‘How are things going with Greg these days?’ Reeni asks, interrupting my peace.
I clear my throat. ‘Oh look,’ I say, pointing down the road. ‘I think that’s Maria and Belle.’
They’re two of my regulars who stop by at least twice a week for coffee and ice cream. Although I haven’t seen them this week … come to think of it, maybe not even last week either.
‘Hi, Ellie,’ says Maria. She’s holding a chocolate milkshake in a cup with a distinctive orange-and-red logo. ‘Gorgeous day, isn’t it? Have you tried one of these yet? They’re fantastic.’ She waggles her cup, catching Olly’s attention.
‘No.’ I shift my bag’s shoulder strap to stop it from digging into my shoulder. ‘Where are they from?’
‘The Camper Café. They’re set up on the library green. Loads of choice. This even has an edible straw and Belle’s loving hers.’
‘Mmmmm,’ is the only sound coming out of Belle who is intent on demolishing her dessert before it drips down her fingers.
‘Want,’ says Olly, his chubby arms outstretched.
Maria smiles at me and then her face falls a little. ‘Oh, your ice creams are just as good. We’ll come by The Beach House soon.’
‘Aw, Mum. But this is so much nicer,’ whines Belle, sticking her tongue out to scoop up some chocolate ice cream.
I think back to my half-empty freezer with its one lonely tub of vanilla ice cream. I hate to admit it, but Belle is right. Her treat looks way nicer than anything I could produce right now.
Maria pushes Belle forwards. ‘Better be off. See you soon.’ And with that, she marches away from us, her cheeks flaming red.
Reeni sets off again with a now unsettled, grumbling Olly. ‘Camper Café? Do you know what she’s talking about?’
I shake my head and my breathing shallows as we reach the bend in the road. Around the corner is the library and the main village car park, and I can already hear the vibrant chatter of voices. Beach side of the car park is a large rectangular patch of grass, and as it comes into view, I can see plenty of people milling around and a queue in front of a green-and-cream caravan.
‘What the hell?’ My feet falter beneath me. ‘Was this here when you walked over?’ I ask Reeni, struggling to keep the panic out of my voice. I can’t drag customers into The Beach House and this tin can is teeming in them.
‘No. We came along the beach to tire Olly out.’
‘Pink ice sceem,’ screeches Olly as a lady walks past us carrying a waffle cone heaped with strawberry ice cream and glistening rivers of red sauce.
I scan the scene in front of us. The buzz is so reminiscent of my good times that it feels like a physical punch and a magnifying glass to my own inadequacies. No wonder I’ve only had two customers all day. ‘How the hell has the council allowed this? People have tried to get permits for here before and been refused. This shouldn’t even be here.’
‘There’s always one chancer who pays no heed to the rules,’ Reeni says, keeping her voice low.
‘At least if it was the other side of the village, it wouldn’t impact me, but here it’s going to decimate what little business I have left.’
We skirt around the edge of the green to get a better look. It’s not a caravan, but a cream-and-bottle-green VW camper van. It’s been converted to have two wood-lined shelved doors on its long side which fold fully back to reveal the countertop. The roof is hinged to open upwards, and a striped awning covers the serving area. There’s a bottle-green surfboard propped up to the side withCamper Caféwritten the full length of it in red and orange, and blackboards are hung up with handwritten menus. People are sitting on benches or in groups on picnic blankets, eating an array of food. Anything from milkshakes and coffees to toasted sandwiches and massive ice creams. If it wasn’t so horrifying, I’d be wanting to join them. And Olly wants to do precisely that. He’s making little squeaky noises as he bounces in his buggy.
‘Looks like they have strawberry ice cream,’ Reeni says. ‘Should we get Olly’s treat here?’ Her words are hesitant, as if she’s aware she might be committing treason, but wanting to avoid a very public toddler tantrum.
I sigh. ‘May as well check out the competition, I suppose.’
‘Maybe we can find out if they’re staying here,’ says Reeni. ‘You never know, it might be a temporary thing.’
The queue moves quickly and as we get closer to the counter, I finally get a good look at the menu. One blackboard lists a variety of sweet treats: ice cream, waffles and fruit sundaes. Another board boastsJaffles. Try our twist on a toasted stuffed sandwichwith several headings to direct customers. I scan the savoury selection. Beans and egg, ham hock and sweet onion jam, and Nutella and crispy bacon are the top three. Not combinations I would ever dream of serving at The Beach Houseand they’re making my ham-and-cheese toastie offering sound very boring.
The customer at the front of the queue leaves, his hands full of three waffle cones containing peaks of pink and brown ice cream covered in multicoloured sprinkles, and we all move up again, Olly happy to be on the move even if it is only half a metre.
The breeze changes direction, lifting my shoulder-length hair. Behind the refreshing swirl of salty air is a fresh, citrusy scent that encapsulates my heart and squeezes it tight.
It can’t be … I rub my nose, trying to rid myself of that fresh clean fragrance, but it’s even stronger now. Get a grip, Ellie. I know I’m wrong. That, for the umpteenth time, this will be another random bloke who has chosen the same aftershave. But still, my pulse is thudding through my veins as if it knows better.
Another customer is served and the queue in front of us shuffles forwards again. Reeni moves with it, leaving me rooted to the spot.
She backs up. ‘You OK?’ she says, reaching for my elbow.
