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It’s another moment that reminds me of how much I love The Lake House Café, and how much I’ve achieved. The place had been a boarded-up eyesore when I took it on. People had said I was crazy to try to turn it around, but I’d always believed it could be restored to its former glory and become a welcoming resting-place for everyone who used the park. I hoped it would become somewhere people could enjoy refuelling before heading back out on their merry way. I’d been right. These days the café is the most popular spot in the park, perfect for people-watching and enjoying a naughty treat. All those doubters had been proved wrong a thousand times over, and I couldn’t be more proud.
The café’s filling up again now. A glut of morning joggers have completed their circuit of the woods and are rewarding themselves with well-deserved lattes, and a young couple walking their two near-identical golden retrievers have popped in for two large sausage sandwiches slathered in generous lashings of tangy brown sauce. The man, a Dermot O’ Leary lookalike with a devilish grin, is secretly feeding titbits to the dogs underneath the table whilst his partner hungrily wolfs her butty down, oblivious.
Then there’s the football mums buying cupcakes with lavish, brightly coloured fondant icing for their ravenous offspring. I make a mental note to put another batch in later, because at this rate they’re going to clear me out altogether. The chatter of the excitable children fills the building with joy, and their mucky boots cover the floor in a dusty trail of dried mud. Fern will have to do a quick mop round when it quietens down a bit.
“Excuse me?”
The interruption snaps me out of my thoughts.
“Oh!” I exclaim, blood rushing to both my brain and my cheeks as I’m face to face with the dishy football coach. I should have guessed it was him by the exotic accent: even those two words were laced with a hint of Italian that reminded me of my current celebrity crush, TV chef Gino D’Acampo. The thought of Gino only makes me blush all the more.
“I’m sorry,” I say, momentarily flustered, “I was miles away. What can I get you?”
I force myself to smile, hoping I look less worked up than I feel. My manic smile can be a bit much: I’m all teeth and gums.
“It’s so hard to choose,” he replies, his voice like a song. “Everything looks delicious.”
Each word causes an excitable flutter low in my stomach, reminiscent of the butterflies I used to get when Clint and I first got together. That seems a long time ago. It is a long time ago, more than half my life. Surely by my age I should be well past crushes that leave me clammy-palmed and stumbling for words? The days of blaming my hormones for my lustful desires are long gone, and surely I’m not menopausal yet? Although that might go some way to explaining the obsession I’ve had with Gino of late…
“The scones are fresh out of the oven,” I offer, “or the lemon drizzle cake is popular. It’s a bit of a favourite with my regulars.”
I immediately regret my choice of words, worrying my comment might come across as big-headed.
“Then I’ll trust their judgement,” he says with a smile. It’s a wide, affable smile over a jaunty, stubble-coated chin, and his dark eyes manage to be both intense and friendly all at once. “A slice of lemon cake and an orange juice please, and one of the cupcakes for Pepe.”
He turns, beckoning a small boy in a navy-blue tracksuit. The child is the spitting image of the man, a miniature version right down to the floppy almost-black hair and the large, lazy smile. The similarity is a timely reminder, a warning, and I immediately chide myself for allowing my far-fetched daydreams to get the better of me. Of course a man like this is married with a family. He’s way too attractive not to be. Plus he spends his Saturday mornings coaching other people’s children. A catch like that was never going to be single.
“Coming right up.”
I busy myself with the order, placing a gleaming glass filled with ice cubes on to the smooth, round tray before adding a chilled bottle of juice and two matching small, white side plates. Reaching for the tongs to select a cupcake, I carefully clasp the frilly yellow bun case between them before purposefully placing it in the very centre of one of the plates. Picking up the mock-marble-handled cake slice, I carefully nudge one of the more generous slices of lemon drizzle along the cake stand, jimmying it on to its side to transfer it to the plate.
“I can already smell the lemon,” he says as the cake balances precariously atop the cake slice. “I like it. It reminds me of home.”
I look up to offer a smile and politely ask where home is, but before I can say a word the cake has slid straight on to the counter. It crumbles sadly as I exclaim “Oh!”, hurriedly reaching for a serviette to tidy the mess, as though hiding the evidence will somehow undo my clumsy error.
Scooping the largest remnant of the cake into the white tissue paper, I exhale, feeling every inch an absolute idiot. But I don’t have chance to dwell on it as an olive-skinned hand skims my own.
I jolt back, acting on instinct. It’s as though a shock has been sent through my body by his fleeting touch.
“Let me help you.”
Pulling his hand towards him, he brushes the rogue crumbs into the palm of his other hand.
“I’m sorry,” I stutter nervously. “I’ll tidy the mess, then I’ll get you another slice.”
The little boy, Pepe, is wide-eyed at the mere thought of his cupcake.
“Why don’t you two sit down and I’ll bring it over to you?” I say, mortification charging through me.
“It’s fine,” the man insists, brushing his hands against the silky black material of his shorts. Stray crumbs fall to the floor. “We’re in no rush, we can wait.”
His eyes lock with mine and I nod graciously. I throw the cake-filled paper napkin into the bin before washing my hands in the small sink that lines the back wall. This small act gives me a moment to regain my composure. Heaven knows I need it. Inside I’m a mess: a jibbering, cake-dropping mess.
“Anything I can do here, Maggie?” asks Fern, her rounded cheeks aglow after cleaning the tables. She’s a delicate English rose with her creamy complexion, dark hair and natural blush, a real beauty. It’s just a shame Fern can’t see for herself how pretty she is, but that’s the reserve of the confident. Shy, retiring people rarely appreciate how beautiful they are.
“This gentleman’s waiting on a slice of lemon drizzle cake. I had one of my ditzy moments and managed to smash a slice to smithereens on the counter.” I bring the heel of my hand to my forehead. “If you could finish serving him whilst I go and check on what’s in the oven, please?”
Fern gives me a loaded look, one that shows she knows full well there’s nothing in the oven and that I’m scrabbling for an excuse – any excuse – to escape the shop floor after my faux pas; but she takes over anyway, managing to slice and serve the cake in one effortless manoeuvre.
I’m very nearly in the kitchen when the man’s voice calls out to me, polite and genuine. “Thank you, Maggie.”
Twisting on the spot until our eyes connect, I pause before speaking.
“Thank you…?” I say, my voice trailing off questioningly.
“Paolo,” he responds, his Italian accent stronger than ever. “My name is Paolo.”
I push the swing door open just a fraction, peeping cautiously through the gap. I don’t want to make a fool of myself yet again, but can’t resist sneaking one last look at Paolo and his son. They’re sat at the same table as the attractive young man with the pierced lip and dimples. I wonder how they know each other: they seem an unlikely friendship. Maybe it’s nothing more than both working in the park.
The little boy is scooping the buttercream from the top of his cupcake with his index finger before deliberately licking it off, whilst Paolo is cupping his glass of juice as he talks. They are proper man’s hands, big and protective, but even from here I can see it, the tell-tale gold band on the third finger of his left hand. It’s thick and glistening and screams ‘married’.
I close the door, disheartened. I refuse to allow myself to so much as daydream about a married man; it doesn’t feel right. Those trollops who had affairs with Clint all the while knowing I was sat at home looking after Josh and Kelly, well, I don’t want to be like them. What little froth of excitement I’d allowed myself to feel at this crush (or whatever it is) is starting to dissipate already. Even thinking about him is wrong if he’s not available, and the ring, not to mention Pepe, show that available is something he most definitely is not.
Fern appears from nowhere, making me jump.
“What are you doing?” Fern asks curiously, her brow furrowing as she examines my face.
“Nothing!” I hiss, my heart still racing from being unexpectedly disturbed. “And stop sneaking up on me!”
“I wasn’t sneaking.” She looks put out at the suggestion. “I came to see if there was any more gingerbread in the kitchen, that’s all. It’s selling fast today.”
“In the red tin in the cupboard. I made a double batch.”
“And how was the cake?” Fern asks innocently. Her large brown eyes are wider than ever with exaggerated virtue but there’s a knowing look on her face. Not quite a smirk – Fern isn’t the sort to smirk – but almost. “You were in such a rush to get away, I hope you got to it before it burnt.”
“All right, all right,” I say, throwing my hands up. I know when I’ve been rumbled. “There was no cake. I wanted the ground to swallow me up and escaping into the kitchen was the closest I could get to disappearing.”
“Thought as much,” Fern answers with a quiet triumph.
“But don’t you go getting any ideas,” I say sternly, waggling my index finger in warning, “and don’t you dare breathe a word either. He’s a married man. That in itself means I wouldn’t go near him with a bargepole, and you know how people around here love to gossip. I’ve been part of enough rumours to last a life time, so don’t go fuelling any more.”
“Hmmm,” Fern replies noncommittally. “But what if he wasn’t married? You must admit you’re attracted to him.”
“That’s neither here nor there: he’s a married man so there’s nothing to discuss. And that’s an end to it.”
Jutting out my chin, I take a deep breath to prepare myself before walking into the café. Stealing one quick, stealthy glance at the Italian’s table, I see the little boy high-fiving the young man with the sweeping blonde hair and pierced lip before stepping out on to the terrace area, following his stunningly attractive father like an obedient puppy.
Pearl (#ulink_aaf73ffa-9be6-5970-ac32-fbd5e7d108c1)
“Stop pulling, Mitzi!”
I should get that put on loop on a tape so I can play it whenever I need to. It seems to be all I’m saying at the moment.
I knew a puppy would be hard work, especially as I’m not exactly a spring chicken any more. It’s eighteen years since Alf and I bought Bluey, our darling little Westie. He’d been a bundle of ruffled white fur, scruffy and cuddly and revelling in attention. Even as a pup he’d played on his cuteness, pricking his ears up and peering longingly at us with his head jauntily angled until we’d give him just one more titbit or allow him to sit up on the sofa with us. He’d been the baby we’d never had, although not for want of trying. Heck, we’d tried morning, noon and night for years. But it wasn’t meant to be, and in the end we decided enough was enough. Bluey might not have been a child, but he was a dog with real personality and charm, one that everyone would fuss over when we walked him in the park. Even when he was older and his fur turned a more silvery tone he’d had this perfect mix of cheekiness and elegance that drew park-goers to him. And he’d had a lovely temperament, always eager to please. He’d been the apple of our eyes.
Mitzi, on the other hand, is an absolute minx. She’s only six months old so has the excuse of still being a puppy, but she’s a total tearaway. Who’d have thought a miniature dachshund would be able to do so much damage? My poor slippers look like they’ve been mauled by a wild animal. She might only stand an inch or so off the ground but she’s a demanding little thing and hasn’t yet learned how to take no for an answer. And that’s not to mention the constant straining against the lead every time we’re out on a walk. For such a small creature, Mitzi’s surprisingly strong-willed.
She turns to look at me, all dark, wide eyes and open mouth, tongue hanging out like a strip of uncooked bacon.
“You can give me that look all you like,” I say sternly. “You’re a terror, and well you know it.”
It’s a warm afternoon. The sunshine reflecting off the lake causes me to squint and the ducks are dipping their heads under the water to keep cool. Mitzi’s probably in need of a drink too. After we’ve done the lap of the lake we’ll pop past the café, Maggie’s got a bowl of water outside ready for any thirsty pooches who happen to be passing. She’s thought of the lot, that one, which probably explains why the café’s so popular.
Mitzi’s still dragging me around, pulling the lead taut as her little legs scurry along the winding pathway. A young boy on one of those bikes without pedals comes zooming past and her head whips around in a flash. She’s nosey like that, desperate to know what’s going on.
The little boy’s feet are pushing him along, first the right foot and then the left. He’s going at quite a pace. He’s like Fred Flintstone in his Stone Age car, feet whirring until he picks up speed, and his parents smile on proudly at his achievements.
There’s an older girl too, probably around eight, but I’m terrible at estimating the ages of children. She’s bouncing a tennis ball as she walks, the rhythmic thump, thump, thump getting ever nearer.
The tug on the lead is more determined now, Mitzi’s long, lean body straining to play with the ball.
“Mitzi!” I chide. “For goodness’ sake. Behave!”
But my words are too little and too late, because the round black handle of the lead is already out of my hand, trailing along the floor behind my bouncy pup.
I give chase as best as I can, but for a dog with such short legs Mitzi is deceptively fast. It must be that boundless youthful vivacity, something I myself am rapidly losing.
She’s already sniffing around the little girl’s ankles, hoping to get a chance to play with the fuzzy yellow ball, although the girl is holding it above her head at arm’s length. Mitzi thinks it’s all a game. Of course she does, everything’s a game to her, but I can see the girl’s nervous. Her body is rigid, her eyes large.
When I finally reach her, flustered and out of puff, I apologise profusely to the girl and her parents for Mitzi’s exuberance. “She doesn’t mean to scare you though, she just wants to play. In dog years she’s still a child, like you.”
The girl looks at me thoughtfully. “So she wants to be my friend?”
“That’s right,” I say. “She’s not really used to being near children, so she gets excited when she thinks she’s found someone new to play with.” I smile. “Especially someone with a ball.”
“Don’t you have any children?” The girl’s face crinkles up, as though that’s almost inconceivable.
“No,” I reply sadly. “There’s only me and Mitzi.”
I swallow down the lump of grief that lodges in my throat. It’s still so very raw, being alone.
I can’t believe I’m a widow. When I was young I thought widows were old women with walking sticks and purple rinses, people who lived in ‘rest homes’. I’d laughed at that, thinking retirement would be a rest compared to the endless slog of first school, and then, in later years, work. I never thought Alf would die on me aged fifty-nine, when we were still wearing jeans and trainers and had all our proverbial marbles. My hair’s not even grey yet, let alone purple. The box of dye I buy from the chemist each month sees to that and does a reasonable job, although being blonde helps too. The greys are less obvious; they blend in.
“She’s cute,” says the girl, crouching down and tentatively reaching forward to stroke Mitzi’s smooth, brown coat. Mitzi’s tail wags happily from side to side at the attention. “I’d like to be friends with her.”
“Well, maybe we’ll see you in the park again. We’re here a lot, me and Mitzi. We only live over there.”
I gesture in the general direction of my back garden, the same house Alf and I bought soon after getting married. We’d never be able to afford it now, prices have gone silly. It was a stretch even then, but we were both working so we’d decided to take it. The three-storey villa had a curb appeal that was too hard to resist. Everything about it was attractive, from the pointed gable that crowned the building to the climbing peace roses around the front door that reminded me of dreamy summer sunsets. The bay windows had been the clincher though, huge glass panes that flooded the front room with light.
The house’s proximity to the park had been a draw too, back when we’d envisaged having a family of our own. We’d imagined lazy days in the sunshine with a picnic of jam sandwiches and savoury eggs. Alf and our children kicking a ball about. Hunting for squirrels as we walked through the wooded area at the far side of the park. As it turned out, children were never meant to be for us, but the park remained a blessing. It was perfect for dog walking for starters, a real community hub where I’d bump into people I knew, and on the rare occasions I cover a shift at the café it’s only a five-minute walk back home. I like having the greenery to look at too. It’s nice to be close to nature.
“See you,” the girl calls, waving as she chases after her brother.
I wrap Mitzi’s lead tightly around my hand, winding it twice so there’s no chance of her running free again. She’s a little Houdini, escape artist extraordinaire.
I’m thankful for the shade of the tall firs that line the pathway; it’s slap-bang in the middle of the day and exceptionally warm. It’s a little tricky with Mitzi pulling at the lead in my hand, but I manage to shuffle the sleeves of my blouse up so my forearms are exposed. I’m instantly convinced I can feel the heat prickling against my skin, despite the branches overhead offering protection from the scorching rays.
“Pearl!”
The voice rings out from the other side of the hedge in front of me and I spy the familiar face peeping out from over the dark green leaves.
“Oh. Hello, Carrick.”
He’s better prepared for the weather than I am, a floppy brown sun hat perched on top of his head. His skin’s already looking tan, as though he’s been away on his holiday already, but he’s always that shade. It comes from working outside, I suppose.
“How’s the tearaway?” he asks with a wink, nodding in Mitzi’s direction.
The tearaway is desperate to keep walking rather than stop to chat, but I don’t want to be rude.
“Oh, she’s fine. Already managed to give me the slip once this morning though,” I admit, lowering myself to scoop her silky body up in my arms.
He throws back his head and laughs. “She’s not like your Bluey, is she? A real rascal, this one. I think she likes keeping you on your toes.”
“She does that all right,” I smile, as a wet doggy tongue laps at my cheek. “Even though she’s a pain I can’t imagine not having her. The house was too quiet with just me rattling around in it.”
“It must be strange,” he ponders. “Being on your lonesome after all those years.”
“It’s taking some adjusting to,” I admit. “And it’s harder still without Bluey. But I’m keeping myself busy, you know how it is.”
He probably didn’t. Carrick’s the perpetual bachelor boy, and he’s not had a lady friend for years.
Alf had spent more time with Carrick than I had over recent years. They’d both been in the skittles team and had shared games of darts at the pub of an evening. They weren’t as close as they’d been in their youth, when they’d both represented the local cricket club, but they’d still enjoyed a chat over a pint. Alf said Carrick would fob off anyone who asked why he didn’t have a woman by his side. He had wondered if Carrick might secretly be gay. I knew that wasn’t the case.
“Well, if you’re ever after a bit of company, I can always pop in for a cuppa after my shift?”
There’s something in his eyes, a look that’s hopeful. Maybe he’s as lonely as I am. He doesn’t even have a canine companion, as far as I know, and his nieces are all grown up now with lives of their own. I’d heard on the grapevine that the oldest one, Dina, was getting married soon.
“That’d be nice,” I say as I pop a wriggly Mitzi down on the pavement, and I realise I mean it. Since Alf died I’ve done very little in the way of entertaining, but it’s the kind of house that needs people in it. Maybe if Carrick came over I could get the good china out of the cupboards; it’s been stashed away unused for far too long. “I’ll check my diary.” He needn’t know I had nothing more exciting than dog walking scheduled.
Carrick beams as he readjusts his sunhat. “Let me know when best suits. I’ll look forward to it.”
Mitzi tugs impatiently at the lead, the cord rubbing uncomfortably against my hand as she does so. “I’m going to have to go. Madam here doesn’t want to stand around chatting.”
“See you soon,” Carrick says with a courteous nod.
I have just enough time to hold up my free hand in a wave as Mitzi takes me on a walk towards The Lake House Café, probably longing to lap at the water that’s in a shiny silver bowl near the doorway. Carrick’s right back to work, secateurs in hand to deadhead the gorgeous dusky pink rosebush.
“We’re having a guest come and visit us soon,” I say breathily to Mitzi, who’s charging on ahead. “So you’ll need to be on your best behaviour.”
