Chapter 4
Chapter Four
By half past twelve, Beth wondered if she’d made a mistake.
Not a catastrophic one – no kitchen fires, food poisoning or customers storming out threatening legal action. Just a creeping, insidious feeling that lodged in her chest and whispered: You’re not ready for this.
She stared at the tray of pies cooling on the stainless-steel counter. Venison and mushroom. Exactly what Beth had come up with when she pitched her menu ideas.
They were cooked to perfection, with golden pastry and rich filling. She’d tasted one herself, forking up a delicious mouthful.
And yet…
Something felt off.
‘They look amazing,’ Rose said, popping her head round the door. Her cheeks were already flushed from carrying plates out and chatting to customers. ‘Angela’s chuffed.’
Beth smiled automatically. ‘Good.’
Rose lingered. ‘Are you OK?’
There it was. The question she’d been dodging from the moment she arrived in Cranley.
‘I’m fine,’ Beth said, a little too brightly. ‘Just … first-week nerves.’
Rose nodded, unconvinced but kind enough not to push. ‘Shout if you need anything.’
Beth waited until she’d gone, then placed her hands flat on the counter and let her shoulders sag.
The kitchen was quiet in that rare, in-between way. Not rush, not rest. The extractor fan hummed. A pan ticked softly as it cooled. Outside, she could hear voices from the bar – laughter, the clink of glasses, the low, comforting murmur of people who knew where they belonged.
Then a child laughed.
The sound sliced through her without warning. Her nerves jangled and she felt the room tilt around her.
Beth stilled, her breath catching. It wasn’t particularly loud. It wasn’t even near. Just a high, unselfconscious giggle, followed by an adult voice saying, ‘Careful, sweetheart.’
She closed her eyes and pushed down the wave of internal panic. Get a grip.
Children existed: they always would. She knew pretending otherwise was beyond ridiculous. Most days she carried the knowledge like a smooth stone in her pocket – always there, but manageable.
Today, it felt jagged round the edges.
It shouldn’t still hurt this much.
She forced herself to breathe, counting silently. One. Two. Three.
When she opened her eyes, she caught sight of one of the small chalkboards Angela had prepared to showcase the new menu. It listed the options, with Made by Beth, With Love written underneath.
Beth snorted softly. Love. If only it were as simple as dishing up food to starving punters.
She busied herself with washing things that didn’t need washing, wiping surfaces already clean. Keeping busy helped. Thinking was dangerous.
‘Beth?’ Angela appeared in the doorway, baby Ruairi balanced expertly on one hip. He stared at Beth with solemn intensity, as if judging her worth.
Beth’s stomach clenched.
‘Everything OK?’ Angela asked gently.
‘Yes,’ Beth said quickly. ‘All good. Just finishing up.’
Angela smiled. ‘I’ve had three people ask if you’re staying.’
Beth blinked. ‘Staying?’
‘Long term.’ Angela shifted Ruairi, who immediately grabbed a fistful of her hair. ‘I told them we’re hoping so, but I didn’t want to speak for you.’
A thousand answers crowded Beth’s brain.
I don’t know.
I’m scared.
I can’t promise anything.
Please don’t make this mean something yet.
Instead, she said, ‘I like it here.’
Angela’s smile widened. ‘Good. We like having you.’ She turned to go, then paused. ‘And Beth? You don’t have to be brilliant all the time. Just … be here.’
After she’d gone, Beth sank onto the metal stool by the prep table.
Be here.
She stared at her hands. They were steady. Capable. These hands had cooked for hundreds, maybe thousands of people. They knew what they were doing.
It was the rest of her that felt unmoored, like a small boat on a rocky sea.
Later, when the pub had quietened and Rose had gone home, Beth slipped back to her quarters. An hour or so of unpacking and sorting might help clear her mind of negative thoughts.
With a pair of scissors, she slashed at tape and unearthed items she’d already forgotten about.
Ceramic dishes for storing jewellery – not that she owned much – candle holders and photo frames.
All empty, bar one. A snap of her and Luke, grinning at the camera, eyes sparkling with joy.
Taken several years ago, before the joy shrivelled up and died.
Beth stared at the photo. Tried to bolster her current mood with a smidgeon of how she’d felt back then.
‘You’re wallowing again,’ she muttered to herself, shoving the photo back in the box. ‘If Diana were here, she’d give you a bollocking.’
Half an hour later, Beth surveyed the living room with a satisfied eye. She’d found a few plaid throws, a jade-green tufted rug and a print of Edinburgh’s rainbow-coloured Victoria Street that brightened the otherwise dull white wall.
A sense of calm washed over her. It was still early days, but Beth prided herself on not being a quitter. And it was normal to feel jittery starting a new job in an unfamiliar place.
Turning off the table lamps, Beth returned to the warmth of the pub. She inhaled the smell of beer and pie, smiled at the animated customers chatting together and felt the shard of tension in her chest subside.
She spotted the child: a little boy, engrossed in colouring in a picture with chunky crayons. A knot of tears threatened to overwhelm her, but she swallowed them down.
For the first time since arriving in Cranley, Beth allowed herself to think a dangerous thought. Maybe this could work.
She didn’t push it any further than that.
One step at a time, Diana had said. And Beth valued her friend’s wisdom more than anyone else’s on the planet.
You can do this, she said quietly. One step at a time.