The Seafront Tearoom Read online

  “You don’t need to do that,” Adam said.

  “It’s no problem,” she said, putting the plates in the dishwasher. “I prefer to be busy.”

  When it was full, she filled the sink to wash the pans she’d cooked dinner in. “I’ll wash, and you dry?”

  “Deal,” Adam said, picking up a tea towel.

  They joked with each other for a while, until Séraphine got up the courage to raise the issue that had been on her mind.

  “I get the impression Zoe understands quite a lot of French. More than I expected.”

  Adam looked up, surprised. “She’s started talking to you?”

  “No.” Zoe shook her head. “Unfortunately not. But I can tell she understands.”

  “Yes. She knows some. But it’s been a few years now since she spoke it, which is why I thought you might be better off starting from scratch.”

  Séraphine rinsed a pan clean and stood it on the drying rack. “If she does understand, and she could speak it once, why do you suppose she doesn’t want to speak it with me?”

  Adam rubbed a pan with his tea towel as if drying it were the most important task in the world. Séraphine let the silence sit between them, resisting the urge to fill it.

  “It was her mother she used to talk to,” Adam said finally. “I sometimes wonder if it’s difficult for Zoe to go back to that time. I don’t find it easy myself. Maybe hearing the language her mother spoke brings everything too close.”

  “That’s possible,” Séraphine said. “Do you talk to her about it?”

  “I used to, when she was younger. We’d remember together the times we shared with Marianne, the holidays we went on. Zoe used to enjoy doing that. But in the last couple of years she’s started to shut down.” There was emotion in his voice, and Séraphine instinctively put her hand over his.

  “Thanks,” he said, clearing his throat. “It’s always there, I guess, just below the surface.”

  “Of course.”

  “Maybe it’s my fault that she’s being so difficult with you now.”

  Séraphine shook her head. “It isn’t. And it’s not too late to change things. Do you have any more photos of Marianne? Because I think perhaps I need to get to know her a little better myself.”

  “Let’s go into the living room,” Adam said.

  He went over to the bookshelves and took down some photo albums. “We haven’t looked at these much recently,” he said, brushing the dust off them. “I don’t know why. When we first moved back here, when Zoe was seven, we used to look at them all the time. But now—there just never seems to be the right moment. Here—” He sat down next to Séraphine. “This is Marianne when she was pregnant with Zoe.”

  He pointed to a picture of a pretty woman in a yellow sundress with a large baby bump, her hand resting tenderly on top of it. Her long dark hair was loose, and her gaze was direct. Séraphine could imagine Adam taking the photo. There was an easy, relaxed smile on her face.

  “And here’s Zoe, when she was a newborn.”

  “She was beautiful.”

  Séraphine turned the pages of the album, studying photos of Zoe cradled on her sleeping father’s chest, Zoe lying on a picnic rug in a yellow bonnet . . .

  “She used to love it when Marianne played guitar for her—even when she was tiny. And the two of them used to paint together.”

  Séraphine leaned in to look at the photo of mother and daughter painting together on a low wooden table, brightly colored splashes adorning Zoe’s arms and face.

  “They seem to be having fun.”

  “They were a real team. Oh, and look, here they are with the horses. Marianne used to lift Zoe up to stroke them. Zoe loved being around them.”

  Adam turned the pages, and Zoe grew before Séraphine’s eyes, stumbling with a baby walker, riding a small red trike, her own bicycle.

  “A lovely family.”

  “We were happy,” Adam said. “It went by so quickly. We didn’t have long enough.”

  On Sunday, Zoe and Séraphine were in the living room. Séraphine had put her usual teaching materials to one side.

  “I thought we could do something different today,” Séraphine said. She braced herself. This could either go well, or very, very badly.

  She took out the photo album Adam had shown her, the one with pictures of Zoe as a toddler. “This is yours, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Those are photos of my family.”

  She passed the album to Zoe. “Why don’t you tell me who is who?”

  Zoe opened the album and stared at it for a while. Séraphine wondered if she was doing the right thing.

  After a minute, Zoe pointed at a photo of her mother playing the guitar.

  “That’s my mum.”

  She looked up at Séraphine. Her eyes were sad, but there was a proud smile on her lips.

  “Très belle,” Séraphine said.

  “Oui.”

  “And she looks very kind,” Séraphine continued, in French.

  “Oui. She was. She was the best.”

  “What was she like? Tell me more about her.”

  “She would tell me silly jokes. Sometimes we’d talk behind Dad’s back, say things in French that he couldn’t understand. And elle adorait chanter, she loved to sing. Terribly, but all the time. In the shower, to the horses, to me.”

  “She sounds fun. I wish I could have met her.”

  “Maman made us laugh a lot.” Zoe’s voice caught.

  “Do you miss her?”

  “Elle me manque tellement. I miss her so much,” Zoe said, brushing away the tears that were spilling onto her flushed cheeks. “I hate not having a mum. Being different from my friends. I hate that Dad is lonely sometimes.”

  A lump formed in Séraphine’s throat as she listened. The hard expression on the young girl’s face had disappeared completely, replaced with a gentleness, a vulnerability.

  “But more than that,” Zoe continued, her voice thick with emotion. “I miss her because of who she was. Her hugs. The songs she sang to me to get me to sleep. It’s been years, I know, but I miss her every single day.”

  12

  Sunday, September 14

  “Hi, Mummy,” Leo said, his voice clear and bright over the phone. Kat’s heart lifted.

  “Hello, darling. How was your day?” She perched on the edge of the sofa, holding the phone close to her ear.

  “Excellent,” he pronounced.

  “Yes? What made it so excellent?”

  “I went with Grandma and Grandpa to feed the ducks.”

  “You did? And what were they up to?”

  “Quacking. Flapping their wings. They were hungry. I think it was feeding time.”

  Kat heard a voice in the background: Diane, Leo’s grandmother, was talking to him. “Nearly your feeding time,” she said.

  “Are you having your tea?”

  “Yes, but I’m not eating bread like the ducks. I’m having fish fingers. That’s what penguins eat.”

  “Lovely. You eat those all up. Is Daddy there?”

  “Yes. I’ll get him.”

  “OK. Bye. I love you,” said Kat, biting her lip and trying not to cry. “Sending a triceratops-sized hug.”

  “I’m sending a brontosaurus one. Love you too. Byeeee . . .” His voice trailed off as he passed the phone to Jake.

  “Hi, Kat.”

  “Hey. Sounds as if he’s been having a wonderful time. Everything going OK?”

  “It’s fine. He’s having fun.” He sounded distant.

  “How has work been?”

  “OK. Not bad. Listen, Kat. We’re about to have dinner. Can we chat tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” Kat said. “Bye for now.”

  Kat made a cup of Earl Grey, and brought the teacup and saucer over to the kitchen table. It had bee
n good to hear Leo’s voice. He seemed so happy with his dad and grandparents.

  And of course for her, it meant more time and space to think. She got out a pen and notebook, opened it on a blank page and began writing out her thoughts for the tearooms reviews. She sipped her tea as she went, conjuring into her mind the tearooms they’d visited—the décor, how the waiting staff had treated them, and—her favorite task of all—the delicious flavors they had tasted.

  Kat hadn’t wanted to admit to Charlie that e-mailing wasn’t that easy when you didn’t have a computer to do it from. She’d had to sell her laptop in the summer—it was old anyway, and she’d promised herself she’d get a better one when she had the money. But she’d manage; she could write by hand then send half on her phone that evening and then go down to the library the next day and write up the rest. There was something she enjoyed about writing freehand anyway.

  As the words flowed from her pen, Kat forgot about grocery shopping and paying bills, and even—for a short while—about being a mum. She was totally caught up in the moment. She remembered the last time she’d felt that way—staying up through the night to meet a deadline for her university dissertation, with only her dreams and a steady supply of biscuits to keep her going.

  Perhaps work didn’t have to be just a matter of figures on a payslip. She’d once thought she could do something that tied in with her passions in life. Was it too late to hope that might still be true?

  Jess, hi,” Charlie said, moving over to the hotel window where the reception was better. “It’s Sunday again, sorry, I expect you’re at home—but you said to call and update you.”

  “Yep, fire away. And don’t worry, I’m in the office anyway, having an absolute nightmare with the October edition—somehow the printers got hold of the wrong file and we’ve had to pulp the first batch. Our MD’s not a happy man.”

  “Oh no—is Louis there with you?”

  “No, he’s left me to sort it out. Thank God you’re back tomorrow. So, how’s the tea stuff been going?”

  “It’s coming along nicely. I’ve found a wonderful new writer who’s been helping me out with some of the research, and we’ve discovered some real gems along the Yorkshire coast. We should be on track. I’ll be back in the office early afternoon.”

  “Not a moment too soon—I could use your help with getting this sorted. I left Nicky in charge while you were away, and the whole thing’s been a complete disaster.”

  “Oh dear. Well, don’t worry—we can fix it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Charlie hung up the phone and laid her shoes on top of the rest of her clothes in her suitcase. Whatever the chaos in the office, it couldn’t be worse than dealing with her sister.

  Séraphine popped downstairs to make some hot chocolate. She could hear Adam and Zoe in the living room together, laughing and joking.

  “Hey, Séraphine,” Adam called out.

  She put her head around the living room door. “Hello, you two.”

  “Hi,” Zoe said. “You got a package. Our neighbor just dropped it by. I left it for you on the hallway table.”

  “It’s a big one too—looks interesting,” Adam added.

  “Oh? How exciting. I wasn’t expecting anything.”

  She found the parcel in the hallway and examined it. The stamps, and the handwriting, were distinctively continental, but the return address wasn’t legible. She took it upstairs to her room and closed the door.

  Sitting down on her bed, she unwrapped it. Inside was a packet of homemade madeleines and a CD from her favorite jazz singer.

  The card was a black-and-white photo of a riverbank.

  She read the message:

  i hope you enjoy the madeleines, i made them myself—perfect with a cup of English tea. And—i’m sure you remember—ha—this CD was playing when we first kissed. i miss you.

  Inside was a photo of the two of them: Séraphine and Carla, looking up at the camera as Carla held her phone out. Both smiling, Carla’s dark hair merging with Séraphine’s blond.

  Séraphine remembered the moment it was taken. The completeness that she’d felt that day.

  “I miss you too,” she whispered.

  PART TWO

  . . . even a tea party means apprehension, breakage.

  —VIRGINIA WOOLF, The Diary of Virginia Woolf

  13

  Monday, September 15

  Pippa was in her hallway in a white dressing gown, Gracie wailing in her arms. “Don’t just stand there on the doorstep, Charlie. Come in.”

  Charlie stepped inside, wondering if she’d made a mistake in coming to say good-bye. She stuck her head round the living room door and Flo and Jacob waved and yelled from the floor. It looked as though they’d been painting pictures, but the green and orange paint wasn’t only on their paper, it was all over the plush cream carpet.

  Charlie turned back to her sister. “Have you seen what they’re doing to the—”

  Pippa nodded. “I don’t care.” Charlie noticed then that her cheeks were red and blotchy, and there were dark circles under her eyes.

  Charlie closed the living room door behind her and turned to face her sister. Pippa had lifted Gracie up onto her shoulder and was patting her back gently. The wailing quietened to a gentle grizzle. “What’s going on?”

  Her sister mumbled, “Nothing.”

  “Doesn’t look that way to me. Come on, sit down and let’s talk.” They went into the kitchen, and Pippa placed Gracie in a bouncy chair.

  “OK, tell me what’s happened,” Charlie said, thrown by her sister’s disheveled appearance. “You look—”

  “Don’t,” Pippa said, shaking her head. “I look like crap, I know. And I feel even worse.”

  “Why, what is it?”

  “I haven’t slept in two days. I mean at all. Not a moment.”

  “That doesn’t sound good. Is Gracie OK? I realize babies aren’t known for being big sleepers, but that does seem extreme.”

  Pippa looked up, her eyes red-rimmed and shiny with tears. “It’s not Gracie.”

  Charlie paused, confused. “What then?”

  “It’s Luke. He’s moved out.”

  “What?” Charlie sat back in her seat, trying to process what her sister was saying. Luke—loyal, kind Luke? It didn’t seem possible that he would walk out on his family. “Why?”

  “Because he’s married to me, and I’m an idiot,” Pippa said, her voice cracking. She put her hands up to her face and covered her eyes. “And I know you won’t disagree with that.”

  “Come on, Pippa,” Charlie said. “Don’t say that. Tell me what happened.”

  “I messed up.”

  Flo burst into the room, a paintbrush in hand.

  “Auntie Charlie—you’re back! Are you coming to stay again?”

  Charlie looked at Pippa, who had turned away, shielding her face with her hand and swiping the tears from her cheeks so that Flo wouldn’t see her crying.

  “Maybe,” Charlie said. She wanted to hear the full story from Pippa, but it was impossible to ask her with the children present. “I’m here for today, at any rate. Your mum needs some rest, so I’ll be looking after you two. That means you’d better be on your best behavior.”

  “Yay!” Flo jumped up and clapped her hands together. Jacob rushed in to find out what all the fuss was about.

  Charlie made a mental note to call Jess at the earliest opportunity; better to face up to postponing her return sooner rather than later.

  She turned to Pippa. “You—upstairs. I’ll bring you a hot-water bottle and some camomile tea in a minute. Before we do anything else, you need to sleep.”

  “OK,” Pippa said, too weak to protest. Pulling her dressing gown more tightly around her, she got to her feet.

  “There’s some expressed breast milk for Gracie . . .” she murmured vaguely, her eyes glazed
. “We’re nearly out of nappies. In fact, I think we are completely out . . . God. I’m normally so on top of this stuff.”

  “Don’t worry,” Charlie said calmly. “I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

  Pippa walked out of the room, whispering a barely audible “Thank you.”

  Flo turned to her aunt, concern in her eyes. “Is my mum OK?”

  “Yes. She’s feeling sleepy, that’s all,” Charlie told her. “Babies are exhausting, you see. We’re going to see she gets some rest today.”

  On cue, Gracie let out a wail. Charlie bent to pick her up. The little body seemed awkward in Charlie’s arms, impossibly fragile. She tried to mimic the way that Pippa held Gracie, but felt as if the slightest wrong move could break her. Her crying escalated and Flo blocked her ears.

  A couple of feet away, Jacob pressed a green crayon into the pale fabric of the dining chairs. “Coloring in,” he announced proudly.

  Flo took a sniff of air near Gracie’s bottom. “Phew-wy,” she said, waving her little hand back and forth. “She’s done a poo.”

  Kat, it’s Charlie.” Sitting on the bathroom floor, Charlie leaned back against the bath and pressed the phone to her ear, relieved to hear Kat’s voice.

  Her niece Gracie was on the changing mat, clean but nappyless, wrapped up in a makeshift fashion in a towel, gurgling contentedly.

  “Everything OK?” Kat said. “I thought you were driving back to London today?”

  “I was. But now I’m not. Listen, could you help me with something?” Charlie had searched through every cupboard in the bathroom and nursery, and there wasn’t a single nappy to be found. The towel was working out for now—more or less—but it wouldn’t do the job for much longer and she couldn’t bear to wake Pippa any more than she could face the thought of taking all three children to the shops to buy nappies. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t—”

  “AUNTIE CHARLIE!” Jacob bellowed from the bedroom. “I’M HIDING, COME AND FIND ME.”