Chapter 6
Chapter Six
I stay for a little while longer, just to make sure I don’t leave with any of us feeling awkward.
I’ve said my piece, Laura has apologised, and that is that.
I don’t hold grudges, especially over something that I know she only thought of as a bit of fun.
Over the years, as I’ve seen my friends and peers grow up and move on in life, I’ve noticed that some of them have been confused and in some cases almost challenged by me staying single.
My sister being one of them– me getting married definitely had something to do with her encouragement.
I think if they’re happy and content with their life, people want the same for others– which is really lovely in its own way.
But ‘content’ doesn’t look the same for everyone, and part of me really does rebel against the idea that a woman needs to be part of a couple to feel fulfilled.
Maybe I just haven’t met the right person, or maybe I’m just not made that way.
I’ve always found being part of a couple stifling, and in my own experience it’s taken away more than it’s given.
Possibly just more than I was willing to give.
I sometimes wish things had been different.
I would have liked children, but it never happened for me with a partner, and I was never quite determined enough to make it happen by myself.
The thought of being a single mum daunted me.
I suppose I was convinced that I’d mess it up somehow.
I realise now, as I head into my fifties and know quite a lot of parents, that everyone feels like that.
There is no instruction manual, no magic formula for being a good mum.
Maybe I should have done it, but there’s no point even in wondering now– I will never know.
It’s the mums with younger kids who drift off first from the coffee club, Laura and Becca both heading home. Becca, I learn, does not drink, so she is always the designated driver. ‘I don’t mind,’ she says, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Laura tips me in cake.’
Laura apologises yet again before she leaves, and I can tell she still feels a bit bad about it. ‘It’s okay,’ I assure her. ‘I know you were just trying to do me a favour. We’re fine, honest, as long as you don’t try and pimp me out again.’
‘Are you sure?’ she asks, looking slightly wistful. ‘He was very nice. And so hot there was practically steam coming off him…’
‘That was the sweat from his run, and yes, I’m sure.’
She nods in reluctant understanding, then disappears off with her sister, slightly tipsy after all her Baileys hot chocolates.
Auburn goes with them, getting a lift as Briarwood is apparently ‘up the world’s biggest hill’.
Zoe promises to drop me off a booklet about Eggardon Hill and other local legends, then heads away.
Maxine is collected by her partner, Gabriel, who calls in to say hello.
And by that I mean he says ‘hello’, and literally not one word more.
He’s strikingly handsome, in a wild and untamed way, with a smile that only comes out to play when he sees his lady.
I might be the least romantic woman in the world, but the sight of that intense connection does make me sigh inside.
Eventually, I’m left alone with Cherie, and help her to clear up.
We stack the plates and mugs in the big dishwasher and wipe over the tables.
Luna assists ably by dealing with any cake spillage, like a furry four-legged hoover snuffling around between our feet.
By the time it’s all done, it’s dark outside, and yet again I find myself alone with Cherie in the café.
She’s wearing a magnificent flowing kaftan, black with gold trim, and her plait has come slightly loose. You rarely see ladies of her age with such long hair. She catches me looking, and says: ‘If anyone sneaks up behind me and cuts this off, I’ll lose all my strength. Like Samson.’
I can’t imagine Cherie losing her strength.
She is physically imposing, but she also exudes an air of confidence and security, of being totally comfortable in her own skin.
Even the fact that she openly talks about sometimes being lonely, about missing her husband Frank, seems to make her stronger, not weaker.
She embraces all that she is in a way I can only admire and possibly envy.
‘I doubt it,’ I reply. ‘Samson was obviously a wuss in comparison. I suspect you’re made of sterner stuff. Right, anyway, thanks for a lovely time. I better be going.’
‘Are you sure?’ she asks, raising her eyebrow. ‘I have a bottle of Calvados upstairs…’
Calvados. Apple brandy. That sounds incredibly dangerous. I definitely shouldn’t stay for Calvados.
‘Okay,’ I say immediately. ‘Just the one, though. I have a lot of work to do.’
She smiles and replies: ‘Attagirl. That’s the spirit!’
I follow her through the kitchens, to a small staircase at the back.
The steps creak as we make our way up, and with all the lights off in the main part of the building, it’s very slightly spooky.
Or maybe all this talk of Halloween and haunted hills has got the better of me.
Despite my vivid imagination and interest in the supernatural, I’ve led a decidedly dull life on that front: I’ve never seen a ghostly face in the mirror other than my own, never encountered a poltergeist, never fallen through a timeslip in Trafalgar Square. I suppose there’s still time.
We emerge into Cherie’s little flat and I stare around in appreciation.
It is small but perfectly formed, with skylights that frame square portraits of the dark, starry sky above.
The sofa is covered with a red velvet throw with gold tassels, there are photos everywhere, and one corner is filled with a huge vinyl collection and an old-fashioned record player that looks as though it’s lived a life and a half.
As she gets us drinks, I stroll around and take it all in, the colourful knick-knacks, the incense burners and their little piles of ash, the shimmering bead curtain through into the kitchen.
It’s bright and bold and eccentric, the ultimate reflection of its owner.
I pause in front of a framed poster for the 1970 Isle of Wight Festival.
‘That was a good one,’ she says, passing me a glass.
I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t drink Calvados in full tumblers, but there you go.
I raise my eyebrows at it and she says: ‘Well, you said one glass. You didn’t specify the size. You’re lucky it’s not a pint.’
I snort out a laugh, because I already wouldn’t rule that out. ‘Were you there?’ I ask. ‘At the festival?’
‘I was. I was at all of them. That was the year with The Who, The Doors, Hendrix… It’s where I met my first husband, Wally.’
I glance at her tanned face, the crinkled laughter lines and the eyes that have almost disappeared into her smile, and can totally picture her there. ‘Have you got photos?’ I ask.
‘Not many,’ she replies, frowning. ‘It wasn’t like it is now, back then. These days, everybody takes pictures of everything, including their dinner. But this was pre-digital, and not many people had cameras. I have a few though, if you really want to see?’
‘I really do. I warn you now, I’m sneakily nosy.’
‘I’ve noticed. Okay, sit yourself down and I’ll find a few snaps from the past. Any music preference?’
I tell her I’ll let her choose, and within a few minutes she has joined me on the sofa with a small album on her lap, the mellow sound of Nina Simone playing in the background, the distinct hiss and crackle of well-played vinyl.
Luna is snuggled up in a basket, but the occasional glance tells me I’m probably in her usual spot.
Cherie shows me a picture of her as a young woman, sprawled on a patch of grass, a cigarette in her fingers.
Herhair is rich and dark and shining in the sun, parted in the middle and draped with a coronet made of daisies.
Her bell-bottom jeaned legs seem to go on forever, and are paired with a leather waistcoat that barely covers her assets.
She is absolutely gorgeous, the very epitome of a carefree flower child.
‘Wow,’ I say, smiling as I turn the pages. ‘You look stunning. And so happy.’
‘I was… although the weather was pretty rotten, I seem to recall. When it was all over, I got separated from my friends on the way home. It was carnage really, pure hippy chaos, and I ended up hitchhiking. Wally picked me up, and it was the best thing that ever happened to me. Totally changed my life.’
She shows me a few more shots and tells me a few more stories, and she seems to be enjoying it.
It’s fascinating, really, this glimpse into her world– you can totally see those origins in the woman she still is today.
The herbal cigarettes, the kaftans, the hair, this little flat that feels like somewhere the Beatles would have hung out during their guru meditation phase.
Cherie is unlike anyone I have ever met before.
‘So,’ she says, propping her feet up on the multi-coloured pouffe in front of us, ‘do you want to talk about it? The reason you were so worried about your privacy. I get that you’re a bit of a public figure, but it was more than that, wasn’t it? What happened?’
I stare at her, quite surprised at the sudden turnaround. One minute I’m listening to her tales of hanging out in rock bands’ dressing rooms, and the next the spotlight is on me. I have never enjoyed the spotlight.
‘This is the part where I should say “you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to”, I know,’ she adds, looking at my closed-off expression. ‘But I think you probably should. If this is a fresh start for you, maybe you should clear the air with yourself.’