Page 45 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
I press the triangular play button, instantly sucked into the twilight as the footage reveals somewhere very familiar to me and my heart: the beach outside. A man in a beanie hat crouches on the sand laying out pebbles and shells, weaving fairy and tea lights in and around them. It looks pretty, though it’s clearly freezing, droplets of rain hitting the screen for added effect. And it looks like part of a plan– a pre-prepared message. The first letter is large, practically the height of the man should he lie next to it. It looks like the letter F. The man has his back to the camera the whole time, practically every inch of his flesh is hidden, even his hands are in gloves and the hat completely covers his hair and ears. How can I even tell it’s a man? Somehow I can sense it from that scant flash of jawline. He works faster and faster to add more and more letters to his piece of art. The video speeds up and the next thing I know he has spelt out seven whole words:
FOR THE BEST CUSTARD TARTS IN THE WORLD
Who is this?
Don’t tell me… it’s somebody Tiago has employed, in his efforts to outdo any of my own organic marketing. I wouldn’t put it past him. Although, I suppose it could also be a mystery diner who wanted to review us somewhere other than TripAdvisor. But there’s no way any helicopter pilot would be entranced enough by a café recommendation to hover over it, even if he or she was a custard tart fiend. Out of the corner of my eye I see Emma paying less and less attention to her task, peering at me instead, but I am too intrigued to worry. She can’t overbeat the mixture anyway, she’s putting in nowhere near enough elbow grease. The recording continues and now begins the intro to a song I know (and love); Prince’s Starfish and Coffee.Oh my goodness.The tears well up. I don’t even try to stop them. Whoever this person is,they see me. Like really see me. My interpretation of Prince’s lyrics in this song are of a unique girl whose creativity shines through when it comes to food and its pairings. It always has been, since the day I first heard it. Others may disagree but Prince’s ‘breakfast song’ has always kind of summed me up. How could this person on the beach intuitively know that?
In between seeing the letters build words and the words build sentences, there are tasteful stills of (oh!)me– on my recent holiday, and thankfully not in my bikini!– as well as some particularly toothsome shots of the tarts, and the customers enjoying them in the café. If I’m not mistaken, said clientele looks suspiciously like Reggie’s friends, the ones he’d drafted in as extras for that TikTok video of Lauren’s that never was.
The footage returns to the beach, speeding up once more to show the rest of the letters being added shell by shell, pebble by pebble to make a massive, illuminated statement in the sand, until it is finally complete and reads:
FOR THE BEST CUSTARD TARTS IN THE WORLD… VISIT WONDERFUL WILLOW’S CUSTARD TART CAFÉ AT THE END OF WESTON-SUPER-MARE’S GRAND PIER!
There’s a twinkly red arrow pointing to the pier too– just in case anybody should think they’re being directed to Brighton or Llandudno.
P.S. I MIGHT BE A BIT IN LOVE WITH WILLOW.
P.P.S. OK. A LOT IN LOVE.
P.P.P.S ALL RIGHT, WILLOW IS THE LOVE OF MY LIFE!
I blink rapidly and go to open my mouth over and over like a goldfish but nothing comes out.
The words are so large, they can be seen from the air. Yet this can’t be Todd alone working his magic with the drone. As if on cue, the man whose back has been facing me– facing all of the viewers– turns slowly at last, removing the woolly hat from his head and I let out a gasp of utter shock.
“Who else could it have been, you silly sausage?” Emma finds this reaction particularly hilarious. “I didn’t mean to alarm you… but what a dreamily gorgeous surprise on a Monday morning, hey? You and this café have become something of a national sensation, and just wait until America wakes up. The US networks love a good underdog romance story.”
The sheer effort this harebrained plan of Tiago’s must have taken! But what possessed him, when I have consistently made it clear that there is and can never be anus? My eyes glaze over and a lump forms in my throat, but I battle to keep watching the recording to the end and see Tiago’s bow of a finale. Then I make Emma replay the video, pausing at specific intervals and zooming in on some of the background characters who appear to be helping out with this romantic quest.
They are Caitlyn (hang on a minute, she’s supposed to be at uni right now!), Reggie (ditto… although I suppose this was filmed on a Sunday night and maybe neither have lectures until this afternoon), Kelly, Matt, Radhika, Frank…Frank(what the heck?), and some other little helpers who appear to be wearing purple Loughborough uni tracksuits.
How am I meant to take all this in? It’s too much. I crumple to the kitchen floor and bawl my eyes out. I can’t help it. Emma could be filming me now, for all I know. At the very least she could choose to recount this part of the story over the airwaves to today’s radio show guests. My guard is down at last. I love Tiago too. Proper, all-encompassing, love him. More than words can say. Which is ironic seeing as he’s just spelt his feelings out for me in the most public way. But it doesn’t change a thing. It’s not meant to be. If it was, the universe would never have delivered us so much friction from the start. We’d soon be at each other’s throats in a relationship. It could never, ever last the distance.
***
I have finallyregained a normal breathing pattern, coaxed Emma out of the door with a humongous box of custard tarts to be shared with her workmates and interviewees, and carried on in the café as best I can– which isn’t the easiest task in the world when every second person walking through the front door (not to mention Pattie and Ava) is questioning me about the ‘romantic message in the sand’ and reeling off yet more media and social media platforms that are sharing it with their millions of viewers. And I can ignore my own queue of phone messages no longer. I’m gearing up to give several meddling people a piece of my mind when Caitlyn’s incoming call beats me to it.
“Forgive him.”
What a way to greet one’s older sister after she’s had the shock of her life.
“Why should I? Or you, for getting involved in all the silliness,” I snap back predictably. “It’s a few pebbles and shells. Big deal.”
And grr. I hate it when my little sister is right. Now I know how Lauren must secretly feel… perpetually. Hehe to that sentiment.
“Because I have never known anybody go to such soppily romantic lengths– and neither have you. Because even my Loughborough sporting buddies said they would have struggled to find the stamina to lay that not-so-little lot out in the middle of a rainy English night, hence all of us getting together to help Tiago in shifts. The guy’s probably got hyperthermia now!”
I go to open my mouth and say something to halt this stream of a one-ended conversation but once again, I have been rendered a fish gasping for air.
“Because there’s only so many times anybody can make these gestures and there’s only so long that anybody can be expected to wait,” Caitlyn goes on. “Because if you don’t give him a chance and stop denying your own feelings, you will kick yourself for the rest of your life. Maybe not today and maybe not tomorrow, but one day this stubborn decision of yours will bite you on the arse. It will be too late then. He’ll be with someone else, a cute couple of kiddies… the both of you secretly settling for second best and morally unable to do a thing about it.”
Caitlyn’s made her point. But does she seriously think my own thoughts haven’t gone there?
“Okay,okay. I’ll think about it. Are you happy? Now please, leave me alone so I can finish up service with my team and shut shop for the night. It’s been a long day.”
“Tell me about it.” I can perceive Caitlyn’s glare down the phone line. “At least you had some slee—”
I know I shouldn’t, but I hang up on my sister. I can always blame it on a demanding customer or a bad connection when she lays into me in the next few seconds with an angry text. I put my phone in my bag, zip it tightly to halt any further interruptions, but unfortunately none of this stops the replay of Frank’s same but different words from earlier when he’d visited for his thrice-weekly afternoon tea package:
