Same Time Next Week

Chapter 1

The café had been open two full weeks before Amanda Brundell managed to check it out. She didn’t know how that was, because she had been champing at the bit to go since she heard the refurb had been completed and it was once again ready to open its doors. Maybe, she reasoned, as she pulled up in the empty car park, it was something to do with her loyalty to Bettina Boot, who’d been the previous owner. Maybe she was frightened that walking in might make all her old memories of how it used to be disintegrate, because it had been such a beloved place and she wanted to keep them intact. More than beloved even: a little sub-planet where she could just be for a sacred forty-minute visit, away from everything else. Every one else. She felt Bettina’s coffees and cakes work on her frazzled nerves like a masseur might smooth the knots out of a crunchy back.

Bettina had died on the job; just keeled over while cutting into a coffee and walnut sponge. People said that it was ‘what she would have wanted’ and though a ludicrous statement really, Amanda knew what they meant. Bettina had slowed down but was resisting retirement, which she wouldn’t have taken to well. The café was her life, and as beloved to her clientele as it was to Bettina herself. Amanda had discovered it five years ago, after a flood on the road had diverted her route home and she’d called in for an urgent wee stop. She’d bought a coffee for the privilege of using the facilities and had only intended to throw it down her neck and go, but there had been something about the place that made her want to linger. She ordered another coffee with a slice of Victoria sponge and sat, enjoying the gentle background music – tunes of yesteryear – and the soothing ambience. The décor was faded-Victorian drawing room, with pristine starched white tablecloths and a surfeit of doilies. It was the oddest little place, a genteel oasis of chat, sipping from bone china cups, eating cake with delicate forks. Since that introduction, Amanda had quite often made a pit stop at it between the drive from work and to her mother’s so she could decompress in the company of pensioners and a slice of the ‘special cake of the day’. It had fortified her, just as surely as if someone had recharged her internal batteries. She had been gutted to roll up one day and find the place closed and a notice in the window written by Bettina’s daughter to say that an era had ended.

Now it had opened with a new identity and had become ‘Ray’s Diner’. The door had been painted in red stripes and white stars on a blue background. It wouldn’t have the mismatched crockery and the homemade gateaux under glass domes on the counter, with buttercream that tasted as if it had been made by the angels. And it wouldn’t have Bettina, who was as old as the Pennines and treated every customer like a prodigal child. But she was curious enough to try it.

Amanda hated change. She even hated the word ‘change’. There were too many of those around at the moment: changes in the local road system, changes in the managerial set up at work, with rumbles of redundancies and the changes happening in her own body that signified the end of her child-bearing days. Not that she’d ever gone down that road; she’d actively avoided it. The only thing she’d ever tried to breed were her two guinea pigs when she herself was a kid and she couldn’t even manage that – and who’d ever heard of guinea pigs who didn’t want to bonk each other? She owned the only male and female guinea pigs on the planet that preferred to cuddle up platonically and hold a squeaky conversation about the price of curtains. Basil was definitely asexual and Rosemary must have been electively celibate. Still, they had an incredibly long life together and when Rosemary died, Basil didn’t last much longer without her. Must have been nice to find someone so devoted to you that life without you just wasn’t worth chutting about. Amanda’s life was just work and duty, work and duty on a grim continual loop, her old dreams and ambitions long consigned to the bin and sealed with ashes of regret. And now there wasn’t even a Bettina Boot slice of cake to look forward to and she needed one after the day she’d had. Oh, it really had been a classic first of April and she’d been the first-class fool entertainment.

She pushed open the door: she hadn’t realised it used to creak until she realised it hadn’t creaked just now. Everything was different. There were upholstered benches where the round tables had stood, a black-and-white chequered floor in place of the soft, old brown carpet and there was a long counter with white and silver bar stools instead of the much shorter old wooden one with the enormous retro silver till sitting on it.

The main difference was that the place was totally empty, except for a man behind the flash, new counter cleaning the glass door of a chiller cabinet. Amanda had never seen this place devoid of customers before and that only added to her sadness. This place wasn’t meant to be empty.

The man turned round and Amanda blinked, because just for a moment there he could have been someone from her past, someone who could never have reached this age, but it was as if he were the man of the boy she’d once known: Seth Mason, tall, wide shoulders, blue eyes that always held the promise of a smile. Just for a moment. She gave her head a rattle. As if she wasn’t going barmy enough without imagining reincarnations in blurred timelines. Seth was long gone, and seeing echoes of him in random strangers was not going to help her shake off her present sadness.

‘Well hi there,’ he said, and the spell was blown. This man had an obvious American accent even with just those three words; a drawl. Seth would have said a shy, ‘All right,’ his voice broken, but still hovering in the boy-range, still in the process of sinking down the octaves.

‘Are you open?’ asked Amanda, checking just in case the lack of customers was down to something she’d missed: a neon sign on the door saying ‘CLOSED FOR STAFF TRAINING’. The way her brain was operating at the moment, this was entirely possible: ninety watts short of a hundred-watt lightbulb.

‘Yep, I am,’ said the man. ‘Welcome to Ray’s diner, my diner, for I am Ray.’ His head dropped in a bow. ‘Take a seat, I’ll bring you a menu over.’

She sat in a booth and had just taken off her jacket when Ray of Ray’s diner delivered the menu.

‘Here you go, pie of the day is blueberry. Can I get you a drink while you decide?’

She only wanted a coffee really but now she felt obliged to have something more substantial to accompany it.

‘Black americano, please.’

‘Sure.’

He was straight over with a mug in one hand and a large glass pot of coffee in the other. Whenever she saw waitresses in American diners pouring these out in films, she always thought the coffee would taste extra delicious. She was delighted to find, from the first sip, that it matched her expectation. She asked him for a slice of blueberry pie when he came back to take her order. It seemed to be a speciality of the diner.

As Ray was bringing over the plate with the pie on it, the door opened and the first of two people walked in. Amanda recognised them as old patrons of Bettina’s. The diner owner had just flashed his most welcoming smile when they reversed their steps and left. They obviously didn’t like what they saw. Amanda watched Ray’s smile wither, and his shoulders rise and fall as he sighed.

He put the plate on the table in front of her. It was a generous cut, with both a blob of clotted cream and ice cream on the side.

‘On the house,’ he said. ‘As my first ever customer.’

Amanda blinked in confusion. ‘I thought you’d been open a couple of weeks.’

‘Yuuup,’ came the reply. ‘Although I’ve nearly had a few. They tend to do that open-the-door, look inside, disappear thang you’ve just seen. I did advertise in one of the local newspapers. “Open midday, Ray’s famous pies and coffee for everyone.” They printed midnight . I’m still not sure if anyone turned up. Probably not. Even for free treats.’

‘The Daily Trumpet ?’ asked Amanda, without needing to ask really.

‘That’s the one.’

She winced inwardly.

Ray drifted off to let her eat in peace, and then turned back. ‘Do you mind if I ask, did you ever come here when it was Mrs Boot’s café?’

‘All the time,’ Amanda replied.

‘It was always busy, that’s right isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it was. She had a very loyal clientele. I’m sure they’ll come back, eventually.’ There was plenty of choice on the menu that would appeal to them if they’d embrace the new. ‘It only takes one or two to spread the word.’

‘Thank you.’

Ray went back behind the counter and Amanda picked up a fork and plunged it into the pie. It was fat and bursting with blueberries, just on the right side of tart. It would easily have passed muster with the old crowd. And they would have enjoyed the chirpy swing music. Doris Day was singing ‘Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps’, and sounding as if she was commenting on what Amanda had just said.

She ate her pie and drank her coffee and felt really sorry for him, cleaning an already immaculate servery in preparation for the many who might not come. She knew she was over-sensitive to people’s feelings, something inherited from her dad because her mother certainly wasn’t like that. It had got stronger over the last couple of years, probably a by-product of menopausal anxiety. Yep, the bloody thing had stripped away her ability to finish most sentences she started, to sleep properly, to remember the simplest of words; it had turned her into a water sprinkler and made her heart thump like Red Rum’s at Aintree and in exchange it had gifted her with the ability to take on everyone else’s emotions. She could feel Ray of Ray’s diner’s despair as clearly as if she was absorbing it through her skin and she had no idea why it should affect her. He was a random American bloke running a café. She should have insisted she pay for the pie and coffee, then thank him and go but instead she lingered and opened up a conversation.

‘I work in marketing. I have a few ideas I could suggest that might help.’ She waved her palms defensively at him. ‘Please tell me to butt out if that comes across as patronising.’

‘No, it really doesn’t. Do you mind if I sit with you?’

‘No, not at all,’ said Amanda.

Ray grabbed the jug of coffee and slotted himself across from her, replenishing her mug.

‘Getting Bettina’s customers back would be your first port of call. Have an OAP discount; they can’t resist a cut-price cake. If you haven’t complained to the Daily Trumpet , then you must and insist they give you a free replacement ad – a big one. They always do. And Bettina used to have a noticeboard where people could advertise stuff: gardening services, pet taxis, special deals, that sort of thing. It was quite famous, daft as it sounds. All her regulars made a beeline for it and read everything on it. I’d be tempted to put it back.’

Amanda could have suggested more but she didn’t want to come across as a know-it-all. Giving him an insight into the local community was a good place to start and from the look on Ray’s face, he seemed receptive to her suggestions.

‘I did think about having some sort of supper club or something. I’m open to that, if you know of anyone who might want to use this as a meeting place to talk and break bread. A discussion group maybe, a book club, new moms’ get-together.’

‘I can certainly put the word out for you,’ said Amanda, although, personally, she’d had enough of discussion groups to last her flaming ages. But one of her mother’s neighbours had been a regular here and no one had a bigger mouth than Dolly Shepherd.

‘That is really helpful,’ said Ray, smiling over the table at her and once again, Amanda thought how he could so easily have been Seth Mason plus thirty-odd years. She’d never forgotten him; his memory still shone as bright and beautiful as the boy himself had been.

‘Thank you…’ He left a space for her to insert her name.

‘A… Amanda.’

Ray held out his hand for her to shake.

‘If I hadn’t given you the pie and coffee gratis already, I’d be giving you the pie and coffee gratis,’ he said, all the while holding on to her. He had a nice meaty hand with a strong grip. She liked that sort of hand. Small hands on men, soft doll fingers, revolted her.

‘So what do you do in marketing?’ asked Ray, finally letting her go.

‘I work for Mon Enfant. It’s a firm that specialises in baby equipment, but I’ve worked for supermarkets and food outlets in the past. I’ve done a lot of consumer research in my time.’ She took a sip of coffee; it really was very good. ‘What’s your history?’

‘English mom, came out to Dripping Springs in Texas on holiday with a friend, met my dad and fell head over heels. Couldn’t live without each other, so she went back and they got married. He worked in a kitchen but always wanted his own place and mom was like, “We’re gonna make this happen” and together they did. When my daddy died, my mom wanted to come home to England again and I moved back with her. My marriage had broken down and I felt like I needed a total scene change.’ He laughed. ‘Sorry, I’m telling you way too much detail here. In short, I always loved Yorkshire when we came to visit, I felt very much at home in this small corner of it, and so I knew that one day I’d live here.’

‘Is your mum still around?’

‘No, she died. They had me kinda late so she had a good long life. I had my own restaurant in Austin, I thought I could bring it over here but… I’m starting to think that I’ve made a grave error. So you reckon I should ring the Daily Trumpet ?’

‘That’s your next job, yes. I think most people get their pensions on Thursdays so they’re feeling flush. You could have a Thursday “Meet Ray” morning event to bring them in. Once they’re over the threshold, you’ll have them in the palm of your hand.’

Ray smiled and Amanda thought what a good-looking man he was. A little craggy; sun-ray crinkles at the corners of those blue, blue eyes telling her he was no stranger to laughter. Trimmed dark hair, artfully peppered with grey; a pretty boy goatee that perfectly suited the shape of his face. He looked like a man who took care of himself, without being the type to stand in front of the mirror staring into his reflection like a modern-day Narcissus – she’d been out with one of those once. She wondered if Ray had found a new wife. If he hadn’t, he’d soon find one around here. Women would be queueing up if they knew someone like this was in town and he made his own desserts.

‘I like that a lot. “Meet Ray Morning”. That’s gonna happen.’

His eyes were looking skyward, blinking with the activity going on behind them.

Amanda drank the last of her coffee. It was time to leave. Her inner alarm clock had just rung and she needed to go and sort out her mum. Her little interlude was at an end for today, but there was a bright spot in that Bettina Boot had a worthy successor. The queen is dead, long live the king .

Amanda reached to her side for her jacket and her bag.

‘Well, thank you, Ray,’ she said. ‘It was so nice to meet you.’

‘I think I should be the one saying thank you, Amanda.’ His voice seemed to caress her name, it came out as Amenda, slow and savoured, which was a change from how she usually heard it, barked at her with the vowels short.

He saw her to the door. ‘I look forward to seeing you again.’

‘And me too you.’ Which didn’t make any sense and was about par for the course these days.

As she headed off to her car, she couldn’t remember the last time a man had said he was looking forward to seeing her again; it made her feel a bit fluttery. Her foot slipped off the accelerator because she wasn’t concentrating enough to place it on properly and she chuckled to herself. One month’s worth of HRT patches and was this her libido coming back? What a wasteland it was going to find itself in if it was.