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‘You said you were off cookies, so I thought you might like a healthier version? I baked them with you in mind.’
He was actually looking pleased with himself. Was he living in another universe? Well, the Martians can bloody have him. She had not gone off the real deal in favour of something that must taste of old socks.
‘They’re not terrible,’ Carrie mumbled through a mouthful.
They did look frustratingly cookie-like.
‘Mmm, fudgy,’ said the woman from the chippie.
Some people should stick to their pickled eggs and battered sausage. At least Delilah was pulling a face, even if she was reluctantly putting on a pair of sparkly antlers that one of the schoolteachers was handing out. What kind of teacher would choose fake reindeer over cosying up with a story, Noémi wondered. Was there no hope left?
‘One iced matcha latte protein shake,’ said Chai, arriving from the coffee van, holding a reusable cup with Shay emblazoned down the side.
Was nothing Shay-free on this street? Next, he’d be getting Lunch & Lattes selling beef jerky and bee pollen.
‘Shay suggested we move to reusable cups where possible to help the environment. I love the idea.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said one of Delilah’s regulars. ‘I always have my own mug in the pub.’
Noémi bristled. It was an annoyingly good argument that she couldn’t fault. But there was one thing that was a travesty. Avocado did not belong in a cookie. And as she saw Mrs Jingleman take one and offer Shay money for it, Noémi thought her usually calm head might explode.
She did the Christmas cookies around here. She offered the life-changing adventures – albeit from the safety of armchairs. And if nobody was going to bother to come to today’s book club, she had a list of ingredients to buy. And they did not include anything that looked or tasted like a squashed frog.
Suddenly feeling the cold, Noémi huffed a goodbye to the people on the street and stormed back into her shop. She might have heard Shay yelling something about comparing notes to avoid future date clashes, but she didn’t stop to listen. And she certainly didn’t pause to wonder whether Shay’s outlandish actions often propelled her to move in the right direction – because that kind of thinking was nonsense.
Updates to Noémi’s SOB List:
Walking tours are off the menu.
Christmas cookies are ON.
Chapter 22
Noémi hadn’t thought anything would get her back in this kitchen, cooking with chocolate. But here she was. And even though some might call it revenge baking, it did feel oh so sweet. It was like her recent dream, only better – because she got to beat out her frustrations as she hand-whisked butter with golden caster sugar, her arm now aching from being two years out of practice.
When Shay had disappeared down the road earlier that morning with his neat line of antler-bedecked goats and half of the county following him while he probably raved about the health benefits of avocado, Noémi had decided that enough was enough. If she was going to lose this shop to the exciting charms of real-life adventures and a man dressed as an orange vegetable, she was going down fighting – with everything she had.
She’d burst into Prisha’s to ask about the Mrs Claus outfit, which her friend had confirmed was coming along nicely. Back at the shop, she’d lined up the antique books on the coffee table, ready to look into their value and take a view. She’d raided her spare room for her old baking equipment. Then she’d marched up to the deli in the village to splurge on the finest ingredients – because she would not be outdone in the arena of seasonal cookies.
And if Noémi had ever wondered whether pairing books with decadent sweet treats could unlock something magical, she was about to find out. Shay Cassidy wasn’t the only one who could bring back more visitors to their street. She was going to give those coaches a reason to stop on Hazel View Avenue.
Now it was nearly closing time, but she hadn’t been able to wait. Daniel and Felix were manning the bookshop in case a miracle happened and the heavens rained down with customers. Her cosy back kitchen smelt deliciously of dark chocolate, with hints of nutty marzipan, inspired by her chat with Fantasy Man. To give her own twist to the flavour combination, she was adding a generous splash of crème de cassis. The blackcurrant liquor had been a favourite of her mother’s, usually added to Champagne for a Kir Royale cocktail – and the taste was rich and celebratory like this moment deserved.
She would decorate the tops of the cookies with a sprinkle of chopped almonds and a swirl of sweet blackcurrant jus. Noémi didn’t even know what she would do with them – she just knew they needed to be made. Maybe she could wave them outside her shop on a big silver platter, like the neighbour who had not become a good friend.
Though her muscles ached from whisking and stirring, her body and mind were in flow. As though her dusty baking memory had taken over, she moved around the kitchen like she was in a beautiful trance. Tasting and adjusting. Licking spoons and tossing them into the washing-up bowl. Toasting almonds and mushing marzipan. Oh, how she’d missed this. Her soul had almost reclaimed a missing piece. Before she knew it, she was sliding her first pre-chilled batch into the oven, the door closing with a satisfactory thud.
And that was when she heard it.
A whole lot of commotion coming from the shop – and it did not sound like a jolly downpour of customers. Noémi froze, willing her ears to tune in – though the next shout was loud.
‘You take Mrs Jingleman. I’ll tackle the fire.’
The fire? From the gravity in the male voice, he wasn’t talking about stoking the fireplace. Noémi dropped her oven gloves and ran out to the shop floor. The main room was smoky, and someone was pushing furniture aside. Her insides dropped as she saw flames bursting from the rug in front of the fireplace. Why was the fireguard not in place? And where was everyone, apart from this person, dressed in what? High-vis? Were her staff and any customers safe?
‘What’s going on?’ she yelped at the person’s back, the smoke still partially shrouding them.
Noémi began to cough.
