CHAPTER EIGHT
The next day is Saturday, so I don’t have to go to the bakery.
I’m up by eight, though, getting ready to drive over to see Mum.
Zak has been up for hours already, presumably writing in his room. I heard him in the kitchen making coffee when it was still dark outside. I glanced at the clock. Twenty-past-five? I lay there for a long time, thinking about the conversation I had with him the night before. Eventually, I drifted off to sleep again.
Now, the mouth-watering aroma of bacon is drifting through to my room. It’s deliciously tempting but something is stopping me going through there while Zak is crashing about in the kitchen. I’ve been thinking about what I said to him last night, and I really wish I hadn’t blurted out that ridiculous question. Are you happy writing what you write? I could see that it unsettled him. What on earth possessed me to ask a relative stranger such a provocative and personal question?
I’m putting lipstick on at the mirror, wondering if I can get away with just calling out a goodbye on my way out, when there’s a rap on the door.
Zak appears, wearing a slightly sheepish smile. ‘Fancy a bacon sandwich?’ His hair is ruffled but he looks better than he did last night. Less exhausted. Perhaps the writing is flowing now.
‘Er, no. But thanks for the offer.’
He grins. ‘Is that iron will power or are you a vegetarian? There’s not many can resist the smell of bacon frying.’
‘True.’ His cheerfulness is infectious. ‘Oh, go on, then. Yes, I’d love one.’
‘Ketchup?’
‘Definitely.’
He disappears, calling, ‘Come through when you’re ready.’
‘Okay.’ Last night was intense. This morning feels easier, as if he’s shrugged off some of his worries.
Joining him in the kitchen, he hands me a plate and I bite into the crusty bread, smiling as the butter and bacon, with just a hint of tomato sauce, hit my taste buds, combining into a little bit of breakfast perfection. ‘I could get used to this.’
Zak smiles but says nothing, and my cheeks go up in flames.
Oh God, I hope he didn’t think I was suggesting . . . no, of course he didn’t! It was a purely innocent remark I made, and obviously, he realised that . . .
I reach for a tea towel to fan my face, then I realise Zak is observing me and I throw it back down immediately. I’m not sure any man has ever flustered me quite this much before. Certainly not Richard.
I grab my sandwich to hide behind, taking an enormous bite of it.
Then my mobile rings. Obviously. Because why ever would it ring when I didn’t have the biggest mouthful of bacon sandwich in my mouth ever. Chewing rapidly and trying to swallow down a large lump of bread, I’m aware of Zak’s amused glance.
It’s Sylvia on the phone and she sounds terrible. She thinks she has some kind of virus. ‘I’m lying on the sofa, hoping it’ll pass. Could you put up a notice in the café, Ellie, saying we’re closed for business today due to illness?’
I tell her that’s no problem. But after I hang up, I start thinking. The ladies from the craft shop in the village sometimes come in after they close up on a Saturday lunchtime. And usually a few day-trippers drop by. It’s Sylvia’s busiest day, so why don’t I keep the café open for her?
I tell Zak what I’m thinking and he nods approvingly, and murmurs, ‘As long as you don’t mind. I’d do it myself but last time I tried to work that coffee machine, there was frothed milk everywhere.’
I smile. ‘There’s a knack to it.’
‘Perhaps you should give me a lesson.’
There’s that hint of a smile again. The one that turns my knees to blancmange. I make my excuses and run for it.
Before I go over to Sylvia’s to tell her my plan and collect the keys, I quickly call Mum to tell her I’ll be over later than I thought. She’s totally fine about it, as I knew she would be – mainly because she’ll have completely forgotten me telling her yesterday that I’d be over at lunchtime today.
‘How lovely!’ she exclaims, when I tell her I’ll see her later. She sounds thrilled that I’ve phoned, as if she hasn’t seen me for months, and a tiny part of me dies inside.
Walking over to Sylvia’s, I cross the village green, skirting the duck pond, remembering the day I first met Zak Chamberlain and ended up in the water.
The man has a strange effect on me, that’s for sure. I feel clumsy when he’s around, a bit like an octopus, all extra arms and legs. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been starved of male company for a while! I only hope he leaves tomorrow because then I’ll be able to relax again and walk around the flat naked if I want to. Not that I make a habit of it. But it’s nice to know the option is there if I want to . . .
I’m so distracted that, ironically, my foot catches on a tree root and I almost take another tumble into the duck pond. I spot the female mallard with the unusual blue-grey beak paddling solo nearby. I think I’ll call her Jessica.
I smile to myself. Is it weird to feel a kinship with a duck?
Arriving at the house, I marvel at how strange it is that Mum’s old school friend should have lived in this house all those years ago. And now it belongs to Sylvia!
She answers the door in an old pink dressing gown, looking pale and fragile - not her usual self at all – and at first, her eyes seem a little glazed when I explain I’d like to open the café up for her.
Light dawns. ‘How nice of you to offer, Ellie.’
‘It’s my pleasure.’
‘I’ll pay you, of course.’
‘No, you won’t. We’re friends. We help each other out.’
‘Well, yes, but . . .’
‘Look, you were a life-saver when I needed one. If you hadn’t suggested I move into the flat at a ridiculously low rent, I’d still be living round the corner from Richard and Thing and Bump.’ I shiver at the thought. ‘Seriously, Sylvia, this is the least I can do.’
Come on in,’ she says. ‘But please ignore the mess. It’s a bit untidy today.’
I cross the threshold and immediately see that the little house is as crowded with as many nick-nacks and bits of furniture as the café. Actually, even more so.
In the living room, Sylvia eventually finds the café keys on top of a big mahogany sideboard. One thing I do love is the faded red velvet sofa where Sylvia has been resting. It’s full of cushions of all shapes and sizes and colours; it could look garish, but actually, it works.
I catch sight of a head and shoulders photo of an attractive older man on the little table by the sofa. He’s smiling into the camera, kind eyes twinkling, and a lump rises in my throat.
Sylvia must miss her husband so much.
No wonder she wants to stay surrounded by all the stuff they bought together. It must be like a comfort blanket . . .
She hands me the keys. ‘It’s busy, isn’t it?’ she says, looking around, interpreting my expression.
‘It doesn’t matter. As long as you like it.’
She gives a wistful smile. ‘I can’t imagine it any other way.’
There’s a knock at the door and Sylvia looks at me and sighs. ‘I know exactly who that will be.’
‘Oh, who?’
‘Mick.’ She shakes her head irritably. ‘Always interfering. Just because he was friends with Snowy, he seems to think it’s his responsibility to look in on the doddery old widow to make sure she’s not becoming a danger to herself.’ She glances crossly at the ceiling. ‘Most annoying man in the world.’
I study her in surprise. I’ve never seen Sylvia so agitated; she’s normally so laid back.
‘Tell him I’m not feeling well, will you, dear?’
‘Okay.’ I go into the hall and open the door, and Mick is standing there.
‘You’re obviously one of the favoured few,’ he murmurs, his blue-grey eyes twinkling. ‘Not many are allowed over Sylvia’s threshold. Certainly not me.’
I smile in sympathy, thinking I would probably describe Mick as one of the least annoying men in the world! He’s pretending he doesn’t mind Sylvia’s attitude, but it must surely hurt.
‘I just wondered if she wanted her grass cut? I’m doing mine later so I thought . . .’ He glances at the lawn.
‘That’s really kind of you. She doesn’t feel well today, so she’s lying down, but I’ll give her your message.’
‘I’d better go. I’m needed for a foursome.’ He grimaces comically. ‘By the way, that sounds a great deal more racy than it actually is. I’m a member of the local golf club.’
‘Ah, right.’ I grin. ‘Well, enjoy.’
‘I will.’ He touches his brow with his forefinger in a little farewell salute and walks off.
‘You had quite a chat there,’ says Sylvia waspishly, when I rejoin. ‘I suppose old Nosey Parker was wondering why he hadn’t seen me this morning. He probably has nothing better to do than sit by his window and spy on my movements.’
I shake my head. ‘Not at all. He’s cutting his own grass later so he wondered if yours needed doing at the same time.’
‘Oh.’
‘And now he’s off to play golf.’
She sniffs and peers out. ‘I suppose the lawn does need doing.’
I grin. ‘Right, I’ll get going. It’s almost nine o’clock, opening time.’
Sylvia sees me to the door. ‘What about your mum?’
‘I’ll drive over later, once I close up,’ I say, experiencing that familiar duo – panic and guilt – at the thought of Mum alone in the house.
Sylvia looks thoughtful. ‘It’s so hard for you. You can’t be there all the time. Rose should be in a place where she’d have someone to keep an eye on her, day and night.’
I shake my head. ‘Mum has a will of iron and she refuses to move from her own home. Although I know there’ll come a time when she’ll have to.’ I swallow, not wanting to think about that right now.
‘Why don’t you bring her over here for the weekend? You could use the other bedroom once Zak has gone.’ She frowns. ‘It is okay, having Zak staying in the flat this weekend?’
I stare blankly at her, the sudden change of subject and mention of Zak knocking me off balance for a second.
She shrugs. ‘He’s not getting in the way or anything?’
‘Zak? Oh, no!’ Tell-tale heat washes up my neck into my cheeks. ‘No, he’s no problem at all – I mean, it’s no problem . . . having him in the bedroom.’ I swallow. ‘I mean having him staying in the other bedroom.’
Sylvia peers at me. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes! Absolutely! No problem at all!’
I dangle the keys and bid her a quick farewell, crunching over the gravel, keen to remove my discomfort from the area as soon as possible.
What the hell’s wrong with me?
Perhaps having Zak cramping my style in the flat is getting to me more than I realised.
‘Bring your mum next Sunday and we’ll have a tea party for her,’ Sylvia calls after me. ‘I’d love to meet her.’