Page 44 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
“I’m sure my Instagram stories have had something to do with it. I worked hard on them and they do look pretty enticing.”
I also know deep down it’s not them, Caitlyn’s ungainly response of a snort confirming it. A hidden force is at play. The same hidden force that’s been working behind the scenes for weeks now. The same hidden force that I stubbornly refuse to have a meeting with. Face to face or via Zoom.
“You just keep telling yourself that, sis.”
Caitlyn winks at me, expertly twirling an afternoon tea cake stand full of glossy tarts. She saunters off with a cheeky grin to deliver the order to the family celebrating a birthday over at the prime window seat. Frank’s seat. Fortunately, Frank has already been in today, all too happy to be the first to sample the rest of our proposed autumn custard tart highlights; the aforementioned Guinness tart, then a rice pudding tart drizzled with a ruby-red strawberry jam sauce, a Thanksgiving pumpkin and mixed spice nut tart, a whisky caramel tart and, last but not least, our zingy and moreish gingerbread eggnog tart. Frank rounded his feast off with that, and gave everything a resounding thumbs up, thank goodness.
Fortunately, and not so fortunately. Because there was something different about Frank that I just couldn’t pinpoint this morning. A distinct lack of eye contact, for starters. And I’m not really sure if it is a good different or a bad different, which is worrying me.
But Frank isn’t the only one acting out of character. Kelly isn’t answering my calls (she vehemently opposes text messages so we have always operated in the old school way), and Radhika hasn’t replied to my WhatsApp asking for a weekly summary of her life’s events. In fact, she’s not as much as batted an eyelid in response to mine. I know that she is probably preoccupied texting sweet nothings to Santi, but these are rather huge landmarks in my career, and, since Rad used to have a thing for Peter Andre, she really is being quite aMysterious Girl.
So when I say life is good, yes, it is, and I have no complaints. But there isn’t half a whiff of the curious in the air…
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It’s September thetwenty-first. For a follower of the equinox like me, this means autumn has finally come. It means today is the day we can reveal our new seasonal tarts to the nation. Okay, one step at a time; to Weston’s residents and tourists– who will hopefully shout from the pier’s trendy and undulating roof top about them, the sentiment carrying on the breeze, enveloping Great Britain in a custard tart frenzy. It also means I have successfully navigated my way out of our busiest season of the year without having a marketing meeting with Tiago. I have proven my point: he can do whatever he is doing from afar and never the twain shall meet. It suits me just fine. Business is business and there is no need to make it personal.
Today’s flipped ponytail with double braids swings from side to side like a pendulum in the fresh air. We had quite the downpour here last night but the sunrise this morning was spectacular and uplifting, its toasty tendrils quickly eating up the puddles. It’s eight a.m. and the golden beams, although nowhere near the horizon where they dazzled me as the sun woke the seaside world up twenty minutes ago, continue to spotlight patches of the beach as though it’s a dancefloor. It’s a gorgeous sight. I’m almost tempted to hop over the wall and sashay my way to work along the damp sand.
Seagulls serenade me as I continue to march along the wide pavement that runs parallel to the seafront. And suddenly a helicopter flies in from the right and hovers over the beach as if this is quite the norm. I have no idea what it’s doing, but it can’t be dropping celebs off for a day trip. As lovely as this daybreak is, we aren’t in Marbella. The heli circles high above the pier in a whoop-whoop that assaults the eardrums and then over to the beach on its left– the nearest stretch of sand to where I am walking.
The closer I get to where the helicopter is hovering, the clearer it is that somebody has gone to great lengths to do something arty-farty, seemingly overnight. My first guess at their spontaneous exhibition would be some of those sand sculptures, but the artists are usually clued up enough to make those near the promenade walls so they don’t get washed away by the tide, and so they can cash in with monetary gifts of appreciation from passing tourists. The giant dragonfly in the sky bobs off again, and I guess it’s looking for a criminal instead. Perhaps it has just ruled out the perfect hide-and-seek place under the pier, after taking thermal images and ascertaining that there’s nobody down there clinging for dear life to the structure’s iron ‘legs’.
I squint at the distant remnants of the markings in the sand as I pass to turn left and onto the Grand Pier, unable to miss the conversation of the group of dog walkers who are pointing animatedly at the beach exhibition debris.
“Stories like that are pure chicken soup for the soul; the stuff of fairy-tales.”
“It was proper lush. The hours it must have taken. Surely he couldn’t have done it all on his own– not unless he was Usain Bolt!”
“Who said romance was dead? Good luck to them!”
The high-pitched ring of my mobile phone breaks into my eavesdropping and I hurry down the wooden boardwalk of the pier, yabbering away to our flour and egg supplier to arrange today’s delivery, completely missing my opportunity to peek to the left from my aerial view to see what all of the fuss might have been about. Tealights and shells dot the central seating areas of the pier this morning as I make my way to TCTC. I guess that’s some kind of habitual installation to mark autumn. I haven’t yet experienced all of the seasons here as a trader, so what would I know?
Once I’m inside the café I take over kitchen duty from Tim so he can have a break and a drink. Tim is a man of few words, so we tend to communicate by singing along to eighties hits on Spotify– peppered with numerous Prince songs– as we bake and prepare our custard batter.
But this morning I am taken by surprise when Tim immediately says, “You’re not a morning news person then, Willow.”
It’s not even a question. He just leaves the statement hanging in the air, shakes his head as if he can’t quite work me out and wanders outside to the pier for his ritual morning mug of tea. I pick up my whisk to get working on our ever popular espresso kickstart tarts. What was that all about? Too right I’m not one for the news. Pandemic essentials aside, I have never been able to accept the way the world’s predominantly negative events are portrayed to us– morning or evening– endless doom with a little postscript mention of a ray of sunshine tacked on the end to try to cheer us up. It’s massively distorted; a breeding ground for anxiety, despair, and the growth of one’s own limiting beliefs. I suppose local news is a little bit chirpier but even that likes to dwell on petty crime, the town’s lager louts, and road accidents. Okay, now I feel guilty thinking of Tiago’s poor parents and the young family they left behind, who would totally be in need of answers and closure. I suppose in that respect I probably should tune in from time to time…
My thoughts drift to the fillings on my list. With the espresso kickstart mix poured neatly into Tim’s perfect pastry cups, it’s time to make a start on our exciting autumn treats before the first customers put in an appearance. In the background I can hear an incessant beep, beep, BEEP of notifications on my phone in my bag. I really should put it on silent. I hate it when the outside world interferes with my flow. I sing along with Prince’sRaspberry Beret, determined to ignore the annoying intrusion.
“Willow, Willow, WILLOW!”
Well that didn’t last long. I flinch, sending a spatter of batter flying at the back wall. I recognise that female voice but it doesn’t belong to either of my sisters, nor my besties. Tim must have let someone in while he was outside. We’re not open for another forty-five minutes yet. What’s going on?
“I hope you don’t mind but Ijust had to come and see you before I start my shift at the radio station.” A beaming and very exhilarated Emma Hawkes peeps her head around my kitchen, jumping up and down, letting out ‘eek!’ after ‘EEK!’
“Erm, Emma? What is it?” I ask, all thoughts of cleaning up my inadvertent coffee-custard mural disappearing. “Have you won the lottery or something? Do you want to sit down, take a few deep breaths, and I’ll get you a coffee and anata? Our cherry and berry breakfast tarts have just come out of the oven so you’re in luck… well, as long as you blow on them, they’re as piping hot as those notoriously volcanic McDonald’s apple pies. A hundred times tastier obvious—”
“Really?” Emma folds her arms, knits her brow, and comes over all headmistress-like. “Do you honestly mean to tell me you haven’t seen this morning’s news?”
“What do you mean?” I laugh nervously, fear rising inside me as to what on earth two news mentions in such quick succession could possibly imply. “I don’t have time for things like that. We’re launching a new range of custard tarts today and even if we weren’t… the answer would be no… I’m not a sensational, blown-up and over-exaggerated story sort of person. Never have been. Can you imagine the negative energy my tarts would be fused with, having the news piped through these walls? I do love listening toyour show, of course.” I skim neatly over the fact that I turn the volume down as soon as Emma’s interviews with fascinating people, or her talk about books and all things interesting, come to an abrupt halt when she is duty bound to hand the mic over to the newsdesk or the weather reporters.
“Oh, Willow. It’s not me who needs to sit down! Here, let me take over that whisking while you have a little look at this.” Emma makes a couple of adjustments with her mobile phone then places it on the kitchen’s one and only wooden chair, barely able to contain her enthusiasm. The instruction seems non-negotiable. It won’t hurt to swap places for a few seconds just to placate her, I suppose.
“Okay.” I shrug. “But you’ll need to cover your hair with a net, thoroughly wash your hands and pop an apron on.” I point to the drawer, the kitchen sink, and the hook on the cupboard door, showing Emma the order to be followed. She sets to it immediately, pressing her mouth into a firm line as if trying to hide a giant smile. Monday mornings don’t usually tend to be this eventful around here. As soon as Tim is back I will gently but assertively shoo her out and off to her day job. Tim always gets jittery when more than a pair of people are in the kitchen. “Two’s company,” he always says, with no need to waste his words on finishing that sentence.
Once I am satisfied that Emma’s ready to go near my precious mix, I sit on the chair and pick up the phone. The screen is paused on a video. Nothing can prepare me for what I am about to see.
