by Liz Eeles
‘What’s happening, Dad?’ Caleb slurs, his voice heavy with sleep. ‘What are you and Flora talking about in the middle of the night?’
‘Nothing, champ. Flora and I were just saying good night to each other. Come here.’ Daniel opens his arms wide and Caleb stumbles towards him and snuggles into the bed beside him.
‘Sorry, Caleb. Your dad and I didn’t mean to wake you,’ I gabble. ‘I was passing and thought I’d say good night because I couldn’t sleep. I was on my way back from the loo and heading for bed so I’ll go now and get back under the covers or I’ll be totally knackered tomorrow.’
Too. Much. Information. And am I allowed to say ‘knackered’ in front of a nine-year-old? I bite down hard on my lip to stop more words tumbling out.
‘Night, Flora,’ mumbles Caleb, as Daniel bends his head and kisses his son’s nose.
‘Night. Sleep tight,’ I manage, before rushing out of the room and closing the door behind me.
I stand on the landing with my forehead pressed against the bumpy wall and my head spinning. Basically, I – sensible, married-for-ever Flora Morgan – just barged into Daniel’s bedroom in my old M&S pyjamas, sat on his bed and almost kissed him. It didn’t get that far, thanks to Caleb, but Daniel knew what I was thinking. That’s why he leaned in towards me.
If life was confusing before, it’s now a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Embarrassment and guilt – which is annoying because Malcolm has behaved appallingly – plus excitement that I actually wanted to kiss a man who wasn’t Malcolm, and disappointment that it didn’t happen.
Though that’s just as well, I tell myself as I slip off my dressing gown and climb back into my narrow single bed. I need a clear head to choose the right path ahead.
Breakfast at Starlight Cottage is always a rushed affair, with no time to chat before we all head off in different directions. But it’s more rushed and awkward than ever this morning.
Daniel hasn’t caught my eye once since he came into the kitchen to grab a quick bowl of home-made muesli. And I was careful not to brush against him when I reached into the cupboard for a plate for my toast. We dance around each other, hardly acknowledging one another’s presence, as Caleb slurps down a yoghurt with berry compote and Luna wraps his lunchtime sandwiches in greaseproof paper.
It’s probably for the best if we forget what happened last night. I’m the sensible one. That’s what Malcolm says. And kissing a man who’s not my husband – a man who doesn’t always seem to like me very much – is definitely not sensible. That was the last thing I thought of as I finally drifted off to sleep, and the first thing I thought of when I woke up every hour on the hour.
‘Are you all right, Flora, love?’ asks Luna, flicking her silver hair away from the sandwiches. ‘You’re very quiet this morning and you’ve left half your toast. It’s my best home-made brown nutty loaf.’
‘I’m fine, thank you, and the bread’s lovely. I’m just tired because I didn’t sleep well.’
Daniel glances up from his bowl of cereal, but looks down again before our eyes can meet and spoons in another mouthful of muesli.
Well, this is awkward. I take another bite of buttered toast and try to stop wondering what would have happened if Caleb hadn’t walked in when he did. Would I still have woken up this morning in my lumpy single bed, or would all sense have deserted me?
A vision of the two of us in Daniel’s big double bed floats into my mind. I shovel in the rest of the soggy bread as I try to push the image away, then I grab my car keys and bid everyone a hasty goodbye.
Chapter Sixteen
It’s ridiculous having a sort-of crush at my age. That’s what I can’t stop thinking as I open up the shop, sort out deliveries and contact customers to let them know their books have arrived. I blamed Malcolm for having a midlife crisis and now I appear to be doing something similar.
My life’s been rather sheltered, so maybe my crisis isn’t completely unexpected. But fixating on a tall, dark, handsome man who’s presented a glimpse of excitement to a wronged and lonely wife: how stereotypical can a middle-aged woman be?
I consider packing up my things and kipping on Callie’s sofa. Or turning up at Millicent’s with my suitcase. She did offer, after all. But there’s no need to over-react, I tell myself – and I like living at Luna’s, mostly. The peace of Starlight Cottage and the surrounding countryside is soothing. And I’d miss Luna’s comfortingly bonkers presence, and Caleb, whose infectious laughter and enthusiasm for life brightens my day. I ignore the fleeting thought that I’d miss Daniel too.
‘Come on, Flora. Concentrate!’ chides Millicent, frowning at me. ‘He’ll be here any minute and we need to be prepared.’
Alan, chairman of the Honeyford Heritage Society, is visiting the shop to check out our plans for the charter celebrations – and the Queen herself calling in to pick up a romcom could not have caused more of a kerfuffle. Millicent has roped in Phyllis to help ‘sort out’ the shop and café. And she’s even ditched her ubiquitous gilet and is wearing a dress and a double strand of iridescent pearls.
‘Alan is a very important man, don’t you know.’ Millicent pauses from her task of arranging a huge bunch of chrysanthemums in a massive grey vase. She brought the flowers and vase with her. ‘I know you do your best, Flora, but you’re busy and rather distracted, what with Callie being enamoured with Noah and away on holiday at the moment, and your marriage… difficulties.’ Her frown softens into sympathy. ‘Anyway, we thought you could do with some help.’
‘She thought you could do with some help,’ grumbles Phyllis, who’s dusting low bookshelves from her wheelchair. ‘Personally, I think it’s a lot of fuss over nothing. He’s just an ordinary, very noisy, bloke.’
‘Far from it,’ harrumphs Millicent. ‘Alan has reinvigorated the Honeyford area since he moved here a few years ago after a successful acting career in London. He’s a master of the arts and he was in a well-received play close to the West End in the 1990s.’
‘Really? Has he been in anything I’ll have heard of?’ I ask, tidying up the already tidy area around the till.
Millicent pauses from her flower arranging and sniffs. 'It was all rather highbrow stuff, so I doubt it.’
Charming! Before I can think of a suitably withering response, the shop door tings open and Alan steps inside. He’s as rotund as I remembered and his fleshy face is even more flushed – he looks like a heart attack waiting to happen. Following behind him is the skinny woman who was sitting next to him at the community meeting. She’s wearing a navy blue jumpsuit that accentuates her slim frame.
‘Good morning, all!’ shouts Alan. His booming voice echoes through the shop and Becca pokes her head out of The Cosy Kettle in alarm. He looks around him and places a paw-like hand on the Day of Desire display. ‘Must admit, I’ve not been in for a while because the place isn’t the same without old Ruben. We’re all missing him like mad. But it looks as if you’ve been doing your best.’
Damned with faint praise and he’s only been in the shop for thirty seconds. I take a deep breath and plaster a smile on my face.
‘I’m Flora. Welcome to Honeyford Bookshop.’
‘Thank you.’ He clasps my hand and shakes it. ‘And this is?’ Alan nods at Millicent, who dips a slight curtsey, and ignores Phyllis, who’s giggling behind her.
‘I’m Millicent. We have met before actually. You came to a dinner party at my home in Little Besbridge and we discussed the works of Samuel Beckett over prawn canapés. It was a marvellous evening. Do you remember?’
‘Of course,’ booms Alan, vigorously shaking her hand. He obviously doesn’t have a clue who she is. He strides over to Phyllis and shakes her hand too, the one holding the yellow duster. When the woman he came in with coughs, Alan turns and waves his arm at her. ‘This is my very own trouble and strife, my wife Katrina, who dabbles in the heritage society.’
‘I’m actually the very busy secretary of the society,’ says Katrina, giving her husband a well-practised
eye-roll.
‘And she fulfils the role very well. We’d be lost without her efforts,’ says her husband with a patronising pout, as her eye-rolling goes into overdrive. ‘Anyway,’ he announces, rubbing his hands together, ‘we’re here to discuss your plans for the charter celebrations and I, for one, can’t wait to hear what you’ve got in store. We’re expecting great things.’
‘Are you? That’s great. Would you and your wife like to sit and have a drink in The Cosy Kettle while we talk about what we’ve got in mind?’
‘The Cosy what?’ Alan looks enquiringly at his wife.
Katrina sighs. ‘The café that Flora’s opened at the back of the shop. I’ve already told you about it.’
‘You have a café, too? How clever!’ He turns to me with an expression of amazement and delight, as though I’ve just discovered a cure for the common cold. ‘Though, to be honest, I’m not sure Ruben would have approved.’ He puts his bear-like paw on the small of my back. ‘Lead the way. I could absolutely murder a macchiato.’
‘Would you like our support, Flora?’ calls Millicent. ‘Any help with outlining your schedule or bullet-pointing your business and community goals?’
What business and community goals? Phyllis clamps the duster to her mouth to stifle her giggles.
‘That’s very kind of you, Millicent, but I’m sure I can manage. Of course, you’re welcome to stay and have a coffee, as a thank you for your help.’
‘No, that’s fine. If we’re no longer needed, I’ll take Phyllis home,’ grumps Millicent. She gives the flowers a quick tweak, grabs the duster – which she also supplied – and shoves it into her tote bag.
Oh dear, I think I’ve upset her but I can’t cope with her fawning over Alan and bullet-pointing for the next ten minutes. I’m already thrown by Alan being a one-man Ruben fan club.
Becca is ready and waiting for us in the café; it’s never looked so gorgeous. Sunshine is pouring through the garden window, bouncing off the burnished copper kettles and pooling on the floor. The gleaming chrome coffee machine is hissing in the corner and an enticing array of confectionery is displayed under glass nearby – tarts filled with creamy custard, sticky ginger sponge, plump choux buns slicked with shiny chocolate and my favourite, strawberry cake. Half of the tables are already taken by people eating and drinking, and the air is filled with a buzz of conversation and the rich aroma of coffee beans.
‘Well, I say,’ declares Alan, salivating at the cake display. ‘This is splendid. Did you manage all of this by yourself or are you helping your husband out?’
‘It was all little old me, with help from my staff and a few local people,’ I reply, with a strained smile. ‘Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll get us a drink.’
Katrina follows me to the counter where Becca is waiting for our order.
‘Just an Americano with skimmed milk for me, thank you,’ she says, delving into her designer handbag for her purse.
‘Don’t worry. It’s on the house.’ I call over to her husband, ‘What would you like, Alan? Was it a macchiato?’
‘I’ll change my mind and have a hot chocolate, if there’s one going, plus one of those rather wonderful cakes. You choose one for me,’ shouts Alan, licking his lips.
‘Which would he prefer?’ I ask Katrina, who’s scanning the list of coffees we offer.
‘Just give him the biggest one.’ Her mouth rises in one corner as I go behind the counter and place a large choux bun on a plate, and a tiny cake fork next to it. ‘And a splodge of extra cream, if you’ve got it.’
Warding off a spousal heart attack doesn’t appear to be high on Katrina’s priority list.
Alan attacks the pastry with gusto while Becca makes herself a cappuccino and joins us. She sits silently, with her hands in her lap, until Katrina gives her a nudge with her elbow.
‘Becca, is it? I absolutely love the colour of your hair. Have you used permanent dye?’
‘No, just a cheap one that last for a few washes. It’s scarlet now, but it was blue before. And I’ve been green and purple in the past.’
‘A rainbow of hair colours. How lovely.’
Becca nods and lapses back into silence but I smile at Katrina for taking the trouble to try and draw Becca out. I don’t think Alan’s even noticed Becca’s dazzling hair colour. He’s too busy with his cake.
‘So what have you got planned?’ he asks, wiping a thick blob of cream from his upper lip. ‘I’m sure you’ll do your best but we need to make sure that all events on Charter Day are in keeping with the general timbre of the occasion.’ He rolls the ‘r’ so much on ‘timbre’ that tiny flakes of pastry spray in all directions. ‘We certainly don’t want any more tarot readings,’ he adds, raising a bushy eyebrow.
‘I’m rather looking forward to Luna’s evaluation of my future,’ I tell him.
Truth be told, I have no intention of letting Luna anywhere near me with her spooky deck of cards. But, having lived in her house for a while now, she feels a bit like family – which means I can moan about her weird ways ’til the cows come home but no one outside the ‘family’ is allowed to do the same.
‘Hmm, well I dare say her fortune telling will be popular. Though it seems a little… tacky,’ huffs Alan. ‘Her shop sticks out like a sore thumb on the High Street in my opinion. But enough of my views on Honeyford’s retail sector. Tell me what you have planned for Charter Day. I’m all ears, darling.’
I let the inappropriate endearment go because I get the feeling it’s a term that luvvie Alan uses regularly. ‘Becca is organising the Honeyford Bake-Off with a prize for the best cakes, which will then be sold in the café in aid of the community centre roof,’ I tell him.
‘That sounds acceptable. And I will, of course, be available to oversee judging of the entries.’
‘Um,’ squeaks Becca, sinking into her chair. I know for a fact she’s already asked the owner of the local bakery that supplies our cakes to be Head Judge. ‘I’m… um, I’m afraid…’
‘We can finalise the judges another time,’ I say quickly. ‘We might have a semi-final round, depending on the number of entries, so your services might well be required to judge that.’
‘The semi-final,’ repeats Alan, with a pained look. ‘I’m not sure a man of my standing—’
‘And what about the bookshop?’ interrupts Katrina. ‘What have you got planned there?’
‘We’ll have a few events on the day – such as a book-themed lucky dip and a Book Surgery to recommend novels people might not have previously considered – with all profits from related sales going to the community centre fund. And the highlight of our day will be a talk from our special guest, S.R. Kinsley.’
‘The bestselling author?’ asks Katrina. ‘I’ve read all of his books and think he’s marvellous. So he’s coming to little old Honeyford, is he? Well done. I doubt Ruben could have pulled off such a coup.’ When her mouth twitches and she gives me a wink, I decide that I like Katrina very much.
‘Well, that’s rather impressive,’ says Alan. ‘One of his books was made into a film and I very nearly got a part. The actor they chose in my place was abysmal, more fool them, but that’s by the by. We can certainly promote Mr Kinsley’s visit as a highlight, if not the highlight, of Charter Day.’
‘That would be wonderful. Actually, our VIP speaker is all thanks to Millicent, because she knows him.’
‘Millicent?’ asks Alan, wiping his finger around his creamy cake plate.
‘The woman you met when you came into the shop.’
Alan frowns.
‘The one in pearls who said she’d met you before.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Alan pops his finger into mouth and smacks his lips. ‘Top-notch confectionery, Flora, and I do believe that concludes our business this morning.’
He stays to finish his hot chocolate, declaring it ‘the best I’ve ever tasted’, and buys himself a slice of strawberry cake ‘for later’. Then he sweeps out of the shop, booming greetings to customers as he goes. A
pparently he has ‘people to see and places to go, darling’.
Katrina stands in the doorway as her husband marches off along the High Street, swinging his cake in a paper bag.
‘You mentioned a Book Surgery. What would you recommend for someone like me? I usually read thrillers and autobiographies but I’m open to a change.’
I run my eye over her. Not a hair is out of place, her navy court shoes match her pristine jumpsuit, and her make-up is a flawless mask. Being married to Alan can’t be easy. She seems like a woman who would benefit from some tender escapist romance in her life.
‘What about this?’ I point at the Day of Desire display, which has been causing rather a stir. Three young mums came in yesterday, specifically to buy a copy of the book, presumably after hearing Knackered Mary rave about it. I felt rather proud as I rang up the sales, as though I’d ‘discovered’ a new literary sensation.
‘Heavens!’ Katrina picks up a copy, stares at the cover and puffs out her cheeks. ‘I’d enjoy some light and entertaining literature but I’m not sure this kind of book is really me.’
‘I thought exactly the same when I first started reading it, but I think you might be surprised. I certainly was. It’s a beautifully written study of female awakening and the story’s pretty good too. It’s very romantic. Why don’t you give it a go?’
When Katrina hesitates, I pull out my copy of the book from under the till counter. ‘Here you go, why don’t you borrow mine and bring it back when you’re done?’
‘I couldn’t possibly. I don’t want to do you out of a sale.’
‘No, it’s fine. My only request is that you let me know what you think of the book when you’ve finished with it and, if you like it, you encourage people to come in and buy a copy.’
‘Done,’ says Katrina, giving me a broad smile before shoving the book into her handbag and zipping it closed. She reads the notice I’ve balanced on top of the display. ‘What’s all this about the author being incognito?’
