‘Are you Sarah?’ she yells. ‘And would you like a cuppa and a bite to eat?’
Damn. What is it with this place? How does she know who I am, and how does she know I’m hungry? Or maybe she always assumes people are hungry. Maybe everybody here shows their kindness through the medium of food. I freeze momentarily, not at all sure what to do next. My instincts tell me to flee, to run back into the night, to go and hide in my little safe haven. Except she obviously knows who I am, which means she knows where I live, and I don’t really want to start my time here by being so very rude. I might not want to be deeply involved in the lives of my new neighbours, but I also don’t want them to hate me. Then where would I be after the solar flares?
I wave back, no idea if she can see me properly or not– in the last few minutes it’s become much darker, the moon kicking the sun out of its spot. ‘Come on up!’ she calls.
I’m still in two minds when I hear a little yapping sound accompanying her. ‘My dog wants to say hello!’
That pushes me over the edge. I always trust people with dogs, which I know is a weak spot of mine. All a serial killer or twisted kidnapper would have to do to get me in his car would be show me a dog. I’m almost fifty, and still the kind of little girl who would fall for the ‘Would you like to see my puppies?’ trick.
I decide that I will hedge my bets. I will go and say hello, to be polite, but I will not go inside and make this interaction last any longer than it needs to. I head towards the paths, glancing up at the café as I go. From this angle it actually looks like it’shanging over the cliff. It would definitely topple off if there was an earthquake.
There are two paths, one with steps and one that is paved and winds around the slope, presumably for people with buggies and wheelchairs, or just people who hate steps. Right now, I am one of those people, because the slower ascent will give me more time to prepare myself for meeting yet another Budbury resident.
The climb up is actually pleasant, the path sided by handrails that are lit by pretty golden fairy lights, making the whole place feel like Christmas has come early. I pause and look out at the sea, smiling at the way the moon reflects on the shimmering water. It really is gorgeous. An owl hoots from somewhere more distant, and I take a deep breath as I continue on. Owls are fantastic creatures, I’ve always thought– they look really weird and nowhere near as cool as some of the other birds, but somehow retain an air of mystery. Life goals right there.
I reach the top of the path and walk through an iron archway into a garden. The top of the archway is curved with the words Comfort Food Café, metallic roses trailing in and out of the individual letters. Green and red and black, the effect incredibly pretty.
The string lights cast a merry glow over the sloping garden, highlighting the higgledy-piggledy picnic tables and the tubs and troughs of plants and flowers. The café itself is a sprawling one-storey affair, and there is a little annexe that has books in the window. I’m automatically drawn towards it, as ever unable to resist a bookshop, and admire the Halloween display. A little bookcase has been placed there, draped with spooky cobwebs, surrounded by miniature pumpkins. I spot the works of Stephen King, Anne Rice, Charlaine Harris, alongside some darker crime novels and some psychological thrillers.
I pull a face when I spot one of my own books on the shelf, because no matter how many copies I sell and how many languages I’m translated into, I will always feel like an imposter. I’m just a slightly crazy girl from Essex who managed to turn her morbid imagination into a job, and it still feels strange to see myself next to ‘real’ authors. My actual name is Sarah Jane Wallis, but I write under SJ Andrews. When I first got an agent, many years ago now, he suggested that having a surname higher up the alphabet helped because when people are browsing bookshelves, they get bored by the time they hit ‘W’. No idea if there is any truth to it, but as I value my privacy, I’m glad we made that choice anyway. Hopefully Sarah Jane Wallis is much harder to track down than SJ Andrews.
I’m interrupted by the sudden opening of the café door, and a light being switched on. A little dog comes yapping towards me, definitely letting me know that this is her territory. The routine is spoiled a bit by the fact she is tiny and fluffy and white, a shaggy little bundle of fur and fury. Also by the fact that as she approaches me, she stops barking, drops to the ground, and rolls onto her back for a belly rub.
‘She’s a killer and no mistake,’ her owner says, emerging from the café door. The dog leaps up again, runs around my ankles several times at breakneck speed, then dashes off to find a bush to pee on. ‘Come on in.’
The woman turns back inside and leaves me there, obviously expecting me to follow. I am momentarily rooted to the spot. I had no intention of going in, and had planned on simply saying hello and then making my excuses to leave. Huh. My plans have failed. The dog yaps at me and runs back towards the door. She stops on the threshold, her fluffy little tail wagging, her brown eyes gazing up at me from behind a neatly trimmed white fringe. Damn. Who could resist?
I walk into the café, and it smells like heaven. Like everyone’s favourite foods ever, mixed in with the lingering scent of coffee beans and cocoa. I close my eyes and inhale, my senses overriding my thoughts for once. When I open my eyes again, I’m confronted with a vision of female power. Seriously, this woman looks like she could have given birth to the Avengers, raised Wonder Woman, and colonised Mars in her spare time.
I’m five foot eight, but she is slightly taller than me, and while I’m on the slender side, she is wide and big and frankly magnificent. Her hair is loose, a long shimmer of wavy silver, kinked in that way that suggests it was recently in a plait, and her eyes are sparkling with a youthful energy that is at odds with the lines on her face. If I had to guess, I’d say she was at the least in her seventies, but she is one of the least ‘old lady’ people I have ever encountered: she exudes cheery confidence and gives me the kind of smile that makes me feel like everything in the whole world will be okay. I fall immediately and uncontrollably in love, and most definitely want to be her when I grow up.
‘I’m Cherie Bloom,’ she says, ‘It’s dark outside, so gin and tonic?’
I gape a little at that logic, then manage to reply: ‘Uh, I’m Sarah. But you’d already guessed that. How did you guess that, by the way?’
‘Well, I watched you walk down the hill via my spy satellite, obviously.’
My eyes widen, and she laughs at my expression. ‘Oooh, your face! No, love, I just heard you’d arrived, and spoke to Laura after she’d popped in. Then I was out on the balcony having one of my herbal cigarettes, and saw you down there. She told me you were a tall, gorgeous strawberry blonde.’
‘And you still recognised me despite that terrible and deeply inaccurate description?’
‘I did. Now, drink, cake, chat?’
No, I tell myself. Do not get drunk. Do not eat the cake. Do not get sucked in. I was warned about this…
‘Yes, please,’ I find myself saying, unable to tear myself away. She tells me to sit tight for a minute, and disappears off into the kitchens at the back. I look around, and realise that the interior of the café is as interesting as its owner. Apart from the usual and entirely expected stuff like tables, chairs and a serving counter, there is a complete feast for the eyes. Mobiles made from old seven-inch vinyl singles dangle from the ceiling, nets are filled with shells, and a vintage gold and black Singer sewing machine battles with a huge fossil for pride of place. I literally don’t know where to look next, there is so much to take in– bookshelves, board games, squishy leather sofas, photos, posters, lobster pots.
I wander the room, touching the random items, feeling like I’ve just discovered Tutankhamun’s tomb and all its treasures. My personal tastes lean more towards the ‘less is more’ approach, but this is amazing. It’s all spotlessly clean, but also incredibly cluttered, and somehow it works perfectly. The windows are huge, and the views are stunning. Maybe sitting outside on the little balcony and smoking a ‘herbal cigarette’ is Cherie’s happy place– it could definitely be mine. Without the cigarette.
Only half the lights are on so it’s quite dim, adding to the air of wonder as I explore. I come across a framed picture of a middle-aged lady leading a yoga class, and laugh at the assortment of people she is guiding in downward dog. Yoga classes are often filled with a certain type of person, but this one bucks the trend. I’m still smiling when Cherie appears at my side and hands me a glass. One sip tells me there is as much G as there is T.
‘That’s Lynnie,’ she says, ‘we lost her a few years ago. She was quite the force of nature. She had a few issues with memory inher later years, and she used to turn up here and do impromptu yoga sessions. We all went along with it.’
‘Ah. That explains a lot. You don’t often see a crowd like this getting their Namaste on.’
Cherie smiles and points out a silver-haired man wearing a plaid shirt and green cords. He’s looking up at the camera with impossibly blue eyes. ‘That’s my hubby, Frank. We lost him as well. We’ve really been very careless recently… Anyway, cake!’
I see the glaze of tears in her eyes, and give her the space to retreat into the kitchen. She emerges with two big slabs of chocolate fudge cake, and sets them on a table along with a jug of pouring cream. Clearly I am going to end up the size of the Michelin man if I stay here for long. I sit down, and the little dog immediately jumps onto my lap.
