Summer at the Comfort Food Cafe. Debbie Johnson
while also gazing into the pooch’s eyes and exercising some kind of Jedi mind-control trick that keeps him relatively still. For a few moments at least.
Jimbo suddenly darts forward to give the man’s face a very thorough tongue bath, then plops himself down at his feet. Within seconds, he’s snoring, curled up in an exhausted ball.
The dog whisperer stands up, holding on to the towel at his waist, although I have thankfully noticed the band of a pair of swimming trunks peeking out.
‘How old is he?’ the man asks, looking down at Jimbo, who is, I see, not lying at his feet – he’s actually lying on his feet.
‘Almost thirteen,’ I say, ‘and I’m so sorry.’
I am feeling suddenly very tired and very sad. The absurdity of my situation flashes across my mind: I have uprooted my children, myself and my very elderly dog on some kind of wild-goose chase, pursuing God knows what. Happiness? Progress? A break from the underlying misery that seems to have been wrapped around my heart every day since David died?
Well, whatever it is, I’m not pursuing it fast enough – all I’m finding is exhaustion, grumpy kids, senile dogs and a caffeine overload. That and chronic embarrassment as I apologise to a mostly naked man, in the dark, in a place I’ve never even visited before – a place I’ve unilaterally decided to make our home for the summer.
I clench my eyes together very, very tightly, squeezing back any watery signs of self pity that might be tempted to overflow, and force myself to look at the man instead of the dog.
I can only see bits of his face reflected in the silvery lighting, but he looks about my age. Maybe a little older, I’m not sure. His hair is definitely a bit too long, and will probably dry a lighter shade of brown once it’s not soggy. His eyes seem to be hazel or brown or green, I can’t really tell, and he’s not smiling.
He was smiling when he was playing with Jimbo. But now he’s not. Now he’s looking at me. I guess I just have that effect on tall, handsome strangers.
‘Are you all right?’ he asks, gruffly, frowning at me with such style and finesse that I instinctively know he frowns at least as much as he smiles. I suspect he’s one of those people who vastly prefers animals to people, and communicates much better with dogs than humans.
‘Oh, yes, thank you … just tired. We’ve been driving all day and now we’ve got to find our cottage and unload the roofbox, and I don’t know how I’m going to do that because I didn’t bring the foot stool and I’m too short, and the kids need some dinner and I need some coffee … well, probably wine, to be honest, and …’
I catch a glimpse of his expression as I ramble incoherently, and note that he looks slightly frightened. I realise I sound like a crazy person and as I have the kind of hair that expands in heat and I’ve been stuck in a hot car all day, I undoubtedly look like one too.
‘And yes, I’m fine, thank you,’ I say, firmly. ‘Do you happen to know where the Hyacinth House is? I have the keys.’
‘I can help you,’ he says, looking away from my eyes and gazing off into the distance. He sounds a little bit grumpy, a touch reluctant – as though he knows he should help, but doesn’t really want to engage.
‘No, I’m all right …’ I insist, wondering how I’m going to get Jimbo off his feet without appearing rude.
‘Let me help. I don’t have any wine, but I can help with the other thing.’
‘What?’ I ask, staring up at him in confusion. ‘You can help me stop being too short?’
Quick as a flash, a grin breaks out on his face and he lets out a laugh. It doesn’t last long and he seems to clamp down on it as soon as he can, like he’s not used to hearing the sound in public.
‘Sorry, no. I’m a vet, not a miracle worker. But I can unpack the roofbox for you. I’ll get dressed and come round. Hyacinth is just back there – next to the swimming pool. This is the nearest you can get the car, but I’ll help you unload. I assume you’re Laura?’
I feel a jolt of surprise that he knows who I am and also a jolt of a stubborn desire to continue insisting that I don’t need any help at all. I settle for just nodding and giving him a half-hearted smile as he extricates his bare feet from underneath the snoring dog’s tummy.
‘Thought so. In that case, if I know Cherie, she’ll have left wine in the cottage – so all your problems will be solved.’
Ha, I think, watching him disappear off up the path and noticing Lizzie still tapping away on her phone, face scrunched up in that very deliberate expression of vexed boredom that teenagers specialise in.
If only.
Hyacinth House is rustic and pretty, and filled with the aroma of home-baked bread and fresh, sugary confections. It smells so good, in fact, as I push open the heavy wooden door, that for a moment I think it’s been spritzed with one of those artificial scents that people use when they’re trying to sell their home. Not that I’m sure those artificial scents even exist, but if not, they should. Maybe I’ll invent them and make my fortune.
I flick on the lights in the hallway and then the living room. Actually, I realise, as I take it all in, it’s one big open-plan room, really, in an L-shape. The little leg of the L is the kitchen and the big leg of the L is long but cosy and has a dining table at one end, and squishy-looking sofas and a TV at the other end.
There’s a lot of exposed brick and wooden beams peeking out of the low ceiling and a big stone fireplace that we’re unlikely to use in this weather unless we decide to do some hot yoga.
The interior design runs very much to the chintzy end of the style spectrum, with swirling floral patterns on the sofas and the throws that are on the sofas, the curtains and the lamp shades, and pretty much every available soft-furnishing surface.
The dining table is vast and battered and made from what looks like oak; it’s solid and scarred and seems like it’s led an interesting life. It’s also bearing a big tray of delicious-looking cupcakes, all iced in different rainbow colours, and a huge seed-topped loaf that has the slightly wonky look of something home-made.
There’s also a big bunch of wildflowers in a glass vase, and yes – praise the Lord! – a bottle of wine. Looks like it has a home-made label, so it is probably intensely organic and will get me very drunk, very quickly. Excellent.
Propped against it is a little note, which I pick up and read as I hear the kids stomping their way through. Nate heads immediately for the cupcakes, drawn like a moth to a fattening flame.
‘Who’s that from?’ asks Lizzie, also reaching out for a cake. She’s become disgustingly figure-conscious over the last few months and I count a day of her eating McDonald’s and cupcakes as a positive, weirdly enough.
‘It’s from Cherie,’ I say, ‘you know, the – ‘
‘The woman who was bonkers enough to give you a job?’ she finishes. That obviously wasn’t what I was going to say, but she kind of has a point. I don’t answer, choosing to remain dignified and aloof.
‘Don’t do your ‘who’s farted?’ face, Mum, you know what I mean!’
Apparently my dignified and aloof needs a little work, so I shove a whole cupcake in my mouth instead.
‘I mean,’ Lizzie continues, ‘that it’s all a bit weird, isn’t it? She’s never even met you. I didn’t mean it as an insult – you’re, you know, pretty good. At cooking. I’m sure you’ll be all right at working in a café. I just wish you’d found one a bit …’
‘Closer to home,’ supplies Nate, helpfully. ‘I think it took Matt Damon less time to get