Christmas at the Beach Cafe(12)

Ed gave me a questioning look, but I shrugged weakly. For some reason, Jake was deliberately trying to goad me, but I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of letting him see that he’d hit his target. ‘Fancy doing some more of the recipe book today?’ I asked Ed, trying to keep my voice even. ‘We’re really behind schedule now, so it would be good to crack on.’

‘You’re writing a recipe book?’ Jake asked, turning in interest.

‘Yes,’ I said, defensively, braced for some scornful remark in return. No doubt Melissa would have done a better job than little old amateurish me, in the arse-end of nowhere.

Ed explained the whole thing to his brother and I noticed the interest leaking from Jake’s face. ‘Oh, right. A homemade thing,’ he said dismissively. ‘I thought you meant you’d got a publisher or some kind of contract.’

I couldn’t bear it any longer. ‘What’s wrong with it being home-made?’ I retorted, stung.

He held up his hands, wide-eyed, as if I was a dangerous lunatic. ‘All right, calm down! Nothing’s wrong with it,’ he said in the tone of voice that said pretty much everything was wrong with it. Then I had a sudden horrible image of him telling Melissa about the book, and the two of them sniggering. I had to leave the room and have several emergency Advent-calendar chocolates before I said anything else.

‘He doesn’t like me,’ I hissed in the kitchen later, as I sorted through Jo’s recipes, looking for inspiration.

‘Of course he does,’ Ed said. ‘He told me he does.’ Oh yeah? Was that before or after I’d heard his nasty little

‘No offence, but . . .’ dig, I wondered. Or was it never? ‘I wasn’t trying to get rid of him, anyway,’ I muttered. ‘I was only asking what he was up to over Christmas. He just took it the wrong way.’

Ed didn’t say anything for a moment. ‘The thing is, I haven’t seen Jake for ages. Nearly a whole year,’ he said. ‘So I don’t want him to feel he has to dash off a few days after he gets here.’

‘I didn’t say he did.’

‘He is my brother,’ he said, like I needed reminding.

‘I know he is!’ Your brother who’s talking about staying with your ex-wife for Christmas, by the way. Were you aware of that?

‘And I’m really enjoying spending some proper time with him again, so – ’

‘I know!’ I said again. ‘So am I!’ No, I’m not. Not remotely. When is he leaving?

‘So let’s just – ’

‘Whoa, whoa!’ Oh, here he was, popping up right on cue. No doubt he’d been listening behind the door. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, all pretend concern. ‘Trouble in paradise?’

I was very close – this close – to blurting out ‘Up yours’ and storming past him, but decided that I shouldn’t give him the satisfaction. The last thing I wanted was him reporting any of this back to his good friend Melissa. ‘No way,’ I laughed, fakely, instead. (All those years at Drama School had come in handy at last.) ‘Just having a chat about . . . about what to bake next for our book. So many recipes to choose from!’

I met his gaze squarely and refused to look away, even though I could feel hot colour surging in my cheeks. The sooner he was out of here the better.





Chapter Five




We had a civilized, if not particularly chatty, lunch but my mind kept replaying the two awful conversations of the morning. Somehow or other I’d ended up feeling like the villain here – the unwelcoming girlfriend trying to shove her boyfriend’s poor brother out into the cold. Okay, so right at that moment I did feel like shoving him out into the cold, preferably off a cliff while I was at it, but I didn’t think I’d been that obvious about my feelings. And yet now Ed was being off with me, while Jake probably thought he’d scored a hat trick. Think again, pal, I felt like saying, every time I felt his smirky gaze on me. You can just think again.

As we were finishing our lunch, the doorbell rang. Glad of a distraction, I went to open it . . . and forgot my foul temper in the very next instant. Of all the people that might have been standing there, it was the best one of the bunch: Amber. I gave a cry of delight before realizing that she was tear-streaked and wild-eyed, and her bottom lip was decidedly trembly.

‘Oh Evie, I’m so glad to see you,’ she said and burst into floods of tears.

Amber was not the sort of person to cry unless something was seriously, humongously wrong. She also lived in London, over 250 miles away, and wasn’t in the habit of dropping round for a surprise visit. I put my arms around her, shocked. ‘What’s happened? Come in! Oh love, what’s wrong?’