by Helen Lowrie
At first I could only stare.
‘It’s just a marketing ploy really,’ he shrugged, the pot dipping as his arms began to sag with doubt. ‘Hopefully people will like it and want to buy one for themselves?’
‘Oh, OK,’ I said, my voice returning.
‘I promise they don’t bite,’ he said, humour dancing provocatively around his mouth, ‘if they were snapdragons it might be different.’
I smiled impulsively. ‘They’re lovely, thanks.’ I reached out and took the plant pot, carefully, so as not to touch his fingers with my own. Making some space I set it down on a saucer beside the till for everyone to enjoy. ‘Are these daffodils? They’re tiny.’
‘Yes, miniature daffodils – narcissus – and these with the cheerful little faces are violas, miniature pansies that they grow from seed at the nursery.’
‘But not you?’ My curiosity was piqued by the distinction.
‘I don’t really work there. It was my dad’s place; it’s out in the countryside – I’m trying to sell it. I’m James by the way,’ he added with a crooked grin.
‘Rina,’ I said, still smiling involuntarily.
‘That’s unusual. Is it short for something?’
‘Just Rina,’ I said with a shrug. The lie was an automatic reflex – I’d never liked the name I’d been given when I first went into care; had never wanted to be that little lost girl. At thirteen I started going by Rina instead – in the vain hope that a new name would make me a new person. He held my gaze for longer than I was expecting, almost as if he knew I was hiding something, but I felt unable, unwilling, to look away. James had the warmest cocoa-brown eyes I had ever seen. I’d heard the phrase ‘come to bed eyes’ before but had never understood it until now. There were tiny droplets of rain shining in his hair and yet I fancied I could taste the sunshine of his honeyed skin as if he had just arrived from another world entirely. ‘Why are you selling it – your dad’s nursery? Why don’t you run it yourself?’
‘What?’ James looked confused and I wondered if I’d said something stupid.
‘Sorry, none of my business; just ignore me,’ I said flushing.
‘No it’s fine, it’s just, I already have a career. I work in insurance.’
‘Oh, OK.’ This surprised me. With his bright eyes, windswept hair and muscular physique he didn’t strike me as the sort of person who’d be content stuck in an office. But then what did I know? ‘What can I get you today?’
He finally released my gaze and, as he perused the menu board above my head, I ran my eyes down over the contours of his chest. A logo was printed on the fabric across his left pectoral: the words ‘University of Nottingham’ in faded white lettering. He hummed thoughtfully deep in his chest and absently tugged his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing beautifully sculpted forearms, peppered with fine hair, bleached by the sun.
‘Scrambled egg on toast sounds good.’ I focused on the till, aware of his eyes on me and determined to appear normal, ‘and a coffee, please.’
‘No problem.’
Having loaded brown bread into the toaster, I poured him some coffee, broke some eggs into a small bowl and started whisking. James added milk to his mug and stirred it with a teaspoon as he glanced around, smiling pleasantly at the other customers – an elderly couple deep in conversation in the corner and a woman with a large bag and a small dog. As I surreptitiously eyed him I decided James wasn’t as young as I’d first thought; he was less baby-faced than he had been a week ago, with an attractive shadow of stubble at his jaw that I longed to touch. Maybe he was in his late twenties or early thirties?
‘Do you run this place on your own?’ he said, suddenly returning his attention to me.
‘Yeah, more or less. It’s my husband’s really – we live in the flat upstairs.’ I was conscious of a note of regret in my voice and focused on rescuing the toast and buttering it.
‘It’s great,’ James said. ‘I bet you get all sorts of interesting people coming in.’
‘Yeah, sometimes. We cater to the stallholders mainly; they need a hot breakfast between six and seven in the morning but they’re a friendly bunch.’ The contents of the bowl sizzled when I tipped them out into the frying pan.
‘Six? So you must have to get up at what?’
‘Five-thirty, every day. The market’s closed on Sundays but we get all the anglers coming in.’
‘Anglers? In London?’
‘They fish the canals.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘And they like to start early.’
‘Of course,’ he grinned. ‘Still, five-thirty even on Sundays – that’s a bit rough on you.’
‘I’m used to it.’ I shrugged, stirring the eggs with a spatula while James quietly watched. ‘And then there’s the second breakfast rush.’ I was aware I was rambling. ‘The regulars in a hurry on their way to work, college or school between eight and ten; the builders who come in to use the loo and grab a breakfast bap – it’s all good business, y’know.’ I scooped the scrambled mix onto the toast before it could turn rubbery or burn.
‘But?’ James prompted.
I looked up and our eyes met. He smiled as if he was seeing right inside me. The way I felt around this man was so unexpected, so compelling, like nothing I’d ever experienced. ‘But,’ I said, ‘every day here is the same. I mean – if I had the chance to go somewhere else, anywhere else…’ My words faltered as I became aware of what I was saying – confessing – without even realising I was doing it. James’s eyes were filled with an unnerving compassion.
Jumping suddenly, I dropped his breakfast and cursed as pain seared through my hand. I’d inadvertently rested the side of it on the hotplate. Embarrassed I apologised and crouched to the floor, out of sight, to clear up the mess.
But then James was beside me, easing the broken plate out of my hand and tenderly turning my palm to look at it, his warm skin making my whole body tingle disconcertingly. Gently pulling me to my feet he guided me over to the sink where he turned on the cold-water tap, letting it run before holding my inflamed skin beneath it. Usually just the idea of someone being this close, invading my personal space – touching me – would make me deeply uncomfortable, anxious even. But somehow the situation felt soothingly unreal – as if I was dreaming, as if it wasn’t really happening. As he cradled my hand in his, all the tension leached out of my body until I was resting my weight into the reassuring solidity of his side.
We must have stayed like that for several long minutes, without saying a word, until I came to my senses and remembered that I had other customers.
‘I think it’s OK now, thanks,’ I said quietly, avoiding James’s gaze.
Releasing my hand he turned off the tap while I gingerly dabbed my hands on a tea towel and glanced around the cafe. Everybody else seemed to be minding their own business, oblivious to the riot of sensations battling it out in my body. How had I let him get so close? God I hope he doesn’t think I stink of fried sausages. He smells wonderful.
‘Sit down, I’ll make you some more breakfast,’ I muttered, nudging him with my elbow and still avoiding his eye.
He re-seated himself at the counter without a word, while I re-made his toast and eggs. By the time it was ready, more customers had come in and I was working on three requests for a full English. From that point on I worked hard and outwardly ignored James completely, though my body was fully aware of, and electrified by, his presence.
Eventually he paid his bill but seemed reluctant to leave. I saw him glance at the box of KitKats on the counter, the hole ripped in the cardboard at one end just large enough to dispense one biscuit at a time. Seeing them always took me back to my childhood – they were Jamie’s favourites and I used to steal them from the local newsagents simply for the pleasure of sharing them with him. I wondered if Jamie, wherever he was, still liked KitKats? James took one out, as if on impulse, and stared at it for a moment before getting to his feet and placing a handful of change on the counter.
&n
bsp; ‘See you next week, Rina.’ He said it casually, perhaps for the benefit of the customers stood next to him, but his eyes glowed as if he wished to communicate something more. He was gone before I could properly react or decipher his look but it stayed with me, bothering me, for days.
Chapter Twelve
‘Trouble in the city?’ Liam said over the rim of his glass before taking a large gulp of orange juice. It felt good to be back in the White Bear – the pub had a cosy, traditional country feel and, with it being just a short walk from Southwood’s, it had always been my dad’s local. The place was packed, since it was a Saturday night, but Liam and I had been offered two seats at the end of an otherwise occupied table because a regular had recognised me as being Reg Southwood’s son.
Liam Hunt, at six-and-a-half feet tall with a tank-like physique and a prominent, often-furrowed brow, was someone people instinctively found intimidating, something that his quiet demeanour did little to dispel. But he was a good man – a teetotaller – and an old friend. An unexpected bonus to all my recent visits to Wildham was that we’d had the chance to become close again; Liam ran a garden maintenance business with his older brother Lester (another member of the rugby team) and was a regular customer at Southwood’s Garden Centre. There were few people in the world I felt I could rely on but Liam was one of them.
‘Ha. Sort of,’ I said picking up my pint of beer. ‘Jasmine’s dumped me.’
Liam raised one eyebrow.
‘Cheers,’ I added, clinking my glass against his, before imparting the grizzly details while Liam listened in his usual patient way, without judgement.
The night before Jasmine had finally done what I could not and put an end to our ailing relationship – resolutely kicking me out of my own London flat. In all fairness she had been provoked: Jasmine had wanted to book the hotel and flights for a two-week holiday abroad and I’d been forced to admit that I’d already used up my paid leave on trips to Wildham.
‘What – all of it?’ Jasmine’s initial stunned expression verged on comical but I didn’t dare laugh.
‘Most of it, yes.’
‘What about our holiday? You said you’d take me to the Maldives this year.’
‘Well, that was just a suggestion. It was never set in stone and –’
‘I’ve just bought a two-hundred-pound bikini with diamante detailing!’
‘Already? Why?’
‘It was limited edition.’
‘But diamante? Isn’t that a bit impractical for swimming in the sea?’
Her eyes narrowed and nostrils flared.
‘Look it’s only temporary, until the business is sold, and in another few months I’ll have accrued more paid time off and we can go wherever you want.’
She crossed her arms. ‘When?’
‘I can’t say exactly. It all depends when a decent buyer turns up.’
To her credit Jasmine had made a brief, token attempt at staying calm before her full-blown fury won out. She had resorted to flinging things at me: books, CDs, the TV remote … anything she could get her hands on, screaming at me in staccato to ‘Get out!’ with the force of each painful impact (her aim was surprisingly good). Loud enough for all the neighbours to hear, she shouted that I was ‘A selfish bastard and that she never wanted to see me again!’ She almost sounded triumphant, as if auditioning for a role. But she was right; I was selfish; I had opted out of our holiday without consulting her, knowing full well that it might end our, already doomed, relationship. I had chosen a small, insignificant business in the country over my proud, glamorous girlfriend. I deserved her rage.
‘Maybe she’ll come around once the place has sold,’ Liam said.
I shook my head. ‘No, we’re done. I should have ended it weeks ago.’
Liam gave me a sympathetic look but didn’t make any attempt to contradict me.
‘What’s the secret?’ I said.
Liam raised both eyebrows.
‘You and Cally have been together, what, five years now?’
‘Almost six.’
‘So what is the secret to an enduring romance?’ Outwardly Liam and Cally’s relationship wasn’t the most amorous I’d encountered – they didn’t seem to go in for overt displays of affection, passionate outbursts or grand, romantic gestures – but there was a steadiness there, a sense of solid stability that I envied.
Liam shrugged. ‘We were friends for quite a while before we got together – I think that helps – but otherwise, I couldn’t say. Maybe you just haven’t found the right woman yet?’
I snorted. ‘It’s not for want of looking.’
‘You’ll find her, one day.’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ I sighed. ‘Trouble is, even if I do find her, chances are I won’t be able to hang on to her.’
‘Now you’re just being defeatist,’ Liam said. ‘Another pint?’
A glance at my glass proved it was nearly empty and I nodded.
As Liam got up to go to the bar, I rubbed my face in my hands, wishing I’d thought to remove my contacts before coming out – my eyes felt gritty. A vision of Rina passed through my mind and I mulishly pushed it away. Whoever the right woman for me might be it was almost certainly not Rina.
Chapter Thirteen
I had made up my mind to play it cool by the time James returned the following Thursday morning. Chatting to customers was a perfectly normal thing for me to do, especially when someone was sitting at the counter where I could talk to them while I worked. In that sense James was no different to any other patron. Except that, privately, I looked forward to his particular visits all week, with an anticipation bordering on obsession. I was conscious that I must not let that show. Aside from the fact my enthusiasm was embarrassing, the regulars loved to gossip and the last thing I needed was for Vic to hear about James.
Just two days into April the month was already living up to its reputation, with a sporadic mix of sunshine and showers that made the world outside the window look clean and sparkly but which caught out any shoppers without umbrellas. The latest sudden downpour, just after ten o’clock, had created a mini-rush in the cafe, unusual for mid-morning on a Thursday. I was so busy serving customers that I didn’t see James’s van pull up and the first I knew of his arrival was at ten thirty, when he pushed open the cafe door and walked in with his arm wrapped around an attractive young woman.
For a horrible moment I thought they were a couple – that James had brought a significant other with him – but she was very smartly dressed in high heels and a stylish raincoat not the attire of someone who’d arrived in a van from a garden centre. These thoughts were pushed aside by the realisation that something was wrong. James’s gaze was anxious as it sought mine and I was aware of a buzz of interest among the customers who followed him in, hovering near the woman with equally concerned expressions. At a second glance I saw that she looked limp and pale and that James was partly supporting her weight.
‘What happened?’ I said, moving round the counter as James helped her to sit in an empty seat near the door.
‘She just fainted outside in the market,’ said an elderly man who had come in with them. I recognised him as being one of my regulars. ‘Luckily this young man managed to catch her just before she hit her head or it could have been nasty.’
The woman was bent forward with her head close to her knees as she took deep breaths. I crouched down before her but couldn’t see much of her face other than to tell her skin was still pasty. ‘Are you hurt?’ I said.
She shook her head.
‘Can I get you anything? Some water?’
She hesitated and then nodded.
‘I’ll get it,’ James said, turning and disappearing from my peripheral vision.
‘She suddenly went – just like that,’ the elderly man was saying. ‘One minute she was choosing flowers and the next minute her eyes were rolling back and –’
His account was cut off by James’s return and the woman carefully straightened up to accept the proffered gl
ass of water before tentatively sipping at it.
‘Are you in pain? Do you want us to call an ambulance?’ I said. ‘I don’t have a phone but I’m sure someone else –’ As I spoke James produced a mobile phone from his back pocket but she shook her head again.
‘No, no, I’m fine thank you – just horribly embarrassed to have caused such a fuss.’
‘Don’t worry about that. Are you sure though? You still look a bit peaky; maybe you should get checked out just to be on the safe side,’ I added.
She grimaced. ‘No, really – I’m just pregnant,’ she said, automatically placing a hand on her stomach. She wasn’t obviously showing but it was hard to tell with the coat she was wearing. ‘I sometimes get light-headed – it’s my own fault. I should have eaten more breakfast but I felt too queasy at the time.’
‘Ah, I see,’ I said, relieved that there was a straightforward explanation. ‘Do you think you could eat something now? Can I make you some toast?’
She smiled gratefully at me. ‘That sounds lovely, thank you.’
The woman thanked James and the other good Samaritans who had come to her assistance and, with the excitement over and the sun shining outside once again, people returned their noses to their own business. By the time I’d prepared two slices of buttered toast and a cup of tea for the pregnant woman, James had returned to Gary’s stall to finish unloading his planters and the cafe was all but devoid of customers.
I cleared the other tables while she ate and refused payment, especially since tea and toast were not things that Vic would easily miss. The colour had returned to the woman’s face and she thanked me several times before leaving – exiting with a confident stride and not pausing to buy flowers after all.
‘Do you think she’ll be OK?’ James asked me when he returned to the cafe for his breakfast several minutes later.
‘I’m sure she’ll be fine – thanks to you.’
James shrugged as I poured him a coffee. ‘Is that experience talking?’
