He shakes his head. ‘Take me there.’ To my surprise, he leans closer and whispers, ‘I want to talk to you.’ He glances back at his wife, who has her back to us. She’s engrossed in the sports romance books on Miranda’s latest display table, which bears the signRomances with hot, athletic people.
I’m sensing she isn’t aware of what he’s doing.
‘Hurry, Nelly, I don’t have much time. There are things I want to say.’
I blink at him, and he gestures for me to follow.
‘Come on,’ he whispers.
Reluctantly, I step out from behind the counter and, without looking where I’m going, fall over one of Rosie Flint’s charity bags. It tips over and spews its contents, a load of old books. ‘Sorry, Rosie, I’ll get them for you.’
I bend down to pick them up, and so does Sam.
‘I still find you attractive, Nelly,’ he whispers. ‘I’d love to see you… sometime.’
‘You’re married,’ I hiss.
He grins. ‘That’s never stopped anyone.’
I look at him, and something shifts inside me. I think about how much time I’ve wasted daydreaming about him. He will always be a cheat.
This is a helpful reminder to me that once you’re married, your other half can still think about straying while you have your head in a spicy romance about two horny ice skaters.
I’m about to tell him where he can shove his idea when I catch sight of an old cookbook within Rosie’s books. My chest tightens as I see the name of Barbara Plum on the spine. I grab it, clutching it to myself, my fingers curling around the worn cover. This is a miracle. I had almost given up hope. I can smell the vanilla-scented pages and faint trace of something baked with cinnamon long ago. Mr Ellis will be overjoyed. The thought of seeing him happy makes my heart swell.
Sam is watching me, with a confused look.
He’s waiting for me to say something.
‘Sam, go back to your wife. I’m not interested in married men.’
I stand up and smile at Rosie. ‘Are you giving this book to charity?’
She nods. ‘It was his mother’s favourite. Why do you ask?’
Mr Ellis’s face appears in my mind. ‘I know someone who would love this.’
‘Be my guest,’ says Rosie. ‘I hope it gets a new home.’
Sam and his wife leave soon after, and I know he won’t be in here again. ‘Goodbye, Sam,’ I whisper, and to my surprise, there’s no ache inside my chest.
29
The cover ofBarbara Plum’s Family Cookbookis a bit faded now. It was once a bright orange and avocado green, but its tones have softened with age. Barbara Plum’s image is front and centre. She’s in her late thirties with a feathered blonde bob and oversized tortoiseshell glasses. I like how she’s smiling knowingly at the reader as if she’s about to tell them a secret. She’s standing in her avocado-green kitchen with copper pots hanging behind her, and she’s holding what looks like a tasty quiche that she’s just made.
Leaning against the counter, I flick through the pages, which have softened at the edges, curling slightly. The once crisp white paper has mellowed into a warm vanilla. On each page, there are faint freckles of splattered gravy, coffee, or casserole. The spine of the book has loosened from years of being laid flat on a flour-dusted surface.
An idea pings into my mind. Mr Ellis sounded unwell, and he doesn’t need to trek outside tomorrow to buy the ingredients for Barbara’s chicken casserole. I’m going to drop off the book and the handkerchief, but before that, I’ll buy the ingredients. Tomorrow, when he feels better, he can make the casserole, and he won’t need to go to the shop because everything he needs will be in his fridge.
I’m at the self-serve till in the mini supermarket when I hear a familiar voice. ‘Hello, Nelly.’ I look up to see Oliver. ‘Are you cooking tonight?’ he asks, surveying my shopping. He looks so handsome. His hair is tousled, his dark eyes are shining, his white shirt is untucked, and the top two buttons are undone, which means I can see the top of his tanned chest. My heartbeat has quickened. I need to suppress these thoughts.
‘I’m going to do a good turn for someone.’
‘Tell me more.’
I explain about Mr Ellis, the cookbook, the lost handkerchief, and my idea.
To my surprise, Oliver points to the book, which is tucked under my arm. ‘Can I help you with this good turn?’
