Chapter 4 #2
I move on in my internet journey, and discover that Matt, the Harrison Ford look-alike and Laura’s husband, is also the local vet, and that Sam is a ranger for the whole of the Jurassic coast. Edie turns out to be Edie May, and she’s had her fair share of time in the spotlight as well– running the local library, being in charge of all kinds of community events, and then helping to archive items from a nearby historic house called Briarwood.
Briarwood now seems to be some kind of hot-house school for budding inventors and young scientists.
That sounds like fun, and I wonder if I could go and visit one day.
Maybe, like the cats, they’ve discovered the key to teleportation.
Or invisibility. Or figuring out why when you drop toast it always lands butter-side down.
I read all of this within half an hour, and then drag myself away.
For someone who is so fiercely protective of her own privacy, I really enjoy invading other people’s, it seems. I amble down the stairs and make myself a cup of ginger tea to take outside.
It’s another warm, clear day, and at this time of year you have to grab them when you can– in the blink of an eye it will be torrential rain and snowstorms. I sit at the little table, and stay very still as I watch the robin perched on the branch of the lilac.
He’s watching me too, tiny shining eyes in a twitching head, looking for signs of threat.
‘I won’t hurt you, little pal,’ I say very quietly. ‘Just listen out for the bell around the cat’s neck, though.’
I swear he seems to nod at that. I wonder if he’s thinking ‘yeah, that cat is a complete arsehole!’ I wonder if robins think at all. So many mysteries in life.
I finish my tea and do a few stretches. I haven’t unpacked my yoga mat as yet, and am starting to suspect that I might have forgotten to bring it.
I try and do a little every day, because it irons out the kinks both physically and mentally.
I’ve tried all kinds of sports and hated pretty much every single one of them.
I can’t abide the gym, with its loud music and clanking metal machines and huge men, and I’m very much not a team sports kind of person.
I don’t run unless I’m late or trying to catch a bus, and find any kind of organised exercise class to be a special type of hell.
I love walking, and other than that and the occasional cycle, yoga is pretty much the only activity I’ve been able to maintain.
Though I’m rubbish at the meditating bits at the end.
The robin flies away as I do my stretches, obviously correctly deciding that I’m a lunatic.
I go back inside, intending to have some proper food and look for the mat.
As I walk by the front door, I notice a little envelope has been pushed through the letter box.
Getting mail like this is a novelty– my flat in London is in a serviced building with a doorman, and everything gets put into a lock box for me.
And too often they were things I really didn’t want.
I stare at the envelope, a tiny sliver of worry running through me. There was a man, in London, who I don’t like to think about. Who made my life difficult. He used to send me notes, too. Even the sight of this one makes my nostrils flare.
No, I tell myself, shaking it off. This is not him.
This is not London. This is not anything to be scared of.
And even if it is, what good will ignoring it do?
If by some grim miracle he is still looking for me, and has found me, then I need to know so I can deal with it.
Last night, when I was lying in bed terrified, I let that terror paralyse me, and that is not an option for every single day of my life. I cannot let that happen.
I lean down, pick up the envelope. See my name scrawled on it. I open it up and find a small card bearing a picture of seashells.
You are cordially invited to your first meeting of the BudburyLadies Coffee and Cake Club.
4pm at the Comfort Food Café.
Be there or be sad that you missed Laura’s new blackberrycheesecake!
Lots of love, Cherie xxx
Oh crikey. A club? I don’t do clubs. Even ones that offer coffee and cake.
Over the years, I’ve tried to engage more with the world around me, but I’ve always come to the conclusion that I don’t enjoy it very much.
The fault lies with me, not others– it just seems to be the way I’m made.
I was always like this, even when I was young, and it’s probably why I started writing.
I created my own world to engage with instead of risking the real one.
I’m not socially inept; I just generally prefer my own company.
But, only a little while ago, I was promising myself that I would go and see Cherie again.
I genuinely liked her. I felt a sense of security and peace with her that I haven’t known since…
well, possibly never. My own mum did her best, but life at home was a constant drama.
My dad, a domineering drunk, was the lead character, and she played a supporting role.
She was the placating wife who was either doing anything she needed to avoid confrontation, or sometimes causing it.
There was always tension in the air, and kids pick up on that from a very early age.
There was no tension at the Comfort Food Café.
There was no sense of threat. It was nice, and warm, and…
well, comforting. I suppose the clue is in the name.
I wonder how big this club is? I’ve met a few Budbury ladies here already.
Maybe it’s just them– would I be okay with that?
Edie, Auburn, Katie, Laura, Cherie… that’s only five.
Five women, all of whom seem very nice and a whole lot of fun.
Surely, I can cope with that? And if I hate it, if I start to feel too stressed or start to shut down, then I can leave.
Nobody is going to hold me prisoner at the Comfort Food Café.
I decide that I will go. Even if it’s only for half an hour. I quickly make a sandwich before I leave, because I cannot have another day where all I eat is cake. I’ll have to swap the yoga for a Peloton if I keep eating this much cake.
By the time I leave the house, it is almost four.
I don’t want to get there early. Plus being late gives me the chance to lurk outside and check it out first. Always good to think these daring missions through thoroughly.
James Bond wouldn’t have needed to do so many skydives and ski off so many mountain tops if he’d just thought things through a bit more.
I walk slowly down the hill, already strangely comfortable with this little place. I’ve only been here for one night, but somehow it is starting to feel more like home than my London flat did even after years.
It’s disarmingly warm for October, and I find myself tying my cardigan around my waist and smiling up at the sunshine.
I stop at the bottom of the road and turn my face up, letting it gently heat my skin.
It feels like an autumn evening in Spain rather than south-west England.
My hair is long and on the wild side, and I scoop it up and tie it into a knot.
It won’t stay there for long, but it cools me down a little.
I resist the temptation to head straight to the beach instead, and climb the steps up to the Comfort Food Café. I can do this, I tell myself. Heck, I might even enjoy it.