Chapter 8
EIGHT
The Spring Feast goes off without a hitch, which is a big relief. People seemed to love the food, the wine, the whole event. I have a lot of repeat customers, but there were also some new faces – including a couple who got engaged on the night.
The young man took me to one side when they arrived and asked permission to propose, and I made sure there was some Champagne handy for when she said yes. He did the whole thing – down on one knee while the sorbet plates were still on the table. There was, obviously, a brief moment where I held my breath – it’d put a real dampener on things if she’d said no!
She didn’t, and they both seemed thrilled as the entire room broke out into applause and cheers. Zack had filmed the whole thing, as well as a few different moments during the evening when we were quiet. He had also asked permission, telling me he’d send whatever he got for me to use for marketing and social media.
I didn’t break the news to him that I don’t bother much with either, because I don’t really need to – I have a mailing list that is already thousands long, and these events could sell out ten times over every time. That seems rude and borderline smug to boast about, so I just say thank you. He is in his element when he’s doing that, but he’s also a dab hand as a waiter, and having him here does turn out to be useful.
By the time everyone has left, back to their drive home or their accommodation, it’s almost midnight. I’ve stayed behind to finish the clean-up, because I always have an adrenaline rush after one of my events. It is, in its own way, a performance – and I am left with excess energy to burn off. Handy when you have a whole café to clear.
Zack stays with me, and we work in companionable silence apart from the music on the radio. Late night Motown classics, perfect to sing along to. By the time we’ve both belted out an off-pitch but enthusiastic version of The Tracks of My Tears , we’re both laughing. I close down the kitchen, switch off the lights, and we head outside. The girls have already gone back to the house, claiming exhaustion. You can’t get the staff these days.
It’s a clear night, a spring chill in the air but not even a flutter of a breeze. Zack stands on the patio and looks up at the sky. I follow his gaze, wondering what’s up there – but I soon realise it is the usual gorgeous display of stars. I forget, sometimes, how different it is here to London. There is so little light pollution that the stars seem to number in the thousands, shining like jewels.
“Wow,” he says eventually. “That is amazing. I’m not even going to try and take a picture of that.”
“Good. Just file the image in your mind instead.”
I realise as we stand there together, gazing at the constellations, that I am not tired enough to go to bed. If I go home, I’ll just end up sitting downstairs on my own, watching TV with the volume so low I can barely hear it. There is a way to put subtitles on but I can never figure it out – without my teenagers around, I am remote control challenged.
“Is the pub still open?” he asks, obviously thinking the same. “I know it’s almost one in the morning but for some reason I’m not tired enough to sleep yet.”
“Technically the inn isn’t open now, no, but you are a resident, and Jake won’t mind if we help ourselves and pay up tomorrow.”
“Will the door be locked? I only have a key to my room, not the building…”
“Ah, ye of little faith – of course the door won’t be locked! Just a little nightcap, maybe? I still feel a bit wired.”
“Me too, and it wasn’t even my event. Do you think Bear is okay?” he says, his brow furrowed. I’m beginning to recognise the little flash of concern that crosses his face when he worries about his dog and it’s very endearing.
“Of course Bear’s okay. George fried up a load of extra crispy bacon bits for him!”
“Oh Lord. That dog is on a diet…”
“He’s on holiday. Get him on the Slimfast when you’re back home.”
We cross the green, no lights on in any of the cottages, and let ourselves into the Starshine Inn. There are piles of glasses on the bar waiting to be washed, and the tables and chairs are askew from a night of merriment. The scents of beer and whisky still lurk in the air but the place is entirely empty, lit only by the glow of the jukebox and the fridges behind the counter.
I’m just about to head to the bar and write Jake an IOU for a bottle of wine when I hear footsteps coming down the corridor that leads to Jake and Ella’s apartment. Ella appears, her hair in disarray and wearing mis-matched pyjamas. She’s holding a crying Kitty in her arms and looks like she’s sleepwalking. Larry, the dog who looks like a lamb, trots along behind her.
“I’m sorry,” I say sheepishly. “Did we wake her up? We tried to be super quiet…”
“No, don’t worry – she’s been awake for ages. I was just bringing her out here so Jake could get some sleep. He did it last night.”
I smile, my mind going back to those days – the mind-numbing combination of fatigue and boredom. Wandering through the house at all hours, feeling like an extra in a zombie film. Babies turn all their parents into the cast of The Walking Dead .
“Can I help?” says Zack, striding over. “Let me take her for a few minutes while you have a rest?”
Ella seems to turn this over in her mind, then nods and passes the fretting baby over to him. He immediately nestles her against his chest and starts to do the little half-dance, half-shuffle that your body never seems to forget. He murmurs comforting words, rocking her lightly, and she stares up at him in fascination. Maybe it’s just the change of scenery, and an unfamiliar face to stare at, but she soon stops crying and instead gazes up at him, her pudgy hands waving in the air.
“This is one of the reasons I got the laser treatment on my eyes,” he says, smiling down at the precious bundle in his arms. “The girls were forever grabbing at my glasses.”
Ella slumps down onto one of the seats, and watches gratefully as Zack continues his patrol of the room. I sit next to her and pat her thigh.
“It gets easier, I promise,” I say quietly.
“Oh, I know, but living on the promise of tomorrow being easier doesn’t make today any less hard. I can’t remember what life looked like before she arrived.”
“Simple, fun, full of selfish pleasures?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“And would you swap it?”
She follows her baby around the room with tired eyes, and then breaks out into a grin.
“No. I wouldn’t. What are you doing here anyway? Are you robbing the place?”
“Yes. I plan on stuffing all your Rioja into a swag bag and selling it on the black market.”
“I thought as much. Did the event go well?”
“It did,” I reply. “And somehow we found ourselves still wide awake and in search of a nightcap. I’m sorry again if we disturbed you.”
I clearly recall the absolute fury that anyone making a noise can provoke when you’re trying to keep a baby asleep. You’ll just have got them off, and then someone will invariably step on a squeaky dog toy or slam a door.
“Again, you didn’t – and at least I’ve had ten minutes’ respite while Zack is on duty. He’s a natural. I might see if I can hire him as my manny.”
I look over at Zack, who has managed to settle Kitty off into the land of nod, and have to agree. For all his surface glitz, he looks completely at home with a little one.
He walks towards us, and smoothly hands the baby over to Ella. She squalls for a second and we all hold our breath, but then settles down for a snooze.
“I’m just going to chill out here for a bit, guys,” Ella says. “Help yourself to booze – call it a babysitting fee. But if you’re going to chat, would you mind going up to Zack’s room? I don’t want to risk the Wrath of Kitty.”
I catch Ella’s eye, wondering if she is playing matchmaker here. That is exactly the kind of thing I have done in the past – to her and Jake, to Cally and Archie, to Josh and Lucy. I am an incorrigible rogue when it comes to matchmaking.
She looks completely innocent, though – clearly too tired to scheme. Zack raises his eyebrows at me and I nod. Yes, I think – one drink, and then home.
We select a bottle and swipe a couple of glasses, and when I turn to say goodnight to Ella I swear she winks at me. Ah, I think – not too tired to scheme after all. She has learned from the master.
Zack’s room is in the top of the building and is the same one Ella stayed in when she first arrived here. I know that by day it has a spectacular view over the bay, and even at night it’s not too shabby; the moon is reflecting off the dark horizon of the sea, and the stars are putting on quite a show.
I mooch around the place as Zack uncorks the wine. He only pours himself a thimbleful, topping it up with water a bit like French parents do for their teenagers, but glugs out a full glass for me.
I take the glass, nosing at a pile of papers on the dressing table he is using as a desk. It seems to be some kind of plan, an outline of camera shots and filming locations.
“What’s this?” I say, pointing at the sheets as I sit on the chair. I’ll let him have the bed, I decide. “Work, while you’re on holiday? What happened to switching off?”
“Oh, that – would you believe me if I said it’s not really work? Or it doesn’t feel like it anyway. It’s a new concept for a show about refugees. Helping them track down lost family, telling their stories – it’s a bit of a passion project to be honest. The world feels like it’s exploding at the moment, and I wanted to try and do something different. I barely have anything to do with the day-to-day stuff now, and I miss it. One of my interns – originally from Syria – came to me with this concept, and I’m just fleshing it out. He said he wanted to show refugees as real people, not as saints and not as villains. I thought it had some potential.”
I nod and look again at the outline. I don’t understand some of the abbreviations, and the technical stuff is beyond me, but I can see the shape of what he’s trying to do – each person gets an introductory narrative on camera, and an in-depth look at their home nation and its culture, as well as why they left.
“That sounds really great,” I say after a few sips of wine. “Bit different than some of your stuff, though.”
“I know. Nobody will be wearing a bikini or have veneers, for a start. But like I said – passion project, and early days. I was serious when I said I was considering retiring – well, not retiring, but maybe just slowing things down. Handing over some of the responsibilities and making the most of what time I’ve got left to pursue things that I actually believe in.”
“The time you’ve got left?” I say, smiling. “You’re not exactly old, Zack!”
“Well, I’m fifty-seven, which according to Marcy is round about the time I should start looking into mobility scooters and stairlifts.”
“I suppose she has a point. You’re two years older than me, and clearly ready for the knacker’s yard.”
He snorts out a laugh, and switches on his phone. I know this room gets pretty decent wifi, unlike the rest of the village, and I anticipate losing him for the next twenty minutes as he catches up on vital emails and cute kitten videos.
“I was checking out your profile,” he says after a moment. He looks up and gives me such a fabulous grin that I feel a flutter in my tummy. I am alone in a bedroom with a man who gives me butterflies. What could possibly go wrong?
I gulp down some more wine and wonder if I look as confused as I feel.
“What profile?”
“The one the girls set up for you on the dating app.”
“Oh. Right. I’d completely forgotten about that – and I can’t believe they actually did it! Crikey, what have they said about me…”
He scoots over and I sit next to him, my mind filled with disastrous possibilities. I expect something utterly embarrassing, and I’m quite taken aback when he shows me the screen. There’s a really nice picture of me, if I do say so myself, from the night we all met in London. To be fair, I look a lot more glam on it than I usually do, but it’s definitely me – I wouldn’t be catfishing anybody. My profile name is Connie666 – thank you, Sophie – and all the information is correct, and makes me sound fun and interesting. I’m not sure about her describing me as ‘pocket-sized’ though – I may be short, but it’d still need to be a pretty spacious pocket.
“See?” he says. “It’s not that bad, is it? You are a fun-loving woman who enjoys cooking, socialising and short walks on the beach.”
“Isn’t it usually long walks on the beach?”
“Yes, so this is better – it shows you have a sense of humour.”
“Do men on these kinds of apps like a good sense of humour? Aren’t they more into, you know, boobs?”
“Well, most straight men are into boobs, there’s no denying it – but this isn’t just a hook-up thing. It’s for making friends as well as dating. A lot of people use it when they move somewhere new, or if they find themselves single, lots of reasons. I suspect your views might be a bit out of date, Mrs Llewellyn.”
“I suspect you might be right. Hang on, I’ll get into it on my phone. Sophie will have set it up with my usual password.”
“Which is?”
“None of your business, but it does involve a combination of animal noises and ice cream flavours.”
I fish out my phone and find that Sophie has also downloaded the app for me. She knows I’m not someone who pays much attention to such things – apart from occasionally messaging the kids, I mainly seem to use my phone as a watch. She’s obviously swiped it at some point and installed the Incredible World of Dating. I remind myself to be annoyed with her – once I’ve stopped being amused, at least.
“What does that little symbol mean there?” I ask, once I’m in.
“It means you’ve got messages!”
I make a whooping sound and punch the air with a celebratory fist. I didn’t want this – in fact I specifically told the girls I wasn’t interested – but now I’ve seen it I feel slightly curious. Plus, if someone puts you on a dating app behind your back, it’s at least nice to see that someone has liked you enough to respond, isn’t it?
I click on the icon and feel my eyes widen in surprise when I see that I have eleven messages. Wow. Go me.
Zack looks along with me, and I soon realise that of the eleven only a few are actually viable. One of them lives in Edinburgh, so I have no idea how he thinks that could work.
“This guy has a fake photo,” I say, pointing at one of the profiles. “Unless he actually is Cristiano Ronaldo.”
“Yeah. Maybe ignore that one. And some of them are really far away, so you’d have to get to know them online first and then see if you liked them enough to make the effort.”
I nod, then realise that I am getting carried away – this is all nonsense.
“It doesn’t matter how far away they are,” I announce firmly, as much to myself as him. “I won’t be getting to know any of them.”
“Why not? It could be fun – what have you got to lose?”
“Self respect, dignity, and in the case of Ronaldo there, possibly my life savings?”
Zack shakes his head, takes the phone from me and scrolls through, studying the potential candidates.
“What about these two? Both of them live within striking distance, and neither of them gives off an axe murderer vibe. Come on, humour me – take a look.”
“You only want me to do it so you’re not the only one getting stick about their love lives, don’t you?”
“That would certainly be an added bonus – but I also want you to do it for you. Connie, I completely understand where you are right now. I completely understand how hard this is – how scary. How even the thought of it feels like a betrayal of Simon and everything you meant to each other.”
I feel tears sting the back of my eyes at this, and bite my lip to stop it wobbling. I manage a small nod, and he continues: “But it’s not. Simon would want you to be happy, just as Rowena would want me to be happy.”
“I am happy!”
“Yes, I know – but I’m sure you could be even happier. Even if it comes to nothing, maybe it’s worth a try? Plus, I think it might go down well with Sophie. It was actually one of the reasons I started dating again – the girls wanted me to. I had zero interest, but they held an intervention, told me they were worried about me. Told me they wanted me to start living again.”
“God, that sounds awful,” I reply, turning away from the screen and looking at the man next to me. He smiles gently, and those disgustingly cute laughter lines crinkle together.
“It was. It was the last thing I wanted to hear – that I was worrying them. It’s supposed to be the other way around, isn’t it? I decided to give it a go, for their sake at first – Marcy was moving on with life, and Amy was planning her move to France. I didn’t want them sitting around holding meetings about their poor old dad, when they should have been enjoying the most carefree time of their lives. And once I’d been on a few dates… well, I suppose then I started doing it for me instead.”
I think about what he’s said, and wonder if my own children feel the same. They’ve never really said anything about it, but it could be true – am I casting a shadow on their lives because they think I’m not living mine to the full? Sophie did seem awfully keen on the idea – she’s gone to the trouble of setting up this profile, installing the app, everything. Maybe, like he says, I should give it a go – even if only to set her mind at rest. To reassure her that she doesn’t need to be concerned.
I go back to the messages, and study the profiles with a bit more of an open mind. Two of them, he’s right, look nice – and they both live within an hour’s drive, which by countryside terms is pretty much on your doorstep.
“Maybe one of these,” I say, pointing them out to Zack.
“Why not both?”
“Isn’t that a bit… icky?”
“Not in this universe, no. It’s not like you’re agreeing to marry them, is it? Nobody goes on a date expecting it to turn into something real – hoping, maybe, but not expecting. Nobody will think you’re immoral if you go on two dates, Connie. It’s how this works. Imagine it’s like the olden days, when you were in a bar or a club – you’d maybe chat to three or four guys before you found one you liked.”
“Right. I suppose. And for someone who doesn’t really use these apps, you seem to know a lot about them, by the way.”
He also seems very keen for me to get out there and meet new men, which I confess is slightly disappointing.
“Cultural osmosis,” he replies. “I have friends who use them, plus they featured in one of our shows so I did my research. And I wouldn’t rule out using them anyway, when the time is right.”
“Can I see your profile?” I ask, curious as to how he is presented to the online dating pool.
He grimaces, but finds it on his phone. The main picture is gorgeous – him side-on, at sunset in a place that looks a lot more exotic than London. He’s wearing a loose white linen shirt, his skin is even more golden, and his hair is lifted slightly in the breeze.
“Bloody hell,” I proclaim. “You look like the poster child for Saga holidays! Very glamorous.”
“Thank you, I think. That was taken on a trip to the Amalfi Coast. The others are more mundane.”
I flick through, seeing a carousel of pictures. He is being modest, because he looks great on all the rest as well. I glance at the mail icon, and raise an eyebrow. He clicks on it, and we see that he has over two hundred messages.
“And here’s me,” I say, laughing, “feeling like a sex goddess because I had eleven!”
“Well, to be fair I’ve not logged on for a while. Some of these are probably really old, and some of them might be from the female version of our close friend Cristiano Ronaldo. Plus I’m in London, and London is a lot different than Dorset. Dorset is a pond, and London is an ocean.”
I shrug and accept his protestations, but I know it’s more than that – he is incredibly attractive, and I suspect he’d be flooded with offers even if he lived in Timbuktu. Wherever that is. I do a quick google while I have a signal and find that it is an ancient city in Mali. Now I know. It’s not surprising I felt a little flicker of attraction for him too, and maybe I shouldn’t take it too seriously. Me and two hundred women agree that he is a very handsome man.
“So, okay,” I say, “what happens next? Do I message them and arrange to meet up?”
“Usually you’d chat a while first, get a better idea of whether you’re a good fit or not.”
“I don’t have much time for that – plus as you may have noticed, it’s not exactly easy to keep on top of anything World Wide Web related in Starshine Cove.”
“Nobody calls it the World Wide Web anymore.”
“They do here. We still call cars a motor carriage. I think… I think I’ll just ask them both if they want to meet up for coffee.”
Even as I say the words, I can’t quite believe they’re coming out of my mouth. What has happened to me? Have I suffered a head injury without noticing?
“Sounds like a plan,” says Zack. “Here’s to you, Connie!”
He raises his glass, and I clink mine against it. My hands are a little shaky, and liquid sloshes over the side.
What the heck have I just agreed to?