The Beach Cafe (8 page)

‘Wow,’ I said, exchanging a secret smile with Annie. Bless her, she seemed besotted. ‘Is that what he does to earn a living?’

Her face fell slightly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He works in the pub too. It’s really hard to make it in the art world, though,’ she added defensively.

‘Oh, I know,’ I replied. ‘I’ve been there myself, tried to be a photographer for a while, but . . .’ I shrugged. ‘Like you say, it’s hard. You need a lucky break, but that’s not always possible.’

‘He’s showing his work in this north-Cornwall summer exhibition soon,’ she went on. ‘We’re really hoping that’ll be his big break. Fingers crossed!’

‘Fingers crossed,’ I echoed, holding mine up to show her.

‘He’s actually pretty good,’ Annie said. ‘His stuff is a bit different from the traditional seascapes you usually get down here. That’s one of his up there.’ She pointed to the wall where a small square canvas hung, and I stood up to take a closer look. It was a dreamy scene depicting a shoal of fish underwater, with their bodies picked out in luminous, acid-bright colours, and the sea around them blended shades of soft blue and green. The overall effect was startling – it completely drew you into the underwater world and lent the creatures a magical aspect.

‘I really like that,’ I said. ‘I love the colours he’s used.’

I thought Martha was going to explode with pride. ‘He’s done a whole series of them,’ she said. ‘Not just fish, but sharks and dolphins and turtles too – all sorts of sea creatures.’

‘You’ll have to let me know when his exhibition’s on,’ I said. ‘I’d love to go along and see the rest.’

‘I will,’ Martha said. ‘I’ll get you a ticket when they go on sale.’

We cleared the table, then Annie brought in dessert – a huge chocolate cake with hazelnut and chocolate frosting. ‘Oh my goodness,’ I said, one hand on my stomach. ‘I’m really regretting that extra roast potato now. Why did I stuff myself to bursting point with the first course, when the second one looks unbelievably yumptious too?’

Martha laughed. ‘Mum’s cakes are amazing,’ she said, flashing an affectionate look at Annie. ‘None of my friends dare come round when she’s made one, especially if they’re on diets. They all know it’ll be utterly irresistible.’

Annie picked up the cake knife. ‘So, Evie, are you telling me you’re too full for a slice?’ she asked, the blade hovering over the icing.

‘No way,’ I replied, horrified that she could even think I’d pass on a helping. ‘I’m full, but I’m not
that
full.’ I grinned. ‘And I don’t have far to waddle home, at least. I’d love a slice, please.’

I could feel myself salivating as she cut me a piece of cake that resembled something a giant might use as a doorstop. ‘Well, I’m glad
I’m
not on a diet, as it would be well and truly out of the window by now,’ I commented, taking a forkful. ‘Thanks, Annie.’ Then the sweetness of the chocolate hit my tastebuds and there was a crunch of hazelnut, and my brain registered just how perfectly fluffy the sponge cake was.

‘Oh my GOD,’ I sighed, leaning back in my seat and shutting my eyes. ‘This is delicious.’ I swallowed, my fork already eagerly carving out the next mouthful. ‘Really, Annie, it’s amazing.’ I smiled across the table. ‘I wish I could make cakes like this. Honestly, the disasters I’ve had . . .’

I stopped talking suddenly as a brilliant idea slammed into my head. ‘Annie, you should bake for the café! Can I hire you? Will you be my new cake-baker?’

She blinked in surprise. ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to step on Carl’s toes,’ she said doubtfully.

‘Oh, who cares about him? He’s a jerk, Mum, we all know it,’ Martha argued.

‘Carl doesn’t seem to have picked up a cake tin since the day Jo . . . since . . . for ages,’ I said, stumbling over my words. ‘He’s more bothered about making horrible curries for his mates. We really need a proper cake-maker, Annie. And you said yourself that the shop job wasn’t paying fantastically, so . . .’

Annie still looked taken aback. ‘Are you serious about this? You’re not just being polite because you’ve had dinner here, and a few glasses of wine?’

‘I am totally serious,’ I said. ‘Obviously we’d need to sort out the details, how much you’d charge and how many cakes we’d want a week, and what sorts, but . . .’ I was nodding so hard I almost gave myself whiplash. ‘But in theory, if we were both happy with the arrangement, then yes! Why not?’

‘Yeah, why not?’ Martha chimed in. ‘You should do it, Mum. You love baking, and everyone in the world loves your cakes. And you’d be helping out Evie. Jo would want you to do it.’ She winked at me.

That was the clincher, it seemed. ‘Well, when you put it like that, O wise daughter of mine, then you’ve got a point,’ Annie said. ‘Evie, I’d absolutely love to be your cake-maker.’

She held out a hand and we shook. ‘Brilliant,’ I said, unable to stop smiling. ‘I can’t tell you how relieved I am that I’ll never have to make scones again. The only downside,’ I went on, wedging another bit of cake onto my fork, ‘is that I’m going to put on at least a stone every time I’m working there and serving up your cakes all day.’ I grinned at her. ‘But hey, it’s a price I’m willing to pay. When can you start?’

Chapter Eight

I felt more optimistic that evening as I went back to the flat. Not only was I full to the brim of good food and wine, I was also buzzing with plans for the future of the café. My new cake-maker and I were both completely open to seeing how things went, and either upping or decreasing the orders according to sales, but initially Annie had agreed to provide two large cakes every two days, with a batch of cupcakes, brownies or flapjacks too. Oh, and scones. She made lovely light scones, according to Martha. I could have kissed them both at the news.

‘So, let’s see, if I bring you a chocolate cake, a lemon cake and a batch of fruity flapjacks first thing Tuesday,’ she said, scribbling it down, ‘and maybe a carrot cake, and a Victoria sponge for Thursday, with some chocolate brownies. How does that sound? And then something else on Saturday? We can see what’s most popular, obviously, over the first few weeks, and tailor the orders accordingly.’ She smiled, her cheeks flushed with the wine and excitement. ‘Evie, I’m so thrilled about this, you know. I love baking, but with just me and Martha here, I have to rein myself in. But now I’ve got an excuse to bake and bake and bake – and get paid for it. Perfect!’

‘It’s pretty bloody perfect for me, too,’ I told her. ‘And the customers. They’ll be relieved they don’t have to try any more of my experiments, that’s for sure. And Carl might buck his ideas up too, if he hears I’m bringing you in as my right-hand woman.’

Oh yes, it was a win–win situation all right. I could feel Jo smiling down at me as I got into bed that night. With Annie on board, I was definitely going to get the café back on track.

I woke up on Monday still in a good mood. Jo had never opened the café on Mondays unless it was a bank holiday, or school holidays, and I knew Carl wouldn’t be coming in, so I figured I could give myself a day off too, and catch up on the paperwork and stock levels.

Once I was showered and dressed, I made a tray of breakfast things and took it outside to the deck. For the first time since I’d arrived in Cornwall, I felt as if I was on holiday. Raining cats and dogs in Oxford, Amber had said when I’d phoned for a gossip the night before – well, not here. The sky was a bright, clear stretch of blue, and the sun shone down, making the water glisten and sparkle. The breeze was cool as it ruffled my hair, and I put my feet up and leaned back against the warm wooden steamer-chair to drain the last of my coffee. This was the life, breakfasting with such a view! I could see why Jo had loved living here.

Afterwards, on the spur of the moment, I locked up the café and headed down to the beach, kicking off my flip-flops and leaving them at the foot of the steps.

The sand was cool and grainy under my bare toes, but it felt good. I strode towards the sea, the wind cold against the back of my neck, and tucked my hands in my pockets. I walked until I reached the first foaming curls of waves, gasping as the icy water hit my feet. Then I paddled through the shallows, feeling invigorated as the waves splashed my ankles, soaking through the bottoms of my jeans. The wet sand was silky smooth here, squeezing between my toes.

Come home
, Matthew kept saying on the phone – but home seemed like another land now. It was hard to imagine Monday morning in Oxford at this moment: the Cowley Road a busy stream of cyclists, buses and cars, kids being walked to school, Matthew and I eating breakfast in our small, rather dark kitchen, with Radio 4 burbling in the background. Was it still raining there, I wondered, envisaging the hiss and scrape of windscreen wipers, puddles in the roads, umbrellas and coat hoods put up in self-defence.

Here in the bay the light was almost unnaturally bright and the sea glittered with the golden rays of early-morning sun. I felt utterly alive; keenly aware of myself and my surroundings, all my senses charged up to the max. I felt like running along, whooping and yelling like a kid with the glory of it all. I wished I had my camera with me.

My phone began buzzing and vibrating in my pocket, and I pulled it out to see an unfamiliar number on the screen. An unfamiliar Oxford number. ‘Hello?’ I said warily.

‘Hi, Evie, this is Sophie from Pearson Recruitment,’ came a high-pitched, breezy voice. I couldn’t help my shoulders sinking. Damn.

‘Oh, hi,’ I said failing spectacularly in my attempt to muster up a shred of enthusiasm. My toes had dug themselves into the sand with sudden tension and I wiggled them free.

‘I’ve got some great news – we’ve got a new placement for you,’ she burbled. ‘It’s a two-month temporary post as admin cover for a pharmaceutical company just off the ring road . . .’

I pulled a face while making a non-committal ‘Mmm’ sound. A pharmaceutical company off the ring road? I wasn’t exactly hearing Thrillsville, Tennessee.

‘It’s full-time, thirty-five hours a week, slightly better pay than you were receiving at Crossland, and they want you to start at nine o’clock on Wednesday,’ she said. ‘So shall I give them a buzz and say you’re on board?’

My eyes were transfixed by the light sparkling on the waves; I had to drag myself back to what she was saying. ‘What – this Wednesday?’ I asked. I glanced at the café. Oh God. That would mean leaving tomorrow, and there was still so much I needed to sort out.

‘Yes, that’s right, this Wednesday,’ she replied. ‘It’s really lucky something’s come in so quickly for you, isn’t it? I knew you’d be pleased.’

Pleased? I didn’t feel pleased. I felt . . . torn. Confused. I stood gazing helplessly out to sea, unsure how to reply.

‘So I’ll give them a buzz then, yeah?’ she said, breaking the silence. ‘And I can email you their address, and the company website, so you can read all about them. Yeah?’

My toes were curled into the sand again, as if they were trying to root me into the beach. But real life was calling too, like whispers in the wind: Matthew, Saul, cold hard cash . . . ‘Yeah, okay,’ I said finally, unable to help the sigh slipping out with my words. I had to go back to my real life sometime, didn’t I? I couldn’t stay here forever, tempting though it was. ‘I’ll be there on Wednesday.’

I clicked off the call and immediately felt as if I’d made the wrong decision. I wished I could rewind the last two minutes, spool back to where she said ‘Yeah?’ and reply, ‘Well, no, actually’. Just as I was feeling more at home in the bay, I was going to leave again.

But at least I’d get to see Matthew, I consoled myself – and my mum too. It was her birthday on Friday, and we were all meant to be going out to dinner in Jericho to celebrate. Oh, yeah. Real life was edging back into my consciousness. It was right that I went back, really. And once in Oxford, I’d get to see Saul too – even better. The thought of his small, beaming face was consolation enough to finally loosen some of the knots in my stomach.

All holiday feelings had vanished now and I strode back to the café, lists of things I needed to do multiplying in my head.

On Tuesday morning, just before nine, Annie arrived with her first cake order. Both of the large cakes looked perfect – the chocolate cake had thick, glossy icing and smelled heavenly, and the lemon cake looked deliciously moist. It was all I could do not to cut off a slice of each there and then and cram them into my mouth. ‘And flapjacks too,’ she said, passing me a square tin. ‘Twenty plain, and twenty with fruit in. Let me know which go down best, for future bakes.’

‘Annie, you’re a legend,’ I told her, unpacking them onto plates. They were lovely and sticky, and didn’t fall apart like the flapjacks I remembered making at school. ‘Thank you. Listen, I’ve got to go back to Oxford today, so . . .’

Her face fell. ‘Oh no! So soon?’

I nodded. ‘Afraid so.’ I sighed, wishing more than ever that I had turned down the temp job. I just didn’t feel ready to leave Cornwall yet, especially now that we had such amazing-looking cakes to sell. I wanted to see people’s faces as they bit into them, wanted to get that vicarious thrill of watching their pleasure. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back either, unfortunately. As soon as I can, obviously, but . . .’ I shrugged. ‘It’s really difficult trying to juggle two lives, here and Oxford.’

‘I understand,’ she said. ‘Do you still want me to go on baking, even though you won’t be here?’

‘Oh God, yes, absolutely,’ I replied. ‘I’ll leave instructions with Carl, and make sure you get paid. Here – ’ I scribbled down my mobile and home numbers for her – ‘and keep in touch, won’t you? Let me know if there’s a problem. I’ll speak to Carl about how the cakes are selling, and ring you about new orders. Is that okay?’

I hoped it
was
okay. Managing the café by telephone was not remotely ideal, but it was the best I could do right now. Thankfully she nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Well, I can’t pretend I’m not sad that you’re off again. I was looking forward to us working together, and it was lovely to have you round on Sunday night – Martha and I were both saying how much we enjoyed it. But I do understand. Make sure you come back soon, won’t you?’

I gave her a hug. ‘You bet I will,’ I told her.

By noon, I was loading my case into the car with an odd sense of foreboding about leaving.

‘I’ll be down again before long,’ I promised Carl. ‘Hopefully a weekend during half-term at the least.’ I’d persuade Matthew that we could bring Saul down for a little holiday, I vowed. Sell it to Emily as some time off for her and Dan, then pretend he was my boy for a few days, and we were a happy family having a seaside holiday together. He’d love the beach, I knew it already. I could just imagine him, skinny white legs sticking out of swim-shorts as he dug the most humongous castle for his Gogos to take up residence in.

‘See ya then,’ Carl said, arms folded in front of him. I felt his eyes on me as I got into the car and started the engine. I hoped he wasn’t about to start texting his mates the moment I was gone, with
POKER PARTY BACK ON
messages.

I drove away, trying not to think about that. I’d only been in Cornwall a few days, but already I was used to life there: the amazing light first thing in the morning, the glorious fresh air, the spectacular scenery, the slower pace of life. It was a shock to my system, getting back on a busy A-road and being surrounded by traffic again. I tried not to think about the calmness of my beach in comparison, the rhythmic rolling of the waves, the vast openness of the sky.

At least the first reaction to the cakes had been good, I tried to comfort myself. There had been some genuine oohs and aahs when people saw them, and we’d sold quite a few flapjacks at elevenses time too. I was sorry not to be there for the afternoon, that time of day when every person in their right mind fancied a bit of cake. They wouldn’t be sorry if they came to
my
café with a sweet-tooth craI thought proudly.

I arrived in Oxford four hours later, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel as I hit the gridlocked ring road. Cars queued back from the roundabouts, nose-to-tail, all the drivers looking frustrated and fed up. It was a warm day and I’d rolled down my windows, but quickly wound them up again as the smell of diesel wafted in around my nostrils. ‘Come
on
,’ I muttered under my breath, feeling impatience creeping through me. ‘Hurry up!’

Another twenty minutes of stop-start driving and I was pulling up outside our house. Home. I heaved my bags out of the car and let myself in. Then I stopped and stared. Everything seemed . . . different. It smelled very clean and the hall looked unusually tidy. The coat-rack was normally completely overloaded with coats, scarves, hats and umbrellas, but it seemed to have been thinned out in my absence. All that remained were a couple of jackets, my fawn-coloured mac and a single umbrella, neatly rolled.

Whoa. If it wasn’t for the fact that I recognized the spatter of mud along the bottom of my mac, I’d have had to double-check I was in the right house. I raised my eyebrows, wondering if the fact that Matthew had resorted to tidying up in my absence was a sign that he had missed me desperately. I hoped so. I smiled, liking the image of him busying around, making our home look even nicer to distract himself from his boredom. There was something kind of romantic about that.

Further in, the house looked even cleaner. Spookily clean, in fact. It was as if Kim and Aggie had paid a surprise visit, or Matthew had become best friends with Mr Muscle and invited him round to demonstrate his products. I wandered through the rooms, wide-eyed and holding my breath. The chunky wooden coffee table in the living room – usually scattered with magazines, newspapers, books, letters, empty mugs – was spotless and suspiciously glossy-looking. I bent down and sniffed it, breathing in the unmistakable scent of beeswax. Beeswax! He
had
been bored.

Elsewhere in the room the CDs had all been put back in their boxes and were lined up on the rack. The mantelpiece – which tended to be a resting place for photos, bills, invitations and other important stuff – was empty save for a couple of candlesticks and the clock. It had even been dusted, I noted, raising my eyebrows in surprise.

The kitchen was similarly pristine – the kettle and toaster both gleaming, the draining rack empty, the fruit bowl full of bright Granny Smiths and perfect bananas. I knew without checking that the wrinkled old grapes that had lurked there previously would now be history, consigned to the compost heap along with the elderly, shrunken clementines that I’d somehow not got round to eating.

‘Good work, Matthew,’ I murmured, staring around in awe at all his slaving. It must have taken him
hours.
I gingerly picked up the kettle and filled it, then wiped my fingerprints off the sparkling chrome with a tea towel. While it began boiling, I took my bags upstairs.

Walking into our bedroom gave me a start. I hadn’t seen it so spotless since the day I’d moved in. My eyes boggled at the cream-coloured armchair that stood in one corner. It was usually covered with heaps of my clothes – but not now. They had vanished, presumably all put away for the first time ever. I’d almost forgotten there was actually a chair there beneath them.

The bedside tables were both empty too. I blinked in surprise at mine: when I’d left a few days earlier, there had been a teetering tower of paperbacks on it, a clock and several old glasses of water. Now there was . . . nothing.