The Comfort Food Café

Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

T he second week in December sees an influx of two things in Budbury: the first flurries of snow, and the Great Return of the Young Folk.

Nate and Lizzie, Laura’s older children, come home from Liverpool and London, along with a lad called Josh, the son of Scrumpy Joe who runs the cider cave. Most importantly for me, Ben arrives from Manchester, landing at the nearest train station with his bike and his big rucksack full of laundry.

It’s an absolute joy to have him back with me, right up until the point where he and Sophie start bickering. It starts gently with a bit of banter, warms up into some light mockery, and inevitably escalates to all-out warfare. I always forget, when they’re apart, exactly how bad it can be.

I’m an only child so I have nothing to compare it to, and I find it genuinely upsetting when they fight so much. Sometimes it’s funny, but sometimes it’s upsetting. Not for them—they bounce back from the insults and the threats immediately—but as a spectator, I find it troubling.

Laura tells me this is all completely normal, that she and her sister Becca were total opposites as children and constantly fought.

‘This is true,’ Becca had confirmed. ‘She was vile. I was walking home from school one day, minding my own business, and she threw a full dog poo bag in my face in front of all my friends.’

‘That was the other way round!’ Laura had spluttered, and I could tell from the evil look on Becca’s face which one was telling the truth. Maybe there’s still a bit of that sibling dynamic left today.

I think part of the issue with my kids is Sophie feeling like Ben is intruding on her turf. She feels like she basically owns Budbury, or possibly actually invented it, and then he turns up, all handsome and flirty and funny, distracting her friends. It sounds childish, and it is, but most of us are childish, aren’t we? We just hide it better when we get older.

The Young People gang is now much bigger, with the influx of new blood, and they roam like a pack of feral animals. You’ll come across them in the café, in the pub, on the beach, here at the Rockery. They range in age from eighteen to twenty-four, and in the city that would be a huge age gap, but here they band together. I’m sure there are all kinds of interpersonal dynamics I don’t know about—I recently discovered that Lizzie and Josh were together for years, and only split up when he went to uni—but they seem to rub along well enough.

Ben, who has had both boyfriends and girlfriends in the past, seems to see it all as a huge dating game. On his third night here, he sprawled across the sofa and announced, ‘It’s been a hard decision, but I think I’ll choose Josh. He’s super-cute and his dad owns a cider cave.’

‘He’s not a Pokemon!’ Sophie had objected. ‘You can’t just choose him, plus he’s straight!’

‘I bet I can turn him. I’ll get ten points for that,’ Ben had said confidently. He’s tall and sporty, and has floppy sandy hair that gives him a young Hugh Grant vibe. He’s very, very sure of himself.

‘It’s not a competition!’ she’d shrieked, hitting him on the head with a cushion.

‘Yes, it is, there’s a rewards scheme, didn’t you know? Turn twenty and you get a VIP pass to a Sea Life Centre. Fifty and it’s an air fryer. I’m aiming for a hundred, and a free weekend at the Premier Inn of my choice.’

He’s also very, very funny, and even Sophie has to giggle at a lot of his outrageous comments, almost against her will. You can see her trying to keep it in, her lips clamped together. Sometimes she has to walk out of the room just so he doesn’t get the satisfaction of seeing her laugh.

Today, as I walk down the stairs rubbing my eyes and feeling the siren call of coffee, they’re both already up. There’s a trip to Bristol being planned, allegedly for Christmas shopping but I suspect more likely for Christmas drinking.

I pause on the stairs when I hear their voices, because if they’re already fighting, I might just turn around and go back to my room. Instead, I am surprised to hear them actually talking like normal humans, in a slightly lowered tone that suggests they don’t want to wake me up. I smile, and enjoy the moment of peace, the moment of gratitude at having them both safe and home with me. That moment evaporates when I hear what they’re talking about.

‘It’s not that I don’t like Gabriel,’ says Ben quietly. ‘He’s really cool. Like, countryside John Wick level cool. But I suppose … maybe I just thought that one day, they’d get back together, you know? Mum and Dad?’

My eyes pop wide open, and I consider creeping back up the stairs. Eavesdropping is rude, and you never hear anything good about yourself. But they’re talking about me, and Gabriel, and I find it impossible to move.

‘What?’ says Sophie, trying to whisper but so exasperated it comes out sharply. ‘Really? After everything he did?’

‘I know, I know; it was bad! I just thought he was going through some kind of mid-life bloke crisis, and he’d end up coming home.’

‘I get that. So did I to start with. But he didn’t, and there’s no use holding on to that fantasy. You don’t even live at home anymore. You didn’t see how bad things got.’

‘With Mum?’

‘No, with Taylor Swift, who the fuck do you think I mean? She was a mess, Ben. She tried to hide it, especially from you, but it was not good. She felt like everything had been a lie, like everything they’d ever had together was fake. That he’d never loved her, that she’d never been good enough, that she never would be.’

‘She said that?’

‘Not directly, but unlike you, I’m actually aware of other people’s feelings, you dickhead.’

‘Okay, okay, calm down, I’m sorry, and you’re right. You were there and I wasn’t, and I get it. But she seems better now.’

‘She is. It suits her here. She’s happy, and Gabriel’s been part of that. He makes her feel a gazillion times better than Dad ever did.’

‘But he’s our dad! Don’t you sometimes wish they would get back together? That things could go back the way they were?’

‘Maybe, sometimes,’ she answers, ‘but then I remind myself that he’s the world’s biggest twat, and I get over it.’

It makes me sad to listen to them talking about this, to realise how much my decline affected Sophie, to hear that Ben still yearns for the days when our family was whole. I suppose since coming to Budbury, I’ve managed to escape some of that sadness, and now it’s reared its ugly head again.

She is right, though, that is exactly how I felt. And because his affair had been going on for so long, everything felt especially painful. Every time I remembered something we’d done together in the previous years—our holiday to Cyprus, Christmas, birthday celebrations—I’d find myself thinking, well, I thought we were happy then, but actually none of it was real . I’d randomly remember something—like us all going out for lunch on Father’s Day—and then convince myself that he’d hated every moment, and as soon as he was alone he’d been having hot phone sex with his lover.

It soiled all my memories, made a mockery of our lives together. I felt like I couldn’t rely on anything anymore, not even my own recollections.

Richie had told me, once it all came out, that I shouldn’t think like that, that he had been happy, in lots of ways, that the good times had been real. He was trying to console me, but it’s hard to accept the word of a man who has proved how good he is at deception. He’d managed to live a double life for so long that nothing he said felt genuine.

That was the real damage: the undoing of everything I once believed, of everything I once felt confident about. He unravelled our past, and I suddenly felt like I was on a trapeze with no safety net beneath me.

Here, I’ve gradually started to feel differently, not about him, or that pain, but about myself. I’ve not just put the pieces of me back together; I’ve found new ones. Hearing the kids talk like this is unsettling, and I decide that enough is enough. I deliberately cough, very loudly, and stamp on the stairs so hard nobody could fail to notice me.

The voices immediately stop, and Gary rushes out to greet me. I plaster a smile on my face, and walk into the room. Both of them are sprawled on the couch.

‘Morning!’ I say brightly, seeing them exchange ‘phew that was close’ looks. ‘Looking forward to your day out?’

‘It’d be better if this ball-bag wasn’t coming,’ says Sophie, gesturing at Ben. Her language takes a significant swan dive when her brother is around.

‘What are your plans, Mum?’ he asks, kicking her in the ribs as he speaks. ‘Got an exciting trip to a junk shop planned? Painting seashells? Searching for that perfect ship in a bottle?’

These are all possible, especially the ship in a bottle—I really want one for the mantlepiece. The refurb in Hyacinth is going well, and is a huge amount of fun. I’ve kept the décor all white and light blue, and Gabriel and I laid beautiful pale pine wood flooring on the upstairs landing and in the bedrooms. Each bedroom has a big shagpile rug in the same shade of blue as the bed linens, so deep your bare feet sink into it. Lush. The bathroom is fab and fun, complete with a collection of rubber ducks and little boats to sail in the tub—allegedly for visiting children, but let’s be frank, mainly for me.

We’ve replaced the damaged stair banister, and I’ve painted it a glossy white and added little stencils of seashells and starfish on some of the spindles. It looks beautiful, fresh and clean but also quirky.

Downstairs is still a bit of a work-in-progress. It all needs redecorating, and the carpet was ruined by the storm, but I’m holding fire for the time being because Cherie is getting a new kitchen fitted, and that will be messy. For now, I’m gathering a few items together: a coffee table I found in a charity shop that needs sanding down and painting, an old ship’s compass to install on the living room wall, some gorgeous pine bookshelves for the alcoves that I will fill not only with books, but with seashells and fossils and maritime treasures. I want it to look modern and stylish, but also welcoming, and that means I’m allowed a bit of clutter.

Cherie is delighted with it all, and Laura is emotional at seeing her former home changed. I promise that the framed photo of Jim Morrison in the downstairs loo—there in honour of the fact that the cottage is named after a Doors song—will always remain.

Sophie has been doing a few of my shifts at the café to cover for me, and Cherie is already making noises about me looking at some of her other little holiday homes when I’m done. I’ve so far point blank refused to be paid for anything, but if this extends into the rest of the Rockery, I’ve agreed to rethink.

I’m loving the whole experience, and I know that the perfect ship in a bottle is out there waiting for me. I just have to find it.

After I’m dressed, I drop Ben and Sophie in town to meet their friends, making them promise to stay in touch now the weather is turning. They might be technically adults, but I don’t know a mum alive who wouldn’t worry about their babies setting off on an adventure when there’s snow falling.

It’s a Monday and the café is closed, so Gary and I decide to take a spontaneous trip to see Belle. And the hot guy who allegedly owns her, though I don’t think anyone actually does. She’s a force of nature and will probably outlive us all. She’ll be there at our funerals, scream-braying and biting the pallbearers.

Gabriel and I have done as we planned, and carried on seeing each other. We have been on dates, and we have worked on Hyacinth, and we have had some spectacular sexy times.

I do miss sharing a home with him, but I’m also busy with two squabbling offspring and an adorable dog. They go some way to filling the gap, and certainly make the place a lot louder and messier. Gabriel seems to have settled back into his natural rhythms, but I know he doesn’t like it as much as he used to. Part of me is a bit worried that I’ve disrupted him—like when humans feed badgers and make them too domesticated—but part of me is thrilled. I want him to miss me. I want him to want me. I want this to work.

When this is working, it’s simple and straightforward, and I am happy. Of course, I know that how happy I am when it’s working directly correlates to how unhappy I might be if it stopped working. Listening to the kids talk about how broken I was after Richie left has rubbed up a few sore spots, and I know I am risking a lot. I hate the thought of falling into the black hole of despair ever again, but at the same time, I can’t just cut myself off from life to keep myself safe. Because that’s a black hole of a different kind.

I toot my horn as we pull in, and then make my traditional visit to my spirit animal. I am now at the stage where I can risk offering her an apple, and she even gives me a little nuzzle with her head after she takes it. On Matt’s advice, she’s wearing a nice jacket, because she is an old lady and needs a bit of extra protection from the cold. She’d look cute if she wasn’t so ugly.

I gaze around as I walk towards the house, and sigh at how beautiful it is. The snow has settled out here in the wilderness, a pristine layer of white coating the rooftops and the trees. Gary runs around sniffing at it, burying his head in deeper drifts and emerging with a snowy nose. Dogs are like children that never grow up.

The warmth of the Aga is welcome as I slip inside, taking off my coat and gloves and enjoying the familiar sensations. I glance at the sink, see the traditional one mug and one plate on the drainer. A quick look in the fridge shows me his rations, alongside a moussaka I made him and the remains of a Red Velvet cake Cherie dropped off. Almost against his will, Gabriel is being sucked into the black hole of kindness that is Budbury.

I shout his name and he replies: ‘I’m upstairs!’

That’ll save time, I think, grinning an evil grin. I’m actually quite surprised when I find him in his own bedroom, with a duvet in his hands. We’ve always spent time in my old room, and his has remained untouched by the renovation work. His sad-sack sleeping bag was always a constant presence, and I’m shocked to see it rolled up and tied on the floor.

‘Are you feeling okay?’ I ask. ‘Do I need to call a paramedic?’

He smiles at me, and tucks a thick wave of hair behind his ear. My tummy does a little tap dance, because my reaction to this man never seems to change, no matter how much I see of him.

‘I thought it was time to join the human race,’ he says. ‘And make a few changes. I painted.’

‘I see that,’ I reply, looking around at the walls. Okay, so they’re painted a dull shade of mid-blue, but it’s an improvement on the half-stripped paper vibe. There’s a shade on the dangling light bulb, and a small reading lamp on the table by his bed. By Gabriel standards, this is giving off luxury boutique hotel energy. ‘It looks great. What brought this on?’

‘Not sure. When it started snowing the other day, I spent ages walking around the woods. I found a new pond, never even knew it was there, all frozen up and really pretty. And Belle actually let me scratch her ears. And I ate Red Velvet cake while I read in front of the fire. It felt … nice. Can you help me with this? I’ve never quite mastered the skill …’

He holds up the duvet and a navy blue cover as he speaks, and I automatically take one end and start working on it.

‘It felt nice?’ I repeat, smiling. ‘Gabriel, did it feel … Christmassy? Did it thaw your heart? Can I expect you to start carolling and making your own mulled wine?’

Christmas is less than two weeks away now. In Hyacinth, we have a large and very badly decorated tree, covered in random items I’ve picked up on my travels. Our own decorations are still in the attic in Solihull, and I’m glad—they are laden with the ghosts of Christmas past, and I’m happy to start some new traditions. And while I might have some flair for making a home look lovely, when it comes to Christmas trees, there are no design rules at all. Sling everything all over it is my motto.

‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ he says, looking astonished at how quickly the duvet cover goes on. ‘But I might not be entirely averse to getting a little tree. Maybe some mistletoe.’

‘Excellent idea. But how did this reverse-Grinch revelation translate into doing your bedroom up?’

‘Well, when it felt nice, seeing how beautiful this place was in the snow, I thought about how much I was enjoying stuff at the moment. How much has changed. I’d have expected that to scare the shit out of me, to be honest, but it didn’t. And I realised I was ready to finally get rid of the sleeping bag. I’ve admitted defeat. This is my home, and I might as well accept it.’

‘You say that like it’s a bad thing!’

‘I know I do. Old habits. Since me and Helen split up, I’ve moved around a lot. Travelled, doing work where I found it. In France I lived in a place so run down it makes this look like paradise. I was doing it up for the English owners. There was no electricity, no heating, an outside toilet. I got used to sleeping on the floor, in that bag, and I didn’t mind it. I suppose, not to get all deep and meaningful, that maybe I thought it was all I deserved. I felt like I’d made a huge mess of everything in my life. I missed being in the Army, despite the toll that had taken on me, and my marriage was over, and sleeping on a stone floor in a country where nobody knew me seemed like the best option.’

I finish buttoning up the cover, and try to hide the flood of sympathy I have for him. He won’t appreciate it.

‘And now?’ I ask simply.

‘And now I don’t feel like that.’

He has a certain look on his face by this point, one that tells me he’s reached his limit on sharing, and I know from experience that I won’t get anything more from him on the touchy-feely front. We have made progress but I can’t expect miracles, even if it is nearly Christmas.

We are both taking baby steps away from our pain, and towards each other. We are tiptoeing over our tender spots, and our time together feels like a mutual balm. Yes, of course I have doubts—I know what it will cost me if this implodes—but again, I also know that doubts are healthy. They’re human. Nobody could go through what I’ve been through and not have doubts. But letting your whole life be dictated by those doubts? Not something I am going to let happen.

We smooth the duvet down and add the pillows, and stand back to admire our work. The bed is huge and gorgeous, and he’s even polished the brass bedstead.

‘That’, he says, giving me The Look, ‘is a bed that needs christening…’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ I reply. ‘Quick, take off all your clothes!’

I get there first, kicking my leggings flying to the other side of the room as he’s still wearing his boxers. He’s just out of them when I give him a sudden shove so he falls back onto the mattress. He’s a lot bigger than me, and it’s only the element of surprise that allows me to take the advantage. He grins up at me in surprise, and I climb on top of him. This has never been my most confident position, but Gabriel has made me feel like a goddess, and for once I’m not worried about whether I’m too heavy, or if my jiggly bits are showing.

I place my hands against his body, running my fingers over the flat planes of his belly, across the ridges of his abs. I will never tire of this soft skin over tough muscle, or the way it feels to run my nails through the silky hair on his chest. I lean forward to drop kisses onto his shoulders and neck, nip at the golden column of his throat, enjoying the way he sighs and moans my name as I move against him. I sit up, glorying in the sight of him beneath me, seeing the need in his dark eyes.

I wriggle my hips a little, and smile in satisfaction. He is already hard, pressed up against me and hitting the sweet spot in a way that makes me rub against him. I’m already starting to feel breathless at the way our bodies connect, feeling a curl of heat that I know will only build and build until it’s a raging inferno that burns me up from the inside out. I know how this story ends, and it goes way beyond happy.

He sits up, unexpectedly, grabbing hold of my shoulders and spinning me around in his arms. Suddenly, I’m the one lying flat on the bed, looking surprised. He’s turned the tables, and he grins as he hovers above me.

He leans down, sucks one nipple into his mouth, then lets his hand run down my body. His fingers find the very same sweet spot, and work it until I am unravelled and delirious, flooded with the sensation of it all. Only then does he seek his own pleasure, sliding inside me while I’m still quivering and shaking. I wrap my legs around him, urging him closer, deeper, harder. I whisper his name, my fingers twined in his hair then roaming the rippling movements of his back, trying to touch him everywhere at once as he loses himself in me the same way I lost myself in him.

Yes, I have doubts. But at moments like this, they are a million miles away.