Summer at the Comfort Food Cafe

I was still cuddling my fake David, but he wouldn’t mind. He’d always respected my relationship with Daniel Craig.

I’d slept surprisingly well, which was perhaps a result of the wine intake, and now I’m awake. Groggy, but awake. I glance at my watch on the cabinet – 9.38am – and give David a quick ‘good morning’ smile.

I stretch out, swipe the sleep out of my eyes and get out of bed. I carefully wrap my precious dressing gown up in the carrier bag and tuck it under the pillow for later.

I go for a morning tinkle and then tiptoe to Lizzie’s room. I push the door open, just a teeny, tiny bit, and see her there. She’s splayed across the predictably flowered duvet, one pyjama-clad leg under and one leg hooked over, and her hair is a mass of tangles against the pillowcase. She’s still fast asleep, her eyelids moving slightly as she dreams, her lips open. She looks about ten years old, and my heart melts. Still my precious baby girl. Especially when she’s asleep.

Today, I promise myself as I head for the shower, is going to be a good day. It will be positive and exciting, and fulfilling. And I will do my very best not to end up in any ridiculous situations that give Lizzie the opportunity to document my downfall live and online.

Chapter 8

‘Mum!’ shouts Nate, as I am busily burning toast in the kitchen. ‘There’s a picture of a strange man in the downstairs loo!’

I frown, throw the irredeemably black slices into the bin, and go to see what all the fuss is about. I make a mental note to dash back in time to turn the new, improved toast over on the grill. Some cook I’m turning out to be – completely flummoxed by the lack of a toaster.

I knock politely on the toilet door, because despite the fact that I carried this small person in my own body for nine months, Nate has become quite private since his twelfth birthday. When I have time, I feel a little worried about it – he’s at that age where there is probably a lot of stuff going on with him; a lot of boy stuff, which he obviously doesn’t want to talk to me about. So I tread carefully, let him know I’m available and don’t barge into the bathroom.

He pulls open the door and points in something akin to wonder at a framed black-and-white photo that’s hanging on the wall over the cistern.

At that point, Lizzie also comes in, her hair doing the Macarena over her face, phone in hand as usual. Just to complete the set, Jimbo pokes his way through our legs, sniffing at the toilet rim and wagging his tail so hard he’s whacking the sides of my thighs like a carpet beater. It’s suddenly very crowded in the downstairs loo.

‘Who is it, and why’s he there? It feels weird having him watch me while I pee …’ says Nate.

I stare at the picture: at the long hair, the leather trousers and the arrogantly handsome face.

‘It’s Jim Morrison,’ I reply. ‘He’s from a band called the Doors, and they recorded a song called the “Hyacinth House”. I’d thought perhaps Becca was over-stretching to assume the cottage was named after it, but it looks like I was wrong …’

Lizzie pushes to the front of the crowd and gazes up at Jim. Poor dead Jim, one of the brightest stars of his time, now performing in front of an audience of three (four if you count the dog) in a very small lavatory.

She closes the wooden lid and climbs up on it, so her face is right next to the photo.

‘Nate!’ she says, passing him her phone. ‘Take a picture! This is so cool – Becca did me a playlist that had the Doors on it. That song about people being strange. Come on, Nate, I can’t stand on the bog all day. Take the bloody picture!’

She does that strange fish-like pout that seems to be a legal requirement of teenagers’ photos the world over these days, and Nate takes the picture.

‘Is that for your Instagram account?’ I say, as she clambers down from the toilet lid. There’s a brief pause, where she looks twitchy and nervous and then tries to hide it. Caught between being a little girl who doesn’t want to get into trouble with her mum and a rebellious teen who wants to stick two fingers up at me.

I remind myself of what Becca said and remind myself that she was right – Lizzie didn’t want to come here and I did, in fact, force her to. If the only thing she has power over is taking crazed selfies and embarrassing pictures of me, I can live with it – it’s a shedload better than an eating disorder, that’s for sure.

I’m interested to see which way she’ll go, and can almost hear the cogs turning in her brain. In the end, she just shrugs, face neutral – not apologising, but not being aggressive either. Clever girl.

‘Yeah. Is that all right?’ she asks. She obviously knows now that I’ve spoken to Becca, and may be feeling a little anxious about my next move. Carefully, I also maintain a neutral face. We’re both trying very hard to be Switzerland, here, which is perhaps the best we can hope for.

‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Apart from taking photos of people who aren’t in the family. Like Matt. If you do that, you ask their permission to share, okay? You can’t invade people’s privacy like that. It’s not respectful.’

She nods, agreeing to my terms, and I feel jubilant inside. Like I have negotiated a peace treaty that has ended all conflict in the Middle East, and should now be made the chairman of The Entire World.

‘Mum!’ shouts Nate, sniffing the air, ‘I think that toast is burning again …’

Aaagh, I think, dashing out of the toilet, tripping slightly over the dog’s arse and running towards the kitchen. Perhaps being chairman of The Entire World can wait until I’ve mastered turning bread brown without starting a fire.

I give up on the toast and we all eat cereal. Cherie has kindly left us a little welcome pack of butter, milk, coffee, a few other bits and bobs. Plus a giant box of Sugar Puffs, which is strangely enough the kids’ favourite – an excellent guess from the mysterious Mrs Moon. I scoff down a huge mug of black coffee, and Nate and Lizzie guzzle some orange juice before disappearing off upstairs to get dressed. We have a couple of hours before we need to be at the café and plan to go and explore.

Having failed to cover all the mirrors up the night before, I was forced to confront myself in the bathroom after my shower. That resulted in a hefty spray of Frizz-Ease before I dried my hair, and a very light application of some tinted moisturiser. As a result, I look almost presentable and am dressed in some khaki shorts and a green T-shirt, along with a pair of Birkenstock sandals that were probably in fashion several years ago.

I take the precaution of hooking Jimbo up on his lead as we head out, just in case he decides he’s a puppy again and does a runner, and he ambles alongside us, at a plodding pace I use as an excuse to go slowly myself.

We start with a stroll through the woods at the back of the house, which is a pretty magical place. The canopy of the trees is so dense that only a few rays of sunlight manage to creep through and dapple the mossy ground beneath our feet, and the only sound is birdcall and the bubbling of a nearby stream. It feels very isolated and mystical, almost as though we’re in our very own private rainforest, even though I know the cottages are only five minutes away.

We do a loop, following a circular footpath that’s dotted at all the junctions and forks with garden gnomes. Each gnome seems to be doing something different – fishing, clapping, playing what looks like a ukulele – and each one has a wooden sign next to it on a stick, bearing a few words of gnomish wisdom in colourful speech bubbles. One says ‘the path to the cottages’; another says ‘the way to the falls’. One is holding little binoculars, and his sign says ‘the trail to the distant coast’. An especially jaunty fellow wearing a red beret tells us to follow the ‘road to San Jose’, but I think that one might be a joke.

Nate and Lizzie are fascinated by it all. Honestly, it’s as though they’ve never seen trees before. Everything seems to take on huge significance – a giant fern still dripping with morning dew; the hollowed-out trunk of an oak big enough to squeeze inside; faded pink bunting hanging from overhead branches, as though someone has been having a party; a patch of wild mushrooms that Lizzie swears is the spitting image of David Cameron’s face.

Nate isn’t quite old enough to have totally developed his sense of cool yet, so seeing him running around isn’t as much of a surprise. He still plays football on the street and likes to go to the swings.

But seeing Lizzie let go of her teenage diva image for even a few moments is a complete and unexpected delight. She’s running and jumping and exploring, and taking photos of everything, and I don’t even care when she takes one of me as I lean down to scoop up one of Jimbo’s giant poos in a plastic bag. At least it shows I’m a responsible dog owner.

Eventually, we follow the advice of the fishing gnome and follow the path back to the cottages. The sunlight as we emerge from the deep-green shelter of the woods is quite dazzling and I turn my face up to the sky. I like the sun. It makes me feel better. I remind myself to make sure the kids get coated in suncream before we come out again, it’s that warm.

Our cottage is right next to the swimming pool. We peek through the windows of the pool and see that it is small but perfectly formed. There is already a family inside, the water is bobbing with inflatables, and the dad is pretending to be a shark, chasing screaming primary-age children around while the mum looks on and laughs.

They look really happy and I quickly walk away. I don’t want to feel jealous. I don’t want to feel like I’m missing out. Not today. Today, I want to feel thankful and hopeful and strong. I want to feel like Katy Perry in the Roar video, although I don’t share that image with the kids – they might actually die laughing.

‘Mum, look!’ says Lizzie, bounding back towards me, returning from her advance scouting party beyond the path. The pool and our cottage are the only buildings at the back of the complex, which is actually really nice. We’re not just here for a week on holiday, we’re here for ages, and the location means we’ll have more privacy. You know, for when we have all our wild parties.

I follow her down the path, and back through to the central lawn we saw when we arrived last night. It’s much prettier in daylight, with a big circular bedding area in the middle that’s full of luscious flowers; deep red dahlias, multi-coloured begonias, delicate sweet peas, the purple trumpets of petunias.

There’s a water feature in the middle, some kind of mock-Victorian affair that looks like a shower for fairies and elves, and pretty lilac clematis is trailing all around it. It’s the kind of effortless-looking gardening that actually takes a huge amount of effort.

I’m all right at gardening. Ours back home isn’t huge, and I gave up on a decent lawn years ago due to Nate’s incessant footballing and Jimbo’s pee patrols, but we have lovely borders and beautiful hanging baskets and a few trees that produce more apples and pears than we need every year.

David was always my slave labour, doing the weeding and digging and turning over and hefting bags of fertiliser around, while I was the evil mastermind. One of my more realistic ‘moving on with life’ plans was to get an allotment. It’s still a good idea – I’m just doing the ‘insane relocating to Dorset’ plan first.

‘What?’ I ask, failing to see what’s got Lizzie so excited. It certainly isn’t a nice clematis, I know that much. I glance around at the cottages circling the lawn. Some are much bigger than others, and the tiny ones look quite higgledy-piggledy, but they all have features in common. Each has a little path leading up to the door, each has a name plaque, and each has a beautiful hanging basket in a riot of colour.

‘This!’ she says, as she points frantically at one of the cottages. ‘Look at what it’s called!’

I squint slightly in the glare of the sun, and try and make out the writing on the slate plaque adorning the pale stone wall of the cottage.

‘Lilac Wine?’ I say, looking a question at her. It’s a weird name, but I’m not sure why it’s got her quite so bothered.

‘It’s a song, by Jeff Buckley!’ she says, snapping a photo of it. ‘We were listening to it in our music class. By lots of other people as well, but his is the best.’

She skips over to the adjoining cottage, bats away a few bees hovering around the hanging basket, and takes a photo of that one as well.

‘And this one,’ she says, ‘is called the Cactus Tree … don’t you think that’s odd, too?’

I nod. Because it is. Hyacinths and lilacs I get as names for Dorset cottages – but cactus? Not so much.

We stroll along, Lizzie and Nate exclaiming at the weird names of the cottages, her taking photos of each and obviously planning a long session on google at some point or another to solve the mystery. We pass Poison Ivy and the Laughing Apple and Cherry Blossom Road and then Mad About Saffron, which immediately strikes a chord with me.

‘I think I know that one!’ I squeal, obviously more infected with the excitement than I realise. And yes, obviously, I need to get out more.

‘What is it?’ squeaks Lizzie, bounding back towards me. Her hair is loose and wild and untainted by product, and it makes her look about five years younger. It’s only the eye liner that reminds me she’s a teenager at all.

‘Is it a band?’ she says, practically pogo-ing on one leg.

‘It’s a song, by … by …’

She looks at me expectantly, and I feel the pressure mounting. This is my chance to prove I’m cool, and I’m about to blow it. I start to hum the song, fragments of the chorus coming back to me. It was on an advert, I’m sure.

‘I’m just mad about Saffron …’ I sing, badly. I can’t remember the next line, so I go back to humming, and Lizzie is looking increasingly agitated as I fail to fulfil her quest for knowledge.

‘It’s … it’s.… oh, lord, I can’t quite get it! It’s there in my brain, just give me a minute! It’s by …’

‘Donovan,’ says a voice from behind us. ‘Mellow Yellow.’

I whirl around to see Matt, the man from last night. He’s wearing a pair of faded denim shorts with big pockets on the side, and no top. Again. He clearly doesn’t own many shirts.

He’s a bit sweaty, as though he’s been working, and I notice things about him I didn’t notice the night before. Like the fact that his brawny shoulders and back are really bronzed, as though he spends a lot of time outside. Like the tiny crinkles at the corners of his hazel eyes, and his very long lashes. Like the way the sun glints on the chestnut shades in his hair. Like the fact that he has really, really big hands.

My pulse rate speeds up slightly as I notice all of these things, and it takes me a while to identify the feeling. It’s called fancying someone, and it’s not happened to me for a very long time. This, I decide, is even weirder than the cottage names, and far more disconcerting.

I don’t know how to cope with fancying someone. I mean, I met David when I was in juniors. And of course I noticed attractive men after that – I was married, not comatose – but certainly not since David died.

It’s as though that part of me shut down at the same time he did. I’d not mourned it, or sought it out, or listened at all when various members of my family started to make subtle references to the fact that I was ‘still young’. I knew what that was code for, and it seemed like a completely absurd idea to me. As far as I was concerned, that aspect of my life was over.

I now feel more than a little freaked out, as I look at Matt, to realise that my libido at least isn’t entirely convinced that’s true. I also feel a twinge of guilt, for all sorts of complex and uncomfortable reasons, and dart my eyes away from him as quickly as possible.

‘That’s it!’ I say, turning back to Lizzie. ‘Donovan. Your granddad likes him. 60s stuff. So, we’ve got Donovan here, and we’ve got Jim Morrison and the Doors in our cottage. And Lilac Wine. So there’s a theme?’

Lizzie makes a slightly ‘duh’ face, and nods.

‘What’s the name of your holiday cottage?’ she asks Matt straight away.

‘Well, the cottage is called the Black Rose,’ he replies, wiping one hand across his forehead. He looks hot. And thirsty. I notice gardening gloves hanging out of one pocket, and use my laser-like detective skills to figure out that he’s the effortless gardener who actually puts in all the effort.

‘But it’s not a holiday cottage,’ he adds. ‘I live there permanently. Well I have for almost a year now. I was only supposed to be here for two weeks while I found somewhere else, but Cherie and I came to an agreement.’

‘Black Rose …’ she says, frowning, and starting to tap into her phone.

‘It’s a Thin Lizzy song,’ Matt replies, saving her the effort. She looks a little bewildered.

‘Rock band, mainly big in the 70s. All the cottages are named after songs or bands, you’re right. There’s Sugar Magnolia over there, which is a Grateful Dead song. Poison Ivy is the Rolling Stones. Laughing Apple, Cat Stevens. Cherry Blossom Road is Heart. Cactus Tree is Joni Mitchell. You might not have heard of them, but they were all well known. Cherie’s idea of a joke. Nobody quite knows if it’s true or not, but there are rumours that she was either in a band herself, or toured with one, or was Jimi Hendrix’s girlfriend … I’ve never asked.’

‘Why not?’ says Lizzie, clearly fascinated.

‘Because that’s her business,’ he replies.

That is clearly an alien concept to Lizzie. It also reminds me of another issue, and I’m about to raise the subject of the Instagram affair when she pre-empts me.

Lizzie often does this neat mind-reading trick that occasionally makes me think she’s psychic. Or more likely that I’m very predictable.

‘Matt,’ she says, smiling sweetly. ‘I was wondering if you’re okay with me using a picture of you in a kind of school project? I’m keeping a record of what I do over the summer in an online photo journal. It’s on Instagram, but hardly anybody will see it, honest. I have all the privacy settings on, so it’s only for friends and family.’

Well, I think, some family at least. I’m momentarily taken aback by her description of it as a school project, and wonder if that’s true, or if it’s something she’s fabricated to make it sound more respectable.

Matt is gazing at a spot about three feet to the left of my head. I resist the temptation to turn around and see what he’s looking it, as I am starting to realise that it’s simply something he does.

He has a very slight disconnect going on that I recognise as the sign of someone not wanting to get too involved in a conversation or a social situation. I deal with mine differently – I smile a lot and pretend I have to dash off to the school/shops/doctor/library – but I instinctively know we’re coming from the same place. A place of entrenched solitude.

‘I’m not sure what Instagram is,’ he says eventually. ‘But as long as it’s not something likely to go viral, or embarrass me, or upset anyone, then that’s fine. Are you going to the café today?’

He’s changed the subject quite quickly, but Lizzie takes it as a win, and says her thank yous before disappearing off to take more pictures.

Nate spots another lad of about the same age emerging from Cactus Tree, kicking a bright orange football around, and starts to edge in his direction. The siren call of sport. I know that within minutes, they’ll be setting up penalty shoot-outs and having keepy-up contests and firing each other headers to practice, without even knowing each other’s names. Sure enough, even as Iook on, the boy raises his eyebrows at Nate, who nods, and they’re off.

‘Yes,’ I reply, turning my attention back to Matt, but using his tactic of not quite making eye contact. I feel very slightly awkward now we’re alone, mainly because I have caught myself out having naughty thoughts about him.

I am both shocked at my own behaviour, and also a bit humiliated, as though he can tell and already feels repulsed at the very concept.

‘Yes, we’re going to the café. For lunch.’

‘Good,’ he says, nodding firmly. ‘Have a nice time, then.’

He turns, not exactly abruptly, but certainly without any preamble, and starts to walk away. I am caught unawares and find myself watching his backside as he strides off towards what I assume to be the Black Rose.

He stops, suddenly, and comes back towards me, as though he’s remembered something. Turns out he had, and I could have lived without it.

‘I found these,’ he said, digging his hand into one of his pockets. ‘While I was working on the lobelia in the borders. I think they’re yours.’

He hands a small, scrunched bundle to me, before nodding again and walking more briskly away, like he really means it this time. I open my clenched fist, already slightly sick about it.

If I was feeling humiliated before, nothing he could have found lurking in the lobelia could possibly be about to make it any better.

And most definitely not a pair of size-fourteen skin-tone tummy-control pants with an elasticated panel for holding in the wobbly bits.

Chapter 9

We hadn’t seen much of the landscape when we arrived, due to the failing light and the fact that I was mainly concentrating on finding the cottages and not killing us in the process. So we set off early, even though the café is only a few miles away from our new home, to explore.

We soon see that the area immediately around the Rockery – which now makes a lot more sense, given the cottages’ music-inspired names – is stunning. Breathtaking. Even Lizzie is forced to admit it’s pretty.

We drive carefully along criss-crossing one-car tracks and through stretched-out road-side hamlets, and through woods so dense the trees meet overhead, arching across the paths and holding hands above us.

We drive through rolling hills and wooded glades and open fields that stretch and tumble as far as the eye can see, in more shades of green than I ever knew existed. The roads twist and turn through the countryside, edged by gnarled tree trunks and vibrant hedgerows and quaint cottages with thatched roofs, looking like a living postcard.

We see birds of all kinds, from frantically darting tits and sparrows to soaring kestrels floating on the air currents overhead; we see scurrying squirrels and oceans of listless, sunbathing cows, and on one confusing occasion a small herd of llama. We see horses and sheep and signs that warn us of crossing deer and migrating toads.

We see so many different wild flowers, twined in the hedges, twisting around the tree trunks, swaying in meadows – some I recognise, some I don’t. We see farmhouses and small shops and just one garage that seems to sell nothing but petrol and spare tractor parts.

And eventually, as we flow downhill with the road, trickling towards the coast like a man-made stream, we see the sea.

Nate is captivated and screams with excitement. ‘First person to see the sea’ was always a travel game we played – when they were too little to know any better, we even used to play it when we were staying inland, which was cruel but had them glued to the windows in silence for hours at a time.

At first, this time, it doesn’t even look like the sea. It looks like a shimmering, shining turquoise blanket that’s fallen down from the hills, rippling in the gentle breeze. We see increasingly longer glimmers of it as we wind our way downhill, glimpsed between bends and buildings, a distant, sparkling mirage.

After an hour’s random driving and a steep last-minute descent, we’re here. We drive through the village – a long, thin strip of road edged with a combination of fancy and functional shops, a pharmacy, a post office and a Community Hall – and take the coastal road out of it again.

I see the car park Cherie has advised us to use and pull in, reminding myself that despite our long sightseeing cruise to get here, we’re only about three miles from the Rockery.