Mark was used to interviews, having done several over the years and, as his agent kept stressing to him, getting his name out there was part and parcel of being an author. ‘Books don’t publicise themselves,’ she was fond of saying.
‘How about I buyyouone?’ he suggested, guiding her towards a free picnic table. ‘They do some incredibly festive flavours.’
She chose a chestnut praline latte and although he was tempted by the chestnut syrup, whipped cream and caramel drizzle (it smelled divine), he opted for an orange espresso spiced with cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg.
When they had their drinks, Grace proceeded to ask him all the usual sorts of questions that he’d come to expect, and he answered them readily enough, even the ones about growing up in Picklewick, which were a little more personal than he liked. He tended not to respond to those, deeming that his private life should be, well,private.
But as they were about to wrap it up, the reporter asked a question that Mark didn’t find as easy to answer, when she said, ‘Where next after Picklewick?’
‘Home,’ he replied automatically.
But as the word passed his lips, he wondered where ‘home’ was, because for some reason Bristol no longer felt like it.
Beatrice was surprised to see him, and Mark wondered whether she’d forgotten he would be at the farm today.
She sent him a little smile, before turning her attention back to the customer she was serving, and while Mark waited for her to finish, he explored the shop. It wasn’t very big, but it had a variety of items for sale, from foodstuff to soaps and candles. He was sorely tempted to buy a carton of that wonderful pumpkin soup, and if he had a way of reheating it, he would have done.
The place seemed to be doing a roaring trade and as more customers piled in, he wondered whether he would get a chance to speak to Beatrice in private.
Should he message her instead? If he did, the rejection he would invariably receive might be easier to deal with if she wasn’t watching his face while she said it. Conversely though, she might be less inclined to say no if shedidsee his face, and by springing it on her now, she mightn’t have a chance to think of an excuse.
It wasn’t that he was desperate to take her out for a meal, but hewasdesperate to talk to her on her own, so doing it over a meal in a posh restaurant was better than having a drink in The Black Horse where every man and his dog might overhear.
Mark lingered for a while, picking things up and putting them down, and every so often when she’d finished serving one customer and before she started on the next, he’d try to have a conversation with her.
After several unsuccessful attempts, he realised that the only way he was going to speak to her was if he bought something, and even then he’d probably have to talk fast.
Mark looked longingly at the soup again, before picking up a gift box of handmade soaps. They looked like slices of cake, almost good enough to eat, and smelled lovely.
He took it to the counter. ‘I thought my mother would like it,’ he said, somewhat defensively in case she thought he was buying it for himself.
‘Would you like it gift wrapped?’
‘Yes, please.’ Gift wrapping wouldn’t take long, but he might need the additional time that the service would provide.
As she selected a length of pre-cut wrapping paper, he said, ‘Dulcie isn’t happy with me.’
She glanced up. ‘Why is that?’
‘I refused to take any payment for playing the Grinch.’
‘That’s kind of you.’ She was frowning, and he hoped she didn’t think he was telling her this just to show her what a nice guy he was.
‘She feels really bad about it,’ he added, watching her expertly fold the paper around the box. ‘So I ended up accepting an offer of a meal in The Wild Side instead.’
‘I’ve heard it’s nice.’ She used little gold stickers to keep the paper folds in place and reached for a ball of red string.
‘You’ve not eaten there?’
She shook her head.
‘The thing is,’ he continued, ‘I don’t fancy going on my own. The meal is for two, so would you like to come with me?’
Beatrice was in the middle of tying the string into a bow, and she didn’t look up.
He explained, ‘I’m not going to go on my own. It’s one thing eating a meal in The Black Horse on my tod, but in a posh place like The Wild Side, I’ll look a real saddo.’
She popped the gift-wrapped parcel into a paper bag with the words Lilac Tree Farm written on it.
