Chapter Five
I wake early on Friday to the sound of birds cheeping a merry tune on my windowsill. Yawning, I stretch my arms toward the ceiling and greet the daylight pouring through the crack in the curtains with a sleepy smile. It’s so … quiet. Quiet enough that I can actually hear the dawn chorus, the soft rustle of the wind billowing through the trees, the solitary peace of the morning. Back in Paris, there was always an undercurrent of noise, strangers on the street conversing loudly outside my apartment, cars beeping their horns as they raced through traffic lights, it was never really quiet enough to witness all these little natural melodies.
On the way to the kitchen, I pass a pile of partially unpacked boxes, which I promptly nudge out of my path with a fluffy-socked foot. You’d be forgiven for assuming I moved into this flat a week ago, but nope, I’ve been residing here for the better part of three months, and most of my worldly possessions are still wrapped up in cardboard and tissue paper. I should perhaps use this time off to finish the job, but as I brew my coffee and lean against the counter to savour the first sip, the day feels bright with promise. And none of those promises include sorting out my abode into a semi-liveable state, I’m afraid.
Shelving that responsibility for yet another later date, I hop in the shower for a quick wash, wind my damp locks into a long braid and pick out an outfit. I’ve managed to stuff at least some of my clothes into the old oak wardrobe that came with the flat, and so I chuck a slouchy navy blue cardigan over a white t-shirt and slip on a pair of simple black leggings. I tug at my garments in the mirror, grimacing. What’s that thing they say about hairdressers, that their hair looks terrible because they’re too busy worrying about their clients’? Well, the same could be said about dress designers and their less-than-inspiring fashion choices - or at least, it could be said of me.
I wander aimlessly down the cobblestone streets, perusing the windows of each shop I pass. Without permission, my mind drifts back unconsciously to that guy at the boutique. Kit. I stick out my tongue at the mere thought of his name. His stupid face and even stupider attitude have been plaguing me since the moment I set eyes on him. I only hope his bride-to-be is less objectionable than he is, or I’m going to have a serious problem on my hands.
During my exploration, I happen upon a small cafe with a wooden sign adorned with pink flowers, its name in hand-painted italics.
The Cosy Little Tearoom , how charmingly British!
The moment I open the door, a little bell tinkling overhead, the aroma of rich coffee and cream cakes wafts toward me. A golden Labrador rises from his bed by the counter and pads over, offering his soft head for scratches. I happily oblige, taking note of the red leather collar around his neck - Puddles . Oh dear, I hope he’s only Puddles in name, not in nature!
I glance around the small cafe, taking in its eclectic decor of mismatched chairs, hardwood floors and posies in small glass vases atop every table. There aren’t many customers this morning, just a young woman typing away furiously on her laptop and a couple sharing a milkshake over by the window.
Tummy rumbling, I survey the display of cakes, marvelling at the colourful macaroons arranged in rainbow formation.
I wonder how these compare to true Parisian ones?
‘Good morning!’ The dark-haired woman behind the counter chirps out a friendly greeting. ‘What can I get for you?’
A few options from the menu board on the wall catch my eye, but I settle on the one that sounds most intriguing. ‘A lavender latte and a couple of lemon macaroons, please.’
‘Sure thing.’ Her eyebrows rise in surprise, presumably at my accent, but she quickly recovers and begins preparing my coffee. ‘Are you here on holiday?’
‘Oh no, I live here.’
Those eyebrows of hers leap up once more and this time, she cannot disguise her astonishment. ‘Oh! I’ve not seen you around the village before.’
‘That’s probably because I’ve been busy getting my boutique ready to open for the last three months. It’s the dress shop on the high street near the bakery, Belle of the Ball.’
‘Oh yes, I’ve passed it. Those gowns in the window are just gorgeous.’
Blushing, I push my face to my shoulder. I used to take praise with quiet grace, but ever since I was fired, it’s a battle to accept compliments on my work. ‘Thanks.’
‘Well, allow me to officially welcome you to Lily Vale Village!’ She holds out her hand and I take it. ‘I’m Holly.’
‘Lottie.’
‘You know, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone French before. I used to have a French pen pal in school, but we got out of the habit of writing to one another.’ She chuckles. ‘I’ve always wanted to visit Paris - the culture, the fashion, I bet it’s amazing.’
‘It is,’ I admit wistfully.
‘Well, your dresses are sure to bring that je ne sais quoi to Lily Vale, eh? It will be nice to have someone bring a touch of sophistication to these parts.’
‘Believe me, I’m not sophisticated,’ I splutter at the suggestion. ‘The accent is doing a lot of heavy lifting for me, let me assure you!’
We both chortle heartily, as if we’re old mates sharing an inside joke. It’s curious how in a place like Lily Vale, one can connect with someone simply by ordering a coffee. In the city - London or Paris - you and a barista barely pass two words to each other before you’re gone, off to catch a train or make it to a lunchtime meeting at work. Everything is slower here, people take the time to speak to one another, to make these little interactions friendly and dare I say, personal.
Our laughter is so raucous that Puddles’ ear pricks upward and he bumbles over to my side, tail wagging.
‘Looks like you’ve got a fan,’ Holly comments as she plates up the macaroons.
I stoop down to tickle under his chin. ‘He’s a lovely boy.’
‘He’s my dad’s, Bill. He works here with me, along with Rachel, our master cake maker. You’ll have to let us know what you think of the macaroons, Rach will be beside herself when she hears that someone with a genuine French palate has tried them!’
‘I’ll be sure to give you my review.’
Once my latte is ready and placed on a small polka-dotted tray beside the macaroons, I carry my breakfast to a table for one, just across the way from the woman with the laptop.
Let’s see what these macaroons are made of.
I bite into the soft surface, and tangy citrus bursts over my tongue. It’s delicious! As good - if not better - than the kind I used to pick up in Paris for a treat. How lucky I am that these are right on my doorstep.
Lifting the large, speckled cup to my lips, I breathe in the sweet scent of lavender mingled with coffee, and take a sip. It’s smooth and rich, and it makes my instant Americano at home taste like -
‘Crap!’
Startled by the outburst, I turn in time to see the lady opposite me in a panicked frenzy. Herbal tea spills over the edge of the table onto the floor, and she’s desperately trying to halt the flow.
Grabbing a fistful of tissues, I rush to her aid. Thank goodness, the typhoon of tea missed the laptop, but the papers she was scribbling on are sodden and illegible. Still, I do my best to soak up the worst of it.
‘Thanks,’ she offers me a grateful yet weary smile as she places her mug right-side up. ‘God, I’m so clumsy!’
‘Don’t mention it.’ I pat the soggy notes into a stack, though I suspect it’s a futile gesture, considering they are likely ruined. ‘Was this something important?’
‘Yes and no. They’re notes for my latest book, or at least it was, until the great flood of June.’
Giggling, I ball up the damp tissues and plop them down to one side. ‘You’re an author?’ In response, she nods. ‘Wow, anything I might have read?’
‘I don’t know, do you read historical romance?’
‘I’ve not before, but now you mention it, that does sound right up my street! What’s your name? I’ll have to look you up.’
The corners of her mouth curve upward in a modest smile. ‘Lucy Middleton. And you are?’
‘I’m Lottie Bell, I just moved here a few months ago.’
‘Oh, are you the dressmaker?’ She speaks the word with awed curiosity, as if it means magician or something equally as intriguing. ‘Mr Jenkins told me all about you.’
Good old Mr Jenkins, he’s such a sweetheart.
‘That’s me!’ I throw out my arms as if to present myself. ‘Sorry about your notes.’
She plucks at the wet paper and sighs. ‘They weren’t very good anyway. I’m a bit distracted, to be honest. My publishers are putting on an event for my book release next month, and I’m stressing about it. I’ve never done anything like that before, you know, a ‘facing the fans’ sort of thing.’
‘It sounds exciting, though!’
‘Yeah, exciting and terrifying in equal measures.’ Lucy turns back to her laptop, her eyebrows meeting in a frown. ‘I’ve been avoiding this email from the publishers since yesterday, but I guess I better face it head-on.’
‘Tell you what,’ I pull out the chair beside her and take a seat. ‘Let’s open it together.’
So we do just that. This is so out of character for me, when it comes to friendships and doing favours, I’ve been a little gun-shy lately, but there’s a rare warm aura surrounding Lucy, one that’s hard to ignore. Given my track record, I might not be the best judge of a person’s true nature - I mean, I thought that evil Zoe was my friend, but I decide to trust my instincts, just for a day.
Drawing a sharp breath, Lucy hovers over the email and clicks.
‘A ball!’ I gasp, leaning in closer to the screen. ‘Your publishers are putting on a regency-style ball! How cool is that?’
‘I guess that is sort of cool.’ Lucy chews at her lower lip, though I can see the glimmer in her eyes.
‘Sort of? It sounds flipping amazing! You should be shouting about it from the rooftops.’
Lucy shrugs. ‘I guess I’m not a ‘shout it from the rooftops’ sort of girl. I just - I can’t imagine being the centre of attention at this thing. It’s not my style.’
‘But it’s good publicity for your books, right?’
She rests her chin on her hand. ‘Right.’ Then she sits bolt upright, as if she’s just remembered something. ‘Oh, what’s the time?’
I glance at my phone screen. ‘Quarter to twelve.’
‘Oops, I’ve got to get home, my boyfriend is dropping into mine for lunch, and I promised I’d make him a bacon sarnie.’ The chair squeaks as she rises and tucks her laptop into her bag. ‘Thanks for chatting with me. It was super nice to meet you, Lottie.’
‘The pleasure is mine!’
I watch her leave as I clutch my mug between both hands, grinning to myself. I made a friend!
I must admit, it’s a lot easier to make them here than it is in a big, busy city where you never see the same person twice. I’m sure I’ll bump into Lucy many more times around the village, and hopefully I’ll make some more connections at my boutique. As long as I don’t get too close to anyone, I’ll be fine.
Holly must have noticed the tea spillage, as the moment Lucy is gone, she scurries over armed with a foam cleaning spray and a rag.
‘So?’ she questions as she begins wiping up the leftover sticky residue. ‘What did you think?’
I push the empty plate across the table, showing her the scattering of butter-coloured crumbs. ‘It was simply perfect.’
‘Brilliant! I’ll let Rachel know she has the seal of approval from a real French lady.’
Clucking my tongue, I flick my wrist at her and go back to my coffee, needing to relish this rare moment of tranquillity. Tomorrow, the stress of work will start again, and right now, I just want to enjoy my day off.
Still, my mind won’t quiet, and all I can think about is the mistakes of the not-so-distant past …