This was the first time I had been inside Far Cottage and although it appeared to be, from what I could see so far as Ifollowed her towards the kitchen, the same layout as mine, the sitting room looked bigger. The door was wide open and there was an old gas fire, like the one I’d had removed, set on a fireplace from the 1930s, a coffee table, a sofa that had seen better days many years ago by the look of it, and a TV on another coffee table pushed into one corner. I hate to say this, but welcoming, it wasn’t.
Neither was the dining room opposite. That had a table and a couple of chairs, and that was it. And the cottage was almost as cold as mine was with my heating off. There were radiators but they clearly weren’t on.
‘Don’t tell me your boiler is playing up as well?’ I said as she opened the door leading to the kitchen.
She gave me a sheepish look and shook her head as a wave of warm, and deliciously scented air washed over me. She held the door open and closed it behind us once we were both inside.
‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s fine. I don’t have the heating on when I’m spending most of the day in the kitchen. There doesn’t seem much point in heating the entire house when I’m only in one room. Is … is there a problem with your boiler?’
‘Yes. It’s not working properly. I woke up to a freezing cold cottage yesterday and I spent last night at my parent’s house. There’s nothing worse than waking up in a bitterly cold bedroom, is there?’
She stiffened at my comment. ‘I prefer a cold bedroom,’ she said, but her tone told me that wasn’t entirely true.
The kitchen was more modern than the other two rooms, although I had only glanced at those. The huge Aga, however, was ancient, although clearly working much better than my boiler because the kitchen was as warm as toast.
‘How do you take your coffee?’ She pointed to a pine chair with a padded seat cushion, at a small circular, pine table.
‘Milk, no sugar, please.’
‘It’s only instant. I hope that’s okay.’
I sat down and glanced around the room. This was much cosier and a lot more welcoming. The kitchen was clearly the heart of this cottage.
‘That’s perfect, thanks. What is that heavenly smell?’
She turned and looked at me as if she wasn’t certain whether I was being sarcastic or genuine.
‘Cinnamon biscuits,’ she said a crease forming between her dark brows. ‘Erm. Would you like one? I’ve got a batch cooling, and another one in the oven.’
‘Oh yes, please. I adore cinnamon biscuits.’
‘Me too,’ she smiled.
She switched the kettle on and then picked up a pair of tongs from the counter and lifted a biscuit from the metal cooling rack beside the kettle, and transferred it to a plate. Then she added another, and another, and another.
I hoped they weren’t all for me. As much as I loved cinnamon biscuits, I had recently had a Full English breakfast. Mum believed every day should start with a Full English.
Adele placed the plate in the centre of the table and smiled again.
‘Help yourself.’
I took a bite and couldn’t believe it.
‘Oh my god, Adele!’ I exclaimed after I swallowed. ‘I’ve never tasted anything as delicious as this. I thought my own Christmas cookies were good but this makes mine pale into second place.’
The surprise on her face was genuine. And then she beamed at me.
‘Really? You … you’re not just saying that?’
‘Really,’ I confirmed. ‘These are unbelievably good. I know you said you worked in a bakery and café but I didn’t realise you did the baking.’
‘I don’t. I’m a waitress.’
‘A waitress? With baking skills like this? Do you make other things? Or are these your speciality?’
She shrugged. ‘I make lots of things. I love baking. It makes me happy.’ She smoothed down her apron with both hands and breathed in, pulling in her tummy just a fraction. ‘So does eating what I make. As you can no doubt see from the size of me.’
‘Size of you? There’s nothing wrong with the size of you.’
