Читать книгу Love Among the Treetops: A feel good holiday read for summer 2018 - Catherine Ferguson, Catherine Ferguson - Страница 6

I’m about to spread snowy white icing onto the perfect fairy cake, before adorning it with a sugary, melt-in-the-mouth pink rose, when a rail official walks into the carriage.

‘All tickets, please.’

Pulled from my daydream, I sit up and start scrabbling through my belongings, panicking that I might have lost my ticket. If only I could be more practical and less prone to disappearing into my imagination.

As an only child, I tended to escape into a comforting fantasy world in times of stress, and now – at thirty-two – I’m still a bit of a dreamer, although the days of being bullied at school are thankfully long behind me.

Something tells me I’ll have to start being super-practical if I’m going to run a successful café …

I boarded a train four hours ago in Manchester, where I’ve been studying at catering college for the past year, then I switched to this local line that will take me to the village of Hart’s End in Sussex, where I lived all my childhood. I’ve spent the time scribbling away in a notebook, composing a list of cakes, scones and tray bakes that will look good on a café menu. There’s a price beside each one, although I’m finding it hard to work out what customers would be prepared to pay. That’s why the page is full of scorings out and question marks.

Keeping busy like this also means I’m not worrying about Dad all the time.

We’re less than an hour away from Hart’s End now and my stomach churns constantly as I think about the life-changing steps I’m about to take.

I really need this café to be a success.

Honey Cottage, our family home, will have to be sold if I can’t step in and start paying the mortgage on it. With Dad in hospital, undergoing the cancer treatment that Mum and I desperately hope will save his life, the last thing my parents need is to be worrying that they’re going to lose their house. So that’s where I come in.

Twilight Wilson to the rescue!

My insides shift uneasily. I’ve always loved baking, but it’s a massive leap from turning out my favourite cakes in the warmth of my own kitchen to becoming a successful café owner …

Finally, I locate my ticket.

The only other passenger in the carriage – a woman who looks about my age, sitting further along, across the aisle – is having to buy her fare, and the rail official is gently reminding her that she really should have bought her ticket on the platform. He shrugs in a friendly way as he says it, and she pats her glamorous blonde up-do and gives him the benefit of a winsomely apologetic smile.

The instant he’s gone, the smile vanishes, like a light bulb being switched off. She raises her eyes to the ceiling with a look of contempt and gets back to her sporty-looking magazine.

The train slows down, entering a tunnel, and my reflection appears in the window, staring back at me from the darkness beyond. Fine, strawberry-blonde hair brushing my shoulders, wide-set blue eyes and too-plump lips that I’ve hated all my life. The rest of me is probably a little on the plump side, too, mainly because I love baking and you can’t be a baker and not sample the end results, can you? I’m also fairly short, so every calorie-laden mouthful tends to reveal itself elsewhere.

As a kid, I loved making cakes: experimenting with different flavours and textures. After a bad day at school, I could forget Lucy Slater and lose myself in the supremely soothing world of buttery cake mix, glorious home-baking smells and endless icing possibilities.

Baking is still my passion. It never fails to give me that comforting feeling of old. And I’ve been taking refuge in it even more lately, with Dad so very ill in hospital.

I hand over my ticket to be stamped. Then I sit back and close my eyes for a moment, allowing myself to be lulled by the gentle rocking movement of the train.

Minutes later, we pull into a station and people flood onto the train.

‘Is this seat free?’ says a deep voice.

I glance up. A tall man with dark hair and round, Harry Potter glasses is looking down at me quizzically, and I return his smile. ‘No, feel free.’

‘Thanks.’

He pushes the glasses further up his nose then hefts his sports bag onto the overhead rack. After zipping open the side pocket, he starts feeling around inside it. His pale blue T-shirt hitches up, revealing a glimpse of washboard stomach above long, muscular jean-clad legs. Quickly, I look away, out of the window.

But when he draws out a book and drops it on the table, the temptation to be nosy and read the title upside down is too great.

My brow knots in confusion.

Adventures with Crotches?

Crikey. That’s the sort of book to read on a Kindle so no one can actually see the title! He flings himself into the seat opposite me and I’m enveloped in the scent of eau de sporty man. It’s clear he’s been doing an activity of some kind, what with the sports bag and the dark hair that’s still damp from activity and curling on his neck.

The frosty blonde, I notice, is casting interested looks over in our direction – well, specifically his direction. He is quite attractive, I suppose, apart from the geeky glasses. Not that I’m at all interested. At the ripe old age of thirty-two, I’ve grown quite cynical about love. Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure there are probably lots of men my age who are basically decent, caring human beings. It’s just I’ve never actually met one that I was attracted to. The sad fact is, the guys I’ve been out with invariably end up being more of a disappointment than anything. And it’s not because I’m too picky, either. I suppose I’ve just been unlucky.

I think of Jason, the love of my life. The man who first disappointed me by breaking up with me in order to take up with Lucy (Lucifer) Slater, the horrible bully who tormented me throughout my schooldays. We were just eighteen when we split up, but I truly loved Jason Findlay and I was completely and utterly devastated when it ended. He was the first boy I ever properly kissed. That momentous event happened when I was fifteen, round the back of Hart’s End Youth Club, and after that kiss, we were inseparable for a long time. Until I decided to go away to university and Lucy Slater got her claws into him …

The man opposite shifts in his seat – possibly getting a little over-engrossed in crotches (‘gross’ being the operative word) – and our legs accidentally collide.

‘Sorry,’ he says with a lopsided grin. ‘I’m having trouble getting my muscles to relax.’

I shake my head. ‘Sounds nasty.’

‘It is. I’ve just run a marathon and they ache like crazy.’ He shifts them around.

‘Ah!’

‘I guess I should have started my training earlier.’ He grins and goes back to his book which, looking at the cover the right way up, I suddenly realise isn’t about crotches at all. My upside-down reading clearly needs some work. The book he’s so enthralled by is actually called Adventures with Crochet. (Which, to be fair, sets my mind boggling all over again.) There’s a colourful crocheted doll on the cover and a jolly border made from one long line of crochet, like I used to make when I was a little girl and Gran taught me.

I observe him curiously beneath my eyelashes. He certainly doesn’t look like a crochet enthusiast, with his rugby player’s body and big hands that would surely be way too clumsy to wield a crochet hook. But appearances can be deceptive. For all I know, he might also be a whiz at macramé and enjoy whipping up the odd summer fruit soufflé in his spare time. It was probably very politically incorrect of me to picture a crochet enthusiast as an elderly lady with a cat curled at her feet. Yes, in fact, good for him!

His brow is tense as if he’s concentrating hard. He’s obviously a ‘metrosexual’. The sort of man who’d feel perfectly at home exhibiting his macaroons in a Women’s Institute tent. Although why I should be so curious about someone I don’t even–

‘Excuse me,’ says a slightly breathy voice.

I glance up and so does Mr Needlepoint. The voice belongs to the blonde I spotted earlier.

‘Sorry to interrupt, but did I hear you say you’d just run a marathon?’ She bats her extensive eyelashes at him.

‘Twenty-six miles of hell,’ he says cheerfully. ‘Usually I enjoy them but today’s was tough going for some reason.’

‘So you’ve run marathons before?’

He nods. ‘Dozens.’

Her hazel eyes open wide in admiration, and I find myself fascinated by her make-up. Her eyelids are like two perfectly matching mini canvases, artfully brushed with shades of gold, pink and purple, fringed with dark, curled lashes. Mr Needlepoint seems quite taken with them, too.

‘Sorry, I should explain.’ She sits down next to me in a cloud of flowery perfume, while continuing to completely ignore me. ‘I’m Olivia.’

‘Theo Steel.’ They shake hands and as an afterthought, she turns to me.

‘Twilight.’ I wait for the reaction. Most people smile in surprise at the unusual name, which is exactly what Olivia does. Her hand feels thin and icy cold. She turns back to Theo.

‘So I have a friend who’s spearheading a “Get Hart’s End Fit!” campaign. I assume you live around here?’ She includes me in this query.

I nod. ‘My parents live in Hart’s End.’

‘Lake Heath,’ says Theo, naming a neighbouring village a few miles from Hart’s End, further along the track.

‘Well, my friend wants as many people as possible to take part in a 10k run she’s organising for charity.’ She gives Theo a coy look. ‘And you’re obviously very fit.’

‘Well … I don’t know about that.’

‘Oh, but you must be. Running all those marathons.’

‘I suppose …’

‘And those lovely, hard muscles must be the result of an awful lot of weight training,’ she says, gazing admiringly at his arms.

I want to snicker, she says it so flirtatiously. But Mr Needlepoint seems to be lapping it up.

‘So will you do it?’ she asks.

He smiles. ‘Sure. When is it?’

She gets up. ‘I’ve got some leaflets in my bag.’ Returning, she hands him one, then looks doubtfully at me. ‘Would you be interested?’ Her icy gaze slides over me then lingers on my arms and their distinct lack, in my short-sleeved top, of any obvious muscle definition.

I almost laugh out loud. ‘Er, I don’t think so.’ I mean, I’m all for charity fund-raising, but running when you don’t have to? Isn’t that a bit perverse? No, the only exercise I get these days is transporting tins of cake mix from the bench to the oven, and that’s quite enough for me, thank you very much!

Her eyes are full of disapproval so I lean closer and murmur in a confidential manner: ‘Mind you, I did get on the exercise bike the other day. For a whole forty-five minutes!’ I smile modestly. ‘Next time, though, I’m going to try making the pedals go round.’

There’s an awkward silence as Olivia stares at me in a bemused fashion, not getting the joke at all, and I feel an embarrassed heat washing up my neck. Thankfully Mr Needlepoint lets out a burst of laughter. At which point Olivia, presumably taking her cue from him, makes her mouth smile as if she’s terribly amused, too. Which she quite clearly isn’t.

‘But listen, Dawn, exercise is extremely important to overall fitness,’ she says, eyeballing me urgently, as if I’m in danger of keeling over from ill health at any second.

‘It’s Twilight. And I have got stamina,’ I tell her confidently.

‘Oh?’ She frowns, clearly thrown by this unexpected nugget.

‘Yes, tons of it.’ I once heard my dad telling a neighbour that while my running technique might not be the best, I did at least have great stamina. Admittedly, I was only seven at the time and the race in question was a modest egg and spoon. But for some reason, this idea stuck and has since become part of family folklore. (I imagine my descendants, years from now, being impressed to learn of their great-great-grandmother’s quite astonishing reserves of stamina.)

‘Right. Good.’ Olivia moves swiftly on. ‘And obviously clean eating is also absolutely vital to good health. Do you eat clean food?’

I’m a bit taken aback. What on earth is she suggesting? ‘Well, I always wash my strawberries.’

Theo laughs, obviously thinking I’m cracking another joke.

Olivia shakes her head. ‘No, no, no. I’m talking about a clean diet. No processed junk. Just fresh food and preferably raw, whenever possible. Actually, it’s not a diet, it’s a lifestyle. I never touch sugar these days. Or gluten. Or dairy. Ugh!’ She gives a little shiver of disgust. ‘Clean eating is absolutely the way forward for a healthy mind, body and soul. Wouldn’t you agree?’ She addresses Mr Needlepoint. Obviously. Because why would a chunky, doughnut-scoffing no-hoper like me have anything interesting to say on the matter?

Theo clears his throat. ‘Well, I’m not convinced cutting out whole food groups is necessarily a good idea, but you can’t go wrong with plenty of exercise and your five-a-day.’ He glances at me for confirmation.

Obligingly, I nod and say the first thing that comes into my head. ‘Five-a-day. Absolutely. Wouldn’t touch cake with a bargepole.’

There’s a flicker of approval in Olivia’s eyes – then she lights on my open notebook. ‘What’s this?’ Picking it up, she reads aloud from my list. ‘Sultana scones with raspberry jam and whipped cream (extra thick).’ She gazes at me in mild alarm then goes back to the list, reading each item in a tone of increasing disbelief. ‘Traditional butter cake, layered with white icing and sprinkled with hundreds and thousands. Buttery cherry and coconut cake. Gooey double chocolate fudge cake with a topping of milk chocolate ganache, decorated with chocolate buttons.’ She looks as if she’s about to faint.

Theo is trying not to grin but failing miserably. I wish this Olivia person would just bugger off. I’m feeling about three inches tall and very guilty, which is ridiculous. It’s a café menu, for goodness’ sake. Not what I’m planning to have for my dinner later.

‘Right, well, each to his own, I suppose.’ She drops the notebook as if it’s contaminated and stands up, brushing imaginary fluff from her impossibly neat rear end. ‘Personally, I always carry an emergency salad,’ she confides, reaching into her handbag with a satisfied smile. She draws out a small Tupperware box and snaps it open. ‘Celery anyone?’

It seems only polite to take some. ‘Nice.’ I nod, crunching my bite-sized stick. Actually, I’m not joking. It tastes deliciously fresh.

‘Organic,’ she says, offering the box to Theo, who declines with a polite smile.

As she leaves, she glances over her shoulder (obviously not at me) and purrs, ‘Do phone if you’ve any questions about the 10k. My number’s on the back of the leaflet.’

Theo assures her he certainly will and even gives her a cheerful little wink. I conclude he probably fancies her. And let’s face it, it would be a bit rude not to. Olivia is blonde, willowy slim and very pretty. She could be a model.

I bet Theo gets in touch with Olivia, 10k or not. I stare out of the window, wondering why I feel deflated.

The fields and houses rattle past and I think about Mum and Dad in London, facing the biggest hurdle of their lives.

‘The trouble with celery,’ murmurs Theo suddenly, ‘is that it’s ninety-five per cent water and one hundred per cent not pizza.’ I look over and he bestows a wink on me, too, which cheers me up no end.

He gets back to his adventures with crochet and I apply myself with renewed enthusiasm to expanding the list of mouth-watering carbs in my notebook.

But the gentle rocking of the train is dangerously soporific. The words in blue Biro keep blurring into one – ‘chocolate honeycomb slice’ merging with ‘buttery cherry and coconut cake’.

I haven’t slept properly for weeks. I’ve been waking monotonously regularly at some ghastly pre-dawn hour, my brain leaping instantly into worry mode. If I were to close my eyes now, I’d probably end up in Lake Heath, which is the end of the line. I need to stay awake.

In less than half an hour, I’ll be alighting at Hart’s End Station and walking back into the old family home, with all its familiar nooks and crannies and memories. But with one big difference.

There’ll be no Mum to fuss over me and put the kettle on. And no Dad to greet me with one of his big, comforting bear hugs.

A pang of grief hits me.

I wanted to be with them at my aunt’s house in London. That’s where they’re staying while Dad has the pioneering medical treatment that we desperately hope will improve his quality of life. (I try not to dwell on the very best scenario – that the treatment could actually halt the cancer in its tracks and send Dad into remission. I tell myself it would be enough just to have him back to his old, energetic self, able to go fishing and do his wood carving in the man-cave.)

My plan to open a café in Dad’s old shop premises means I can’t join them in London. Instead, I’m coming home to Hart’s End to put my last year in Manchester – training as a pastry chef – to good use.

The advantage of using Dad’s empty shop is that it already has planning permission for a café – so that’s the plan! Hopefully, if it goes well (and to be honest, that’s an ‘if’ the size of a small continent), I might be able to earn enough money to save my parents having to put Honey Cottage up for sale. It all sounds fairly logical in my calmer moments. But waking in the middle of the night, frantic over my family’s uncertain future, the idea just seems pie-in-the-sky ridiculous.

Do people really open cafés and make a living from them? I mean, clearly, they do. There are café owners all over the UK who can attest to it – but my worry is this: Am I deluding myself, imagining I can be one of them?

Honestly, I haven’t a clue.

But since I can’t think of a better idea, then I’m just going to have to go with it. Because Mum and Dad have got quite enough to worry about – in just a few days, Dad starts his treatment – without thinking they’re going to lose their lovely home as well. They’ve lived at Honey Cottage all their married lives and it would break their hearts to leave. Plus, it’s always been a secret dream of mine to open a café and spend my days up to my elbows in flour.

It was my love of baking that led to me giving up my public relations job in London a year ago – at the age of thirty-one – and enrolling at catering college in Manchester, with the intention of becoming a pastry chef. And it’s also why I’ve now decided to change direction again and put those baking skills to practical use.

We will not lose the family home!

I lean back my head, my shoulders slumping, finally giving in to exhaustion. I’ll close my eyes for just five minutes …

*****

I’m woken by a giant pig snorting into a microphone.

What the … ?

My startled gaze falls on Theo. He’s still concentrating on his book but there’s a suspicious tension about his mouth. He’s trying not to smile.

Oh God, the great snuffling pig must have been me. How bloody mortifying.

Theo removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. Then he glances over and I notice they’re an incredible deep blue colour. Quite mesmerising. ‘I was just about to wake you up. We’re here.’ He nods outside as the train glides into Hart’s End and comes to a stop by the big, ornate station clock.

Eek!

I grab my notebook and pen, and stuff them into my handbag, along with all my other bits and pieces. To my surprise, Theo appears to be getting off at this stop, too. I follow him along the carriage, noticing Olivia also getting up to leave the train. Theo courteously ushers her out into the aisle in front of him and she says something I can’t quite catch and they exchange a smile. I feel like a peeping Tom, intruding on a private moment between them, and a feeling of irritation rises up from nowhere. I wish I was off this damned train and walking up the path to Honey Cottage!

I try to peer round Theo to catch sight of my backpack in the luggage rack at the end of the carriage, but he towers above me, his broad shoulders blocking the view, so I give up.

When I get to the rack, panic sets in because I can’t see my backpack at all. Then I realise that someone has dumped their enormous black suitcase on top of my modest-sized bag, squashing it underneath. So then, of course, I have to try and heave the massive monster off, which – ten sweaty seconds later – I’m realising just isn’t going to happen. It’s stuck. There’s probably a dead body in this bloody suitcase, it’s so immovable!

The train is going to leave any second!

I need my backpack!

Suddenly, two strong arms are moving me gently but firmly aside. Dazed, I watch as they proceed to haul the evil black suitcase off the top of the pile. Quickly, I grab my backpack and turn to find Theo sliding the case back onto the rack. Then he guides me firmly towards the doors, leaps down onto the platform, then half-pulls, half-carries me off the train in the nick of time, just as the electronic whistle announces the doors are closing.

As the train moves slowly off, I find myself staring up into Theo Steel’s deep blue eyes, still clasped to his powerful chest and trying – with limited success – to get my breathing under control.

‘Thank you,’ I gasp, and he lets go of me.

‘No problem.’ He smiles lazily. ‘Didn’t want you ending up in Lake Heath. It’s a long walk back.’

‘True.’ I turn to hoist the backpack onto my shoulders, which conveniently hides my blushes. ‘But didn’t you say you live in Lake Heath? Why get off the train one stop early?’

Backpack secured, we start walking towards the station exit. Olivia and her irritatingly pert bottom are sashaying along just a few yards ahead of us and I’m quite certain Theo Steel is taking full advantage of the view. This makes me feel unaccountably cross. Probably because I’m shattered after the long journey.

‘I live in Lake Heath but I work in Hart’s End,’ says Theo. ‘I’m a personal trainer at the sports centre there.’

‘Oh, right. Olivia will be impressed.’

He laughs. ‘But you’re not.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say that. Anyone who can run a marathon then go straight in to work afterwards deserves a medal in my book.’

He shrugs his big shoulders. ‘I’ve just got one client then I’m off home for a soak.’ He grins. ‘Five hours in a hot bath should see to the aching muscles.’

‘True.’ I do a little mini jog to keep up with his long stride, doing my very best not to think about Theo Steel stretched out in the bath. What’s wrong with me? I definitely need a lie-down! ‘Epsom salts are good in the bath. Or so I’ve heard, never having run a marathon.’

‘You should come along to the gym. I could put you through your paces.’

‘Er … ooh, I don’t think so. Me in a gym would be like a giraffe in Sainsbury’s. Just not normal.’

‘No?’

‘No. It’s all those mirrors. Ugh! I mean, I know what I look like. I don’t need my nose rubbed in it.’ I’m wittering on, but I can’t seem to help it.

‘You look all right to me.’

I glance up and Theo Steel is assessing me with an approving look on his face. I blush as red as a letterbox and can’t think of a thing to say. He’s just being kind, obviously. We walk along in silence for a moment.

The fact is, I have been in a gym. Hasn’t everyone? I joined one January along with about twenty-five thousand others determined to make this their year to adopt a healthier lifestyle. I went three times then gave up, mainly because it was winter and far too cold to venture outdoors after work. Which is a pretty pathetic reason, I know.

I give Theo a sneaky sidelong glance. I can’t imagine him letting the temperature put him off working out.

Finally, we catch up with Olivia, despite my very best efforts not to. (I’ve already stopped to rummage around for my ticket – which I knew was safely in my jeans pocket – then wasted more time checking that my backpack was zipped up properly.)

She dazzles Theo with a smile. ‘Don’t forget the 10k.’

He smiles back. ‘I won’t.’

She turns to me. ‘I could email you the clean diet sheet if you like? And send you some muscle-toning exercises.’

‘Er, no, you’re all right, thanks,’ I say perfectly calmly, while inside I’m literally growling.

Theo is walking along as if he hasn’t heard a thing.

‘Always remember,’ says Olivia, as if she’s addressing a classroom of five-year-olds, ‘that what you eat in private, you wear in public.’ She grips my upper arm and squeezes hard enough to make me yelp. Then she leans closer and says in a loud stage whisper, ‘Banish those bingo wings before they really take a hold, Dawn.’

‘Twilight,’ murmurs Theo and I swing round in surprise and gratitude.

‘Right, I’m off to do some courgette shopping,’ says Olivia. ‘I’ve just bought this incredibly clever machine that turns them into courgetti!’ She gives a mad laugh that would put Mary from Coronation Street in the shade. ‘Just like spaghetti but none of the horrible gluten. And it’s so tasty, you’d hardly know!’

She gives a cheery wave and disappears into the supermarket.

‘I’d know,’ I mutter darkly, and Theo Steel grins.