The Café in Fir Tree Park. Katey Lovell
I smile and nod towards the cake on the counter in case it’s been overshadowed by the jewellery. The cakes are the showstoppers at The Lake House Café.
“And naturally there’s a sweet treat too. If you want cake for breakfast then that’s fine by me – your day, your rules – or if you’d rather take it home to share with your family that’s perfectly okay too. I can easily box it up.”
Fern looks genuinely moved by all the fuss. She’s been graciously in the background for so long that it’s almost as though she’s forgotten how it feels to be the centre of attention.
“Thank you,” she manages, finally regaining her composure. She shakes her head in disbelief. “I’ll have a slice in a minute.”
“You’re more than welcome,” I assure her, placing my hand on her arm. “You’ve been such an asset to the café and more than that, you’re a good friend to me too, and to Kelly.” I take a deep breath before talking again. I need to choose my words carefully. “She told me everything last night, you know, about how her and Luke have been seeing each other in secret because your mum and dad can’t handle the fact she’s had girlfriends in the past.”
Fern gasps.
“I’ve got to admit that hurt me, to think my daughter can’t be open about her relationships, not even with me, because of other people’s prejudice. It’s hard to accept, especially as her sexuality has never, ever been an issue to me. But she also told me how supportive you’ve been of her and Luke’s relationship even when your parents have disapproved, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that, Fern. You’re a good friend and a wonderful sister, and now more than ever the pair of them are going to be grateful for having you on their side.”
I’d been shocked when my daughter had broken down yesterday evening, initially thinking it was the exhaustion of her self-imposed revision timetable causing her to go into meltdown. It turns out it was good old-fashioned matters of the heart, and we’d both struggled to keep our emotions in check as she poured out her feelings. I’d been tempted to go round and give Mr and Mrs Hart a piece of my mind, tell them how Kelly’s an amazing girl. How her past relationships are none of their bloody business and have no bearing whatsoever on the love she has for Luke. I’d only restrained myself because of the enormous stress they’re under right now, although Kelly had looked wary when she’d seen me cracking my knuckles as though preparing to go to battle. If it hadn’t been for Luke I’d have gone round all guns blazing.
“Things are different now I know they’re together. It explains a lot about how erratically Kelly’s been behaving. She hates not being able to go to the hospital to visit, but she told me you’d been keeping her in the loop. She’s lucky to have a friend like you, Fern. We all are. Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
Fern fans her hands in front of her eyes, her lips pursed tightly together as she struggles to hold back tears.
“I’m so sorry for my parents,” she says. “They’re not bad people, they just don’t understand.” She examines the necklace once more, draping the disc over her fingers. “Can you help me put this on? I struggle when they’ve got fiddly clasps. I’m such a butterfingers.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” I jest, before gladly fixing the necklace around Fern’s neck. When she turns to face me, hands outstretched in front of her as though inviting opinion, I nod my approval. “It looks lovely.”
“Whoever bought it must have had exceptionally good taste,” Fern teases back, and in that one moment she looks more carefree than she has in the past fortnight. It’s lovely to see, and I wish I had a camera to capture a picture of her happiness in what has been a difficult time. “Speaking of taste, let’s get a knife and make a start on that cake. It looks scrumptious. In fact, almost too good to eat.”
I tut with modesty as I retrieve a knife from the drawer, a smart silver blade with an ornate handle that’s saved for special occasions. I hand it to Fern.
“You do the honours, birthday girl.”
Fern giggles. As I give a solitary and somewhat off-key rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’, she pushes the knife into the airy sponge. I’m not sure if it’s my bum notes or that she’s had her fill of time in the spotlight, but I notice her catch sight of the clock hanging on the far wall amid a multitude of dangling, lilac-coloured heart decorations. “We should have opened up already!” she exclaims.
“No one’s banging the door down, so I’m sure it’s fine,” I assure her. “Stop worrying. Now, let me have a tiny taste of that cake before we open that door…”
The slice she hands me is enormous, but I don’t complain. Just this once, the punters can wait.
My heart’s pounding in my chest and my mouth is uncomfortably full of saliva. My bedraggled hair’s sticking to the sweat on my face and neck too, and that’s not to mention the unpleasant sticky sensation under my armpits. Every part of me feels grimy. No wonder everyone I passed on my last lap of the park kept a wide berth. I must look like some kind of wild beast, a freakishly unkempt animal that’s escaped from the circus or something. Ick.
I thought I’d be finding this running malarkey easier by now. That once I’d got past the first few horrific runs it’d suddenly fall into place and I’d be like a victorious athlete heading into the stadium at the end of a marathon – tired from the physical exertion, but with that athletic glow and built-in grit that compels the naturally sporty to push themselves until the bitter end. In reality I’m a hot mess of sweaty exhaustion. Whoever made up that crap about women ‘glowing’ rather than sweating obviously never saw me doing laps around the park when it’s already scorching hot.
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