Page 18 of A Recipe for Romance in Brambleton

‘Well, love, no-one could accuse you of packing light!’

Lauren smiled. ‘That’s exactly what I said.’

Gary laughed. ‘Great minds, eh, Lauren.’

‘Oh, give over, you two.’ Myriam shook her head. ‘Can I get you a cuppa before we set off again?’

‘No thanks, love. I’ll just use the loo, if you don’t mind.’

‘Of course.’

As Gary disappeared to the bathroom, Lauren felt her shoulders retreating, just a little, from her ears. She’d liked Gary when she was a child, and although she hadn’t seen him in years, he was friendly and reliable, and now he’d declared himself absolutely dotty about her mother. She turned back to Myriam.

‘You will call me as soon as you get on board?’

‘I promise.’ Myriam hugged her one more time.

Gary returned, and in a matter of minutes, he’d placed Myriam’s suitcase in the boot of his Kia Sportage, next to his own.

‘Well, we’d best get on the road if we’re going to arrive in plenty of time for check-in,’ he said. Then, turning to Lauren, he added, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll take very good care of her.’

‘I know you will.’ Lauren trusted this bluff, sensible northerner. He was solidly attractive, with sad Alsatian eyes in the manner of Andy Burnham, and the same dark hair running to grey. He was clearly potty about both her mother and her mother’s artwork. As Gary pulled away from the kerb outside the maisonette, Myriam waving to her as they departed, Lauren swallowed back anxious tears. She had plenty to do, and no time to dwell on goodbyes. Before she knew it, Myriam would be back, anyway. December always rushed by.

But as she wandered back through to open up the café, a little after eight thirty, the quiet of the house hit her like a brick wall. Myriam wasn’t a noisy person, and she spent most of her waking hours in the studio at the top of the house, but knowing she wasn’t there felt… odd. Lauren wasn’t ready to think about what life would be like without her mother, although in the early years of her recovery the prospect had been terrifyingly real.

17

Determined to push melancholy thoughts to the back of her mind, Lauren concentrated on getting Hope’s Café ready to open. Thankfully, the flow of customers was brisk in the first hour, and she didn’t have the chance to dwell on things. Although it was Saturday, and there was no school run to boost her coffers, it was a beautifully sunny winter’s day, and lots of people popped in to get their reusable cups filled before a trek around the lake, or on the way back for a restorative cup of coffee and slice of cake. Today, in honour of the closeness of Christmas, Lauren had baked an impressive red velvet sponge and decorated it with precisely cut-out fondant holly and ivy leaves. So far, it had been going down a storm with the clientele.

‘Do you ever bake these whole cakes just to sell?’ One of her regulars, a pretty blonde woman called Grace asked as she tucked into a gargantuan slice along with her latte. ‘You’d make an absolute killing if you did.’

Lauren shook her head. ‘I’m busy enough selling them in slices! I’m not sure I’d have the time to make extras to order.’

‘Shame,’ Grace replied. ‘Jessica’s birthday is coming up at the end of January and I’m desperate for someone local to bake a cake. I wouldn’t know one end of a spatula from the other!’

‘Well, if I hear of anyone, I’ll let you know.’

‘And let me know if you do decide to take a commission,’ Grace said. ‘I can’t get enough of your baking.’

Lauren blushed. ‘Thank you.’ She busied herself behind the counter. She never knew how to take a compliment. All the same, she wondered if Grace might not have a point. How hard could it be to bake a couple of extra cakes? She was doing it on Wednesdays and Fridays anyway and was forever putting spare sponges in the freezer when she made too many. Although not as artistic as her mother, she did enjoy putting the finishing touches on her own cake creations. Perhaps that would be something she could do to keep herself occupied in the evenings, at least until Myriam got back.

Pondering this, it wasn’t until a rather sharp voice intruded on her reverie that she snapped back to reality.

‘Excuse me?’

Lauren jumped and turned back from wiping the milk froth off the coffee machine. ‘Sorry. I was miles away.’

‘I could see that.’ Standing the other side of the counter was a somewhat stressed and dishevelled-looking Marc Hathaway.

Lauren plastered on a smile. ‘What can I get you?’ She noticed the dark rings around Marc’s eyes, and, despite his rather sharp tone, she felt a stab of sympathy for him.

‘A double espresso, please.’

‘To drink in or take out?’

‘Take out, please.’

‘Coming right up.’