The bells jingled again and they both looked towards the door.
Meg inhaled sharply. The oversized sunglasses did little to disguise the flawless face of Isobel Ashworth, who looked around, then sashayed between the tables to the counter.
Meg sensed the waitress stiffen. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she said, her warm smile replaced with a steely glare.
Chapter 12
Issy pretended not to notice the hush that came over the little café as she weaved a path between the tables. It was no wonder they never came into town. Being an Ashworth around here was like being a Kennedy in Cape Cod: the locals seemed to hold them up as gods of some sort.
She drummed her fingers on the unattended counter, looking for a member of staff. She didn’t have long before the site meeting she’d asked Warwick to arrange for twelve thirty. She caught the eye of a waitress in the far corner and reached for a takeaway menu.
‘I’ll have an oat milk latte and a green Buddha bowl, please, dressing on the side. To take away,’ Issy said, as the waitress approached, stony-faced. Honestly, service in Australia was a disgrace. How hard was it to greet a customer with a smile?
The woman shook her head. ‘No, you won’t.’
Issy frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You’re not welcome here,’ the waitress said.
The diners at the nearest table stopped their conversation and looked at them.
Issy let out a strange little laugh. ‘What? What do you mean? You can’t—’
‘Yes, I can.’
Issy’s chest tightened. She looked around, aware of more eyes on her now, then turned back to the waitress. ‘I’d like to speak to the manager.’
‘You’re speaking to her.’
‘The owner, then,’ Issy said, flustered.
‘Also me.’
Issy swallowed hard. A boy at a nearby table sniggered. A young couple exchanged whispers behind their hands. A woman in the corner with short dark hair watched intently from behind a laptop.
The waitress pointed at the door. ‘You need to leave.’
Issy took a steadying breath, then walked out, her face burning.
As the door swung closed behind her, she heard people clapping.
Issy kept her head down as she walked briskly back to the construction site. She hurried past the site office, keen to avoid Warwick, and went straight to the bathroom—another temporary shed, which had been installed behind the old building.
Her hands trembled as she turned on the tap, trying to make sense of what had happened at the café. Was it possible that woman didn’t know who she was? Surely not. In fact, maybe the opposite was true, she realised, recalling the expression on the woman’s face as she’d entered the café. The set of her jaw. Her cold glare. No. That woman knew exactly who she was refusing service.
As she splashed her face with water, she had another thought. Was itbecauseof her name that she was kicked out so unceremoniously? She was accustomed to her family name opening doors, not slamming them in her face. She was an Ashworth! Ashworths were practically royalty around here. This town would be nowhere without them. Just last year, they’d funded a complete overhaul of Hartwell Cricket Ground, including a state-of-the-art scoreboard, lights and a new grandstand, a gift to the people of Hartwell. And this was the thanks they got!
She patted her face dry with a sheet of paper towel, trying not to smudge her makeup. She must be missing something. Maybe that woman was mad! Anyway, there was nothing she could do about it now. Best to put it to one side and focus on the site meeting.
At exactly twelve thirty, Issy stood in front of the office, ready to start the meeting. A few minutes later, Warwick slunk out of the office and joined her. She looked at her watch, for rhetorical rather than practical purposes.
‘Where is everyone?’ she asked.
‘Lunch, probably.’
‘But I scheduled a meeting.’
Warwick shrugged. It seemed his primary means of communication. ‘Twelve till one is when the subbies knock off for lunch.’
