Amy cursed Emma with any energy she had. Which wasn’t much. ‘Oh yes,’ she moaned, as she struggled to flip back the duvet the morning after their run. ‘Stretch before and after and you won’t feel a thing afterwards. Emma Tizzard, you are a big fat liar.’
She fell back, exhausted with the effort of getting up. Catching sight of the clock radio and its insistent orange numbers nagging her that she was already half an hour late, she swore again. Forcing her aching and leaden limbs into action, she staggered into the shower.
Once at the shop and outside of her first mug of coffee, she felt slightly more human. The feeling didn’t last as her mother tottered in on her kitten heels half an hour after the shop opened.
‘Oh Amy, what have you been doing to yourself?’ Katrina turned her daughter to the light. ‘Darling, you look ghastly.’ She peered closer. ‘You know, a bit of lippy works wonders on winter skin.’
Amy shook her off. ‘What do you mean, it’s not even winter yet?’ Her mother’s inference sinking in, she added, ‘And I’m not ill. I feel fine. Mostly. I’m just a bit stiff after my first training session with Emma.’
‘Your first what?’ Katrina gave a peal of laughter.
‘Emma is training me for the Slime Run.’
Katrina composed her face to stop herself from laughing again and failed. ‘Slime Run? It sounds positively vile. And you,’ she looked Amy up and down, her meaning clear. Raising a perfectly tailored eyebrow, she said, ‘Running?’
‘It’s for charity,’ Amy huffed. If she had doubts about anything, Katrina had a way of underlining them and making them double.
‘Oh Amy, I agree you need to lose some of the blubber but why not go on a diet or join a gym? Something ladylike rather than huffing and puffing in public. And what are you wearing? That grey cardigan again? And those trousers don’t do you any favours.’
Amy relieved her aching legs by perching on a stool. ‘Blubber?’ she exclaimed. ‘Thanks a bunch, Mum. You know, sometimes I’m not surprised that Dad left you. Were you this horrible to him? I’m trying to get fitter and healthier and do my bit for a Berecombe charity and all you can do is insult me!’
Katrina recoiled. Tears welled in her enormous pale blue eyes, so like her daughter’s. ‘Amy,’ she began, ‘whatever, I said, I don’t deserve that.’
‘Maybe you don’t Mum but I’m getting mightily fed up of being belittled by you.’ Amy had started now. She found she couldn’t stop. ‘Perhaps, one day, you might start a conversation with me by saying something positive like how I’ve made this place a success. Not easy when high street shops are closing at a rate of knots and independent bookshops are an endangered species. And perhaps lay off the fashion advice. Trousers and a cardigan is practical when I’ve got boxes to unpack. They’re reasonably smart and perfectly clean.’
Katrina, for once, was rendered speechless. She stood with her mouth open, making a little shocked ‘o’, two indignant spots of colour staining her Esteé Lauder coated cheeks.
Amy began to apologise but stopped herself. She’d said the truth, maybe not kindly but she’d had enough of Katrina making snide and cruel comments. Some praise and pride in her achievements surely wasn’t too much to ask for from her own mother, was it?
‘But Amy,’ Katrina spluttered. ‘I’m always telling people how well you’re doing. In fact, I was telling Marti just the other day what a success you’ve made of the shop.’
Amy was past listening; her stiff and aching thighs were making her crabby. ‘I’ve not got time for this, Mum. I need to get on. Was there anything in particular you wanted?’
Katrina shrank into herself. ‘Well, if you’re too busy to talk to your own mother, I’ll just grab your great-aunt a birthday card and be off.’ She teetered over to the greeting cards, picked one seemingly at random, paid cash and disappeared.
As soon as she went, Amy felt awful. She slumped onto the stool behind the counter and thrust her head into her hands. Was it ever going to be possible to have a normal relationship with her mother? She loved her dearly but the woman drove her demented. She was still in this position when the bell on the shop door jingled. She looked up and saw Patrick staring at her in concern.
‘Not more vandalism?’
‘Only my mother.’ Amy straightened and gave a huge sigh.
‘Ah, mothers. They know exactly where to aim the barbs, so they do.’
‘You can say that again.’
He held up a cardboard box. ‘Can I not tempt you with a slice of Millie’s Devil’s Food cake?’
Amy’s mouth watered. She gazed at the box longingly.
‘I know, I know, you’re on a diet. Have you had any breakfast?’ Patrick demanded.
‘No.’ Amy felt her resolve weakening. ‘And I did go running with Emma last night.’
‘So you did. You’ll be after wanting a coffee too, then.’
‘Patrick, you shouldn’t sabotage my diet!’
He gave her a keen look, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘You know my feelings on the matter. If you’ve not had breakfast, count this as brunch and have something healthy for dinner.’
It was too much. Amy gave in. Sliding from the stool, she said, ‘I can’t resist.’
‘Now, is it me you can’t resist, or the cake?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself. You’re standing there holding a box containing some of Millie’s most glorious chocolate cake. There’s no contest.’
‘Ah sure, I’m an eejit,’ he said, in a comically strong Irish brogue. He shrugged. ‘You’ll be needing all your energy for decorating the shop. Are we going all out Hallowe’en?’
‘Oh yes,’ Amy said, warmly. ‘But first, cake and coffee!’