The Beach Cafe (27 page)

Hell, I’d come a long way in my few weeks as owner of the beach café, I said to myself, flipping the bacon in rather a professional way. Ed? Who cared about Ed anyway?

It turned out to be one of the most stressful days I’d ever had in the café. Try as I might, I couldn’t help but hope that Ed would appear and we could sort things out, but by midday miserable reality had set in, and I’d given up on him showing his face. The pasties had sold out by one o’clock, and then I got totally stressed out by all my sandwich orders, especially as we ran out of egg mayo, tuna mayo and pesto chicken in quick succession, and I had to speedily make up more batches of each. It was a hot, muggy day, the kitchen felt airless and sticky, and we had customers queuing out the door at some points, despite Rachel’s best efforts. Leah was great, but she was inevitably a bit slower, it being her first day.

By the time it got to five o’clock and we’d cleaned up, and Rachel and Leah had left, I sat down in a booth and absolutely bawled my eyes out. Everything came out: my tiredness, my upset at last night’s discovery, the horribleness of my confrontation with Ed first thing, and the misery that had kicked in afterwards, not to mention the three painful fat burns I had on my wrist from frying eggs all morning.

Ed had seemed so furious that I’d looked him up online, but really, what did he expect, when I’d found out something so awful about him? How could I
not
have looked him up, after Amber’s email? And shouldn’t he have mentioned his dodgy past to me in the first place? What a mug I had been, letting him waltz into the kitchen without even running a few basic checks on him. I’d ignored all the warning signs until it was too late. And now I was paying the penalty, big style.

Yet for all of that, for everything I’d found out, it was his kindness that I kept remembering. The way he’d helped me so much, and made the café a better place alongside me. He’d been a mate and an ally, as well as anything else, which made the betrayal a million times worse. How could I ever trust anyone again?

I had been thinking about him all day, wondering what he was doing, how he was feeling. Was he packing up to leave Cornwall and hide out somewhere else? Did he feel hounded, now that I’d uncovered the truth? I hoped he knew me better than to think I’d start spreading gossip around the village, but the way he’d looked at me just before he’d stormed out – it was as if he couldn’t stand the sight of me. Maybe he thought that I
was
that kind of evil gossip-monger. Maybe he had already gone.

Deep down, I was still holding out a tiny, feeble hope that he would come over that evening, to talk. Surely we couldn’t leave things as they were, with that furious conversation the last one we ever had? I would have gone over to his place if I had the faintest clue where he lived, but surprise, surprise, I didn’t know his address, along with all those other pieces of information I hadn’t had. Like the wife, et cetera.

I ran myself a bath.
It’ll be typical
, I thought,
I’ll just get into the bath and there’ll be a knock downstairs, and it’ll be him.

I got into the bath, braced to leap out again instantly and rush to the front door in my dressing gown. No knock came.

Afterwards I put on a hair-conditioning treatment and some cosy pyjamas, and settled down on the sofa in front of
Coronation Street
.
It’ll be typical
, I thought,
if I’m sitting here with my hair in a towel, and he knocks at the door and sees me looking like a madwoman.

I waited. I even turned the volume down slightly so that I wouldn’t miss any knocks at the door. No knocks came.

Once
Corrie
was over, and I’d washed out the conditioner and had had a long and rather mournful chat on the phone with Amber, I felt wrung out. I really wanted an early night, but I knew that if I went to bed, then – sod’s law – there would be a knock at the door and yadda yadda. I forced myself to stay up until nine-thirty, then admitted defeat and faced up to the facts. He wasn’t coming. There wouldn’t be any knocking at my door tonight.
Forget it, Evie. Go to sleep. Maybe he’ll be back tomorrow.

I sank into bed and tried to get comfortable, but I couldn’t help one horrible thought that seemed to have jammed on replay in my head.
If Ed
didn’t
come back tomorrow . . . what then?

Chapter Twenty-Four

Thursday began as another crappy kind of day. Again, no sign of Ed. Again, horrible muggy weather, with barely a breath of wind to stir up the soupy air. A chef from the temping agency arrived at about eleven o’clock, which was something, though. Her name was Wendy and she was about my mum’s age, built like a wrestler with black-inked tattoos down her arms, and dyed-black hair held back with a pink plastic hair-band. ‘All right, pet,’ she said in a Marlboro-roughened northern accent when Rachel brought her into the kitchen. She stuck out a meaty paw and nearly broke my fingers with her iron grip when I shook it.

‘Hi,’ I said, temporarily losing all the blood circulation in my hand. ‘I’m Evie. Thanks for coming in. What are you like at making pasties?’

‘Pasties? Champion, love,’ she assured me. ‘Let me wash my hands and I’ll get stuck in.’

Wendy was a breath of fresh air. She was hard-working, made a decent pasty – albeit not with the same flair as Ed – and had the dirtiest, most gravelly laugh I’d ever heard. She lived in Tregarrow, a couple of miles away, and had been a school dinner lady for the last ten years, until budget cuts meant that she’d been made redundant a few weeks ago.

‘I miss my kiddies,’ she said sadly. ‘Never had any of my own, and you get right fond of the little buggers when you see them day in, day out.’

‘So are you looking for a full-time job now?’ I asked casually, wondering if the answer to my long-term cheffing problems was standing right in front of me.

She shook her head. ‘Not really, love,’ she replied. ‘My hubby’s not well, so I can’t leave him for hours on end. School dinners were great for me – just a couple of hours out, and then back home. And this sort of thing is perfect, popping over to you for a half-day. But any more than that . . .’ She shook her head. ‘No. He has all these hospital appointments and what-not, you see, so I can’t do regular shifts.’ She elbowed me with one of her huge fleshy elbows. ‘Don’t tell me, you were just about to snap me up and all,’ she said, guffawing.

I smiled at her. ‘Unlucky for me, eh?’ I said. ‘But lucky for your husband.’

She winked. ‘And doesn’t he know it,’ she told me, wielding her rolling pin on the pastry.

Another good thing happened shortly after Wendy’s arrival. The postman brought a letter with an Oxford postmark and, when I turned it over curiously, I read ‘From Saul’, in wobbly handwriting, followed by his address. The café was fairly quiet, so I seized the chance to duck into the office and open it in private. Two letters fell out, one from Saul and one from his mum, Emily. I read Saul’s first.

Dear Evie,

Thank you for my letter. I am learning about the Romans in school. They were COOL. And I scored two goals in football club yesterday. Dad read me more of the Moomins but didn’t do the proper voices like you, so Mum is reading it to me now. Thingumy and Bob are really funny!

Mum says we can visit you at the seaside!

Love Saul

PS I miss you.

PPS This is a picture of the Lego dragon I made. xxxxxx

I sat still for a moment, reading the words again and feeling choked up, imagining his little face screwed up in concentration, tongue poking out of his mouth as he sat there writing it all down. Did he mean that, about coming to visit, or was it one of those vague parent-promises he’d misinterpreted?

I read the letter from Emily to find out.

Dear Evie,

Saul was so chuffed with the letter – thank you. It was really kind of you. He does genuinely miss you, and I’m not surprised – Matthew’s new girlfriend is like a wet lettuce, really drippy and bland. Wondering if this is his midlife crisis?!

Funnily enough, my sister Amanda lives not too far from you, in Bude, and we’re going to be over there for a week in August. Would love to pop in and say hello, if that’s okay. Saul is really impressed that you have your own café, right on the beach, and has been talking about it non-stop since you wrote!

All the best, Emily

She’d written her mobile number on the bottom, and it felt like a hand outstretched in friendship. The thought of seeing my Saul again made me fill up with pure, golden happiness. I hadn’t lost him. I could keep in contact with him. And Emily had sounded genuinely matey in her letter, which was great.

‘It’s not all bad,’ I muttered to myself, walking back out to rejoin my team. It was only the new Ed-shaped hole in my life that kept me from smiling.

Wendy went home after she’d made lots of lovely pasties, and she agreed to come in between eleven and two again for the next three days, an arrangement that suited us both. I now felt confident about handling the breakfast orders on my own first thing, and then she’d be there to cover the lunch rush when I needed her. I wrapped up a couple of cakes in a paper bag and gave them to her as she was leaving. ‘For you and your husband,’ I told her. ‘And I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Ah, cheers, love,’ she said, giving me a smacker of a kiss on the cheek. ‘Ta-ra for now.’

The rest of the afternoon passed without incident, but I had the same hollow feeling as the day before by the time I closed up. Why hadn’t Ed come back? Was that really it – everything over between us, after one five-minute argument? He obviously didn’t think much of me, if he didn’t even consider it worth his while to explain the full story, present some kind of defence case.

Well, sod him, I thought crossly. I didn’t want that kind of person in my kitchen, or in my life. I had Wendy the Muscles now, I had my letter from Saul, I had my girls’ night in to prepare for. I didn’t need Ed or his baggage weighing me down.

I wasn’t quite sure what to expect from the girls’ night in that evening. Martha and Annie had said they’d come along, as had Florence. I hadn’t seen Betty since Jamie’s party, so I wasn’t sure if she was still planning to drop by or not. So potentially it would just be a small gathering, but that was cool, I didn’t mind.

I pushed the tables together to make for more convivial seating, lit a few candles and flicked on some fairy lights, then arranged some cupcakes in a tempting display on the counter so that people could help themselves. I wanted the evening to be informal and enjoyable for everyone, and to make the space seem homely, so that people felt like guests rather than customers. Because of this I’d decided not to charge for the cakes, and had asked people to bring their own wine, if they wanted it. I hoped it would work, and that everyone would like to meet on a regular basis. I certainly would.

Annie and Martha were the first to arrive, Annie bringing with her a tray of iced chocolate brownies. ‘I can’t let you give all your profits away,’ she said, setting them out on a plate, ‘so I thought I’d contribute something.’

Florence came in next with Elizabeth and some other women, Michaela and Alison, who were from the book group, bearing wine and Kettle Chips. Florence was all excited because she’d just heard that her son, Francis, was back on UK soil and heading for Cornwall right now, to stay with her for a few days. ‘I’ve turned on my mobile phone and everything,’ she said, showing me. ‘So if he gets to the bay early, he can let me know.’ She winked. ‘I told him he might have to wait outside in his car, though, as I don’t want to miss any of the girls’ night in!’

I laughed. ‘Good for you,’ I said. ‘I’m glad you’ve got your priorities right.’

Moments later, Annie’s neighbour Tess appeared with another friend, Helena, and Betty walked in, with her sister Nora. Next came Rachel, Leah and some of their backpacker mates with a box of white wine between them and bags of Doritos. Suddenly the room was full, and everyone was chatting.

Look at this
, I thought to myself, feeling a rush of pleasure at the sight of all these women, from teenagers to grandmothers, right here under my roof. People were laughing, swapping stories, catching up with old friends and making new ones. It was exactly what I wanted. It was perfect. Well, it would have been, if there hadn’t still been that dull ache of sadness inside me, which meant that sometimes I drifted away from what people were saying, caught up in doleful wonderings about Ed.

‘When’s Ed coming back, Evie?’ Rachel asked me then, dragging me into the conversation. ‘Is he ill, or just having some time off?’

‘Um . . . I’m not sure,’ I said cautiously.

‘He was meant to be going back to London anyway next week, wasn’t he?’ Rachel said, frowning as she thought. ‘I’m sure he said something like that.’

I shrugged, feeling miserable. I had no idea. What a surprise, something else he hadn’t told me. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘Well, he’s cancelled his newspaper order,’ Betty put in, overhearing. ‘Came in this morning to say he didn’t want it any more.’

I felt sick at these words and slumped back against my seat. So he really was off, just like that, without so much as a goodbye. Didn’t Tuesday night mean
anything
to him? ‘Nice of him to tell me,’ I muttered.

There was an awkward moment. ‘Did you two fall out?’ Rachel asked tentatively.

‘Kind of,’ I replied. I didn’t want to get into the full story – Ed would hate me even more for gossiping – but the people at my end of the table (Rachel, Leah, a Kiwi called Suze, Florence, Betty and Nora) all looked so sympathetic, and I
had
just drunk a glass of wine very quickly, and this
was
a girls’ night, where you were allowed to go into affairs-of-the-heart stuff, so . . .

‘We had a bit of a fling,’ I confessed. You could almost hear the sucked-back ‘Ooooh’s, the rustle of clothes as everyone leaned closer in, not wanting to miss a syllable of gossip. ‘I thought we’d really hit it off, you know, things felt so good between us.’

‘So what went wrong?’ Leah asked.

I sighed. ‘We had an argument,’ I said. ‘I can’t tell you what it’s about, but Ed was
mahoosively
pissed off and stormed out.’ I shrugged. ‘And I haven’t seen him since.’

‘Oh dear,’ Florence said, looking concerned. ‘Have you tried to make up with him, say sorry? Don’t let the sun go down on an argument, that’s what Arthur and I always used to say.’

I gave her a small smile. ‘I would if I could, but I don’t even know where he lives.’

‘Ah, but I do,’ Betty said eagerly. ‘He’s up on Bay View Terrace, number eleven, I think.’

I swung round to face her. ‘Really? That’s his address?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’s been getting the paper delivered up there while he’s been in the village.’

Everyone started talking at once. ‘You should go round – it’s not far. He might not have gone anywhere.’

‘Go and sort it out, these things are much better once you start talking about them.’

‘He’s mad about you, anyone can see that. Go on, go and make your peace.’

This last was Rachel, and I felt tears prickle my eyes at her words. ‘Do you think so?’ I asked, twisting the stem of my wine glass between my fingers.

‘Yeah!’ she replied. ‘He’s totally got the hots for you. Hundred per cent. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.’

My heart gave a huge thump. Decision made. I would take control, seize the day, just do it! Maybe I needed another glass of wine first, though. Dutch courage and all that. ‘Right, then. I’ll go later on tonight, when this is finished,’ I said.

‘No, you won’t,’ Betty said bossily. ‘You’ll go right now. We’ll keep an eye on things here for you.’

I dithered. What to do? There wasn’t that much to keep an eye on, to be honest. People could help themselves to the cakes, and everyone was drinking their own wine, so . . .

‘Go,’ Florence told me. ‘Just go. Tell him you’re sorry and that you want to make up.’

‘The best part of breaking up,’ someone warbled, ‘is when you’re making up . . .’

I laughed and stood up. ‘Okay, okay. I’ll go.’

A cheer went around the room and I clapped my hands to my face, feeling flustered and excited and more than a little nervous. ‘I won’t be long,’ I told them.

‘Take as long as you need,’ Florence replied.

‘Good luck,’ Rachel and Leah shouted after me.

And with that, I headed out into the night. Eleven, Bay View Terrace, here I come!

It was about nine o’clock by now, but still as humid and oppressive as it had been all day. Someone – Annie, I think – had been saying there had been a severe weather warning on the early-evening forecast about very heavy rain in the south-west, and I could feel the thunderous conditions building in the air. The pavements were dusty and dry as I walked up the main street, and my face felt hot. I hadn’t even bothered looking in the mirror to check I looked all right, I realized, so keen was I to get over to Ed’s and talk to him. I patted my hair down as I climbed the steep main street, sending up a little prayer to the Goddess of Vanity that I didn’t look completely minging. Ah. Bay View Terrace – there it was, up on the right.

My heart was really thumping as I turned into the small, quiet road, full of whitewashed terraced cottages. There were no lamp lights on this street, and the sky was dusky, filling the gardens with shadows. I could hardly breathe with nerves as I passed each house – number one, two, three – and started to wonder what on earth I was going to say to him when he answered the door. Four, five, six. What if he slammed the door in my face and refused to speak to me? Seven, eight, nine, ten.

Well, I was just about to find out. Number eleven – this was it.

I went up the small path to the house, then stopped. The house was as pretty and sweet as its neighbours, with rampant wisteria up its front wall, and a sprawling rose bush under the front window. I could smell the perfume from the velvety white roses that bloomed there. Unlike its neighbours, there were no lights on in this house, though. The curtains in the front rooms were still open. Disappointment slid through me as I clocked just how empty and silent the house seemed. Was he even in?