Page 42 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Two weeks laterand the positive effects of the holiday have totally worn off. I am the walking definition of depleted. Gloomy and tired. And I could throw my brand new mobile phone at the wall in frustration over how pitiful my TikTok attempts have been. My attitude is selfish when Frank and Caitlyn are trying their level best to cheer me up. Predictably, Frank brought the petition up within seconds of our first post-holiday convo, and so out came my polished yarn, and so up rose his brows higher and higher with every bite of his tart. Reggie’s mates have stood in as extras for my video attempts, and Tim has been on everything faster than a Stepford Wife. And I know my gloom is selfish, when our customers are (mostly) rays of sunshine, all eager-eyed and watery-mouthed at the sheer variety of custard tarts one can enjoy on a seaside pier.
“No matter how you look at it,” starts Caitlyn, pulling me aside and giving me a far too gentle shake one afternoon as we prop ourselves against the pier’s railings and squint out to sea. “You inadvertently did what you had to, Willow. Serendipity arranged for you to bump into Tiago that afternoon, and if it hadn’t, who knows, maybe he would have gone ahead with a real petition. As it is, we can forget all about the hideous episode and you can enjoy the fruits of your labour. It’s only your first season and look how brilliantly things are going! I’m so proud of you.” Her eyes grow wider in encouragement. “Speaking of brilliance, I’ve got tickets for us to see this amazing local band in concert tonight. You have to come. I’m not taking no for an answer. I paid for these with my hard earned part-time job money, after all,” she says, removing the tickets from her back pocket with a wink.
Great. What choice do I have?
Later, as I’m getting ready for said gig, grimacing at the pinch of the skinny jeans that I hope I can soon donate to the charity shop, with bootcut or flares coming back to the high street at long last, I realise July has somehow merged into August. Reggie is depressing the hell out of me daily by reminding me that he will soon be off to pastures new (the sewing group have even made him a beautiful library book bag!). And that only further reminds me that Caitlyn will be catching the train back to Loughborough in the blink of an eye… Tim and I really need to recruit a couple of members of full-time staff. I should get a wriggle on and focus. If I don’t advertise soon then our newbies won’t get the benefit of training alongside Reggie and Caitlyn, and that would be a tragedy.
Hopefully tonight will help take my mind off things, reorder my priorities, and snap me out of this daft obsession with TikTok videos. They aren’t the promo be-all and end-all that I am choosing to make them. There are a thousand other ways to globally market a custard tart café. Especially one that already sets itself apart with bookworm events. That side of things has evolved massively and magically. Emma’s on-air ‘call for authors’ has brought us a list of incredible storytellers in every genre imaginable, all of them keen as mustard (or custard) to book a slot for our upcoming Tart and Tales Thursdays; an event that Reggie and Emma have coordinated to mark the beginning of autumn and all things cosy.
***
At seven p.m.on the dot I try with all my might to get cosy in a totally different venue, but it’s not going so well. A clarinet player with a goatee, a pinstripe waistcoat and a bowler hat sets up on the pub’s little stage to my left. He clearly sees himself as the next Acker Bilk and he’s swiftly accompanied by four more men, each of them clad in a checked cowboy shirt with a clashing colour scheme. The mere sight of this catwalk collection is headache-inducing and they haven’t even warmed up yet. Two of the entourage carry ukuleles, two have violins. They all faff about with their mics self-importantly. I’ve heard their brand of we’re-so-completely-rad-and-middle-class-but-different, so-Glastonbury-festival-fans-be-sure-to-watch-this-space music before. Total wheel-reinvention stuff. No modern day musician will ever have the diversity and panache of my beloved Prince. Caitlyn’s been ripped off with these tickets. Well, it’s her hard-earned money, like she said, not mine.
I gasp at myself then. Actually gasp out loud. What have I become? Prince would spit purple feathers at me if he were still alive and in this crowd. Such a Tiago assumption to make, without giving something new and creative a try. I am a hypocrite. I am despicable. Who am I, to sit here at this rickety wooden table, dishing out the same kind of critique that I myself seek to avoid?
Caitlyn returns to our prime viewing spot, snapping me out of my miserable musing. She places a pint of Guinness in front of me and her own half in front of her. I worry momentarily that my runaway thoughts are turning me into Kelly. Yes, you guessed it. I wonder for a split second if Guinness might find its way into a custard tart. And you know what? It really would work, in an acquired taste, bittersweet way. Ooh, that’s the future Dublin café’s specialty taken care of then, and I guess this evening’s outing hasn’t turned out to be a complete waste of my time…
“I’m concerned about you, Willow,” Caitlyn sips the head off her small glass and studies me, taking me away from my daydream. I pat my finger along my lips to indicate that she has a cream moustache, but she doesn’t take the hint. “I know there are a few years between us but I feel like you need me around until you are back to your bubbly self. I’m not sure I can start my new term at uni while you’re this perpetually frazzled and blue. You’re so unlike yourself, on a path to self-destruction.” My eyes almost pop out of their sockets at that startling remark, and now she can keep her facial hair. “There. I’ve said it. In fact, everything about you right now is taking me back to your last summer at sch—”
“Don’t say it,” I cut her off. She’s right. But I don’t want to hear it. “I’ll be fine. I am fine,” I make a lame job of reassuring her. “There’s no way you are missing the start of uni. I just need to get my head around organising new staff, and a new but affordable marketing company to pick up where Lauren has evidently left off…”
“Oh, Willow. You don’t know the half—”
“Shh… don’t speak. Do not utter another word!”
Unless I am seeing a mirage (and those are generally quite welcoming signs), Tiago has just walked past the bar and headed into the loos.
“I can’t believe you!” I shout at my sister as the revelation sinks in. “You’ve set me up! What good could possibly come of this?”
“Well I had to do something!” Caitlyn snaps. “You two need to clear the air before you ruin the café all by yourself. It’s obvious you have unfinished business that could lead to something rather exciting if you choose to let it. He couldn’t be more genuinely sorry for what he’s done. Every time he’s called in to the bakery when you’ve been in the kitchen or out…”
“Tiago has what?”
“Andthat’sexactly why I haven’t told you! I knew the only way you’d not bite his head off would be a chance meeting at a social event, a bit of music… when you’d hopefully mellowed with a glass or two of fizz… or, erm Guinness.” Caitlyn side-eyes the pint that I am rapidly sinking.
“The only thing that’s fizzing is my temper,” I retort.
I abandon my drink, grab my bag and charge immediately out of the hall before Tiago can emerge from the gents. In a minute I’m outside, into the sunsetting, sea-salty night. I seem to be making a habit out of doing this in coastal venues (huh, and apartments) where Tiago and his family are concerned.
Clevedon’s beach is about as drab in hue as our very own Weston’s. I plop myself on the nearest bench and wrap my arms around my knees, drawing them into my chest– my default mode for self-protection– taking in the cosy twinkly lights of the town’s nearby pier. My surroundings have a certain and undeniable appeal. Low-key and humble. Perhaps not so very different to an authentic and plainpastel de nata. All of which makes me falter as I let out a shiver at the cool evening breeze. Maybe I am starting to see things from Tiago’s perspective? Sometimes it’s more than okay to let things be; custard tarts in their purest form, unassuming towns… Not everything requires an upgrade or an improvement when it is perfectly satisfactory just the way it is. Could I have done that all along with my café? Just offered what my enterprise’s name suggested on its signage: no frills, no bells and no whistles, just custard tarts?
It doesn’t take long for my sister to spot me on Marine Parade, illuminated by the garlands of white light bulbs that frame the rapidly darkening horizon. My thoughts flip on themselves again. Talking of lights, why should I dim my own to fit in with somebody else’s idea of convention? What a boring fart of a world we’d be living in if we all did that. Even Tiago’s grannie Elsa acknowledges the necessity of evolution, and we are generations apart. Isn’t that all the reassurance I need that I am on the right track with my endeavours? The customer feedback more than backs me up, for goodness sake.
Why can’t I just forge ahead without all of this drama, though? I hate it when my quirkiness– in its big and little forms– upsets the balance with my sisters. It did this at school, dragging them into my mishaps. And it’s doing it now, in adult life– a time when I should more than have my bleep together.
“Okay,” says Caitlyn, taking up the far side of the bench. “I was hoping we could have this discussion back inside, but here will do fine.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I sigh. “Other than the fact that me, myself and I need to take back control of my life.”
“You are in complete control! Since when have you ever let anybody tell you what to do? Willow Schofield, you are officially the most independent person I know, and that’s an accolade that takes some beating with my uni friends, as you can probably imagine. Listen to me for a moment, please.” Caitlyn lets out a deep breath. “Tiago wasn’t just meeting us this evening because I hoped there would be some chance of you two rekindling romance. Cherry on the custard tart though that may have been. He’s here on business too.”
I slowly turn to look at my sister, unable to process those latter words. And then she further enlightens me.
“I’m taking it upon myself to update you on the things that Lauren won’t. The Custard Tart Café’s marketing account with Muse Masters was passed over to Tiago, after he put himself forward to look after it a few weeks ago. If you want your business visions to become reality, you really are going to have to learn to work with the guy.”
“He what?”
