’ll be done.’

  ‘If you’ve any advice about tables and stuff like that, I’d appreciate your input,’ he said. ‘I don’t have much of a clue about that sort of thing, but my mother’s stuff is a bit old-fashioned.’ I guessed he was referring to the big, shiny table and high-backed chairs in the dining room. ‘That’s if you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Of course.’ I felt a slight sinking sensation. He was obviously still scrabbling for scraps to throw me, and before he was halfway through saying, ‘I’ll pay you for your time,’ I said, ‘I don’t need paying, thank you.’

  Another pause hung between us, broken by Jack’s voice. ‘Dad, can we go to the smugglers’ caves on the beach?’

  ‘Smugglers’ caves?’

  ‘He means the ones further down from you,’ I said. ‘There’s a little network of caves past the headland, where the cliff juts out, but it’s easy to get caught by the tide so you need to check the times before you go.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Jack,’ said Seth. ‘They sound dangerous.’

  ‘I’ve got a map on my iPad. I know where they are.’

  ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  I didn’t fully hear Jack’s response, but caught the words hate you.

  ‘He doesn’t hate you, he’s lashing out,’ I said. ‘Kids do that when they don’t get their own way.’

  ‘I bet you didn’t.’

  ‘I always got my own way,’ I joked. ‘I wasn’t a very demanding child by all accounts. Not that I’m saying Jack is,’ I added quickly. ‘He really isn’t.’

  ‘I know.’ Seth sounded a bit defeated. ‘Why do I feel like I’ve just taken a giant step backwards?’

  ‘Give him time,’ I said. ‘I know it’s a cliché, but you have to be patient.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Poppins, but I don’t have the luxury of time,’ Seth reminded me. ‘Not if my mother wants her own way.’

  ‘I still don’t see how a judge would determine he’s better off with her, than with you,’ I said. ‘I honestly think you just need to ride this out.’

  ‘My mother’s best friend is a judge, and Mum can be incredibly persuasive.’

  ‘Right.’ I felt his frustration. ‘Listen, check out times for the pantomime, then get Jack in the garden,’ I said. ‘Plant something together.’

  ‘Gardening?’ He sounded aghast. ‘In this weather?’

  ‘A bit of cold weather won’t hurt,’ I said. ‘Did you see the snow the other night?’

  ‘It snowed?’

  I sighed; imagined him checking on Jack before getting into bed (did Seth wear pyjamas?) and staring at the ceiling, worrying as he waited for sleep to claim him. Or maybe he’d been thinking about his kiss with Bridget, and wishing she’d stayed after all. ‘Only a bit,’ I said. ‘Jack would have liked it.’

  ‘I wish it had settled. I’m dying to build a snowman with him on the beach.’

  He sounded wistful, and I remembered Jack sleepily talking about making a sand snowman with his dad.

  ‘It’ll snow again,’ I said. ‘Probably.’

  ‘I hope so.’ After another brief pause he said, ‘I’ve started writing a children’s story, about a boy and his dad and the adventures they have together.’ He groaned. ‘God, that sounds so trite, and it’s probably been done better a million times before, but it’s preferable to writing my autobiography. I’m actually enjoying it.’

  ‘That sounds great.’ I smiled. ‘Try reading it to Jack, see what he thinks.’

  ‘What if he says it’s crap?’

  ‘You won’t know, unless you try.’

  ‘I’m definitely going to start calling you Mary.’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  The silence this time was comfortable. Our conversation appeared to have run its course, but I was oddly reluctant to get off the phone.

  ‘Sure you don’t want to come over?’ Seth sounded equally reluctant, but I resisted the pull of temptation. He probably wanted a bit of backup with Jack, but they needed time to themselves. ‘I’ve got work to do,’ I said brightly. ‘This function room won’t finish itself.’ Unfortunately.

  ‘Maybe Jack and I could pop over to the café.’ Seth’s voice warmed up. ‘I’m assuming they do a nice line in hot chocolate with marshmallows at this time of year?’

  My heart bumped. ‘Aren’t you worried you’ll be recognised at the café?’

  ‘I’ve done enough skulking about,’ he said. ‘If Jack and I are going to live around here, the locals need to get used to us.’ I couldn’t argue with that. ‘I’m probably doing more harm than good by hiding us both away.’

  It was a pretty miraculous turnaround in just a week. ‘OK,’ I said, thinking quickly. ‘Make it around three o’clock.’

  ‘Great!’ Seth sounded invigorated. ‘Can we bring the dog?’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘I’m still a bit cross you invited me to the café under false pretences yesterday.’ Bridget plonked two mugs of coffee by our parents’ bed, while I rummaged through Mum’s wardrobe for a suitable outfit to wear to a winter wedding.

  ‘It wasn’t really false pretences.’ I pulled out a salmon-pink pleated skirt and matching bolero jacket and held them against me. ‘I wanted you to see what I’ve been doing there. You haven’t set foot in the café since you came home.’

  ‘To be fair, I hadn’t been further than the shops and the park before that meal with Seth.’ She sat on the bed and pulled the quilted cover over her nightshirt like a shawl. ‘I’d practically forgotten how to drive.’

  ‘Well, I’m flattered you made the effort.’

  ‘Only, you left out the bit about Seth and Jack being there.’

  ‘I told you, I thought it would be a nice surprise for you all.’

  ‘While you scarpered off, once you’d made me check the floorboard batches matched.’

  ‘I told you, I needed to go to Kingsbridge to find something to wear for today,’ I said.

  ‘You clearly didn’t find anything.’ She gave Mum’s outfit a thumbs down.

  ‘Nope.’ I didn’t mention that I hadn’t tried very hard.

  After I’d promised a glowering Gwen the floorboards would be down for the party, I’d retreated to my car to call Cassie, who promised to ask Danny whether he knew anyone who could help.

/>   ‘It’s urgent,’ I said, deciding not to beat about the bush, and there was a pause during which I imagined her biting her lip, trying not to extract any more promises.

  ‘I’ve been throwing up all morning,’ she said at last, sounding almost proud. ‘It’s getting harder to keep being pregnant a secret. I had to tell the mayoress I’d eaten some dodgy shrimp.’

  ‘Why shrimp?’

  ‘It was the first thing that popped into my head.’

  After that, I’d gone to Kingsbridge with the intention of buying an outfit in Boutique 144, but after trying on a couple of dresses and trouser suits that made me feel more giraffe than human, I gave up and went swimming instead, and emerged from the water feeling, if not reborn, then at least less frazzled.

  ‘You can’t wear that,’ said Bridget, as if she was on the front row at London Fashion Week. ‘Too frumpy.’ She had a glow about her again that I doubted was purely down to Romy having a lie-in. When I’d got back after swimming, they’d been snuggled together on the sofa watching Miracle on 34th Street, while a decent-looking casserole bubbled on the stove. She’d told me off for ‘setting her up’ with Seth, but admitted they’d had a nice time.

  ‘Even the dog was cute,’ she’d said, though apparently Gwen hadn’t been thrilled at having to shut Dickens out the back, in case ’e gets ’is ’ead bitten orf. ‘She’s hilarious,’ Bridget had declared. ‘She burnt her bleedin’ eyebrows off, trying to light a Christmas pudding.’ Her impression of Gwen’s cockney accent and gimlet-eyed stare had made me chuckle.

  ‘Witch!’ Romy had piped up, provoking more laughter. It wasn’t the first time a child had mistaken Gwen for one of Grimms’ fairy tale crones.

  According to Bridget, they’d walked through the village with Seth and Jack after their hot chocolate (she didn’t like the beach in winter) and bought some cranberry and orange cookies from the bakery. No one had mobbed Seth, though he’d got a few curious looks, and Romy had insisted that Jack hold her hand. ‘He’s really sweet,’ had been Bridget’s verdict. ‘A credit to Seth.’

  I’d supposed it was natural to say that, as Seth was Jack’s father, but considering he hadn’t spent much time with his son until recently, I’d wondered privately how much Jack’s influences with his grandparents had shaped him. It was clear the effect of living with them still had a grip – and that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing – but hopefully a slackening of Felicity’s rules, and being around his dad, would bring a simpler joy into his life. I was sure it already had, even if neither of them had quite recognised it yet.

  I’d longed to quiz Bridget on what she and Seth had talked about, and to ask whether he was surprised when I didn’t join them (clearly he hadn’t minded too much) but had managed to hold back.

  ‘What about this?’ I pulled a charcoal pencil skirt over my pyjama leggings. It was so tight around the hem it altered my gait to an undignified mince as I did a circuit of the room.

  Bridget choked on her coffee. ‘Do it again,’ she ordered.

  I did, faster this time, and she doubled over with laughter.

  ‘Let me find something to go with it.’ Putting down her mug, she leapt up and took one of Dad’s waistcoats from the wardrobe.

  I put it on back to front, over my pyjama top. ‘With these?’ I shoved my feet into a pair of green, square-toed shoes, jammed a peacock-feathered fascinator on my head and took out a boxy, straw handbag that looked like a mini picnic hamper.

  ‘Why Cinderella, you SHALL go to the ball!’ Bridget had tears of mirth in her eyes. ‘May I join you?’ She tugged a silver sequinned jacket with shoulder pads over her nightshirt and tucked it into a pair of black leather trousers that clung to her backside. ‘How do you do?’ she said, slipping a pair of Dad’s Buddy Holly style reading glasses on. ‘Do you come here often?’

  Weak with laughter, we paraded about, talking to imaginary wedding guests. ‘This little number?’ I nudged my fascinator. ‘I bought it from the nineteen eighties dahling, for a footballer’s stag do. Isn’t it soooper?’

  ‘Does my bum look big in this?’ Bridget flapped her eyelashes and stuck out her bottom, which looked like a beach ball in a bin bag.

  My ribs ached from laughing as she pretended to take a Kim Kardashian style selfie, then got angry when she couldn’t get the trousers off. ‘How the hell did Mum ever squeeze into these?’

  ‘Why, is surely more to the point.’ I buckled with fresh laughter as Bridget wriggled and writhed on her back on the bed. ‘Here, let me help.’

  By the time we’d wrestled the trousers off, Romy had materalised, rubbing her eyes and smiling uncertainly.

  ‘We’re helping Auntie Tilly look for something nice to wear,’ said Bridget, apparently forgetting she was supposed to feed Romy something nutritious the second she opened her eyes. ‘Do you want to help?’

  Romy nodded, threw down Teddy and went straight to the wardrobe. ‘I fink THIS!’ She tugged a piece of fabric that turned out to be a fairly harmless tunic dress in black, with a block of embroidered swirls around the hem.

  ‘Actually, I think that will do,’ said Bridget, holding it up. ‘It’s straight up and down, which is more you than something clingy and blingy.’

  I checked she wasn’t being facetious, but she looked like she was picturing me in the dress and liking what she saw.

  ‘It’ll show off your amazing legs,’ she added, her impression of Rufus prompting more laughter, which produced a twang of guilt. I thanked her and Romy for their help, and went to my room to try the dress on, deciding I liked New Bridget a lot.

  ‘Wow,’ she said, when I eventually sidled into the kitchen, squirmy with embarrassment. ‘Romy is obviously going to be a stylist when she grows up, because that dress really suits you.’

  Romy pursed her rosebud lips as she looked me up and down. ‘Yes!’ she pronounced, which made me think of Say Yes to the Dress, and the night that Bridget had arrived with Romy – a stranger in her own home. It felt like a lifetime ago.

  ‘I don’t really know what to wear with it.’ I smoothed my hair, which I’d straightened after my shower so it was swingy and shiny around my cheeks – like shampoo-advert hair.

  ‘Those tights look fine.’

  ‘Obviously, they’re Mum’s,’ I said. ‘I never wear tights.’ They were too tight, like sausage casings, and I hoped to never wear a pair again.

  ‘And you could wear the blazer I wore the other night,’ Bridget suggested. ‘The sleeves will be a three-quarter on you, which is fine.’

  ‘Footwear?’

  She glanced at my feet. ‘Don’t you have any nice shoes?’

  ‘The closest I’ve got are some black suede ankle boots.’

  ‘They’ll do,’ she said. ‘You need a pinker lipstick.’ She reached for her bag and pulled one out. ‘I hardly ever wear it these days.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I went to the mirror in the hall and smoothed some on, trying to work out how I felt, and wishing I didn’t keep thinking about Jack, and the fun we could have had. It was probably because I’d never been to a wedding before, never mind with a… my head wanted to say boyfriend, but my heart wouldn’t quite let me.

  When Rufus turned up, five minutes early, my stomach was twanging with nerves, which had nothing to do with meeting a bunch of people I’d never clapped eyes on, and everything to do with sharing a confined space with Rufus for two hours – more if we ran into traffic on the way there and back. We’d never even spent a full night together. And this was his brother’s wedding. There’d be alcohol at the reception, and I had a feeling Rufus wouldn’t be holding back. Combined with his complicated relationship with his brother – who was marrying a woman Rufus had been secretly in love with for goodness knew how long – would it be a recipe for disaster? Or, at least, a punch-up. I really hoped not, and reminded myself that Rufus was besotted with me, and probably wasn’t in the mood for a fight at a wedding.

  ‘You look stunning,’ he said, holding the car door open, and leaning in to softl
y kiss my cheek. He’d scrubbed up well in a grey, double-breasted suit that flattered his colouring, and went well with his crisp white shirt and bottle-green matt silk tie. He smelt nice too (why hadn’t I thought to wear perfume?) and as I folded myself into the car, my nerves steadied. It would be nice to have a day out. Even the sun was trying to appear, peeking between rushing clouds – although it was eye-wateringly cold, and I hoped we wouldn’t be standing around too long after the ceremony, waiting for photographs.

  ‘It’s made of fine corduroy,’ Rufus said from the driver’s seat, fingering the hem of his jacket when I told him he looked nice. ‘It’s flexible, so good for throwing some shapes on the dance floor.’ He demonstrated a few moves with his shoulders and fists, eyebrows jigging up and down. He hadn’t shaved his head, as he’d said he was planning to do (Jason Statham needn’t worry) but had arranged his hair so it looked like he had quite a bit more than he did.

  ‘We’re not staying too late, are we?’ I hadn’t meant to sound edgy, but Rufus’s smile didn’t budge.

  ‘Let’s see how the day plays out.’

  ‘I have to get back,’ I said. ‘I’ve work to do.’ The words increased the jitteriness in my stomach. Cassie had messaged to say Danny didn’t know anyone available at short notice to lay a floor, but despite offering his services – he’s willing to give it a bash! – I’d assured her it was fine. In fact, I’d lied, and said I’d found someone, anyway.

  ‘It’s the weekend, Tilly.’ Rufus over-pronounced my name, as if proving he was saying it right, and gave an indulgent chuckle. ‘And since when did you care about work?’ His confidence seemed to have grown now he finally had me trussed up in his car (not in a kidnap-victim way, though I experienced a pinch of panic as I turned to wave at Bridget and Romy, watching from the doorstep) and he pulled away from the kerb like a man who very much knew what he wanted.

  Far from finding this attractive, I felt suddenly trapped. ‘I care when I’ve made a promise.’ Even if it was only to myself. I adjusted my seat belt as he approached the main road at speed. ‘I have to be back by six. Seven at the latest,’ I said, unsure why it was so important he understood.