EIGHT
April had arrived with a glorious hot spell, showering the Seahaven Bay Retreat not only with the most beautiful array of daffodils but also with a sense of unbound optimism for the upcomingawakening retreat.
Rita, feeling the usual flutter of apprehension before a new set of guests arrived, made her way to the Cosy Café, and peered down at her clipboard. Lately, her memory had taken on the function of a sieve, everything slipping through, leaving her scrambling even for the simplest details. Half of her wished she’d been forewarned about how awful the onset of menopause could be; the other half was secretly grateful she hadn’t known.
She scanned the names, trying to conjure an image of each guest. Odette Wilder sounded like a glamorous actor. Cass Duke – maybe a 1970s wrestler? And Davie Travers… well, that name just sounded familiar, but she wasn’t quite sure why.
She looked around and felt a quiet swell of pride at what she’d achieved. Over the winter, this old marquee, memorably given to her by Jago when he first started showing signs of affection for her, had been transformed into the Cosy Café.
Now with a solar-powered generator, the new space felt warm and welcoming, with a drinks station in the corner witha gleaming coffee machine and rows of neatly labelled jars. An old-fashioned jukebox Rita had triumphantly won in an online auction stood ready for guests to choose their favourite songs. And for anyone not wanting to embrace kale and carrot sticks, a vending machine filled with chocolate and sweets offered the perfect within-arm’s-reach guilty pleasure.
They’d arranged three melamine bench seats, like oversized picnic tables, to form the central gathering point, illuminated during gatherings by the ornate black steel candle lanterns. The walls were whitewashed, adorned with framed seascapes, harbour views, and candid snapshots of Seahaven Bay through the seasons. The main focus was a huge map of the retreat itself, pinned with little markers showing walking trails, meditation spots, and the hidden corners where guests could escape for a moment of peace.
It was the first time the refurbished café was being used officially, and the space already felt like the heart of the retreat. Zenya had set about preparing a tray of freshly baked pastries, the glorious aroma of them mingling with the faint sea air that drifted through the open windows and door. An oven was tucked into one corner, available for guests to use at their leisure if they fancied trying their hand at baking, adding a playful, homely touch.
‘Come on, you two,’ Rita shouted out to Zenya and Teo, who were making their way over the courtyard with five welcome packs. ‘They’ll be here in a minute.’
Zenya arranged the baked goodies on a plate, while Teo made a fresh jug of coffee and opened a bottle of non-alcoholic elderflower fizz and set out champagne flutes. Rita stood at the doorway, until she saw a couple of cars pull onto the courtyard, then with a small smile tugging at her lips, said confidently, ‘Ready, team?’
‘Ready!’ the duo replied in unison.
‘Welcome to the Seahaven Bay Retreat!’ Rita rehearsed, her smile so wide she was sure she heard her jaw click. Teo busied himself behind the kitchen counter, while Zenya was on standby to gather luggage and usher guests to tables.
The first to step inside was Odette Wilder. Rita thought she must be in her mid-forties as she greeted her and welcomed her into the tent. Despite the heat, she was swaddled in a huge moss-green scarf over a floaty summer dress that matched her mop of unruly red hair. Through her thick, black-framed designer spectacles, her eyes flicked around the café, taking in everything from the mismatched décor to Teo’s man-bun. She nodded at Teo’s offer of a drink, then, realising it was non-alcoholic fizz in an ornate flute, lifted her nose and said, ‘Oh, for the price of this place, I thought it would be champagne.’
‘We’re in a field in Cornwall, love, not bloody Champneys,’ came a Mancunian voice as a broad-shouldered man followed her in, looking like he hadn’t slept since November.
Rita smirked, while Zenya perked up at the familiar tones of someone from her hometown.
‘I’ve just left London to escape toxicity like this!’ Odette cried, standing abruptly and heading for the door.
Mr Broad-Shoulders blocked her path. ‘I’m Casper. Cass, if you like. I have a habit of mouth-brain before brain-mouth. Sorry if that upset you.’
As Odette took in the chiselled jaw of the handsome young man, her expression hovered between intrigue and a flicker of lust. ‘Right. Alcohol is my friend at the moment, that’s all,’ she managed, sinking back into her seat wearing a scowl.
Teo tried not to stare too intently at the male charmer. ‘We have cordial, water, or tea: turmeric, hibiscus, lemon balm?’
Cass glanced at the seascape mug, then at Teo. ‘You’ve got regular builder’s, right?’
Teo looked to Rita in panic, who mouthed, ‘English breakfast.’
‘Sí, sí, of course,’ Teo laughed. ‘Milk? Sugar?’
Zenya bounced forward as another woman entered, oozing the self-assurance of an Oscar winner. Thick, fluttery lashes, a smooth forehead, thanks to a hint of Botox, and perfectly micro-bladed brows framed pretty almond-shaped eyes. Cropped jeans and a Levi’s T-shirt made her effortlessly cool.
‘Hey.’ She dropped her sunglasses into her designer handbag. ‘I’m Imogen Hamilton-Clark, and I beg of you, pleasedon’tcall me Immy.’ Her voice had what Hilda would call a public-school crispness. She let out a long sigh. ‘This is charming.’
Rita thought her tone suggested she meant ‘charming’ the way people say ‘interesting’ when they secretly don’t like something.
Next came Priya, older, quieter, make-up-less, with huge, soulful, molten-brown eyes and a thick shoulder-length black bob. She gave Rita a small, appreciative nod.
Finally, the last guest stormed in, a whirlwind of Essex sparkle, dragging a huge suitcase and a ring light. He was soft around the edges, cuddly rather than imposing, dark cropped hair showing off two glinting diamond earrings. Every movement, from his confident sway to the theatrical flick of his wrist, screamed camp.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he called. ‘The taxi driver recognised me from the TV, kept me talking. Asked if he knew me from a drama. I said, “Babe, Iamthe drama.”’
Odette muttered under her breath, ‘God help us.’
Rita, with her guilty love of reality TV, now realised why his name had sounded familiar. Davie Travers had been the standout contestant onLove Chalet, where he had taken aGerman ski instructor back to his log cabin for more than après-ski and got thrown off the show for breaking the rules.
