The Seafront Tea Rooms Read online

  ‘How about this Sunday? Are you and Sam free for lunch?’ Amelia asked her friend. ‘Work has been crazy, so I could do with something to look forward to.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ Emma replied enthusiastically.

  ‘Sam and I are taking Lily to soft play in the morning, so some adult company after that would be wonderful. Can’t count on my husband for that!’

  Amelia laughed. ‘It’s a date then. Do you like rhubarb crumble? We’ve got some rhubarb fresh from the garden and —’

  A tickle in Kat’s throat made her cough. Amelia turned, noticed her and looked faintly embarrassed. ‘Hi, Kat, didn’t see you there.’

  ‘Hello,’ Kat said with a smile.

  ‘I was just saying —’ Amelia seemed to stop herself. ‘You know, we must have Leo round for a playdate one of these days. He and Lily get on so well.’

  ‘He’d enjoy that,’ Kat said.

  They stood quietly for a couple of minutes that stretched out. Finally, the nursery door opened.

  Kat looked out eagerly for her son. He was still at the back of the room, taking his time as he walked over. Amelia and Emma greeted their toddlers.

  ‘Well, best be off,’ Amelia said, with a smile at Kat. The two women set off with their children, who were squealing with excitement, in the direction of the shops.

  Kat clutched Leo’s jumper to her chest. He caught sight of her and, waving a quick goodbye to his friend, dashed over to her with a huge smile. As soon as he reached her he gave her a bear hug, encircling her legs.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ Kat said, ruffling his dark-blond hair. ‘Here, put this on.’ She passed him his red jumper and he slipped it over his head quickly.

  He looked at her suit skirt and wrinkled his nose. ‘Why are you wearing those funny clothes?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, looking down and touching the synthetic material. ‘I had to be smart for something.’

  ‘Boring. I like your green dress better.’

  ‘I’ll put that on when we get home,’ she said, smiling. ‘OK?’

  That night, after she’d put Leo to bed, Kat opened the antique wooden cabinet in her kitchen. Inside were glass jars filled with different types of tea – from fragrant Indian blends to refreshing herbals, each one with a handwritten luggage tag attached. She chose a jasmine bud that expanded in the water into a flower, put it in a delicate china teacup and carried it over to the sofa. She picked up the quilt she’d been working on for Leo, made from scraps of old duvet covers, and pushed the needle into the fabric, bringing together colourful sections of material. Each fresh new stitch of white cotton soothed her.

  Tomorrow morning she’d apply for the admin job she’d spotted, tailoring her CV more carefully this time. Yes, it had been two months of unreturned applications, and interviews ending in apologetic shakes of the head, but this could be the one.

  She was distracted by a buzzing sound.

  Her phone was vibrating on the coffee table, the screen lit up. She reached for it.

  JAKE.

  The name that used to be half of her world. Now it was a few letters, nothing more.

  ‘Hi, Jake,’ she said, picking up.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘How’re things?’ His Scottish accent sounded stronger now.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing. Listen, Kat, I’m here. Downstairs. The bell’s not working.’

  She got up and went over to the kitchen window, peering out. Jake looked up at her from the street and smiled, still talking into his phone.

  ‘Can you let me in?’

  2

  Thursday 14 August

  A village near Bergerac, France

  ‘No more for me, thank you,’ Séraphine said. Her father Patrick offered her the slice of raspberry tart again, ready for her to change her mind, but she put her hand over her plate. ‘Honestly, Papa, I’ve had enough.’

  Patrick drew his dark eyebrows together and set the tart down reluctantly, then shook his head. ‘Just like her mother,’ he said in English to their guests, Ravi and Anna. ‘They do all the hard work in the kitchen and then let everyone else do the eating.’

  A warm laugh went up around the table. Séraphine’s mother Hélène nudged her gently in the ribs and whispered behind her hand in French, ‘They don’t see what actually goes on when we’re baking, of course.’ She smiled, toying with the gold pendant on her necklace.

  Since Séraphine was a young girl, she and her mother had baked together, the two of them feasting on the freshly picked berries, flaked almonds and pieces of chocolate that never made it as far as the oven.

  Today, sunshine warmed Séraphine’s shoulders, bare in a strappy red sundress, and glinted off her wine glass. A few baguette crumbs and an olive stone were all that were left on her plate, remnants of the long afternoon’s dining under the apple tree in the garden of her family’s chateau. The twins, her brother and sister, both eight years old – splashed contentedly in the swimming pool nearby.

  ‘I’m glad you could make it down,’ Anna, one of her parents’ guests, said to Séraphine over the narrow table, with its red-and-white gingham tablecloth. ‘Your mother said you weren’t feeling well earlier.’

  ‘I’m much better now, thank you,’ she replied politely. She twisted her wavy dark-blonde hair up and secured it with a clip. The late-afternoon breeze was cool on the back of her neck. ‘It was only a headache.’

  Séraphine had been tempted to stay in bed that morning, her mind still buzzing from the events of the past weeks, but in the end distraction had been welcome. Conversation with Ravi and Anna, an English couple who’d recently bought the neighbouring chateau, had been relaxed and unhurried, as if she’d always known them. It had been good to practise her English with them, too – over the summer, since finishing her exams, she’d barely spoken a word.

  ‘Mathilde, Benjamin,’ Hélène called out to the twins, who were splashing water over the side of the pool as they threw a beachball to each other. ‘It’s time to come out now.’ She turned back to her elder daughter. ‘Séraphine, have you seen their towels?’

  She picked up the fluffy beach towels on the grass next to her and passed them to her mother. ‘Here you go.’

  Hélène went over to the twins as they clambered out of the pool, shivering slightly.

  ‘Your mother said you like to read. Do you read in English?’ Anna asked Séraphine. ‘I have a few books you might enjoy.’

  ‘Thank you, yes. My favourites are mysteries and crime novels – Agatha Christie, that kind of thing. Classics too. I’m reading Rebecca at the moment – I’m enjoying it.’

  ‘A wonderful book,’ Anna agreed.

  ‘I love the part where she describes the laying out of afternoon tea, the performance of it – the silver tray, the kettle, the cloth.’

  ‘Yes. Quite an important part of the day – or at least it was back then,’ Anna said. ‘Most people don’t have the time, or take the time, now. I have to admit I was more in the habit of grabbing a latte than stopping to sip Earl Grey.’

  ‘Séraphine’s always been keen on English culture,’ Patrick said to Anna and her husband. ‘And of course she’s the linguist in the family. My English, well, as you can hear, it’s terrible. Luckily, it comes naturally to her.’

  Séraphine felt a flush creep on to her cheeks. ‘Dad, shhh,’ she said, laughing. She looked at Ravi and Anna and rolled her eyes playfully in her father’s direction. ‘I’m pretty rusty. I’ve finished my teacher training course, but want to improve my English before I start looking for a job.’

  ‘That’s good. Such an exciting time in life – preparing to fly the nest,’ Anna said.

  Séraphine’s confusion must have shown.

  ‘Sorry – flying the nest, leaving home,’ Anna explained.

  ‘Oh,’ Séraphine laughed. ‘That’s a nice phrase. Yes, I suppose so. Though I won’t be going too far – I’ll be looking for work in Bordeaux, private classes to start off with, then a perm
anent job next autumn.’

  ‘And before that – wouldn’t you like to go to England?’ Ravi chipped in. ‘Now’s the time in life for big adventures. How old are you now?’

  ‘Twenty-three,’ she said.

  Age didn’t mean much, Séraphine thought. What mattered was how you felt inside. She remembered the sensation of grass beneath her bare feet, by the river the day before. Laughing. Feeling free. The butterfly touch of a kiss on her neck. She felt complete in a way she never had before.

  ‘That’s the way to perfect a language, too,’ Ravi continued. ‘Total immersion.’

  ‘Hang on, Ravi.’ Anna nudged her husband. ‘That’s what we said about coming here, isn’t it? And look – we’re still so incompetent we’ve got these lovely people talking to us in English.’ She laughed. ‘But you’d be more disciplined about it, Séraphine, I’m sure. And you’re already quite fluent.’

  ‘I wish we could invite you to be our guest,’ Ravi said. ‘But now we’ve sold up and there’s definitely no going back.’

  ‘You prefer it here?’ Séraphine asked. She was more comfortable talking about them than herself.

  ‘We adore it,’ Anna said. ‘Who wouldn’t? Good food, wine, company… We were ready for a change after the kids left home.’

  Instinctively, Séraphine glanced at her parents. A look passed between them. Her brother Guillaume had left home the year before, in difficult circumstances, and they hadn’t been at all ready for the change.

  ‘… But England’s a wonderful place for a young person, you’d enjoy it.’

  ‘You thought about living there, didn’t you, sweetheart?’ Patrick prompted his daughter, gently. ‘Earlier this year you were saying…’

  Séraphine tensed. ‘It’s very expensive though, isn’t it? A friend of mine went to London and —’

  Anna laughed and wrinkled her nose. ‘There’s more to England than London, you know.’

  ‘She’s right, Yorkshire’s the place to visit,’ Ravi said. ‘Would you consider going up north?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Séraphine said. ‘I don’t know. Where were the two of you living?’

  ‘In Scarborough. It’s a lovely town. You’re right by the sea, and while – granted – we can’t guarantee the glamour, or the weather, of Antibes or Nice, it’s fun in the summer. The people are friendly, and it’s affordable.’

  Séraphine sensed that the others were waiting for her to respond. ‘It sounds nice. I don’t expect there’d be many jobs, though. Summer’s nearly over.’

  ‘Bet you’ll find some au pair work going,’ Anna said confidently. ‘Hang on, what about Adam, Ravi? Is he still looking for someone?’

  Ravi nodded. ‘I think he is, actually.’ He turned to Séraphine. ‘Lovely guy. He was our neighbour for years – has a ten-year-old daughter’

  ‘His wife was from here,’ Anna said. ‘They married very young, and lived in France until she passed away in an accident four or five years ago. I don’t know what happened, but it must have been terrible for them. I remember him saying he’s keen for his daughter to speak French, to keep the connection – so he’s looking for someone to live with them and teach her.’

  ‘You’d make a wonderful au pair,’ Hélène said, wrapping a squirming Mathilde in one of the warm towels. ‘Would you like that, darling?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Séraphine said, slowly.

  Anna was already reaching into her handbag for a pen and paper. She checked her phone and wrote something down. ‘Here’s Adam’s email. Think about it?’

  Séraphine took the piece of paper and smiled politely. ‘Thank you.’

  Evening fell, and while Hélène put the twins to bed, Séraphine and her father carried the dishes inside to the kitchen.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t join us for a drink in the library?’ he asked.

  ‘No, it’s fine. I’m a little tired.’ She said goodbye to the guests and went upstairs.

  In her bedroom, she walked over to the window to close the wooden shutters, pausing for a moment to look out. The well-tended garden and the vineyards beyond were warmly tinted by the grey-pink sky at dusk. Out to the east was the village square, a cobbled area with shops around it, where a market was held once a fortnight. A few metres away was the school she’d gone to, and the church the whole family, including her grandparents, attended every Sunday. The landscape, streets and buildings were as familiar to her as her own fingerprint.

  And yet every stone, branch and street corner looked different to her now. Meeting someone who understood her made her realise how much of her real self she’d kept hidden. She drew the shutters, and lowered the catch to secure them.

  From the room next door came the sound of giggling. She stepped into the corridor and put her head around the twins’ bedroom door. In her sternest voice, she demanded, ‘Mathilde? Benjamin? Why are you two still awake?’

  In tandem, without a word, they ducked under the covers, rolling on to their sides. Séraphine quietly closed the door and glanced along the corridor towards her brother’s room. Even though he’d moved out, the room still had his football posters on the walls, a rack of his old shoes by the wardrobe. With only two years separating them, Guillaume and Séraphine had been close. She used to sit on the chair in his room and he’d strum his guitar, playing her the new songs he had written, while incense burned in the corner.

  Back in her own room, Séraphine turned on a lamp and lay back on her bed. When Guillaume left, a crack formed in their home. In truth, the hairline fracture had appeared earlier and only deepened when he walked out; he had been slipping away from them for over a year – spending most of his time with his band in Bordeaux, rarely bothering to come home at night. As his band grew more successful and started touring in Europe, he’d seemed less happy, somehow. On the rare occasions when he was home he’d appeared disconnected, listless.

  Her parents chose not to see the change in him, the deadness Séraphine noticed behind his eyes. He’d finally left before Christmas, saying goodbye but not leaving an address. ‘A commune,’ he’d said to Séraphine in an offhand way. ‘You can be yourself there, not like in this place, this prison. If you want to find me, come to Bordeaux. Ask and they’ll show you.’ He’d walked out with a sports bag in his hand, nothing else.

  Séraphine looked up at the shadows on her ceiling. She had always wondered if, when the right person came along, she would know if it was love. If you could be sure, instinctively, that was what you were feeling. She’d had boyfriends before, of course, but she’d never lain awake at night thinking about them. Now she knew: love was an absence of questions, of doubt. It was a certainty that you had found what it was you’d been looking for and there was no reason to go on searching.

  She knew how her parents would react, and that was why they must never find out. If she followed her heart, she’d be straying from the good upbringing they’d strived to give their children. She’d be like Guillaume. As bad as Guillaume. Her love – pure and kind and honest as it felt – to them would represent nothing more than defiance.

  She couldn’t be the one to hurt them all over again. At the same time, she couldn’t undo what had happened in the last couple of weeks, unknow that part of herself, forget how she felt.

  Her actions, however, were another matter – she could still do the right thing.

  England. Until her father brought it up, she’d forgotten how – before that first kiss had knocked the sense out of her – she’d dreamed of moving to England.

  Perhaps going away would make her stronger. Perhaps when she came back, she’d be strong enough to resist.

  She switched her iPad on and typed a word into the search bar: Scarbrah.

  Did you mean Scarborough? the search engine pinged back in response.

  Yes, I did, she whispered, frustrated with herself. Thank you.

  A photo of a white lighthouse came up on her screen, in front of it the stone statue of a woman poised to dive into the water. Other pictures appeared: one of a harbour, w
ith boats glinting in the sun, another of a miniature railway. She swiped her finger through more images – sandy bays, a castle on top of a hill, shops and cafés. She tried to imagine herself in the seaside town. It looked like a different world. Could she even cope living in someone else’s home?

  The ping of an instant message interrupted her thoughts.

  Salut, ma belle

  She saw the name, and her heart thudded. A smile came to her lips even as she tried to fight the feeling.

  She took a deep breath and closed the chat window. Today would be her new start. Her finger hovered over the icon for a second. No. She wouldn’t.

  She leaned over to her bedside table to get the note that Anna had given her that afternoon. She unfolded it, read the email address and typed it into a new message.

  Dear Adam…

  3

  Thursday 14 August

  Brooklyn, New York

  Charlie leaned against the metal bar at the edge of the rooftop restaurant, looking out at the view, salsa music blaring from the raised speakers around her. The balmy night had brought New Yorkers outside to dine in their droves, and the tables at La Mesita were almost all full. Charlie had been daydreaming about her trip to see her friend Sarah for weeks, her morning commute on the Piccadilly line drifting away as she read a Time Out guide to the city. At last, she was finally here.

  Sarah appeared at her side with two ice-cold margaritas. ‘Here you go,’ she said, handing one to Charlie before joining her friend in admiring the view. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  The lights of Brooklyn Bridge dotted the horizon, reflected in the still waters of the river, and skyscrapers were silhouetted beyond. But it was more than the way the place looked – the city had an energy to it that no postcard or film could ever hope to convey.

  ‘Yes. Incredible,’ Charlie said. She took a sip of her cocktail, relishing the sharp taste of the lime and tequila as it settled on her taste buds, layers of flavour coming through the citrus. Could have been shaken for a little longer – but it was pretty good.