Chapter Two
The sun is coming up and the sliver of light breaking through the gap in the curtains is dazzling.
I turn over onto my side to change the view and stare instead at my phone and a half-filled glass of water on the bedside table.
I’ve replayed my encounter with Jackson countless times, and in each version, I don’t run away.
I’ve tried out different things to say, but I can’t come up with any scenario where everything ends well.
They all start off fine, as if the last seventeen years never happened, and he gives me the same smile that used to melt my insides.
We chat about what’s been happening in our lives, like two old friends would do, and then as I reach out to touch him, the light goes out of his hazel-brown eyes and they harden.
He wants to know why I’d ghosted him. In every version, I open my mouth to reply, but there’s silence.
It’s as if my tongue has been cut out and the harder I try to speak, the more distressing the silence becomes.
And then he walks away from me in disgust, just as I deserve.
‘It’s quiet in here today, love,’ says Lil, my Friday afternoon regular. She’s sitting in her normal seat by the window. I put down her pot of English Breakfast tea and slice of lemon cheesecake and then look around. Apart from Lil and the one table occupied outside, we’re empty.
‘Maybe it’ll pick up later. The weather is lovely,’ I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. I’m sick of trotting out my hope that the weather is the answer to all my prayers.
I leave Lil to her tea and sudoku and head back towards the kitchen.
The afternoon sun is streaming in through the windows, but even through my squint I glimpse someone tall walking across the front of the café towards the beach and my insides jolt.
I haven’t seen Jackson since the encounter on the green and I’m still on high alert.
I’ve avoided going anywhere near the beach and Reeni’s not seen him either, even though she’s been keeping a lookout. Maybe he’s gone back to Australia?
My toastie maker beeps. I’d thought about trying out new and inventive toasted sandwiches, but now I can smell the melted cheese and onion, I’m happy I’ve stuck to what I know.
I do have a hatch in the till area which opens directly onto the outside seated area. In past summers when we’ve been heaving, I used to put the plates up on the ledge and call out names for people to collect their orders. Now Jill or I take them out to the tables ourselves.
With both tables served, Jill leans against the wall and clears her throat. ‘Not getting any busier, is it?’
‘Is the Camper Café still on the green?’ I’ve tried my best to not ask about the rival café, even though it’s never been far from my thoughts, but I can’t help myself.
‘It was there when I came to work and already had a line of customers. They’re getting busier every time I see them.’ She casts a glance around our café. ‘I’ve seen a few of our regulars using it.’
I scowl so hard I can feel the lines pinch my forehead. ‘Alright. You don’t have to rub it in.’
Jill smooths down her apron, picking off an imaginary bit of food, and guilt floods through me.
My fingers close around the pot nearest to me and it spins from my grasp, sending straws rolling across the countertop and onto the floor.
Jill stoops to collect them up and I take the opportunity of her disappearing below my sight line to rub my eyes hard.
‘I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair of me. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. We’re in the perfect spot. Our food’s good and our coffee is fantastic. I don’t know what else to do.’
I look around me. The Beach House is a beautiful, white wooden plank building with coastal-blue window frames and doors.
It sits on its own patch of beach, about a seven-minute walk from Thorbridge Village.
The outside area has picnic tables, each with its own coloured umbrella, and the boundary is a series of waist-high wooden stakes with thick knotted nautical rope looped between them.
There’s a tiny living space at the back of the café comprising a living room/kitchen, one bedroom, and a bathroom with a shower.
And the best bit about it all is, because I did it all up and not the landlord, the rent is reasonable and, when I was busier, affordable.
A few months ago, I held barbecue nights which were a huge hit, but the last couple I tried fell flat.
Now, I don’t have the funds to waste on food no one eats, so the barbecue’s been pushed to the side and is covered in a tarpaulin and several layers of gritty sand.
‘Afternoon.’ Greg’s cheerful voice slices through the quiet and Jill drops the straws all over the floor again.
His baby-blue eyes twinkle as he smiles and makes his way over to us.
He’s had a haircut and his chocolate-brown hair is short all over and suits him.
It’s been a few days since I’ve seen him, but that’s not unusual.
We’ve a casual relationship. If we fancy a takeaway, a film and some company, then we hook up, although recently he’s been popping into the café a little more.
‘I had a few minutes till my next appointment, so I thought I’d drop in and grab a coffee,’ he says.
‘Looks like you’ve already got one,’ I spit out, eyeing the cup he’s carrying with the Camper Café’s colourful logo splashed all over it. ‘How could you?’
‘What?’ Greg’s brow furrows.
‘You know I need all the business I can get. My regulars are already abandoning me. If my friends are too for that place on the green, I’ve got no chance.’
Greg’s features relax. ‘This? No. It was rolling around one of your picnic tables. I grabbed it to put in the bin.’
He launches the empty cup towards the bin. It bounces off the rim and rolls around on the floor, coming to settle at my feet. I kick it back for him to pick up, but he ignores it and Jill bends to grab it.
‘What’s up?’ he asks, dipping his head to catch my gaze.
‘Sorry for snapping. We’re empty, it’s stressing me out.’
‘I’d never go anywhere else for coffee, you know that.’ He puts a quiet hand on my arm and squeezes. ‘We can sort this, don’t panic.’
‘How?’ I say, shaking his touch from my arm. Tears are flooding around my eyes again. ‘Tourists visiting the village will see that new café long before they get here.’
‘That’s our first plan of attack then,’ he says, his expression serious, but soft as he looks straight at me.
‘Make here a destination. Take a breath, make me a coffee and we’ll have a brainstorm.
’ He perches on a stool on the other side of the counter next to Jill and pulls his navy tie loose, giving him room to undo his top button.
‘Not much point in knowing a strategy consultant if you don’t make use of them.
’ He winks at me. ‘We’ll find a solution. ’
Lil has finished her tea and puzzle and says goodbye, leaving the three of us sitting around the counter with mugs of steaming coffee in front of us.
‘How’s your social media going?’ says Greg. ‘That should be your first port of call.’
Jill winces, and I know why. I haven’t looked at those accounts in weeks. It takes me all my time to get out of bed and get showered before work. Staring at perfect people living perfect lives was the last thing I wanted to face.
‘I haven’t really bothered with it lately,’ I mumble, staring at the floor.
‘Easily fixed. We can schedule a week’s worth of posts in one go. They don’t need to take up all your time.’ Greg reaches across and picks up a flyer from the local surf school and the biro lying next to it. He turns it over to the blank back and begins writing out a list.
The pen scratches across the shiny leaflet and I want to grab it out of his hand and shout, ‘I can do this myself. I don’t need help.’ Except I can’t do it myself, as my empty café demonstrates.
‘We could do a competition. I often see them put up,’ says Jill. ‘Where people have to like and share. Get the word out.’
‘We’d need a prize or incentive,’ Greg says, chewing on the end of my pen.
‘What about a free drink? People love our coffee and it won’t cost the business anything,’ says Jill.
Greg nods and then looks around the café walls. They’re covered in blown-up photos I’ve taken of the sea and the beach. I’ve always loved taking photos in my spare time and I’m proud of the ones on the wall.
‘A photo competition?’ he says.
Jill’s face lights up. ‘Most unusual place to photograph a Beach House coffee cup.’
I feel like I’m in a bubble on the outside watching the two of them discuss my life, but unable to participate.
I know I should be grateful for their friendship and help, but it amplifies how useless I feel, and that hopeless feeling is sitting at the bottom of my stomach like a huge lump of concrete.
Greg and Jill carry on oblivious.
‘That could work.’ Greg scribbles something on the flyer.
‘The winning photo could be blown up and displayed in the café,’ says Jill.
‘What do you think?’ asks Greg, and two pairs of eyes swivel to stare straight at me.
‘Err. Yes. Sounds good,’ I stutter, shrinking under the scrutiny.
‘Great. More exposure, regular social media. I bet Reeni would help too. That’s her field, isn’t it? PR and marketing?’ says Greg.
I nod, surprised he’s paid enough attention to know about my best friend.
‘Customers often comment on your photos too. I bet they’d love to have one up on the wall,’ says Jill.
A hopeful spark ignites inside me. The two people in front of me are so earnest about believing that I’m worth helping that it’s hard not to be a tiny bit inspired.
I sit up a little taller. ‘I’m sure I could do that.’
‘See, you have a plan now.’ Jill taps the table assertively as she stands. ‘I’ve got to go. I need to pick up Ted from football practice.’
‘See you tomorrow. And thanks for the help.’
With Jill gone, I reach out and touch Greg’s hand. ‘Thanks for taking the time. I know you’re busy.’