by Liz Eeles
Logan brushes past me as she gets to the front door of the bookshop, and he stands in the doorway watching her as she clip-clops down the High Street towards her company car. His thick blond hair is ruffling in the cold breeze and I have an urge to push my fingers through it. He’d probably have me arrested for assault.
With a sigh, I turn on my heel and head back into The Cosy Kettle, feeling unsettled, as I often do after spending time with my sister.
Four
By early afternoon, the sun is blotted out by thick black clouds and thunder is rumbling around the hills that surround Honeyford. The garden is empty and bright flashes are lighting up the sky, warning of the storm to come. But inside The Cosy Kettle it’s warm and fabulously festive.
‘You’ve done a grand job in here, Becca.’ I jump as Flora’s voice sounds in my ear. ‘You’re putting me to shame. I’ve only managed to string up a few baubles in the shop so far.’
She waves at Vernon, who runs the town’s butcher’s store. He always turns up about this time for a Belgian bun and flat white coffee.
‘Is everything all right?’ I ask. One thing about being a nervous person is that I pick up on anxious vibes from others. Zac says it’s a superpower though, quite honestly, I’d prefer the ability to make myself invisible.
Flora frowns. ‘Not really. The school just rang to say that Caleb’s not well and someone needs to pick him up, but Daniel’s in London on a training course.’
Caleb’s only ten and Flora has become a surrogate mum to him since she started going out with Daniel, his dad.
‘What about his gran?’
Flora shakes her head. ‘Luna’s at home with the same bug. She’s been under the weather for a few days.’
‘Then you must go and collect the child,’ booms Millicent, who’s nipped in for a quick decaf and has been earwigging shamelessly. She rolls up the sleeves of her sensible beige blouse. ‘Becca can run the shop while I keep an eye on the café. I mean, how hard can it be?’
Quite hard, actually, when everyone wants serving at the same time and I’m trying to guesstimate the number of cakes we’ll need tomorrow. But it’s relatively quiet at the moment, now a storm’s brewing and people aren’t venturing out to the shops.
‘That would be wonderful, if the two of you don’t mind,’ says Flora, already texting the school to let them know she’s on her way.
‘Of course we don’t mind. Millicent and I will be fine, and Caleb needs you.’
‘I should be back within the hour.’
‘Great.’
I plaster on a smile as familiar naggings of anxiety about being left in charge start edging in. Yesterday Flora had to come to my rescue, for goodness’ sake, when I cocked things up in the café.
Flora gives me a sideways look. She knows me pretty well after all these months. ‘I’ll probably be much less than an hour, actually. I’ll take Caleb home to Starlight Cottage, get him settled and head straight back. Luna can keep an eye on him, as she’s at home anyway. Are you quite sure that’s OK?’
‘Absolutely. You go and sort out Caleb.’
I mean, what else can I say? Flora’s my boss, and, although she’s quite sensitive to my anxieties, she’s not the nervous type herself. Even breaking up with her cheating husband a few months ago didn’t throw her – not really. And she’s totally reinvented herself since into a confident and successful small business owner with a whole new family. She’s living with widower Daniel and his mum, Luna, at the moment but is looking around for her own place. I think she’s amazing, and always feel a little bit in awe whenever she’s around.
Flora rushes off with a wave and I head into the bookshop which is even quieter than the café. I breathe in the smell of ink and paper, and relax. This’ll be fine. I love being surrounded by the books which are crammed into the shelves and standing in piles on the flagstones. They provide me with hours of reading pleasure but require nothing in return.
That’s why I came into the bookshop when I was having a panic attack, eight months ago. I sought refuge here because books ground me, and it was one of the best moves I ever made. It was the first time I properly met Flora and Callie, who was working in the shop then, and a moment when my life changed for the better.
‘I’m helping myself to a free cranberry cupcake, by the way,’ calls Millicent, poking her head around the café door. ‘In lieu of payment for helping you out.’
‘Of course. You can help yourself to a coffee too, if you’d like.’
‘Oh, I am, don’t you worry.’
As she disappears back into The Cosy Kettle, I leaf through a stand of Honeyford postcards that Flora has placed near the till, choose one and smooth its glossy surface with my thumb. It’s a photo of the old stone toll bridge spanning the narrow, shallow river that winds its way through the town. Two ducks are lazily floating towards the stone arch and patches of sunlight are twinkling on the crystal-clear water.
It was taken on a much warmer day than today. Outside in the High Street, shoppers are hurrying past in thick coats with collars turned up against the chill and, as I watch, fat raindrops start to splatter and burst on the pavement.
Not long to go until Christmas and I haven’t bought a single present yet. My parents are easy: toiletries and books for Mum and a jumper for Dad. But Jasmine is more tricky – she has expensive tastes for someone brought up in a modest house like ours. And I need to get something special for Zac. He’s been such a support since I moved in with him.
I’m pondering on what to buy a geeky twenty-seven-year-old with an appalling taste in music when the shop door tings and a middle-aged man in a well-cut suit rushes in. He brushes glistening raindrops from his steel-grey hair before striding forward.
‘You’re not Flora,’ he declares, frowning slightly at my bright blue hair. He puts down his bulging briefcase, extends his hand towards me and waits.
‘I’m afraid Flora’s had to nip out,’ I say, holding out my hand and receiving a brisk handshake in return.
‘That’s a shame. I’m Jonathan Frank, CEO of Frank Commodities, and she knew I was coming in this afternoon. Who are you?’
‘I’m Becca,’ I say, feeling my breathing change from long and deep to short and shallow. There’s a familiar prickle of pins and needles in my fingertips as my ridiculous hair-trigger nervous system goes into overdrive.
‘You work here, do you?’ asks Mr Frank, staring at my sweatshirt which I suddenly realise is smudged with icing sugar from this morning’s cake delivery. There’s also glitter from the café’s decorations scattered across my fingers, and now across his, thanks to our handshake.
‘I work in the café here, The Cosy Kettle. I’m the manager.’
‘Are you, indeed?’
Mr Frank’s mouth lifts in the corner as though he can’t quite believe it.
‘Can I help you while Flora’s out?’ I ask, as a bright flash lights the darkness outside and a loud clap of thunder echoes overhead.
‘I had a discussion with Flora about hiring the shop and café for an event I’m running in the new year and I need to know if that’s going to be possible.’
When I look at him blankly, he sighs. ‘Flora and I spoke on the phone and I said I’d call in this afternoon to finalise the deal.’
I glance at my watch. Flora’s been gone forty-five minutes.
‘She shouldn’t be too long,’ I tell him, but he only sighs again.
‘That’s a problem because I need to know right now. There’s another option which I’ll lose if I don’t book it straight away. I also need to get to another appointment, as long as I don’t drown in the process.’ He glances outside and winces at the rain that’s started falling in torrents.
‘I can give Flora a call.’
‘Please do that.’
He starts clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth while I call Flora’s number on my mobile, but there’s no ringing tone. Starlight Cottage is just outside Honeyford and often a black hole when it comes to a phone signal. Th
e storm won’t be helping either. Rain is running in rivulets down the shop window.
‘I’m afraid I can’t reach her at the moment. Can I get her to call you when she gets back?’
Mr Frank shakes his head. ‘I’m afraid not. I need a decision now, so what do you say?’
He stares at me, with an eyebrow raised. But I can’t possibly make a decision without checking first. I’ve heard nothing about this event and I’ve no idea what Flora has in mind. What if I say yes and she says no and, in the meantime, Mr Frank loses out on the other venue? He’d be furious and it wouldn’t be good publicity for The Cosy Kettle. Someone gung-ho would say ‘yes’ and damn the consequences but I’ve never been gung-ho in my life. I’m always too worried about doing the wrong thing.
Jasmine reckons it’s fear that makes me indecisive but, to be honest, it’s my vivid imagination. This enables me to picture all the things that could possibly go wrong – and, believe me, there are a lot of them. I envy people who swan around totally oblivious to the dreadful things that could happen at any moment. It must be wonderful.
Mr Frank is still staring at me so I pull back my shoulders, inwardly berating myself for being such a wuss. ‘It will probably be fine, but I really do need to double-check with Flora before I can give you a definite yes,’ I tell him.
‘Really?’ He sniffs. ‘Well, maybe it’s for the best if I go with the other venue anyway.’
‘She honestly won’t be long. She’ll be back any minute.’
‘Sadly, I don’t have time to wait.’ Mr Frank takes a small silver case from his inside pocket and pulls out a creamy-white business card. ‘Please be good enough to tell Flora that I called in.’
‘Don’t you want to wait until the rain goes off?’
‘I don’t have the luxury of time but I do at least have an umbrella.’ He pulls a fat black umbrella with a curved wooden handle from his briefcase and strides towards the door. I’m tempted to go all gung-ho for the first time ever and call him back, but he’s already disappeared into the storm. After the door bangs behind him, I sit behind the till, gnawing at a torn nail on my thumb, and replaying our conversation in my head. Have I done the right thing?
Less than ten minutes after Mr Frank has left, Flora rushes in. She drapes her dripping coat over the leather armchair in the corner, ignoring the puddles that start pooling on the flagstones, and heads for the kitchen to put her drenched umbrella in the sink.
A minute later she’s back, pushing her hands through her dark hair. Her sleek shoulder-length bob has gone slightly frizzy in the damp.
‘Honestly,’ she puffs, ‘it was like a monsoon out there when I parked near the war memorial, but the sky lightened up and it stopped raining the moment I got to the shop door. Typical!’
‘It was quite a storm. How’s Caleb doing?’
‘Poor boy. He’s feeling pretty sorry for himself but I’ve wrapped him up in a duvet on the sofa and he’s watching telly, so he’ll be fine. Has everything been OK here?’
‘It’s been really quiet, except for Mr Frank coming in.’
‘Mr…?’ Flora wrinkles her nose and then bangs the heel of her hand against her damp forehead. ‘Oh no, I forgot he was coming in to finalise the event he’s holding. Did I tell you about it? He wants to take over the shop and Cosy Kettle for a whole afternoon, for a business event. I know it’s a new direction we haven’t tried before, but it’ll be good for income and great exposure for the café – it might even get us some new customers to tide us over the quieter new year period, until the tourists come back.’
A wave of heat washes over me and my stomach starts churning. I should have said yes. Of course I should have.
I take a deep breath. ‘He wanted a decision straight away and I couldn’t get hold of you on the phone so he left. He said he might book a different venue instead.’
‘Oh, I certainly hope not.’ Flora frowns. ‘We could do with the money and the kudos. I’d better ring him.’
Flora walks to the back of the shop to make her call while I keep busy, serving a customer who’s just come in. She returns as the customer goes out of the shop with his purchase, and shakes her head.
‘Unbelievable. He’s gone with the other venue already and he won’t change his mind.’ She sighs. ‘I wish you’d said that we’d do it, Becca. You’re in charge of the café now so you could have agreed to go ahead with it.’
Disappointment sparks in her eyes and I feel awful, because I’ve let her down… for the second time this week. Flora put her trust in me and I’ve screwed things up.
‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t feel that I had the authority and I was worried I’d make the wrong decision. I was trying to do the best for the business but…’
When I trail off, Flora shakes her head and gives a strained smile. ‘Never mind. It wasn’t fair to leave you in charge, and I hadn’t discussed the event with you so you weren’t to know.’ She closes her eyes as though she can’t bear to look at me.
‘I really am sorry. I didn’t think…’
‘No, you didn’t.’ Flora opens her eyes and pats my hand. ‘Look, don’t worry about it, Becca. It’s not the end of the world. Why don’t you go and check out what Millicent’s doing in the café.’
Crikey, I’d forgotten Millicent. But there’s no need to worry. She’s sitting at the café counter, inspecting her nails and looking bored when I rush back in.
‘Flora’s back, is she? I bet she got soaked in that storm. I’ve never seen rain like it. It must be all that global warming.’ She peers at my face. ‘What’s the matter with you? You look like you’re about to burst into tears.’
‘No, I’m fine,’ I gulp, grabbing a cinnamon whirl and shoving it into my mouth. The sticky sweetness hits the spot and instantly calms me down – no wonder my arse is spreading if I’m plugging my competence gap with calories.
Millicent narrows her eyes. ‘Hmm, if you say so. Right, if you no longer need my unpaid labour, I’d better be off because my personal trainer is arriving in an hour.’
‘How long have you had a personal trainer?’ Millicent has the same physique as my gran – stout from chest to hips with no discernible waist. And I haven’t noticed any change in the months I’ve known her.
‘Oh, ages,’ says Millicent, airily. ‘I’ve hired a young woman who comes to the house and tries to make me do squats in the sitting room. She’s not always successful.’
I bet she isn’t.
After Millicent has bustled off, I serve cappuccinos and slices of ginger cake to a damp young couple who’ve wandered in. I make myself a mocha with an obscene amount of caramel syrup – more comfort calories – and drop some coins into the till, seeing as I’m eating and drinking the stock. Then I sit at the counter, surrounded by tinsel.
The fairy lights are twinkling, the copper kettles that give the café its name are gleaming, and Bing is dreaming of a white Christmas on the radio, but I’ve never felt less festive. I’ve really let Flora and The Cosy Kettle down this afternoon – by being me, basically. Shy, worried Becca who makes wrong decisions by not making decisions at all. High-flyer Jasmine would never have let such a business opportunity pass her by, I tell myself, sipping at my coffee. Jasmine grabs life by the horns, without shyness or fear holding her back.
I start mentally listing all the things I’m afraid of… spiders, big crowds, speaking in front of people I don’t know, speaking in front of people I do know… but give up when my list gets depressingly long.
What a day! Jasmine’s visit, Logan’s total lack of interest in me and then my corporate cock-up to wind things up nicely. Would it be over the top to choose another cake from the mouth-watering display in front of me? Or am I merely feeding my despair?
Oh, get over yourself, Rebecca, a little voice whispers in my ear and I have to smile, because it sounds exactly like Zac. But I pick up a massive slice of Christmas cake anyway, peel off a thick slab of white icing and marzipan and shove it into my mouth.
Five
> Zac is sitting on a low wall, bundled up in a green parka and striped woolly hat, and doesn’t see me as I get closer. All hint of the earlier thunderstorm has disappeared, and the temperature has dropped as the clouds cleared. Zac is gazing into space, staring at the pinpricks of stars that are scattered across the inky sky. The market house arches are dark shapes behind him. He looks still and calm and rather lovely, actually. Like a still-life painting.
I fasten the toggles on my black duffel coat and hurry up to him. Just the sight of kind, caring Zac makes me feel more cheerful.
‘Hey. I got your text. What’s with all this coming to walk me home business, when it’s only a ten-minute stroll through the Badlands of Honeyford?’
Zac looks up at me and smiles. ‘I fancied some fresh air and thought you might like some company seeing as yesterday and today were a bit rubbish.’
‘How do you know that today wasn’t great?’
‘I guessed because I knew that Jasmine was calling in. How was she?’
I shrug. ‘All right, really. Just a bit… supercilious.’
‘Good word. Well done,’ murmurs Zac, with a wink.
‘Yeah, and I know the word patronising as well.’
Zac sniggers as I shoulder-barge him off the wall. He stands up and brushes tiny stones from his jeans. ‘I met Stanley in the street on the way here and he was full of how he came to your rescue yesterday when that customer got – and I’m quoting Stanley directly here – “well arsey”. Then he called me “mate” a lot and wandered off with his jeans falling down.’
‘He’s trying to perfect the low-slung jeans look but it’s not working too well. People keep pulling them up for him. He gets very cross.’
Zac throws back his head and laughs. ‘Stanley is a total legend. Anyway, can we walk home as we talk, before my feet turn into blocks of ice? I’ve already lost the feeling in my toes.’
‘Sounds good to me. You are crazy coming out again when you could be slobbing in front of the fire.’
