Page 29 of Love Letters on Hazel Lane

‘I’m in that direction,’ she said, pointing towards Hebbleswick. ‘Only five minutes away.’

‘Sure, fine. Darling, it’s been wonderful. I can’t wait for Friday.’

He kissed her on both cheeks then got into the car. Jo watched, dumbfounded, as he started up the engine. Loud music began to blare from the car’s stereo as he reversed out of the disabled space. He gave her a cheery wave then drove away, swinging left out of the car park. She watched his red rear-view lights disappearing.

How was she supposed to get home? She’d have to walk, a thought she didn’t relish at this time of night. She knew exactly what Gemma would have to say about this. If she told her. ‘Well, you shouldn’t see him again.’

Although… well, it was her own fault. Perhaps when she’d said she lived five minutes away, he’d thought she meant five minutes’ walk. Yes, that would make sense.

And he had offered her a lift to Halifax; she should have accepted, then caught a train home. Or been more explicit. She could have asked him to run her home.

But she hadn’t. It was her own fault.

Now was there a bus stop somewhere round here?

13

The bus stop was, it turned out, a hundred metres away from the pub, but there was no timetable and no-one else was waiting, so Jo had no idea if a bus would actually arrive. Still, she didn’t relish the thought of a three-mile walk back to Hebbleswick, so she’d give it ten minutes. Or maybe quarter of an hour.

She had just balanced herself on the thin bit of plastic that purported to be a seat – clearly not meant for anyone with a normal-sized arse – when a poster caught her eye. The lettering was small and she couldn’t read it from where she was, but it appeared to be written in Scrabble tiles. She stood up to get a closer look.

The tiles spelled out SCRABBLE CLUB, with the word SCRABBLE written horizontally, and the word CLUB written vertically, the two words intersecting and sharing the letter C. Underneath, written in normal typeface, were the words:

ST CUTHBERT’S CHURCH HALL, HEBBLESWICK. EVERY FRIDAY. 7.30 P.M.

Scrabble club? There was a Scrabble club in Hebbleswick? And she’d lived there – how many weeks was it now? – and not discovered this?

She had to go. This week.

Although damn. Friday was her date with Tarquin, and much as she loved Scrabble, she couldn’t cancel that. The week after then.

She was still gazing at the poster when the bus arrived and its doors opened, taking her by surprise.

‘Hebbleswick, please,’ she said, stepping on board. She swiped her card on the reader, and practically skipped to down the aisle to a seat.

A date with a gorgeous man and the discovery that the little town she’d decided to call home had its very own Scrabble club. Things were definitely looking up.

*

‘Sounds promising,’ said Kate on Tuesday evening.

‘It’s early days,’ said Jo. ‘I’m amazed he wanted a first date, let alone a second. I’d have thought every woman in that room would have ticked his box.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Oh no?’ Jo decided she wouldn’t let on that she’d stolen a glance at Kate’s paper.

‘I’m sure he’s lovely but those clothes… bit flash.’

‘I like the clothes. They’re quirky.’

Kate harrumphed. ‘That’s one word for them. He’s a good-looking guy and he sounds charming. Well, I suggest that if you really like him, you pull out all the stops. Be flirty in your text messages. And ask him to pick you up from yours and make sure the place smells of cinnamon when he arrives. I’m sure I read that somewhere.’

‘Cinnamon?’

‘Men associate the scent of cinnamon with love.’

‘How do I do that? One of those plug-in things?’