The Comfort Food Café

Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

I wake up the next day with a sore head, and a sense of doom that descends on me approximately ten seconds after I open my eyes.

I am momentarily cheered by the news on the village group chat that Katie has delivered a healthy baby boy called Oliver, weighing in at seven pound ten. Mother and baby are doing well, and predictably enough, a rota is being set up to help them out with childcare for the other two boys. I offer my services and received a huge smiley face from Laura.

My own face is significantly less smiley. I stagger into the bathroom, and see red eyes, crusted lashes, and pale skin. Delightful.

Disgusting as the view in the mirror is, I feel even worse on the inside. I had a bad night, full of fractured and tormented dreams as my subconscious presumably tried to deal with the double whammy of the day before. My subconscious clearly sucks at it, because as I make my way downstairs to get caffeine, I still feel sick.

The kids are both in bed, and I’m glad—at least I don’t have to fake it for their sake. Gary doesn’t mind if I’m a grouch. The poor dog has had so many tears shed on his fur I’m surprised he hasn’t turned into a fish. I feed him and let him out, and he turns the snow in the garden yellow in a big zig-zaggy line before running back in.

I make my coffee, and a bowl of cereal I know I probably won’t be able to eat. Everything feels heavy, my heart, my mind, my arms. Every small task I have to complete—kettle, mug, Crunchy Nut Cornflakes—seems to take maximum effort. It’s like I’m wading through treacle. I’m due in at work before too long and I’m worried about how I’ll manage.

I’ve never thrown a sickie in my life, and I’m not about to start, but that doesn’t mean it will be easy. Everything feels different today, greyer, tougher, more of a challenge. I tell myself that it will get better with time. That at one stage, I never thought I’d get over Richie leaving me. That we humans are resilient creatures, even if we don’t always feel it.

Today is bad. Today is awful in fact, but it is only today. I need to get through it, one step at a time, and then do it all over again tomorrow.

I sip my coffee and look out of the kitchen window towards the snow-covered hills and fields. It’s still pretty dark out there, and that suits me. I’m in no mood to look at beauty and sunshine. I should probably go and find the nearest big city and sit at its grottiest bus stop, the kind full of litter and cigarette butts and vomit. That would suit my mood better.

I wonder how Gabriel is this morning. When I left him, he was grim-faced but determined. We didn’t even hug goodbye, neither of us willing to risk what that might result in. I drove home upset, but at least I had the kids and Gary to cheer me up. He has nobody.

I imagine him alone in that house, and even though it looks a lot better than it did when I first arrived, it is still too big for one man by himself. The picture I paint in my mind is enough to make tears sting the back of my eyes, and I squeeze them away. He’s not dead, I tell myself. He’s still just a few miles down the road. I can still see him. Still visit Belle. Still carry on searching for the perfect rug for the living room.

That is something … but it doesn’t feel like it’s enough. It’s not just the sex I’ll miss; it’s the companionship. The affection. The continued sense of amazement as I learn more about him, and more about myself.

Have we made a really stupid mistake? Have we let this all go too easily? I know it was him who suggested a break, but I went along with it. Should I have fought harder? Insisted we held off until we’d both calmed down before we made any decisions? Did he interpret my lack of resistance as me giving up on us?

There are too many questions, and not enough answers. I’m so confused and tired I barely know my own name, but I am starting to think we were too hasty. That I let him slip away without any real attempt at figuring things out. As soon as he said he wanted a break, a self-preservation siren went off in my head, and I ran for my emotional life.

I think that’s partly because of what happened with Richie. With him, I held on to hope that he would come home, for way too long.

Every time I got a message from him, or heard a car outside, I’d have this little moment where my heart leapt and I thought things would go back to normal. One day, Sophie caught me staring out of the window at a passing Nissan Qashqai, the same type and colour as his, and said to me: ‘Mum, give it up. I can’t believe how long you’ve clung on to this marriage. They should make you the patron saint of lost causes.’

She was right, and even though I forgive myself that weakness now, I never wanted to experience it again. I never wanted to revisit that feeling that my wellbeing depended on somebody else’s choices. So when Gabriel started to pull away, I let him. Even though my heart was breaking in two, I let him. I didn’t want to beg, and I still think that maybe he’s right—that we do need more time—but I certainly didn’t articulate that to him. I just agreed, and left.

What if he thinks I don’t want him? What if he’s woken up this morning feeling exactly the same as me, with his own regrets and his own pain?

The more I think about it, the more it makes sense to go and see him. Even if it’s just to talk things through properly, or to say a real goodbye. I can’t stand the thought of leaving things like this, of pretending what we had didn’t matter. It might be over, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to put it entirely behind me. What we had deserves more than that. We deserve more than that. We might not be able to salvage the whole relationship, but we can at least try and salvage the way it ends, and leave things on a more settled note between us. If it’s ending, it should end well.

I feel so much better after this one-sided conversation with myself that I actually manage to eat my breakfast. I come up with a cunning plan: I will finish work at the café, and then drive over to see him. Okay, maybe it’s not that cunning, but it is a plan.

I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders, and I’m not sure if that’s because I’m doing the right thing, or because even just the thought of being with him again makes me feel better. It could, of course, be both. Last night felt wrong, on so many levels, and I hate that. I hate the idea of us becoming strangers, people who bump into each other and feel awkward. I need to fix it, or at least try to.

Decision made, I regain some energy and a sense of purpose. I shower, and dress, and even put on a bit of make-up. Whatever happens, I tell myself, I’ll be fine. Like Gloria so wisely says, I will survive.

I message the kids, telling them to look after Gary and not burn the house down, and grab my car keys. I’m still singing that stupidly catchy song as I walk to the hallway, and stop in surprise at the sight of a padded envelope lying on the mat.

I stare at it for a bit, like it might contain anthrax, then pick it up. I occasionally get post here, forwarded from home, but this just has my name scrawled on the front, and no stamp. It’s been delivered by hand, and I suspect I know whose hand it was.

My fingers tremble a little as I tear it open, and a set of keys falls to the floor. I ignore them, and examine the letter that came with them. It’s written in pencil, on sheets of that small notepad he carries with him. The one I first saw the night we went badger-watching, a million years ago. I bite my lip, and read.

Dear Max,

Just wanted to let you know I’m taking off for a bit. I’m sorry about yesterday. I was an idiot, and I wish it never happened. But I think I need to try and get my head straight, and I don’t think I can do that when I’m around you. I know we said we’d still see each other as friends, but that’s not going to work and we both know it.

I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone for, or where I’m going, maybe back to France for a while. I’m arranging for someone to come and see to Belle every day, but I’m sure she’d still appreciate a visit from you; you were always her favourite person. I’m enclosing keys to the farmhouse, just in case. I’m sorry, and thanks for everything. Take care of yourself.

He has signed it simply with his name. He is not an XOXO kind of man, I know that, but I wish he was. One little kiss at the end might have helped.

I realise I am crying, and I fold the little pages up and shove them in my bag. I can hear sounds of movement upstairs, and I remind myself of my vow, that my kids will never have to deal with my emotional wreckage ever again. Anyway, I don’t have time to break down. I have to go to work.

I wipe away the tears, and put on my coat, and face the world. Outside, it is dazzlingly white, so cold my eyelashes almost freeze. I march through the little path that leads to the green, and see Ruby and Rose out in the snow, Midgebo chasing them around.

They have their school uniforms on, but are bundled up in extra layers and wellies as they roll a big ball of snow around the grass.

‘Max!’ one of them shouts (I can’t tell them apart), ‘we’re making the world’s biggest snowman before Becca takes us to school. Dad says if it’s big enough it might go in the Guinness Book of Records!’

‘Which is stupid,’ the other adds, ‘because Guinness is just that black beer he drinks!’

They are so sweet, so funny. So untouched by adult life. I chat to them for a few minutes, wishing them luck, then drive to the café to meet their mother. I sit in the car park for a few moments first, gathering myself into a whole, refusing to do what I want to do and read that letter again. The contents won’t have changed, and there’s no point torturing myself about what might have been, or what I should have done differently. He’s gone, and that’s that.

I am determined to keep the act up, as much for my own benefit as anyone else’s, and I’m grateful to have a job to keep me busy. It’s a solace, a safe haven, the perfect distraction.

It’s also, praise the lord, a bustling day in the Comfort Food Café. That’s not always the case, but we get a coach load of senior citizens in on their way to Cornwall, all of them oohing and aahing about the decor and ordering a vast array of breakfast items. Making bacon sandwiches and pots of tea and buttering thick doorstep toast is way preferable to sitting around feeling sorry for myself, and also means it’s easier to avoid Laura’s probing gaze.

After the coach party, we have a steady stream of customers, and Cherie comes down to help out. I love watching her work, seeing her float around the room making everyone feel welcome and special. For such a big woman, she moves with such ease and grace. I want to be Cherie when I grow up.

Once the place is quieter, I keep myself busy with some cleaning. Today, I decide, is the perfect day to scrub the already pristine toilets. I do that, and I dust the book shelves, and I check the board games to make sure they have their all pieces. I find Buckaroo’s plastic bundle of dynamite rammed inside the snakes and ladders, so it’s a good job I did. I refill all the salt and pepper shakers, and check the ketchups, and then I gather up a bin bag and some rubber gloves.

‘Where are you going now?’ says Cherie, as I walk past. I realise that the café is now empty, and she is sitting with Laura at one of the tables sipping a coffee.

‘Erm … I was going to shovel up dog poo from the field. It’s easier when it’s frozen.’

This is a universal truth known to all dog owners, but Cherie shakes her head at me, her silvery-grey plait wobbling.

‘No, you’re not going to do that, Max. We’ve been watching you run around like a blue-arsed fly for the last half-hour. There’s nothing else that needs doing. Sit down.’

She says this in the kind of tone that you can’t argue with, and I do as I’m told. Laura gets me a cappuccino, and I give them both a huge beaming smile over the steam. I am doing so well at this faking it business.

‘That is the creepiest smile I’ve ever seen,’ Laura says, shaking her head. ‘You look like a possessed demon doll in a horror film. What’s up? You’ve been weird all day, and we’re worried about you.’

I look at their concerned faces, and remind myself that they are not my children. That I am allowed to appear vulnerable around them. That maybe I need to talk about all of this before I explode.

‘I think,’ I say quietly, ‘that my life is a bit of a mess. In general. I think things might have gone tits up.’

‘Everything seems to go a bit tits up when you’re our age,’ says Laura, gazing down at her chest. ‘Apart from your actual tits. They just seem to go down. Can you be more specific?’

‘Gabriel’s left. He’s gone to France, and I might never see him again, and he’ll probably put the farmhouse up for sale! What if I’m looking on Rightmove one day and it’s there, with its lovely sofa and the Brassica paint on the landing! What if someone else buys it? What will happen to Belle? And the badgers? And me? I keep telling myself to be more Gloria, but I just feel so bloody sad!’

The two of them exchange looks at this outburst, and Cherie says: ‘I’ll get the cake.’

Once she’s back, I tell them both everything that has happened. They don’t interrupt, they just sit and listen. It feels like a monumental relief to get it off my chest, even though I’m constantly crying or trying not to cry. I’ve eaten some of the apple pie, and drunk my coffee, and dumped my emotional load all over my friends’ heads. I feel like I’ve gone on for hours, but they don’t seem to mind.

Cherie reaches out and pats my hand gently, saying: ‘Oh my love, I’m so sorry. What a palaver! What a bit of bad luck that he happened to see you and Richie, and make all the wrong assumptions!’

I nod, my lower lip still feeling a bit wobbly, and reply: ‘It was bad luck. But … I don’t know, Cherie, maybe it was for the best? It doesn’t feel like that now, but there’s obviously a lot of anger inside him. A lot of pain. It would probably have spilled over at some point or another, and I don’t need more drama in my life. Maybe it’s good it happened before things had gone too far. Before we were in too deep.’

‘Sweetness,’ she replies, an amused smile on her lips, ‘I think it’s a bit late for that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean you’re already in pretty deep, aren’t you? You’re clearly head over heels in love with the man!’

I stare at her dumbly for a few seconds, and Laura adds, ‘She’s right, Max. You might be trying to fool yourself that it was still casual, but it’s obviously not. Have you told him? That you love him?’

‘Of course not!’ I reply, exasperated. ‘How could I, when I didn’t even know? Why didn’t you tell me earlier for God’s sake?’

They both burst out laughing at this, and eventually, against all the odds, I have to join in. I really am ridiculous.

Are they right, I wonder? Am I in love with Gabriel? Of course I bloody am, I admit to myself. I’ve been ignoring what was right in front of my face because it was frightening, because I wasn’t ready. Well, ready or not, it’s happened, and I’ve realised it just as he’s disappeared. Or maybe because he has, who knows?

‘I suspect he feels the same way,’ Laura says. ‘Except he doesn’t have helpful friends to point it out to him over apple pie. It’s probably why he ran away; it all felt a bit too big. He thinks he’s blown it, and he knows he’s got issues, and he obviously couldn’t stand the thought of being here and not being with you. You have to call him, and tell him you love him, and make him come home. It’s the only option, Max.’

‘It’s not. I could move to Outer Mongolia, or join a convent, or volunteer for a drug trial where they erase your memory.’

‘That’s from a film, and it never works! Look, how did you feel, when you read that letter? And also, why doesn’t he have normal-sized paper?’

‘It’s a Gabriel thing. And I suppose I felt … devastated. The only thing that was keeping me upright was the thought of going to see him after work, and trying to fix us. And then I read it, and I didn’t even have that. I feel awful, Laura. Just empty and scooped out and hollow. I know it’ll pass. I know I won’t actually die of a broken heart, but right now, it feels like it.’

I start to cry again, and Cherie comes to my side of the table and wraps me up in one of her trademark hugs. I sob on her shoulder, and she strokes my hair, and I let it all out. When I finally stop shuddering against her, I see that I’ve left streaks of damp mascara on her top.

‘It’s okay,’ she says, following my eyes. ‘Now we’re even. I did the same to you on your first day here, didn’t I? But look, love, Laura’s right. If you don’t at least try, you’ll never forgive yourself. Take it from us two, because we know better than most: life is too short for missing out on love. You blink your eye and it’s gone. Grab hold, and keep it safe, my darling girl, because you deserve it, and so does he.’