When I wake up, he’s in the kitchen. I can smell fresh coffee brewing, and hear bacon sizzling, and the sounds of toast popping from the machine. He has the radio on, very low, and is singing along to Lionel Richie’s Hello.
I lie for a moment with one arm thrown over my face, unable to move. I have a hangover. My eyes are glued together and sore from all the crying. There is daylight pouring through the skylight, and I don’t like it. The sound of rain clattering against the glass heralds the start of another beautiful day.
I groan and sit upright. My clothes from last night are neatly folded in a small pile on the sofa, and a glass of water is next to me on the table. Cal is clearly a man capable of looking after himself, and has kindly decided to extend that capability to include me this morning.
I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that. My first instinct is resentment, but I recognise that one as an old enemy: the ‘I-don’t-need-anyone’ bullshit that I hid behind for years. The bullshit that comes across as me being bossy and independent, but is actually more about me being scared – scared that if I let anybody get too close, they’ll let me down. They’ll get caught selling knock-off video games in the market and get sent to prison; they’ll decide there’s no room for me in their home and send me to a new foster carer; they’ll get diagnosed with terminal cancer and die.
Cal sees that I am awake, or at least doing a good imitation of it, and walks into the room with two steaming mugs in his hand.
“Hell-oooo!” he croons, in a bad mock-Lionel, “is it tea you’re looking for?”
I moan, and reply: “Please tell me it’s coffee instead!”
“It is,” he answers, laying the mugs down on the table. “It just didn’t fit the rhyme as well, so I adapted.”
He’s fully dressed in his jeans and shirt, and his hair looks damp from an early-morning shower. Unlike me, he seems to bear no physical evidence of the night before. I try not to hate him for it.
“So,” he says, smiling at me, speaking gently to avoid hurting my aching brain, “I suspect we may have had a little bit too much to drink last night.”
“Yes. Thank you, Captain Hindsight,” I reply, sipping my coffee and hoping for a miracle. I tell myself that I’ve had hangovers before, far worse than this one. This one is just a whippersnapper of a hangover – I just need to pop a few pills, drink more coffee, go for a walk in the fresh sea air, and possibly amputate my own head. Then I’ll be absolutely fine.
“What time is it? Is Martha all right?” I ask, as some of the fuzz starts to clear. Aaaah, coffee.
“She’s fine. Called us dirty stop-outs, and seemed quite happy not to be the one behaving irresponsibly for a change. And it’s half eight. I’m off to help Frank around the farm – need to keep my hand in, don’t want to be turning into a city slicker …”
“It’s Budbury. Population less than 400. One bus stop. I don’t think you’re in any danger.”
“Well, by my standards, that’s a bustling metropolis, love. I’ve made you a bacon butty to help with your recovery, and now I know you’re alive, I’ll be off. How … how are you feeling, after last night?”
I have a brief and fleeting moment of panic when he says that – what does he mean, after last night? Did something happen that I don’t remember? Was there more than consolation and sleep going on under the tie-dye? Surely, I’d know…
He sees the look on my face, and correctly interprets it.
“I mean after our talk,” he adds quickly, grinning. “Don’t worry. I couldn’t have penetrated that dressing gown even if I’d tried. It was like sleeping next to the giant marshmallow man from Ghostbusters.”
Phew. Small mercies. I mean, I’ve not had sex for a year and a half, since an equally drunken encounter with a bloke with a green mohawk I met at a booksellers’ convention. It would have been a shame to not even remember.
I nod, gratefully, and think about how to answer that question. How do I feel? Apart from physically hideous, that is.
“I feel … all right,” I reply, cautiously, as though trying it on for size. “I think it did me good. I needed to talk about her – to remember her. She was the most important person in my life, apart from Martha, and I’ve been so busy trying not to lose the plot, I suppose it had all been building up inside me. I never want to upset Martha by bringing the subject up, and neither does she, so we both tiptoe around it. So … thank you. Thank you for asking about her, and thank you for listening, and most of all thank you for the coffee.”
He smiles, nods, and stands up. He’s so tall his head grazes the slope of the attic roof. He leans down and lays a gentle kiss on my curls, and grabs his hat.
“Good. Eat your breakfast before it goes cold. I’ll see you later. I have a hot date with a heifer.”
As soon as I hear the door close behind him, I drag myself out of bed, still wrapped up in the mighty towelling force field of Cherie’s dressing gown, and stagger through to the kitchen. I lean up against the counter, and eat the sandwich. Not only is it perfectly cooked, but Cal has washed all the dishes, put the milk away, and stashed the brandy back in the booze cupboard. Damn him. He’s just too perfect.
After a shower, a couple of emergency ibuprofen from my bag, and some fun times hopping round on one leg while I try and put my leggings on, I check all the lights and switches are off and head back downstairs to the cafe.
Laura is in the kitchen, pretending to be busy but very obviously waiting for me to arrive. She’s not exactly a master of subterfuge, Laura – she’ll have chatted to Cal when he left twenty minutes ago, and been waiting here in a state of suspended animation ever since, desperate for a chance to start the Spanish Inquisition.
I ward her off with a raised hand as she bustles over, already starting to talk.
“Stop!” I say, firmly. “I am in a state of severe hangover, and will not respond to questioning until I have imbibed more coffee!”
She clamps her mouth shut, and nods, dashing over to the coffee machine as I make my escape to a window seat. There’s nobody else in yet, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it stays this way all day. The sky is grey, and rain is falling in sheets so heavy it looks solid. The waves rolling into the bay look cold, dark water frothing with white, the beach dotted with a few dog walkers and the occasional die-hard rambler.
“So,” says Laura, sitting down next to me, leaning her elbows on the table and resting her chin in her hands. “Here’s your coffee. What happened? Did you … you know, with Cal?”
Wow. She’s straight in there. No small talk. No foreplay. Right for the gossip jugular.
“Well,” I reply, lacing my fingers around the hot mug. “I wanted to. I really did. I tried every trick in the book. But it turns out Cal’s actually gay!”
Her eyes widen, and her mouth forms a perfect circle, and she gasps out a completely shocked: ‘Ooooooh!’
It takes her about five seconds to realise I’m winding her up – I give the game away by laughing – and she punches me none-too-gently on the shoulder.
“Ha, got ya!” I say. As I try and take my first sip of the coffee, my hand slips and I spill it all down my chin instead. Pure class. Laura, ever mum-like, immediately whips a napkin out of her apron pocket and dabs my face.
“Sorry,” I say, sighing as I accept my humiliating fate. Some kind of coffee karma was in play. “I’m a clumsy oaf.”
“It’s okay,” she answers, screwing up the tissue and leaving it in a ball on the table. “We’re all a bit rubbish in the mornings.”
“Speak for yourself – I’m rubbish all the time. And no – to answer your question, I didn’t, you know, with Cal. We went to Parents’ Evening, celebrated the good news at the Horse and Rider, and drank so much we ended up staying in the flat. He was the perfect gentleman. How was Martha this morning?”
She looks utterly crestfallen at this news, and has clearly been anticipating some titillating tales to brighten up a dull autumn morning in the cafe.
“Fine. Bit tired. I think her and Lizzie were up late, talking. I’m glad she’s doing well at college, that must be such a relief for you … are you sure nothing happened? Where did he sleep?”
“I’m sure. We slept in the same bed, but nothing happened.”
“Did you top to tail? I hate doing that. You always end up with someone’s big toe up your nose.”
“Nothing happened, Laura. Not even an accidental big toe invasion. He got up bright and breezy, and left for Frank’s farm.”
“Yes, he said he was heading over. Do you know what I think? I think he’ll get there, and Cherie will immediately discover eight lightbulbs that need changing round the house …”
“Ha!” I reply, “you may be right. She’s probably gone round with a broom handle, smashing them all. Although Frank’s just as tall, I’m sure he’s no slouch on the lightbulb-changing front.”
“I said that to her – just to wind her up – and she said Frank was too old and frail to be doing such things!”
I laugh loudly at that one. Frank is about as old and frail as Rafael Nadal. He might be in his 80s, but he still looks like he could wrangle a cow and harvest a turnip field with one hand tied behind his back.
“She’s an old lech, isn’t she?” I ask, still smiling.
“She is, but I can’t say that I blame her. Cal is … well, it seems like such a waste! I mean, you say nothing happened. And I’m a taken woman. So is Becca, and so is Cherie. There’s Ivy Wellkettle, and her daughter Sophie, but Ivy’s never seemed interested in blokes, and Sophie’s only 20 and away at uni. Katie’s too busy with little Saul. Then there’s Willow, but she kind of lives in a world of her own. And maybe you could count Tina Dorries down at the Community Hall, but …”
Laura continues in this vein for some time, rattling off the names of what sounds like every single female in the village, along with reasons why they’ll probably never ‘you know’ with Cal. These reasons include being a lesbian; being married; having an imaginary fiancé; being more into horses than men; being under 20 and being over 80. When she finally judders to a halt, I pause to see if she’s actually finished.
When it seems that she is, I reply: “Poor fella. Maybe we can ship someone in for him?”
Her eyes narrow slightly, and I get the feeling she is genuinely trying to think of whether that’s possible. Maybe she’s got contacts with some human traffickers in Sidmouth.
“Also,” I say, interrupting her crazy train, “Martha’s grandparents are threatening to visit. If they do, I might need your help. We’re not … well, not that compatible. Especially me and Barbara. I try and be a good person, and remind myself that she’s lost her daughter, but at the end of the day, I’m not actually that good … we’ve never liked each other, and only ever tolerated being in the same room for Kate’s sake. And now Martha’s, obviously. But this time, I’m going to really make an effort – she doesn’t have much left, and I really want to make it all right for her, you know?”
Laura nods, her curly hair bobbing around.
“I know! Families are … well, they can be hard, even in normal circumstances. But I’ll help – we all will. We’ll keep them busy, and help you avoid any flashpoints, and it’ll all be fine. Things do tend to work out here better than other places … must be something in the water. You heard about the party last summer?”
“Yes,” I reply, smiling. “Because you told me about it. That’s the one where you engineered the mass reunion, isn’t it?”
Last summer had been Laura’s first – and allegedly only – summer here. It was the year that Cherie broke her hip, leaving Laura in charge of the cafe and organising Frank’s 80th birthday party. Being Little Miss Happy Ending, she’d also organised a few surprises. She’d arranged for Frank’s son and grandson to visit from Australia, and for Sam’s many sisters to come across from Ireland.
She’d also – and this was the biggie – tracked down Cherie’s estranged sister, Brenda, who she hadn’t seen since she was in her 20s. They’re still in touch, making up for lost time, and it’s given Cherie a whole new lease of life, getting to know her nieces and nephews and their children as well. It was quite the feat – but not one that surprises me, having known Laura for a short while. She’s like a force of nature.
“It is. It was brilliant. What … what about your parents, Zoe? You never talk about your family at all, beyond Kate and Martha. Are they still around?”
I know that by ‘around’, she means ‘alive’ – we have all reached that age in life where that could be a sensitive question. I stay silent for a moment, concentrating on not pouring coffee over my own face, and eventually answer as honestly as I can without needing a violin solo to accompany me.
“They are still ‘around’, as far as I know – but I’ve not had any contact with them for a long time. Many years. It’s a complicated situation.”
I’m hoping she’ll leave it at that, but she raises her eyebrows and looks hungry for more. I can almost see the cogs turning in her brain, as she imagines some kind of heart-warming family gathering where we all cry and say we’re sorry and move on to a brighter, stronger future. That’s her way – but it’s really not going to work in this scenario.
“I can see you playing with that one,” I continue, looking at her firmly. “And I need you to let it go. There won’t be a happy ending if you go down that route, I can guarantee it.”
“But why won’t there? They’re your parents. Whatever you fell out about, surely it was a long time ago? Surely you’d like to see them again? You must have some happy memories of them?”
I sigh, and put my mug down on the table. Okay, I think – I need to nip this one in the bud, before Laura goes off on some internet odyssey to try and locate them.
“You know how I’m on the small side? Petite, as you put it the other day?” I say.
“Yes,” she replies. “I’m very jealous.”
“Well, I was always petite. Even as a child. Some of that might be down to genetics, some of it back then was due to neglect and malnutrition. I was tiny – short and bony and if I turned sideways, I disappeared. So this is one of my happy memories of my father, just to give you a taster: when I was about six, he was walking me to school. He didn’t usually do that, so I was pretty excited. It felt like an adventure – like something a normal dad would do. He even held my hand and everything. I felt on top of the world – even now, I can vividly remember how nice it was. How secure it made me feel.
“When we were about half way along the route, he led me down into a quiet road. A nice road, all semi-detached houses and trees. Away from the estate where we lived. And after a while, we stopped, outside one particular house. He’d been looking at them all as we walked, and I thought it was funny – we’d talk about the cars outside, or what colour the walls were painted, or what they’d done with the gardens.
“Then, after we stopped – at a house with no car parked outside – he did a quick check of the street, and led us down the side of the house, along the pathway. I had no idea what was going on, but he was my dad, so I just followed along. My main concern was being late for school, but he told me that didn’t matter. That school could wait. At the side of the house was a window, one of those with two sections. A big section, and a small section at the top. The top one was open.
“Before I understood what was going on, my dad told me he needed me to do him a favour. He needed me to get through that window – the one he would never squeeze through, but I could – and let him into the house. At this point it had started to feel wrong, but I was only a kid, not old enough to question him. So he hoisted me up, in my school uniform, and I slithered through the window. I fell onto the hallway floor, got up, and did as I was told – he was whispering to me by that stage, telling me to let him in.
“I walked round to the front door, amazed at how nice the place was. There were framed school photos of their kids on the walls, and flowers in vases, and super-soft carpets that your feet squished into. It smelled good, air freshener and flowers, and it was really clean. It felt like a different world to the one I lived in.
“I let my dad in through the front door, and he told me I was a good girl, and I should stay there and shout if anybody came home. I’m sure I don’t have to paint you any pictures about what he was up to. I stood there, for about five minutes, getting more and more scared and upset – then I left. I just left, and walked the rest of the way to school on my own.
“I saw those kids, from the photos – they were in my school. One was two years above, the other was in the same year as me. I saw them, and I felt so ashamed, and angry, and upset. And I couldn’t talk to anybody about it, or I’d get my dad into trouble. I was so freaked out, I was vile all day – starting fights, getting into trouble in class, generally being a pain in the bum. This was a pattern – I’d get upset, and act out, and nobody would have the slightest interest in figuring out why I was such a nightmare. I wasn’t a likable child, it has to be said.
“That is just one of the many jolly moments from the showreel of my childhood, Laura. There are many more if you need them. I know you mean well, but please leave this one alone – I cut myself off from them for my own benefit, so I could live the kind of life I wanted to live. I don’t often talk about all of this, and I’m not telling you to make you feel bad – just to explain why any kind of reunion wouldn’t work. Not all parents are like you, Laura, more’s the pity.”
Laura has remained silent throughout this trip down memory lane, and I see with horror that she has tears in her eyes. I hate people feeling sorry for me, even though part of me acknowledges that it is a fair response – Laura is a mum. A kind, loving, responsible mum. She’s been through hard times and always put her kids first, the way mums are supposed to.
Looking back on the way I grew up, I can see why it makes her cry. But if she cries, then I’ll cry, and if I cry, I won’t stop until I die of dehydration.
“Don’t you dare start blubbing!” I say, in a no-nonsense tone of voice. “It wasn’t all bad. Not long after, I met Kate. That made everything better. And I had some good foster homes too, with people who showed me the world wasn’t made up entirely of twats. I chose to see myself as a survivor, not a victim – I’ve built a life for myself. I’ve never followed my parents down their path, or the path of a lot of the other kids I met in the system. I’ve followed my own – and that’s not something to be pitied. But please, please, please … do not go looking for a happy ending for me and my family, okay?”
She nods, and clenches her eyes so tight she squeezes the tears away, and pats my hand.
“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway,” she eventually says. “The past is the past. And now, you’re here with us – and we can be your family. Me and Becca can be your sisters; Willow can be your weird cousin from outer-space; Cherie and Frank can be your mum and dad, and Edie’s the best granny in town. You and Martha, you fit in here – and we’ll always, always look after you.”