Lisa laughs and waves us out as another queue forms behind us. “Tell Tommy he still owes me a chance to become preferred supplier to his hotel!” she calls, and I’m not entirely convinced she’s joking.
Outside, the warm air hits again. Phil wipes the last crumbs from his mouth with a sugar induced grin on his face.
Extreme Sports is next, a short walk away, giving me enough time to scoff down my éclairs. Fellside might be tiny, but it still manages to host two Extreme Sports shops at opposite ends of the village, because apparently tourists cannot cope with walking more than ten minutes without buying a waterproof jacket. The original one sits near the start of the high street. The new branch has opened at the far end, right by the church, so no matter where visitors enter the village, they can panic-buy hiking gear immediately.
Phil perks up a little as we approach. He knows the lad behind the counter from school, and that tiny sliver of familiarity gives him just enough confidence.
Inside, the place smells of new fabric and ambition. Jackets are stacked to the ceiling, boots lined up like soldiers, and a display of walking sticks threaten to spear anyone who turns too sharply.
Phil clears his throat, launches into a quiet but respectable spiel about FMR, and even manages a joke about rescuing their manager’s cousin last month. The lad behind the till laughs and agrees to take the tin straight away.
We’re out within minutes.
“That went well,” Phil says as we step back outside. The pride in his voice is small but unmistakable.
“You did great,” I tell him.
His shoulders lift just a little, and there’s something quite satisfying about seeing him believe it.
“All that’s left now is the florist,” I say.
Phil slows his steps. “Estelle’s old place?”
“Yep.”
Estelle ran the shop for what felt like a century. If you needed flowers, gossip or cake, she was your woman. When I fitted her new shelving a few years back, she tried to feed me so much Victoria sponge I thought she might be preparing me for winter hibernation. She finally retired last year and decided to trot off along the Silk Road like the fearless seventy-something she is. Granny, who is Estelle’s best friend, updates us religiously, as though she’s narrating a travel documentary.
Estelle’s granddaughter has taken over the flower shop since. She’s from London, apparently. Which can mean anything. Some Londoners turn up in Fellside desperate for quiet and fall completely in love with the village. Others spend two weeks here and flee back South the moment they realise Deliveroo doesn’t cross the county line.
We reach the shop, just down from the church. The building is painted a soft mint green, pots of flowers lined up outside like they’re auditioning for an advert. It’s the kind of shop front that makes you slow down without thinking, warm light glowing through the window in a way that looks almost… inviting.
Phil lets out a low breath. “What if she tells us to sod off?”
“Then we charm her,” I say.
I take hold of the door.
“You ready?”
“No,” he says immediately.
“Perfect.”
Right, quick chat, tin on the counter, and then I’m reclaiming my Friday with a pint and rugby.
Chapter 2
Emma
It’s dark and coolin the back room of the shop… my shop, to be precise. Well, mine and Christina’s.
I still have to remind myself that I am now a business owner, together with my best friend. I am so used to being a tiny cog in a giant, soulless machine that the idea of owning anything other than a pile of case files feels slightly unreal.
When Nana announced her retirement and said she wanted to sell the shop, the idea lodged itself in my mind and refused toleave. Moving away from London, a city I loathe. A better work-life balance. Working with flowers instead of twisting the law so an already rich corporation could get away with even more.
At the time, I was a corporate lawyer at one of the biggest firms in London. My mother was very proud. I hated every minute. Twelve-hour days, partners barking for blood, clients who saw entire countries as playgrounds. All of it built on the fantasy that money solves everything.
My mother left the Lake District when she was young and turned herself into a proper city woman. She loves London. The restaurants, the shops, the social life. But it’s easy to love a city when you float above it in an ivory tower, paid for by my father’s salary. Nothing ever really sticks to you up there.
