The Beach Cafe (24 page)

‘Where are you staying tonight?’ I asked them politely as Rachel got to work.

‘We’re staying in The Excelsior, just along the coast,’ Maria said, gesturing behind her.

I tried – and failed – to stop my jaw from dropping. The Excelsior was seriously expensive and seriously cool. All sorts of famous people had stayed there.

‘Lovely room overlooking the beach, a wonderful view,’ Maria went on. ‘We’ve booked you in there too, Phoebe, for tonight. We don’t want to put Evie out any more.’

‘She wouldn’t be—’ I began, but Phoebe was making a choking sound in her throat.

‘You checked into your hotel before you came to find me?’ she asked in disbelief.

I froze, only just registering what Phoebe had realized, and felt appalled. In fact, I wanted to snatch Phoebe away from these monstrous, unfeeling parents of hers.

‘Only for a minute,’ Maria said. ‘You know what I’m like, I was bursting for . . . Only for a minute,’ she said again, her voice faltering. ‘We did come straight over afterwards.’

‘Have a seat,’ I told them. ‘We’ll bring the coffees over.’ I busied myself getting out a tray and wiping it down. ‘Bloody hell,’ I muttered to Rachel. ‘Poor old Pheebs. I feel like I’m sending her back into the firing line.’

‘I know what you mean,’ she murmured. ‘Not the cuddliest types, are they?’

‘About as cuddly as a pair of snakes,’ I replied under my breath.

I brought over the drinks with a selection of cakes, too, in case they were hungry. ‘Honestly, we’ve been worried
sick
,’ I heard Maria saying tightly to Phoebe as I approached, her mouth shrivelled, as if she’d been sucking on a lemon. ‘What were you
thinking
?’

Poor Phoebe looked as if she might burst into tears. I put down the drinks and cakes, then hesitated, knowing that I should butt out of this private family drama, but not sure whether I could keep my mouth shut. Guess what? I couldn’t.

‘I get that this has been a difficult time for you,’ I blurted out before I could help myself, ‘but it’s not exactly been a picnic for Phoebe, either.’

There was a moment’s silence and Bradley turned his eyes – his cold, rather dead-looking eyes on me – in what felt like horrible slow motion.

‘I mean, when I found her, she was sleeping
outside
.’ My voice had become shrill. ‘She was sleeping out in the rain and the cold for night after night – she wasn’t doing it for fun, you know. She was doing it because she was desperate.’

Oh God. Shut up, Evie. Phoebe looked as if she was folding into herself with embarrassment. That was the last thing I wanted.

‘Well, I appreciate your concern,’ Maria said frostily, ‘but . . .’

‘I hope you’ll get on better now, that’s all,’ I interrupted her. ‘Because I think she’s lovely. She’s really grown-up, she’s fun, she’s loyal, she’s a bloody hard worker – she’s a credit to you. And I know it must have been awful, her running away, I get that, but you’ve found her now, so I hope you . . .’ I swallowed. ‘I hope you can treasure her. I would.’

There was another moment of awful, tense silence and my heart pounded. Maria’s eyes were hooded as she stirred her coffee briskly and I wondered for a split-second if she might throw it in my face.

‘Sorry,’ I muttered, holding the tray to my chest. ‘None of my business. I’ll just—’

I was about to walk off and hide in the kitchen when Phoebe spoke. ‘Thank you, Evie,’ she said, her voice small and cracked.

‘My pleasure,’ I replied, trying to signal to her with my eyes that I was sorry if I’d just made everything worse. I really hoped not.

I went back to the counter, adrenaline whooshing as if I’d just been in a fight, and helped Rachel serve the customers. We had a rush on, and I was whizzing back and forth from the kitchen for a few minutes – and in that time Phoebe and her family vanished. I didn’t even get to say a proper goodbye.

I went over to the table with a heavy heart. I really must have pissed them off. Then I saw the pile of bank notes tucked neatly under one of the cake plates. I counted them, my heart racing. Two hundred quid. It felt like blood-money.

I hurried out to the deck, but they’d gone, disappeared from view. Then I ran through the kitchen and out the back, just in time to see a year-old silver Audi pulling out of the car park and accelerating away. I waved frantically, but the car had tinted windows and I couldn’t tell if anyone had seen me. I sighed, feeling as if I’d failed somehow, as if I’d fallen at the very last fence.

As soon as the café was officially closed that evening, Jamie, Martha and one of Jamie’s mates, who seemed to be called Boz, arrived with boxes of artwork. Boz had brought along a drill too, but quickly proved himself to be a total incompetent with power tools, gouging huge holes in the wall and spraying everything with plaster dust.

‘Boz,’ I wailed. ‘Have you any idea how to work that thing? I do want the wall to stay standing, please. You’re like a bloody woodpecker!’

‘Give it here,’ Ed said, wandering through from the kitchen. The feminist in me wanted to grab the drill from Boz and say to Ed, ‘It’s all right, I can manage’, but the realist in me knew that actually I’d probably make even more of a bodge-job than bodger Boz.

Boz handed over the drill, and Ed went round making ten neat holes where the pictures were to go, pushed a Rawlplug into each one and then searched around for the screws. ‘What?’ he said, when he saw me looking at him.

I laughed, slightly embarrassed. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Just . . . you being all capable and manly.’

He laughed too. ‘I am always capable and manly,’ he reminded me.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I scoffed. ‘Modest too, right?’

‘Naturally.’

I was excited about hanging up the pictures – hell, I was excited about seeing the pictures full stop. It had crossed my mind earlier that I’d offered to have all this artwork on my walls without even giving it the once-over in advance. Pretty dumb really. Once again a case of my mouth working before my brain could catch up. What if, I’d agonized the night before, the paintings were awful? Or offensive? What if they depicted grisly scenes, or had loads of expletives daubed across them? This really could be another own goal for Evie Flynn, unprofessional café manager extraordinaire. But on the other hand . . .

I gasped as Jamie pulled the dustsheet off one of the largest paintings. It was a beautiful sea scene of blues and greens, with iridescent shells and bright-shimmering fish. It was calming, serene and eye-catching. You could almost hear the sound of the water when you looked at it.

On the other hand, I thought to myself with a smile, I might just have scored a hat-trick.

Once Jamie was happy with the arrangement of the canvases, he set about putting numbered stickers next to them, and pinned up a price sheet. The smallest canvases were very reasonable at £50 each, I thought, with the medium-sized pieces priced at £150, and the two largest paintings at £250. They were all underwater scenes, similar in style, but with different colours and subjects, making each piece unique. They worked brilliantly as a collection.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ I said, gazing at the display of colour around my walls. ‘Jamie, don’t they look wonderful? Doesn’t the café look fantastic?’

He was still tweaking the canvases, making tiny adjustments to them, standing back with his head on one side and his eyes narrowed, considering the composition of the arrangement from all angles. Then he smiled. ‘It’s amazing, having them together like this,’ he said. ‘I’ve never actually seen them as a collection, all up at the same time.’

Martha was beaming. ‘Now we just need people to buy them all and commission you to do loads more,’ she said proudly.

‘Well, not straight away, I hope,’ I said, then clapped a hand to my mouth, feeling bad. ‘Sorry, that came out wrong. I’m just being selfish, because I want to have them here for a little while.’

Jamie grinned. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘If they all sell, I’ll just paint you some more.’

‘I’ll take you up on that,’ I said. I gazed around, loving the way the café had been brought to life by the artwork. It looked classier somehow, more upmarket, more cool. What do you reckon, Jo? I thought, smiling to myself. Check out our café now!

Lindsay, Jamie’s boss from the Golden Fleece, who had brassy-blonde hair, a capacious bosom and high red heels, arrived with some wine she was donating, and a boxload of small plastic wine glasses. ‘Put me down for one of those little canvases, Jay,’ she said. ‘The one with the pink coral. It’ll look lovely in my bathroom.’

‘Really? Thank you.’ Jamie looked delighted, and Martha immediately went bustling over with her stickers to put a red dot next to the canvas in question.

‘Sold! To the lady with the wine,’ she cheered.

Lindsay grinned. ‘My pleasure,’ she said. ‘I’d love to stay, but I’ve got to get back to the pub. Have a great night, though.’ She elbowed me. ‘Looking great in here, kid,’ she said. ‘You’re doing a smashing job, I keep hearing.’

‘Really?’ I blurted out in surprise. ‘I mean – thank you. Thanks, Lindsay.’

Annie was next to arrive, with some boxes of cupcakes. She’d iced them in the same shades of blue and green as the paintings, and had found some tiny white sugar decorations in the shape of seashells. ‘Oh, they’re gorgeous,’ I sighed, helping her to set them out on plates. ‘You’re a legend, Annie. A domestic-goddess legend!’

We dragged all the chairs and tables to one end of the café so that there was enough floor space for everyone to wander around and admire the artwork, and I poured out some glasses of wine and set them on the counter, along with the plates of cakes, so that people could help themselves. The only thing missing was Phoebe, I realized with a pang. I wondered if she was sitting through a painful dinner at the Excelsior right now. I hoped she’d be okay.

And then all of a sudden it was seven o’clock, and the first people began arriving.

Chapter Twenty-Two

A shamble – it was the best way to describe them collectively – of Jamie’s mates were the first official guests to saunter in: gangly and seemingly awkward in their lanky frames, as if they still felt like little boys inside. They all had similar floppy hair and mumbly voices, and proceeded to take the piss out of Jamie in the way that teenage lads do, although you could tell it was affectionate and that they were actually more than a little proud of their talented mate. ‘He’s only got blue and green in his paintbox, poor sod,’ one of them quipped, looking around at the underwater paintings. ‘We should have a whip-round for you, Jay, get you a few other colours.’

‘Ah, look, Giz, he’s done a portrait of you here,’ said another, pointing to one picture that had a large orange fish with thick, fleshy lips and a slightly vacant expression. I couldn’t help a snigger as I realized who ‘Giz’ was – a lanky guy with a curtain of dark, greasy hair and a strikingly similar blankness about his face.

‘Mate, I knew you’d come in handy for something one day,’ Jamie said, slapping him on the back and laughing. ‘Cornwall’s Next Top Model.’

‘Gerroff,’ grumbled Giz good-naturedly, shrugging him – and all the teasing – off.

A couple of Jamie’s teachers walked in next – both in their fifties and smartly dressed, and the lads promptly reverted to behaving like schoolboys. ‘All right, miss?’ they said politely, as if butter wouldn’t melt.

Then came a load of Martha’s friends, all with long swishy hair and sparkly flip-flops, who clustered together giggling and drank the wine too quickly, as if they were worried somebody would ask their age and take it away from them.

The room was filling up, and the atmosphere felt good – pleasantly buzzy and friendly. It was a balmy evening, with mellow golden light from the sun dancing in streaks on the waves outside. I was thoroughly enjoying myself in my role as hostess. This was what the café was all about: bringing the community together for a special occasion. I hardly recognized anyone – and really, why should I? They were all villagers who had their own kettles and cake tins to turn to in their homes; they didn’t need to come to the café in the way that the holidaymakers and day-trippers did. I liked the thought that, although by day the café was for the beach-goers, by evening it could be a place for the locals themselves to meet.

This notion was clearly occurring to everyone else at the same time, almost visibly travelling around the room like a thought-wave. Within the space of the next hour one of Jamie’s mates asked if I’d consider letting them use the café as a place for their band to practise one evening a week, as their parents were all fed up with the racket; then one of the teachers asked if her book group could have their monthly meeting here too. ‘We’ve been getting together in the pub, but it’s so noisy in there, we can’t hear ourselves think, let alone discuss the finer points of narrative structure,’ she said to me. Then her eyes twinkled conspiratorially. ‘Not to mention everybody’s gossip too, of course. This place would be perfect.’

‘Fine by me.’ I said to them both. ‘Of course. Any time!’

Florence came along then, just as I was talking to the book-group lady – Elizabeth, her name was – and I introduced the two of them. ‘Florence is fairly new to the village,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t know many people here yet.’ And Elizabeth, bless her, promptly invited Florence to come along to their next book-group meeting, right there on the spot. ‘We’re reading the new Kate Atkinson,’ she said. ‘I can lend you my copy if you want?’

‘That would be lovely,’ Florence said happily. ‘Thank you very much.’

I left them chatting in order to go on wine duty and top up people’s glasses. Lots more guests had arrived, and Jamie was looking flushed and exhilarated as he talked about the paintings with a group of people. For all the crowd, though, I didn’t see any more red dots by the pictures; only the one by the pink-coral piece that Lindsay had claimed. I hoped there would be at least one more sale, for Jamie’s sake. He’d said earlier that having the paintings on show was what mattered most to him, but all the same . . . I decided I’d buy one of them if nobody else did. Sod it, we’d done well lately, especially with our Friday-night takings, and they were genuinely striking pieces of artwork.

I was just gazing around, wondering which one I’d choose, when I saw that Ed had arrived and was speaking to a woman I didn’t recognize. I hesitated, wanting to go over and say hi, but feeling slightly self-conscious about it too. If it hadn’t been for that stupid kiss, I wouldn’t have thought twice about joining him, but now . . . I bit my lip. He looked gorgeous in a short-sleeved summery shirt with the top two buttons undone, and a pair of smart dark-blue jeans. My skin felt hot just looking at him.

I was plucking up the courage to go over – hell, it would be the normal thing to do, wouldn’t it? Staying away would only make it seem a bigger drama than it needed to be – when Rachel walked in with a tall, slim woman who had cropped black hair and large brown eyes. ‘Evie! I want you to meet Leah,’ she said when she saw me, grabbing the woman’s arm and pulling her over. ‘Leah’s my mate from Melbourne, who’s just arrived in the bay. Remember me saying that she was hoping to find some work here? Well, now that Phoebe’s gone, if you need another waitress, then . . .’

‘Then I’m your woman,’ Leah said with a smile, showing even white teeth. Dimples flashed in her olive-skinned face as she turned her friendly gaze on me. ‘Hi, Evie. Awesome place you’ve got here.’

I smiled back, getting a good vibe about her. Call me a pushover, but I did love it when people were complimentary about the café. It had become so tightly bound up with who I was, that it felt like personal praise. Oh, what the hell, I thought. You had to go with your instincts sometimes, and if she was Rachel’s mate, she was probably all right. ‘Hi, Leah,’ I said. ‘Nice to meet you, and welcome to Carrawen! Why don’t you drop in tomorrow morning and we can have a chat about work then?’

‘Cool,’ she said. ‘Thanks very much.’

I went to refill my glass – the wine that Lindsay had provided was slipping down very easily, that was for sure – then picked up the bottle to do the rounds and see if anyone else wanted a top-up. Then I stopped in my tracks, staring in horror at the person who’d just arrived, almost expecting sinister music to start playing. It was Betty. Horrible, evil Betty from the shop. The last person I’d expected to see crossing my threshold. What was she doing
here
?

I watched her covertly. She was all dolled up for a change – I’d only ever seen her in her nylon overall and polo-neck before. Tonight she was wearing a rather lurid flowered dress, wedge-heeled espadrilles and a chunky silver necklace. She’d set her hair in curls and was wearing lipstick. Bloody hell. It was like having the Bride of Frankenstein totter in. Whose benefit was this for? I wondered. And, again, what the hell was she
doing
here?

Something else was strange about her. Something that didn’t quite look right. Ah. That was it. She was
smiling
. I’d never seen her mouth in any shape other than a snarl or a sneer before, but tonight she was smiling around at the paintings, her face practically glowing with appreciation. Blimey. Don’t tell me she was an art buff on the quiet? Don’t tell me we had the West Country’s answer to Brian Sewell right here in Carrawen?

She was scouring the room now as if searching for someone, and then she made a beeline for Jamie, who was deep in conversation with an earnest-looking woman, who was – ooh! –actually getting out a cheque book.

Oh yes
, I thought, stifling a whoop. Jamie had made a sale. And then, in the next instant –
oh no. Betty, no! Step away from the artist, Betty
, I urged telepathically,
don’t wreck Jamie’s big moment, for heaven’s sake.
Knowing her, she was probably going to say something crushing and spiteful about the whole evening, and the cheque-book lady would have second thoughts. Knowing Betty, the smile on her face was an evil one, a gloating bad-fairy one, and she’d burst into a horrible cackle any second: mwah-ha-ha-hah!

I had to stop her. I stepped blindly towards Betty, but she was pretty nifty on her wedges, heading straight for Jamie like a woman on a mission. Then I heard something deeply weird.

‘Hello, Mum,’ said Jamie.

I almost fell over in shock. Hello, Mum? Betty was Jamie’s
mum
? No way. No WAY! I thought for a second my brain might explode. How could this be possible? It was a small village, yes, and lots of people knew everyone else. Lots of people seemed to be related to each other, but all the same . . . How had I missed this one?

Then I got the fear.
Shit!
Had I said anything awful about her in front of him? Probably, knowing my big mouth. Almost certainly in fact. Oh Gawd . . .

‘Come and meet Verity,’ Jamie was saying, putting an arm around Betty as she reached him. ‘Verity, this is my mum, Betty. And, Mum, guess what, Verity’s just bought one of my paintings.’

My mouth was hanging open and I quickly snapped it shut. Jamie had sold a painting! That was wonderful. But oh, my goodness . . . I was still reeling from the Betty bombshell. How come I hadn’t been told about this? How come Jamie was so sweet and normal, when his mum was such an old witch?

Florence had appeared in front of me, and I blinked.
Come on, Evie. Pull yourself together.

‘I’m having a lovely time,’ she said, twinkling at me. ‘Thank you so much for inviting me, dear. I’ve met some very friendly people and I’ve even bought one of the little canvases as a present to myself.’

‘Brilliant,’ I said warmly. ‘I’m really glad. So it’s turned out to be a good birthday, then?’

‘Oh, it has,’ she replied. ‘A very good birthday. And I had some wonderful news earlier from my son too, when he phoned – he’s going to be back in the UK soon, working on a new documentary. I can’t wait to see him.’

‘Oh, that’s fab,’ I said. Her eyes were moist with emotion, bless her, and it made me feel sniffly just looking at her. ‘I’m so pleased, Florence.’

‘He couldn’t believe it when I told him I was going out to an art exhibition tonight,’ she giggled. ‘He said, “Really, Mum? Good for you!” ’ She grinned. ‘I’m so glad you asked me along this evening. I’d have been twiddling my thumbs and feeling miserable, if I’d stayed in at home.’

‘Well, I’m really glad you came,’ I told her. ‘And do spread the word about our girls’ night in, won’t you? Invite anyone you want to. The more the merrier, I say.’

I broke off then, because I could see Betty approaching us. She looked uncharacteristically nervous, her face florid, her lipsticked mouth in a tense, puckered circle. ‘Have you got a minute?’ she asked.

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Florence, would you excuse us?’

Betty and I stepped to one side, away from the throng. She cleared her throat self-consciously and fiddled with one of her Pat-Butcheresque earrings. ‘I want to say thank you,’ she began quietly. ‘Thank you for giving my Jay a chance. He’s absolutely over the moon with all this. Over the moon.’

I was – there is no other word for it – gobsmacked. Utterly gobsmacked. Betty . . . being nice. Betty . . . saying thank you! Had the body-snatchers had a day trip to Carrawen Bay recently? Was this really a Cyborg in front of me, wearing the lurid dress and lippy?

I realized I was staring. ‘It’s my pleasure,’ I told her quickly. ‘He’s a lovely lad, and his paintings are great. He deserves a break.’

She was twisting her hands now, looking incredibly uncomfortable. There was a sheen of sweat on her face. ‘The other thing is: I’m sorry. I . . .’ She was struggling to force the words out. ‘I’ve been a bit unfair on you. Misjudged you. And . . .’

Oh, my word. Weirder and weirder. Had that really been a ‘sorry’ as well as a ‘thank you’ she’d squeezed out from that cat’s bum of a mouth? I half-expected lightning to strike the café, like some biblical end-of-world scenario.

‘And I’m sorry,’ she said again.

Bloody
hell
. Bloody HELL! I thought I might fall over with the shock. Was there something hallucinogenic in the wine that meant I was imagining this conversation? She was looking so awkward that I took pity on her. ‘No hard feelings,’ I said, once I’d got my breath back from this unexpected turn of events.

‘I was very fond of your aunt,’ she went on. ‘Very sad to see her go. And when you came in, I thought you were going to muck it all up and . . .’ She shook her head, her eyes down. I had never seen her so humble. Meek, even. Evil Betty – meek! ‘Well, I was wrong. I got you wrong. What you’ve done for Jamie, what you’ve done for the café, it’s really good.’

‘Thanks, Betty,’ I said, still somewhat dazed. ‘I appreciate that.’ Then, to lighten things up a bit – the atmosphere between us had become very sombre, very confessional – I added, ‘Right! Well, I reckon we both deserve a drink after that, wouldn’t you say?’ and poured us each a large slosh of wine. ‘Cheers,’ I said, clinking mine against hers. ‘To Jamie – and to a great night.’

‘Cheers,’ she said. ‘I’m so proud of him, I can’t tell you. Just so proud.’

The evening was getting stranger by the minute, but I was enjoying myself. And having Betty, my former nemesis, on side could only be a good thing, couldn’t it?

By nine o’clock four of Jamie’s paintings had been sold, and he’d had praise and compliments coming out of his ears. Someone had even expressed an interest in commissioning him to paint a mural in their bathroom. To say he was jubilant was a massive understatement. I was jubilant, too. The whole night had been a roaring success. Everyone seemed to have enjoyed themselves, and I had mingled my little socks off, meeting lots of friendly locals, who all kept telling me how proud Jo would have been of me, and how wonderful it was to see the café doing so well. I had invited lots of women to the café’s inaugural ‘girls’ night in’ too, including (after my fifth glass of wine) Betty, the village matriarch herself. Who would have predicted
that
at the start of the evening?

Ed, Annie, Martha, Jamie and my new mate Betty helped me clear the empty glasses and plates, then said goodbye and went home. All except Ed, that was. We looked at each other in a strange, self-conscious silence and I felt myself blush.