Page 29 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
“Oh, no, no, no, no,no. This is not what it looks like at all. I couldn’t possibly have known he’d be… don’t go putting two and two together and coming up with… I thought he’d be in Faro…” And on and on I go, words spilling from my lips like a runaway train. I seem to have taken my cue from Tiago, digging my own very deep hole.
“Youareallowed to enjoy yourself, Willow. It’s been ages since Callum,” says Kelly, quite superfluously. If I had a wet kipper to hand, I’d slap her across the face with it– and then some. What is she thinking?Exactly.She isn’t.
“Can I borrow her for a little longer?” asks Tiago, eyes darting between the three of us. “I promise I’ll look after her.”
“Now just a minute.” I wave at everyone, feeling overwhelmingly provoked. “Do I, as a twenty-eight-year-old woman, get a say in any of this? These two are my friends.” I turn to Tiago. “They’re not my flipping parents. I mean, not that I have to ask my parents’ permission to do anything, or erm…”
I’m not sure where my protest is leading. Tiago’s face does something familiar yet unfamiliar. It’s the same bizarre expression that washed over him when things got heated in the perfume shop and I marched off. Somehow my words have wounded him. Again.
“It was written in theairwaves, guys,” croons Radhika, bringing me back to the present and the very crossed-wire idea that has taken up residence in her head. “What a gorgeous love story you’ll have to recount to your children, when they ask how Mummy and Daddy first met. Headline: ‘Knight in shining armour saves princess from being locked up in Portuguese prison’. Aw, if it doesn’t sound like one of those modern-day Mills and Boon titles.”
Elsa’s timing is impeccable. She bustles into our little circle of debate, lumbers Kelly and Radhika with bags of tarts (it’s such a similar move to the way I plied her grandson with assorted pastries in my own café prior to booting him out, it is almost hilarious), and mumbles away in Portuguese, shooing my friends out of the door as if they’re a pair of irritating wasps. Neither Kelly nor Radhika even attempts to protest, and off they go on a gale of high-pitched laughter. I am speechless at their desertion. I don’t need to look at Tiago’s face to know his injured look from moments ago has shapeshifted into a tiny smirk.
“Now then,” Elsa says, rubbing her hands together as she returns to the kitchen, and Tiago and I stand there, wondering what she’s got in store for us next. “Let’s have some coffee and get to know each other better.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“I’m not buyingit,” Elsa insists as she pours out the thick Delta coffee, which is apparently the brand of choice in these parts. I panic when I realise there is no milk to dilute it. Eek. “There’s something more than meets the eye about you two and I feel it’s my duty to get to the bottom of it. In fact, neither of you will be leaving my kitchen until we do.”
Nosey old cow!
I know I shouldn’t be so harsh, in the light of this woman’s hospitality, and I’m grimacing inwardly at my ugly thoughts, but I’m trapped in an unforeseen whirlwind here. Then again, to be fair, only half of me wanted to escape with my friends. The other half, the wicked half, wanted to see where things might lead if I hung around. Purely to preserve my café, you understand, and absolutely not because of any carrot-dangle of a romantic candlelit dinner– or what might be served for dessert.
Tiago takes a deep breath. Which is good, because I haven’t a clue what to say to his scary grandmother, and instead will be investing all my trust in him to get me out of this pickle with the same gusto he got me out of passport-gate.
“Argh, it’s a bit of a thorny subject, Grannie, and I really don’t think it’s fair on Willow to rake it up. She’d be so outnumbered.” He gestures to the ever-silent Silverio, who has downed his tiny cup of elixir already. Then Tiago waves a hand to his cousin Eduardo in the distance, as an afterthought. “It’s probably best that I take her back to her holiday accommodation now.”
What? This guy is nothing but hot air. The last thing he said was that he wanted to take me out for dinner. Okay, to me only. But still. I don’t know whether I am coming or going.
“I think I’ll be the judge of that,” Elsa sips at her coffee, winces and adds a cube of sugar.
Great, so the very scenario I dreaded will now come to pass; my custard tarts pulled apart and sneered at, an epicurean autopsy at the table. Remind me why I thought a trip to Portugal was a good idea again?
“Willow? Are you happy for me to drop you in it?”
“I’m not really following. What do you mean?” I mumble, avoiding eye contact. Has he set this whole thing up so he can shame me in front of his family, lulling me into a false sense of security with his empty promises of a reconciliatory dinner for two? Then BAM: the moment my guard is down, he strikes with cobra ferocity.
“I mean…” Tiago says, looking at me tenderly (but I’m falling for none of that now I know he’s one big phony). “I can’t really explain how we met without, well… explaining we met courtesy ofyour major culinary faux pas.”
See. The utter git.
Every inch of allure he might just have had has melted, faster than the butter in Silverio’s custard. He’s evidently got no qualms about me reporting him to Lauren and Jamie over the petition.
Not for the first time, I stand up to leave.
“Whatever are you talking about, Tiago?” Elsa hisses. “And please, you are our guest, Willow. You must finish your coffee,” she insists, looking at me kindly.
“Oh, I’ll tell you what I’m talking about, Gr—”
“No,” I say firmly, the after-effects of the afternoon port kicking me firmly up the backside and igniting some much-needed confidence. “I’lltell you what he is talking about, Elsa, and then you can decide on the punishment to fit my heinous crime.” I take a deep breath. “I make and sell custard tarts with fillings. In England, of course. I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing in Portugal, though it was down the coast in Vilamoura where I tasted my firstpastel de nataand fell head over heels in love. When I say fillings, I don’t mean the sugar, water, cinnamon, lemon zest, vanilla, milk, flour and eggs-only kind.” I spit that last bit out so fast it sounds like a single word.
A lull seems to fall upon the room, stopping time. I fear I might suffocate, anticipating this gastronomical grannie’s high-pitched shriek of a reaction, but the open door to the bakery is behind me. Thanks to all the speed-walking to work in the winds and weathers that Weston-super-Mare has thrown at me, I know I can be out of this place in next to no time.
“Good for you. I like a little innovation and entrepreneurship.” Elsa finally speaks, her eyes twinkling unexpectedly. “So, what exactly do you put in them?”
“Are you serious?” Tiago cries. “And the question should be whatdoesn’tshe put in them?”
Tears prick at my eyes. Why have I let myself become trapped in this spider’s web? True, the alcohol hasn’t helped. But I’ve been gaslit every step of the way by this wolf in delectable clothing. On my holiday, too!
