Chapter Three
Vicky was still fuming by the time she got home. Of all the arrogant, aggravating, infuriating men! She had wondered whether the local people might be wary of accepting her, but he had deliberately made it more difficult for her.
Okay, he had done her a favour, towing her car — well, two, counting recommending the garage. But that didn’t compensate for what he had done.
She slammed around the kitchen, putting her shopping away and making herself a coffee. Calm down ...After all, it didn’t really matter — it wasn’t as if she was going to be living here permanently.
The buzz of her phone forced her to come back down to earth. She glanced at the screen. Her mother. Oh Lord, that was all she needed right now. She drew in a long, steadying breath and made herself smile to warm her voice as she opened the call.
“Hi, Mum.”
“Hello, darling. How are you?”
“Absolutely fine, Mum. How are you?”
“Oh, I’m fine, thank you. Did you have a good trip down?”
“Yes, no problem — the weather was lovely, which made it a really pleasant drive.”
“And how’s the house?”
“It’s fine.” Too many fines — was she protesting too much? “Well, it needs a fair amount of work, but it’ll be fine. Which is more than can be said for the next-door neighbour.” Oops — she hadn’t intended to mention that.
“You mean the farm? Oh dear — are they being difficult? I remember them being quite nice. They used to let you go up and feed the calves — do you remember?”
“Um... yes, I think so.” She frowned, delving back into distant memories. A pleasant middle-aged couple, always warm and welcoming. A cosy kitchen filled with the aroma of baking. “But that was a long time ago — I don’t think they own it now. It’s someone called Tom. He can’t be more than early thirties.”
“Tom? Oh, that could be their son. He’d be about the right age. Why is he being difficult?”
“He doesn’t approve of second homes. Oh, I suppose he has a point,” Vicky conceded reluctantly. “It must be hard for the local people to find anywhere to rent, let alone get on the housing ladder, when people from London come down and buy up houses that they only live in for a few months of the year.”
“Well, yes, dear — but that’s hardly your fault. What could you possibly do with the place if you don’t sell it? You have to be sensible.”
“Yes, Mum.” Vicky rolled her eyes — it was fortunate that her mum hadn’t figured out how to use FaceTime yet.
“What does Jeremy think about it?”
“I’m going to take some photos later to send to him.”
“That’s good — he’ll be able to give you the best advice about what to do.”
Vicky clenched her teeth to hold back what might have been too sharp a response. Her mother had always thought the world of Jeremy.
“Well, look after yourself, dear. Speak to you soon.”
“Yes, Mum. Bye.”
She closed the call with a sigh and put the phone down on the table. Oh, that word ‘sensible’ — it was her mother’s mantra.
It was through being sensible that she had ended up as an estate agent. It hadn’t been her dream job. She’d needed something after leaving university — a degree in medieval history wasn’t exactly an open sesame for a wide range of careers.
She’d worked in a shop for a while. Then the vacancy for an administrative assistant at the Shepherd’s Bush branch of Thoringtons had cropped up — it had seemed quite interesting, the money was good, and it was just a short bus ride from home. Sensible.
A year later, Charlotte Thorington, who owned the string of agencies, offered her the chance to train as a lettings agent. It was more money, and she liked the people she worked with.
Sensible.
It had cropped up again when she had started dating Jeremy. ‘A nice, sensible young man,’ her mother had said. ‘Don’t let him slip through your fingers.’
So she hadn’t. But sometimes she wondered what it would be like not to be sensible. To have a dream — even a crazy one — and just go for it.
Like her vague plans to write a biography of Elizabeth Woodville, wife of King Edward IV and one of the most influential women of the Wars of the Roses.
She’d studied the period for her degree, and had been completely fascinated by Elizabeth — her renowned beauty, her secret marriage to Edward, the disappearance of her two sons — the famous Princes in the Tower.
She had made a few tentative starts on the book — though she had to agree with Jeremy that it was probably not a subject that many people would be interested in reading about. Still, she really wanted to write it, even if it was only for her own pleasure and never got published.
Putting those thoughts aside, she made herself some lunch. This afternoon she would go round the cottage to identify all the work that needed to be done to make the place saleable.
It was likely to be a long list, and some of the items could be pretty expensive — repairs to the roof, replacing all the windows with double-glazed units. Central heating, a new kitchen, a new bathroom...
Maybe Tom had been right, she reflected with a sigh. Maybe she could try selling it as it stood, let the purchasers do it up themselves.
But something about the place had got her hooked. She could see how it could be, with careful renovations that would make it more convenient without losing its comfortable cottagey charm.
In the sitting room she’d have one of the walls taken back to the natural brick, the wooden floor sanded and polished. The kitchen... Stone tiles on the floor, white walls, good lighting. Cream-painted shaker-style cabinets with granite worktops, a new white porcelain Belfast sink, and a big range-style cooker in the inglenook — cherry red, with brass fittings. Modern, but with a nod to traditional style.
Although that might run up a bit too expensive — maybe she’d have to compromise a little. Cheaper tiles, laminate worktops, ordinary oven. Even so it was going to cost a lot. But she could take out a loan against the value of the cottage and pay it back when the place was sold. Even after paying the inheritance tax she would still have a good amount left.
Together with what Jeremy could get for the sale of his flat it would give them a chance to buy a really decent property in London. A dream property in Twickenham or even Hampstead, with a garden...
A dream . . .
But weren’t dreams meant to leave you fizzing with excitement? A house in Hampstead would probably be many people’s dream. But there was no fizz — just a dull acknowledgement that it was the sensible thing to do.
* * *
It was almost nine o’clock when Vicky woke — she hadn’t bothered to set her alarm. She hadn’t slept so well in ages — it must have been the fresh sea air. But she had work to do — this morning she was planning to spend a couple of hours sorting through the kitchen cupboards.
Most of the stuff in the pantry would have to be thrown away — the potatoes had sprouted, the cabbage was a soggy brown mess. A lot of the packages were well past their sell-by dates — only the tins were usable, though she wasn’t keen on oxtail soup or baked beans.
The pots and pans, cutlery and crockery could go to the charity shop down the hill — she’d keep enough to cook with while she was here. There was a nice big Pyrex casserole dish she would take home with her, plus a couple of vases and a blue-glass water jug.
She had finished her lunch and was washing up her plate when her phone buzzed. Barry from the garage.
“Miss Marston? I’ve got your car fixed. But I won’t be able to fetch it out to you for a couple of days, I’m afraid — too busy up on the moors, see? But if you can get in on the bus, or get a lift, it’s all yours.”
“Oh, that’s great — thank you. I’ll get the bus.”
* * *
‘I’ll get the bus’ had proved to be easier said than done. For someone who lived close to one of London’s busiest thoroughfares, buses were something that appeared whenever you looked up.
Here in the wilds of South Devon it was different, as she had discovered when she had checked the website of the local bus company. It had been a wise move to check — the only bus that came close ran only once an hour.
Trudging up the road to the bus stop, she was grateful that at least she’d be able to drive back from town instead of having to hang around for the bus...
A silver-grey SUV pulled up beside her, and the passenger door was opened. “Hi — jump in.”
Tom.
She tilted up her chin, trying for as much dignity as she could muster. “No, thank you.”
He arched one dark eyebrow. “Well, if you’d prefer to spend an hour or more bouncing around in an old boneshaker that stinks of diesel while it winds its way around the countryside, that’s up to you. I can get you there in fifteen minutes.”
“How do you know where I’m going?”
“Where else would you be going? Anyway, I’d like to apologise for yesterday. I was out of line — I shouldn’t have said what I did.” Oh boy — that smile. It transformed the rather austere lines of his face, and Vicky felt her heartbeat accelerate alarmingly.
“Oh . . . well . . . um . . . thank you. I appreciate that. And . . . um . . . I wanted to thank you for recommending Barry.”
“No problem.” He patted the passenger seat. “Jump in.”
With a murmured, “Thank you,” she climbed in beside him. “This won’t take you out of your way?”
“Not at all — I have stuff to do in town.”
They reached the top of the hill and turned onto the main A road into town. The car was a manual transmission, and she found herself fascinated as she watched his hands work smoothly up through the gears or rest lightly on the steering wheel.
Strong hands, with long fingers and short-clipped nails. Strong wrists, with a smattering of that same dark, curling hair she had glimpsed at his throat...
Quickly she snatched her gaze away and turned it instead to studying the interior of the car. It looked quite new, and top of the range, with dark grey leather seats and a very futuristic technology touch-screen on the dashboard.
Clearly dairy-farming was more lucrative than she would have guessed.
“I suppose you have to get back for milking?” she asked brightly.
“Not till five o’clock.”
She was absently twiddling the diamond ring on her finger. To stop herself fidgeting with it she folded her hands together in her lap. “How many cows do you have to milk?”
Again a raised eyebrow, suggesting that he was amused by her attempts to make polite conversation. “We’ve got a hundred and forty in milk at the moment. Plus we have twenty-four in calf and twenty-seven young heifers waiting to join the milking herd.”
“That sounds like a lot.”
“We’re a medium-size operation,” he responded genially. “Some of the bigger farms have over a thousand head.”
“Wow! That must take some milking.”
“They’d be a lot more mechanised than we are. We prefer to keep to a manageable size — we can know all the animals individually, keep a close eye on their health. And we’re organic, so we get a slightly better profit margin.”
She liked the sound of that. “Have your family always owned the farm?”
“Depends how far you want to go back. The old enrolment records show it’s been ours for over three hundred years.”
Her eyes widened. “That is a long time.”
“It is.” There was a distinct note of pride in his voice. “My dad’s the tenth generation of Cullens to work the land.”
“And now it’s yours?”
He shook his head. “My dad’s. And he’s certainly not ready to retire just yet.”
“Oh?” She slanted him an enquiring look. “I didn’t see him when I was up there the other day.”
“He and my mum have gone to Australia to visit her sister.”
Her eyes danced, daring to tease him. “And they’ve left you in charge?”
“Pretty much. But I’ve got Bill to keep me in line — he’s the stockman. You saw him on Saturday — ginger hair, big feet.”
She laughed. “And who was the young lad who was there?”
“That’s Wayne. He’s doing an apprenticeship with us.”
“Ah — is that why he gets all the mucky jobs?”
“It’s like anywhere — you start from the bottom.”
“Did you?”
“Of course. My dad never gave me a pass. I was mucking out from when I was six.”
Vicky smiled to herself. “I remember your dad, from when I was little. He used to let me feed the calves. They were so sweet, all big brown eyes and soft pink tongues, licking at your hand. He let me name some of them, too.”
His eyes glinted with genuine humour. “Were you responsible for sticking one of them with the label Horatia?”
“Probably.” Oops — there went her crazy heartbeat again. “I wanted to call one Horatio — one of my favourite books when I was little was about a hippo called Horatio. But your dad told me there weren’t any boy calves. It was only later that I realised that was because they would all have... gone off to be slaughtered.” She was silent for a moment, remembering how that had made her cry. “I remember you, too. You pulled my hair once.”
“Did I? Yes, you’re probably right. Teenage boys can be pretty obnoxious.”
“But then you stood up for me when some boys kicked over my sandcastle down on the beach.” She smiled at the memory. “You hit one of them and they all ran away.”
He laughed. “I remember you. You were a little scrap of a thing, always chattering and asking questions. You’d have been... what, twelve years old the last time you came down?”
“I was eleven.”
“Why did you stop coming?”
“My dad got ill, then he died.” She sighed sadly. “I suppose my mum didn’t want to come down here anymore — too many reminders. Then she met my stepdad, and we started going abroad instead — Spain, Greece. We more or less lost contact with Aunt Molly, though she used to send me a birthday card every year, with a five-pound note in it. I suppose when I grew up I should have made more of an effort to come and see her, but...” She shrugged. “Well...”
His attention was diverted for a moment as he overtook a caravan. “To be honest, I doubt there was much you could have done for her. My mum kept an eye on her, but she was very independent, right up to the last. And I suppose it would be a long way to come to visit someone you barely knew.”
She glanced up at him, surprised. “Well, yes. Though it’s no excuse, I suppose — especially now she’s left me her cottage. I had no idea she was going to do that.” She was silent for a moment. “The solicitor who contacted me about the will said she died in her sleep.”
“That’s right. Her heart just gave up.” He smiled. “It was a good way to go in the end. Very peaceful.”
“And she’d had what I suppose you’d call a good innings. She was well into her nineties.”
He nodded, slanting her a questioning look. “Are you still planning to sell the cottage?”
“Yes.” Her mouth quirked wryly. “I don’t really have much alternative. I’ll have quite a hefty inheritance-tax bill to pay. And anyway, I can’t really live in it myself. My job’s in London, and...”
“Your fiancé?”
“Yes.”
“He wouldn’t want to move down here?”
The very thought of that made her laugh.
“Well, if you’re still planning to fix it up, you’ll need a builder you can rely on.”
“Is there one you can recommend?”
“Yes. His name’s Dan — I’ll give you his number. He might be busy for a while though.”
“Thank you.” She glanced up at him. “You don’t mind now — about me selling it? Even if it ends up being a second home?”
crooked smile. “I’m being philosophical. There’s no point being fractious about it.” They had come to a roundabout. He turned left and a short distance further on pulled over onto the forecourt of a garage. “Here you are.”
She could see her little hatchback parked in the alley beside the service centre. She unfastened her seat belt and opened the passenger door, and turned to Tom. “Thanks for the lift.”
“No problem.” Again that heart-bumping smile. “See you around.”
* * *
Vicky stood at the open French windows, watching as the dusk settled quietly over the garden. The bees and the butterflies had gone, but the birds had discovered to their delight that their feeder had been replenished and were making the most of the feast.
A few stars were already twinkling as the sky deepened to a soft cobalt blue — with no streetlights to compete, they seemed so much brighter than in London.
When she was little she had always been sad to leave Aunt Molly’s cottage — she’d cry as the car had pulled away from the lane. She was going to feel the same now — even, she suspected, including the tears.
Telling herself to be sensible wasn’t going to help...
The ping of her phone intruded rudely on the moment. A text message. Jayde — her stepsister. Probably just to tell her about the fabulous night out she was having at the latest trendy nightclub, or possibly a new man.
Her mouth quirked into a wry smile as she clicked on the phone and read the message.
hows hunky neighbour (Punctuated with a wow emoji.)
She rolled her eyes. Typical Jayde. She typed in a reply: not hunky pain in butt (Angry emoji.)
The response came back at once: not hunky (Quiz emoji.) check this (Triple wow emojis.)
There was a link to a website. Vicky clicked on it warily. A news report, with a picture of Tom — in a dinner jacket, no less! It was some kind of awards ceremony — and he was winning an award for an organic feed company, Cullen Organic Mill.
He certainly scrubbed up well, she was forced to acknowledge. The dinner jacket was immaculately tailored over his wide shoulders but couldn’t quite disguise that aura of dynamic male power; the neat clip of his hair couldn’t quite control that tendency to curl.
not badshe acknowledged in her reply to Jayde. still a pain
coming 2 c 4 myself
That was all she needed! Quickly she typed, wouldnt like it place a mess (Zany emoji.) nothing to do
The prompt reply. 1 check out hunk 2 work on tan
ok but dont say i didnt warn u
* * *
Did the sun really always shine in South Devon? That was how Vicky remembered it from her childhood, and it seemed to be proving true. The sky was a glorious vivid blue, tempting her to walk down to the beach again.
Okay — that could be her reward for getting the cupboards and shelves in the living room sorted out. But first she opened the French windows wide to let in the warm, fragrant breeze.
On the rose bushes the buds were just beginning to open, soft shades of white and pinks and yellows. She had planned to bring some in to fill the vases in the fireplace, as Aunt Molly had done.
There must be a pair of secateurs somewhere — probably in one of the kitchen drawers. A quick hunt found them — second drawer down, among a load of other utensils. They were a little stiff, but they would do the job.
Fifteen minutes later she had a lovely display, set off with a couple of fronds from a small juniper that had been hiding behind a rather straggly mahonia. Perfect. She sat back on her heels, breathing in the sweet fragrance. No wonder Aunt Molly had loved the flowers so much.
There was a 1960s-style radiogram in the alcove beside the fireplace, and next to it a rack of old vinyl LP records — Etta James, Billie Holiday, Edith Piaf. Switching it on, she chose the Etta James one and slid it carefully from its cover and placed it on the turntable.
Piano music filled the room, and that rich, smoky voice singing of love. This must have been one of Aunt Molly’s favourites — had she listened to it in the evenings, lazing in her recliner, her eyes closed, a cup of tea or maybe a glass of wine in her hand?
She left it playing while she got to work. There wasn’t much of interest in the sideboard — a box full of old postcards and Christmas cards, a lidless Tupperware container with a jumble of paperclips, elastic bands and dried up Biros. A nice carved chess set in a wooden box. Her ‘good’ china.
Next she turned to the bookshelves. There were a lot of books, some of them in French. Of course... she had forgotten that Aunt Molly had lived in France as a child.
One of them had a pretty cover of vine leaves. Les Vrilles de la Vigne — a collection of short stories by Colette. As she flicked through it, a piece of paper slipped out and fluttered to the floor. Thin paper, pale blue, folded in half. With lines of beautiful handwriting — written in fountain pen and proper ink, not Biro. A poem.
I never loved till I met you,
My heart was never touched with gold.
Now my heart will be ever true
Though years may pass and we grow old.
Love is the light between the leaves
Love is the birds that soar in bliss
Love is the stars and the summer breeze
Love is the silence in a kiss.
Roses have thorns and love has tears.
Should I be first to say goodbye
My love will last beyond the years.
Love and roses never die.
Oh...A lump rose to her throat. It was signed with the same rabbit’s ears as the portrait in Molly’s bedroom. A lover? Who had he been? Why was there no other trace of him in the cottage? Had he left her? But how could he, after writing a poem like that?
Her mother had never mentioned him — but maybe she didn’t know. It had probably been a long time ago, when Molly was young.
She tucked the poem back into the book and put it aside. The rest of the books she packed into a couple of cardboard boxes — though she wasn’t sure if the charity shop would want them. The rubbish went into a black bin bag to go to the waste-disposal centre.
After all that hard work, she felt that she had earned her treat — which meant the little café along the Esplanade, on the corner next to the gift shop. It had been her favourite place for tea and cream scones when she was little.
It seemed pointless to drive down to the seafront and try to find a parking space, so she left the car at the cottage and walked down the hill.
The café was picture-postcard pretty. The window frame was painted ice-cream pink, the sign above it bearing the legend Cupcake Café in blue and pink, with three dancing cupcakes in case anyone missed the point.
There were a few tables on the pavement outside, with families eating pasties and iced cupcakes, and drinking coffee. A small spaniel came to sniff at her ankles and she bent to tickle his ear.
Inside, the café was very much as she remembered it, though it had clearly been spruced up since then. A cool black-and-white tiled floor; Formica-topped tables and white painted chairs; pale blue walls hung with colourful framed 1950s-style posters: Welcome to Sturcombe.
At the back was a counter with a glass-fronted cabinet displaying a selection of delicious-looking cakes and scones, all sorts of savouries, and the famous cupcakes.
There were fifteen tables, most of them full. A young woman of about her own age, with a mass of short dark curls, was serving one of the tables. She glanced round with a slightly distracted smile as Vicky walked in.
“Hi. I’ll be with you in a tick. Have a seat.”
Vicky settled down at a table, watching the people strolling along the Esplanade — children kicking their scooters along, mums and dads in sandals and cotton shorts and T-shirts, pushing buggies.
But it was the view beyond that captivated her — all that vast expanse of shimmering blue, stretching out far beyond the distant horizon. It seemed to go on to the end of the world...
The young woman came bustling over, pad in hand. “What can I get you?” she asked.
“I’ll have a cream tea, please. Those scones look delicious — are they home-made?”
“Of course.” A beam of pride. “I make them myself.”
Something about her tugged at Vicky’s memory. “Are you... Excuse me, but are you Debbie Rowley?”
“Yes, I am — well, Debbie Gowan, now. Sort of.” The young woman looked puzzled. “I’m sorry, I don’t think...”
“I’m Vicky — Vicky Marston. I used to come down to stay with my Aunt Molly in the summers when I was little, and we used to play together on the beach. I’m not surprised you don’t remember me, though — it was years ago.”
“Vicky? Oh my Lord! Yes, I do remember. Goodness, it must be... what, fifteen years!”
“Sixteen. And you’re married now?”
Debbie glanced away. “Divorced.”
“Oh.” Oops. “But you’re running the café?”
That brought the smile back. “My mum still owns it. She’s poorly at the moment — she’s had a bout of pneumonia and the doctor says she needs to stay in bed for another week.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. Wish her well for me.”
“I will. Oh — excuse me...” More customers had come in, two children running to the counter to gaze wide-eyed at the selection of goodies on display.
“Sure. See you in a minute.”
Vicky propped her elbow on the table, rested her chin on her fist and gazed out of the window again. When she was little it had been the beach and the shallows that had excited her. Now it was the bay, and the open sea.
There was something so serene about all that wide space — a sense that she could breathe. Even though she had lived in London all her life, sometimes she dreamed of escape. She hated the traffic, the uncaring crowds, the relentless rush and bustle.
If she could stay here... To wake in the mornings to green grass and butterflies, to walk down to the sea whenever she wanted, to watch the dusk roll in over the fields and the stars come out in the dark velvet sky.
Into her mind drifted an image of her next-door neighbour — of those dark, mesmerising eyes, that smile...
No!Where had that come from? Wishing she could stay here had nothing whatsoever to do with Tom Cullen. She didn’t even like him — and he didn’t seem to like her very much. And it definitely wasn’t him that she had dreamed about last night.
Unconsciously she twisted the diamond ring on her finger. Anyway, she was engaged to Jeremy. If she had dreamed about her neighbour at all, it was only because he was so annoying.
“Here you go.”
“Ah — thank you.” She smiled up at her old friend as she set a tray down on the table. Debbie had always been quite shy, Vicky recalled, but there seemed to be something almost... melancholy about her now.
Because of her divorce? Had it been quite recent, still painful? She didn’t like to ask. Instead she gestured towards the window. “I’d forgotten about this view. You’re so lucky to live here.”
“Yes, I suppose I am.” Debbie glanced out of the window. “I’m so used to it that I don’t really notice it most of the time, but every now and then I look out and I have to smile. But it must be fun living in London. I went there once, on a school trip. We went to the British Museum, and an art gallery — I can’t remember which one.”
“Well, yes, I suppose it is quite fun. There are a lot of things to do. But it doesn’t compare to this. I’d swap all the theatres and museums for this any time.”
“I suppose . . . oh, sorry — excuse me.”
Her phone had buzzed, and she pulled it from the pocket of her apron as she hurried back behind the counter to answer the call. She was speaking quietly, but Vicky could hear the agitation in her voice.
“What do you mean, you can’t? Oh, please, Alan, it’ll only take a few minutes. You know I can’t leave the café, with Mum still poorly.” A pause as the other person spoke. “No, of course she can’t — the doctor said she has to stay in bed.” Another pause. “I know. I’m sorry. If you can’t, you can’t... Yes, I understand...”
Debbie had turned her back on the café but Vicky didn’t miss the movement of her hand, which seemed to brush over her eyes as she put the phone back in her pocket.
Vicky frowned thoughtfully as she sliced her scone in half and spread it with a generous layer of thick Devon cream, topping it with a smear of raspberry jam and biting into it. It really was delicious — the cream lush, the scone still warm, melting in her mouth.
Clearly Debbie had a problem. Could she ask? Maybe there was something she could do to help.
The café was still busy. Some of the tables had emptied but were quickly filled by newcomers. Debbie seemed to be rushed off her feet, though somehow she kept smiling. At last there was a lull, and she came over to Vicky’s table.
“It’s so nice to see you again. Are you staying at Molly’s cottage?”
Vicky nodded. “She’s left it to me.”
“Oh, lovely!” Debbie’s soft brown eyes lit up. “So you’ll be coming down to live here, then?”
Vicky shook her head. “I wish I could, but what with the repairs and the inheritance tax I’m not going to be able to afford it.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.” Her friend looked genuinely disappointed. “It would have been nice to have you here.”
“Yes...” Vicky paused. “Look... I didn’t mean to listen to your private phone call, but... well, I couldn’t help hearing. Is there something wrong? Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Oh... No, it’s all right, thank you.” But tears were brimming in Debbie’s eyes. “It’s just... my mother usually works with me in the café, but this bout of pneumonia has really laid her up, so I’m on my own. And one of us usually goes to fetch my daughter from school. My husband — my ex-husband — has picked her up for the past couple of days, but now he says he can’t.”
“Something more important than his own daughter has cropped up?”
That brought a crooked smile. “Yes. Not for the first time, either.”
“He sounds like a bit of a git — if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“Well, yes, he is.” Debbie sighed, then laughed. “At least he’s someone else’s problem now. Do you remember Kelly-Anne Wallis?”
Vicky thought for a moment. “Mousey hair, a bit of a bully? Always eating sweets but would never share them?”
Debbie nodded. “That’s her. She’s glammed up since then, bleached her hair blonde.”
“And now she’s with your ex-husband?”
“They got married three months after our divorce — they’d been carrying on for a couple of years. Me — idiot — I had no idea. There’s already a baby on the way.”
Vicky laughed. “Well, if she’s still the same as I remember, she’ll have him on a very short leash. He won’t dare step out of line.”
That made Debbie smile.
“How old is your daughter?”
“She’s five.”
“And there’s no one else who could pick her up?”
“Not really. I... I don’t really know any of the other parents very well.”
Debbie’s cheeks were pink. No, she was probably too shy to mingle at the school gates.
Vicky hesitated briefly. “Look, I’d offer to go and fetch her for you, but she doesn’t know me. Why don’t I mind the café for a while instead, while you go?I worked in a café while I was at uni, so I know the ropes.”
Debbie’s soft brown eyes opened wide. “You could? I’d pay you, of course...”
“Oh, no — think of it as for old friendship’s sake.”
“Well, if you’re sure — it would be an enormous help.”
Vicky rose to her feet and picked up her empty plate and mug. “Just show me where everything is.”
Debbie’s shoulders relaxed as she led the way behind the counter. “It’s really very simple. Have you ever used one of these barista coffee machines?”
“One very similar.”
“And the till. All the prices are on it — it’s quite self-explanatory really. The hot drinks are all under this button, this is for cold drinks. The cakes are here...”
The door opened and a family piled in — a mum and dad, grandmother and three children.
Vicky laughed. “Ah — my first customers!”