Christmas at the Beach Cafe (3 page)

‘I’ve bought a nice fisherman’s clock and a set of handkerchiefs for Tony,’ Betty said proudly. ‘Monogrammed, they are, too. Very smart.’

‘My hubby’s getting a Teasmade and some chunky socks,’ Wendy said. ‘He gets terrible circulation problems, his feet are always freezing. Bloody nightmare in bed, it
is.’

‘I’m going to give Jamie some watercolours and these fancy brushes he wants,’ Martha said, blushing. ‘He’s back home next week, I can’t wait.’

‘Nor me,’ sighed Betty, who was Jamie’s mother. Jamie, Martha’s boyfriend, was away in Falmouth at art college. The conversation moved on to their plans for the festive
period, and I stood up to take the mince pie plates down to the other end of the table, feeling guilty about my rubbish present-choosing abilities. Everyone else seemed to know exactly what to get
their loved ones for Christmas – even if it
was
only boring old socks and handkerchiefs. Me, I didn’t have a clue. Girlfriend FAIL.

Never mind, I told myself bracingly, there was still plenty of time. I would definitely think of the perfect present soon. Wouldn’t I?

A few days later, we received our first bundle of Christmas cards and I felt a flutter of excitement at seeing so many red and white envelopes waiting on the mat. Just the
other night I’d sat down and written mine, enjoying being able to add ‘Now living in Cornwall, running a beach café with gorgeous new man. Come and see us any time –
address below!’ (Had there ever been a better piece of news written in a Christmas card? I couldn’t think of one.)

Ed hadn’t sent any cards himself (surprise, surprise – I had never had a boyfriend who saw the point of Christmas cards) so I was slightly taken aback to see that there was a
creamy-white envelope with his name on the front in spiky black handwriting. Female handwriting, I was certain. Hmmm.

‘Post,’ I said as cheerfully as I could, dumping it on the café kitchen table with the other cards.
Get a grip, Evie.
Ed probably had lots of female friends that I
didn’t know about. Why wouldn’t they want to send him a Christmas card, for heaven’s sake? It might even be from his mum.

Ed was mixing granola for my Breakfast Recipes chapter of the book and he let the wooden spoon fall against the bowl as he wiped his hands on his apron and opened the envelope.

I started opening mine too: cards from mates in Oxford and from my sisters, and a joint one from Rachel and Leah, the lovely Aussies who’d worked for us all through the summer and were now
back in sunny Melbourne. There was also a card from Saul, who was the son of my ex, Matthew, and the loveliest boy in the world. Inside the card he had drawn a picture of a Moomin wearing a Santa
hat (Saul and I loved the Moomins) and I stood gazing at it, feeling a pang of missing him, until I became aware of Ed stiffening slightly as he stood beside me, and a new intense silence filled
the room.

The card. The spiky handwriting. I
knew
there was something ominous about it. ‘Who’s that from?’ I asked, my voice sounding high and unnatural.

‘Melissa,’ he grunted, chucking it down on the table and going back to his granola.

Ahh, Melissa. The scheming bitch he’d been married to; the evil cow who’d tried to completely screw him over. Sorry, Melissa, I thought sourly, picking up the glossy red card with
distaste, but it’s going to take a bit more than one poxy Crimbo card to make Ed forgive
you
, love.

Dear Ed,
I read inside.
Great to talk to you! Have a wonderful Christmas. All my love, Melissa and Violet xx

Violet. That must be her baby daughter – Ed had said something about her getting pregnant when she’d cheated on him. I dropped the card as if it were radioactive. Er . . . hello?
‘Good to talk to you’? ‘All my love’? Kisses at the end? I must be missing something here. Why had I not been sent the memo about my boyfriend making friends with his nasty,
unscrupulous ex-wife? And wait . . . why was there no mention of Aidan, the guy she’d shacked up with?

‘I didn’t realize you two had been in touch,’ I said, feeling unexpectedly heart-poundy.

‘Well, yeah,’ he said, not meeting my gaze. ‘But only to discuss money, dissolving the business, getting divorced. It wasn’t exactly friendly chit-chat.’

My lips twitched. ‘Her card seems pretty friendly to me,’ I said before I could stop myself.

‘Evie . . . I’m in the process of getting a divorce from her,’ he said, sounding exasperated. ‘You don’t seriously think there’s anything more than that
between us, do you? I can’t stand the woman.’

‘You could have told me she’d been in touch,’ I said in a small voice.

‘I didn’t think there was any point,’ he said. ‘Do you tell me about every single phone call you have?’

‘No, but – ’
Has she broken up with Aidan already?

‘There you go then.’

Tears pricked my eyes as he resumed mixing, his face cold, his body turned away from me. Ed and I never argued. Never! ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, then pulled on my coat and went down to the
beach, needing to escape the conversation before it became any worse. My breath felt tight in my lungs as if I couldn’t release it properly, and my eyes were swimmy as I marched along the
sand, the wind tugging at my hair.

I picked up a smooth grey pebble and hurled it far out to sea. Then another. Then another. Bugger off, Melissa, I thought savagely. You’re not welcome here. Take your phone calls and
Christmas cards and slanty handwriting and shove them.

Ed came down to find me later, with a Thermos of coffee and a blanket. ‘Sorry,’ he said, wrapping the blanket around us both and hugging me close. ‘I
didn’t mean to take it out on you.’

I leaned against him, grateful for the apology as well as the warmth. ‘It’s all right,’ I muttered.

‘She doesn’t mean anything to me,’ he said. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, even though this wasn’t strictly true. Of course she meant something to him: she was his ex-wife, the woman he’d once been madly in love with, the woman
who’d broken his heart and tipped his life upside-down. There was no way you could walk away from a relationship like that and feel indifferent to the person involved. And now she’d
sent this nicey-nice Christmas card and we were both left confused.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, as if reading my thoughts. ‘Really. Don’t worry. I’m with you now. You’re the one I love.’

I snaked my arms around him and squeezed him. ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Because I love you right back.’

Up yours, Melissa, I thought, as we stood there for a long few moments. It’s me and Ed against the world, and nothing can stop us.

We sat down on the rocks together, still snuggled in the blanket, and shared the coffee. ‘We’re going to have a brilliant Christmas,’ I told him. ‘I just know
it.’

A week went by, which saw us put up not one but two Christmas trees: a towering and gloriously scented blue spruce from Tregarrow Farm which looked positively magnificent in
the far corner of the café, decorated with white fairy lights and silver baubles; and a little artificial tree for our flat, which was far less tastefully adorned with colourful tinsel,
flashing Santa baubles and chocolate decorations. By now, I was feeling extremely Christmassy. I was playing my Christmas hits collection at any opportune moment, we had stocked up on booze, and Ed
and I had just crossed off our last event of the year: doing the catering and photography for a gorgeous winter wedding in Carrawen Village Hall. We’d got quite a good business going between
us now, with both of us doing something we loved: him taking care of all the food, and me with my trusty camera, filling the pages of wedding albums with hundreds of beautiful photos.

It felt a real achievement, finishing work for the year. The café was closed and our next proper job was weeks away, catering for a fortieth birthday party in mid-January. I was looking
forward to spending time together, just Ed and I, until then: taking blissfully long walks along the coast followed by cosy evenings in with a bottle of wine and some good telly. We had duvets,
firewood and a fridge that was groaning with food. I was quite tempted to lock the doors and hibernate, just the two of us, for the next month.

Another bit of good news was that I’d finally made a start on the dreaded Christmas shopping. (So there, Betty!) I’d lucked in with a spontaneous trip to Padstow, and discovered that
the Christmas Festival was in full flow there: a godsend to any shopper. Oh, I did feel smug as I wandered from stall to stall, picking up yummy foodie gifts for my sisters, a handmade silver
pendant for my mum, and a gorgeous scarf for my best friend Amber. I had even arranged for boxes of Cornish beers to be delivered to my dad and brothers-in-law, too. Result! What was more, I was
able to tick off a few bits and bobs for Ed’s stocking as well: a travel guide to India, some chocolate and pistachio fudge, and a lovely old map of the north Cornwall coast, although I was
yet to find him a proper big present, something he could unwrap and exclaim joyfully over. (The Internet was no use either. Why did shopping sites think that any man on earth would want a
car-washing kit for Christmas? Or a tie? Or cuff-links? News-flash! Terrible present alert!)

It was my little niece Isabelle who helped me out in the end. Ten days before Christmas, just as I was starting to seriously panic that I didn’t have anything fabulous for Ed, Ruth rang
for one of her sisterly chats with the great news that her husband Tim had been promoted (well done, Tim), her son Hugo had been picked for the school football team (well done, Hugo) and she was
hoping to run a marathon in the spring (well done, Ruth). These kind of chats used to kill me with bitterness and feelings of inadequacy, but nowadays I was too happy to feel hard done by or
envious in any way, and was able to sincerely congratulate her and her family on all their successes. I know! Grown-up or what?

‘Isabelle wants a quick word – just a sec, darling – okay, so nice to chat to you, love to Ed, our presents to you are in the post. Bye!’

Then Isabelle came on the line. She was a real sweetie, Isabelle, often texting me on her mum’s phone (Wot ice creams hav u got 2day??? Can u post me one???!!!) and apparently telling
everyone she wanted to be just like Aunty Evie when she grew up. After filling the role of ‘family loser’ for so many years, for me to have become the embodiment of a
nine-year-old’s aspirations took some getting used to – but boy, did it feel great.

‘Hello lovely, how are you?’ I asked her. ‘Are you looking forward to Christmas?’

‘Yes! I was in the carol concert yesterday, I did a solo on my own, you know,’ she said breathlessly.

‘A solo on your
own
,’ I repeated, winking at Ed who’d just come into the living room. As usual, I was curled up at my favourite end of the sofa and he sank into the
other end and gave my foot a friendly squeeze. ‘Well done, Iz, that’s awesome!’

‘I
know,
I was, like, so nervous, but it went really, really, well. And everyone clapped for, like, ages! Anyway, Aunty Evie, I just wanted to say, my present to you will be a bit
late. Because it’s something I made, and it wasn’t quite dry when Mummy did the parcel, so I’ve got to send it later.’

‘Ooh, how exciting, thank you. I can’t wait to see what it is.’

‘It’s a – ’

‘Don’t tell me! Keep it a surprise, remember. But it’s something you made, is it?’

‘Yes. Because made presents are the special-est, aren’t they? And you are my special-est aunty, so I just thought . . .’

‘Oh darling, you’re so lovely. How kind. And you’re right, home-made presents are definitely the special-est.’ I suddenly felt my brain crank into action as I spoke the
words aloud. A home-made present for Ed. Yes! Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

‘But Mummy said she’d post it as soon as she could. Maybe tomorrow! So you’ll have it for Christmas.’

‘Thank you. I will pounce on the postman every time I see him,’ I assured her. ‘I’ll phone on Christmas Day, okay? Bye, sweetie.’

I put the phone down, ideas brimming in my mind. A special home-made present. Of
course.
High-fives to Isabelle. She shoots, she scores!

‘What are you grinning about?’ Ed asked, poking me with his foot.

I tapped my nose in what I hoped was a mysterious and intriguing way. ‘Never you mind,’ I told him. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see.’

I quickly ruled out an entire swathe of home-made present ideas. Cooking – no way. Sewing – ditto. Painting – I wish. But photography . . . yes. I could take
a great photo. Maybe one of the bay at sunrise. Or a shot from the cliff. Or . . .

My memory was jogged by the list of ‘Ed’s favourite things’ that I’d recited to the ladies at our recent Girls’ Night In.
Surfing. Coffee. Seeing the sun
rise,
I’d told them
. A glass of wine at the end of the day. The view from the cliffs out over the bay. Me . . .

And then it came to me. The perfect, perfect present. Bingo!

‘Yes!’ I cried, jumping to my feet. ‘Genius.’

Ed gave me a quizzical look as I hurried out of the room. ‘Now what?’ he called after me.

‘Nothing!’ I sang irritatingly. I went into our bedroom, wondering where I’d last seen my laptop, just as the phone started ringing again.

‘Hello?’ I asked, trying to hide my impatience as I picked it up.

‘Hi love, it’s me, Mum, just calling for a quick chat.’

‘Oh,’ I said, rather ungraciously, and sank down onto the bed. My mum didn’t know the meaning of the words ‘quick chat’. Now I’d be stuck here for half an
hour while she regaled me with all the dramatic (not) ins and outs of her and Dad’s lives, no doubt including a full round-up of news concerning Monty, their Yorkshire terrier. I
wouldn’t have minded normally – I often got on with something else, like sorting laundry or reading a book, while she was in full flow – but tonight I was itching to get cracking
on my fantastic present idea. ‘How are you?’

I’d obviously set off the Concerned Parent radar with my less than enthusiastic response. ‘Are you okay, love? You sound a bit flat,’ my mum said suspiciously.
‘What’s up?’