‘You’re going to be an auntie,’ Rob continued, as I stared in stupefied silence. ‘Mum and Dad are going to be grandparents, Nan’s going to be a—’

‘Great-grandmother, I get it.’ A show reel of images flashed through my head: Mum knitting baby clothes, though she’d never knitted in her life, for a scrunch-faced baby with Rob’s hair; me reading bedtime stories to a dimple-cheeked toddler; Rob pushing a baby stroller around Seashell Cove, Bossy Emma clinging to his arm, issuing instructions.

I’d have to pretend to like her.

I’d have to learn how to change a nappy for babysitting duties.

I’d need somewhere to live so my niece or nephew could come and stay.

I needed a proper job to pay for somewhere to live—

‘Sandra?’

My escalating thoughts screeched to a halt. ‘How did that even happen?’ I said, in a daze.

‘Well,’ Rob adopted a wise-man expression, ‘when a lady and gentleman are attracted to each other…’

I tutted. ‘I mean, you’ve only been back five minutes, how have you managed to conceive a child?’

He pulled the crust off the last piece of toast and rolled it between finger and thumb. ‘Ah, well, we might have met up when I was, you know, having a bit of a meltdown. She came out to Berlin to see me a couple of months ago and… well, one thing led to another.’ He glanced at my face. ‘We were boyfriend and girlfriend, she didn’t take advantage of me, or anything.’

‘So, how come you’re “on a break” if she’s pregnant?’ I said.

‘Because, I’ve promised her in the past that I was going to give up the band, but never did it.’

‘So you are doing it to make her happy.’

‘No, Sandra, I’m not. I left because I wasn’t happy.’ He jabbed his chest. ‘And I want to be with Emma. But I’d said it before and didn’t stick to it, so I need to show her I’m serious this time.’

‘Well, obviously you’re going to stick around if she’s having your baby.’

‘That’s not the only reason.’ He looked mildly offended that I might think otherwise. ‘The baby’s just the icing on the cake.’

‘But, you’re not even thirty.’ I was struggling to take it in. ‘People don’t become parents until they’re in their forties, these days.’

‘Fine, if that’s what they want, but this is what I want.’

‘What about Mum and Dad?’ I studied his face for a hint of doubt, or indecision, or even a trace of panic – had Bossy Emma trapped him by getting pregnant on purpose? – but I could only see the same look he’d had the year he got his own computer for Christmas. ‘I doubt becoming grandparents is on their list of things to look forward to this year.’

‘Maybe not, but it’s happening, and they’ll be happy for me.’

I tried to swallow, but it felt like I had a pellet stuck in my throat. My little brother was going to be a dad. He’d be getting married next, and would be working as an IT tutor by the time the baby was born, with a proper income and everything. He’d be living with Bossy Emma, probably cooking her dinner every evening, while she pumped breast-milk for him to feed the baby in the night. My brother was a grown-up who knew what he wanted and had been brave enough to say so.

‘I guess congratulations are in order.’ I said it with such loud, bright energy he jumped. ‘Sure you don’t want to tell the parents, yet?’

‘No, and you’d better not either.’ He threw the mangled toast crust back on the plate. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything really, but you looked like you needed cheering up.’

‘And you thought providing me with proof of how fertile you are would do the trick?’ I lobbed the crust back at him. ‘Thanks a billion, bro.’

He ducked and picked up his rucksack, a grin all over his face. ‘I wanted you to know, anyway,’ he said. ‘We always told each other stuff like that when we were kids.’

‘I don’t remember ever telling you I was with child.’

He pretended to gag. ‘That’s revolting.’

‘You’re going to be late for class… Dad.’

‘Please, don’t call me that in front of anyone.’

‘I won’t,’ I promised, letting his secret settle in. ‘Now, go. You’ve a sensible, pension-clad, nappy-changing, slipper-wearing future to work towards.’

He gave me the finger and left, and I stood for a full two minutes, staring at the door, the words ‘Rob’s having a baby’ revolving around my head.

On balance, I decided I was glad he’d told me. It showed he’d forgiven me for neglecting to stay in touch, and hinted at an improved relationship between us in future. Providing I didn’t let anything slip in front of Mum and Dad, which shouldn’t be too difficult. After all, I was good at hiding things from them.

---

Unsure what to do with myself once I’d got dressed, and had smothered my itchy wrist rash in some more antiseptic cream, I logged on to the café’s Facebook page to see if there’d been any feedback from the night before.

Nothing. No comments on the classy new website either, and only a few likes on Twitter, but someone had posted a photo of Rodney’s Dad on Instagram with the hashtags guitarmagic and whoisthisguy. Shame no one had mentioned the tea- and coffee-tasting, but what had I expected? Amazing event organised by Cassie Maitland #bestnightever? I should have taken some photos myself and posted them up, but I wasn’t very good with a camera. I’d once chopped the heads off some guests at a footballer’s wedding reception in a publicity shot for the website.

I updated Facebook and Twitter with: Games Night – bring your board game to Maitland’s Café at 7 p.m. for another fun-filled event. I added a couple of celebration emojis, took them out, added: Come early or all the Monopoly seats will be taken, then deleted it because it didn’t make sense, and wondered why I was finding it so difficult to do the things I’d had no trouble with at Five Star.

Hopefully, Mum and Dad would spread the word, and the older customers at least – nostalgic for days when tablets were things you took for a headache and people weren’t glued to their phones – would turn up in their droves. In the meantime, I should go down there and subtly network, without alerting Mum and Dad, who still believed I should be ‘relaxing’.

On a whim, I gathered my sketch pad and coloured pencils, and shoved them into my bag, then pushed my feet in a pair of low-heeled ankle boots, which looked good with my freshly washed jeans and a pink cashmere jumper. With my hair styled in a bun, and subtle make-up to hide the troughs beneath my eyes (despite being worn out, I hadn’t slept well), I looked like the sort of person that people might want to arrange a party or corporate event with – if people in this part of the country bothered with corporate events.

Outside, the weather had brightened and, although there was still a cool breeze, the sun was sliding between chalky-white clouds and the sky in between was blue. I decided to walk to the café, taking the shortcut. I fidgeted with my bun, which the wind seemed determined to loosen, and halted when I caught sight of Danny’s van in a corner of the car park. Perhaps he’d come to pick up his jacket, which I’d left hanging over the arm of the chair in my bedroom. There was no other reason for him to be there when he lived in Kingsbridge, and was presumably still doing odd jobs for Nan.

I wished my heart would stop leaping whenever he was around, or even if I thought about him. Which I definitely hadn’t been doing – at least, not since I’d clambered out of bed that morning. And even before that, tossing about in the darkness, the only reason he’d been at the forefront of my mind was because I’d kept returning to our conversation on the beach, and wondering whether he’d discussed me with my parents. I should have asked them outright, but it sounded so childish and needy.

Has Danny Fleetwood said anything to you since I came home, and if so what, and what did you say back? Pathetic. And, OK, I might have thought about his eyes a bit, as I drifted into a doze around dawn, but only because they were such a nice colour and always looked smiley. Now I was thinking about his eyes again, and those little smile lines at the corners, and the way he’d looked at me when he stopped me from crashing to the floor in the café – as though he’d caught a Ming vase in the nick of time.

Adjusting my bag, which seemed to have grown heavier while I was walking, I decided to wait until he’d gone. I turned to look at the wide blue horizon of sea and sky that seemed to blend into one, moving aside as a gaggle of colourful women approached, laughing, arms swinging, and when they’d passed with cheery ‘good mornings’ I sat on the grass and took out my sketch pad. A couple of yachts had appeared on the water, zigzagging between frothy waves, sails blossoming in the breeze, and taking out my coloured pencils I drew quickly, absorbed in the simple motion of moving my hand over the paper, bringing to life the scene in front of me, layering on colours, carried away on a rush of enthusiasm.

I added some final flourishes, startled when something tickled my face. I brushed it away, realising it was my own hair. My bun had collapsed, but I couldn’t be bothered to sort it out. Instead, I studied my drawing, enjoying how the yachts seemed to be racing each other, and how every aspect of the scene had personality: the boats looked cheeky as the bucking blue sea urged them on, the clouds smiling down benignly from a cornflower sky. It was a slightly exaggerated view, which, Miss Finch had once pointed out, seemed to be my speciality, if it could be called that: to slightly distort and enhance, but still retain a likeness.

Pleased with the result, I sat a few moments longer, enjoying the air on my face and the fact that my head felt lighter. Shielding my eyes as the sun slid out once more, I glanced back at the café and saw that Danny’s van had gone.

Unsure whether my initial reaction was relief or disappointment, and unwilling to examine it further, I thrust my things into my bag and stood up, aware of a creeping wetness through my jeans. Craning my neck, I saw a damp patch across my bottom, which was also covered in grass stains. Debating whether to go home and get changed, I spotted a glint of bright hair in the car park and realised it was Meg.

‘Hey!’ I scooped up my bag and hurried down the path, but by the time I reached the café she’d driven off in a little white Clio and was too far away to see me waving madly. Resolving to arrange a proper get-together soon, I stepped inside the café, instantly soothed by the ambient sounds of clattering plates and the whir of the coffee machine. The aroma of roasting beans, and the sight of Meg’s cake of the day – lemon and coconut – propelled me straight to the counter, where Gwen was cleaning the area around the coffee machine as though preparing it for surgery.

‘Have you seen my parents?’ I said, surprised neither of them was serving.

‘Out the back,’ Gwen replied, without looking round. ‘Be wiv you in a mo,’ she added, presumably to the man standing next to me waving his bill.

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ he said, cheerfully.

I was pleased to see the leftover boxes of tea and coffee from the night before lined up on display behind the counter.

‘Has anyone ordered any?’ I said, gesturing at them when Gwen paused her scrubbing to give me a suspicious glare.

‘Nope.’ She didn’t even look to where I was pointing.

‘You might have to ask people if they’d like to try them.’

Her face took on the look of a belligerent bulldog. ‘Why would I do that?’

‘Er, because they might not know about them otherwise?’ I was starting to feel a bit belligerent myself.

‘Got eyes in their ’eads, ’aven’t they?’

Which charm school did you go to? I said, in my head. ‘Is Meg coming back?’

‘Nah, not today. Did extra hours last night, didn’t she?’ Another fierce glare. Maybe she was put out at not being asked to work. ‘I ’eard the café took an ’it.’

‘Sorry?’ An image of a lit rag being chucked through the door sprang to mind.

‘Lost revenue.’ More glaring, accusatory this time.

I puffed out my cheeks and counted to five before releasing my breath. ‘Could I please have a milky coffee and a slice of lemon-and-coconut cake?’

‘TAMSIN!’ Gwen bellowed, and the young waitress materialised, looking petrified.

‘I’ll bring it over,’ she said, when she’d taken my order and tapped it into the till with a shaky finger. ‘Where will you be sitting?’

I turned to look for an empty table, preferably by the window. I needed to engage in some covert networking about this evening’s event, highlighting that refreshments would have to be paid for. My gaze snagged on the wall opposite the counter and my mouth dropped open.

How had I not noticed the artwork as soon as I’d walked in?

An eclectic mix of paintings and drawings in a variety of frames had been arranged in clusters along the length of the wall, and although not much thought had been put into their arrangement, they seemed to be attracting the attention of the people seated nearby – particularly a couple of caricatures I recognised.

In fact, there was nothing I didn’t recognise, from the tree on its carpet of pink cherry blossom, to the stormy village scene, to the picture of woman with giant, horsey teeth and flaring nostrils, about to bite into a scone.

I recognised them, because I was the artist.