The Comfort Food Café

Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

G etting the sofa back makes a huge difference to Gabriel’s living room. It’s gorgeous, and now it’s been revived, it has deep squishy seat cushions covered in super-soft velvet that I want to keep stroking. I know velvet takes some maintenance, but it looks amazing.

Gabriel and the delivery man carried it through, and we spent an entertaining few minutes where I asked them to move it to various different places before finding its perfect spot.

I’d initially imagined paler colours for the furniture, but finding the leather Chesterfield armchair changed all of that. It works surprisingly well with the touch-of-green floorboards, giving off a bit of a National Trust vibe that suits the age of the building.

I’ve hung new curtains, and they swoop to the floor behind the sideboard, which I’ve sanded and polished and now glows with new life. It still bears the donkey jug, which I regularly refresh with cut flowers, and who knows? Maybe one day Gabriel will finally give in and get a television.

The new lighting is in, and between that and the lamp and the open coal fire, this big room is now capable of feeling small and cosy. When I’m gone and he returns to his old patterns, at least he won’t be sitting reading a book in a prison cell.

I found him a gorgeous oak bookcase in an auction one town over, and his vast collection of paperbacks now has somewhere to call home. Cherie’s canvases are up, looking smashing, and it’s almost done. I just need to find the right rug, and maybe add some more personal touches, which is tricky, as this isn’t my home. If it was, I’d have pictures of the kids up on the walls, including some extra embarrassing ones just for fun.

It’s my day off as I ponder the nearly there room, and I have a casserole slow-cooking in the Aga. It throws off a huge amount of heat, and as it’s only going to get colder from now on, that’s a good thing.

Gabriel walks into the lounge to find me standing there with a mug of tea, surveying his kingdom. He’s been mucking out Belle’s field, which is a task that requires nerves of steel and nimble feet. The cantankerous old beast and I continue to have a truce, and she now even lets me scratch her ears. I know he’s talked to Matt about finding another rescue donkey to keep her company, and apparently it could go two ways – either she’ll take to it, or she’ll try and kill it.

‘Something smells good,’ he says, gesturing back to the kitchen with his head. It’s been drizzling outside, and his thick hair carries a sheen of mist.

‘Hopefully it’ll taste good as well. Have you thought about maybe putting some family pictures up? Making it feel like, I don’t know … your home, not just a home?’

‘No, I haven’t thought about that. I have some. Of my mum. And the ones that we found in the writing bureau.’

The bureau itself is still in storage, because once that room is empty of clutter, it’ll make a wonderful centrepiece for it. It could be an office-cum-library.

‘That one of you with no front teeth is super-cute,’ I reply, grinning at the memory. ‘And maybe you have some of your gran too? It’d be nice to find one of them together, wouldn’t it? Her and her brother?’

‘It would. But I’ve not come across anything like that. In fact I’m wondering if Norman got rid of any photos he did have. I mean, it wasn’t common back then, taking pictures, was it? But there should have been some.’

‘I know. I thought the same. Maybe he fed them to Belle. I think it’s worth asking Edie, though. She was the librarian before she retired; she probably has all kinds of local history knowledge. I hope so anyway, as it would be fascinating. This was their childhood home and we have no idea what they looked like back then. These days everyone takes photos all the time, like, of their dinner and their new shoes, thinking nothing of it. Even when I was growing up it was usually just holidays and Christmas and weddings.’

‘Well, there won’t be any wedding pictures going up on the walls, that’s for sure.’

I nod, and sip some tea, and realise that I literally can’t hold my curiosity in for a moment longer. I’ve told him about my life—probably way more than he was interested in—but he has remained predictably tight-lipped about his.

‘What happened?’ I ask quietly. ‘I assume you’re not married anymore?’

This is, of course, potentially rocky terrain, and I see him tense slightly. I’m familiar with his body language now, which is often the only way he really communicates. I know when he quirks his head to one side that he’s amused and trying to hide it, and when he clenches and unclenches his fists he’s trying to behave well in a situation that doesn’t feel comfortable for him, like being in a room full of people. I know if he folds his arms across his chest and looks into the distance he’s ready to bail, and when he stands with his hands on his hips he’s considering saying something, but thinking it over first.

This move—the barely noticeable upwards squeeze of the shoulders—can go one of two ways. Either the tension carries on through the rest of his body and he’ll shut down and walk out of the room, or he’ll do this thing he probably doesn’t even notice: take a deep breath, and nod as he lets it out. That’s his ‘this is freaking me out but I know it shouldn’t’ ritual.

I hold my own breath while I wait to see which one wins out, and eventually he nods, and meets my eyes.

‘No, not married anymore. The woman you saw on the photo was Helen. I was twenty-five on that, and like most people, thought it was forever.’

‘Forever is a long time.’

‘It is. We were fine when I was enlisted. When I was away, and only home on leave, it was all good. I suppose it made it exciting, and I was in the Army when we met, so we’d never known anything different. We’d never actually properly lived together. I left seven years ago, and I’d been deployed all over the world. Iraq, Afghanistan, Nigeria. I don’t talk about that part of my life, so don’t ask. I suppose, to be fair to Helen, the man she ended up with wasn’t the man she signed up for. It changed me, and by the time we tried to make a go of it in civilian life, I was … different. Maybe a bit damaged.’

I stay silent, not wanting to break the spell or even remind him that I’m here, and he continues, ‘It didn’t work. We fought. I didn’t talk, and she hated that. She had her own life and friends, and I didn’t fit in. It was a mess, and we hurt each other. Then she had an affair, and that was the end of it. I don’t blame her, not really, but it was bad. She’d been seeing him for a while before I found out, and it messed me up even more. Combination of wounded macho pride and genuine pain.’

My heart breaks for him, and I struggle not to reach out and touch him. Console him. I know exactly how that feels, and it was bad enough without throwing in the aftereffects of active military service and having to adapt to life in the outside world.

‘I’m so sorry, Gabriel,’ I say. ‘That must have been awful. That kind of thing makes it almost impossible to trust anyone.’

‘It does,’ he says, nodding sharply. ‘But God loves a trier, eh? We’re both trying, in our own way, Max.’

‘We are. She was … very beautiful.’

I don’t know where that comes from, and it’s totally irrelevant. I suppose I just have that wedding day photo frozen in my mind, remembering how gorgeous and happy they looked. Like they had the world at their feet.

‘On the outside, maybe. Plus she really worked at it—she was always on a diet, and never ate carbs.’

‘What?’ I say, shocked. ‘Never? Not even a roastie at Christmas? That must have put her in a very bad mood! But I suppose that’s why she looked like a model, and I … umm, don’t.’

Right now, I’m looking especially un-model like. I’ve not gained weight since I’ve been here, despite all the cake. I suppose the walking and the active work have offset it. But I’m also aware that I’m wearing a pair of paint-spattered jeans and a shaggy old jumper with a hole in the armpit. I’d been planning on cleaning all the windows today, and nobody dresses up for that.

‘There’s nothing wrong with the way you look, Max,’ he says, his dark eyes sweeping over me. ‘You have a beautiful smile, and really pretty hair, and lovely eyes. I like the fact that you eat carbs. They look good on you.’

I’m so shocked at the compliment that I can’t even speak. I stare at him, my mouth open, my fingers going to my messy ponytail in surprise. The shock is followed by pleasure, and the pleasure is followed by something altogether warmer. I blink rapidly, my heart suddenly racing, a blush blooming across my cheeks.

‘Thank you,’ I say eventually. ‘I … um… You called me fat when you first saw me.’

He looks horrified, and quickly replies: ‘What? I didn’t! I wouldn’t … even if you were. Which you’re not.’

‘Technically, you said I was “not small”. You were talking to Laura and Matt the first night I was here. I was eavesdropping.’

His eyes narrow as he tries to recall the conversation, and then he says: ‘Right. I was a bit freaked out about having people in the house. I didn’t mean you were fat, Max, just that you were a human, and I … I’m not so good with those. Even if you’d been the size of a gnat, I’d still have been a bit concerned. I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, though. and I meant everything I just said.’

‘That’s okay. I was probably oversensitive. And, well. You’re not so bad yourself.’

We stare at each other for a few moments longer, and then he abruptly turns around and walks out of the room. Strange, and unsettling, and not altogether unpleasant.

I’ve always been aware of how attractive Gabriel is, but in a kind of detached way. He’s so far out of my league that he might as well be George Clooney, and I’ve never entertained ideas about any kind of romance between us. Well, strictly speaking, I suppose I may have had a few saucy thoughts, but that’s between me and my conscience. I definitely never imagined that he’d feel anything more for me other than tolerance, and even that was pushing it.

I tell myself that I’m being stupid, that nothing has changed. A man can compliment a woman without fancying her. Sam, Becca’s husband, is the world’s biggest flirt; he compliments every single woman he meets, and even flirts with Edie. None of it means anything. It’s just the way he’s made.

This, though, is Gabriel, and getting words out of his mouth at all is a small miracle. He doesn’t say much, which makes everything he does say feel even more significant.

It’s all too confusing, so I shove it in a mental bin bag and forget about it. I carry on with my work list for the day, and clean the windows, inside and out. After that I check on the casserole, feed Belle a carrot, and chat to Ben on the phone for a bit. Anything to distract me, I suppose.

When Sophie gets home from seeing her friends and suggests we start planning our Halloween outfits, I leap on the idea with so much enthusiasm that she narrows her eyes at me suspiciously.

‘What’s up?’ she asks. ‘Are you on drugs?’

‘No! Well, I did have an ibuprofen about an hour ago, but I don’t think that counts. What are you going as?’

‘Well, we’ve all decided to be vampires. It’s not original, I know, but it’s easy, and that makes it good. Martha’s going to a fabric shop in town to buy a load of black velvet for our capes, and Auburn says she’ll order in some face paints and white powders and stuff. But obviously, I’ll be going as a sexy vampire, because that’s what Halloween is all about. What about you?’

‘Oh. Well. I thought I’d just get an old white sheet, cut some eyeholes in it, and be Maxine the Friendly Ghost.’

‘Mum, that’s the lamest idea I’ve ever heard. Did you not hear what I just said about Halloween being sexy ?’

‘Halloween might be, but I’m not. I’ll be more comfortable as a ghost in a sheet.’

‘Right. Well, that’s pathetic. Comfortable is a word for armchairs and jeggings. It’s not a word for women in their forties who still have a lot of living left to do. You could be Elvira, or a slightly squashed Catwoman, or a really wicked witch!’

‘I don’t have the stuff to make those outfits.’

‘That’s what shops are for. Come on, we’ll go looking together. It’ll be fun, mother-daughter bonding time! Let me give you a makeover!’

I’m about to say no when Gabriel joins us, nose twitching at the smell of the almost-ready casserole.

‘Gabriel!’ Sophie exclaims, jumping to her feet. ‘What are you wearing to the Halloween party?’

‘I don’t think I’m going,’ he replies, running the tap for a glass of water. He avoids my eyes, and I suspect he’s feeling awkward around me after what he said earlier. It’ll pass, I know.

‘Of course you are!’ she says. ‘What is it with you old people? Have you completely forgotten how to have fun?’

‘Nope,’ he says, shrugging. ‘We just have different ideas about what “fun” is.’

She ignores this, and carries on, ‘You’d be a good vampire, too. You’ve got that dark and mysterious vibe, and the hair. Or Lucifer. Or a Roman soldier?—’

‘How is that scary?’

‘It doesn’t need to be scary! Just fun, and different, and hot. You can do it. I believe in you!’

‘I’m not Tinkerbell,’ he says firmly. ‘Is dinner ready?’

‘Ten minutes,’ I say, amused at their exchange.

He nods, and leaves again. Sophie is chuffing away in disgust, and it makes me laugh out loud.

‘Okay,’ I say after a few moments’ thought. ‘Wicked witch doesn’t sound too bad.’

Maybe, I think as she celebrates, she’s right: maybe I need to aim for something more than ‘comfortable’. Maybe it’s time I started thinking of myself as someone who is capable of being sexy again. Not for Gabriel, or Richie, or any other man, but just to remind myself that I can.