The Beach Cafe (21 page)

I had to get some straight answers from him, I decided. I had to just pin him down and get the truth out of him. Who was he, and why did he keep acting so suspiciously?

Chapter Nineteen

Saturday was cool and cloudy, and the beach was deserted compared with how crammed it had been the previous week. I guessed that lots of families had gone home, with work and school starting the following Monday.

It felt rather like clearing up after a house party, taking down the fairy lights and putting away the candles and vases from the night before. I bundled up the tablecloths to go into the washing machine, while Phoebe collected all the used menus. ‘What do you want me to do with these?’ she asked. ‘Bin? Or will you use them again next week?’

I bit my lip. Would there even
be
an evening opening next week? I wasn’t sure I’d still have Ed in my kitchen then, and I doubted I’d have hired anyone new to replace him, either. ‘Bin,’ I said after a moment. ‘Oh, but . . . maybe just keep one, as a souvenir.’

The café seemed plain and unadorned once again after we’d removed all its frippery and trimmings, like a party girl waking with a hangover and pasty skin. I was glad more than ever that we’d have Jamie’s paintings on the walls soon; seeing the place dressed up for the evening had made me realize how tatty around the edges it was in broad daylight. Some striking pieces of art would be the perfect distraction from the tired old paintwork elsewhere.

Ed and Rachel arrived within minutes of each other just before ten o’clock, so I didn’t get the chance to press Ed on his strange behaviour and rudeness towards the press guys. He seemed in a subdued mood anyway, not up for the usual banter, and kept himself to himself. Perhaps I was being unfair on him, I thought. Perhaps I had been expecting too much. He was only helping me out for a week or two, after all – it wasn’t like he was an equal partner in the business, or had any long-term interest in it. Why should he care if some guys from the local rag had showed up? No skin off his nose what they wrote.

But . . . all the same. We were mates, weren’t we? You didn’t shaft a mate when they were getting a lucky break from the media, did you?

I tried to put it out of my head and act normally, but I felt that things were strained between us, as if it was on his mind, too. It was annoying, as well, when he’d seemed as if he was about to explain himself last night, until Rachel had interrupted our conversation. What had he been about to say? And would he attempt to say it again if he got the chance today?

Jamie and Martha dropped in that morning to discuss Jamie’s forthcoming art show, and we sat down with coffees and a notepad to formalize everything. ‘Lindsay, the landlady at the pub, says she’ll donate some wine,’ he told me, ‘and Annie says she’ll make a load of cakes too. The only thing is . . .’ He shifted uncomfortably. ‘I’m worried that there’s nothing in this for you. I mean, do you want to charge people to come in, or can I give you a cut of the paintings that are sold, or . . . ?’

‘Oh,’ I said blankly. ‘I hadn’t even thought about that. No, you don’t need to give me any commission – they’re your paintings.’ I felt awkward myself then. ‘Jamie, I didn’t suggest this because I wanted to make any money out of you. I just wanted to help.’

‘I told you,’ Martha said to him.

He smiled sheepishly. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I really appreciate it.’

‘And I
am
going to have the coolest paintings on my walls, remember,’ I told him. ‘That’s what I get out of this: some funky artwork livening up the café. That’s good enough for me.’

Ed left as usual at about three – ‘dog o’clock’ as he called it – and I watched him lope away, feeling frustrated. We hadn’t managed to speak properly all day and now he’d gone. By tomorrow I was sure it would feel too late to pick up the threads of the photographer-meltdown conversation again.

The sun came out at around four, and suddenly the beach was bathed in beautiful golden light, yet still it and the café remained quiet. A few customers had dropped by for cake and coffee, but the pace felt laid-back and easy after the frantic rushing around of Friday night. I wiped down the tables in a leisurely fashion while Phoebe and Rachel chatted behind the counter.

‘I’m definitely going for a swim after work today,’ I heard Rachel say as they both gazed out at the glittering water. ‘Look at that, mate. A proper beach, that is. Almost as good as the ones in Oz.’

‘A swim would be good,’ Phoebe said, with a trace of longing in her voice. ‘I haven’t swum in the sea for ages.’

‘Well, come with me, then,’ Rachel said. ‘Fancy it?’

‘Yeah, but . . .’

I glanced up to see Phoebe’s troubled expression. ‘I don’t have a cozzie,’ she said after a moment. ‘And don’t suggest skinny-dipping, cos that is so not going to happen.’

Rachel laughed. ‘You can borrow my flatmate Gina’s,’ she said. ‘She’s tiny like you, and she won’t mind a bit. Come over to our place after work and I’ll fix you up.’

Phoebe beamed. ‘Cool!’ she said.

I straightened up, one hand on my back. ‘We can call it a day now, if you want,’ I suggested. ‘We’re not busy, and you did both bust a gut for me last night. Go on, you two have your swim, make the most of the sun. I can manage here.’

Phoebe looked all giggly and excited at the thought of leaving with cool surfer-chick Rachel, and they were only too pleased to say goodbye and head off. The last customers left, and I closed up, enjoying being able to call the shots and finish early. Now what to do, though? I turned the sign on the door to ‘Closed’, then hovered there for a moment, staring out at the beach. It did look wonderful down there, the most exquisite afternoon sunshine drenching everything in clear golden light, like a picture postcard, or the perfect photograph.

Then I smiled, knowing exactly what I wanted to do.

Half an hour later I was on the cliff path looking down at the beach through the viewfinder of my trusty old camera. Jo had given me this camera when I was twenty-five, and for a couple of years after that it had been practically a permanent fixture in my hand. It was an old-fashioned Leica that Jo had picked up second-hand (they didn’t come cheap), but I hadn’t realized just how good a piece of kit it was until the first photos had come back from the chemist’s with every image sharp and clean, the colours bright and true. After that I was hooked, and began documenting every important event of my life: birthdays, weddings, holidays, the changing of the seasons, anything that caught my eye in fact.

I had a skinny silver digital camera too, which Matthew had given me a few Christmases ago, but I still preferred the black bulk of the Leica in my hand, the old-fashioned rolls of film and that crystal-clear viewfinder, through which I had seen so many sights. It was old-fashioned and unsexy to all but the camera buffs of the world. I loved it.

I took some shots of the bay, then wandered further around the headland, crouching near the cliff edge to click off a few frames of the sea below as it dashed and foamed against the rocks. Now that I had my back to the bay, there wasn’t another person in sight – just me and my camera, and the salty wind tugging at my hair. It was wild and deserted up here, with scratchy, coarse grass and scrubby-looking gorse, which had been battered by the wind into strangely flattened shapes. I found my barren surroundings dramatic and beautiful, especially when you could turn one hundred and eighty degrees and be faced by the bustling village of Carrawen and the golden, shining beach by contrast.

I wriggled onto my belly, propping myself up on my elbows to get the angle of the shot right, concentrating hard on catching the exact moment when the waves exploded against the cliff wall. There!

‘Not about to chuck yourself in, are you?’

The voice gave me such a start that I almost dropped the camera into the sea. I whipped my head around, and saw that Ryan was standing behind me, one eyebrow cocked, a lazy sort of smirk on his face.

‘Oh God,’ I said, getting up inelegantly, caught off-guard by his sudden appearance. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack. What are you doing up here?’

‘I saw your note,’ he said, still with that smirky leer. ‘The one you left on the door?’

‘The one I left on the . . . Oh,’ I said. I’d scrawled a note for Phoebe –
Gone for walk on cliffs, come and find me! –
in case she got back before I did, not wanting her to be sitting around locked out for ages. But why the hell would Ryan think the note was intended for
him
? And why had he come to the café in the first place? ‘That note was for . . . Never mind.’

‘So here I am,’ he said, not seeming to have heard. ‘Back in our special place, just me and you.’ He took a step nearer, his eyes roaming suggestively over my body, and I was about to step back in horror when I remembered that I was near the edge of the cliff. I dodged sideways instead. Oh God, talk about getting the wrong end of the stick. Yes, this
had
been our special place once upon a time, as had all sorts of deserted beauty spots around here, but surely he didn’t think for a minute that my note was some kind of come-on, to
him
?
Gone for walk on cliffs, come and find me!

Oh, man. Perhaps if you were as self-obsessed and as much of a jerk as Ryan seemed to be these days, then you
would
take it as a nod and a wink and a lick of the lips. But he had got it so badly wrong, I didn’t know where to begin.

‘Ryan, the note wasn’t for you,’ I said, wanting to clear this up fast, before it could escalate any further. ‘It was for a friend – a female friend who’s staying with me.’

‘I still have happy memories of those days,’ he said, not listening apparently. He was drunk, I could smell the alcohol on his breath. His eyes were bloodshot, and there was a dirty mark on the front of his polo shirt, as if he’d spilled his lunch down himself. ‘Me and you together, our own summer of love. Remember?’

Yikes, he was starting to freak me out. I wished it wasn’t so lonely and deserted up here. There was a glint in his eyes that made me think he wanted to re-enact our so-called summer of love right here, right now – about as repulsive an idea as it was possible to have.

I glanced at my watch. ‘I’d better get back,’ I said casually, hoping he couldn’t hear the giveaway thump of my heart. ‘Nice to see you again anyway.’

He blocked the path and took hold of my wrist. ‘Wait,’ he said. His fingers were pudgy, but he had a strong grip. There was a coldness about him, as if I’d offended him, and I suddenly felt afraid. This clifftop, which had seemed so tranquil and beautiful just minutes earlier, now seemed a place of potential danger. ‘We haven’t finished talking yet.’

Adrenaline ricocheted through me and my heart thudded to a faster beat. I tried to yank my arm away, but he held on. ‘Let go of me,’ I said firmly, as if I was speaking to a naughty child. ‘I mean it. Let go of me right now. Or . . . or I’ll tell Marilyn.’

He laughed. ‘Tell her what? That you lured me up here with your little note, that you—’

‘Ryan, let go,’ I said louder, trying again to wrest my hand from his grasp. ‘That note wasn’t for you, I didn’t lure you anywhere.’ I was dimly aware of crunching footsteps approaching along the path, and I raised my voice until it was a shout. ‘LET GO OF ME!’

He dropped my hand. ‘All right, no need to—’

‘What’s going on? Evie, are you okay?’ It was Ed, rounding the corner and hurrying over, with Lola at his side.

I sagged with relief, my knees not seeming able to support me any longer. ‘Hi,’ I said stupidly. Lola bounded up to me and pushed her nose into my hand, her body warm against my bare legs, her tail wagging in delight.

‘Are you all right?’ Ed asked again, glowering at Ryan as if he was about to swing a punch. ‘I thought I heard shouting.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I think Ryan here got the wrong end of the stick. I think . . .’ I swallowed, trying to recover myself. ‘No harm done.’

‘Are you sure?’ Ed asked, still glaring at Ryan. He was all but squaring up to the man. ‘Because if I hear you’ve been messing about with Evie . . .’

Ryan put his hands up, all innocence. ‘I haven’t done anything,’ he blustered, glancing sideways at me. Then he licked his lips, looking nervous all of a sudden. ‘You won’t really tell Marilyn, will you? She’d kill me if—’

‘No,’ I said, my fear of him draining away. He was pathetic. A sleazy, overweight creep whose wife had him by the
cojones.
‘Just go away, Ryan.’

He put his head down and shambled off. The whole episode felt surreal – him clutching at me, me yelling at him – and it had been so sudden and so peculiar that already it seemed as if it hadn’t really happened, that I’d dreamed the entire thing. ‘Bloody hell,’ I said, light-headed with what might have been. Nothing too serious had happened, but what if Ed hadn’t come around the corner just then? The way Ryan had gripped my wrist had been uncomfortably hard; I didn’t like to think what his next move might have been.

‘That looked a bit full-on,’ Ed said, his eyes on me. ‘What the hell was he doing?’

I explained about the note and Ryan’s obvious misinterpretation, and how the situation had just started turning nasty. I shivered. ‘Was I glad to see you turn up, Ed,’ I said. Then I stopped myself, realizing I’d been here before. Damsel in distress, being rescued by a bloke: it was Matthew and the elf dress all over again. What was wrong with me that I ended up in these ridiculous situations?

I shook myself briskly. I didn’t need rescuing again. It was independence all the way for me, from now on, end of story.

‘So, what brings you up here anyway?’ I asked, forcing a change of subject. I didn’t want to talk about how vulnerable I’d felt two minutes earlier, how panicky I’d been. ‘Is this where you and Lola come for your walkies?’

He grimaced. ‘Well, we do sometimes, but I was actually looking for you. I saw Pheebs and Rachel down on the beach and wanted to catch you for a chat in private. About last night. I know I’ve got some explaining to do.’

Last night? My mind went blank. Oh, of course,
last night
! It seemed so long ago now that the journalist had been sniffing around, and that Ed had all but pushed him out the kitchen. ‘Yeah,’ I said slowly. ‘You do really, don’t you?’