Page 12 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
Pants, though, isn’t it? If only someone had warned me this is how it would all pan out, I would never have embarked on my custard adventure.
Anyway, Caitlyn took things remarkably well when I spoke with her a couple of days ago on the phone. You’ve got to love her Pollyanna optimism. “It will all come out in the wash,” she said. “It always does.” It’s a nice sentiment but it also depends on The Opinionated Git not getting us closed down first.
I haven’t yet got round to telling Reggie and Tim that their services soon won’t be required. I just can’t bring myself to do it. I’m guessing they think it’s coming in any case. That wretched petition is a curse that’s changed everything. Like Frank’s story, it’s doused the embers of the fire I had in me with ice cold water.
The dream is over.
CHAPTER SIX
A frantic rapat the door jolts me from my James Martin (recipe) binge– I wouldn’t get up to openanydoor if I had the human version of my favourite male chef sitting on the sofa next to me. I open my apartment door to a pair of pacing Nike Airs, which would be put to better use on a basketball court. My eyes run the length of the man moving in front of me, taking in Reggie’s troubled face beneath his mass of swinging dreadlocks, now set free from his work up-do. He’s clad in his sports top and jeans as opposed to the more customary blue, white, and gold TCTC T-shirt.
“It’s lovely to see you, Reggie, but couldn’t it wait until the morning?”
If he wasn’t such a longstanding friend, and with such a gorgeous girlfriend, I might have thought Reggie fancied me, randomly showing up like this of an evening.
“I’ve got a trio of things to tell you and none of them can wait until tomorrow when we’re in the café,” he says.
Crikey. I have genuinely no idea what this is all about and my stomach can’t help but catapult at the possibilities.
“Well… er, since you put it so eloquently, you’d better come in.”
I pull the door fully open, switch off the Prince track that’s playing in the background and hope Reggie won’t mind the mess. Not that it’s anything of student proportions, but Reggie’s house is immaculate. He still lives with his parents, but it’s Reggie who vacuums the place twice a day, and it’s Reggie who polishes tables and ornaments until you can see your face in them. Reggie is basically every woman’s dream.
“I couldn’t do this with a call, before you ask.” Yikes. Whateverisup? He hovers next to the sofa and I realise he’s waiting for me to move a heap of dog-eared cookery books– one of which is currently showing a rather graphic image of the TV chef James Martin looking at butter as if he’d like to take it to bed. I snap it shut quickly. Talk about being caught in the act with (food) porn. “And a WhatsApp voicemail message just wouldn’t suffice,” Reggie explains as he takes a seat.
Thank goodness for that. I’ve had my fill of those recently.
“So, you remember I told you about my weekend football match?” He leans forward and steeples his fingers. In a turn of events, I actually go and made a cuppa for him at last, and set it before him.
I vaguely recall Reggie mentioning something about an away fixture against a Bristol team, yes.
“I do. Go on.”
“You’re never going to believe this, Willow.” He raises the mug to his lips and grimaces at the heat, braving it anyway and taking a long sip. “One of the players on the opposition looked suspiciously like the shithead who stormed into the café last week, the one who sprang the petition on us.”
I hold my breath for a beat.
“How can you be sure?” My voice is embarrassingly high-pitched and flustered. “H-he had that cap pulled down right over his eyelids the day he came in to stir things up. We only saw half his face and the back of his head, at best.”
“Oh, I’m ninety-seven-point-eight-two recurring sure, Willow.”
“That’s a bit precise, even by your standards. Sugar. I suppose the clues that he liked to kick a ball about were very much on show at the time, although I take it that Cristiano, that poodle of his, wasn’t watching the match.”
“No sign of the dog, no. But not only did it look like the same bloke, I also noted he was wearing the same childish green watch… until the ref reminded him to take it off: rules of the game and everyone knows that. He didn’t look best pleased about it.”
I cast my mind back and remember the brightly-hued watch. It didn’t exactly go with his outfit then and it would definitely stand out with a football kit. Unless his team habitually dress as frogs.
“The question is: what do you want me to do about it, Willow?” Reggie continues. “I can easily arrange with Kane for him not to have a leg to stand on– or to kick a ball with– the next time my team plays his, here in Weston in approximately four weeks’ time.”
Reggie is referring to his younger brother, Kane, who has recently taken up professional boxing. I also know Reggie’s not really serious. He’s having a Reggie daydream moment. I’ve grown used to these over the years. They happen from time to time and unfortunately he tends to act on them– he’s sent off a dozen applications on my behalf (and without my say-so) to programmes likeMasterChef, Ready Steady Cook,Great British Bake OffandCome Dine With Me(I feel queasy just thinking about the disasters I’d embroil myself in, on any or all of them). It makes Lauren’s wild marketing ideas seem almost normal. Although Kane could easily take a swipe at the man causing this headache for all of us, he would never stoop so low, and in the real world Reggie wouldn’t dream of asking him to either.
“I don’t think violence is the answer, tempting though the fantasy may be. But I am soooo going to be there to spectate and spook him out, play him at his own game. Ha.” I laugh at my rubbish joke. “I mean, what are the chances it really was the same guy who came in here that day?”
“Willow,hello? We’ve practically ascertained that with the lurid watch.” Reggie’s right. It’s got to be him, hasn’t it? “And well, I found out something else too, something rather juicy. That was point number two out of three, which I was about to tell you. I don’t suppose you have any biscuits to go with this tea? I feel the need to dunk before we get to the next bit.”
I sigh and shufty over to the kitchen area of my open-plan apartment, pulling a packet of uninspiring McVitie’s Rich Tea from the cupboard. Reggie wrinkles his nose, clearly expecting something flashier.
“Those only allow four seconds of dunk time and taste like cardboard.” He shakes his head as if I should know these statistics. “Add shortbread to your next shopping list, to avoid any future upset with your guests.”
