The Comfort Food Café

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

L aura told us to go straight to the café, where we will be given a ‘proper Comfort Food welcome’. This is a slightly terrifying prospect, but not as terrifying as my daughter’s driving. I take over after an hour because my nerves are shredded.

They aren’t much better by the time we wind our way into Dorset, because the weather is absolutely horrendous. It’s late September and summer is already a distant memory.

‘Is this a storm with a name?’ Sophie asks, leaning forward and peering through the windscreen. The wipers are on full, but they’re barely keeping up, and the wind is howling around the roof rack like it’s trying to claw its way inside the car. Gary keeps letting out little yips that tell us he’s keeping a close eye on the situation.

‘I think it must be a storm with a name,’ she decides. ‘I think maybe it’s Storm Beelzebub. I wonder if the café will get blown off the cliff?’

‘Probably,’ I answer, ‘because that’s what happens when you give me a job.’ I think it is a storm with a name, but I vaguely remember it was something girly from the seventies, like Storm Sandy or Storm Babs or whatever…

The motorway has been a grim experience, a constant flow of impatient traffic and spray from what seemed like every goods lorry ever manufactured in the Western hemisphere. It was a huge relief to escape onto the still-busy roads that led us through Glastonbury and Yeovil, and now we are making slow but steady progress through quiet country lines that are lined with dripping-wet hedgerows, surrounded by fields in every imaginable shade of green. Even with the hellish grey sky and the torrential downpour, I can see how pretty it is—like a vibrant patchwork quilt that’s been draped over the landscape.

Every mile we cover seems to be taking us closer to the coast, and Sophie gets excited every time we catch a glimpse of it between the rolling hills. She’s a child who grew up in the Midlands, and screams ‘I can see the sea!’ whenever it pops into her line of sight.

‘What does it look like?’ I ask, concentrating on obeying my first rule of driving, and in fact life: don’t crash.

‘Ummm … grey, to be honest. And big. And I suppose wet.’

‘Wow. I can see why you got that grade 8 in your Geography GCSE.’

‘I know, right? I should probably start my own YouTube channel: Seeing the Sea with Sophie! What do you think?’

‘I think we’re nearly there. According to the directions we should be coming up to the turning that takes us to Budbury.’

‘That’s a nice name, isn’t it?’ she asks enthusiastically. She seems insanely excited about all of this, and it makes me smile inside. ‘Like, “buds”—new growth, change, optimism. All that good stuff. It’s there! It’s there, I see it! Next left!’

Sure enough, within a few minutes of a quick-fire indicate-and-turn, we are driving down a long and winding road that stretches like a ribbon through the village. I think the word ‘village’ might be overstretching, as there seems to be only one street. But it is a good street that possesses all of life’s essentials.

I see a small butcher’s shop and grocery, a community centre, a pharmacy, a florist and—hallelujah!—a pub called the Horse and Rider. Scattered between these are rows of small terraced houses, the type that were probably built as workers’ cottages for fishermen and agricultural labourers, and now look quaint and pretty with their rough whitewashed stone exteriors.

I still don’t know where exactly Sophie and I will be staying; Laura just said she had it sorted, and not to worry. I’m trying to go with the flow, but I am pretty tired now, and suddenly feeling a bit overwhelmed. It’s been a tough journey, and now I’m about to meet a load of new people and begin a job I’ve never even done before. I’m not usually the kind of person who puts a lot of stock in signs and portents, but landing here in the middle of a monsoon doesn’t exactly feel like a good start, either. If a seagull crashes into my windscreen, I’m turning around and going home.

I keep these thoughts to myself, as Sophie is wittering on incessantly about how lovely everything is, and wondering out loud if there’s a games arcade, and planning to join the local jam-making society. I do a bit of a double-take at that one, and she says: ‘This has got to be the kind of place that has a jam-making society, don’t you think? I’ve always wanted to learn how to make jam. Then once I’ve mastered it, I’ll start my own YouTube channel … Make the Jam with Sophie! ’

I shake my head, and keep my eyes on the road as it curves and dips further down towards the coast. I think maybe she’s a bit nervous too, and the verbal overflow is just her way of expressing it.

As Laura promised, there is a small car park ahead, and I manoeuvre the car into a space between a little Fiat 500 and a small van. It’s painted white, and the side features the Comfort Food Café logo, its name made out of trailing red roses. Beneath, it bears the words: ‘Making the world a better place, one cake at a time.’

Maybe, during the 2020 hellscape, the café, like many other businesses, started doing deliveries. Or maybe they always did. Or maybe I’m overthinking this, and it doesn’t really matter anyway, other than as a way to distract myself from the fact that we are here. Amazing how fascinating the most mundane of things can become when you’re trying to avoid something else, isn’t it?

We both clamber out of the car, and I immediately brace myself against the wind. It’s so strong it feels like it could sweep us away, and send us tumbling down towards the waves. A few random items are blowing around: a broken umbrella, a map that was probably once folded into a neat leaflet size, a beach ball… Definitely not beach ball weather, I think, as it gets carried away in a howling air current, bouncing and flying into the distance until it’s a green and yellow speck.

I put Gary on his lead, and join Sophie at the side of the car park. My hair is whipping around my face, and the rain is ice cold against my skin, but I can still see how beautiful it is. A small, horseshoe-shaped bay, scattered with boulders and edged by red and gold cliffs that curve off into the distance. Today, the sea is wild and grey, topped with white surf that slings itself angrily against the sand—but in sunshine, on a milder day, it would be stunning.

‘Where are the raincoats?’ Sophie shouts over the gale, and I realise that we have made a basic packing error.

‘Shit—they’re in the roof box!’ I say, looking at her in horror. This is not unpacking-the-roof-box weather.

‘Never fear,’ she says jauntily, obviously having taken on the role of She Who Will Not Be Deflated today. ‘Back in a sec!’

She is going against the wind, her slender form bending into it and moving so slowly she looks like she’s doing a mime. Gary leans into my legs, his tail tucked between his legs, obviously not keen. I’m ashamed to say I have no clue what the climate is like in Hungary, his home nation, but he loves the heat, our Gary. In summer, he goes and finds the nearest patch of sunlight and lies in it until he’s had enough. Then he comes back inside panting, his smooth black coat shining and warm to the touch. Here, he just looks up at me with baleful amber eyes, as if he’s blaming me for the rain.

Sophie runs back towards me—with the wind behind her this time so it now looks like she’s being shoved by invisible hands—and passes me a black bin bag. It flaps around, and I’m momentarily confused until I see her tear a hole in the bottom and then pull it over her head.

‘Ta-da!’ she announces, grinning even though a raindrop is hanging off her nose. ‘Insta-raincoats! I’m really good at making impromptu storm-wear. I think maybe I’ll?—’

‘Let me guess? Start a YouTube channel about it?’

‘Don’t be stupid! I was going to say make some TikToks! Come on, it’s up there, isn’t it? This is shitty weather but it still looks gorgeous!’

She points up towards the building that I also recognise as the café. It’s perched further along from where we are, looking a little precarious on the edge of the cliff. It’s only half six, but due to Storm Linda—I remembered her name—the sky is already darkening, and the sun has been banished. The sky is made of black-streaked clouds that are hanging so low it’s almost smothering, and the café is lit up brightly against the gloomy backdrop.

I put on my bin bag, and follow my daughter towards the path that will lead us up—up to the café, and all those new people, and to physical evidence of the fact that I have clearly gone mad. I don’t want to go, I realise. I’m actually so nervous my legs feel shaky. One of the especially lovely side effects of Richie’s betrayal has been the complete evaporation of all my self-confidence. At some point, I think I must have started agreeing with him, and seeing myself as second-best. I hate that, and hope my time here will help me change it. If I can recreate myself for other people, maybe I’ll get a new lease of life for me as well.

First, though, I have to tackle this path—or paths. I see as we cross the road that there are two. One has low-level steps in it, and the other is paved smooth, presumably for buggies and wheelchairs. Both of them are steep, but the paved one winds around the climb in a more meandering way. Gary decides on the steps, pulling me forwards behind Sophie.

There are various points where the path expands, with little fences to lean on as you gaze out at the view. And again, on a day unravaged by Linda, it would undoubtedly be gorgeous. Today, though, we just concentrate on heading up, our way lit by strings of fairy lights wavering in the wind.

When we reach the top, I see a wrought iron archway that we have to walk through. The top of the arch is decorated with metallic roses, painted in shades of red and green. The roses and the leaves are winding in and out of the words, Welcome to the Comfort Food Cafe . It is a beautiful touch, made with real craft and artistry, and I can imagine similar designs in different locations. I’d love to have a home big enough for its own version, and make a small vow to buy a Euromillions ticket before the next draw.

At the top of the path is a garden, sloping and steep, with wooden picnic tables and benches scattered around. It’s a bit haphazard, and some of the tables look decidedly wonky, but the views out to sea would make the slippage risk worth it.

We make our way through the garden, past tubs and planters filled with flowers now flattened by the rain, and Gary pauses to lift his leg against a small metal post that seems to serve no purpose, until I see the little sign painted on the side that says, Dogs—please check your wee-mails here!

Strings of lights are all around, swooping around the sides of the building, looping over the entrance to a small annexe that seems to be a book shop. Some of them are lifting and twisting in the wind, and I’m not sure how highly I rate their chances of staying attached.

The café itself is one storey high, apart from some windows built into the eaves, and is long and sprawling. It looks like it’s grown organically along the side of the cliff, and its big windows are bright with light, casting a golden glow on the now apocalyptic world around it.

I stop for a moment, and bite my lip so hard I taste blood. It looks busy in there. I can see a lot of human bodies, and some canine, and although the wind is howling in my ears, I can still hear laughter and chatter and the background hum of music. It sounds suspiciously like ‘A Whole New World’ from Aladdin , being sung extremely badly by two female voices.

‘You okay?’ says Sophie, watching me as I watch the café. She reaches out, and pats the shoulder of my wet bin bag. I nod, even though I’m not. Time to be brave.

‘Yeah, fine. And we’re bound to create a good impression, dressed like literal bag ladies, aren’t we?’

‘It’s recycling. Very hot topic in fashion these days. Come on, let’s go in and see if they were right about the cake, shall we? Apart from anything else, Gary’s doing that thing where he’s so wet he looks like the love child of a seal and a rat.’

I glance down and see that she’s right. His black fur is plastered to his body, and the whiskers on his long, narrow face are twitching. I give him a quick stroke and murmur some reassuring words. He’s a lot better than when we first adopted him; back then he was scared of everything, including wires, crisp packets, and hairbrushes. He used to run out of the room in terror if we dared do anything threatening, like open a can of pop, and he hid from everyone he met. Things have improved a lot after four years with us, but he can still be nervy in crowds, and is especially shy around men. I’ve warned Laura about all of this, but she is sure he’ll soon realise he is among friends.

I reach out to turn the handle, and as I do, a huge gust of wind blows the door wide open, so powerfully that it slams into the wall behind it. I’m left standing in the doorway in my dripping bin bag, and freeze in terror in case everyone turns and stares at me.

A few do, but most are concentrating on the performance. A little space has been cleared amid the tables and chairs, and two women are belting out Princess Jasmine’s classic. They’re in perfect harmony, both completely off-key. One has long red hair, and one has long pink hair, and they’re both giving their all.

Gary sticks by my side as I make my way through, followed by Sophie. As I look around, trying to get my breath back, an old lady who looks like a garden gnome approaches me. She’s very short, dressed entirely in beige, and has twinkling blue eyes almost completely swallowed by wrinkles. She could be anywhere between seventy and a hundred and ten.

‘You must be Max!’ she announces, helping me pull my bin bag off. ‘It’s so nice to finally meet you. I’m Laura!’

I pause with one arm free and the other still encased in black plastic, and stare at her in disbelief. This can’t be Laura, surely? I mean, I know you don’t always get an accurate impression of people on video calls, but…

‘I’ve had a tough day,’ she adds. ‘Didn’t have time to put my face on.’

She leaves me hanging for a few more seconds, mouth gaping open, before she cackles, loud and long. She claps her hands together in glee, and points at me.

‘Got you there, didn’t I? I’m not Laura at all, I’m Edie! Come on, come on, shut the door behind you—nobody invited Linda to this party!’

I realise that this is indeed a party, and that the room is pretty packed. It’s deliciously warm and welcoming, especially compared to the conditions outside, and it smells divine. Like every kind of cake known to man—of sugar and spice and most definitely all things nice.

A very quick scan reveals all the usual café things: gingham tablecloths, small vases of flowers, a counter in front of a huge coffee machine, a fridge full of soft drinks, and a glass-fronted cooler for fresh food.

A slightly slower scan reveals a few more things, like lots of random posters and prints up on the walls. We’ve all got used to seeing Keep Calm and Carry On , but these are slightly odder. Like Life’s Too Short For Celery , which is most certainly true, and one that hangs by the serving counter that says, We will assume you want your hot chocolate with marshmallows and cream unless you appear to be dead .

One end of the room has a kind of lounging area with squishy sofas and beanbags, and a bookshelf crammed with board games and colouring pads and pens, as well as a huge assortment of paperbacks and maps. I’m so tired right now, the thought of lying down on one of those sofas, with a mug of the promised hot chocolate, is just about the most enticing thing I’ve ever imagined.

Edie gives us both an appraising look, and says: ‘Good. You’re both normal-sized humans. No need to worry about your heads. Tea, coffee, wine, mojito?’

I am momentarily confused, but soon realise what she means about our heads. The whole café is decorated with extremely weird items, and some of them are dangling from the ceiling. There’s a mobile made from old seven-inch vinyl singles, and nets full of shells, and suspended on chains in one corner is a bright red one-man kayak. It’s like the whole room has been set up like one of those baby play gyms, where they lie on a mat and reach up to touch the brightly-coloured objects hanging over their faces. Except, you know, for adults.

I love anything to do with interior design—I am a sad addict of any reality show that involves doing up a house or changing a room—and find the whole thing fascinating. None of it should work. None of it should make sense. And yet somehow it does—it looks quirky and odd and fabulous.

Sophie is looking around in wonder, and goes over to stroke a giant fossil that is perched on one of the shelves. It curls in on itself like a giant spiral, and is surrounded by smaller fossils of every size and shape and design. She always loved these when we used to take her to the museum, and she’s already vowed to become the world’s best fossil-hunter while we are here on the Jurassic Coast. Maybe she’ll make a YouTube channel about it.

‘That’s an ammonite,’ Edie pronounces proudly, as though she made it herself. ‘One of the biggest found around here. It’s 160 million years old, which means it’s almost as old as me!’

Sophie smiles, and I can see that she is already half in love with Edie, as am I. Inevitably I suppose, she reminds me of my mum. It’s the crinkled up laughter lines that do it.

I’m about to reply to her earlier question and ask for hot chocolate, when a big black Labrador comes surging towards us, bulling his way through people’s legs, tail wagging so fast it’s a blur. He’s not the tallest Lab I’ve ever seen, but what he lacks in height he makes up for in girth. Midgebo, the famous Tangfastic thief.

Gary has been glued to the side of my leg up until this point, but he comes to life when he sees another dog. He loves other dogs, and I’ve always felt a bit guilty about him being by himself. I was looking at rescue centres for a pal for him when Richie dropped his bombshell, and it’s never felt like the right time since.

The two woofers greet each other in the traditional way, with much sniffing of arses, and a few seconds later Midgebo is followed by Laura. The real Laura this time. She is exactly like she looked: round, pretty, her wild curls flying around her face. She’s wearing a top with the words Mama Bear on them, over a picture of a polar bear and its cubs. I’m guessing Mothers’ Day gift.

She smiles and gives me a big hug, even though I’m still half-wrapped in the bin bag. She immediately starts to pull it off me, and says: ‘Come on over to the sofas. It’s like a madhouse here tonight!’

‘I noticed,’ I say, as we all follow her. ‘This isn’t… This isn’t for us, is it? I know you said you’d give us a proper welcome, but this is a lot.’

‘Oh, no, don’t worry, it’s just serendipity! It’s a kind of combo: goodbye to Willow, and hello to you. To be honest we don’t need much of an excuse to throw a party around here. There’s not much else to do, so we tend to make our own entertainment. Tonight, at Willow’s request, it’s Disney karaoke. That’s her singing—looks like they’re finishing, thank God—the one with the pink hair. The other one is her sister, Auburn. You’ll meet her soon. Though she’s the Budbury pharmacist, so hopefully you won’t be seeing her professionally!’

As we settle down on the sofas, a new song starts—someone who actually has a half-decent voice doing ‘We Don’t Talk About Bruno’. I glance over and see a very petite ginger-haired woman holding the microphone.

‘That’s Zoe,’ Laura says. ‘She runs the bookshop, Comfort Reads, next door. She’s very funny, in that waspish and sarcastic way that some people master, you know? Like, she’ll say something hilarious but not even crack a smile herself? I don’t know how she does that…’

Even as she speaks, Laura is smiling, and I’m guessing that’s her default setting. She seems like such a happy person she could be a Disney character herself.

‘I like your bin bag coats,’ she says, watching as Midge and Gary frolic in the little space between the sofas. ‘Ingenious.’

We’ve both now shed them, and Sophie replies: ‘That was my idea, though to give Mum credit, it does stem from one of her very valuable life lessons: never leave home without a bin bag. She’s right, too. Whenever me and my mates hung round in the park, I never had a wet bum, because I always had a bin bag to sit on.’

Wow, I think. I really am the world’s best mother.

‘What other life lessons did she teach you?’ asks Laura, her head to one side. I’m dreading this one.

‘Well,’ says Sophie, grinning, ‘there are a few, obviously, but the highlights would probably be as follows: never get separated from your mates on a night out. Always remember you’re special. Battleship is a very underrated film. And, perhaps most importantly: don’t be a dick.’

As she reels them off I have to laugh, because these are indeed very important things, and I recognise myself in them. I’ve clearly repeated them so often they’ve become part of Sophie’s life bible.

‘I love that last one!’ exclaims Laura. ‘Words to live by! But I’m ashamed to say I’ve never seen Battleship .’

‘It’s an action movie about an alien invasion, full of really hot men. And Rihanna’s in it.’

‘Sounds amazing. I’ll have to check it out. Maybe we can have a movie night and watch it together? I do love a good movie night.’

That, I think, sounds so bloody nice. I also love a movie night, and it is one of the things I miss most from my old life. When all four of us lived together, we’d try and have one every Friday. We had a little ritual. We’d all put the names of films we wanted to watch in Richie’s Aston Villa baseball cap, and do a draw to decide. Then I’d make popcorn in the microwave, and he’d go out to the takeaway place down the road to get us our tea—which was always called a ‘shush kebab’, because I’d be telling everyone to be quiet so we didn’t miss any all-important dialogue.

After Ben went to uni, Richie left and we moved house, everything felt more muted. I didn’t want Sophie to feel like she had to stay in on a Friday night, so we abandoned the tradition. We still watched films together, but I don’t think either of us felt capable of revisiting the way it was in the Time Before. I love the thought of watching a movie with Laura, and maybe creating a whole new tradition.

‘Cake!’ says a loud voice behind me, making itself heard over ‘Bruno’. ‘And hot chocolate to chase away that storm!’

In a cloud of tie-dyed kaftan, the woman I immediately recognise as Cherie Moon is among us. I hadn’t realised, from my tiny phone screen, exactly how imposing she is. It’s not just her height—though she’s got to be nearing six foot; it’s everything about her. She’s solidly built, broad-shouldered, and has a fat plait of silvery-grey hair snaking down her shoulder. There’s not a scrap of make-up on her face, but despite that she seems impossibly attractive. Like a walking, talking life goal.

She places a tray down on the table in front of us, and Laura immediately grabs hold of Midge’s collar. Not a moment too soon, I realise, as he makes a desperate lunge for the cake that has magically appeared. Not just cake—Bakewell tart, two enormous slices, along with a little jug of pouring cream. Next to it are two big mugs complete with the promised marshmallows. I think I may have died and gone to heaven.

I see Sophie staring at Cherie in amazement, and bite back my laughter. Us city folk tend to think people in the countryside are all of a certain type, and here’s Cherie, looking like she’s time-travelled directly from a wild weekend at Woodstock to present us with baked goods.

‘So,’ she says, lowering herself carefully down onto the sofa, laughing as the other side poofs out from her weight. ‘You’re finally here! I think you two are going to have a ball. Don’t be overwhelmed by tonight, you’ll meet seven thousand people and they all come with partners or kids or dogs or back stories. You don’t need to remember them all at once, and anyway, it’s all written down in the files.’

‘Files?’ I repeat, scooping marshmallows off my drink with a long-stemmed spoon.

‘Oh yes,’ replies Laura, clapping her hands together. ‘Cherie’s files are amazing! On my first night here, she gave them to me for homework. Everything’s in them, all the boring stuff like instructions on how to use the coffee machine, but also little background notes on our customers, and what their comfort foods are. Plus, a while ago, Willow did this thing for Tom—he’s her husband now—when he first moved to Budbury. She wrote up a report on who everyone is and how they connect, and did it all like the houses in Game of Thrones —it’s super-helpful!’

Sophie loves Game of Thrones , especially the books, and I see her perk up at this.

‘I like that idea,’ she says. ‘Did you all have mottos and crests?’

‘It wasn’t quite that advanced, love,’ Cherie replies, patting her hand. ‘But maybe we’ve missed a trick and you can do that for us?’

‘Maybe,’ says Sophie, giving it some thought and looking as serious as it’s possible to be for a teenager who is unwittingly sporting a cream moustache. ‘Once I know more about you all. I’ll be collating my own files. Up here.’

She taps the side of her head as she says this, and it comes across as slightly more threatening than she intended. Cherie’s eyes widen, and she replies: ‘You do that, my love. I have nothing to hide, I swear!’

‘Don’t listen to her,’ whispers Laura, leaning towards us. ‘She’s a cult leader!’

Cherie could, I decide, be a really good cult leader. She’d suck people in with her promises of cake and friendship, and they’d be trapped for life. At least that seems to be what happened to Laura.

As we chat ‘Bruno’ comes to an end, and there is a pause in the Disney karaoke.

‘What are you doing?’ Cherie asks, raising her eyebrows at us both. ‘On the karaoke? It’s compulsory, before you ask. Part of the job description. I did ‘Colours of the Wind’ from Pocahontas .’

She does look a bit like Pocahontas, now I come to think of it. Or maybe Pocahontas’s grandma. Whatever she looks like, though, she’s not getting me up on the karaoke. I used to enjoy it, and did a mean version of ‘Hey Big Spender’, but those days are gone.

‘Sorry, Cherie,’ I say, putting down my mug, ‘but there’s not enough Bakewell tart in the world to persuade me that’s a good idea.’

Cherie looks as though she’s about to argue, but Sophie stands up, and announces: ‘I’ll do it! Watch and learn, mother, watch and learn…’

She strides over to the karaoke table, which is being run by a tall blond bloke who looks like a surfer, and chats to him. I stare in amazement as she takes the microphone, and stands there in front of a roomful of people she’s never met. Wow. Such confidence, such poise, such … terrible singing. Sophie has many gifts, but pitch is not one of them.

Luckily, she’s chosen ‘You’re Welcome’ from Moana , and most of it is spoken rather than sung. She launches straight in, leaping around and flexing imaginary muscles as she sings Dwayne Johnson’s part. It’s a fabulous song, and a fabulous performance, and I shake my head in a strange mix of surprise and pride.

As she heads into the rap section in the middle, nailing every word, the ‘Whole New World’ singer with the pink hair walks over and joins us. She’s wiping sweat from her face as she crashes down next to me, stretching long legs in front of her. She’s wearing Doc Marten boots spray-painted in silver, and neon-green fishnet tights. It’s a striking look, but as she has the build of a supermodel, she carries it well.

‘Superb choice,’ she says, nodding her head towards Sophie. ‘One of my favourites. It’s impossible to feel anything other than happy when you’re listening to this. I’m Willow, by the way, and you must be my replacement!’

‘Um, yes. I’m sorry?’

‘No need to be sorry. I’m off travelling the world with my sexy husband and our faithful hound, Rick Grimes. He has his pet passport and tomorrow, we’re getting a ferry to France! I’ve never even been abroad before, and much as I’ll miss this place, I’m so excited.’

I try to engage with the conversation, but my mind is stuck on the fact that they have a dog named after a character from the Walking Dead . Mine is called Gary, which is an odd name for a dog, but he’s a rescue and was called that when we got him. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.

Also, I think, catching up with the rest of what she said, she’s never been abroad before? She looks to be in her late twenties or early thirties, and it’s unusual for someone of that age to have not even gone on a package holiday. I’m sure there’s a story there, and wonder if the files Cherie mentioned will fill me in.

‘That sounds fantastic,’ I reply. ‘Where are you going after France?’

‘I don’t know!’ she says, eyes wide and shining. ‘Isn’t that brilliant? There’s no schedule, no timetable, no plan. I absolutely love it. Maybe we’ll drive through Spain, and on to Morocco. Maybe we’ll go to Italy. Maybe we’ll just spend a year in Provence. Who knows? Anything could happen!’

She seems quite giddy with all of this, and I see Laura and Cherie exchange a look. I’m not sure what the look is, part amused, part sad maybe? I can’t decipher it, so I just smile and agree, and we carry on watching Sophie.

I realise, as she reaches the end, that I’m feeling more relaxed and comfortable than I have in a very long time. Something about the company of these women—these strange, welcoming women—has allowed me to unclench. I don’t really know them, and they don’t really know me, but the whole experience feels warm and safe and pleasant. Nobody is judging me; nobody is weighing me up and finding me lacking. Nobody is looking down at me.

I have fine company, and Gary has a friend, and I am eating home-made Bakewell tart in a café on the coast. This morning, I was a frazzled middle-aged woman defined by what I’d lost—my mum, my husband, my job, my home. Now, I feel like … well, I don’t know what I feel like yet, but it’s none of those things. For the first time in years, my life has potential. I don’t quite trust this feeling one hundred per cent, but I want to—I want to be like these ladies. I want to be part of their world. I want this to work.

I stare over at Sophie, and she looks directly back at me, holding the microphone close to her face. She gives me a cheeky wink, points in my direction, and sings, ‘You’re welcome!’