Mrs. Rosette-hat crosses her arms in a ‘let’s hear it then’ pose.
“It’s about the Lady Isobel Centre. Ever since I found out about it, I’ve been reading up and I’d be very interested in helping.”
Philomena listens, her face expressionless. So, I continue. “I have some experience in charity funding. I think I might be able to suggest some new avenues to find financial support for new projects.”
Her eyes are so cold.
“Perhaps we can discuss this in your office where I can show you some ideas.”
Rosette-hat turns to buy some honey on the comb, but Philomena keeps her attention on me. “You want to come to our centre?” The queue moves again. She is now at the front, but she’s still looking at me. “You want to look around at our projects?”
“Yes, I’d love to. I have some thoughts about vocational training, career advice, and maybe…”
“So, you want to tell us how to do our job better? Because obviously all this.” She looks around the square at the hundreds of people milling around the charity stalls, talking, eating, snapping pictures with their phones. “It no doubt looks very small and rustic to you.”
“Of course not.” I rush to explain.
“No, please, feel welcome. Parachute-in and teach us. You might be a receptionist in London or a supermarket cashier, but it’ll only take you a” – she mimes quotation marks – “couple of days to fix us.”
Rosette-hat makes a derisive snort as she drops her purchase into a rich yellow shopping bag. A part of my mind notices it’s silk damask, obviously from La Canette Silks’ surplus stock. She and Philomena step away leaving me at the front of the queue. But they don’t walk off. No, no; they stand watching me. Waiting to see if I slink away with my tail between my legs.
No way am I giving them the satisfaction.
Hal behind the stall gives me a concerned look.
I point at a random bottle in front of me. “What is this?” I ask before he can comment on what he must have heard.
“Let me check for you.” His voice is kind. “Elodie? What’s in this?”
His girlfriend glances over for a second. “Buckwheat honey, paprika, and cocoa. The others are citrus honey and orange dressing.” She turns back to her customer.
“Two please.” I say quickly before my voice can wobble. I dig into my bag to find my wallet, shoving aside the folder with my research and suggested developments.
“Thank you.” He wraps two of the bottles in plain brown paper, then slips them in another yellow bag. “I’m giving you some honeycomb to try.” He adds a small box. Even if I wanted to refuse, I don’t trust my voice. I shake my head and walk away just in time.
It’s hormones, of course. I’ve always been strong, and it would take more than two mean-spirited women to upset me.
Then I stumble, my ankle bends, and I nearly fall.
Someone catches me.
Brandon.
I can’t see him because my eyes are blurred, but his scent is familiar. He always smells like this, nice and woody, with a faint hint of orange.
“Are you okay?”
“Of course.” I swallow.
His arm is suddenly around me, and he leads me to one of the temporary benches around the fountain. After helping me sit, he digs inside his coat for a mini packet of tissues and gives it to me.
Chapter Nineteen
Brandon
I’ve never been good with tears. Last time I cried, I was six and caught my finger in the car door. My mother who cries for England, has already used up my share.
One of the things I loved about my casual relationships was the fact they always ended long before we got to the emotional stage. When confronted with a crying person, my instinct is to run, but I can’t leave Lessa alone in the village square with everyone looking at her.
