I lean down, pick up the envelope. See my name scrawled on it. I open it up and find a small card bearing a picture of seashells.
You are cordially invited to your first meeting of the BudburyLadies Coffee and Cake Club.
4pm at the Comfort Food Café.
Be there or be sad that you missed Laura’s new blackberrycheesecake!
Lots of love, Cherie xxx
Oh crikey. A club? I don’t do clubs. Even ones that offer coffee and cake. Over the years, I’ve tried to engage more with the world around me, but I’ve always come to the conclusion that I don’t enjoy it very much. The fault lies with me, not others– it just seems to be the way I’m made. I was always like this, even when I was young, and it’s probably why I started writing. I created my own world to engage with instead of risking the real one. I’m not socially inept; I just generally prefer my own company.
But, only a little while ago, I was promising myself that I would go and see Cherie again. I genuinely liked her. I felt a sense of security and peace with her that I haven’t known since… well, possibly never. My own mum did her best, but life at home was a constant drama. My dad, a domineering drunk, was the lead character, and she played a supporting role. She was the placating wife who was either doing anything she needed to avoid confrontation, or sometimes causing it. There was always tension in the air, and kids pick up on that from a very early age. There was no tension at the Comfort Food Café. There was no sense of threat. It was nice, and warm, and… well, comforting. I suppose the clue is in the name.
I wonder how big this club is? I’ve met a few Budbury ladies here already. Maybe it’s just them– would I be okay with that? Edie, Auburn, Katie, Laura, Cherie… that’s only five. Five women, all of whom seem very nice and a whole lot of fun. Surely, I can cope with that? And if I hate it, if I start to feel too stressed or start to shut down, then I can leave. Nobody is going to hold me prisoner at the Comfort Food Café.
I decide that I will go. Even if it’s only for half an hour. I quickly make a sandwich before I leave, because I cannot have another day where all I eat is cake. I’ll have to swap the yoga for a Peloton if I keep eating this much cake.
By the time I leave the house, it is almost four. I don’t want to get there early. Plus being late gives me the chance to lurk outside and check it out first. Always good to think these daring missions through thoroughly. James Bond wouldn’t have needed to do so many skydives and ski off so many mountain tops if he’d just thought things through a bit more.
I walk slowly down the hill, already strangely comfortable with this little place. I’ve only been here for one night, but somehow it is starting to feel more like home than my London flat did even after years.
It’s disarmingly warm for October, and I find myself tying my cardigan around my waist and smiling up at the sunshine. I stop at the bottom of the road and turn my face up, letting it gently heat my skin. It feels like an autumn evening in Spain rather than south-west England. My hair is long and on the wild side, and I scoop it up and tie it into a knot. It won’t stay there for long, but it cools me down a little.
I resist the temptation to head straight to the beach instead, and climb the steps up to the Comfort Food Café. I can do this, I tell myself. Heck, I might even enjoy it.
Chapter Five
The door to the café is wide open, even though the sign on it is turned to ‘closed’. This must be some kind of after-hours thing. Possibly there will be heavy drinking, and strippers.
Or, I think, as I take a tentative step inside, just a gang of women laughing their backsides off– which is actually a lot more fun. It’s the kind of sound that should be bottled and used as a treatment by the NHS.
Cherie jumps to her feet when she spots me, and half hugs me, half drags me fully inside. Almost as though she knew I was a flight risk.
‘Sarah, this is everyone. Everyone, this is Sarah!’
‘Some of us have already met her,’ says Auburn, the pharmacist. Or at least I think that’s what she’s saying, as she has a mouthful of cheesecake right now.
‘Well pretend you haven’t,’ replies Cherie, ushering me towards a seat. The sunlight is flooding in through the huge windows, laying thick golden stripes across the red and white gingham tablecloth. ‘And let me do the honours!’
She pushes me down into a chair, and I feel a blush rising as everyone looks at me. I have hair that weird shade between blonde and red, and very pale skin– as a result, the slightest nerves or embarrassment leaves me with a face that looks like someone’s slapped me. It’s delightful.
Laura emerges from behind the counter, and presents me with a slab of the promised cheesecake. She takes one look at me and gets me a glass of water as well.
‘Hot flush?’ she asks sympathetically. ‘I know the feeling!’
I suspect none of these ladies would feel even slightly uncomfortable discussing menopause symptoms in front of each other, but frankly I barely like discussing it with myself. Not that there is a great deal to discuss as yet, but I know it is looming in the near future.
‘Uh, no… I just go red really easily. Sometimes even when I’m on my own.’
‘Serves you right for having that whole Nicole Kidman thing going on,’ she says. ‘It’s just balancing it out. Coffee? Baileys? Wine?’
‘Would it be rude to say all of the above?’
The women around the table all burst out laughing, and Cherie says: ‘See? She fits right in!’
If I do, it will be for possibly the first time in my whole life. I’ve never fit in anywhere at all, and I suppose over the years I’ve stopped trying, and on the whole stopped caring. I have my work, and my sister, and my nieces, and I’m not lonely. Most of the time, at least.
Laura pours me a coffee, adds a glug of Baileys, and then pushes a bottle of Malbec towards me. I’ve been in worse situations. I feel a little rustling motion beneath the table, and see that Luna is down there, presumably minesweeping for crumbs of dropped cake.
