Of course Elliot liked it. Why wouldn’t he? Dammit again! I dive into my take-away coffee cup, catching Izaak’s eye as he smirks at me, throwing one final wink as he lets the door close upon him.
‘Is everybody in Clove Lore like that?’ I say, exasperated.
Elliot just laughs. ‘They’re fine. They’re eccentric and friendly.’
‘Except for Minty?’
‘Yeah, maybe not her.’ Elliot inhales through gritted teeth, and we both laugh.
Outside the shop on the sloping pavement I catch a glimpse of Izaak talking with a short, white-haired woman in a frilly apron with a pink and yellow embroidered ice-cream sundae on the front – that’s got to be Mrs Crocombe. Their faces are so animated I know they must be talking about us newcomers at the bookshop. She appears to be writing something down in a notebook. I can make out Izaak spelling my name out loud to the woman. J.U.D.E. The little traitor, and after I looked for his book as well!
‘What’s going on out there?’ Elliot says, peering past me.
‘Not a clue,’ I say, veering out of his way, not at all enjoying the scent of rose and patchouli that moves with him. Seriously, is that some kind of body lotion? I must get myself some. ‘You can man the bookshop this morning, if you like?’ I say, for want of anything more sensible coming to mind.
And with that, I escape Elliot’s presence for another day.
Hi! Are you on your break yet? It’s nearly 3 and the cafe’s gone quiet. Sold half my scones today. Yay! How’s your day been?
I see the bubbles in the chat box telling me Daniel’s typing a reply. I’ve spent the day serving tea and coffee and putting blobs of jam and clotted cream into little dishes for the tourists, who on the whole aren’t as chatty as the bookshop customers but it’s been nice listening to the radio and keeping up with the demand for scones.
I’ve been reading John Donne during the quiet moments (I can’t get into it, I’m afraid, sorry Jowan), and Elliot’s just popped his head through the little door from the shop to tell me he’s sold a grand total of three books, all from the children’s section, and all to the same woman, Mrs Crocombe’s daughter.
I deduced that was who she was because she told him the books were for the local school library – and when I glimpsed her leaving she had the distinctly harassed look of a woman sent to spy on Elliot and me by their busybody book-keeping mother.
The café’s been hot and stuffy all day and my feet are killing me. A little perch on the counter and a chat with Daniel won’t hurt, not now there’s no customers. My phone pings.
I’ve got five minutes. The nurses’ station is a HOTBED of angst. Delays on all blood work, two supply nurses gone AWOL and Ekon being a little B all day.
Oh no, what’s he up to now?
Giving me lip, hanging around me all morning, asking questions he should know the answers to, generally being annoying. He’s just left a cookie from the canteen on my desk. WTF??
Well that sounds like a nice thing to do.
It’s probably laced with lactulose solution because I asked him to work Friday lates for the next two months. I can hear him laughing with the porter in the next bay. The end of this shift cannot come soon enough. You all right?
I’m good thanks.
But?
There’s no buts.
A gif pops up of some TV star I don’t recognise. They’re raising an eyebrow and saying ‘Oh Really???’
What about the guy with the apron? Behaving himself?
Elliot. He’s nice enough. We’re keeping out of each other’s way. He’s in the shop today. He cashes up at night.
And then what?
Another gif. This time it’s one of the Simpsons waggling their eyebrows suggestively.
And then nothing.
Is he single?
No idea. Plus not interested.
