Christmas at the Comfort Food Cafe

I recognise the picture. It was taken the year I caused a scene because I didn’t get Mutant Turtle toys from Santa. Originally, it would have been of both me and Laura – her smiling like a perfect angel, of course, the bringer of joy. Next to her, I look like Satan’s favourite stepchild, my face a picture of absolute misery. Seriously, it’s a face that only a mother could love – and I’m not entirely sure my attitude at this time of year has improved very much at all.

I nod in recognition and announce, in a kind of Gandalf the Grey Setting Off to Mordor voice: ‘I shall accept this sacred mission. Onward, to the top of the tree!’

I clamber up onto the dining table, realising once I’m up there that I can’t stand straight or I’ll bonk my bonce on the beams, and do a crab-like shuffle until I am perfectly positioned next to the enormo-tree.

I ceremoniously place the hideous me-fairy on the very top spikey bit, and manage to get down again without killing myself. This earns me a round of applause, and, joy of joys, a couple more party poppers get sprayed into my hair.

‘Now, we can’t wait to show you the rest of the cottage!’ says Lizzie, enthusiastically. ‘Everywhere is decorated – especially your room! That’s the best of all!’

‘Oh goody,’ I respond, not even attempting to sound genuine now. The swines are doing this on purpose. ‘I can barely wait.’

‘Actually,’ adds Laura, absently reaching out and picking random stuff out of my hair in a borderline invasive way that reminds me one hundred per cent of my own mother, ‘we have a bit of a surprise for you on that front. Call it an early Christmas present, if you like.’

‘Okay,’ I reply, moving back a few steps to stop her fiddling. She immediately realises what she was doing and grins in apology. ‘Hit me with it. Inflatable Santa in the bed? Live donkey by my manger? ‘Now That’s What I Call Christmas’ 108 piped direct into my room through invisible speakers?’

‘None of that,’ says Laura, ‘though they are all excellent suggestions, and I’ll tuck them away for future use. No, the early Christmas present is a bit simpler than that – it’s a place of your own to stay while you’re in Dorset.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask, frowning in confusion. The plan was always that I would stay in Nate’s room and he would bunk in with Lizzie on a camp bed, sofa-surfing if she tried to kill him in his sleep.

‘I mean your own flat. Des res, great location, magnificent sea views, and best of all, a totally Christmas-free zone…’

‘Cherie’s apartment!’ trills Lizzie, bopping up and down in anticipation.

I give her a sideways glance, wondering what’s so exciting about Cherie’s apartment. Possibly, I think, given Cherie’s colourful past, it comes complete with a life-size stone circle and a set of bongs carved from parsnips.

‘It’s the best place in the world and you’re going to love it,’ Lizzie says. I’m not sure if I should be upset that she’s so keen to get rid of me, but understand a little better when she adds: ‘And, you know, I’ll be able to stay with you sometimes. Away from irritating brothers and mums who try and make me eat broccoli. And…well, it’s right by Josh’s house, and…’

‘She gets the picture,’ interrupts Laura, giving Lizzie a shut-your-trap-little-miss look. It works, and Lizzie is immediately silent. Josh is the boyfriend, in case you wondered.

Laura turns to me and smiles, her eyes amused at what must be a pretty befuddled expression on my face.

‘So, I’ve come all this way to see you guys and you’re kicking me out already?’ I say, half-joking.

‘Not at all. You’re more than welcome to stay in Hyacinth, of course you are. But… well, the offer is there. Cherie is finally – finally! – ready to admit defeat and stay with Frank, at least until the night before the wedding, and she offered. Said she didn’t want her little Moroccan boudoir to feel all neglected.’

I grin at that description. It does sound brilliant. Straight away I can picture it: a little attic hideaway, all silk cushions and joss sticks and bowls of figs…

‘I thought,’ says Laura, walking through to the kitchen, dodging low-flying angels as she goes, ‘that it might be nice. I know you’re going to love it here, but I know you’ll love it even more if you have your own space.’

I look around, at the tree and the streamers and the plastic holly and the big, battered sofa that’s covered in floral fabric and placed strategically in front of the TV. I imagine us all, crammed in here, sharing this space, breathing this air, inhaling this tinsel, being force-fed sickly festive movies about angels’ wings and miracles, while I slowly die inside.

If I have my own space, at least I can watch Bad Santa without worrying that it’s too rude for the kids to see. If I have my own space, I can declare war on Christmas. If I have my own space, I can stretch out and walk round in my knickers and not bother washing the dishes until I’m good and ready.

If I have my own space, I can stay just about in control – surely the greatest Christmas gift of all?

‘You’re right,’ I say, nodding. ‘I would love that.’

‘Good,’ she replies, opening the oven and pulling out a huge, steaming pizza. ‘But tonight, you’re stuck with us – and guess what? We’ve got Elf on DVD…’

Chapter 5 (#ulink_7e690f38-4f9d-5baa-99f3-42be5e549334)

I am being crushed. I cannot breathe. I am gulping for my last ever lungful of oxygen before I depart this earth.

Then, suddenly, it is over – and I am free. Free from the powerful embrace of Cherie Moon, proprietor of the Comfort Food Café; owner of the Rockery, and proud purveyor of the most punishing hugs in Britain.

It is the morning after my arrival in Dorset and I am exhausted. This is a completely normal state of affairs for me in the morning. No matter how physically tired I am, my brain refuses to switch off, and I spend at least two hours every night lying awake telling myself I’m being stupid.

Telling myself to just relax. Telling myself that I need to rest, to set aside my worries, to allow my busy mind to be at peace. Counting sheep, imagining Gerard Butler naked, spending my fictional lottery winnings, anything at all other than lie there awake, worrying about the very fact that I am still awake.

But if you’ve ever suffered from insomnia, you’ll know it’s not that easy. The minutes turn into hours and the hours feel like days, and soon you start to yearn for the first sight of dawn creeping through the curtains. Then you can finally give up on your pathetic efforts and get out of bed, crawling from the duvet, grey and haggard, limping down the stairs to seek coffee like Gollum searching for his ring.

This morning, when I limped down the stairs, it was made even worse by the fact that I was in a strange place, kept banging my head on dangling angels and reindeers and had to sip my coffee while being mocked by the world’s biggest Christmas tree.

By the time the others finally started to straggle back into consciousness, I’d been up for two hours, fiddling with my laptop and pretending to work.

I’m a freelance designer, which sounds a lot cooler that it is. I’m not coming up with cutting edge bathroom storage devices for Ikea, or creating the latest catwalk looks for Paris – I’m usually trying to produce bright, clear and attractive marketing materials for housing associations, charities and hospitals.

You know the kind of thing – that leaflet that tells you what to do if you can’t pay your rent on time; or what services the Patient Liaison Panel provides, or how doing a charity hike across the Pennines can help people with cancer. One day, I might even get to throw caution to the wind and indulge in something like a holiday brochure or a theatre programme, who knows?

What it lacks in excitement it makes up for in flexibility. I get to be my own manager, don’t always have to work in an office full of people I don’t like, and usually avoid the routine of pointless meetings and bitching sessions by the water fountain. Plus I get to be creative, in however limited a way.

It also means that I get to come away and stay in Dorset for a month without worrying about getting my leave signed off by a control-freak boss – because I am my very own control-freak boss. I’ve brought a few projects with me, but am not too worried about them – at this time of year, I’ve noticed, pretty much everyone goes quiet. Everyone becomes unofficially focused on the festive season rather than work, and projects, deadlines and delivery dates sneakily get pushed back to the New Year.

It usually drives me nuts – but this year? Well, I’m down with it.

I’m also down with being here, in the famous Comfort Food Café, now that Cherie has finally released me from her death grip and my face is no longer squished into her humungous chest.

We drove over here together and Lizzie, Nate and Laura were all three completely pipping with excitement about it. I have to admit, there was some pressure – the pressure of their obvious love for the place; the pressure of their anticipation that I’d totally share their love; the pressure to be as gah gah about the café as they are.

Me? I’m not especially good with pressure. With doing what’s expected of me, or acting appropriately, or basically doing what I know I should be doing. I have a contrary streak bigger than Kim Kardashian’s arse, and it sometimes gets in the way of what should be perfectly normal, pleasant situations.

So I was borderline anxious as we made the trek up the hill, pausing to admire the views on the way. The views, I have to say, did not disappoint in any way. Even without the sunshine, they are stunning – red and brown cliff faces sinking down onto golden sand; churning grey and white waves splashing onto the beach, the distant outline of the coast as it curves into Devon. Beautiful, even to a cynical old city girl like myself. I can imagine it all coated in snow, if the snow ever grows a pair of balls and gets to the sticking point. It’s going to be beautiful.

I paused to take a few pictures, even though my niece was literally pulling me up the path by the hood of my fleece, half-strangling me in her eagerness to reach the café.

When we finally got there – because, of course, after that, I had to insist on stopping every few seconds to take more pictures, just to childishly assert my independence – I was slightly out of puff, and slightly wary about what I was going to find at the summit.

We walked beneath the pretty wrought-iron sign that announced we’d reached our destination, and out into the Garden at the Edge of the World. Or at least the garden on top of a very steep hill, overlooking a pretty dramatic coastline.

The ground of the café garden is uneven, with picnic-style tables and benches dotted around on the slopes. I can imagine it’s packed out here in the summer, but this morning it was deserted, the faded grass and the wooden table tops dusted with frost, glistening in the pale sunlight.

I saw a few upright patio heaters nearer to the main café building, standing between more tables and chairs, and rows of fairy lights draped along the roof. A gazebo has been set up, which I know from Laura’s updates has been approved as a ‘licensed garden structure’, which will allow weddings to take place. Specifically, Frank and Cherie’s wedding. They got together officially on the night of his eightieth, and have moved fast – but I suppose at their age, you might as well.

It’s all incredibly pretty, and not a big stretch to picture this place lit up and luminous, with groups of friends huddled beneath the heaters, mittened hands wrapped around steaming glasses of warm mulled wine. All chattering and laughing and bursting into spontaneous renditions of ‘Jingle Bells’ while they admire each other’s Christmas jumpers.

That was way too festive an image for my liking, so I shook it off, and instead followed the troops into the café. The building itself was low and sprawling, and looked as though it was perched right on the cliff’s edge.

Lizzie pretty much barrelled her way into the place, so confident and sure of her place in this world, and I had a moment of such fierce pride that I wanted to go and hug her and tell her I loved her right there and then. She’s gorgeous, my lovely niece – blonde hair and big green eyes and a borderline Goth approach to eyeliner. She always was gorgeous, but now she’s happy again, it shows even more.