About the Book
A charming romantic comedy that’s a breath of fresh air
Freya Moorcroft has wild red hair, mischievous green eyes and a heart of gold. She’s happy working at the café round the corner from Ivy Lane allotments, but a part of her still misses the beautiful rolling hills of her Cumbrian childhood home: Appleby Farm.
Then a phone call out of the blue and a desperate plea for help change everything . . .
The farm is in financial trouble, and it’s taking its toll on the aunt and uncle who raised Freya. As Freya heads home to lend a hand, she is surprised as her own dreams for the future begin to take shape.
Love makes the world go round, according to Freya. Not money. But will saving Appleby Farm and following her heart come at a price?
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
A Blessing in Disguise
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
A Family Affair
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Where the Heart Is
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Love Is in the Air
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Paradise
The Thank Yous
Read on for an extract from Conditional Love
Appleby Farm recipes
About the Author
Copyright
For my nanna, Mary –
three hand squeezes
A Blessing in Disguise
Chapter 1
The door opened with a ding of the bell, letting in a welcome blast of fresh air as a group of teenage girls left the café.
‘Adios, amigos!’ I called. ‘Ciao, bellas!’
It was the Thursday before the Easter weekend, children were off school and the spring sunshine had brought us a steady stream of customers all day long. Now, at four o’clock, we were having a quiet spell, which was just as well, because the service side of the counter, where I stood, looked like a scene out of Titanic.
I had spent the last hour training Amy, our new recruit, in the art of making espressos, cappuccinos and lattes. The work area was awash with her efforts; we were marooned in a sea of brown liquid, puddles of spilt milk and numerous abandoned mugs, spoons and jugs. The pair of us were looking a bit worse for the experience, too: my red hair had turned to frizz after repeated exposure to random gusts of steam and Amy had a streak of coffee across her forehead like a third eyebrow.
On the plus side, despite the steamy atmosphere, there was a heavenly aroma of fresh coffee and I’d felt enormous satisfaction from seeing Amy get the hang of the equipment – eventually. I watched over her shoulder, a bit close, actually, seeing as her short ponytail was tickling my nose, as she poured steamed milk from a stainless-steel jug into a tall glass.
‘Yay! Perfect,’ I cheered. ‘That’s it; nice and slow so you don’t spoil the foamy bit on top.’ Phew! I thought she was never going to get there.
Amy placed the jug on the counter with a shaky hand and exhaled. We both examined her first latte.
‘What do you think?’ She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and wrinkled her smeared brow.
‘I think you’ve cracked it,’ I said, and grinned.
Just in time, because I was hanging up my apron any second, leaving early and then she would be on her own behind the counter. I flung an arm around her shoulders and gave the sixteen-year-old a squeeze. ‘But now you’ve got to pass the boss’s taste test.’
I nodded towards the far corner of the café. Shirley, head down over a pile of invoices, sat at a small table with one foot raised on the chair beside her. Her ankle was completely better now; it was simply a habit she’d fallen into after being told to keep it raised when she broke it last autumn.
That foot was the reason I was here. Shirley’s daughter, Anna, is a friend of mine and when Shirley had her accident, Anna begged me to come and help out in the café for a few months until her mum was back on her feet. At the time I was working in promotions, handing out free samples and money-off coupons in supermarkets around Manchester – a job that had lost its sparkle early on. So I moved to Kingsfield, a small town on the outskirts of Derbyshire, and into Anna’s spare room, and I’d been working at the café ever since.
I watched Amy creep towards Shirley, the tall glass rattling in its saucer as she placed one foot cautiously in front of the other. I held my breath; it was like witnessing a tight-rope walker crossing Niagara Falls.
‘Delicious. Well done, both of you,’ Shirley declared, lifting the latte in approval. ‘Amy, you’re now officially allowed to use the coffee machine and, FYI, I like three sugars in mine.’
‘Go Amy, go Amy,’ I hollered, waving my fist in the air as my student smiled bashfully, dipped her head and twisted one foot behind her other leg, looking far younger than sixteen all of a sudden.
I also dropped into a curtsey, holding out an imaginary skirt with my fingertips. ‘And my work here is done.’
Shirley chuckled, shook her head and went back to her paperwork.
Is it?
As soon as the words were out of my mouth a fluttering sensation worked its way from my head to my heart. Was my work here actually done? Was it time to move on? Again? Eek! I stared at the top of Shirley’s bowed head until it dawned on me that Amy was looking at me rather oddly.
I gave myself a shake, pointed Amy in the direction of the floor mop and, leaving her to soak up the spillages, went to clear the table vacated by the teenagers.
Yikes. My face felt scarlet now after that unbidden thought, which, seeing as I almost qualified for official albino status in the pale skin department, was pretty hard to hide.
Freya Moorcroft, you are up to your old tricks. Can’t you stick at a job for more than five minutes? And anyway, what about you-know-who? Aren’t you in L.O.V.E.?
I puffed out my cheeks and began to stack plates loudly to crowd out my snarky inner thoughts.
Shirley’s café was booming. And without being big-headed about it, the boom had something to do with me. When I arrived six months ago the coffee had been instant, the menu consisted almost entirely of jacket potatoes and barely any customers bothered coming to the café after two o’clock.
Now we had a fancy chrome coffee machine hissing like a contemptuous goose on the counter, a panini grill permanently making posh toasties and we did a roaring trade in afternoon tea. The free WiFi, which I’d suggested we install, had also proved a hit, especially with teenagers. The café was heaving with youthful hormones for an hour after school, earning us the reputation of being the place to hang out and doubling our sales of hot chocolate and smoothies. A win-win, as far as I was concerned.
It had been a whirlwind few months, which was exactly how I liked my life to be. The whirlier the better, in fact. Shirley had pretty much let me h
ave free rein once I’d convinced her to pimp the place up a bit and I’d had a ball. And, outside of work, my life was good too. I loved living with Anna, I’d made loads of new friends and, most importantly, I’d met Charlie, my boyfriend of four months.
Charlie.
You know those ads for yogurt where the actors go all dreamy when the spoon goes into their mouths? Well, that’s what happens to me just thinking about him. Tall, fit, amazing blue eyes, the cheekiest smile in the universe and, to top it all, he’s a fireman. I mean, hello?
So yep, my life in Kingsfield’s pretty good.
But now … I paused from swiping cake crumbs into my hand and glanced out of the window at the row of shops, the pub on the corner, the parked cars, the total lack of greenery. It was the same view I’d been looking at since October. I could do the job standing on my head. Blindfolded. One hand tied behind my back.
Unlike Amy, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, who was making hard work of clearing up the kitchen.
I took the dirty crockery over to the counter and handed it to her. ‘So how has your first day been?’ I asked. ‘Can you see yourself as a waitress? Or have I scared you off with caffeine-options overload?’
‘It’s OK,’ she replied, nodding earnestly. ‘As a part-time job. Till I go to uni.’
‘Great.’ I suppressed a smile but I must have raised my eyebrows higher than I’d intended because Amy blushed. There’s nothing like being told by a teenager that your career choice is merely their stepping stone to greater things.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered, plunging her arms into the sink. ‘That came out wrong. Not that there’s anything wrong … Oh God.’ She bent low over the sink so I couldn’t see her face.
‘Hey, no worries,’ I laughed. ‘Good on you for knowing what you want to do with your life. I got the grades at A level to go to uni, but I had no idea what to study.’ I shrugged. ‘So I opted for a gap year instead.’
Ten gap years, as it turned out …
Auntie Sue referred to my decision to go travelling after sixth form as studying at the university of life. My mother called it a waste of a private education.
Amy glanced over her shoulder at Shirley and then looked back at me. ‘I can only work here until I leave sixth form. I’m going to study architecture and it takes seven years to qualify, and then I want to move to London, so I really need to save up.’
‘Right. Well, good luck!’ I swallowed, smiled and shuffled off.
Flippin’ heck. Sixteen and she’d got a ten-year plan. I thought I was being organized when I had a ten-day plan.
A career butterfly, that was me. I couldn’t seem to help it. I’d start a job full of enthusiasm, throw myself into it, loving the whole ‘new challenge’ thing. Then, as soon as I’d mastered it and put my own spin on the role, for some reason I sprouted wings and an urge to fly off somewhere new.
Uncle Arthur reckoned that one day I’d find my niche and my career would take off. My father, on the other hand, put my transient tendencies down to lack of ambition and commitment. I hoped Uncle Arthur was right because I couldn’t bear it if Dad was.
The edited highlights of my career included: apple picker in New Zealand, stablehand in Dubai, chalet girl in Austria, barmaid in Cornwall (eighteen months – a personal record for me, largely down to a lifeguard called Ivan), a short-lived stint as a tour guide at a pencil museum and now here, waitress in the Shenton Road Café in Kingsfield.
I was sure all the random experience I’d gained was preparing me for something; I just wished I knew what that something was. I dropped down into the empty chair opposite my boss and pondered whether to tell her that it might be time for me to move on. Or should I, for once, keep my ponderings to myself?
‘You’re wasted here; you know that, don’t you?’ Shirley said without looking up. Which was just as well because my face was now as red as my hair.
I shifted in my seat. Shirley Maxwell should never, ever, be underestimated. She had an uncanny knack for reading minds. Not that I’d been thinking that I was wasted, just a bit … unchallenged.
‘Meaning?’ I asked, playing for time. I pulled the sugar bowl towards me and started mashing the crystals against the side of the bowl.
Shirley dropped her pen on the table, looked at me and exhaled in a ‘what are we going to do with you?’ sort of way. She moved the sugar bowl out of my reach and I folded my arms.
‘Bright girl like you. You could be running your own business like my Anna. Or managing your own branch of Starbucks or …’
‘Trying to get rid of me, are you?’ I said, giving her my fake haughty eyebrow raise.
‘Oh, Freya.’ She swiped a hand at me. ‘You’ve revamped the menu, you’ve organized the dreaded paperwork and now you’re even training new staff. I’m so grateful for all your hard work at my café.’
She pronounced it caff, which always made me smile. She leaned forward and mouthed with exaggerated facial expressions, ‘But I can’t pay you what you’re worth and that upsets me.’ She pressed a hand to her bosom. ‘You might want to buy a house, settle down—’
‘I’m not money-orientated, Shirley,’ I said. ‘I know people who are. People who put pursuit of wealth before happiness and, believe me, I have no desire to go down that route.’ I shuddered. My parents, for instance. ‘No, as the saying goes, “all you need is love”, as far as I’m concerned.’ I grinned at her as she rolled her eyes.
‘And as the other saying goes, “every little helps”,’ she retorted and we both laughed.
‘You’re a case, Freya Moorcroft, you really are.’ Shirley sighed.
I reached out and squeezed her hand, the one that wasn’t nestled on her cleavage. ‘Thank you. It’s nice to be appreciated.’
‘Be honest with yourself, Freya. Waitressing isn’t your future.’
The doorbell dinged and we both turned to see who it was. A familiar pink velour-clad bottom backed into the café, pulling a complicated-looking pushchair.
Saved by the bell before I talked myself out of a job.
‘Gemma!’ I cried, breathing an inward sigh of relief. I jumped up to help my friend and one of our regulars negotiate the door and the step.
‘Nightmare dot com,’ grunted Gemma, as she attempted a three-point turn with the pushchair. ‘You need a blooming HGV licence to drive this thing.’
‘Oh dear. Let me make you something healthy, herbal and foul-smelling in a mug.’ I heard Shirley huff at my alternative approach to hospitality as I kissed Gemma’s cheek. I stood back to let her manoeuvre herself and the baby past me and peered in at him. Parker was wide awake (hurray, I could have a cuddle!) and aiming a determined swipe at the toys suspended across his pushchair.
‘Actually, sorry to take liberties,’ said Gemma, making a beeline for the loos, ‘but I only came in to use the facilities. His Lordship’s nappy is beyond bearable and I say that as a mother with a very high threshold to bad smells.’
‘TMI, love, thank you very much,’ said Shirley with a wince. By comparison, Shirley had a low threshold to many things: smells, pain, loud music, most yellow foods … I once saw her nearly faint at the sight of mashed banana. Even a jacket potato gave her the shivers if it dared to err on the yellowy side.
‘Not even a quick herbal brew?’ I offered. I was due to meet Charlie at his allotment in half an hour and then I had the whole of the Easter weekend off, but I hadn’t seen Gemma since the baby’s christening and I wanted to hear her news. And get my mitts on Parker, obviously.
Gemma paused and then flapped a beautifully manicured hand, which made me tuck my own scruffy nails into my jeans pockets. ‘Go on then. Camomile if you’ve got it, please.’
Five minutes later I was sitting down with a freshly changed baby boy on my knee, watching Gemma squashing and swirling her tea bag round in her white mug.
I couldn’t abide those mugs.
Shirley and I had only clashed on a couple of things since I’d been here. I was Team vintage china, she was Tea
m cheap-practical-and-dishwasher-proof. I’d suggested pretty mismatched cups and saucers, stacked on shelves in pastel shades of pink, yellow and blue. But Shirley had gone pale at the thought of crockery not matching and had put her foot down.
Parker was concentrating on scrunching up a fabric toy between his fingers, which made a rustling noise when it moved. Gemma and I exchanged smiles as he babbled away quietly to himself.
‘There’s one scone left, do you fancy sharing it?’ I said.
I made the café’s scones using my Auntie Sue’s recipe. The secret is in the mixing; over mix and you’ve got yourself a batch of primitive weapons. Mine, though I say so myself, are sultana-stuffed clouds of deliciousness.
Gemma shook her blonde curls and patted her stomach, which, given that Parker was only about four months old, was in pretty good shape. ‘I shouldn’t really … unless … does it come with clotted cream?’
I shook my head. ‘Whipped cream,’ I said, adding more loudly, ‘See, Shirley, someone else thinks it should be clotted cream.’
This, believe it or not, was the other thing we had disagreed on.
‘No. Not having clotted cream in my café. That yellow crusty bit … urgh.’ Shirley shuddered.
‘I’ll leave it then, thanks. Probably for the best,’ Gemma said, wrinkling her nose. ‘Anyway, what are you up to for Easter?’
The café would be closed on Good Friday, plus it was my weekend off, double-plus I’d tagged on an extra couple of days next week – my first proper break since working here.
‘Nothing much.’ I shrugged, wishing I’d bothered to organize an adventure or two. ‘Just chilling out with Charlie, hopefully.’
‘Bliss.’ Gemma sighed, her blue eyes going all dreamy for a second. ‘What I’d give to chill out. But with a fifteen-year-old daughter hell bent on making us suffer because she’s got exams and a husband who’s decided to dismantle a lawnmower in our back garden, I doubt very much that I’ll be doing much of that this weekend.’
I tightened my grip around Parker’s tummy with one hand and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind my ear with the other. ‘Just give me a shout if you want a babysitter for a few hours.’
Appleby Farm Page 1
