First Impressions

We hadn’t got off to the best start, but I couldn’t fault Sean’s efforts to change my mind . . .

WE’D got to the corner where we turn on to the seafront when Gran stopped suddenly.

“The café is closed,” she said, staring at the plastic sheeting covering the windows. “It was open the last time I was here.”

“It says it’s closed for refurbishment,” I replied.

“What? It’s been here for years. Why does it need refurbishing?” Gran pulled her jacket tighter and straightened her shoulders. My heart sank.

She stalked round the corner, where a man on a ladder was painting window frames.

Gran cleared her throat. He looked down. He was youngish and clean shaven and there was a splash of white paint on his cheek.

“Can I help?” he asked politely.

“Yes. You can tell me what’s going on here!” Gran said, putting her hands on her hips.

“And you are?” the man asked, coming down the ladder.

“Alexandra Murphy. I’ve lived here all my married life. I use the café regularly. It doesn’t need changing.”

The man glanced over at me before replying.

“It’s old-fashioned. We need to attract new customers.”

Gran snorted. “People like it. It’s comfortable.”

“But not enough people use it. We need to increase turnover or it will go the way of other businesses and become a charity shop.

“I’m afraid locals don’t spend enough to keep it just for them.”

Gran huffed loudly.

“So you’re pandering to tourists? I suppose it’s going to be some cheap burger place with Formica tables and plastic chairs.”

For a moment I thought the man looked hurt, but his eyes twinkled.

“We’re giving people what they want,” he replied.

“I beg to differ.” “Clearly.”

The man’s lips twitched as if he was trying to control a laugh. I felt bad for Gran.

“Let’s go, Gran,” I said, tugging at her arm.

“I shall write to the council,” Gran warned him.

“Please do,” the man said with a mock bow.

Gran was almost rigid with anger.

“How dare they change it?” she muttered as we walked on. “Have they consulted the locals?”

We cut short our walk and went home.

I was used to Gran’s explosions of anger. I’d spent a lot of time living with her during and since my parents’ divorce.

I’d gone to college near her and now I had a job in the area. My possessions were all in her house.

She was more like my mother than Mum was.

“They might make a good job of it,” I reasoned.

“I doubt it.” Gran was dismissive.

“The town needs a boost,” I reasoned. “The high street is . . .” I searched for the right word. “Sad.”

Gran sighed.

“Since Merchant’s went,” she said.

I remembered the drapers and haberdashers from when I was small, with a sales assistant on every counter and purchases individually wrapped.

It was unsustainable, and even Gran realised that. But it didn’t stop her hankering after the old days.

Since its closure, any changes in the town had been met with disapproval.

I had a cuppa with Gran and got ready for work.

I put my music stand, music case and violin in the car and set off.

I gave violin lessons in the evenings, when people had finished school or work, as I liked to keep my weekends free.

I drove along the high street and noticed the

ladder had gone from the café.

Further along the street, outside the antiques shop, I saw the man from the café standing with Mr Hubbard.

From their postures I could tell it wasn’t a friendly conversation.

The café man threw his hands up in the air and let them drop. Then he stalked off.

Mr Hubbard scowled and went back inside his shop. The café man was not making friends in our town.

I was still thinking about the confrontation when I arrived at my lesson.

I was cross with myself and tried to put the man out of my mind.

I helped Olivia master the fingering for “Ode To Joy”, but his twinkling eyes came unbidden into my thoughts.

The next day Gran wrote to the council.

I checked online. There were no planning applications for the café I could find.

“So the changes shouldn’t be too drastic,” I told her.

“Still, I want to check,” she replied.

I left her mulling over her wording and drove to school.

In a week’s time I had an end-of-term concert for my pupils and they all needed extra practice.

I had to stay calm, but I found the concerts stressful. I hated the show element, but the school and parents expected it.

The quality of the children’s performances affected my enrolment for the following year.

****

The next Friday evening, chairs were set out in the school hall, children were on stage sitting in a semi-circle and a technician was on lights.

A quartet of my better players opened the concert. I believed in starting and finishing on a high.

In the middle I’d sandwiched the younger and newer players, the ones who still used the violin as an instrument of torture, and finished with my best players, who were becoming quite skilful.

The concert was short, sweet and over for another year.

I breathed a sigh of relief as the tension drained from me.

The audience clapped. The children took a bow and the littlest player presented me with a bunch of flowers.

It should have been over, but there was still applause. I frowned. People looked around as one person continued clapping.

I narrowed my eyes to see to the back of the hall and was confused when I saw the man from the café.

A wave of anger overtook me.

Was he mocking the children?

I was torn between giving him a piece of my mind and sorting the children out, making sure they put their instruments carefully away and reuniting them with their parents.

By the time I’d said goodbye and received thanks from people, it was nearly half an hour later.

I gathered up my violin and the flowers and walked out of the hall. “Bravo, bravo!”

I snapped round.

“I think that’s very rude,” I said sharply. “The children are learning to play. You didn’t need to mock them.”

He looked crestfallen and held his hands up.

“I wasn’t mocking. I can’t play an instrument at all. I thought they did brilliantly.” I sniffed.

“What are you doing here? Aren’t you busy with the burger bar?”

He ignored my sarcasm. His eyes were sparkling and he’d ditched the overalls for chinos and a T-shirt that showed off his biceps.

“Actually,” he began, “I’m here at Dad’s invitation. To hear the concert.”

I frowned.

Just then, Mr Bartholomew, the school head, came over.

“Ah, there you are, Melody. Lovely concert. Splendid effort by the children and much appreciated by the parents.

“Have a good summer holiday if I don’t see you again!” He waved a hand and turned to the man from the café.

“Do you want a lift, Sean?” “I’m fine, thanks, Dad. See you later.”

He waited until Mr Bartholomew had gone and then turned to me.

“Melody? And a music teacher?”

I blushed. I’d always hated my name.

“It’s Mel,” I said through gritted teeth. “And what’s it to do with you what I do?” He held his hands up. “I think we may have got off on the wrong foot. Can we start again?” He didn’t wait for me to say anything. “I’m Sean.”

He offered me a hand. Against my better judgement, and mainly because he was the son of the headmaster, I switched my bouquet to my left hand and shook hands. “Mel,” I said firmly. “OK, Mel,” he said, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth.

“I’m here because Dad suggested I might find a musician.

“I’ve left it late, but he said you might have time over the summer holidays.” I raised my eyebrows. “I want someone to play at the opening of the café tomorrow.

“I can’t afford musician rates, but I can throw in a meal and an endless supply of coffee.”

I drew in a long breath. I couldn’t believe his cheek.

“I don’t like burgers,” I said tartly.

Sean wasn’t put off. “I know. Come and see the café before you say no.

“We really are working for the town and the community.” He put his head on one side. “Please?”

I’m not sure if it was the “please”, coupled with the brown eyes, or the fact I’m not generally rude to people, but I considered it.

Plus I was feeling mellow now the concert was over for the year.

“OK,” I allowed. “I have my car outside.”

“Me, too. Follow me.” We drove in convoy and parked on the sea front near the café. The plastic sheeting was still at the windows.

Sean pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and opened the locks.

“Ta-da!” He pushed the door with a flourish.

The first thing to hit me was the smell of paint, and when he flicked on the lights I could see the café had undergone a dramatic change.

The walls were pale blue and green, the floor was tiled in a geometric design and lights threw out coloured shapes of light.

The furniture was mix and match, mostly dark wood, some solid chairs and some with cane seating.

There were some big leather sofas near one window, too. The effect was unmistakeably 1930s.

There was no Formica or plastic in sight.

I couldn’t help gasping. “It’s so different!”

I must have looked confused.

“Do you like it?” He leaned forward, intent on my answer.

“I love it. I’m sorry if we were rude.”

He waved a hand airily. “Your grandmother wasn’t going to listen to anything I said.”

My face warmed and I could feel the tips of my ears burning when I thought of what Gran had said. We shouldn’t have presumed.

“Do you think people in the town will like it?” Sean carried on.

“Yes. It’s lovely. So much atmosphere.” I clamped a hand over my mouth. “Gran’s written to the council!”

“That’s OK. We haven’t done anything that needed planning permission.

“It’s mostly painting and reflooring. But it’s changed the look of the place, hasn’t it?”

“I think we may have got off on the wrong foot”

I nodded. “You’ve done a fabulous job.” I stepped forward to run my fingers over the sofa. “Where did you get all this stuff?”

“I’ve been collecting for a while. It’s always been my ambition to open somewhere.”

“Did you buy from Hubbard’s Antiques?” Sean pulled a face.

“I was going to. He had a mirror I wanted, but when I went to collect it he said he’d had a better offer and tried to put the price up.

“I wasn’t having that and told him so.”

He pointed to a large mirror on the wall, with strips of wood making shapes on the glass.

“I looked online and mocked up my own version.”

I walked towards it. “You made this?” He folded his arms across his chest and looked down. “Yeah.”

“It’s wonderful.”

Sean grinned and spun across the room to an open area at the back.

“I’d like to have music here.” He waved his arm at the clear space.

Then he stepped forward and lifted the lid on an antique record player.

I stared as he selected a record from underneath, removed it from the sleeve and put it on the turntable.

Then he put the arm down. There were a few crackles before the tinny music began.

I opened my eyes wide. “A record!”

“I could play music on CD, but I thought this would be more in keeping. What do you think? Tea dances? Will people dance?”

I smiled. “Maybe.”

He lifted the arm from the record and the room fell into silence. Then he showed me the upright piano.

“Tomorrow I want real music.”

I walked over and sat on the stool.

I stretched my fingers and then started to play Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer”.

He clapped his hands. “That’s perfect!”

I stopped playing and looked at him.

“Haven’t you left it to the last minute? What if I say no?”

“The story of my life. Don’t touch the walls; they’re still wet.”

I looked up in surprise, but he was laughing at me.

“OK, not quite, but I’ve spent every minute getting this place ready and finding staff. Music was down my list of importance.

“Please, have a drink with me and I’ll try to persuade you.”

“I . . .”

What was I going to say? Sean looked at me hopefully and a little shiver went down my spine as his brown eyes focused on me.

He offered me an arm and, after locking the door, we left the café and walked into town to the wine bar, which was quiet this early in the season.

After we were seated, he spoke.

“So, Melody and music?” Sean asked.

“I know. My father was in a band. There were always musicians in the house when I was little.

“We didn’t have a television. Instead, we had guitars, a piano and drum sets. I thought that was normal.”

I didn’t mention the rest. The drinking, the parties, the arguments – all the things that meant I’d spent more and more time at Gran’s.

“How about the café?” I changed the subject. “Will you be running it?”

“I have a chef and a waitress. I’ll be manager. If we do well I might need to hire. We’re ready to open tomorrow.

“I’m not advertising. It’ll just be customers who turn up while we get used to it, so that we’re ready for the holidaymakers when they arrive.”

Sean refilled our glasses and we carried on talking. It seemed he’d trained as a chef but hated working in hot kitchens.

“I like planning menus but hate making them.

“Besides, in a big restaurant you’re only doing part of a meal, the same thing again and again.

“I wanted my own place and the chance to show what I can do.”

We talked about my music students.

“It’s wonderful to see them improve,” I admitted.

“If you come to the same concert next year, that little girl who sounded as if she was killing a cat will be able to play recognisable tunes.

“In a couple of years . . .” I spread my hands. “Who knows?”

“So.” Sean shuffled forward on his chair. “Will you play tomorrow?

“It doesn’t have to be all day. Just a few hours.”

He stared at me hopefully with those brown eyes.

I didn’t want to spoil his party, and I didn’t want to squash the ripple of pleasure running through me at being needed. I nodded.

He clapped his hands. “Excellent. We open at ten, but come whenever you’re ready. Play anything you like.”

We finished the wine and got up to go.

The air outside hit me. “I’d better leave my car and collect it tomorrow,” I said sensibly.

Sean took my hand. “I’ll walk you home.” When we got to Gran’s, I stopped by the gate.

As I turned he leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek.

Before I could say anything, he was gone.

Gran was waiting as I opened the door.

“Who was that?” she wanted to know.

I explained about the café and how we’d got it all wrong.

“I suppose I’d better come and see,” she conceded.

“You’ll be impressed,” I told her.

That night I dreamed of men with brown eyes and cafés, but I was up early and ready to leave sharp at 10 a.m.

As we walked into the café, Sean beamed at Gran and showed her to a table.

Gran surveyed the interior and thinned her lips as she peered around.

Sean brought her a slice of cake with her order of tea and was very attentive.

As he turned he winked at me.

I played the piano: some ragtime, some dance music. Sean served coffees, lunches and teas. The café was busy.

Gran didn’t move. She sat at her table and rang her friends, and all day a stream of people came to join her.

I could see her canvassing opinions.

About four o’clock I saw Sean whisper something to her.

Gran looked surprised, then stood up.

They both moved over to the dance floor.

“Can you play a waltz?” Sean asked.

I did as he asked and was soon transfixed, watching Gran glide round the small dance area with Sean.

Another couple got up to join them and when the tune finished everybody clapped, including me.

Gran was laughing and her eyes were sparkling. She looked impressed.

She left, somewhat reluctantly, at closing time, saying she’d make her own way home.

“He’s done OK,” she admitted to me on the way out. “It’s better than a burger bar.”

Praise indeed from Gran. I grinned.

Sean and his staff were tidying up.

“I think you’ve won her over,” I said as I collected up my music.

“Good,” Sean said, rubbing his hands together. “Have I done enough to win you, too?”

“Me?” I laughed. “Yes, you. I offered you dinner. It would be good to share today’s success with somebody!”

I’d like to say I played hard to get, but the idea of having dinner with the best-looking man I’d met in a while was too good to pass up.

“As long as it’s not a burger place!” I told him with a smile. ■