Page 51 of The Little Board Game Café

Perhaps she could go out and buy something. Would Oxfam have anything suitable? She’d need a smart outfit soon anyway for the job interviews she’d be attending in the near future; it was only a matter of time before the café went under. This afternoon with Peter wouldn’t change anything.

Emily sighed. There wasn’t time now. Not even to nip to Oxfam on the off-chance; Peter would be here in half an hour, chomping at the bit to get going. He was a stickler for punctuality.

She put on her navy pinafore as it was the smartest and paired it with a plain, long-sleeved white t-shirt and her red glass beads. The problem was shoes. The only smart shoes she had were the black stiletto heeled courts she’d worn to Businessman of the Year. She tried them on, but navy and black was obviously a no-go.

She went through to Kate’s room. It would have been easy if they took the same shoe size. Kate had several pairs that would have worked with the pinafore, but trying to squeeze her chunky size 7s into Kate’s narrow size 5s would, Emily thought, have been akin to the ugly sisters trying to shoehorn themselves into Cinderella’s glass slipper. The two women weren’t the same dress size either but maybe, just maybe, Kate might have something a little loose-fitting or with a lot of give that Emily might be able to squeeze into. Something that would work with black shoes.

She slid open the mirror door of Kate’s fancy fitted wardrobe and peered inside.

One ripped seam later, and Emily decided that she would have to wear the Hobbs dress with the toe-pinching black shoes.

Twenty minutes later – Peter was early as per – Emily tottered down the stairs.

He stood on the doorstep wearing the smart purple-striped shirt that Florence had bought him from Ted Baker the previous Christmas.

‘You have dressed up,’ he said, looking her up and down. Emily wasn’t sure if this was a compliment or not, and wished that the dress wasn’t quite so low cut, and a little bit longer too.

When she climbed into his BMW, the dress became even shorter. Conscious of how much thigh she was exposing and not wanting him to get the wrong idea – he was her ex after all – she spent the entire journey trying to pull it down a little. And it was a long journey.

‘Where on earth are we going?’ she said.

They’d been in the car for almost an hour, mostly on A roads.

‘You’ll see,’ said Peter, tapping the steering wheel.

After another ten minutes, Peter turned off down a track, passing a sign that said, ‘Ingle Estate. Pedigree Limousin Herd’. A farm shop after all. She should have opted for the navy pinafore.

The car park was full. They had to circle four times before they finally bagged a space that had just been vacated by a Mini. After a bit of manoeuvring, Peter finally managed to squeeze the BMW in, but Emily couldn’t open her door properly and had to slide over to his side of the car to get out. She must have put on weight during the journey. The dress felt tighter than before.

Peter led her through an arched gateway and into a courtyard surrounded by elegant Yorkshire stone buildings. In one corner, there was indeed a farm shop; there was also a pottery workshop, a quilting store and an art gallery, but no sign of a café.

‘Come on,’ said Peter, heading towards the art gallery.

In the window were three canvases, each depicting well-known features of the local countryside and a large sculpture of a young girl doing ballet.

He opened the door and stepped aside to let her go in.

The space inside was half art gallery, half café. If the Tate and Fortnum and Mason’s had a love child, this would be it. Pale wooden floors. Pristine white walls hung with a mixture of local landscapes and strange abstracts with bold colours and gold leaf. Large white circular tables with clear Perspex chairs.

The far wall was completely taken up by a glossy shelving unit. The contents were sparsely arranged: jars of harissa paste and pesto; fancy packets of pasta; bottles of extra virgin olive oil and aged balsamic vinegar.

‘Do you have a booking?’ said a woman in a white jumpsuit with a chunky gold chain around her neck.

Emily saw her clock the red Hobbs dress.

She was overdressed, thought Emily. Damn.

‘Peter Ridley,’ said Peter.

‘Of course, Mr Ridley,’ said the woman in the jumpsuit, and they followed her to one of the tables in the centre of the room.

Emily sat down on her Perspex chair and glanced at what the other customers were wearing. Crisp white shirts. Perfectly ironed. Obviously. Thin cashmere sweaters. Tailored trousers. One woman was wearing jeans, probably designer.

‘You said smart,’ she hissed at Peter. ‘I feel stupid now in this dress.’

‘I said smart, not evening wear.’

‘You know I don’t do smart.’