A Healing Love
Copyright© 2025 by Marc Nobbs
Chapter 8: Sunday Lunch
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 8: Sunday Lunch - Paul Robertson's journey continues as his past and present collide at a star-studded movie premiere, where a connection that once terrified him reignites with passion that threatens to consume them both. Fighting to forge a new future for himself and stop drifting, Paul must finally become the man he’s always been afraid to be. A beautiful, bittersweet exploration of grief, social responsibility, the healing power of love, and learning that sometimes loving someone means letting them go.
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction
It was out of character for Mark to turn down my invitation to Vicky’s restaurant for lunch, so I assumed he was under instructions from Chloë via Imogen. Instead, he and Imogen were taking Vanessa and Mickey to Westell Mill, which had very quickly become Mark’s second favourite spot for Sunday lunch.
That meant my car had three empty seats when I pulled up outside Chloë’s house. I hadn’t even turned the engine off when Carly, Chloë and Adam came out of the front door, walked down the garden path and filled those empty seats. Carly got in the ‘shotgun’ seat, while Chloë and her fiancé got in the back.
As I pulled away from the kerb to wind my way through the narrow village streets, Chloë leaned forward and tapped my shoulder. I turned to look at her.
“Here,” she said, holding out a CD case.
I took the case from her, handed it to Carly and nodded towards the player in the centre console.
“There isn’t one already in there, so just pop it in. I mostly listen via Bluetooth from my phone. CDs are on the way out. Give it five years, no one will be listening to them. Hell, the kids starting school now won’t even know what a CD is by the time they get to university.”
“That’s a shame,” Chloë said. “I think there’s something special about CDs.”
“People used to say the same about vinyl,” Adam said.
“And they were right,” Chloë said. “Vinyl is making a comeback.”
“What’s on it, anyway?” I asked.
Carly rolled her eyes and, with a sigh, said, “It’s my first album. ‘Three Weeks in Nashville.’ Chloë wanted you to hear it.”
I took my eyes off the road for a second to look at her. We were at a T-junction, so it was safe, but I’d have taken my eyes off the road to look at her even if it wasn’t safe.
“I’ve already heard it,” I said.
Carly raised an eyebrow.
“Found it this morning on Spotify. It’s really good.”
Her dazzling smile lit up her face. “You really think so?”
“It’s not a matter of opinion,” Chloë said, from the back seat. “I keep telling you that. It’s objectively good. You think you’d accept that after all the awards it’s won.”
Carly looked back at her. “I know I should, but ... I mean ... It’s quite a personal album and...”
“I get it,” Chloë said. “I’ve been involved in a couple of projects that were ‘personal’ to either the writer or the director. So, I know—Wait ... Is this...? Is this album about... him?” I could see her pointing at the back of my head through the rear-view mirror.
Carly blushed but didn’t answer.
“Chloë,” Adam said, quietly. “Boundaries.”
“Sorry,” Chloë replied, her voice barely a whisper.
We fell silent for a few minutes as I finally got us out of the insane one-way system in the village and back onto the main road. It was a Sunday, so the road that was usually really busy was pretty quiet. I accelerated up to the speed limit and as I put the car into sixth gear, Carly muttered, barely audible over the hum of the tyres on the road and her music from the stereo, “It is, you know?”
I looked at her, even though we were doing sixty.
“About you. The album.”
I smiled and then looked back at the road. “I know. Glenn told me.”
“He did? When?”
“At the Live Lounge performance.”
“Oh.” She paused. “And you’re not mad?”
I looked at her again. “Why would I be?” I looked at the road again. We were coming up to a roundabout.
“Because you’ve heard it. Some of the songs are not—”
“They are all excellent,” I said without looking at her as I negotiated the roundabout. “And, very clearly, they are all ‘from the heart.’” Now back on the dual carriageway, I looked at her again. “If anything, I should be flattered.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Flattered?”
“That you felt so strongly about me to write those songs.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Damn straight,” Chloë said from the back seat. “You absolutely should be flattered.”
I saw the look Adam gave her through the mirror. She rolled her eyes and then caught my eye in the mirror. “Sorry. I wasn’t eavesdropping, I swear. I just couldn’t help but overhear. It’s not like you were whispering or anything.”
I shook my head. This was going to be a long lunch.
“So, it’s like a buffet. Like a breakfast buffet in a hotel?” Carly asked as we waited in line at the Carvery.
Vicky and Jess had started the Sunday Carvery about six months ago. They had to move some of the tables at the back of the restaurant to make room for the serving stations, but Jess told me it was more than worth it because the place had been packed at Sunday lunchtime ever since. It was regularly one of their busiest times of the week.
They did a traditional British Carvery up at Micester Hall on Sundays, but it was pretty expensive. There was also a branch of a national carvery chain restaurant over in Westmouth, but that was almost a half-hour drive away. Millie’s had the only Sunday Carvery that was both local to Micester and, crucially, affordable. So it was no wonder it did well.
They opened at eleven, and the last diners sat down at three. And in those four hours, they could easily get four or maybe even five sets of diners per table.
“Pretty much, yes,” I replied. “The Chef—she’s my sister, by the way—carves you a few slices of whichever meat you want, then you help yourself to as many vegetables and Yorkshires and gravy as you think you can eat.”
“Yorkshires?” God, I loved the way she said that with her Alabama twang. ‘York-Shy-er’ as opposed to the way most English people would say it, ‘York-Sheer.’
“Yorkshire Puddings. It’s a milk, eggs and flour batter—kinda like a pancake mix, I guess, only without the sugar and with a bit of salt. And instead of cooking it in a pan, you put it in, like, a cupcake tray or something and pop it in the oven. And they rise to make this lovely, light, fluffy, savoury pudding that goes great with mashed potatoes and gravy. Perfect for a Sunday lunch. There they are, look.” I pointed to the big pile of Yorkshires in a big, black, metal serving bowl on the buffet.
“Oh, right. Okay. I’ll try them.”
“You must have roasties too. And the mash—the mash is excellent. So creamy. Oh, and the pigs in blankets!”
“The what now?”
“Small sausages wrapped in bacon,” Chloë said from behind us.
Carly nodded. “So, I just tell your sister what meat I want and then do the rest myself, right?”
“Yep. You can choose from gammon, beef, lamb or turkey.”
“But turkey is only for Thanksgiving.”
“You mean for Christmas,” Chloë said.
I shrugged. “Whatever. Or you can have any combination of them. Two, three or all four. But if you have more than one, you get less of each, if that makes sense.”
“Okay. Well ... Beef is the most British of them, right? Le Roast Beef. Isn’t that what the French call you? I’m sure I saw that in a movie somewhere.”
“It’s up to you. Personally, I’m having beef and lamb. I love lamb. It’s got such a unique flavour.”
Carly opted for beef—just beef. Then she loaded up on roast potatoes, mash, other veggies, and a couple of Yorkshires. Vicky gave me a knowing smile as she served me and winked at Chloë as she served her. Back at the table, as we started to tuck in, Chloë wasted no time getting to the whole point of the meal.
“So, how exactly did you two meet? And how long were you together? Were you ‘together’together? Or just ‘together?’ Come on. Details.”
“Chloë, this really isn’t any of your—”
“It’s fine, Adam,” I said. “Really. We either do this now or drag it on for the next week or longer, and Chloë still gets the story she wants in the end.”
Adam shrugged. “Seems you know her quite well already.”
Chloë playfully slapped her boyfriend’s arm with the back of her hand, making me wince since she was still holding her fork. “Hush, you.” She turned her attention back to me and Carly. “I know you met in a bar after you did a set, but what happened after that?”
I started to speak, but Carly put her hand on mine, getting my attention, then told me with her eyes that she wanted to answer.
“I have a lot to thank Paul for. A lot. More than he realises, actually. And it’s not just that most of the songs on my first album and about half of my second were about him or inspired by him. He’s actually the reason I have any kind of career at all. Until I met him that night in the bar, I was just about ready to quit Nashville and go home.”
I looked at her, eyes wide. “Really, I didn’t know that.”
She smiled. “Why would you?” She turned back to Chloë. “I’d arrived in Nashville about six months earlier with nothing but a holdall full of clothes and my guitar. I had a small amount of savings, but nothing that would last me more than a few weeks after you factor in rent. I found somewhere to stay and paid six months’ rent in advance, but that pretty much wiped me out, so I knew I had to find work.
“I did some busking on the street, but you don’t make much from that. Not really. But the owner of the bar saw me one afternoon and asked if I’d be interested in doing a number at his open mic night. I did, and the audience seemed to enjoy my performance, but you don’t get paid for open mic nights and when I said that to the owner afterwards, he asked if I’d like to join his team as a waitress slash performer.”
“Waitress slash performer?” I said, making a slashing motion with my knife.
“Yeah. It’s more of a music café than a bar. Open Mic on Tuesday and Thursday, proper, paid performers at weekends—Fridays and Saturdays, I mean, but on Mondays, Wednesdays and Sundays, the waiting staff take turns to perform for fifteen or twenty minutes at a time throughout the night. It meant I got paid—not much, being a waitress doesn’t pay well at all—and I got to perform. And there was the added bonus that if I performed well and the audience enjoyed my set, I found that my waitress tips were higher right afterwards.”
“So they should,” said Chloë.
Carly shrugged.
She looked at me. “That’s what I was doing when I met you. Actually, that set I was doing when you came in was right at the end of my shift, which is why I could sit and talk to you instead of going back to work.” She smiled. “Anyway ... that night you walked into the bar, I was coming up to the end of the six months’ rent I’d paid in advance, and, I’ll be honest, I was really close to packing up and going home when the rent ran out. I wasn’t getting anywhere. I was trying to write songs, but none of them really ‘worked,’ you know? And I couldn’t see myself being a singing waitress for the rest of my life.
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