Chapter 6
The best coffee to be had in Portneath was in the little café at the front of Finn’s delicatessen. From around eight thirty,
decorous queues would form, often stretching right out the door, and Jules would join them, in search of coffee for herself
and her aunt. The main downside to this otherwise extremely civilized habit was that it was part of Roman’s morning routine
too. Jules had gotten hypersensitive to choosing her moment, watching covertly from the shop to see if he was already there,
lurking in the shadows until the need for caffeine overcame her reticence.
On this particular morning, she had ended up—horror of horrors—standing directly behind him.
The one salvation was that he did not appear to know she was there.
Even if he turned around, he would probably just look straight over her head, thought Jules.
Finally, there was an advantage to being short.
It was raining, and the queue had compressed itself, to allow as many coffee disciples in out of the rain as possible, but that meant there was barely an inch between her and Roman’s broad back, clad today in an impeccable sky-blue cotton shirt.
It was probably chosen to match his baby-blue eyes, thought Jules, suppressing a snort of contempt.
Vanity. Yeah, she could definitely add that to her list of “Reasons to Loathe and Despise Roman Montbeau.” Not that there was a physical list. Because obviously that would be ridiculous. ..
“If I hand you these, you won’t throw them at me, will you?” said Roman, turning to face her with a paper cup in each hand.
“W-why would I want to hold your coffee?” Jules stuttered, stifling her shock and trying to sound crushing.
“Because actually it’s your coffee,” Roman insisted amiably, apparently not noticing her contempt. “Oat milk flat white, and a cappuccino for your aunt?”
“H-how do you know?”
“‘Know thine enemy,’” he replied calmly. “First rule of warfare.”
“Actually, I think it’s ‘Kill or be killed.’”
“Seems a bit extreme,” he commented. “Just for rival bookshops, I mean.”
“Not really,” insisted Jules, but—as if against her volition—her hands were moving toward the cups. She needed that coffee
badly. And it was oat milk and everything. A part of her warmed to this tiny gesture of care. She shoved that part down firmly,
reminding it that this was indeed her mortal enemy, and Aunt Flo’s.
“Anyhow, I’m a lover, not a fighter,” he went on, pushing the cups into her nerveless hands and, when he was sure she had
hold of them, picking up his own. Opening the door, with his arm stretched up high for her to go underneath, he waited for
her to go through.
It was as if he were deliberately emphasizing her lack of height, she thought resentfully as she ducked underneath. “You’d
better be a booklover then,” she retorted lamely. “Because for me, this is a fight to the death.”
In reply, he just smiled benignly, as if her death threats were nothing but idle chat about the weather. “Have a good day,
little Jules,” he told her, raising his coffee cup in salute as he turned away.
Without it being directly discussed, Jules took over all the backroom stuff for the business, allowing Flo to sit out front.
Manning the till and chatting to customers was what Flo liked best, although the shop was rarely busy; in fact it was worryingly quiet most of the time. Flo made light of the slow turnover:
“Careful what you wish for,” she counseled. “It’s not even Easter yet. You wait until we hit the summer rush before you write
us off.”
Jules dearly hoped Flo was right, but the accounts said otherwise, and the mood music seemed unrelentingly bleak. She was
relieved to be given a distraction, one quiet and rainy afternoon. She was alone in the shop, with Flo having gone into the
back for a nap, when Freya popped into the shop carrying a white cardboard box.
“I’ve got tarte au chocolat, if you’re interested,” Freya said shyly, “mainly because I was wanting to ask a big favor.”
“I’ll do an embarrassing amount in return for chocolate,” admitted Jules. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t let anyone know what
I would be prepared to do for salted caramel.”
“I’ll bring that next time,” promised Freya. “No strings.”
“Come on then, ask away...?” Jules mumbled a minute later, through a heavenly mouthful of chocolate tart and crème fra?che.
“Okay, so... me and Finn...,” Freya began, looking down at her hands, a secret smile spreading across her face.
Jules swallowed. “Don’t leave me hanging,” she implored. “You’re either pregnant or engaged. Which is it?”
“First things first,” said Freya, laughing now, and holding out her left hand for Jules to admire the beautiful diamond and
sapphire ring that adorned her fourth finger.
“Well, of course,” said Jules, bouncing up and down a little on her seat, “marriage first, kids later. Gosh, you’re posh,”
she teased.
It felt like things had moved fast, and maybe they had; Jules knew that Freya and Finn had gotten together properly only last Christmas. Three months, nearly four... But, she supposed, when you know, you know. How lovely to be that certain about another human being. She couldn’t imagine it.
“Honestly, that’s amazing!” she exclaimed, recollecting herself and getting up to give Freya a chocolaty kiss and a hug. “Such
exciting news! I want to know everything. Spill.”
Freya ducked her head. “Well, we’re not going for a big, flashy wedding,” she said, words tumbling out in a rush, “just the
town hall, with a disco or something afterward. Listen, I know this sounds mad, cos it’s really not some big production, but...”
She took a deep breath and then blurted out, “I’d love you to be my maid of honor?” She pulled a hopeful, apologetic face,
wincing in anticipation of a negative response.
For a moment, Jules just gazed at her slack-jawed, and then she pulled herself together. “Of course, I will,” she said, putting
her hand over Freya’s and giving it a squeeze. “It would be a pleasure, even though I’m going to have to google what to do.”
“Beats me too,” admitted Freya. “It’s kind of like best man, but for the bride. I dunno, just maybe help me choose a dress,
make sure I get there on the day, stuff like that.” Freya’s eyes filled with tears, and she pulled an apologetic face, dabbing
her eyes with her fingertips.
“Oh God, your mum,” said Jules, instantly understanding and giving Freya’s arm a comforting squeeze.
Freya nodded, sniffing and tipping her head back as if to encourage the tears to drain away. “Sorry, it’s just... she waited
all her life for this—giving away her daughter on her wedding day... And she just missed knowing that me and Finn...
she would have loved him so much.”
“I feel bad I didn’t get back for the funeral,” said Jules guiltily. She remembered the stormy look on her boss’s face when she had wondered out loud about taking a long weekend to attend and had quickly capitulated. Now she felt like the crappiest friend ever.
“That’s okay, honestly,” said Freya sweetly. “I didn’t expect it. All the way from London—and your job...”
“Yeah, but still,” said Jules. It had suddenly struck her, in that moment: no job was more important than the people you loved.
None. “I really loved your mum. We all did.” It was true. It had been the comparing and contrasting of Freya’s mum with her
own that had led to her adult understanding of Maggie’s inadequacies—her inability to parent. It was an important realization.
She and her mum drove each other insane, but she supposed she should be grateful that Maggie was still in her life, even though
that often didn’t feel like a plus.
“I’m so lucky to have Finn now,” said Freya, sniffing and palming away the last of her tears. “He and his family have been
amazing to me. I couldn’t have got through it all on my own.”
Jules had only dim memories of Finn. All she knew was that they had both had a massive crush on him. He had been one of the
cool crowd, loitering in the corner with his mates at that grubby nightclub, Rumours, they all hung out at on the quay. As
far as she could recall, he had been a bit arrogant and full of himself—come to think of it, he and Roman had been friends,
so... same—but then she was bound to have thought that, not being remotely cool herself at the time. Or since.
“Do you still go to Rumours?” Jules asked.
“What a dive!” recalled Freya. “Not recently. It’s still there, though.”
“You should definitely have your hen party there.”
“Hmm, maybe,” said Freya. “Or Sails. That’s a bit classier.”
“It is?”
“It’s a low bar...” Freya admitted.
“Hang on,” said Jules, “why aren’t you asking Hattie?
I mean, I love you to bits, and I’m totally honored, but you and Hattie were always inseparable.
” She was being kind. There had been times when Jules had felt like the third wheel around Hattie and Freya.
Hattie hadn’t done much to alleviate the feeling either, Jules recalled, although Freya would never be deliberately unkind. It wasn’t in her nature.
Freya blushed. “I would probably have had you both,” she said diplomatically, “but Hattie’s already bought herself a round-the-world
ticket. She’s off at the end of the month—so exciting for her!—and she won’t be back before the end of the year, maybe not
even then, if things go well, so...”
“Well, you’ve definitely got me at least,” said Jules stoutly. “Now I think the first thing I need to do is schedule a planning
meeting on your next evening off. I might even cook supper for you, if you’re really lucky,” she added, pulling a face at
her own bravado. What kind of idiot friend cooked dinner for a world-class chef?
Coming back into the shop, Jules found Aunt Flo deep in conversation with a tall, elegant older woman... Diana! One of
her aunt’s staunchest friends—loyal and perceptive—and always a lot of fun.