The Beach Cafe (28 page)

I knocked at the door, listening for Lola’s bark and the sound of any life from within. There was silence. Maybe they were in the back garden, I told myself. Or maybe he’d gone to the pub.

But as I stood there in the warm, fragrant evening light, knocking again – and again – I remembered what Betty had said about cancelling his newspaper, and realized I was too late. He
had
already left the bay. Had he gone back to Melissa, his wife? I wondered despondently. Or had he gone someplace different altogether, making moves on a new sucker like me?

‘Bastard,’ I said, kicking the doorstep vehemently. And then I walked back towards the café, trying not to cry.

I was so caught up with my own misery that I nearly jumped out of my skin when I reached the café’s little car park and saw a figure moving out from the shadows next to a car I didn’t recognize. ‘Oh!’ I gasped, my hand flying up to my throat, and my heart skidding into a faster beat. Was it Ed? I wondered, my breath catching in my throat. Or was it, in fact, some deranged nutter on the prowl? Not Ryan again, surely?

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,’ the man called, stepping towards me. It was getting darker by the minute, but he looked about forty, tall and slim, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved grey top. ‘This is the Beach Café, right? Carrawen Bay?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ I said. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Oh, great,’ he said. ‘Yes. I think my mum’s in there? I was just coming to surprise her.’ He held out a hand. ‘Francis.’

I smiled at him. ‘Florence’s son,’ I said, shaking it. ‘I’m Evie, manager of the café. Come with me, she’s having a girls’ night in inside.’

He grinned broadly. ‘She mentioned it on the phone,’ he said. ‘She was all excited. Are you sure I’m allowed in?’

‘I think we can make an exception for long-lost sons,’ I said. ‘Come on, it’s this way.’

We walked round to the front of the café and I showed him in. A squeal went up from Florence and she hurried over excitedly to throw her arms around him. A big ‘Aahh’ sighed out around the room from everyone else, then I felt numerous eyes slide towards me, wanting to know what had happened.

‘Well?’ Rachel prompted.

I made a thumbs-down gesture. ‘Not there,’ I said. ‘I think he’s done a bunk, left town.’

An ‘Awww’ of sympathy went around the room now. It was like being in a pantomime, although unfortunately nobody shouted out an excited ‘He’s behind you!’

‘The rotten sod,’ Betty said, clucking indignantly. She shook her head. ‘Never did trust him, mind. Always thought there was something shifty about him myself.’

Florence and her son had finished their embrace and she looked around the room, eyes shining. ‘Everyone, I want you to meet my son, Francis. Francis, these are all my new friends.’ She began introducing everyone individually, and I could see Francis’s eyes almost popping out of his head in surprise that his mum suddenly had so many pals of all ages.

‘Wow,’ he said at the end. ‘And is this a regular thing, you ladies meeting up for cake and gossip like this?’

There was a slight hesitation and, again, I felt all eyes on me. ‘Well, I hope it’ll be a regular thing,’ I replied after a moment. ‘This is actually our first get-together, but I’d love this to be a place for all the Carrawen Bay girls to drop by and have a natter on a Thursday evening. So why not?’

Somebody gave a whoop, and then somebody else started clapping, and before I knew it, everyone was clapping and cheering at this news. I smiled, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. It felt . . . lovely. Like I belonged.

Annie passed me a glass of wine. ‘Cheers, everyone,’ she said, holding her own glass in the air. ‘I think this is the start of the Carrawen Bay Thursday Club, don’t you?’

And then we were all raising our glasses and toasting each other and it felt wonderful. Screw lying Ed. Forget sneaking-away-into-the-night Ed. I had all these fabulous women around me – and a rather stunned-looking Francis – and that was good enough for me.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The next day – Friday – it started to rain. At first, I was glad that the humidity had been blown away by the cool, wet breezes sweeping in off the sea, but after it had poured down solidly for four hours with no sign of a let-up, I found myself wishing it would stop. Rachel, Leah and I were twiddling our thumbs with no customers to serve, and we ended up giving the seating area a thorough ‘deep-clean’ for want of anything else to do, scrubbing the walls and skirting boards, even the chairs themselves. I was determined to keep myself distracted by work. As soon as I stopped, that was when the sad thoughts about Ed began to creep into my head again.

By the time Wendy turned up, we’d still only had a handful of customers, so I told her to make up just half the usual number of pasties, as there was no way we’d need our full quota with weather like this.

‘ “Summertime . . .” ’ I heard her crooning, in her deep, throaty voice. ‘ “And the living is rainy . . .” You’ve gotta love our crappy British summer, haven’t you?’

At midday Francis walked in, dripping wet despite the large black umbrella he carried. ‘Hello there,’ I said in surprise. ‘Everything all right? What can I get you?’

‘A coffee and a few words, if that’s okay,’ he said, shaking the umbrella and spraying water everywhere.

‘Bad luck to have an umbrella up indoors,’ Wendy muttered lugubriously from where she had come out from the kitchen to chat with us.

He raised an eyebrow at her and grinned. ‘Bad luck to come back to Britain just as the weather turns too,’ he said. ‘I’ve left a heatwave behind in the States, apparently.’

I poured him a coffee and then led him to one of the booths by the windows, my eye drawn to the spitting grey waves as they roared in and out, and the rain, which was still sheeting down. God, it looked awful out there, the water levels rising ominously. I wondered what on earth Francis wanted to talk about, which was so urgent that he’d run through this downpour to get here.

‘Thanks,’ he said, ripping open a sugar sachet and stirring the contents in. ‘Okay, so here’s the thing. I don’t know if my mum told you, but I’m a television producer—’

‘She did,’ I interrupted. ‘Very proud, too.’

He smiled. ‘Thanks. Well, I’ve been commissioned to make a new documentary series for Channel 4, about society in the twenty-first century. Broken Britain, the collapse of society, why no one speaks to each other any more, let alone knows their neighbours.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘But I’m presenting the flipside too: how you do still get these great, thriving communities where people help and support each other.’

‘Sounds good,’ I commented.

‘I was planning to start filming in Bristol and London, capture some of the communities there – there’s a massive Portuguese population around Stockwell in south London, for example – and contrast their unity with the more disparate neighbourhoods in nearby areas. I wasn’t planning to do any work here at all, just have a few days with Mum, but . . .’

‘But?’ I prompted, wondering where this was going.

‘When I walked in here last night, and saw Mum surrounded by so many nice people, I was really moved,’ he said. ‘Relieved too – I know she’s found it tough since Dad died, being cut off from me and all her old friends. So for me to come here and see that, actually, she’s doing okay, it felt amazing. I hadn’t expected to find the sort of close-knit community I was looking for, right here on Mum’s doorstep – let alone for her to be involved in it.’

I sipped my coffee. ‘She’s a nice lady,’ I said. ‘I’m glad she’s finding her feet now.’

‘So,’ he went on, propping an elbow on the table and fixing me with an intense look, ‘I’d like to do some filming for the documentary here in the bay, and I was wondering if I could focus in on this place as a centre for the community. Perhaps I could come along to your next – what was it? Thursday Club night? Or Mum mentioned that the book group was meeting here, or . . .’

‘Hang on, hang on,’ I said, wondering if I’d misheard. ‘You want to film stuff here in the café, for a programme that’s going out on Channel 4?’

He nodded. ‘It’s for the new
Dispatches
season,’ he said. ‘Is that okay?’

‘Wow,’ I said, still not quite taking this in. ‘Really? Wow!’ I found that I was giggling like an idiot. ‘Oh God. I need to get my hair cut,’ I blurted out, then felt embarrassed at my own vanity. ‘I mean . . . Yes, please! WOW!’ I jumped up from my seat and called over to Rachel and Leah. ‘Guess what, guys? We’re going to be on telly!’

They both squealed, and then Wendy rushed out from the kitchen, all flustered, and said, did she have time to put some make-up on, because there was no way she was going on t’box without her No. 7 on her face, and we all got slightly overexcited and screechy. What amazing publicity this would be for the café, I kept thinking. A little slot on primetime national TV – how good was that?

Francis was laughing. ‘Why don’t you guys come and join us,’ he said, waving them all over. ‘Tell me what you think we should film.’

More squeals and giggles as Rachel, Leah and Wendy promptly dashed across to the booth and squeezed in with us. ‘Wait till my hubby hears about this,’ Wendy said, eyes glittering with excitement. ‘Am I glad I said yes to your temp job here, Evie. Now, Francis,’ she went on, addressing him sternly, ‘are you sure you can’t do the whole programme about us? I think we’ve got a lot to offer Channel 4, personally speaking.’

I spluttered into my coffee at the startled look on Francis’s face, liking Wendy more and more by the hour. Unlike another chef I could mention, she didn’t seem in the least bit camera-shy.

Francis said that making the decision to film here would rather ‘bugger up the filming schedule’, as he put it, but he thought he could get the film crew here for the following Tuesday. ‘We’re meant to be putting together a piece about the Afro-Caribbean community in St Pauls in Bristol then, but we can push that back until Wednesday or Thursday at a pinch,’ he said. ‘So if there’s any chance you could have your ladies’ night on Tuesday instead, then we can get some of that on film.’ We also talked about him filming interviews with other community figures, like Lindsay from the pub, the head of the local primary school, and Betty, in her position as Retail Queen. He was interested in the coexistence of the public and private faces of the village, he said: how there was one level of activity that was all about the holidaymakers enjoying themselves, and a separate, more hidden level pertaining to the villagers’ lives. All sounded good to me.

I could feel Wendy drooping beside me as we discussed these ideas, though, and after a while I clicked why – she had realized she wasn’t actually going to be present for any of the filming in the café. ‘Wendy, you’ll have to come along on Tuesday evening,’ I told her. ‘It’s our soon-to-be famous girls’ night in – bring a bottle and some munchies, and you can have a good old chat with the Carrawen Bay ladies.’

‘Even if I’m not actually from the village?’ she asked, and I was about to tease her that, oh yes, actually, if she wasn’t from the village, she wouldn’t be allowed in, when I detected a certain vulnerability in her face. I wondered how often she got to have a night out, given that she seemed to be caring for her husband so much of the time.

‘Of course,’ I told her. ‘Especially if you bring along some tasty nibbles to share. You’ll have a whole load of new best friends in no time.’

She looked much perkier at this. ‘Fab,’ she said. ‘Then count me in. I’ll wear me poshest frock and all. Now, Francis, you just make sure you get my best side on film, won’t you?’ she said, wagging a finger at him. ‘And for God’s sake, please don’t film me when I’ve got me gob full of cake, whatever you do. Channel 4 won’t know what’s hit it!’

Francis laughed and we exchanged a smile. Wendy was going to be telly gold, I knew it already.

Word about the television programme spread around the village like wildfire and all the locals seemed hugely excited by the idea. ‘Just what Carrawen Bay needs, some good publicity,’ Betty said, her face creasing with smiles, when I popped into the shop later that day. ‘This programme could put us right on the map, boost our tourist numbers ten times over.’

‘I know, it’s going to be great,’ I said happily. ‘I can’t believe my little café is going to be on Channel 4. I wish Jo could have been here to see it.’

‘She would have been so proud, lovey. So proud,’ she said. ‘Oh, and have you seen the
Gazette
today? Nice review of your restaurant evening.’ She grabbed one of the newspapers and flicked through to find it, page after page after page, until she’d almost reached the sports news at the end. ‘There you are,’ she said finally, jabbing a finger at the paper.

I leaned over to see. In amongst some lurid ads for other restaurants, the horoscopes, and a piece about a production on at the theatre in Newquay, there was a small picture of Rachel and me, rather pink in the cheeks, under the caption ‘FULL HOUSE FOR BEACH CAFÉ’S EVENING MENU’. I scanned quickly through the text, my heart thumping.

New owner of the Beach Café in Carrawen Bay, Evie Flynn, aged 39 . . .

‘Thirty-NINE ?’ I squawked. ‘I’m thirty-two, the cheeky buggers.’

. . . has begun an evening menu for diners looking for fresh, local food served in a beautiful beach-side setting.

‘They’ve just copied out the press release,’ I realized, rolling my eyes. Still, it could have been worse.

With reasonable prices and a simple, seasonal menu, diners can enjoy great food while the sun sets in picturesque Carrawen Bay. The café operates on a BYO basis (bring your own alcohol) and charges a £2 fee for corkage. We can certainly vouch for a buzzy, friendly atmosphere with plenty of happy-looking customers. For bookings, telephone . . .

The smile slipped from my face. It was that ‘For bookings’ line that did for me. Because who could say when I’d ever run an evening menu there again, now that Ed had vanished? Fabulous as Wendy was, I couldn’t ask her to come and do an evening shift every week. In the meantime, what would I say when people phoned up to book a table?
Oh, sorry. We only managed to open one Friday night after all. Too ambitious for my own good, that’s me!

I stared at the picture of Rachel and me and felt a pang for that crazy, hectic evening, and the feelings of triumph that had followed. It was obvious now why Ed hadn’t wanted to have his photo taken, of course.

‘Thanks, Betty,’ I said, trying not to get maudlin. ‘I’ll take a copy.’ I’d snip out the cutting and put it in a scrapbook, I decided. And maybe one of the interviewees I had coming in on Monday would be up for trying another weekend evening menu with me. Surely one of them would do the job. I’d just have to hope so.

The weekend passed, and still Ed didn’t get in touch or show his face. I was resigned to the fact that he’d gone now, but it didn’t make me feel any better. In fact, I felt more of a fool with every day that went by. I’d been vulnerable, on the rebound from Matthew, I realized miserably, and he’d taken advantage. ‘It was my fault just as much, though,’ I moaned on the phone to Amber. ‘He didn’t force me into anything, I was fair game. I just . . . thought he was better than that. When, in fact, it turned out he was nothing but—’

‘A cockhead,’ Amber suggested helpfully.

‘Yes, exactly,’ I said. ‘A total cockhead disguised as a nice guy. A wolf in chef’s clothing.’

She was having a better time of it than me, luckily for her. She’d had a call-back from the BBC for a second audition for a new role they were casting in
Holby City
. ‘I am bricking it,’ she said cheerfully, ‘but excited too. This could be it, Evie. I know I always say it, but this really could be it!’

‘Oooh, matron,’ I said in my best, fruity Kenneth Williams voice. ‘Fingers crossed here for you.’

My sister Louise surprised me by phoning for a chat the same evening. ‘When can we come and see you?’ she asked. ‘Ruth’s kids haven’t stopped going on about visiting your café, and mine are all desperate to come down.’

‘Really?’ I asked in surprise. A warm feeling swelled inside me.

‘Yeah! It feels like ages since we saw you, Evie, it’s been weird without you here.’

‘Has it?’

‘Yes, of course! And I was really sorry to hear about Matthew, by the way. What a jerk. I never thought he was good enough for you, anyway.’

‘Didn’t you? I mean . . . thanks.’ I realized I was gaping at all the revelations that were coming down the phone line and was glad nobody was there to see me.

‘So, when can we come?’ she asked. ‘How about the last weekend in June?’

‘Lovely,’ I said, still feeling somewhat stunned. Louise and her kids wanted to see me. Me, the black sheep! I know that in most normal families this wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary, but it felt like a moon-landing for me. I found myself smiling whenever I remembered the conversation for the rest of the evening.

On Monday the café was closed, and I interviewed my shortlist for the chef’s job. The Wadebridge deli-worker informed me that she wouldn’t be available to work weekends or school holidays (which just so happened to be our busiest times). The chip-meister smelled distinctly alcoholic, despite the Polo mint he was crunching. The fifty-something ex-pub chef had a horrendous personal-hygiene problem and confessed that he’d lost his last job because of a brawl he’d had with the restaurant manager. ‘We were only mucking about,’ he said unconvincingly, as I sat there, goggling in horror. ‘I didn’t hurt him or anything.’

In a nutshell, they were all hopeless. And as if that wasn’t enough, I had a surprise visit from Carl, who walked in as I was halfway through the third interview, asking if he could have his old job back as he’d been unexpectedly ‘let go’ from his new place of work. The ex-pub chef swung round so aggressively that I thought he was going to challenge Carl to a duel for the position. ‘Carl, I am actually interviewing for the chef ’s job right now,’ I told him, rattled. ‘And I’m afraid the answer in your case is no.’