Coming Home to the Comfort Food Café. Debbie Johnson
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a TV in my bathroom – which, I don’t know, might be a good thing? Maybe I can watch Antiques Roadshow while I’m having a poo. Take that, Fiona Bruce.
Most of the other cottages are now empty after the end of the main summer season, although there are some holiday lets coming up – I expect to be seeing strangers wandering around at some point or another, and vow to try not to scare any of them with my feral appearance. I mean, I’m hardly the epitome of groomed style and sophistication when I’m at work – it can only get worse now I’m a country bumpkin.
Lilac Wine looks out onto the main green area, and at the moment, the only people living at the Rockery are us, Laura and her kids, and Matt, who it turns out is the village vet and lives in the big house called Black Rose. They seem to share custody of Midgebo, the dog, which I suppose is a good a way as any of taking baby steps towards something more official.
Cherie and Frank live at his farm, and the others at various places in the village itself – which I presume is where they all take themselves off to by the time their welcome party dies down.
I unpack my things, allowing myself a small surge of optimism as I do so, hoping that I’ve made the right call. That Martha will ever forgive me.
She is quiet and moody as we mooch around the grounds and the cottage, taking it all in with sad, dark eyes, as though all of it has nothing to do with her at all. But … well, she isn’t actively hostile, and I have to take that as a positive. There are no tears, no tantrums, no self-harm or Zoe-harm, all of which I possibly expected. I tell myself that it will be fine – but somehow a disconnected Martha feels almost worse than an explosive Martha.
After a night of watching crap telly and drinking most of the wine that was left for me, all alone on the sofa, I finally give in and go to bed. I’ve been putting it off for some reason. Maybe part of me was hoping that Martha would emerge, and we could talk. Or listen to music. Or anything at all. I suppose I’d forgotten, though, exactly how good teenagers can be at sulking – especially ones like Martha, who have plenty of reason to.
As I sip the wine, and watch the crap telly, and ponder everything that’s happened to us both, I feel like sulking myself. I miss Kate so much it feels like a throbbing pain in my chest.
Eventually, when I recognise the signs of a morbid drunk coming on, I make my way up the stairs, learning the new creaks and groans and noises that all older houses come with. I pause outside her room. The door is open, just a tiny crack, and I push it a little.
I see her, bundled up in the covers, black hair splayed across her forehead, a ghostly light cast over her face by the phone that sits next to her on the cabinet, plugged in to charge. She’s frowning even in her sleep, her legs occasionally jerking like a dog having a bad dream. I love her so much, and I’m so desperate to reach out, to help her. To get her through this.
I glance around the room, the moon shining in through the still-open floral curtains, and see her suitcase abandoned in a corner. Still zipped up and bulging, as though she hopes she won’t be staying.
Quietly, sadly, I tip-toe across the carpeted hallway to my own room. I fall onto the bed, fully clothed, and pray to a God I’m not sure I even believe in.
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