Page 23

Normally, I love the cheerful little tinkle the bell above the shop door makes. Now, though, as the door swings shut behind me after my encounter with Ryan, it sounds like it’s mocking me.

Emmy’s at the counter ringing something up for Mrs Petrie, one of our regulars. Any other time I’d stop for a chat, but not today. I duck my head and go straight past the pair of them and through to the back, where I slump onto the stool beside Penny’s bed. She lifts her head.

“That man, Penny,” I tell her. “That man.”

And then my eyes start to sting.

Oh, no. Absolutely not. You are not crying over him, Briony Sinclair.

Penny stands and stretches. I scoop her up into my lap. “He called me entitled, Penny,” I say into her fur. “Entitled.” She offers me a conciliatory neck lick.

“And I said that he hurts people for a living.” I shut my eyes. “It didn’t go at all like I’d planned. My interactions with him never do.”

Mum told me to keep my distance. She said a simple nod was enough when I saw him. But I really didn’t think asking him to leave the space clear was unreasonable. I am trying to run a business here, and it makes it so much easier to load deliveries when the van is outside rather than halfway down the street.

Out front, Emmy and Mrs Petrie say their goodbyes, then the bell goes.

“So?” Emmy calls through. Her boots clomp across the shop floor. “What did your neighbour say about the parking sp⁠—”

She stops in the doorway, taking in the pair of us: me on the stool, Penny clamped against my chest. At least I’ve managed to keep the tears at bay. That’s something.

“What happened?” Emmy pulls the other stool over and perches on it. “Tell me everything.”

Penny, apparently satisfied that I’ve somebody else to unload on now, wriggles free, drops to the floor, and settles back onto her bed.

I tell Emmy all of it. Him refusing to budge. Me getting frustrated. Things escalating until Ryan was leaning against that stupid fancy car, calling me “princess”, and listing my whole life back at me. Private school. Big house. Mummy and Daddy bankrolling my life. And then me taking a swipe at his career because by that point I was angry and embarrassed.

“I cannot believe he called you entitled,” Emmy says when I’m finished. Well, mostly finished. I leave out Ryan’s response to “human cockfighting”. Repeating it would mean saying a word I do not use, and I’m not about to start now.

“You’re the least entitled person I know,” Emmy goes on. “He’s known you five minutes, and he’s making out like you’ve had things handed to you on a silver platter. You’re through that door at the crack of dawn, six days a week.”

“He wasn’t completely wrong, though, was he?” I rub at a spot of dried sap on my thumb. “I did go to a private school. I did grow up in a big house. And Mum and Dad did help me. The flat deposit, the start-up costs.”

“So? Parents help their kids out all the time. You’re the one who opened this place. You’re the one who keeps it open. It’s your hard graft.” She pauses. “And a wee bit of mine, to be fair.”

I give her a small smile at that, but then I think about what I said to him—how I judged him for his job—and my face goes hot all over again. What bugs me is that I don’t lose it at people. I’m normally very calm. But that man…he brings out the worst in me.

“I shouldn’t have compared what he does to cockfighting,” I admit.

“Oh no, you don’t.” Emmy wags a finger at me. “Don’t go feeling bad. You were provoked! And I’ll tell you something for nothing. He’ll not be driving about in that fancy car of his chewing over what he said to you. So why should you feel guilty?”

“Even so⁠—”

“Nope! If anybody should be having a think about their behaviour, it’s him. Because his offences are stacking up.” She counts them off on her fingers, her rings catching the light. “The party. The basket. Friday, when he called you privileged. And now this.”

“True, but⁠—”

The bell above the shop door tinkles. Emmy leans round the doorframe for a look, then says, “It’s Lizzie and Darren.”

Oh, shiitake mushrooms. Lizzie and Darren. The eighteenth of July. A hundred and forty guests, six bridesmaids, and the biggest job I have ever taken on. They booked me back in the autumn, and this is the catch-up, nine and a half weeks out, where we finalise colours, counts, and who’s carrying what.

I get to my feet and smooth both hands down my dungarees. “How do I look?”

“Good,” Emmy says. “Well, you’ve got a leaf in your hair, but apart from that, you look great.”

I check myself in the wee mirror we keep in the back. She’s right. That must have been stuck in my bun the whole time I was arguing with Ryan. Marvellous.

I pluck it out, tuck the worst of the curls back into place, and plaster on a smile. Then I step out to greet my clients.