The Comfort Food Café

Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

T here is much excitement in the Comfort Food Café, because Katie has actually gone into labour, six days before her due date.

To celebrate, all the village ladies have congregated here in the late afternoon to drink coffee, eat cake, and quiz me about my sex life.

‘Oh come on!’ says Auburn, sounding frustrated. ‘You can’t do this to us! You can’t come over here and steal our jobs and steal our men and then not even tell us about it!’

‘I can do that,’ I reply, grinning at her over the steam of my cappuccino. ‘In fact I already have.’

‘But I was friends with Mr Pumpwell. At the very least I deserve to know what his great-nephew is like in the sack!’

This all started innocently enough. We gathered around one of the big round tables, a lemon drizzle cake and warm fudge brownies in the middle.

The café is dressed for Christmas, and looks like every single decoration available in the entire world was put into a giant box, then tipped over the existing clutter. It’s shiny and messy and festive and wonderful.

Cherie is here, looking a little tired, along with Laura, Becca, Auburn, and Zoe. Edie is sadly absent, as her niece has taken her out for afternoon tea. We officially opened the meeting with a video call to Willow, who is currently in Seville. I barely know her but it’s lovely to see how happy she is, and how happy they all are for her. After that, the talking began.

We covered topics as diverse as Zoe’s new stock of crime thrillers in the book shop, Auburn’s plans to visit her husband’s family in Denmark for Christmas, and the fact that Midgebo recently managed to eat a Sonic the Hedgehog cake Laura had made for the girls.

‘You should have seen what came out of him,’ she said, aghast. ‘All that food colouring! Actually, I took some photos… It was quite a nice shade of teal, thought you might consider it for your next refurb project, Max!’

We all admired the pictures—because that’s what friendship is all about, admiring your pal’s snaps of dog poo—and then, somehow, things moved on to me. It began with Becca asking me—to many shocked noises—what I’d do if I was tasked with redesigning the Comfort Food Café.

I looked around, at the streamer-coated mobiles and the crammed bookcases and the giant ammonite now draped in gold tinsel, and replied: ‘Nothing. I wouldn’t change a thing about this place. It’s already perfect.’

Cherie smiled, patted my hand, and said: ‘That’s exactly right, my love. Now, tell us all about you and Gabriel!’

It’s not a secret anymore, because neither of us thought it needed to be. Once my kids knew, the rest didn’t matter. Laura has, obviously, made a few forays into interrogation, but I’ve fended her off. This, though, is different. This is an en-masse assault from the Budbury Ladies’ Coffee and Cake Club. Cherie, Becca, and now Auburn have all piled in with the questions.

When I refuse to answer, Auburn throws a sugar sachet at me, and Zoe cackles in amusement.

‘You keep up the resistance, Max,’ she says. ‘When I got together with Cal, I thought Laura was going to start pulling my fingernails out to get the racy details.’

‘Well, Cal is gorgeous!’ Laura bleats, as though that excuses everything. ‘Why wouldn’t I want to know? I’ll tell you anything about Matt!’

‘Poor Matt,’ says her sister. ‘Pimped out for cheap thrills. But seriously, Max, we’re all desperate to know. Is he as good as he looks?’

I stay silent, but feel a blush spread across my cheeks. I concentrate on the coffee, because it’s less dangerous.

‘She doesn’t need to say anything, does she?’ Cherie pipes up, nodding at me knowingly. ‘Of course he is! Look at her, she’s glowing! That is the face of a woman who is getting an extremely good seeing to on a regular basis…’

They all burst out laughing, and I have to join in. I say nothing, but I do allow them a very small nod of agreement. Because it really is that face.

‘You’d better all get your minds out of the gutter,’ I say, glancing at the clock. ‘Because he’ll be here later. We’ve got a hot date.’

‘Oooh,’ says Laura, leaning forward curiously. ‘Where? Will there be a hot tub? And Prosecco? You need to be careful with that; it got me pregnant with twins!’

‘I’m pretty sure that was Matt, not the Prosecco, but I take your point. Anyway. We’re going to Lyme Regis so we can walk along the promenade in the snow and look at all the Christmas lights.’

There’s a collective sigh at this, and it makes me smile. It is pretty dreamy, now I come to think about it.

‘Anyway,’ Cherie announces, raising her mug of hot chocolate, ‘here’s to Katie, our poor friend, who is probably going through agony as we sit here and act like a load of old perverts!’

We all raise our various glasses and mugs and cups, and clink carefully against each other. It’s exciting, Katie having the baby. I love babies. I’m one of those women who stops to admire them in shops, and always wants to hold them and sniff their heads. Despite all of that, my overriding thought is still ‘rather her than me’.

We all stand up in a screech of scraping chair legs, and I help Laura take the trays back through to the kitchen. She automatically puts some of the remaining brownies aside for Edie, and tells me she’s going to stay on and make up some ‘home-made ready meals’ for Katie and Van. I offer to chip in, but she’s clearly in her happy place, in much the same way as me when I’m looking at my Farrow the politics of a blended family; the one hundred per cent proof that the thing that used to be Max and Richie is over.

I mean, I knew that, obviously, and it’s not like I’ve been sitting around pining after him, most certainly not since Halloween. But it’s still strange, and I can’t quite get my head around it. He hasn’t just moved in with Valerie; he’s created a whole new life with her.

‘How do you think Ben and Sophie will react?’ he asks, looking petrified at the concept.

‘I’d say there’ll be a process,’ I reply, pondering it. ‘Shock, possibly horror, and then a gradual build up to jokes about old people being crap with contraception. And after that, they’ll be pleased.’

I realise as I say it that it’s true. This has been the emotional equivalent of a mallet to the skull for me, but once the dust has settled, it will be lovely. There will be a baby, and all the chaos and joy that a baby brings. Ben and Sophie will have a little brother or sister, and that will be a wonderful thing to watch develop over time.

‘You think so?’

‘I do. I really do. Just don’t expect it to happen straight away. You’ve had ages to get used to the idea, so give them a grace period, okay?’

‘I will, I promise. And I’m sorry, Max. For everything. The way I behaved, the way I went about things … well, it was horrible. I treated you badly, and I was so wrapped up in what I needed that I managed to convince myself it was excusable. Marriages end, but the way I did it … well, I’m ashamed, and I’m sorry. I should have told you earlier, and I shouldn’t have made you feel so bad about yourself. You deserved better.’

He sounds genuine, and I realise that this is the first time he has sounded that way. During the hellscape that was life when he first told me about Valerie, we were both a mess. I was shocked and desperate to cling on to him, refusing to believe the truths he was finally telling me. Maybe I was an idiot for not spotting the signs earlier, but I’d been busy with my mum and the kids, and I simply didn’t have a clue. It hit me so hard it almost broke me. The one thing I thought I could count on had been taken away from me.

At the time he said the right things—that it was him not me, that he still loved me in his own way, that he’d never planned to hurt me—but he also said the wrong things. Like I’d let myself go, like our sex life was dead, like I’d never made time for him. Looking back there was a grain of truth in all of it, which was enough for me to hate myself entirely. He’d veer between passively aggressively blaming me for what he’d done, and apologising for it. But I could tell that he didn’t really mean it. I could tell he could barely wait to get out of the door.

I’ll always remember how he looked at me the day he finally did leave, with a mix of pity and contempt, muttering hollow ‘sorries’ as I followed him down the drive begging him not to go. I thought my life was ending, that I would never be happy again. I shudder at the thought, and feel grateful for the fact that I was wrong.

Now, sitting here on a snow-swept beach that feels a million miles away from those gut-punch days of tears and recriminations, he actually does sound sorry. Truly regretful. Not for leaving—he is clearly where he wants to be—but for the way he handled it. It unravels something in me, untangles a knot maybe, and I find myself feeling slightly better about everything. Lighter somehow, now he has finally acknowledged it. Like the emotional blockage I’ve carried with me for so long can finally start to dissolve.

‘It was horrible,’ I reply, leaning into him. ‘And I did deserve better. But it’s in the past, and nothing we say can change it. We just have to try and move on. And a baby is always good news. I’m pleased for you, Richie. You were always so great with the kids.’

‘Is this the part where you say that’s because I was always a big baby myself?’

‘I can neither confirm nor deny that. But it’ll be okay. You’ll remember how to change nappies, and you’ll be a dab hand at bath time, and eventually you’ll do all the stuff you did with our kids: teach them to ride a bike, and cheat at Snap, and take them to swimming lessons. You’ve got a whole new adventure ahead of you.’

‘I know,’ he says, wiping his face with his hands and looking exhausted at the thought. ‘Val has no clue what we’re in for! But yeah, like you say, it’s an adventure. Thank you. For being so nice about it. I was shitting myself the whole drive down here.’

‘I bet you were! Now, look, I really did mean it when I said I had things to do, Richie.’

I stand up, keen for him to be gone. This has been a lot to take in, a lot to digest, and I’m still much more rattled than I am letting on. I need to think about it all in a place that doesn’t also contain him, where I can be honest with myself, and possibly have a little cry. It is the end of one era, and the beginning of another … and that is fine. It will be all right. But it is new, and I have to get used to the way it feels.

‘Hot date?’ he says jokingly as he stands to join me, and I can tell he is surprised when I reply, ‘Yes, actually. His name’s Gabriel.’

‘Oh! Well. Good. Great. That’s nice. Maybe I’ll meet him one day.’

‘Maybe, but not today, and he’ll be turning up soon. He’s the jealous type, and he has a chainsaw.’

‘Really?’

‘No to the jealous type, yes to the chainsaw. But I do need to get moving, Richie. Call the kids and ask them to meet you at the Horse and Rider—that’s the pub in the village. If you ask nicely I’m sure they’ll bring Gary too. Buy them a drink, and tell them your news, and don’t expect perfection, okay?’

‘Okay. I need a drink myself. Thanks again, and … erm … stay in touch, all right?’

He opens his arms for a hug, and I step into it. It’s tentative and awkward to start with, but eventually we both relax. There’s a moment where I feel the tension poof out of me, and I wrap my arms around his back as he holds me close. It feels understandably familiar. It feels safe and nice and a tiny bit like home. The kind of history we share isn’t easily erased, and my body still remembers its place next to him. I nestle into his chest, and he rests his head on top of my hair like he always used to, and we cling to each other for way longer than is necessary.

I think we both know that this is a kind of goodbye. Our lives ran on parallel tracks for a very long time, but now they have diverged.

I look up at him and we share a smile, and I can tell I’m not the only one feeling emotional. He swipes at his eyes as we finally pull apart, both maybe a little embarrassed now. We walk together up to the car park, and I point him towards the pub. I watch him disappear up the road, slipping and sliding in his stupid boots, his phone to his ear.

I give him a final wave, and climb into the car. I actually still have a while before I meet Gabriel, but I can’t face going back into the café.

I turn the heating on and rub my hands in front of the vents, and soon start to feel cosy and cocooned. I can’t risk putting the radio on. One mournful Motown ballad or even a bit of Adele, and I’ll be done for. Instead, I simply sit, and think, and yes, have a little cry. I feel sad and relieved and nostalgic for the past and hopeful for the future, all at the same time. I allow myself that, because as you get older and life becomes more complicated, you start to realise that we’re all capable of feeling many things at once.

As usual, though, once I start crying, I find it hard to stop. I cry about my mum, and I cry about the memories of our now-dead family life that flood my mind. I cry about the fact that my kids are grown-up, and I will never again sit in a dark room at night holding a baby so small its whole head fits into the palm of my hand, overwhelmed with love and wonder. I cry about Cherie and her grief, and Gabriel and his hidden suffering, and I cry about the old people in the shop having to use self-service tills to pay for their microwave meals. I even cry about the fact that yesterday I saw a seagull hopping along with only one leg.

All of this takes some time, but is deeply cathartic. I feel better afterwards, but I notice as I glance in the mirror that I look terrible. I am a bundle of snot and tears, and my eyes are red and swollen. This is not how I wanted to look for my hot date.

I root around in the glove box for some tissues, and wipe my eyes. I add a bit of tinted moisturiser to cheer my face up, and then get out my phone to message the kids. No spoilers—it’s up to their dad to break the news that they’re getting a brand new sibling—but just to say I’ll see them later. I’ll keep an eye on my phone in case they need me, and hopefully by the time I see them again in person, I won’t look like someone has punched me in the face.

By then, I will have spent an evening with Gabriel, and everything will feel better. I decide that I will tell him all about Richie’s visit, because there’s no reason not to. He’ll be able to tell I’m upset anyway, and I know it will feel good to talk to him about it all. He is an excellent listener, and he always brings a slightly different perspective to things—beneath the grumpy exterior beats a very kind heart. Even the thought of being near him makes me smile, and that helps. There is so much that is good about my life now, and this is just a blip, a new situation to adapt to.

It’s only when I’m about to turn the phone off that I see what time it is, and realise it’s later than I thought. It’s twenty past four, and I have been sitting in my car melting into a puddle for way too long. For almost forty minutes in fact.

I frown as I realise that Gabriel should be here by now. I give it another ten minutes, keeping an eye out for his truck pulling into the car park, sure that he will turn up soon. I message him, but with little hope of it landing or him seeing it.

When he’s half an hour late, my brain does a fun thing where it decides to fill me with sudden irrational fear. Gabriel is the most capable man I’ve ever met, but even he could trip over a tree root and bang his head. What if he’s lying hurt and unconscious in the woods? What if he’s dying of hypothermia? What if he’s being eaten alive by hungry badgers? What if Belle has killed him?

I call, but predictably enough it goes straight to voicemail. The reception isn’t great at the farmhouse, and he’s equally not great at answering. I try Laura and ask if he’s in the café, but she says no. I get off the line as quickly as I can, before she can ask questions about Richie.

Still tormenting myself with the hungry badger scenario, I decide to drive over and check. Just as he is capable of tripping over a tree root, he’s also capable of losing track of time, or falling asleep after a hard day’s work. If that’s the case I’ll just make some tea and chill for while. We can do Lyme Regis another day, and the kids might need me at home in the aftermath of baby-gate anyway.

The snow has started to fall again, and is tumbling down in thick flurries this time. Big, fat flakes plop onto my windscreen, momentarily dazzling before they get wiped off. The lanes between the village and Gabriel’s place are both beautiful and slightly terrifying. The hedgerows are white and heavy, and I spy a little robin perched atop a branch, its red breast shining as it watches me drive slowly by. The fresh snow is settling on frozen ice, and it takes me about twice as long as normal to get there.

I toot the horn and go to see Belle, but she’s nowhere to be found. Gabriel recently installed a heat lamp in her stable, and she’s no fool.

I crunch over the snow in the courtyard, pulling my hat down around my ears, and am about to head inside when I hear a loud crashing noise. I stop, my head tilted to one side just like the robin, and track the sound. It’s coming from the barn.

As I round the corner, I stop and stare at the scene in front of me. Gabriel is standing there in the snow, not even wearing a coat, hefting a sledgehammer over his shoulder. Around him I see the scattered remains of the discarded kitchen cupboards from the skip, and the shattered carcass of Mr Pumpwell’s old bath. The fire pit that he’d made is lying on its side, the metal all bashed in and two of the legs detached. I spot pale blue shards of pottery embedded in the snow, and realise that the Wedgwood plates have gone, as well as an entire set of old kilner jars we’d found in storage.

He raises the sledgehammer over his head, and slams it down on an already splintered wooden door. He’s so intent on what he’s doing that he hasn’t even noticed me, and he’s only wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He must be freezing.

I frown and run towards him, shouting: ‘Gabriel! What are you doing?’

He glances over at me in surprise, his face cold in every way.

‘I’m smashing things.’

‘I see that. But why? And where’s your coat? Come on, let’s go inside. You’re turning blue!’

He stares at me for a few seconds, and I’m genuinely not sure if he’s even hearing me. He seems to be in some kind of fugue state, distant and faraway. His nostrils flare in distress, and his hair is coated in thick snowflakes. Eventually, he nods once, and drops the sledgehammer. He strides past me without a word, and heads inside.

The warmth of the Aga works its magic, and I put the kettle on as he disappears upstairs. I feel awkward and uncomfortable, not sure if I should follow him or not. I’ve got so used to the new Gabriel that I’d forgotten how intimidating the old Gabriel could be.

By the time he comes back down, he’s added a few layers of clothing, and has a plaster wrapped around one of his fingers.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask, nodding at his hand and passing him his tea. He sits at the opposite side of the table to me, and replies: ‘Splinter.’

Right. Well, I suppose that might happen when you’re busy smashing things. He’s normally safety-conscious, uses thick gloves and sometimes eye protectors, always aware of what he’s doing, always controlled. What I just witnessed outside was the very opposite of controlled.

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask simply, sipping my tea. He stares into his mug for a while, not meeting my eyes, then looks up.

‘I saw you,’ he says. ‘With him. I recognised him from the photo you have in the living room at Hyacinth. Why do you still have that anyway?’

Gabriel has never spoken to me like this before, and it shocks me. This isn’t just curt; it’s nasty. I blink a few times, and say: ‘Because he is the father of my children, who live there, and I don’t want them to think their dad is something they can’t discuss when they’re around me. And what do you think you saw?’

Inside, I am crumbling. I feel like the floor has turned to quicksand, and I am swamped with sudden nausea. On the outside, I manage to sound calm. Gabriel is upset enough for the two of us right now, and I don’t want to fan the flames.

‘I finished work early. Thought I’d go for a walk on the beach before we set off. And I saw you. In his arms, looking like you were enjoying it. Are you getting back together? Were you ever even apart? Was all of this just a distraction while you waited for him to come back to you? Or did you get with me to make him jealous?’

He is speaking in jagged bursts, and his fists are clenched on the table. I’ve seen him distant, and aloof, and even rude. But I’ve never seen him angry, and it is not nice. It’s also not fair, and part of me wants to scream at him, to yell and shout and do some smashing of my own. I take a deep breath, and choose my words.

‘Gabriel, there is so much there that’s insulting, I don’t know where to start. I don’t know if you’re even capable of listening right now. You’re actually scaring me.’

His eyes widen slightly, and I see him physically react. He does his own deep breathing, and leans back away from me as he nods, slowly. Some of the furious fire goes out of his eyes, and he starts to look like himself again, albeit a very unhappy version of himself.

‘I’m sorry for that. I know how I can be. But I need answers, Max. And I am listening.’

‘Right. Well, first of all then, fuck off with your accusations! I apologise for the language, but really? How dare you! Have I ever given you any reason to think I’m the kind of woman who would sneak around behind your back? The kind of woman who would sleep with someone as a distraction? No, I can answer that one straight away: I bloody well haven’t!’

My tone kicks up a notch there, and I tell myself that there is nothing to be gained by us both losing it.

‘But I saw you, Max. That wasn’t a quick goodbye hug. That was something more. That was real. You looked up into his eyes and I thought you were about to kiss him. And that… Well, that hurt a lot more than I thought it would.’

Something seems to deflate in him as he says this, and I see his tense shoulders drop a little. Ah, I think, now we’re at the crux of it. Mr I-Am-An-Island has finally realised that he is human after all, and that must be terrifying for him. He is damaged. He is in pain. He is lashing out, like a wounded animal. I understand all of that, but it is still unfair. And if there’s anything my experience with Richie taught me, it’s that I won’t allow myself to be badly treated ever again.

‘So, after you saw what you thought you saw, you just left?’

‘I don’t think I saw it, I did see it! And yes, I left. What did you expect me to do?’

‘I don’t know, Gabriel. Talk to me about it? Give me the chance to explain instead of jumping to conclusions? Ask me what was going on instead of making judgements? Maybe it was just easier for you to go off at the deep end, run back here and decide I was the bad guy? That’s a lot simpler and cleaner isn’t it?’

‘Maybe. Maybe you’re right. But I was shocked, and upset, and I didn’t want to be near you. I’m still not sure I want to be near you.’

That hurts, of course. It digs deep inside me and lodges there like a bone stuck in my throat. Today has been an absolute bastard, and I was already emotionally strung out by the time I got here. I’m not sure I have the energy for this, and am tempted to simply walk out. Leave him to his smashing.

Except there is a look on his face, in his eyes, that is so sad, so distraught, that I know I can’t. He’s told me what happened with his ex-wife, and I of all people understand how someone cheating takes a wrecking ball to your capacity to trust. You always expect the worst, and he is convinced that he’s just witnessed it.

Maybe I’d overreact in exactly the same way if I saw him and his gorgeous blonde ex having a cuddle, I don’t know. If I did, it would come from a place of pain and bitter past experience, and whatever happens between us, I don’t want to contribute to that pain. I have to make him understand that I am not the same as her, that history is not repeating himself.

‘What you saw, Gabriel, was perfectly innocent. Richie turned up unannounced because he wanted to tell me that he’s having a baby. That his new partner is pregnant. He wanted to tell me in person, which was one of the first decent things he’s done in years.

‘We talked, more openly than we have for a very long time. It was weird and emotional and intense. Yes, we hugged, and if I looked like I was enjoying it, then maybe I was. It felt like closure. It felt like I was finally saying goodbye to him, and to our past—to the last twenty years-plus of my life. And to give you your answers, no, we are not getting back together. Yes, we really were apart. I definitely didn’t sleep with you to make him jealous, and no, you were not just a distraction. You were much more than that.’

He stares at me seriously, like he’s trying to read my mind. Like he’s trying to figure out if I’m lying, if he can take a risk and believe me. This man is really messed up.

‘I was going to tell you,’ I say. ‘After he left, I sat alone in my car and cried about a one-legged seagull, amongst other things. I was upset, and concerned about my kids, and knocked off balance. But underneath all of that, I was looking forward to talking to you about it, because you’re not just someone I sleep with, Gabriel. You’re pretty much my best friend. I would never lie to you, and I would never cheat on you, and I would never keep secrets from you.’

He leans his elbows on the table, and rests his face in his hands so I can’t see him. His hair falls around his head, and I want nothing more than to reach out and comfort him. But I need to know that he has listened. I need to know that he understands how wrong he was, and how much he has hurt me.

He finally looks up, and there is a shimmer of tears in the liquid brown of his eyes.

‘I’ve really messed up, haven’t I?’ he says, his voice gravelly with emotion.

‘Yeah, you have. Gabriel, I would never do something like that to you. To anyone! I’ve been on the receiving end and I just wouldn’t. I wish you’d trusted me enough to give me the benefit of the doubt.’

‘You’re right; I should have. Instead I came back here and started smashing things. I’m an idiot, and there’s no hope for me.’

I want to argue with that, tell him there is hope. Simply reassure him and point out how far we’ve come together. When we first met, we didn’t even like each other. We were both hurting, both hiding. A lot has changed since then, but now I fear we are almost back at square one. I want to make him feel better, but I don’t know if I can. I am still too fragile myself. This whole conversation has felt like playing cricket with live hand grenades.

‘What happened with Helen was traumatic,’ I say, quietly. ‘And I know you never talk about it, but your time in the Army was too. Maybe your mum dying when you were young, all of it. It’s a lot, and it’s all left its mark. It’s natural that it’s affected you, in all kinds of ways—you’re only human, Gabriel, much as you like to think otherwise. That comment you made earlier, about this whole thing hurting a lot more than you expected? I don’t necessarily think that’s a bad thing.’

‘It felt pretty bloody bad!’

‘Yeah, I know. But it also means that you’ve opened up, doesn’t it? We both have, in our own ways. We’ve kind of … blossomed?’

He smiles, and reaches out to hold both my hands in his.

‘You might be right, Max. And I know you’re trying to make me feel better, because that’s your nature. But look at me; look at how I behaved. The things I said, just because I felt hurt. You came here after a difficult day thinking you could rely on me, trusting me to be someone you could turn to, and instead I scared you. I scared myself to be honest. Even Belle got a fright. She took one look at my face and ran back into her stable.’

I twine my fingers into his, and feel such a strong rush of affection for this man that I’m not sure I’ll ever let go.

‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘You’re not perfect. I’m not either. And that’s all right. Look, we’re both upset right now. Everything is heightened. It’s all been very dramatic, and we’re not thinking straight. Plus you have a splinter.’

He laughs bitterly, and thinks about what I’ve said. I can almost see his thought processes, and feel my stomach clench and tighten. The sense of dread is so strong it’s making me physically ill.

He pulls his hands from mine, and gives me a sweet, sad smile.

‘You’re right, about everything. And I’m sorry—really sorry—that I judged you like that. Obviously it says more about me than you, Max. But I am what I am, and I can’t even promise that it will never happen again. I think I have a touch of the psycho to me, to be honest, and I’m not sure that will ever go away. I’m worried about it, about how I reacted, and I’m worried that I might drag you down with me.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying I think I need a break, Max. I’m sorry.’