A Gift from the Comfort Food Café: Celebrate Christmas in the cosy village of Budbury with the most heartwarming read of 2018!. Debbie Johnson

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СКАЧАТЬ a cuppa. Have a think. Take your time. I’ll be here for a bit, then I’m off to Willow’s to collect Saul, so there’s no rush.’

      She bites her lip, looks through the window at the rain, and nods.

      ‘Thank you. That’s a good plan. Nobody will look for me there … I’ll just sit for a minute, and try and get my head a tiny bit straighter before I go and see Matt. Oh my … how do you think he’ll react?’

      That’s a tricky one. The truth is that even though I’ve technically known Matt for a long time, I don’t actually know him. Matt is the local vet, and he definitely seems to communicate better with animals than people. Like myself, he’s a private kind of person. Always polite, always the type of guy you know you could count on in a crisis, but also always slightly guarded. Like he doesn’t quite trust you if you only have two legs and no tail.

      ‘I couldn’t possibly say, Laura. You know him better than anyone. Trust your instincts. And try not to worry – I’m sure it’ll all be fine.’

      ‘Yes, you’re right … I’m sure it’ll all be … shit!’

      ‘What?’ I ask, as she tries to hide behind me – a foolish decision, as she’s at least two inches taller, significantly more round, and has huge hair. ‘You think it’ll be shit?’

      ‘No! I meant – oh, hi, Matt! How are you?’

      He walks into the room, accompanied by the sound of the doorbell tinkling, having clearly decided to ignore the closed sign. It’s starting to feel a tiny bit like a French farce in here now, with all the comings and goings.

      Matt – tall, brawny, looks a bit like I imagine a blacksmith would look if I’d ever met one – nods politely at me. That takes approximately one nanosecond, before he turns all his attention to Laura. His face visibly softens as their eyes meet, and for a second I see a glimpse of what Laura’s Matt is like. Not the public Matt – but hers.

      They share a smile, one of those smiles that makes you feel like you might just be invisible, and he reaches out to touch her amusingly large hair.

      ‘Cherie texted me,’ he says, simply. ‘Said you’d gone home sick? And that you felt repulsed at the idea of caramel toffee pudding?’

      Laura laughs out loud, and replies: ‘Yes, well. I’m amazed she didn’t call 999 at that stage. I’m all right … I’m … erm …’

      I feel so awkward, so much of a spare part, that I begin to edge backwards out of the room. This is private. It’s personal. It’s special. It’s nothing at all to do with me. I try and think up a quick and believable excuse for leaving the two of them alone that doesn’t involve a pterodactyl with the runs, but soon realise I don’t need to.

      I am still invisible, and they don’t even see me as I skulk off to the back of the building, through the dispensary, and into the relative sanctuary of the stock room and the tiny kitchen.

      I close the door behind me, leaving them alone, which technically I’m not supposed to do in case they raid our drug supply – but I’m convinced they have other things on their minds than selling asthma inhalers on the Budbury black market.

      I stand still and listen – relieved when all I can hear is the low-key hum of their voices and not any actual words. I look around, and see that I am surrounded by unopened boxes, shelving stacked with trays of plastic bottles and random objects like a pricing gun and shampoo samples and an as-yet-unassembled Christmas tree, lurking in one corner like a festive ambush.

      I lean back against the counter, absentmindedly wiping up some spilled tea with the dishcloth, not even noticing for a few moments that I’m actually crying as I wipe.

      It’s not sad crying – nothing sad has happened – it’s just … girl crying. You know the kind – when you’re just feeling overemotional and a bit off balance and you don’t really understand why.

      I let myself have a small weep – nobody can see, it’ll be my little secret – and then swill my face with cold water so I don’t look too blotchy.

      I’m being daft, I know – I have nothing to cry about. Sometimes, though, you just don’t need a reason, do you?

      I distract myself for a few moments by washing and drying the mugs and spoons that are in the sink, and then tiptoe to the door to see how things are getting on. I can still hear voices, and some laughter, and then a silence. I’m kind of hoping they don’t get into some huge debate, or a mammoth life-planning session, and forget I’m here.

      Just as that thought crosses my mind, I hear Laura shouting: ‘Katie! Katie, where have you gone?’

      I emerge back onto the shop floor, and am immediately wrapped up in a big Laura hug. I glance from beneath her hair at Matt, who looks stunned, dazed, and utterly soppy.

      ‘He was pleased, then?’ I whisper.

      ‘Ecstatic. Honestly, if I’d known he’d be that happy, maybe I’d have done it on purpose …’

      She smiles as she walks back over to Matt, who places a protective arm across her shoulders, and nods at me. This time, it’s a nod with a lot of warmth.

      ‘Thank you,’ he says simply. ‘For looking after her.’

      ‘Not a problem,’ I reply. ‘Any time at all. And obviously, I won’t mention this to anyone, until … well, until you make it official.’

      After a few more moments of faffing, and Laura insisting on paying me for the pregnancy test she used and the spare she takes home ‘just in case’, they finally leave.

      I flip the shop sign back to ‘open’, and watch them amble down the main street together, laughing and giggling, wrapped in each other’s arms. They’re a funny sight – her in the hot pink puffa, Matt in his far more sensible navy blue Berghaus – and completely lost in each other and in their own secret world. They don’t even seem to notice the rain, as neither of them has bothered pulling up their hoods.

      I settle back behind the counter, looking on as they pass the pub and head for Matt’s surgery. I’m smiling, but I still feel a bit unsettled. A bit melancholy. A bit … just not quite right.

      I can’t put my finger on what the exact emotion is, until I realise that I can no longer see Matt and Laura and their little bubble of intimacy and happiness. They’ve disappeared off from view, and now I’m just staring at my own reflection in one of the pharmacy’s tiny window panes. Rain is streaking down the glass, creating a weird optical illusion where it looks like my face has been chopped in two.

      I look away from the double me, and let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. I’m one woman. Alone, on a stool. Still breathing. Still holding on.

      I’m so happy for them. And I’m so sad for me. Because all of a sudden, it hits me like a cartoon anvil dropping from the sky – I’m very, very lonely.

       Chapter 11

      Luckily, I don’t have too much time to ponder that realisation and feel even more sorry for myself, as we have a veritable rush in the Budbury Chemist.

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