Debbie Johnson - A Wedding at the Comfort Food Cafe

I run my hands over the silky fair hair on his chest – he’s not one for manscaping, I’m glad to say – and sigh into his skin. He has me bundled up tight against him, and is grinning the grin of a chap who knows he’s just shown a lady an especially good time.

‘I really am sorry I didn’t tell you,’ I say, quietly, running the risk of ruining the moment. ‘If it’s any consolation I didn’t tell anybody.’

‘Not even Willow, or Katie?’

‘Not even. And then today, at Laura’s bash, it all kind of came tumbling out. It was a race against time to get here and tell you myself before one of them told one of the menfolk, and you found out by accident and ended up hating me.’

‘I could never hate you, Auburn, you pillock,’ he says, sounding as romantic as it’s possible to sound with a sentence involving the word ‘pillock’.

‘You might say that now,’ I reply, semi-serious, ‘but you should give me some time on that front … Anyway, I am sorry. It was all so long ago, and feels a bit like a dream sequence or a flashback in a film. Like something that happened to a different person – my crazy alter-ego or my evil twin sister.’

He laughs, and twines his fingers into my hair, and I feel him holding strands of it up so the sun can fall through it. He’s fascinated with my hair, the weirdo.

‘I suppose it does perhaps lead us on to the bigger conversation, though, doesn’t it?’ he says. I feel him tensing ever so slightly beneath my palms – so subtle I barely notice it, but in Finn world a major event. He’s usually Mr Cucumber.

Of course, I get what he means, but I don’t have to like it – even if he is right.

‘Does it have to?’ I ask, sounding like a teenaged girl whining about doing homework when she wants to watch Love Island . ‘I like things just the way they are. You, me, naked, in bed on a work day. That’s pretty perfect.’

‘It is,’ he agrees, turning my face up so we’re looking into each other’s eyes. ‘Pretty perfect. And it’s not like I’m going to go all demanding on you – I know this is new. I know we’re both taking baby steps, that we both have our issues. But it’s also not … casual, is it?’

I remember my panic earlier, when I thought I was losing him. I remember how I smile whenever I hear his name. I remember the fact that this man blows my mind in bed. No, this isn’t casual – but I’m not quite sure what it is, either.

‘No,’ I reply, stroking his face, running my finger over the bump in his nose and kissing its tip. ‘Not casual. I really like you, Finn. I’m happy when I’m with you – even when you have clothes on. But my life is … complicated. Actually, that’s a cop-out – it’s not my life, it’s me that’s complicated. I’m a work in progress, but I can’t promise I’ll ever be simple.’

‘The fact that you’ve told me you’re married to another man kind of tipped me off to that – as has knowing you for the last few months. What makes you think I want simple, anyway? Maybe I like complicated. Maybe I’d be bored if you were straightforward. Maybe I’m an emotional masochist who likes getting involved with savage redheads.’

I think about it, and shrug. Maybe he is. Or maybe he’ll reach the point where I drive him mad enough for him to jump back into his longboat, and sail across the North Sea to escape my savagery.

‘You’re not simple either,’ I say, prodding him in the ribs. Offence is the best form of defence. ‘You do this whole cool, inscrutable Nordic thing, and you might fool everyone else – but I know there’s more to you. You’re not just saunas and A-Ha.’

‘They were Norwegian, you philistine,’ he replies in mock horror. Of course I knew that – but I enjoy winding him up a bit.

‘All the same to me. Anyway … as for the bigger conversation, I suppose my half of it goes something like this: I like you. I don’t want this to end. And if I think about it all too deeply, I’ll do my usual thing of tying myself up in knots and convincing myself there’s a disaster looming on the horizon. So, can we carry on getting to know each other, and feeling our way through this?’

He runs a hand down my side, over my hip, and onto my naked backside, which he squeezes.

‘Like this?’ he asks.

‘Well, it’s not quite what I meant, but I’m not complaining.’

He leaves his hand there, and kisses the top of my head.

‘Yes,’ he says, after a few moments. ‘We can carry on doing that. I like getting to know you. It’s fun. But I didn’t like getting a shock like that one, so could we avoid that in future please? I don’t mind you being complicated, Auburn – but I do mind being kept in the dark. As long as we’re honest with each other, I think we’ll be all right.’

I throw one leg over his hips in lieu of replying, because I found that last statement a bit scary. I mean, it’s not like I go around lying all the time … no, actually, I do. I’m renowned for my tremendous fib-telling capacity. But that’s just jokey stuff, like claiming I couldn’t buy a round in because I’d left my wallet in the ladies’ loos at Hogwarts – stuff nobody believes anyway.

That stuff doesn’t matter. But the bigger stuff – like the fact that I’m secretly married, and why the marriage went horribly wrong, and big lost chunks of my life that I’m ashamed of and never talk about – matters. Not telling him might not technically be lying, but I can’t imagine he’d see it that way.

I need to woman up, and make some changes.

Laura is half-sitting, half-lying, all groaning, on the couch in the Budbury Pharmacy. The shop opened last year, and scarily I’m the person in charge. That fact never ceases to amaze me. I even have keys to a big cupboard full of some seriously heavy-duty drugs – not that we have much call for it in our village.

My average customer tends to need the odd asthma inhaler or some diabetes meds or antibiotics. Nobody’s breaking bad, and most of my regulars are in fairly decent health. That might not be good for business, but it’s definitely good for morale.

To make things work, we also sell a lot of extra stuff – toiletries and gifts and suncare and baby things and my personal favourite, the sugary whistle pops that you can both suck on and make music with. Multi-tasking at its finest.

Sometimes we’re super busy – by Budbury standards – and sometimes we’re not. Today is definitely a ‘not’ day. Katie is off at her son Saul’s school for a parent–teacher thing, and I’ve been bored all day. That’s never good for me, being bored – I tend to start planning world domination, or smoke sixty fags, or bite my nails down to my knuckles.

I was delighted when Laura wobbled her big round self into the store, as soon as I’d determined that she wasn’t here because of any health problems. She’s doing well, Laura, cooking two whole human beings in her tummy – but she is an older mum, and she was already a teensy bit overweight (in the way of all good cooks), and twins is always a shade more complicated.

She waved off my questions about her health, and slumped down onto the sofa, huffing and puffing and muttering something about how I should get a crane installed to help pregnant ladies get around.

The sofa is quite low, so I see her point. It’s also bright red velvet, designed in the shape of a giant pair of lips – a gift from Cherie Moon when we opened up.

I get busy making Laura some tea – herbal – and some coffee – black and strong – for me, and join her, pulling up the stool so I can sit across from her rather than next to her, in case she spreads even further and squashes me.

‘I had nowhere else to go,’ she says dramatically. ‘Becca’s working. Zoe’s working. The kids are in school and I get a bit worried about being all the way out in the cottages on my own. What a wuss.’