A Wedding at the Comfort Food Cafe

She nods, and reaches out over her stomach to pat my knee in thanks.

‘I’m grateful. Thank you, Auburn. I think I’m mainly just a bit sick of myself, to be honest. I have babies on the way, and the wedding, and so much is changing and happening around me, while I’m forced to sit still and be a good little pregnant girl. I’m thrilled I’m getting married, but I am starting to wonder what possessed us to do it before the twins arrived … anyway. Enough. I’m bored with it all. Please, please, please – talk to me about something that isn’t related to my uterus or my wedding!’

I suck the sweet into one corner of my mouth, and ponder that one.

‘World politics?’ I suggest. ‘The economic crisis in Asia?’

‘Is there an economic crisis in Asia?’

‘I have no idea. Probably. Football? Brexit? Prince Harry and Meghan Markle?’

She goes a little bit gooey-eyed at the last one, and I remember how much she’d cried during the wedding service. Cherie rigged up a big screen at the café, and we all drank Pimms and ate cucumber sandwiches and oohed and aahed at the stars and the frocks.

‘Well, I do love to chat about those two,’ she confesses, ‘and of course I’m fascinated by global economics. But … no. Tell me about you. What’s going on with you? How’s Lynnie? How are things with Finn? He’s delicious …’

She gazes off into the middle distance, and lapses into what I can only assume is some kind of trance-like state inspired by the sheer beauty of my boyfriend. Not that her Matt is any slouch – he’s gorgeous in a young Harrison Ford kind of way, and I’ve seen them snogging up a storm on the dancefloor before now.

‘Is it … you know, good? The private stuff?’

She blushes as she asks this, and the very fact that she calls it ‘private stuff’ but goes ahead and asks anyway is very typical Laura behaviour. Her nosiness overrides her better judgement, bless her. She’s probably not feeling at her most agile or sexy or attractive right now, and a bit of vicarious pleasure never did any of us any harm.

I’ve noticed that Laura always appreciates a good-looking man. I mean, we all do – but with her it’s only window shopping. From what I’ve gathered, there have only been two men in her whole life, and both were marriage material. She’s the opposite of me – I’ve had lots of men in my life, and none of them have been marriage material. Even the one I married.

‘It is good, yes,’ I reply, before she can explode with embarrassment and make a mess all over the sofa. ‘A bit wowzers in fact. But it’s also good in the not private stuff. It’s good just hanging out with him too. And he … well, he puts up with me. What more could I want?’

‘Nothing!’ she replies enthusiastically. ‘Absolutely nothing! People take this for granted all the time – the way you can meet someone, and how exciting that is. Falling in love, and staying in love, growing together … they don’t seem to realise that it’s a kind of small miracle. So if that’s what you’ve found, Auburn, then grab hold of it as hard as you can – because life has a way of sneaking up on and messing things up when you least expect it.’

I know that’s what happened to Laura. David died after a fall off a ladder in their garden. A mundane death for the man who had been, until Matt, the love of her life. We’ve all seen my mum’s former self and former life smashed to pieces by illness. Zoe moved to Budbury with Martha because Martha’s mum, Zoe’s best friend, passed away from breast cancer. Life can, indeed, be a bastard.

I also know this, and am aware of how smooth things are at the moment. I have a job I enjoy, friends I love, family, good physical health despite my best efforts, and a wonderful man.

Because of the way my brain seems to be hard-wired, though, a list like that doesn’t make me count my blessings and do a little jig – it makes me anxious. The fact I have such a lot right now means there is a lot that can be taken away from me.

When I was younger, I used to keep diaries. I found them again when I moved home, hidden behind a piece of the skirting board I’d carved out of the bedroom wall. There was a pattern in those diaries, as well as a lot of Younger Self whinging. The pattern seemed to be that whenever I allowed myself to feel content, things went wrong.

Like, I was going out with Jason Llewellyn, after mooning over him for months. I was nervous and twitchy, convinced that he’d find some girl he liked better and break my heart. Then right after Valentine’s Day, when he gave me one of those lockets with one part of a love heart on them, I started to relax and plan our wedding.

Two days after that, I found him behind the bike sheds with his tongue down Lynette McCreedy’s throat. This was a pattern that repeated itself over and over again – about school, about friendships, about the bonkers state of my family. Every time I dared to let myself feel happy, something went wrong. I even had a name for it – ‘Diary Irony’.

I know now, as an adult, that it’s silly – but I can’t quite shake it off. I have too much. I don’t deserve it. Some disaster is looming on the horizon. And it’s kind of exhausting, feeling that way.

I realise that Laura is staring at me as I gaze into space, and drag myself back into the present.

‘I always feel like life is about to sneak up on me,’ I say quietly. ‘Which very often gets in the way of living it.’

She sucks her sweet, ponders this, and replies: ‘I know what you mean. If you have some bad stuff happen to you, it can be crippling. It makes you so anxious you lose your ability to breathe. I was like that, the first summer I was here. I was halfway back to Manchester, willing to give it all up – Budbury, the café, Matt – because I was so scared of giving it a go.’

‘What changed your mind?’

‘My kids,’ she says, shrugging. ‘They were far more sensible than I was, and convinced me to turn the car around. Best decision I ever made, though I might not admit that when I’m on my way to the loo for the fiftieth time in a day. What are you worried about? Is it Finn?’

‘Kind of,’ I admit, nodding. ‘All of it, really. Living here, feeling so settled. Being back with my family, even though the circumstances aren’t ideal. And yes, Finn. You heard what I said in the café the other day, about being married …’

‘I think I vaguely remember something along those lines,’ she replies, smiling.

‘Well, it’s a complicated story, and not one I’m getting into now – but it’s stuff like that. Things I need to talk to people about, even though I don’t want to. For years I’ve lived alone, and none of it mattered. Now, I have people who matter to me – people who deserve some honesty.’

‘Surely it’s not that bad, though?’ she asks, eyebrows raised. ‘I mean, Finn doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who would judge you, or walk away from this without good reason. He’s too … what’s the phrase? Emotionally intelligent! And if you switch roles with him, is there much he could tell you about his past that would upset you enough to finish things?’

Finn, of course, does have a past. A very messy relationship. Conflict with his parents. Screwing up his career aspirations because of all of that. It’s not like he arrived at my doorstep fresh out of the box, free from hang-ups. The difference is that he always seems very self-aware about it– he’s a much more evolved human being than me, I suppose.

‘You’re right,’ I say, eventually. ‘And none of this is his fault. I’m just a disaster area.’

‘I suspect he knows that already, Auburn. So, whatever it is, you should talk to him about it. And if there’s a problem, you should try and fix it. Show him that you’re serious about making things work.’

I wonder how I could do that. Maybe I could get him one of those love heart lockets. Or dress up like a French maid. Or write him a poem.

‘You could always,’ says Laura, interrupting my flow of thought, ‘do something practical.’

‘Like what?’ I ask.

‘Like get a divorce?’

Chapter 6 (#u3bef74a5-1d94-5964-b984-19eddb0c3cce)

I’m not the best at being sensible, or doing paperwork, or generally behaving like a grown-up. Whatever elements of those things I do possess, I need to use for my work, and for my mum. For those two, I have to be good – I have to keep up to date on appointments, and qualifications, and news, and fill in forms, and respond to queries.

In my own life, though, there is something of a more relaxed attitude. Like I have no idea where my birth certificate is, and I don’t have a lawyer, and I’m not registered with a dentist, and I keep all my important papers crammed into a plastic carrier bag so old it’s starting to disintegrate. I’ve even let my passport expire – although I think that might be accidentally on purpose, to remove the temptation to ever do a runner.

None of this helps when attempting to navigate a tricky legal situation involving ending a marriage carried out in a foreign country. Luckily, what I do have is Tom – Willow’s boyf and the owner of Briarwood.

Tom is a tech geek, and it was him who tracked me and Van down last year so Willow could tell us about Lynnie’s situation. He’s quiet and shy until you know him, super clever, and absolutely 100 per cent the shizz when it comes to stuff like this.

With his help, I take the first steps towards doing something I should have done years ago – getting out of a long-dead marriage. He helps me find out what I need to do, and he sets me up with a solicitor to help me do it, and he basically stands over me until I’ve started the first raft of paperwork.

When it’s done – when those first tentative steps are taken – I feel really weird. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d buried the whole thing. I’d trained myself not to give it much head space – because, given half a chance, Seb and my time with him would sneak right into that head space, and take it over, like some evil alien virus in a space station lab.

Don’t get me wrong, I think about him every day. But I’ve developed the astonishing ability to derail that particular train of thought every single time it appears on the tracks. It’s one of the reasons why I’m so twitchy all the time – I’m never still, and I know it drives people mad. I’m always biting my nails or tapping my toes or smoking or waving my hands or moving around in some way.

It’s like I’m entirely made of nervous tics and mental self-defence mechanisms that allow me to function, and the way they show up to the outside world is through this constant jigging about.

After Tom has helped me, after I’m forced to re-engage with the whole thing, I feel some kind of strange meltdown going on inside me. It’s like all my internal organs and my brain start to liquefy. I can barely move, or think, or do anything other than lie on my bed in the cottage I share with Lynnie and Willow and Van, and stare at the ceiling.

I don’t suppose it helps that I’m staring at a ceiling I’m already familiar with, in the cottage where I spent most of my childhood. It’s like I’ve come full circle, and everything in between leaving here in my late teens and being back in my early thirties never happened. Like there’s this whole part of my life that I maybe dreamt, or imagined, or read in a book.

After almost an hour of tossing and turning and kicking the duvet and running a marathon while stationary, I glance at my phone, and see that it’s just after 8p.m. Not late enough to go to sleep, even if I was capable of shutting down my brain long enough for that to happen.

I chew my lip for a minute to fill in time, and allow myself a moment to rethink, before calling Finn. When he answers, I can hear whooping and cheering in the background.