The Cafe Birds

By Alicia Hope

Five women friends, five pretty cafés. Two marriages on the brink, one life adrift, an ‘imaginary’ new beau, a ‘trophy’ girlfriend, and a smattering of guilty secrets....

In the style of The Jane Austen Book Club comes a tasty slice of suburban life.

When five Aussie BFFs calling themselves the ‘café birds’ share the ups and downs of modern life over not-so-skinny cappuccinos and cake, they uncover a smattering of guilty secrets.
Paige’s marriage to a PTSD-afflicted soldier and her newly established business both teeter on the brink, while Caitlin's world is rocked by a devastating discovery. Lonely widow Nita feels her life and relationship with her newly ‘Goth’ teenage daughter have come adrift, and Megan has an icky aspic of guilty secrets wobbling on her plate. Gorgeous Grace appears permanently typecast as trophy girlfriend to a succession of unworthy suitors, and her friends will do anything to change that.
Will they find the solutions to their problems, or just create more?

Buy now to discover the secrets of true friendship in The Cafe Birds by Alicia Hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alicia Hope
• Release date: Feb 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370046492

Alicia Hope

Once you choose HOPE anything is possible....Despite living within cooee of the Great Barrier Reef, idyllic tropical islands, and a well-stocked ocean pantry, author Alicia Hope is a self-confessed landlubber and disliker of seafood (I know - what the heck, right?). She’s also a keen horse rider, bass player, and bird watcher, and shares her gumtree-dotted acreage home with author husband, Frank H Jordan, feathered larrikin, cockatiel Kewbie Kewberton, and a whole bunch of wild birds, roos, goannas, and pretty-face wallabies. Her feel-good stories showcase Alicia’s love of the land and the natural world, and this is especially true of her LONG ROAD series.Anyone who has travelled Australia by road knows to prepare for looong trips, with a high probability of obstacles and roadblocks being encountered along the way. So it’s no surprise the heroines in Alicia’s stories discover that the road to happiness can also be long, potholed, and downright challenging. But these gutsy Aussie gals are up for whatever challenges come their way!For the latest on her books and writing life visit Alicia online at aliciahopeauthor.blogspot.com.au, and collect an exclusive gift when you sign up for her oh-so newsy newsletter. :-)

Book preview

The Cafe Birds

The Cafe Birds

Alicia Hope

A Hope ABN 595 7335 2521

Copyright 2015 Alicia Hope

ABN 595 7335 2521

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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This story is written in Australian English.

The situations, organisations and characters in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to an existing or past entity is entirely coincidental.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

For my feathered friends LB and QB, and ‘cafe birds’ Jill, Sue, and Paula, all of whom fill my days with companionship and laughter.

And with thanks to Frosty, for helping me see the funny side.

x

The Flock

‘I ’m glad your girlfriends keep you company when I’m away, babe, but I’m not really all that interested in hearing their life stories.’ Corporal Rick Connor’s gravelly voice deepened as a note of frustration crept into it. ‘’Specially when I know you’re just talking about them to avoid answering my question.’ He paused, and when she didn’t respond, said resignedly, ‘I asked when you’re going to admit this business venture of yours is a failure and call it quits.’

Paige closed her mouth with a snap. When she opened it again, she winced at the shrill note in her voice. ‘Thanks so much for the vote of confidence, not to mention the husbandly support.’

His exasperated sigh whooshed down the phone line and into her ear. ‘Well … what do you want me to say, Paige? That you should keep flogging that dead horse and to hell with the money it’s bleeding?’

She bowed her head and ran a hand over her lightly freckled, elfin face. Taking a deep breath, she said resignedly, ‘No, Rick, that’s not what I want you to say.’

‘Then what, Paige? What?’ Another sigh. She could imagine him raking fingers through his closely cropped dark hair. ‘Because I have no id—’ There was a loud noise in the background and the line went dead.

She took the now lifeless receiver away from her ear and held it out, staring at it as though trying to see her uniformed husband’s frowning face at the end of the phone line.

That noise, what was it?

The sound of a mortar attack? Had hostilities resumed? She bit her lip and slumped back in her chair.

Was Rick alright? Or were their words to each other just now to be their last exchange?

Please no, not like that. I didn’t get to tell … remind … him how important he is to me, and how much I miss him.

In the heavy silence that followed, her ears caught the haunting melody of the Sarah McLachlan CD playing in the background, and the beautiful but heart-wrenching lyrics of the song ‘I Love You’ lamenting unexpressed love.

That could be our song right now, she thought sadly, tears welling in her eyes. Exhaling the pent-up air from her lungs and warning herself she’d only go crazy dwelling on negative thoughts like that, she sat straighter and wiped her eyes, replaced the receiver on its cradle, and glanced at her watch.

Four fifteen pm.

Reaching for her mobile phone, she sent off a hasty text message.

Brrring! Caitlin jumped at the abrupt sound and sat back on her heels beside the garden bed. Brushing her fringe to the side with a gloved hand and leaving a trail of damp compost on her smooth forehead, she dug her mobile out of the side pocket of her cargo pants. As she read the message on the screen she cast a furtive glance at her watch.

Four sixteen pm.

Rob wouldn’t be home for half an hour, or more if he was working late. She read the message again, wondering if she should wait for him or just get ready and go. It wasn’t as though he’d want to come with her, or even that he’d been invited. She envisaged him standing hands on hips while she stuttered about Friday afternoon drinks with the girls, and imagined she could feel the hot glare of his disapproval already.

Picturing the furrows in his brow deepening and his lips tightening into the thin, pinched line she’d come to loathe, she felt a rare flash of defiance – not cowardice, she told herself sternly – and leapt to her feet to march into the house, peeling off her gardening gloves and flicking them onto an outdoor chair as she went.

Hurrying to the bedroom to get changed, knowing she’d have to hustle in order to be gone by the time he got home, she shrugged out of her faded tee shirt and mud-stained cargos and dumped them on the floor on her way to the wardrobe. Ignoring the voice in her head – which sounded a lot like her best friend Paige’s – that exclaimed ‘Not that old thing again!’ she pulled on a grey skirt, plain black shirt and lightweight grey cardie and slipped her feet into a scuffed pair of black pumps.

Going into the ensuite she washed her face, cleaned her teeth, and gave herself a spray of the imitation French perfume, ‘Essence of Paree’, that Rob had bought her a while back. She made it a generous squirt, hoping the quantity might counteract the lack of quality and slow the fragrance’s tendency to turn stale once exposed to the air. Setting down the bottle with its peeling label, she stared into the mirror and dragged her straw-blonde hair back into a limp ponytail, wishing she’d taken the time to wash it the night before so it didn’t look greasy.

She leaned closer to the mirror and eyed her face critically. It was so colourless and drawn…. As she reached for her makeup bag she glimpsed her wristwatch and realised Rob could pull into the driveway in that pretentious Lexus of his at any moment. Telling herself it didn’t matter if she looked washed-out, it wasn’t as if she were trying to impress anyone, she gave up the idea of applying colour to her face. With a final dissatisfied glance in the mirror, she threw her bargain bin vinyl handbag over a shoulder and sprinted from the room.

At the sudden blare of the Veronicas’ song You Ruined Me from her mobile, Megan groaned and rolled over, raising an arm to peer at her watch.

Four thirteen pm.

When she reached over to snatch her phone from off the bedside table, she knocked one of the empty wine glasses onto the carpeted floor. With an annoyed click of her tongue she held the mobile in front of her face and glared at the screen for a second, before jamming her finger on the Decline Call button. The intrusive sound ceased and she gave a grateful exhalation. About to put the phone down again, she paused when it chimed. Rubbing her eyes, she read the text message on the screen and sat up, taking care to hold the sheet over her bare breasts.

The dark-haired arm that had been slung over her body slipped to the mattress and its owner gave a grunt. When he made as if to pull her close again she threw him a tight smile, slipped out of his reach and got to her feet, ignoring his grumbles.

Promptly gathering her linen suit and silky blouse from the chair where she’d slung them, she went into the bathroom and closed the door behind her with a firm click.

Catching sight of her reflection in the full-length mirror, she took a moment to check her appearance.

Yep, body still firm … ish. Waist slim above a well-rounded – make that shapely – derriere. Breasts still pert enough to go braless under satin.

All passable … I guess.

Taking care to avoid her own eyes, she risked a peek at her face. Her smooth complexion, the colour of double cream, shone with good health. But her brow furrowed and she leaned closer to the mirror. Wiping dark lipstick smudges – evidence of the afternoon’s passion – from around her mouth, she pressed her full lips tightly together and turned away.

After dressing, she stood in front of the mirror again and raked fingers through her square bob. Tucking it behind her ears, she wondered idly if her hairdresser’s warning was proving true, that the regular straightening she insisted on having done was taking its toll on her dark hair’s natural lustre.

When she bustled back into the room to collect her designer leather handbag from the floor, the man on the bed said thickly, ‘Wait.’ He lifted himself onto one elbow, winced, and gave a groan before muttering, ‘I should know better than to mix my drinks.’ If expecting sympathy he was disappointed. She didn’t look at him as she hopped on one foot at a time while slipping on her patent high heels. Sighing and peering groggily at her, he mumbled, ‘When will I see you next?’

Glancing over to see him rub a hand over his face, she took an angry intake of breath and said darkly, ‘I told you not to wear that … thing … when we’re together.’ She straightened to her full height to glare down at him.

The man froze and squinted at his hand before hurriedly tugging at the gold band encircling his ring finger. ‘Sorry, I … forgot.’

But she’d already turned away as indignation, guilt and self-loathing filled her throat. In a strangled voice she snapped, ‘Don’t forget again,’ and headed to the door. Opening it a crack, she paused to add without looking at him, ‘Or there won’t be a next time.’

With a peevish scowl, he gave up trying to remove the ring from where it was stubbornly embedded in the flesh of his finger, and sank back against the pillows, telling himself he’d have the damn thing cut off the first chance he got. He could always come up with some explanation if she noticed its absence. Through avaricious eyes he watched as Megan stepped into the hotel corridor without a backward glance and let the door bang shut behind her.

Knowing he couldn’t drive for a while, thanks to the end-of-the-week celebratory drinks he’d downed in the hotel bar and again in the room, he grabbed the TV remote from the bedside table and pressed the ‘on’ button. He’d simply have to wait the hour or so for his blood alcohol level to fall below the legal limit. Flicking through the TV channels and finding nothing of any interest, he gave an irritated grunt and dropped the remote on the bed.

While it was a bore being left to wait alone without any pleasant distractions, his resentment was tinged with relief that he wouldn’t be home too late. Had Megan stayed on, that would’ve been a distinct possibility, and would’ve meant concocting yet another tiresome excuse for their more languorous session.

Although they’re always worth the effort, he thought smugly, running the tip of his tongue over his lips.

‘You’ve been home a lot the past few days, what’s the go? Not volunteering anymore?’ Kristabelle sauntered into the lounge room and sank theatrically into one of the armchairs, as another voice began a string of mournful croaks that sounded something like ‘Aaaack ta-aa ohhh-in’.

Juanita’s head flew up. She eyed her teenage daughter lounging with her pet crow, Sheol, on a black-clad shoulder, and clucked, ‘Oh Belle, do you have to dress like that?’ Rewarded with a roll of darkly kohled eyes and pursed black lips, she gritted her teeth and persevered. ‘And did that bird of yours just speak?’

That seemed to amuse the girl, but in true Goth style she suppressed her smile and droned, ‘Mm. I taught him to say Back to the Coffin. Isn’t he clever?’

‘Humph!’

There was a stony silence and then Kristabelle prompted, ‘So, why aren’t you out doing your charity thing, Nita?’

‘Oh! Why have you started calling me that?’

‘Why shouldn’t I call you Nita? Everyone else does.’

‘But everyone else isn’t my daughter.’

Kristabelle gave a careless shrug. ‘So, Mum, have you given up your charity work?’

Nita exhaled, wondering how to tell her daughter she’d been asked to give it up, tactfully informed that her services were ‘no longer required’. And not simply because she’d completed everything she’d been assigned to do, or that her efficiency made the other volunteers look like slackers, although both were true.

It was because she’d sucked.

Not at everything of course, but at one of the most important elements of the unpaid work – dealing with the disadvantaged clientele of the volunteer organisation.

She swallowed a wince, recalling the looks on the faces around her when she’d attempted to encourage some soup kitchen stragglers to leave. It was long past closing time but the scruffs – ‘clients’ the organiser had sniffed when she’d made that, the first of her many gaffes – were disinclined to leave, even eyeing off corners of the room as though sussing out places to spend the night. When the other volunteers had appeared unwilling to tackle them, Nita had stepped up to the plate.

Trying to make light of it, she’d approached the men with a smile saying cheerily, ‘Don’t you chaps have a home to go to?’

How was she to know they were homeless?

Gaffe number three happened when she’d offered to help one of the more miserable-looking scruffs … er … clients … pack up his gear.

The words, ‘Here, I’ll give you a hand,’ were out of her mouth before she realised how they’d sound. The man, a recent amputee, was struggling to come to grips (and yes, she’d managed to fire that missile too) with being one-handed for the rest of his life.

And then there was Bob, affectionately known by the volunteers as Wheelchair Bob, who’d been coming to the centre for years. He was unable to move or speak apart from a few facial expressions and grunt-like sounds. Wanting to make up for her previous blunders, Nita had leapt into the breach one day when Bob’s usual carer was off sick, offering to take him for his afternoon wheelchair stroll around the park-like grounds – after first disinfecting the chair’s handles, of course.

All went well until an important phone call had her hurrying inside the office to take it, leaving Bob parked in the shade outside to enjoy the surrounding rainforest’s greenery, butterflies and birds. It was a longish call and by the time she went outside again, Bob was moaning loudly. She hurried over to him, followed by the centre overseer who’d heard his plaintive cries. They found him open mouthed and wide-eyed, arching his torso against the chair back but powerless to shoo away the biting, blood-sucking march flies attacking the exposed skin of his ankles, arms and neck.

That was the final straw for the overseer. Concluding from the growing number of gaffes that they weren’t simply flashes in the pan, the woman had issued a tactful, ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you,’ when Nita enquired about her next shift at the centre.

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‘Well?’ Kristabelle clearly wasn’t about to let it drop.

Nita exhaled and said through tight lips, ‘Yes, I gave it up.’

With an exaggerated exhalation Kristabelle tilted her head back theatrically, muttering at the ceiling, ‘Oh, great. So I’m gonna have to hear Frank Sinatra songs every single day….’

‘I don’t play them that often,’ Nita said defensively, ‘as you well know.’

‘But often enough to annoy those of us who have to live here, hey Sheol?’ Kristabelle straightened to scratch her crow’s head and then gazed at her mother through shrewd eyes. ‘Dad’s been gone a long time. Why don’t you find another favourite artist?’

Nita stared at her, uncertain how to respond. Her daughter might know she loved the music because of the memories it invoked, but she’d never understand how badly her mother needed to keep those memories alive.

When her ears caught the strains of Fools Rush In playing in the background, Nita felt the usual rise of inner warmth. That song never failed to bring back heart-warming memories, of dancing with Jack on their first date. And if she closed her eyes and listened to Sinatra crooning the words, she could almost feel Jack holding her in his arms….

When her mobile beeped with a text message, she breathed a sigh of relief and whipped the phone out of her pants pocket. Scanning the text, she rose to her feet and checked the time.

Four sixteen pm.

Squaring her shoulders she announced, ‘I’m going out. Can you and it,’ and she flicked a disdainful finger at the crow, ‘arrange dinner for yourselves?’

Kristabelle gave a careless shrug in reply and blew Sheol an air kiss while stroking his glossy wing with a black-tipped finger.

As Nita left the room with a what are we going to do with her roll of eyes at the polished brass urn on the mantelpiece, she was farewelled by another raspy croak of, ‘B-aaack t-aa oh-ffin.’

Grace’s bling-encased mobile vibrated to life, belting out an excerpt of the band’s latest number, a cover of Rhianna’s We Found Love with Grace singing the lead. She answered the call just as her other sparkly mobile chimed with an incoming text message. As she glanced across to where she’d thrown it onto the passenger seat, a deep voice at the end of the phone call said, ‘Hey, that you, baby?’

‘Jake? Yeah, it’s me.’

‘How’d it go?’

‘How’d what go?’

‘You know, the thing with Daniel.’

She bit her lip and said quickly, ‘Sorry, can’t talk right now. I’m driving—’

‘But you did it, didn’t you?’ Jake barked. ‘You gave him the flick? ’Cos I don’t want him turnin’ up unexpectedly, or makin’ a scene if we happen to run into him.’

She gave an irritable click of her tongue. Men shouldn’t nag, it made them seem needy and pathetic. And who could have the hots for a pathetic man?

‘That’s hardly likely in the circumstances is it, Jake, so quit worrying. Look, I’ve gotta dash. I’ll call you later.’ Pulling a face, she pressed the End Call button, dropped that phone onto the passenger’s seat and picked up the other one. Her expression cleared when she read the text message. Noting the time – four seventeen pm – she smiled and breathed, ‘Great,’ and took a quick look in the mirror before pulling her makeup purse out of her designer handbag.

After topping up her lipstick and eyeliner, and brushing her golden tresses to a glossy shine, she sprayed a mist of Givenchy perfume over herself and started her sporty red roadster. Humming a tune as she pulled out of the carpark, she flicked the indicator and joined the flow of traffic.

Sparrowsong

Behind the bar of the Australian Hotel, the heritage-listed sprawling timber pub affectionately known as ‘The Aussie’, barmaid Lisa ran a damp cloth over the polished wooden bar top. All the bar flies, the Friday afternoon ‘happy hour’ regulars who shared a special place in the publican’s entrepreneurial heart, were sorted for the moment. Perched on stools, eyes glued to the football on the wall-mounted TV screens, they all had full or nearly full schooners or pots of beer in front of them and weren’t interested in making conversation.

With a bored sigh, she moved to the end of the bar and gazed out at the veranda, just as Andy the cook strode up to hand her a tray loaded with baskets of deep-fried spring rolls, meat balls and dim sims.

‘Got a sec to distribute these, luv?’

‘Sure.’ She took the tray from him, taking care to hold her face away from the greasy steam rising from the hot food, and slipped out from behind the bar to share the baskets among the groups of patrons. With one to go she headed to the veranda, toward a chatty table of ladies sitting with glasses of wine or cider at their elbows and a half-empty bowl of nuts in the middle of their table.

As she approached, wondering why theirs was the only outdoor table sporting a tablecloth, she ran her eyes over the five women. A born and bred Tablelander, she knew them all. Paige Connors was a local business owner in the village and often dined at the pub, sometimes with her hunky soldier husband but often on her own. Her four friends, Megan Carter, Grace Wright, Caitlin Simms and Juanita – ‘Nita’ – Grenwich, lived in other towns on the Atherton Tablelands.

Having been a few grades below her in school, Lisa knew Grace was in her twenties, so she was the ‘baby’ of the group. The others looked to be in their thirties except for the ‘mother’ figure, older, sophisticated Nita. All five had worked for the nearby Kagara zinc mine at one time or another, and Lisa was pretty sure that’s where they’d met and become friends.

Seizing the opportunity to apply what she was being taught in her Sociology lectures at James Cook Uni, Lisa slowed her steps and analysed the group’s members. Using the DOPE indicator her lecturer had suggested for a bit of educational fun, she categorised the five into the avian personality types of Dove, Owl, Peacock, and Eagle.

Grace was easy. The lead singer in a local band, she was a classic Peacock, showy and optimistic. Next to her the calm, self-possessed – some would say ‘plain’ – Paige was the group’s obvious hub, and a wise and logical Owl. At her elbow, firebrand Megan displayed all the characteristics of a bold, decisive Eagle, contrasting sharply with Caitlin, the colourless but peaceful Dove. Lisa’s eyes next fell on Nita, who wasn’t quite so easy to categorise. Wise and logical, she was also self-assured and resolute. Maybe an Owl/Eagle combo, Lisa mused, chuckling at the idea of an ‘Owgle’.

Glancing over her shoulder she noticed a few of the bar flies sending pointed ‘hey, empty glass’ looks her way, and she hastened toward the table. Reaching over to place the basket in the middle of it, she said cheerfully, ‘Enjoy, ladies. And have a fun evening.’ As she turned to hurry back to her barmaid duties, the women smiled their thanks at her, except Nita, who eyed the fried food with distaste.

On her arrival earlier, she’d set a bowl of warm, freshly roasted almonds on the table and announced, ‘I dry-baked them right before I left to come out. They’re so much better for us than the greasy bar grub they serve as finger food.’ With a contemptuous sniff, she’d been about to unwrap the bowl’s alfoil covering but then paused. Clicking her tongue at the battered and slightly grubby table top, she’d nipped into the hotel’s dining room