Page 7 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
On cue, Cristiano lets out a meek yap as if he agrees that this might be pushing the culinary boundaries a little too far. Meanwhile, Reggie, now rooted to my side, has suddenly developed a most impressive inflated chest.
“Are you going to put in an order, like everyone else?” His voice is laced with warning. “Or are you going to leave the premises before I give you a helping hand?”
“Do you honestly think I would choose to taint myself, for longer than is necessary, ever again, with any of this poison?”
What a wicked word to use. Thanks for completely screwing up the customers’ perception of my wares– and my life’s ambition!
“I can guarantee that somebody, or rathersomethingwill be making its way here, though. Unless you take my visit today as a friendly warning and stop jazzing up sacred recipes, meddling with things you don’t understand.”
Wow. I could never have predicted any of this. What did I do wrong in a past life? Evidently I’ve not yet repaid enough of some old karmic debt.
My own cheeks are burning now. I know this shade of fuchsia pink too well. And it’s as if their flush has set off a chain of events because, the next thing I know, Reggie has dropped his tray on the floor in some kind of delayed reaction. Custard tarts splatter everywhere. Viewed from above, the effect must look quite arty, like one of Jamie Oliver’s tray meals. But on the grassroots level of the café floor, during our first fortnight of trading, in front of customers we desperately need to impress, it is one big, inglorious mess. I can only thank my lucky stars that Emma hasn’t decided to descend upon us today with her radio roadshow. Hopefully we will somehow have recovered from this by the time she is here again with her crew and an entourage of fans.
“Now look at what you’ve done!” I gesture fruitlessly at the destruction. “Don’t worry, mate,” I add to Reggie, who looks set to hit boiling point. I throw a pleading ‘he’s-not-worth-it-leave-it-to-me-I’ve-got-this’ look his way, hoping it will suffice. “I don’t see any of our clients complaining,” I state calmly, my eyes burning into the intruder’s before I look around at our diners in semi-desperation, unable to believe that even Frank hasn’t sprung to my defence. Then again, though age is just a number, in this instance it’s probably not such a good idea for a seventy-something to raise their blood pressure or propose a sword fight with their walking stick. “So I suggest you take yourself– and that admittedly cute pooch– out of my café. And don’t come back… unless you want to spend a night in the cells!”
He can’t be so bad if he owns a pet, he must have a heart in there somewhere, my own heart tells me as I watch the stranger weighing up my words (after throwing us the mother of all eye rolls). But still, what a complete prat storming onto the premises like this and attempting to put the customers off.
At my words, the prat takes a mini-leap over the mess on the floor. He looks like he’s taking part in an agility competition at the Crufts dog show. But I swallow the dangerously nervous giggle that has floated up my throat like an air bubble: nothing about this is remotely hilarious, because it is happening at my expense.
“Actually, no.” I have a sudden brainwave and I shout at his retreating back. “Stay right there and don’t you dare move a millimetre.”
Unfathomably, he does as he is told. Despite the wide eyes of all of my customers, I press on with my harebrained idea, taking little steps back toward the counter in case any sudden movement has him fleeing the scene of carnage, or worse still, spinning on his heel to watch what I am up to. I work fast. I grab a takeout box and fill it with an assortment of pastries– making certain the offending lemon-thyme-Pernod, matcha, banana and espresso varieties are sitting in pride of place– before returning to him and his pet.
“Here. I’m giving you six tarts on the house. And don’t even think about refusing them,” I say, with the twinkle of challenge in my eyes. I’ll be hard pushed to get him to accept it.
“It’s your lucky day, mate!” I’m not sure which of the group of fluorescent hi-vis jacketed construction workers shouts this, as they collectively snicker over their mugs of tea. I shove the box of tarts towards the grumpy idiot’s free hand which is about to dive into the pocket of his body warmer. He grabs the box reflexively, revealing a wrist sporting a snazzy frog-green Swatch watch that clashes terribly with the red cap, this side of Christmas. And now let’s take a moment to return to the irksome body warmer:what the actual heck?It’s June! I get that the irritatingly and devastatingly good-looking male standing in front of me, with the poodle tucked under his arm like a package, comes from sunnier climes. Somehow it feels he is wearing a body warmer to my café, at the edge of the Bristol Channel, just to prove how chilly and English the place is. And me, too, by extension. Boy has it served to get my back up.
“I suggest you take the tarts home and savour them slowly, one at a time.” Oh, why did I have to say it like that? Now I’d set the flipping workmen off again. “And I suggest you think about the passion and hard work that has gone into their creation before you act on your threat.”
I wait for the ‘it’s not a threat, it’s a promise’ retort, but surprisingly, it never comes.
Man and dog are statues. Evidently, this part of the show was missing from their pre-rehearsed script and they haven’t bargained on departing with a present. Either that or they’re looking for a bin before they resort to hurling the gift back at me.
“Wait. What the heck?”
Chair legs scrape across the floor and I don’t need to look to know that Frank has risen from his table, unsteady on his legs until he reaches for his cane. In the background, Reggie doesn’t know which way to turn, energy split three ways between protecting me, clearing up the tarts, and pre-empting what Frank is about to do next. The customers are still mainly quiet but pockets of subdued muttering are sparking up like little fires.
“Not on my watch!” Our most loyal customer beats Reggie to any kind of action. “There’s no way my charity extends to giving freebies away to that prize-winning plonker. He didn’t even remove his cap when he set foot in here. This is a traditional English seaside pier establishment, I’ll have you know.”
“If it’s traditional, then why issheripping off the Portuguese?” says the pantomime baddie, magically coming back to life at Frank’s words.
“She?She?Wash your mouth out, young man and refrain from the use of pronouns in this café. The lady has a name. The lady is called Ms Schofield, for your information.”
I am told that I have cute, pixie-like looks, a slightly upturned nose, naturally full brows, my own set of dimples, and a rosebud mouth– besides my penchant for extraordinary hair-dos and my mismatched eyes, which we’ve already covered. Just for a fleeting moment, before the blithering idiot turns to leave the café, I can feel the chaos of the scene melting away all around us as he drinks in every one of my features. Like I say, the sensation washes over me so quickly that I can’t be sure I haven’t imagined it, but it is enough to make me want to scream for doing the exact same thing myself, and gawping at him, too. This isn’t some enemies-to-lovers movie scene, no matter how undeniably gorgeous the grump in my sights might be. This is real life. My life. And this is a real jerk, made of flesh and blood, who has stormed his way into my pride and joy of a café and sought to full-on, no-holds-barred destroy it.
Frank’s words have not had the desired effect, and they buoy the guy up to scurry off with his prize, mumbling under his breath. I have no doubt that the tarts will be dumped in the nearest bin on the pier’s walkway. At least the seagulls will be happy.
I stagger backwards and take several deep breaths to compose myself. Although I can hear the café coming back to life, my spatial awareness can’t seem to move from the door and the older man standing next to me. Meanwhile my blood is roaring in my ears.
“I’m sorry, Frank.” I say as I turn to him. “I… I just thought that maybe if he sampled a little of what we’re doing here, the things our customers love… maybe we could persuade him to change his mind. A short, sharp shock. A good shock.” I sigh in defeat. “I tried not to show it, but I’m deeply concerned about any tricks he may have up his sleeve. He had no qualms about causing a scene in front of a café full of customers. Who knows what he’ll stop at? I was desperate. I had to do something.”
Frank is silent and now I fear I have already lost my very best customer.
A trio of twenty-somethings meanders over to give me a sympathetic pat on the back.
“That was delicious! Check out TripAdvisor later,” they tell me with a wink, and what I hope I can interpret as a medley of belly-satisfied grins.
I wilt onto a seat, watching them walk out of the door. Reggie instructs me to stay put while he fixes me a coffee, whilst Tim cleans up the floor. In a funny kind of way, we all have each other’s backs.
