Page 13 of A Touch of Magic at the Comfort Food Café
What the actual F is she up to? I’m too surprised to even glare at her, and before I can splutter out a reply, Aidan smiles at me. That smile. It really is trouble. The kind of smile that turns women to rubble at ten paces.
‘I’d love to,’ he answers, his eyes meeting mine. I can’t look away, no matter how much I want to. Definitely a hypnotist. He looks mildly amused at the blush that is now so bright I must look like a matchstick on legs. ‘Perhaps we can watch a sunset together, Sarah?’
I manage a jerky nod, and he leaves, running back down the way he came, practically enveloped in a cloud of sex appeal and self-confidence.
‘Oh my god, the way he looked at you!’ says Laura, fanning herself with her hands and jumping up and down so her boobs jiggle. ‘What just happened?’
‘I have no idea,’ I say, standing up, feeling a little unsteady. I am not happy with any of this, and realise I shouldn’t have come. I should have stayed in my little house. ‘But I’m not sure I like it. Laura, I literally just told you that I value my privacy– why would you do that? Why would you put me in that position?’
There is an awkward silence, and I feel momentarily bad about it. There is clearly no harm in these ladies at all, especially Laura– but even coming here was a big step for me. Making potential friends is a big step for me. Trusting anybody at all is a big step. And now I feel like I’ve been thrown under the matchmaking bus in a really inappropriate way.
I see Laura’s face changing as she realises she’s crossed a line. She glances at Cherie, and the older lady just raises her eyebrows in a ‘you’re on your own, kid’ kind of way.
‘Ohhhh… Oh no… I’m so sorry!’ she stutters, her hands flying to her face. She looks so stressed, and I’m worried she might even cry. ‘I’m really, really sorry, Sarah. I didn’t think. I just got carried away. He was definitely looking at you like he was interested, and?—’
‘He really wasn’t, Laura,’ I say as gently as I can, ‘but even if he was, I really don’t need to be set up on almost-dates with strange men. I know nothing about him, and after my last experience in the dating world… I know you didn’t mean any harm, but please don’t get carried away on my behalf again.’
She nods vigorously, and I now feel evil, like I’ve kicked a puppy. In fact, I now feel like I should apologise. Ugggh. People stuff is complicated. The real world is messy. Is it any surprise I prefer fiction?
‘I won’t,’ she replies hastily. ‘And again, I’m sorry. Please forgive me.’
‘I’ve forgiven you already, Laura. I just… I’m really not interested in men right now.’
Not even, I tell myself, a man who looks like that. A man with a smile that could entirely possibly make me forget my own name, never mind my own rules.
Chapter Six
Istay for a little while longer, just to make sure I don’t leave with any of us feeling awkward. I’ve said my piece, Laura has apologised, and that is that. I don’t hold grudges, especially over something that I know she only thought of as a bit of fun. Over the years, as I’ve seen my friends and peers grow up and move on in life, I’ve noticed that some of them have been confused and in some cases almost challenged by me staying single. My sister being one of them– me getting married definitely had something to do with her encouragement.
I think if they’re happy and content with their life, people want the same for others– which is really lovely in its own way. But ‘content’ doesn’t look the same for everyone, and part of me really does rebel against the idea that a woman needs to be part of a couple to feel fulfilled. Maybe I just haven’t met the right person, or maybe I’m just not made that way. I’ve always found being part of a couple stifling, and in my own experience it’s taken away more than it’s given. Possibly just more than I was willing to give.
I sometimes wish things had been different. I would have liked children, but it never happened for me with a partner, and I was never quite determined enough to make it happen by myself. The thought of being a single mum daunted me. I suppose I was convinced that I’d mess it up somehow. I realise now, as I head into my fifties and know quite a lot of parents, that everyone feels like that. There is no instruction manual, no magic formula for being a good mum. Maybe I should have done it, but there’s no point even in wondering now– I will never know.
It’s the mums with younger kids who drift off first from the coffee club, Laura and Becca both heading home. Becca, I learn, does not drink, so she is always the designated driver. ‘I don’t mind,’ she says, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Laura tips me in cake.’
Laura apologises yet again before she leaves, and I can tell she still feels a bit bad about it. ‘It’s okay,’ I assure her. ‘I know you were just trying to do me a favour. We’re fine, honest, as long as you don’t try and pimp me out again.’
‘Are you sure?’ she asks, looking slightly wistful. ‘He was very nice. And so hot there was practically steam coming off him…’
‘That was the sweat from his run, and yes, I’m sure.’
She nods in reluctant understanding, then disappears off with her sister, slightly tipsy after all her Baileys hot chocolates. Auburn goes with them, getting a lift as Briarwood is apparently ‘up the world’s biggest hill’. Zoe promises to drop me off a booklet about Eggardon Hill and other local legends, then heads away. Maxine is collected by her partner, Gabriel, who calls in to say hello. And by that I mean he says ‘hello’, and literally not one word more. He’s strikingly handsome, in a wild and untamed way, with a smile that only comes out to play when he sees his lady. I might be the least romantic woman in the world, but the sight of that intense connection does make me sigh inside.
Eventually, I’m left alone with Cherie, and help her to clear up. We stack the plates and mugs in the big dishwasher and wipe over the tables. Luna assists ably by dealing with any cake spillage, like a furry four-legged hoover snuffling around between our feet. By the time it’s all done, it’s dark outside, and yet again I find myself alone with Cherie in the café.
She’s wearing a magnificent flowing kaftan, black with gold trim, and her plait has come slightly loose. You rarely see ladies of her age with such long hair. She catches me looking, and says: ‘If anyone sneaks up behind me and cuts this off, I’ll lose all my strength. Like Samson.’
I can’t imagine Cherie losing her strength. She is physically imposing, but she also exudes an air of confidence and security, of being totally comfortable in her own skin. Even the fact that she openly talks about sometimes being lonely, about missing her husband Frank, seems to make her stronger, not weaker. She embraces all that she is in a way I can only admire and possibly envy.
‘I doubt it,’ I reply. ‘Samson was obviously a wuss in comparison. I suspect you’re made of sterner stuff. Right, anyway, thanks for a lovely time. I better be going.’
‘Are you sure?’ she asks, raising her eyebrow. ‘I have a bottle of Calvados upstairs…’
Calvados. Apple brandy. That sounds incredibly dangerous. I definitely shouldn’t stay for Calvados.
‘Okay,’ I say immediately. ‘Just the one, though. I have a lot of work to do.’
She smiles and replies: ‘Attagirl. That’s the spirit!’
