by Rosie Green
But maybe he does . . .
I leap up off the sofa with a frustrated yelp. Agonising over it like this will drive me completely insane! I need a distraction.
But it turns out that switching on the TV and channel flicking is not the answer. And neither is going to the fridge to find a tasty morsel (my stomach feels like it’s being used as a trampoline). In the end, I go to bed and try to read, even though it’s still only eight-thirty.
I’m just attempting to make sense of the first page for about the ninety-fifth time when I hear Zak’s key in the lock. Instantly, the trampoline bouncers go into overdrive, leaping up and down frantically and telling me that I’ll be getting no sleep whatsoever tonight.
I lie there, listening to Zak’s movements as he goes to his room briefly then wanders through to the kitchen and makes himself a sandwich and a coffee (Not tea. He only drinks tea first thing in the morning.) Then he disappears into the living room, closing the door gently behind him, presumably so as not to wake me. (Ha! Some irony!)
Seconds later, I hear the murmur of the TV.
I glance at the clock in despair. It’s twenty minutes to nine and sleep is so far off, it would need a plane and two buses to get here.
Perhaps I should go and join Zak in the living room?
The very thought makes me slightly nauseous with nerves, although the fluttery breathless feeling inside at the thought of seeing him is so much more powerful. Against my better judgement, I slide out of bed and fluff my hair. Then I pull on jeans and get my best top out of the wardrobe. Sliding into the pale pink silk shirt with its delicate chiffon trim always makes me feel like a million dollars. But catching my reflection in the mirror a second later makes me snort at my own ridiculousness. Why on earth would I be wearing my best top for a night in watching TV?
Pulling it off, I dive into my pink cotton pyjama bottoms with matching vest top and white waffle summer robe then I saunter into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of juice, forcing myself to breathe deeply to calm the nerves.
‘Is that you, Ellie?’ calls Zak. ‘Yes, of course it’s you. Who else would it be?’
I laugh. ‘Yes, it’s me.’ My heart starts beating ridiculously fast. ‘I’ll be through to the loving room in a minute – I mean the living room!’ Oh my God, I can’t even talk properly now!
I walk through and he’s sitting on the sofa, arms folded, long legs stretched out. I decide to be bold and sit right next to him. I slop a little orange juice on my white robe in the process and he notices. ‘You’ve spilt some . . .’
‘Yes.’ I start trying to wipe it off with a paper hanky.
‘Here.’ He takes the hanky and dips it into a glass of water nearby, then leans in close to tackle the stain. A waft of his gorgeous male scent sends my head into a delicious spin and I’m staring at his beautiful mouth, which is only inches away.
I laugh nervously. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much. It’s going in the wash anyway.’
‘You’ve got to get stains like this out immediately or you’re sunk.’ He twists his lips in a sheepish grin. ‘Maisie’s always throwing juice over herself.’
‘I didn’t realise you were quite so domesticated,’ I murmur.
‘Oh, you ain’t seen nothing yet.’
‘I’m sure.’
Our eyes meet in a smile.
His eyes are incredible up close. They’re hazel brown but they’ve got little flecks of gold around the pupil and I’m having a hard job dragging my own eyes away. My heart beats frantically as he moves closer.
For a second, he draws back slightly, that same tortured look on his face as before. He stares at the ceiling and my head spins with confusion.
Then he looks at me and our eyes lock for a second before his mouth comes down on mine.
His kiss is hungry and I lose myself in it totally, responding with a passion I never knew I was capable of feeling. My head might be telling me to stop because it can never end well, but my heart . . . well, my heart is obviously in charge because I’m so completely incapable of stopping . . .
Then suddenly, Zak pulls away from me.
‘Sorry.’ He rises to his feet, his breathing ragged.
‘It’s fine,’ I gasp. ‘It’s a lot more than fine, actually.’
He shakes his head, looking anywhere but at me, and the elated feeling of seconds ago subsides into horrible uncertainty.
What’s wrong? What did I do?
‘I’ve decided I’m going to move into Sylvia’s while she’s in hospital,’ he says, scraping his hair back with both hands. ‘You’ll have more room.’
‘But you don’t need to do that. There’s plenty of room,’ I blurt out, feeling sick with panic.
At last he meets my gaze. ‘It’s the best thing to do. Believe me.’
He looks so anguished that for one mad second, I think he might be about to change his mind.
Then he draws in a sharp breath. ‘I’ll head over there now.’
He strides out of the room and five minutes later, I hear him in the hallway and the front door clunks shut behind him.
*****
Waking up next morning, I groan as a helpful montage of the night before starts playing in my head.
Me sitting down next to Zak, spilling my orange juice and him leaning close to wipe it off. The passionate kiss. Then Zak almost instantly regretting it, springing up off the sofa and telling me he was going to live at Sylvia’s.
I lie there going over every little detail of what happened, trying to make sense of it. We’d shared such a lovely day with Maisie. I really thought Zak and I had grown closer as a result.
But maybe that was the problem . . .
As I drag myself out of bed to get ready for the bakery, I face up to the gut-wrenching truth. There really is no other way to interpret what happened last night. Zak might be attracted to me – the passion between us last night was most definitely not one-sided - but he doesn’t want me getting close to him and Maisie. He’s made it perfectly clear he doesn’t want me in their lives.
What a bloody fool I made of myself last night!
I stand in the shower for a long time, letting the hot water wash away my tears.
*****
It’s a beautiful April morning. I leave early for the bakery and slowly walk an entire circuit of the duck pond.
All the time, I’m looking out for Jessica, the duck with the blue-green bill. But she isn’t there. Feeling panicky, I walk over to where six or seven ducks are congregated by the side of the pond. But she’s not among them.
Where is she?
Feeling heavy-hearted, I leave the pond and set off across the village green.
I slip into the bakery at nine, convinced Fen will take one look at my face and know I’ve been crying.
‘Hi. I’ve – um - put the kettle on,’ she says, nodding towards the back room.
‘Oh, right.’ I glance at her in surprise. She usually has a cuppa waiting for me and we have a chat, making the most of the time before Monster Madge appears. ‘Okay, do you want one?’
She shakes her head. ‘No, I’m fine.’
She hasn’t noticed my puffy eyes at all. Maybe they’re not as bad as I thought.
Puzzled, I head through to make myself some tea. Fen’s definitely not herself today. Perhaps she’s dreading her parents’ anniversary party at the weekend.
As I’m popping two teabags in the pot, I hear the tinkle of the bell as someone comes into the shop. It’s probably Mr Clegg, calling in as usual to buy his pregnant wife’s favourite iced buns for breakfast. But when I go back through with my tea, there’s no sign of him.
Fen rushes past me into the back room. Her face is tense and flushed, and I stop abruptly in the doorway. ‘Fen, what’s wrong?’
She shakes her head and rushes over to the sink, where she runs the cold tap and starts splashing water on her face. Then she pats her cheeks with a hand towel and stares out of the window, her back to me.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask
gently. ‘If you don’t feel well, you should go home.’
She spins round. ‘I’m fine. Really.’ She attempts a smile.
‘Who’s in there?’ I mime.
‘Jaz.’
‘Has she upset you?’
She shakes her head and I wonder if Jaz has been winding Fen up again, like she did the other day, telling her not to be such a mouse.
Jaz could definitely do with some lessons in diplomacy!
‘Well, if you’re okay . . .’ I go through to the shop and stop dead in my tracks. Jaz is standing on the wrong side of the counter. The second I appear, she whisks her hand away from the till, looking guilty as anything.
‘I dropped a fifty pence piece,’ she mumbles, bending and scouring the floor for it.
‘Maybe it rolled under the counter,’ I suggest, and we both take a look.
‘Never mind. It’s just fifty pence.’ She shoots me a furtive look and scurries out.
I stare after her. I’ve never seen Jaz look so . . . sheepish. She’s usually about as subtle as a truck crashing through a department store crockery department.
And what the hell was she doing at the till?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘I’m fine. Stop fussing. I’m fine.’
Smiling, I shake my head at Sylvia. I’ve heard about five different varieties of this same sentence in the half hour I’ve been sitting by her bed.
‘I know, Sylvia. You’re fine.’
‘Well, I am! I wish people would stop treating me like I’m a piece of Clarice Clift pottery!’
I laugh. ‘You and your antiques.’
‘Speaking of antiques, have you seen Mick? He said he’d be in this afternoon and he hasn’t appeared yet.’ She glances fretfully at her watch.
‘Give the poor man a chance, Sylvia. Visiting time only started thirty-five minutes ago! And I’m going to tell him you called him an antique!’
She smiles and reddens. ‘He won’t mind. He’s used to me taking the mickey out of him.’
I grin, delighted for Mick that Sylvia has finally come to her senses and realised she’d be daft to continue avoiding his company.
Ever since her ‘little heart episode’, as she insists on referring to it, it’s as if she’s started looking at life afresh. Last time I visited, she solemnly told me she’d been thinking she probably only had a couple of decades left and she didn’t want to live them surrounded by clutter. So she was going to sort through her belongings, sell some at auction, and use the proceeds for a big family holiday in a Spanish villa.
‘What about Mick?’ I asked slyly. ‘Does he get an invitation?’
‘Oh, I’m taking him to Venice. Can you believe he’s never been?’
‘Ooh, just the two of you? Very romantic.’
‘Yes, well, you can stop all that. We’re just friends, you know.’
I winked at her. ‘For now.’
She silenced me with a glare but I could tell she wasn’t averse to the idea.
Now, she sits upright in bed and announces she has a plan.
‘Another one?’ I laugh. ‘Come on, then.’
She nods. ‘They’re forcing me to convalesce in Bournemouth with my sister, so while I’m away, I want you to clear out the café, get the decorators in and start running the place yourself.’
She sits back, linking her hands together and looking very pleased with herself.
I sneak a look towards the chart at the bottom of her bed. How strong is her medication?
‘Well, don’t look like that,’ she snaps. ‘What do you think? I’d pay you, obviously. It would be better than working for Monster Madge, wouldn’t it?’
‘Well, yes,’ I say slowly. ‘Anything would be better than her.’
‘Well, thank you, Ellie! What a massive compliment.’
‘No, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just – well, are you sure? You really want me to clear out the café? Box up all your precious things?’
‘I do.’ She nods enthusiastically. ‘You can’t live in the past, can you? You’ve got to keep moving forward. Take on fresh challenges. Even at my ripe old age.’
I laugh. ‘Crikey, you’ll be publishing a self-help book next!’
‘That’s not a bad idea.’ She considers. ‘I could call it Life After A Heart Attack.’
‘Yes.’ I grin. ‘I suppose Life After A Little Heart Episode wouldn’t have quite the same ring to it.’
*****
The following day, Sylvia heads off to Bournemouth with her sister.
After my shift at the bakery, I wander around the flat, unable to settle to anything. The emptiness of the place just seems to underline the aching emptiness I’m feeling now that Zak has gone. He’s only round the corner at Sylvia’s, but he might as well be in Australia. He made it perfectly clear he wasn’t interested in a future with me – so now, having struggled to get over the break-up with Richard, I’m going to have to do the same with Zak!
The only thing that raises a smile is thinking of poor Sylvia, being driven to Bournemouth by her sister, Agatha, doing a steady thirty miles an hour the whole way.
‘Never mind driving me to Bournemouth,’ Sylvia grumbled to me yesterday when I went to say goodbye. ‘Agatha’ll be driving me round the bend! What’s the point of having a fast car, if you’re going to drive like a snail?’
‘Hey, you need to take it easy,’ I pointed out. ‘No excitement, remember? So maybe Agatha’s pace is perfect for a while.’
I keep thinking of Sylvia’s suggestion that I clear out the café and give it a make-over. But I can’t get excited about it, the way I’m feeling right now.
It’s become abundantly clear to me that it’s time to leave Sunnybrook.
If I want to get over Zak, far better to be thirty miles away from him, in Farley’s Edge, than right here, practically on Sylvia’s doorstep. Also, Mum phoned me an hour ago, just as I arrived back from the bakery, to tell me that Mrs Rogers, who lives in her street, is selling her house and had apparently just called round to tell Mum all about it in case I was interested in buying it! Mum couldn’t remember the details of the conversation but the way she was talking to me on the phone about it, you’d think I was moving into Mrs Rogers’ house the next day!
Normally, I’d be delighted to hear Mum so lucid and talkative. But after the nightmare of the previous evening with Zak, I just felt really down.
Later, driving back to the village after visiting Mum, a heavy weight settles inside me. I don’t want to leave Sunnybrook. I’ve made a life here in such a short time, and some good friends . . .
A painful lump rises in my throat and I’m a complete soggy mess by the time I arrive back in Sunnybrook. Parking up outside the café, I glance at the door to the flat, but something makes me decide not to go up there yet.
Instead, I fish out the key to the café and slide it into the lock. Flicking on the lights, I stand in the middle of the space, breathing in the familiar smells of fresh coffee and home baking that still linger, even though the café has been closed for almost a week.
An idea takes hold.
What if I freshen up the café as a leaving present for Sylvia? Then she can return to a new start in a brand new place. I owe it to her, considering how amazingly supportive she’s been to me.
Also in my mind is the thought that if I start now, packing Sylvia’s ornaments into the empty cardboard boxes I found upstairs, it will give me something to do - fill the empty hours - so I won’t end up wandering restlessly round the flat trying not to think about Zak . . .
It’s nearly ten but I get started with gusto, tearing up the old newspapers and magazines in the rack, then wiping each ornament carefully before wrapping it up and laying it in a box. Pretty soon, motes of dust are flying everywhere and I’ve sneezed at least five times, but it feels good.
I’m packing away Sylvia’s old life into boxes, ready for her to start afresh when she returns! I have a feeling her Snowy would definitely have approved . . .
I�
��ve been there almost an hour when I hear footsteps outside, the door opens and in walks Zak.
‘Oh, it’s you. I saw the light on and wondered.’ He grins. ‘You’ve been busy.’
I give him a tight little smile. ‘Yes, well, I thought there’s no time like the present.’
‘Do you want some help?’
I shake my head. ‘No, no. I’ll manage myself. Thank you.’ I turn back to my packing.
He pauses for a moment. Then I hear him turn. ‘Right, well, I’ll be off, then.’ Once he’s gone, the tension flows out of me.
It’s only when I glance at the shelves on the other side of the café that I realise I really did need Zak’s help. The top shelf is too high for me to reach, even with a chair.
I sit back on my heels with a sigh.
So much for managing myself . . .
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A week or so later, I’ve made great strides.
The place looks amazing without all the clutter – so much bigger and lighter, too. Especially now that two of the walls have been painted the colour of pale primroses. I’m currently half way up a ladder starting on the third wall.
It’s light really early now we’re into May, so I rose at six this morning, hoping to get in a couple of hours’ painting before going to work at the bakery. I’m amazed at how I’ve managed to motivate myself. I think it’s the thought of seeing Sylvia’s face when she returns to a lovely new café that’s spurring me on.
We’ve talked on the phone a few times and I’ve kept her abreast of everything I’m doing. It was Sylvia herself who suggested sunshine yellow walls, and I was only too happy to oblige. She keeps asking me when I’m going to leave my job at the bakery and manage the café for her full-time. She says it half-jokingly, but I have a feeling she means it. She says she and Mick are planning to travel a bit once she’s back from Bournemouth. Of course I’m delighted for her that she’s discovered this new lease of life with Mick, but she knows I can’t possibly stay in Sunnybrook. Not with Mum to consider.
I’ve been experimenting with the baking side of running a café, and to be honest, that’s not going quite as well as the physical make-over.
