Saturday, 17th December
At The Surf Shack Café: Dark chocolate chips and flashing decorations
Hi Sera, Alice’s best man here, heading for the Surf Shack Cafe at 10. See you there :)
Texting? In St Aidan? I hope this best man – whoever he is – knows he’s damned lucky that message arrived. Signal here is patchy. To be honest, in most parts smoke signals would be more reliable than a mobile.
Unless they’re Cornwall devotees, most Londoners don’t have a clue what it’s like down here. When they arrive for the wedding, Alice’s friends are going to have their eyes opened, big time. It’s like the rest of the world used to be, in the days before technology. Locals scratch their heads over Wi-Fi, and give you blank looks if you mention broadband. Why would you want those when you can phone each other on the landline? Or – shock horror – talk, face to face. For me that’s why I like it here. As for where Best Man has chosen to meet up, I couldn’t have chosen better myself.
‘So here we go.’ I pull a face at Poppy, as we pick our way between the empty tables on the terrace deck of the Surf Shack Café. Poppy’s the cake baker from the shop, who just came back from London, and one of my closest friends.
‘You’ll be fine, so long as you remember to breathe,’ she says, making a good point.
Now I think about it, the last time I drew a breath was when we started walking along the sea front. When Poppy dropped in to pick up some baking trays from her attic kitchen, Jess muscled in, and sent her along with me, supposedly to make sure I don’t chicken out and leg it down the beach. But this way Jess also gets a full report immediately Poppy gets back to the shop.
Unlike many of the beachside cafés which bear no resemblance to their names, the Surf Shack cabin is as rickety and weathered as it sounds, which is why everyone likes it. Add in excellent coffee, delectable cocoa and the fattest sandwiches on the bay, and you’ll see why it’s such a winner. What’s more, it appears to have been knocked together from a thousand random bits of wood. Sometime most days, winter and summer, this is where I hang out. And while Poppy’s been in London this is also where most of my calorie intake has come from.
On the dot of nine-thirty I shoot her a final grimace and brace myself. As we push through the swing door into the café, we’re hit by a rush of warm air and the scent of fresh coffee. The owner, Brin, is grinning at me from behind a spikey electric-blue Christmas tree, perched on the counter.
‘Mornin’ Sera. Nice to see you back, Poppy,’ he says, as he rubs his hands on his striped apron. ‘Frothy hot chocolate, XXL, with dark chocolate sprinkles and a swirl of salted caramel?’
‘Please.’ I glance up at the glittery festive garlands that are criss-crossing the ceiling. That’s my usual winter order. It takes at least twenty minutes to do justice to a Surf Shack hot chocolate, so the timing should be perfect. The mugs they come in are bucket-size, and the toppings aren’t so much sprinkled on as added by the shovelful. ‘What about you, Poppy?’
She wrinkles her nose as she studies the list on the chalk board.
‘Hot chocolate… super-sized please… with whipped cream… and marshmallows… and white chocolate chips… and a double chocolate muffin please.’ She gives a guilty grin. ‘Rafe cooked me breakfast, but that was hours ago. And I’ve so missed the Surf Shack.’
‘Have these on the house today, ladies, seeing as it’s Christmas.’
I blow Brin an air kiss as we wander off to choose a table.
Poppy nods towards a table with its own mini Christmas tree, complete with flashing lights, then steers me towards a chair. ‘This one’s good, if you sit there it gives you a clear view of the door.’ She tilts her head towards Brin. ‘You still haven’t been on that date he’s always asking for?’
I laugh. ‘You remember my gran always said it’s better not to have a guy at all, than to be with the wrong one.’ I guess she repeated it so often it stuck fast in my head. ‘Anyway, I’m too busy, guys aren’t worth the trouble.’ I say, as I slip my wool jacket over the back of a chair and unwind my scarf.
By the time Brin comes over with our order, Poppy’s ready to dive straight in. As she begins to demolish her muffin, even though it’s still long before ten, I have half an eye on my hot chocolate, half on the door, with its outline of multi-coloured chaser fairy lights. I’m more or less ignoring the boarding guys who walk in. Not pre-judging, but I’m guessing any friend of Dan’s who’s made it past Alice’s eagle eye to be best man will stick out a mile as a smart London type. Especially given she’s hanging out with diplomats these days.
And why did I think I’d be able to drink even a sip of hot chocolate, when there’s a million-to-one chance Johnny might walk in the door any second? In a weird twist of fate, could he really be Dan’s best man?
Poppy studies me as I sit, not touching my drink.
‘I can see you with a surfer.’ She scrapes a fingerful of cream from the top of her hot chocolate and sucks on it. ‘I reckon a hunky, beachy, free-spirit type would suit you.’
‘Just because you’ve finally given in to Rafe.’ I laugh. ‘For the record, I’m definitely not looking for a guy of any type.’ And just to clear it up, I don’t surf or swim either. My beach appreciation is definitely limited to the shore. ‘But anyway, I’m hardly going to pull anyone in a suit, am I?’ I gesture to my messy bun and general laid-back appearance.
‘Who knows? Opposites attract.’ Poppy teases. ‘Some smart city barrister might have a thing for ripped denim shorts.’ She leans in towards me. ‘Actually, don’t look now, but I think I just spotted your perfect soulmate. You know that thing where you’re supposed to choose a partner who looks just like you. He’s over by the coffee machines.’
‘You don’t say.’ I’m not even going to bother to look. Sometimes Poppy is so unknowingly ridiculous she’s hilarious.
‘He’s well fit. Pretty ripped under that baggy top of his, too.’ She’s not holding back on the details. ‘All sun-bleached blonde hair, just like you. Stubble – not like you, but whatever, his denim’s as threadbare as yours. You definitely look like you’d share an essence.’
If Poppy’s talking about essences, it’s time to stop her. ‘Bollocks!’ I say, meaning to hiss but it comes out a lot louder than it should. The momentary lull in the café’s buzz gives me enough time to go crimson to my ear lobes.
Poppy leans in again. ‘I’m right, he’s totally checking you out now.’
This is why I avoid nights out in bars.
‘Properly.’ She takes another triumphant slurp of whipped cream.
I laugh at her. ‘I just shouted “bollocks” at the top of my voice. Everyone’s looking at me. Obviously.’ But I might as well prove her wrong. Out of all the thousands of surfers who’ve wandered through St Aidan in the last ten years, I have clicked with zero this far. Enough said. I might as well do the job properly and make my point. I give it a second, pray this won’t be the moment that Best Man chooses to walk through the door, and sneak the fastest-possible glance over my shoulder.
I only mean it to be a nano-second.
