Page 43 of A Touch of Magic at the Comfort Food Café
I’m glad to have cleared the air with Aidan, to have cemented that things are staying firmly in the friend zone. Even though I can’t resist sneaking admiring peeks at him as he runs and plays with the pack, looking as at home in the forest as he did in his Tom Ford suit, I know I’ve made the wise choice. I have been Captain Sensible and I’m sure I’ll thank myself for it at some point. Melody went home the day after I met her, and I haven’t asked if they picked up where they left off. It is none of my business and it would hurt a little too much. I’m better off not knowing.
All things considered, I’m relatively content with life as it is. It has definitely exceeded my admittedly very low expectations when I moved here.
This afternoon, I’ve finished work early and am heading to the café to discuss ‘all things Halloween’. I suspect this is code for ‘drink a bottle of absinthe and eat apple crumble’, so I shall have to be on my guard. I go for a walk along the beach first, glancing at my phone to check that I’m nowhere near the Aidan Watch Danger time. I wouldn’t want to spoil Laura’s fun, if she’s sitting up there with a pair of binoculars.
There’s quite a breeze blowing today, and the sky is a dull grey, streaks of sunlight breaking through the clouds to shimmer on the water. I walk as far as the old boat house, enjoying the sound of the waves rushing in to land, and gaze further down the coast, where the red and gold of the distant cliffs curve into theedge of the world. It’s so very beautiful, I get a little thrill every time I’m down here.
I make the now-familiar trek up the steps and walk through the wrought-iron arch that welcomes people into the Comfort Food Café. As soon as I get near to the door, I smile at the sound of laughter coming from inside. Looks like they’ve already started on the absinthe.
I open the door and am hit by a delicious blend of warmth and sugar, vanilla and spice. Cherie is standing in the middle of the room, dressed in a clown suit, complete with giant red feet. That would be terrifying enough by itself, but she’s also wearing a huge curly red wig and brandishing a curved machete. I stop in the doorway and give some thought to running all the way back down the hill. Luna obviously feels the same, and is sniffing at the shoes suspiciously.
‘Bloody hell,’ I say, as I edge inside, ‘you look horrible!’
‘Thank you, sweetie, how kind of you to say,’ she replies, waving her machete at me. ‘I feel horrible too. This wig is itchy as hell.’
Laura is doing something behind her back and pops her head around to say hello. ‘Just making an adjustment,’ she explains, waving a sewing needle with almost as much menace as Cherie does the machete. ‘We had to get a super-size clown suit and I’m taking it in. There’s no consistency in Halloween clown costume sizing these days…’
‘Was there ever?’ I ask, joining Becca at a table and pouring myself a glass of wine.
‘Yes, probably, in the eighties, when everything was better…’
‘What are you going as?’ I ask Becca, who is sipping a pumpkin spice latte and nibbling on a biscuit in the shape of a bat. I’m working on the assumption that Cherie is wearing her outfit for the Halloween Ball, but I could be wrong. Itcould be something she’s planning on wearing on a trip to the supermarket for all I know.
‘Me and Edie– big Edie– usually go as something together. This year we’re zombie ballroom dancers. It’s Halloween week on Strictly, and that’s a big deal for Edie. Auburn ordered her a load of fake scars and spray on blood, and she’s found an old ball gown on Vinted. She’s a demon on Vinted. I’ll be the man. It’s easier; I can recycle the suit I used when we were “brutally murdered Laurel and Hardy” last year…’
I nod. Of course. It’s amazing how quickly I’ve adjusted to these concepts.
‘I’ll be a ghost, as usual,’ Laura shouts from behind the solid bulk of Cherie’s killer clown. ‘Last year, I swore I’d have lost a load of weight by now, so I could be a sexy vampire of whatever, but that doesn’t seem to have happened. Back to the sheet with eye holes for me!’
Laura is by no means enormous, but as ever with women, it’s all about confidence. Cherie is a big lady, too, but if she wanted to wear a thong on the beach, she would, because she is comfortable in her own skin. Laura, like most of us, isn’t quite so blessed.
‘What about you?’ she asks, popping her head out again. ‘What’s your costume?’
I’m silent for a few moments, feeling all of their eyes on me. It is actually quite scary, all of this scrutiny.
‘Um… I haven’t got one,’ I confess, guiltily. ‘I’ve been busy.’
Cherie shakes her head, and her red nylon curls bob threateningly. Laura looks crestfallen, and Becca tuts, though she also looks amused at my predicament.
‘You’ve got to come,’ she says. ‘This is Edie’s gig, and if you don’t come, she’ll notice. You’d need a really good excuse to get out of it. Like losing a limb, or finding a time machine and accidentally going back to the Bronze Age.’
I kind of like the sound of that option, and set it aside to think about later. ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I know. And I will come. I just haven’t sorted a costume.’
‘Yet?’ Laura says, raising an expectant eyebrow.
‘Yet,’ I confirm, starting to panic. I wonder if I can get something off Amazon that will land tomorrow.
‘Good,’ she says, going back to her sewing. ‘Hands off the ghost sheet though. That’s mine. I can’t have you turning up looking like a sexier ghost sheet.
‘Right,’ she adds, standing back and admiring her handiwork, ‘that should be fine. I wouldn’t suggest any limbo dancing though, Cherie. You know what happened that year you tried it dressed as Cat Woman.’
‘Pah, if I want to limbo dance, I’ll limbo dance, love. I don’t care if the crotch splits!’
My eyes widen at both the idea of Cherie as Cat Woman, and of her as a crotchless clown. The mind absolutely boggles.
Laura drifts over to the window, picking up a glass of Prosecco on the way. ‘It’s Aidan time…’ she mutters, gazing down to the beach. Cherie catches my eye and raises her brow. I shake my head– no, there is nothing new to report, and certainly nothing I want to share. I don’t even have it in me to go and watch the show. I can’t insist to the man that we can only ever be friends, and then perv over him as he runs past.
I pretend I need the loo and leave them to it. I sit in the ladies and flick through Halloween costumes online, my heart sinking when I realise that most of them are sold out, or can’t be delivered until next week. What use is that, I think, angry with myself and with the Lords of the Internet. Maybe I can make something. Or maybe Max can take me to a vintage store. Or maybe I can jump off a cliff and hope I rise from the dead, in which case, costume sorted.
