‘You’ve done what?’ Paul said when Helen cycled home and told him she had got a job. ‘Why, though? We’re meant to be on holiday, remember. Relaxing!’
‘I know, but . . .’ She shrugged. ‘It’s something to do – that’s all.’
They were sitting in the back garden, having a barbecue. It still felt novel, having evenings to themselves, not to mention their own private garden. Of course there had been a beer garden at the pub, with wooden tables set out for punters in the summer months. But Helen and Paul were always too busy serving their customers to sit out there themselves.
‘I don’t get it,’ he said, turning the steaks with the tongs. The meat sizzled and spat. ‘I thought we had come here to chill out, not get jobs. Waitressing in a café! I mean . . . What’s that all about?’
‘I just felt lonely,’ Helen confessed. ‘There’s plenty for you to do here. You’re out every day. I didn’t know what to do with myself.’
Paul shook his head. ‘But Helen, I thought we wanted the same thing? I thought we came to Cornwall so that we could get away from all the stress and . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t need to. ‘You know.’
‘Yes. And I want that, too. You know I do. Look, it’s not going to be for long. The guy I spoke to – Ed – he was quite vague. His wife’s not well, or something. He said she was going to be out of action for a couple of months, so . . .’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
‘I’m not sure. He seemed a bit distracted.’ It had been a very quick interview, because the man seemed to be running the place on his own. Helen tried to remember the words he had used as they stood behind the counter chatting. Evie – my wife – will be off for a while. She’s at the doctor’s now, which is why I’m on my own at the moment. Oh, hello there, can I help you? Excuse me a minute, Helen.
Poor woman. ‘Off for a while’ – that sounded serious. No wonder Ed hadn’t wanted to go into details. Helen had seen her fair share of doctors, too. We can’t find any medical reason for the miscarriages, the last doctor had said, her eyes kind behind little gold-rimmed glasses. She had patted Helen awkwardly as she lay in the hospital bed, passing her a tissue when she couldn’t stop crying.
Paul still looked miffed, Helen noticed, as her thoughts came back to the present. ‘You should have said you felt lonely,’ he told her. ‘You said you liked pottering about on your own. I thought you were happy!’
‘I am happy,’ she said, although even she could hear the lack of conviction in her voice. ‘And the café closes at five most afternoons. We’ll still have nearly every evening together.’
He prodded the steaks again and didn’t reply immediately.
‘Sorry,’ she said after a moment. ‘I should have run it past you. I’m not doing very well at this seaside lifestyle, am I? With a bit of luck, once I’ve got to know a few people, I’ll be fine. And it’s a gorgeous little café. Gives me something to do. You know me – I like feeling useful.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘You just took me by surprise, that’s all. But if that’s what you want to do . . .’
She nodded. ‘I think it is,’ she said. ‘I’ll give it a go anyway.’
It was a beautiful cycle ride between Perracombe and Carrawen Bay, and Helen enjoyed her first commute to the café very much. This was more like it! No traffic jams. No stress. A bit of exercise, beach views, human contact . . . It was exactly what she needed. She walked into the café five minutes early for her first shift, only to stop dead in her tracks.
There, behind the counter, was a heavily pregnant woman with dark curly hair and an apron. Someone had written in red marker pen on the front of the apron, ‘NO! IT’S NOT TWINS!’
Helen’s heart gave a painful thump. Oh, no, she thought.
Her breath felt tight in her lungs. Maybe she should turn and walk straight out again? Jobs were easy come, easy go in the café industry, just like in the pub world. Nobody would care if she bailed out, surely? In a nice place like this, the job would be snapped up by someone else in a day or two. She was on the verge of an abrupt about-turn when the pregnant woman looked up and noticed her. ‘Oh! Hello. I don’t suppose you’re Helen, are you?’ she called.
Busted! ‘Yes,’ Helen said and stepped forward reluctantly. So that was what the chef-guy had meant about his wife being out of action. Not ill at all. Just pregnant. Typical of Helen’s luck! She never would have applied for the job if she had known. Nobody liked having their nose rubbed in it.
‘Nice to meet you,’ said the woman, although her smile seemed kind of fake, as if she didn’t mean a word of it. ‘I’m Evie. Let me get you an apron and I’ll show you around.’
She was drinking coffee, Helen noticed in disapproval. Everyone knew that pregnant women were meant to avoid coffee! It was like Leanne Carpenter all over again, she thought with a lurch of dread. And, goodness knows, she had already been there, done that, had the little chat with the stern-faced policeman . . .
She shook the memory away before it could sink its claws in. Don’t think about Leanne Carpenter. That’s in the past. Over.
She put on the apron and tried to listen while the woman – Evie – showed her how to work the coffee machine. Come on, Helen. You can do this. Get a grip. Move on.
But it was so unfair, she thought in the next moment, as grief and heartache burst up inside her. And it hurt so much! When would the pain be over?