Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
I t’s Sunday and my only day off from Ronald’s tea shop. The old grandfather clock in the hall downstairs is chiming to announce it’s seven in the morning, which I don’t want to know as I’d rather be still asleep. I’m awake with my head shoved under the pillow, although not to block out the noisy clock. It’s so that I can rid my nose of foul-smelling dog wind.
Lucas and I are living in my old bedroom. Lucas has my old bed and I’m sleeping on Dad’s camp bed, an uncomfortable metal contraption, which is low to the ground. It also doesn’t quite fit in the room so we can’t fully close the door. This means Bean, Dad’s beagle, likes to come in during the night, curl up beside the camp bed and break wind whenever he pleases.
My phone bleeps. It’s Frankie. ‘Alice,’ Frankie croaks, his voice thick with emotion. ‘Please come to The Little Love Café.’
‘What?’ I gasp, sitting up on my camp bed. Luckily Lucas hasn’t stirred.
My heart is pounding. Something is wrong. I don’t think I’ve heard Frankie this upset in a long time. ‘Now?’
‘Yes.’ His voice wavers.
Creeping downstairs, I rummage in Dad’s desk for a pad of paper; I need to write him a note and let him know where I’ve gone. The only thing I can find is the cream letter writing paper I was using when I returned from Surrey. In a tear-fuelled frenzy, I decided to write all fifty-six of my wedding guests a handwritten apology note for the wedding cancellation. My first and only handwritten letter is still attached to the pad.
Dear Ray, Irene, and family,
Thank you for taking the trouble to organise travel down to Surrey and to book a hotel and for buying us a wedding gift. It was appreciated and I’m sorry for any inconvenience caused with our wedding cancellation the day before.
Unfortunately, I found Scott – the two-timing b*s***d in bed with another woman the night before our wedding. I hope he rots in hell.
Hope Stuart is enjoying his first year in university and Emily is working hard on her A-levels.
Kind regards
Alice
Dad had to step in and order me not to send that to Ray and Irene.
After finding a new page, I scribble Dad a quick note to say that I’ve taken Bean for a walk before Lucas gets up.
Once I’ve brushed my teeth and swapped my blue penguin pyjamas for my grey jogging bottoms, which were lying on top of the ironing pile, I grab my coat, the dog lead and call Bean.
Stepping out into the chilling morning rain is a shock for both Bean and me. It’s the last days of March and there’s no sign of spring. A mischievous sea wind lifts my long hair and whips it against my cheeks. Digging my hands deeper into the warm pockets of my coat, I ignore Bean’s unhappy stares. He’d rather be asleep next to my camp bed. We hurry along the street and onto the sweeping promenade. We pass the guest houses, the ice-cream shop, and the tourist gift shop. At the far end, on the edge of the beach is The Little Love Café.
Bean and I are greeted at the door by a tearful Frankie.
‘Oh my God, what’s wrong?’ I go to hug him. He shakes his head before dragging me and Bean into the empty café.
At once, I am surrounded by clusters of baby pink tables and chairs. Lining one wall are three pink leather booths and at the far end is a little snug area which can be booked by customers should they want a bit of privacy. The aroma is a mixture of fresh coffee beans, vanilla, and chocolate.
From the pics Frankie posts on his Instagram feed, this place is always full of soppy-looking couples kissing over lattes. I’m glad it’s empty right now. Since arriving back in Blue Cove I have done my best to avoid it when it’s open. In my current heartbroken state, I couldn’t handle seeing wall-to-wall romance.
‘Coffee, Alice?’ Frankie goes to stand behind the baby pink counter. I nod and he turns to the gleaming stainless-steel coffee machine. He carries my pink cup over to a booth in the corner. A silver iPad and a plate with a half-eaten croissant are waiting for us.
While I settle Bean down under the table, Frankie stuffs his giant six-foot-four frame into the small space opposite me and places his face in his hands. I lean over and give his wrist a gentle squeeze. ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s Mum,’ he whispers, scratching his short thatch of peroxide blond hair. ‘She’s been keeping something from me.’
‘What?’ Saliva is evaporating from my throat at an astonishing speed. ‘Frankie, tell me.’
He takes a deep breath. ‘Mum’s got breast cancer. She Skyped me in the early hours.’ Taking a pink napkin, he wipes his wet cheeks. ‘My Wi-Fi was playing up, so I came here.’
‘What?’ My jaws drop with shock.
‘She found a lump months ago,’ croaks Frankie. ‘Didn’t go see a doctor or anything.’ Massaging his temples with his fingers, he sighs. ‘Don’t get me started on how cross I am at her for that.’ He stops and takes in more air. ‘Her friend persuaded her to get it checked. It’s cancer. Stage three, Alice.’
Frankie’s loud sobs fill the air. Tears flood my own cheeks. ‘Oh, Frankie,’ I stammer in between sobs. My chest feels like someone is scooping out yet more of my insides. Rose is one of the sweetest people on this planet. When Mum died it was Rose who picked up Dad and me, cooking us homemade casseroles, raiding our washing baskets and replacing them with bags of sweet-smelling laundry, organising film nights, making my school packed lunches, and playing Scrabble with all of us on Sunday afternoons. She was even my birthing partner when Lucas was born.
Rose has been living in Sydney for the last three years. One Christmas, she surprised us all by announcing she was returning to her home country after years of living in Blue Cove Bay. Even Frankie was shocked at her life-changing decision. She now lives outside Sydney.
I still haven’t got used to her not living next door to Dad. Frankie hired a van to rescue me from Scott’s house in Surrey on what should have been my wedding day. Once we’d returned to Blue Cove Bay, along with all my belongings, I’d got out of the van, feeling like my world had caved in around me. Instinctively I looked at Frankie’s downstairs window for Rose’s face. We’ve always lived next door to Rose and Frankie. Dad has always called Rose and Frankie ‘our adopted family’.
Frankie and I both shoot out of our seats at the same time and hug the life out of each other. This disturbs a sleeping Bean and causes him to bark with disapproval. From the age of thirteen onwards hugging Frankie became problematic. It was at this point in our lives that his body decided to shoot up towards the sky and mine took the unpopular decision that height wasn’t for everyone and touching five foot was going to be my limit. So, Frankie and I decided I would hug the hell out of his torso until he lifted me up like a friendly giant in a fairy-tale book. I felt the floor of The Little Love Café fall away as a tear-stained Frankie pulls me up. Closing my blurry eyes, I press my damp face into his blue sweatshirt.
We ugly cry for what feels like an eternity. Over the years there have been a handful of occasions where we’ve both held each other and wept uncontrollably: the night Frankie’s dad left Rose for a woman in Scotland; the day Mum died after she fell and hit her head during one of her hikes on the coastal path, the day I realised Noah Coombes wasn’t coming back and I needed to get on with my life and when Frankie arrived to rescue me from Scott’s house.
Placing me back down Frankie slides back into the booth. ‘I don’t know what to think or do. I’m a mess. She starts chemo next week and there’s talk of a mastectomy.’
Swallowing back an avocado shaped lump at the back of my throat I try to contain the army of tears which are spilling down my cheeks. ‘Come on,’ I say, ‘we must stay positive. She’s going to get through this.’
Frankie sniffs. ‘When Mum told me everything a few hours ago, I did think about not telling you. But then I came to my senses.’
I pull away. ‘Why would you do that?’
Taking my tissue to blow his nose, Frankie sits back. ‘You’ve been through hell lately.’
‘I’m not made of delicate tissue paper,’ I exclaim. ‘Dad is the same. As you know, he still thinks I should be on his sofa under a travel blanket.’
A tiny smile finds its way onto Frankie’s reddened face. ‘Bless Brian. He would need to get down to Sofa World if he wanted me to lie on his sofa. I wouldn’t want to spend any length of time on that grubby old thing. You have lower sofa standards than me.’
I let out a chuckle and take a sip of my drink. ‘Okay, what are you going to do about your mum?’
Frankie shrugs. ‘There’s nothing I can do. Just be at the end of Skype while she goes through chemo. I want to go to Sydney to be with her, but I don’t know what to do with this place.’
‘Can’t you get someone to manage it for you?’
He rubs his face so hard angry red marks appear. ‘It’s doing really well.’ Fiddling with his watch, he takes a deep breath. ‘Mum thinks it will be bad for business if I go and shut it. She’s right. I’ve worked so hard to get it where it is today, and it would be bad for business to close it. There isn’t anyone I trust who could look after it for me.’
‘What about that bloke who looked after it when you went to Santorini last year?’
‘Tommy?’ Frankie’s green eyes widen with shock. ‘The one who helped himself to some of my takings? No way.’
Scratching my neck, I order my brain to come up with some alternative options . I don’t have to wait long. ‘What about Jake? He could run this place?’
Jake is Frankie’s boyfriend. They’d been dating for a year and Jake often helps as he is a trained barista. Frankie shakes his head. ‘His father’s not well and I don’t want to add any more pressure. I’ve put the word out on all my WhatsApp groups about a café manager, so I’ll see whether anyone offers any help. I am not hopeful.’ We both drink our coffee. ‘Oh, I saw Betty in town yesterday,’ explains Frankie, with a mischievous grin. ‘How long have you been carrying around Noah’s photo?’ He arches his left eyebrow at me.
Heat is travelling up my neck. ‘I can’t believe Betty told you that. For your information, the photo was from the last day of school. There are loads of us sat on our rock on the beach and I happen to be leaning against Noah.’
Frankie chuckles. ‘Leave Betty alone. Anyway, I love how you still hold a candle for Noah Coombes, or should I say your pretend husband?’
After all these years, Frankie still finds it amusing that, at sixteen, Noah and I had our own makeshift beach wedding. It was the first thing he told Jake about when they began dating. Frankie, who loves a wind-up, missed out the pretend bit and convinced his new boyfriend that it had been legitimate. Frankie howled with laughter when Jake asked me seriously over dinner whether it was true that I got married at sixteen.
‘I’m not discussing Noah. I’ve still not forgiven myself for not listening to Dad about him.’
Frankie takes a sip of coffee. ‘You’ve been obsessed with him since he left.’
‘Not true. I hardly think about him.’ This is a lie. Noah comes into my thoughts at every key moment in my life: when I agreed to go on a date with Pete; when I found out I was pregnant with Lucas; when Lucas was born; when I asked Pete to leave because I didn’t love him; when Scott proposed; and when I’d locked myself in the toilet after discovering Scott’s affair. It was Noah who I thought about.
Rose once told me, ‘You never forget your first love.’ She was certainly right about that.