Christmas Gifts at the Beach Cafe Read online

  It was Friday morning, her precious day off, and the house was empty. Sunlight bounced through the gleaming French windows of the kitchen, warming the stone flags and twinkling on the empty milk glasses that the children had forgotten to stack in the dishwasher. Next door’s cat rolled in the dust of the patio outside, eyes shut in bliss; the forecast was for another beautiful hot July day.

  Ruth didn’t care about the niceties of the weather, though. She didn’t even register the unwelcome presence of that wretched cat, which was forever leaving disgusting deposits in her lettuce bed. All she could think about was the receipt. Hotel du Vin, Brighton, it said; dirty weekend away, it said, even though Tim had told her, quite plainly, that he was going to a boring university conference in Manchester.

  Her heart hammering a painful, fast tattoo, she instinctively reached out for her mobile and dialled the number of Amanda, her best friend from university, who lived ten minutes away in Jericho. Amanda would be able to reassure her in a way that Louise, her twin sister, would not. While Louise was loyal to the very core, she could be infuriatingly woolly at times. Amanda, on the other hand, was pragmatic and clear-thinking. If there was a sane explanation to be had for the rogue receipt, Amanda would shine a light on it immediately.

  ‘Hi, Ruth, how are you?’

  Ruth licked her lips, her voice suddenly deserting her. ‘I . . . I found something,’ she said.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s a receipt for a dirty weekend in Brighton. Hotel du Vin – no expense spared. Breakfast in bed and room service for two people, Amanda.’

  There was a shocked-sounding intake of breath. ‘Oh God,’ said Amanda.

  Ruth was engulfed by a torrent of black, swirling fury for Tim. ‘What the hell does this mean?’ she burst out. ‘I mean . . . what sort of person does that?’

  She waited for Amanda to reply with the sane explanation, the don’t-be-so-silly reassurance that Tim would never do anything so awful, that there must be some kind of mistake. Instead came a choked sob. ‘Oh God,’ said Amanda again. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Ruth frowned, not understanding. Sorry? Had she misheard?

  ‘He was going to tell you,’ Amanda cried. ‘He promised me he’d tell you.’

  A swarm of bees seemed to invade Ruth’s head, their buzzing loud and insistent. She shut her eyes, trying to block them out, but they only grew in volume. No, thought Ruth. Not Amanda. Please not Amanda. ‘What,’ she said, enunciating her words carefully, for fear of screaming, ‘do you mean?’

  A terrible silence fell, a silence of guilt and conspiracy. You could almost hear Amanda scrabbling to think fast, to conjure up some plausible excuse for what she’d just said. Nothing came.

  ‘It was you?’ Ruth said into the silence. ‘It was you with Tim in Brighton?’ The bees buzzed even louder, and everything went black before her eyes for a moment, as if she was about to faint. No way. This could not be happening. Tell me it’s not happening, Amanda, she thought desperately. Tell me, goddammit!

  ‘Oh Christ,’ Amanda said, her voice high and scared. ‘Oh Christ, Ruth, I’m so sorry.’

  She was sorry? Amanda was sorry? So it was true, then. This was happening.

  Ruth opened and shut her mouth a few times, but no words seemed adequate at this point in the conversation. She hung up, then collapsed, shaking, onto her expensive stone floor amidst all the washing. Then she opened her mouth and screamed so loud it frightened away the cat.

  Since then, Ruth’s marriage had been ripped apart, with her and the children left sprawling among the broken shards. Tim had deserted them for Amanda and her sleek, stylish flat, while Ruth was left to pick up the pieces. Thea, her youngest daughter, had cried pitifully every night for an entire month, wanting bedtime cuddles from Daddy, sobbing herself to sleep, her cheeks pink and wet when she eventually fell into fitful dreams. Hugo, now ten, had become sullen and moody, prone to kicking things and scowling all the time. And Izzy, her sweet middle child, sat at the piano playing mournful songs about how much she missed her dad, and seemed to have forgotten how to smile.

  Ruth, who had always prided herself on having the sort of life to which others aspired, felt embarrassed to be at the centre of such a messy, hurtful situation. Her parents and sisters rallied round, of course, but she couldn’t stand their concerned faces, their offers of help. ‘It’s fine, we’re fine,’ she kept repeating, with increasing brittleness. ‘We’re all absolutely fine.’

  They were not fine. Nowhere near. The cracks went on appearing, however fast she tried to fix each one. Hugo disgraced himself at the end-of-term concert by sticking up two fingers behind the head teacher’s back (the first time he had ever been in trouble at school), and Izzy’s teacher phoned to find out why Izzy had fallen out with her best friends and no longer wanted to play her recorder in the school band. ‘I was just wondering if you could maybe shed some light on the situation – if there was something at home we should know about?’ the teacher asked, her false sympathy barely disguising the nosiness.

  ‘Everything’s fine, thank you,’ Ruth snapped. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

  Thank goodness for the summer holidays, when they could all mooch around at home, and didn’t have to face anyone else or answer awkward questions. Weeks earlier, Ruth had organized a packed schedule of extracurricular activities for them: a sports camp for Hugo, music fun-days for Izzy and dance clubs for Thea, but the children were resolute in not wanting to go to anything, and for once Ruth didn’t have the energy to argue. When it came to the matter of going away on holiday, Tim took the children to the villa they’d booked near Cannes, leaving Ruth home alone for the loneliest, most miserable fortnight of her life.

  Then, at the end of August, she drove them down to Cornwall, for a week at the cottage in Rock where they’d spent many happy summer holidays in the past. It was all so strange without Tim, though. The balance of the family felt wrong; she knew she was more shrewish and impatient, without his easy-going nature to temper her. Even though they did all their usual favourite things – swimming and sandcastle-building, visits to Evie and Ed in Carrawen, ferry-trips across to Padstow, with fish and chips on the harbour wall – it felt the most colossal effort. Despite her best attempts, she spent much of the week shouting at the children and bursting into frequent tears. (‘That was the most crap holiday ever,’ Hugo muttered as they arrived back in Oxford. She couldn’t bring herself to fake disagreement, let alone reprimand him for his bad language.)

  Still. They were getting there. Gradually acclimatizing. Taking it one painful day at a time. And at least she didn’t have to put up with Tim’s smelly feet, the snoring, or routine sex any more. Small mercies.

  Summer over, the four of them slogged through a new term at school. Thea turned four and they had a jolly little party for her. Izzy joined the school choir and started to smile again now and then. Hugo marked his eleventh birthday with his first scattering of acne and another stern word from the headmaster about ‘showing off’, but Ruth clung to the hope that he’d get over this before he had to knuckle down to GCSEs in a few years. She was so going to blame Tim if Hugo got anything less than a full set of A* grades.

  She limped into December, her reserves of energy at an all-time low, her enthusiasm for the gaudy, festive commercialism of Christmas a big fat zero. Ruth’s sole moment of triumph came when Tim dropped the children back, having had them one Sunday, and she announced that she was taking the children down to Cornwall for Christmas and he wouldn’t be able to see them. ‘Wh-what?’ he stammered, leaning against the jamb of the front door. (She no longer allowed him on the premises, insisting that he wait there, outside her territory, whenever he was picking up or dropping them off.)

  ‘I said, we’re going down to Carrawen for Christmas,’ she said smartly, relishing the sheer guttedness of his expression. Yes, Tim. Hadn’t expected that, had you? And it’s all your own fault, for shagging around behind my back. So there!

  ‘But . . .’ H
is face sagged with dismay. He had put on weight in recent months, she noticed. Getting jowly. Too many luxury dinners with snake-in-the-grass Amanda, no doubt. ‘But I want to see them at Christmas. You can’t just . . .’

  His voice trailed away as she fixed him with her iciest glare. ‘Oh yes, I can. And I am. So get used to it, Tim.’ And get lost, she thought, shutting the door in his face.

  Christmas in Cornwall. It would be heavenly to escape the misery that had pooled in the house for so many months, to leave Oxford and Tim far behind, to drive away and not look back. It would serve Tim right, being left childless over the festive period. She would not let him have his cake and eat it, no way. This was his punishment. He deserved every moment of missing them.

  Of course, it wasn’t all about sticking it to her ex-husband. Absolutely not. She was going for a break, too. Her sister, Evie, had had her own share of life screw-ups in the past and wasn’t the kind of person to judge; plus Ed, as a chef, was sure to lay on the best Christmas dinner ever. Evie had even said Ruth wouldn’t have to lift a finger to help, and after nearly twenty years of cooking Christmas dinner for a crowd, of wrangling with giblets and being splashed with turkey fat, of writing mammoth lists and fighting her way through crowded, frenzied supermarkets to spend a fortune on food that people were usually too drunk or fussy to appreciate . . . Well, the thought of leaving that side of things to someone else was, quite frankly, sheer bliss.

  Roll on Christmas. And roll on the end of this bloody dreadful year. It couldn’t be over fast enough.

  Chapter Three

  Evie

  Usually, during December, my level of festive excitement ramped up progressively from ‘cheerful humming of carols’ at the start of the month all the way through to ‘rampant hysterical whooping glee’ by Christmas Eve. This year, though, despite it being a mere week before the big day, I still didn’t feel very festive. The tree was up and decorated, fairy lights sparkled all the way around the café and our flat, we were closed for business and had no catering work until the end of January . . . But despite all of that, the holiday spirit continued to elude me. I’d even forgotten to open the chocolate advent calendar for three days in a row. Unheard of.

  ‘You need some mince pies to sort you out,’ Ed told me, spooning dollops of his home-made spicy mincemeat into pastry cases. ‘Guaranteed to fill you with Christmas spirit.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I said, feeling hungry immediately. Surely a mince pie would work its Christmassy magic on me? I loved them so much, I had once eaten five on the trot, after all. With cream and brandy butter. Oh yes.

  But when the mince pies emerged from the oven later, golden-topped and steaming, the smell only turned my stomach. ‘I must be coming down with something,’ I muttered, poking my half-eaten pie around on the plate.

  Ed didn’t respond immediately. Then he turned to me, looking somewhat weary. ‘Look, Evie. Is this because I’m going to London?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘All this sulking around,’ he replied. ‘Staying in bed for hours and being moody. I know the situation isn’t ideal, but I thought we’d agreed—’

  ‘I’m not sulking around!’ I retorted. ‘I’m just . . .’ I shrugged, not sure how to articulate how I felt. ‘I’m just really tired.’ I knew I sounded lame, but it was definitely true. Everything felt like the most enormous effort lately – even getting up in the morning and doing ordinary things like brushing my teeth. I was even starting to worry that I had ME or something similarly frightening, because I felt so knackered all the time.

  Ed’s mouth was pinched, as if he didn’t believe me. ‘Sorry,’ I said, valiantly taking another bite of mince pie in an attempt to be more like the Christmas-lover we both knew I was. ‘I promise I’m not sulking.’ Then I drew upon all the acting skills I’d picked up back in my college days and forced myself to look cheerful. ‘Actually, I was thinking,’ I went on, desperately scouring my imagination for something positive to say. Aha. ‘Why don’t we make a shopping list of all the Christmassy things we need? We could get some really nice bits and bobs for your mum, couldn’t we? And I’ll stock up on the gin and cake for Ruth. We could head out to Newquay – make a day of it.’

  Ed’s face softened, thankfully. He leaned over the kitchen table, brushed a flake of pastry from my mouth, then kissed my cheek. ‘That’s a good idea,’ he said. ‘Let’s do it.’

  On the 22nd December, Ed left for London, loaded up with Christmas cake and mince pies, a bag clinking with bottles of red wine and brandy, and some presents for Victoria, his mum. I sneaked a stocking full of little treats for him into his suitcase when he wasn’t looking, and put an amaryllis plant into a gift bag for Victoria. ‘Drive carefully,’ I said, hugging him goodbye. ‘Let me know when you get there.’

  ‘Will do,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you in a week.’

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ I said, my voice wobbling a bit. It was ridiculous, I knew, but I kept thinking about the Christmas before, when we’d been so madly happy and loved up. Now he thought I was a sulker, and we would be apart on my favourite day of the entire year. I wasn’t quite sure how everything had gone so wrong.

  ‘You too,’ he said. ‘Goodbye.’

  I went out with him to the little car park behind the café and stood there waving, while he backed out of the space and drove up the road. I went on waving until his car was out of sight, and then I dropped my arm and stood there alone for a few moments in the bitter cold, feeling completely desolate.

  Come on, I told myself. It’s only a week. It’ll fly by. Ruth will be here this afternoon with the children, and you’ll all have a great time together.

  I gave myself a bracing shake, then went indoors and put the kettle on. I’d just have a quick cup of tea, I decided, then get on with the millions of things I still needed to do: hoover the flat, sort out the beds, finish the last bits of food shopping . . .

  The thought of so much work made me feel exhausted. Actually, maybe I would just have a quick nap first, I decided, and then I’d knuckle down and get everything done.

  I went to bed, pulled the duvet over my head, had a little sniffle about missing Ed, then fell soundly asleep for five hours straight.

  I jolted awake to the sound of banging and shouts and wasn’t sure what on earth was happening for approximately two seconds. Then I realized it was Ruth and the children and, oh shit, I wasn’t remotely ready for them; and bollocks, how had I managed to sleep for so long? Aargh. This had not been part of my hostess-with-the-mostest plan at all.

  ‘There you are!’ Ruth said reproachfully when I finally opened the door, after trying to pat my wild black hair into some sort of respectable style. ‘We were starting to think you’d forgotten about us.’

  ‘I thought you were thwimming in the thee,’ lisped Thea, who had the most glorious dimples in her chubby little cheeks.

  Izzy leaned against me and put her arms around me. ‘I knew you’d come,’ she said, and I hugged her tight.

  ‘And here I am,’ I said. ‘Come in, all of you. Hugo, are you too grown-up for a hug from Aunty Evie, or can I sneak one in?’

  ‘I want a hug!’ Thea said immediately, running straight into my legs and clinging on to them. Hugo meanwhile shrugged and didn’t look at me, which I took to mean In your dreams, embarrassing old relative.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ I said, ruffling Thea’s curly hair. ‘I’m so excited you’re here for Christmas! Did you leave a note for Father Christmas to tell him where to come?’

  ‘Doesn’t exist,’ Hugo muttered under his breath, earning himself a glare from Ruth.

  Luckily Thea didn’t seem to have heard. ‘Yeth,’ she said solemnly. ‘I drew a picture of the café. He knows egg-zackly where to find me.’

  ‘Oh good, I’m glad to hear that,’ I said, trying not to laugh at how utterly adorable she was. ‘Hi, Ruth,’ I said, leaning over the girls to kiss her perfumed cheek. Even after driving for a solid four hours, she looked as poised and immaculate as ever, apart from the
dark rings under her eyes that she’d tried and failed to cover up with make-up. ‘You okay? I’ll put the kettle on. We’ve got hot chocolate and marshmallows, if anyone likes the sound of that?’

  The girls cheered and Hugo shrugged again, as if to say he could probably force down a hot chocolate and marshmallows if he absolutely had to.

  ‘Thanks, Evie,’ said Ruth. ‘In you go, kids. Wipe your feet so that you’re not tramping sand in everywhere – that’s it. Leave the cases here for now. Thea, be careful! Coats off, shoes off, don’t just dump everything in the doorway, Hugo!’

  Her voice was shrill and put me on edge. Come on, Ruth, lighten up, I wanted to say as I helped Isabelle with her coat, and then Thea with her boots, but didn’t quite dare.

  The four of them traipsed into the café kitchen after me, where I cringed at the sight of our breakfast things still out on the table from the morning, and the dishwasher unemptied. Not exactly the welcoming impression of Christmas cheer that I’d been aiming for. I rushed around, filling the crusty porridge pan with water and dumping it in the sink, then spooned hot-chocolate powder into three mugs and arranged some gingerbread stars on a plate. For once, Ruth wasn’t doing her usual cat’s-bum-mouth to show disapproval at my slovenly habits, thank goodness. She sank into a chair and rubbed her eyes while I made us both a restorative latte.

  ‘Where’s Ed?’ she asked after a few minutes. ‘Don’t tell me he’s out surfing at this time of year?’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Didn’t I tell you? He’s not going to be here over Christmas. He’s at his mum’s. Remember I said about his dad . . . ?’