The Cherry Tree Cafe Page 3

  ‘Yes, but this isn’t just about your job, which you suddenly seem to have forgotten you hate; what about the current financial situation?’

  I dumped myself down on the sofa and kicked off my shoes. I hated it when Jemma talked to me in that patient voice she usually saved for Ella, her attention-seeking daughter. I didn’t need a well-reasoned argument batted up and down the phone line; I just wanted some sort of escape.

  ‘The last thing you want is to get into debt doing a job you hate, living in a flat with an overinflated rent that’s riddled with memories of raw animal sex and an overindulgent lifestyle!’

  She was right, of course; the mere sight of the wet room still made me blush and yearn for what I no longer had. If only I could have dished out some revenge and gained some closure; cut the sleeves off his designer shirts, rubbed chilli in his Calvin Klein’s, but Giles had been too clever for that. He’d left months before I knew he was actually gone.

  ‘So what do you suggest then, oh wise one?’ I snapped sarcastically whilst wracking my brains for an opportunity to vent my wrath.

  ‘Come home.’

  I rolled my eyes and reached for the bottle of wine I had had the foresight to open before making the call.

  ‘You know I can’t come home. Coming home would be like giving in and I can’t admit defeat, Jemma! Mum would never let me forget it. I may have only a teeny tiny shred of self-respect left, but I’m not prepared to give it up without a fight.’

  ‘OK, let me put it another way then. Come back to Wynbridge, like I suggested before. Come back to me and Tom and Ella, just until you decide what you really want.’

  What I really wanted was for none of this to have happened, to feel that I still had my life all sewn up with the man of my dreams and that if I did have to go anywhere, it would be with him in tow.

  ‘And where will I live while I make these all important life choices?’ I asked, not daring to enlighten Jemma as to the deepest and darkest desires of my heart.

  ‘You could stay at the Café,’ she said simply.

  ‘What, amongst the old tables and chairs, with a bed on the counter and my washing in the sink?’

  ‘There’s a self-contained flat above,’ Jemma went on, ignoring my sarcasm. ‘I admit it’s seen better days, but there are two bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen and sitting room at your disposal, if you want it?’

  I thought back to all the afternoons we’d spent lazing in the Café gardens and shop. I never realised anyone actually lived there.

  ‘Has the flat always been there?’

  ‘Yes, don’t you remember? Old Mrs Taylor sold her house and moved into it so she could inject the last of her savings into the place. It didn’t work, of course, not with the burger joints opening up on every corner, but she lived there until the place finally closed and it’s still in reasonable order. We’re planning to rent it out at some point, god knows we could do with the money, but it’s yours if you want it.’ I remembered Mrs Taylor with her tight bun, spotless apron and thick hot buttered toast. I felt a pang of guilt as I also remembered how readily we had swapped her simple, homespun service for the endless queues and overpriced under-seasoned patties that were synonymous with ‘the new place’.

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  I didn’t know what to say, I hadn’t had time to think.

  ‘It’s a really kind offer, Jemma.’

  ‘And one that you’d be stupid to turn down,’ she interrupted.

  ‘I’m not turning you down,’ I insisted. ‘I just need time to get my head round it. There’s an awful lot to think about.’

  ‘But is there, really? You work at a job you hate, you sleep in a flat you can’t afford and you live in a city where you’re all alone!’

  ‘Yes, thanks for that,’ I sniffed, ‘and there was me thinking life could be worse!’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Jemma said bluntly, ‘you need to see sense and if we have to fall out to make that happen then it’ll be worth it because I love you, Lizzie Dixon, and I won’t let that slick little shit win!’

  ‘Let me sleep on it,’ I told her, for once not contradicting her opinion of Giles, ‘let me think about it over the weekend and I promise I’ll let you know next week.’

  Predictably, I didn’t sleep that night, but for once I wasn’t staring up at the ceiling thinking about Giles and all the ways he had found to deprive me of my eight hours. I was thinking about Jemma’s offer, my dreaded job and all the extra time I would have to put in to make amends for my lapsing sales figures.

  Bottom line, I didn’t want to do it, but the price I was going to have to pay to move to the Café was excruciatingly high. The thought of running into my mother at every turn was not a prospect I was ever going to relish.

  During the two previous post-Giles weekends I had stayed in bed until something distracting appeared on TV, but that particular Saturday I was up and out of the flat, full of hope that a brisk, blustery walk would help clear my head and guide me towards making a decision.

  The walk was blustery all right and I hadn’t ventured far before sharp stinging sleet accompanied it. I ducked into the nearest shop and collided with an impatient-looking woman with a clipboard.

  ‘Oh, you poor love!’ she gushed, wide-eyed, ‘you look soaked! Here, give me your coat and I’ll show you where to go.’

  ‘No,’ I stammered, my teeth chattering, ‘I’m fine. I’ll just wait in here until it dies down a bit, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Aren’t you Jenny Hudson?’ The woman frowned, frantically consulting her clipboard.

  I shook my head as another woman ran across the shop floor and lingered at her elbow.

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Heather,’ the clipboard woman snapped, ‘I think we’ll just have to start without her!’

  ‘She isn’t coming,’ Heather squeaked, ‘she’s just called. Her car’s got a flat on the ring road. By the time she gets here it’ll be too late.’

  ‘Right, take this.’ The clipboard was thrust roughly into diminutive Heather’s arms. ‘I damn well knew something like this would happen. Every time we’ve booked her there’s been some drama and she hasn’t turned up! I’ll have to do it, won’t I?’

  Suddenly her eyes swivelled back to me and she smiled, her expression transformed.

  ‘How are you fixed this morning?’ she said. ‘Any plans?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘This morning, are you busy? Only, we have a space on our sewing course. No charge. Being a woman down, as it were, leaves someone without a partner and the room’s set up so we can work in pairs at individual tables today. You’d be doing me a favour, really.’

  An hour and a half later I found myself up to my elbows in triangular off-cuts and chatting to a woman called Fiona. We were making spring-themed bunting and worked companionably as the sleet lashed against the shop window and we drank copious amounts of coffee to wash down the even more copious amounts of cake we had consumed.

  Bunting was a bit of an easy project for me, even though it had been months since I’d last been acquainted with a sewing machine and a pair of pinking shears. Consequently I’d finished before the others so I set about embellishing mine with some simple hand-stitched floral embroidery.

  Clipboard woman, aka Deborah peered over my shoulder, raised her eyebrows and smiled broadly.

  ‘I take it you’ve done this sort of thing before?’ she laughed, bending down to scrutinise the back as well as the front of my efforts. ‘Exquisite technique,’ she squinted, looking for a knot or out of place thread.

  ‘My grandmother taught me,’ I smiled, ‘not just how to sew, but how to knit, crochet, appliqué, all sorts of things. She was a real whizz at sewing.’

  ‘You’re not so bad yourself,’ Deborah smiled, patting my shoulder as she rushed off to rescue a woman two tables along who had managed to sew her sleeve into her stitches.

  ‘I think she was impressed,’ whispered Fiona conspiratorially. ‘I come most weeks and she hardly ev
er says anything nice to anyone!’

  By early afternoon the sleet had turned to proper heavy snowfall and the rest of the ladies left the City Crafting Café with various lengths of bunting stowed carefully away in their reusable shoppers. I loitered behind and helped Deborah and Heather clear away. It was the least I could do after such an eye-opening morning.

  When I had been living with Giles, immersed in city life, rushing to and from work, out to dinner and seemingly endless parties, I’d forgotten just how much I loved to sew and make. In fact, I don’t think Giles ever knew anything about my passion for homemade crafts at all.

  When I left school I had studied textiles at college with a view to making and selling my own things. The original plan had been to start small; Jemma was going to sell the baked goods she was becoming mildly famous for and I was going to sell my patchwork bags, bunting and so on, on a market stall before moving into a shop in the town and then of course, world domination would follow close behind.

  Having unexpectedly rediscovered my passion, I realised how sad it was that I’d forgotten so much of what I loved, but at least Jemma had hung onto her dream; the Café would be the perfect outlet for her baking and culinary skills. My clever friend really did have it all, whereas I apparently had spent the last few years adrift.

  I walked over to the shelves laden with rolls of fabric and pulled out a small bundle from the remnants bin. It would be Ella’s birthday soon. This year I would make her something myself rather than rely on the internet to package and deliver. ‘I hope you often get the chance to indulge your sewing talents, Lizzie?’

  I jumped; Deborah had been watching me. I shook my head.

  ‘No, not at the moment,’ I told her, ‘this is the first time I’ve made anything for months.’

  She came over and began pulling out reels of coloured cotton that would best match the fabrics I’d chosen.

  ‘Shame,’ she said sadly, ‘do you live far?’

  ‘Not really. Well, not that far at the moment. I might be moving soon,’ I added, my cheeks flushing at the prospect. It was true; the morning I’d spent in the café had helped me sidle closer to making a decision I’d thought it would take weeks to reach.

  ‘You don’t fancy a weekend job tutoring classes for me then?’ she smiled.

  I shook my head. The very idea of me teaching people how to sew was absurd.

  ‘No, I don’t think so, but thank you.’ I carried my pile of fabrics and threads to the counter.

  Heather rang up my bill and deducted the generous discount Deborah scribbled on her clipboard.

  ‘Wow,’ I smiled, ‘thanks very much.’

  ‘Consider it a little incentive,’ she grinned, ‘in case you change your mind about the job and by the way,’ she added, cocking her head, ‘has anyone ever told you, you have beautiful hair?’

  Instinctively I touched my head to make sure the curls were still smooth, but of course they weren’t. I had fought my way through the worst weather the winter had thrown at the city so far. My hair, left to dry naturally was now a riot of red unruly curls; the sight of which I knew would have made Giles wince. In the early days of our relationship he had loved my hair and constantly told me it was the first thing that drew him to me.

  ‘When I walked in and saw you behind that bar,’ he would whisper as we made love, his hands entwined in my curls, ‘I knew you were the one for me. I had to have you, Lizzie.’

  But when I moved to the city, things had gradually changed. Giles began making various subtle attempts to smarten me up and help me ‘fit in and find my feet’ as he put it. He suggested I could tone down my freckles with carefully matched foundation and he bought me the most expensive hair straighteners on the planet. Exactly when had he forgotten about the girl he started out loving, I wondered?

  ‘Someone used to tell me they loved my hair all the time,’ I told Deborah, tears pricking my eyes, ‘but they stopped a long while ago.’

  Chapter 4

  ‘OK, I’ll come.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said I’ll come.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously, cross my heart, seriously!’

  Just how long, I wondered, was this conversation going to go on? But I could hardly berate Jemma for wanting confirmation. I’d avoided ringing and answering her calls for days, but only because I wanted to be absolutely sure in my own mind before I let her know.

  ‘And you won’t change your mind?’

  ‘Couldn’t even if I wanted to,’ I told her as I lightly fingered the floral bunting I’d haphazardly draped across the kitchen, ‘I handed in my notice this morning. I’m supposed to stay for a month but Henry said, given the circumstances, that I can go when I like. I’ve made him promise not to breathe a word to anyone. I’m just going to slip out at the end of the week and not go back.’

  ‘Oh, Lizzie! I can’t believe it. I never in a million years thought you’d say yes!’

  ‘But you are sure it’s OK, aren’t you?’ I swallowed; panicking that she’d only asked me because she thought I’d refuse. ‘About the flat, I mean. You and Tom are still happy for me to move in?’

  ‘Of course!’ Jemma laughed, before breezily adding, ‘There might be a teeny bit more work to do than I first thought, but it’ll be fine. Ben’s really hands on; nothing’s beaten him so far! So, when can we expect you?’

  ‘Ben who?’ I gasped, crossing my fingers in the hope that it wasn’t the Ben I thought it might be.

  ‘Lovely Ben Fletcher,’ she said, ‘I thought I’d told you this already? He’s just moved back to Wynbridge and is staying with us while we’re renovating. He’s been a huge help, very hands on.’

  ‘You’ve already said that,’ I snapped.

  ‘Well, anyway there we are, are you sure I haven’t mentioned him being back before?’

  ‘Must’ve slipped your mind,’ I muttered, my poor broken heart hammering wildly in my chest.

  If I’d known about Jemma’s other house guest before I’d told her I was moving back then it might have been a different story. I wasn’t sure my already fragile emotional state was up to a blast from the past. Not that it was a real blast from the past. Jemma and I were the only ones who actually knew about the gargantuan torch I’d carried for Ben Fletcher throughout high school.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll be pleased to see him again. He’s looking very well,’ Jemma said diplomatically, ‘and he’s bound to be a welcome distraction from . . .’

  ‘Why is he staying with you?’ I cut in before she had a chance to remind me what he’d be a welcome distraction from.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Why haven’t you put him in the flat? Surely that would have made more sense than having him squeezing in with you lot.’

  ‘It was Tom’s idea,’ she said in a rush, ‘he wanted to spend some time with his oldest friend and as the flat wasn’t quite ready it seemed like the logical thing to do.’

  Something about Jemma’s answer didn’t quite ring true to me. Ben, like the rest of us, had family in Wynbridge, so why wasn’t he staying with them?

  ‘And besides,’ Jemma added, before I could ask, ‘we need him close by to talk about the renovations and his mother’s an absolute nightmare. Living with her would drive him potty, well you know what mothers can be like, don’t you? He’s better off here with us for now. So when can we expect you, then?’

  ‘Friday night.’ I said. I was somewhat taken aback by Jemma’s breathless response to my questioning but there was no time to delve any deeper. I had more important things on my mind. ‘I’ve only got a couple of suitcases and a few small boxes to pack. All the paperwork and bills connected to the flat are still in Giles’s name so I can just load up the car and drive back at the end of the day.’

  ‘Will you take your key to the agent or push it back through the flat door in a dog-poo-filled envelope?’ Jemma asked innocently.

  ‘Bloody hell, Jem,’ I laughed, all thoughts of buff Ben Fletcher nudg
ed out by Jemma’s crudeness, ‘that’s vile; no wonder your daughter’s so out of control. I don’t even want to think about how I’d manage to do that and in answer to your question, neither. I’m going to meet Giles and give it back to him in person.’

  ‘Oh, Lizzie, I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘No,’ I smiled, ‘I didn’t think you would and that’s exactly why I’m so pleased you aren’t here to stop me!’

  Having finally stumbled upon the best way to secure some closure, I arranged to meet Giles, via his secretary, two days later. It had been an odd day. My car was loaded with my few scant possessions from the flat and miraculously I had marched out of the door for the last time, my heels sounding hollow on the polished floor, and slammed it shut without a pang.

  At work I spun out the hours having indulged in a long lunch with Henry who on parting, had tried to kiss me, told me he had always had a ‘thing’ for me and that if I changed my mind and wanted to stay at work and move in with him, that would be fine. I kissed him fondly on the cheek, told him he was a wonderful, kind man who deserved someone who loved him back and that I was sorry but I wasn’t the girl for him because I was through with love and all its complications for the time being or possibly even forever.

  I swaggered into the bar having just ostentatiously cleared my desk as my colleagues watched on agog and shrugged their shoulders behind my back. I even had the audacity to throw a cheeky ‘see ya,’ over my shoulder as I strutted out.

  So much for a discreet departure, I giggled. I hadn’t realised going home would be such a pick-me-up but the thought of seeing Jemma and everyone at the end of the day had certainly put a spring in my step.

  Then I saw him sitting at a table in the far corner at the back of the bar. Top button undone, tie loosened, glass in hand and looking like he’d just stepped straight off the pages of a Hugo Boss advert.

  ‘Lizzie,’ he smiled, standing up as I approached.

  He kissed my cheek before I had a chance to duck out of the way and I can’t deny there was a flicker of arousal in my stomach as I drank in the familiar manly scent of him, but I had it under control. This meeting was on my terms, not his. It had been agonising catching glimpses of him in the office every day because it was his territory, but the bar was no one’s bolt hole – it was completely neutral and I was more than ready to gain a little ground for myself.