Sunshine at the Comfort Food Cafe: The most heartwarming and feel good novel of 2018!

The desk I remember, covered in what I now think was probably dismantled computer parts or reverse-engineered toasters, has gone. The swivel-chair the boy spun around in has gone. There’s nothing left here to tell me anything about the living, breathing children who once called this small place home.

I can feel the melancholy creeping back over me again, and shake it off. Nostalgia’s not what it used to be, and I’m probably not well-equipped to deal with thinking too closely about the past. I struggle enough to cope with the present.

I wander over to the window, preparing to open it like I did all the others, and stop dead. Hazily outlined through the grime, I see a person standing outside. He’s very still, looking up, probably thinking exactly the same thing as me: am I imagining this, or is there another human being out here in the land that time forgot?

I freeze for a moment, suddenly scared, and then use one of my cloths to wipe a circle of dirt from the window pane.

No, I’m not imagining it – it’s a man. A tall man with dark hair, and a bloody big dog. I wave at him, and he hesitantly waves back. He can probably only see one bit of my face, which must look weird.

The dog lets out a vast booming woof, and I hear Bella’s claws clattering on the floorboards in the hallway as she mobilises.

I follow her, fingering my mobile in my apron pocket for reassurance as I go. I generally don’t go through life assuming new people I meet are serial killers – but Briarwood has cast its unnerving spell, and it’s good to know I can communicate with the outside world if he suddenly wants to show me his stylish coat made of human skin.

I trot down the stairs, bundling up my bin bag as I go. Bella is ahead of me, her tail twitching in excitement. I am totally rocking the Cinderella look – face smeared with dirt, hair in a big mad pony, wearing a pinny that has a picture of King Kong on the front, odd socks popping out of the top of my Docs. Because life’s too short for worrying about your socks.

I emerge into the sunshine, and have to blink away the sudden blast of light that attacks my indoor eyeballs.

It’s been a surreal day. No sleep, domestic chaos, cleaning a haunted house, and now I’m standing out here, smiling at a man who definitely isn’t Edward Cullen.

Chapter 3 (#u7d00e978-47d7-5028-adb4-20b750c72190)

Obviously, I knew that. Edward Cullen is a fictional character. This man, I assume, is not.

He’s tall – a head higher than me, and I’m five-foot-ten – and he’s wearing faded Levis and a T-shirt with Godzilla on it. The old black-and-white Godzilla, not the less-scary CGI Godzillas of the current era. His feet are bare – life is obviously too short for worrying about socks for him as well – and shoved into a pair of well-worn Converse with trailing, untied laces.

His hair is shorn close to his head, like he’s either just left a super-secret post in the military or he knows from bitter experience that he’ll end up with a huge ’fro if he lets it grow out. It looks soft and dark, like moleskin, and I know that I might need to fight the urge to stroke it. Because that would be weird for us both.

He’s slender, but with broad shoulders and muscled arms that I’m guessing were created in a gym – he’s too pale to be an outdoorsman. Dark brown eyes, strong cheekbones and jaw, a nose that veers on the right side of Roman, a wide mouth. Beautiful, actually, in a you-could-use-him-as-a-sculpture-model kind of way. I see that the siren call of Budbury has resulted in yet another weird-but-well-built male responding to its pagan appeal.

‘Hi!’ I say, as I approach. For all I know he’s worried that I’m a serial killer too. My appearance can be a little alarming to people I catch unawares. ‘I’m Willow.’

He’s not really focused on me, I realise as I get closer – he’s staring at Bella, who has taken a few steps towards his dog, sniffed the air, and circled back to me. He has hold of his own pet’s collar, and is looking anxious about the whole situation.

‘Okay …’ he replies, nervously. ‘Any chance you could ask the dog to go back inside? Rick Grimes isn’t too keen on company.’

Rick Grimes looks like a cross between a Rottweiler and a German Shepherd, with a face like a teddy bear, a hugely muscled body and a weird black-and-tan ruffle of fur around his neck, like a lion’s mane. He’s tugging slightly at his owner’s hold, but not growling or snarling. Yet.

‘You named your dog after a character in a TV show about zombies?’ I ask, stepping in front of Bella protectively. I’m not overly worried – something about Bella gives off super-sexy vibes that generally ensure all male dogs adore her, the little tramp – but am ready to scoot her inside if I need to.

He looks up at me, and grins. It changes his whole face, and something inside me melts a little. Danger, danger – hot geek alert.

‘I did,’ he says, stroking Rick’s ears to soothe him as he talks. ‘Why? What’s your dog called?’

Hmmm. Fair question.

‘Erm … Bella Swan,’ I reply, feeling myself wilt a little. Not everybody gets the reference – but I am a hundred percent sure this guy will.

‘Ah,’ he says, his face creasing in amusement. ‘Yes. That’s a much more sensible name for a dog. If she had a puppy, would you call it Renesmee?’

‘Don’t be daft,’ I answer. ‘That’s a stupid name for a dog.’

‘Or a baby.’

‘Yes, or a baby. I don’t know what they were thinking … Rick Grimes looks like he’s calmed down a bit now. Do you want to risk an introduction? Honestly, Bella’s a bit of a femme fatale in the canine world. I’ve seen her tame the world’s snarliest beasts with just one look. And she can run really fast when she wants to.’

I see him go through the possible outcomes in his mind: Rick falls in love with Bella and they live happily ever after creating puppies that have better names than Renesmee; Rick sniffs Bella’s bum and they become BFFs 4 Eva; Rick tears Bella limb from fluffy limb and much carnage ensues.

In the end, Bella makes up his mind for him. Obviously sick of the stupid humans and their nonsense, she gets up and walks confidently towards Rick. She gives him a perfunctory sniff, and Rick quivers a little but endures it. Satisfied she now knows everything there is to know about him, Bella lies down, and curls up into a bored ball, one grey eyebrow raised at him in a provocatively nonchalant fashion.

This, I reckon, is where she always wins them over – with her sheer indifference. My friend Laura, from the café, has had two black Labs since I’ve known her. One, Jimbo, was a wonderful old gent who died not long after she moved here. Now, she has Midgebo, who is almost two but acts like a humungous puppy. Both dogs idolised Bella, while she simply pretends they don’t exist in her universe.

The man crouches down beside Rick, and tentatively lets his grip on his collar loosen just enough for him to reach Bella, but still keeping enough of a hold to drag him back if he goes all hell hound on her.

Predictably enough, Bella works her magic – and within seconds, this giant of a dog is her slave, licking her all over like he’s grooming her, before settling down next to her resting his enormous chin on her back. He closes his teddy bear eyes, and basically blisses out in the sunshine with his new crush.

‘Wow,’ Rick’s owner says. ‘I’ve never seen that before. If we’re out anywhere in public I usually have to muzzle him. He loves people, especially kids – he licks their heads like lollipops – but goes psycho on other dogs. This is a definite first. Thank you.’

He sounds extremely grateful, and I congratulate myself on having raised the dog version of Greta Garbo. I’ve learned to take small victories where I find them, in a life that sometimes feels full of whopping great defeats.

‘You’re welcome. Now that’s sorted – what’s your name?’

He stands up straight, and looks momentarily flustered, as he appears to really see me for the first time. The fluster turns into a frown as he takes in my appearance, and tries to figure it out.

‘Oh! Sorry. Got so caught up in dog world I forgot my human life skill lessons … I’m Tom. Tom Mulligan. I’m the proud new owner of this place …’

He gestures towards Briarwood, and it crosses my mind that he’s not much older than me – maybe thirty or so, if I had to guess. Even in its current state, this is a big house, sitting in a lot of land, and must have cost a decent whack. Maybe he’s a millionaire philanthropist playboy, or an internet mogul, or a Lottery winner.

‘Okay. Cool,’ I say, not inquiring further. I’m feeling nosy on the inside though – my brain is constantly jam-packed full of questions, but my own life is complicated enough that I’ve learned not to always ask them.

Everyone has their story – especially people who seem to wash up here on our little corner of the coast – but not everyone immediately wants to share them. Anyway, give him five minutes alone with Cherie and Laura, and they’ll have the lot out of him, pried from the depths of his soul by hook, crook and sticky buns. They’re like the Spanish Inquisition, with cans of squirty cream.

He’s staring at me quite intensely now, and clearly doesn’t have quite enough social grace to hide his curiosity. More and more I am starting to sense that he’s a man unused to much company, beyond himself and Rick Grimes.

‘Are you … working here?’ he asks, eventually, frowning.

‘I am. Giving the place a clean to make it spic and span before the new owner gets here. Or at least that was the plan.’

‘Right. Well, I hear the new owner’s a bit of a dick, and does things like turn up a week before he should, and camps out in the woods in a motorhome just so he can get used to the place …’

A motorhome. Well, that at least clears up some of the mystery of how and why he was skinny-dipping in the pond this morning. Not that he needs to know about that.

‘Your hair is a very, very bright shade of pink,’ he says, after a moment’s silence.

‘I know,’ I reply, fluffing up my pony tail with one hand. ‘Flamingo chic – it’s all the rage round here. Everyone in Budbury has bright pink hair.’

‘That’s not true, is it?’

‘Not even a tiny bit. Anyway … it’s been lovely to meet you, but I should probably get on. Those windows won’t clean themselves.’