Spring at The Little Duck Pond Cafe

by Rosie Green

  From my downward dog position, I suddenly realise I’m no longer looking at a closed living room door.

  The door has somehow opened. And I’m staring at a pair of legs standing just inside the room.

  A pair of long muscular legs in blue jeans . . .

  Scrambling to my feet, I realise my leotard has slipped down at the front, revealing rather more bra and contents than I would like. Pulling myself together, quite literally, I find myself staring at a familiar face, as a heart-sinking sense of deja vu engulfs me.

  Zak Chamberlain?

  What the hell is he doing here?

  ‘We meet again.’ He takes in my outfit, one eyebrow raised, and I find myself flushing to the roots of my hair.

  ‘Um . . . hi.’

  Why on earth didn’t he ring the bell, instead of just barging in here?

  ‘I rang the bell,’ he says, as if he’s read my mind. ‘But I guessed from the racket that was coming from in here that you wouldn’t hear it.’ His mouth curves into a faint smile.

  ‘The racket?’ Surely my singing isn’t that bad?

  ‘The weird clanging noises?’

  ‘Oh.’ My already red face glows even hotter. I grab a towel off the radiator to hide the abundance of flesh on show. ‘That was – erm – bells chiming on my relaxation CD. I suppose that’s why I didn’t hear the doorbell.’

  Please God he didn’t hear the singing!

  He leans against the doorjamb and glances around the room. ‘She’s done a good job. It’s about time the place was rented out.’

  ‘Do you know Sylvia, then?’ I ask in surprise.

  ‘I do. Very well, as a matter of fact. She’s my aunt. Well, great-aunt, actually. I’m up from London for the weekend.’

  My head spins at this revelation. Zak Chamberlain is Sylvia’s great-nephew?

  He runs a hand through his dark mop of hair but only succeeds in ruffling it even more. His brown eyes look almost black today, etched as they are with dark smudges beneath. He looks exhausted, as if he hasn’t slept in weeks.

  ‘So how is she as a landlady?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh – um - perfect,’ I say truthfully, while at the same time thinking I’d better watch what I say, since Zak Chamberlain is family. ‘She insists breakfast is included in my rent. I tried to object but she won’t have it.’

  His expression softens. ‘That sounds like Auntie Sylvia. Far too generous for her own good sometimes. She told me someone called Ellie had rented out this flat and I assumed it must be you.’ He gives me a smile that transforms his tired face. ‘I’m sure you make the perfect tenant.’

  I eye him warily, trying to decide if he’s making fun of me.

  ‘Nice singing, by the way.’

  ‘Thank you. Yes, I like to think so.’ I play along, tongue firmly in cheek. ‘I’m not quite ready to launch myself on an adoring public, but you never know, with a bit more practice . . .’

  He nods solemnly. ‘Chaka Khan, eat your heart out.’

  ‘Exactly.’ I cross my feet at the ankles and clutch the towel around me, aware that it’s a fairly defensive posture but unable to do a thing about it. It’s not that Zak Chamberlain is to blame because all he’s doing is lounging there against the door frame, looking at me - but I feel weirdly naked in his presence. And it’s not just that I’m wearing mere scraps of flesh-hugging lycra. The weird feeling that he can actually see right into my mind is even more disturbing than him catching a glimpse of too much cleavage.

  ‘So – what can I do for you?’ I smile brightly. ‘Sylvia’s not here. Obviously.’

  ‘I’ve just come from her house and she wasn’t back.’ He runs a hand wearily over his face and stifles a huge yawn, as if he could quite easily lie down on the floor and fall instantly asleep. ‘She must have gone shopping.’

  Something clicks in my brain. ‘That’s Sylvia’s house! The one with the tree.’

  Zak nods. ‘Haven’t you been there?’ He frowns. ‘No, of course you haven’t. Sylvia’s not keen on anyone seeing inside the cottage. Even me.’ He twists his lips sadly. ‘You can probably guess why.’

  ‘Because it’s like the café?’ I had guessed, actually. Sylvia hasn’t yet invited me to the cottage and I had a feeling it might be because it’s also full of clutter.

  He nods. ‘Stacked to the rafters with her treasures. There’s not much room to move around.’

  We exchange a look of understanding.

  ‘Yes, so Sylvia’s not here,’ I say after a pause, wondering if he intends leaving any time soon. All I want to do right now is go and stand under a hot shower for a long time and relax. Because right at this moment, with Zak Chamberlain in the room, I feel the very opposite of chilled out. Although why I should feel so on edge, I have no idea. ‘Are you going back to London now?’

  He frowns. ‘Didn’t Sylvia tell you? I’m staying here this weekend.’ He points in the direction of the spare bedroom as my heart plummets down a lift shaft. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Er, no. No, of course not,’ I say faintly.

  ‘Great!’ He gives me a thumbs-up. ‘I’ll just go and unpack, then. Actually, I might have a shower first, if that’s okay with you?’

  ‘Yes, go ahead.’

  He leaves, and I stand there, staring at the closed door. Zak Chamberlain and I are going to be flatmates?

  Sharing a shower?

  I feel a funny little quiver deep inside at the thought of this. Red warning lights flash in my head. After Richard’s betrayal, I’m absolutely done with men – for a few decades at least.

  But didn’t Sylvia say ‘the kids’ were here for some kind of school reunion event? It’s probably happening tomorrow night, then Zak Chamberlain will presumably zoom back to London where he came from, leaving me in peace and quiet, with the run of the whole place again.

  I smile and shake my head at how panicky I felt. Sharing for the weekend will be fine and Zak will be gone before I know it.

  It’ll be a breeze . . .

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Abandoning my yoga, I make a healthy salad and try to settle down to watch some TV. But relaxing is easier said than done with my unexpected housemate in residence.

  I keep expecting him to appear after his shower, and as I chop red peppers and cucumber, I’m keeping one ear on the movements beyond the kitchen. But after the bathroom door opens, I hear the click of the other bedroom door and he doesn’t reappear.

  I’m just stretching out on the sofa, having decided Zak must be having an early night, when the door opens and he comes in. He’s dressed in well-worn jeans and sweatshirt and his feet are bare. His dark hair is slicked with moisture and a gorgeous smell that’s either shower gel or aftershave wafts into the room with him.

  ‘You look cosy,’ he says. ‘Anything good on TV?’

  ‘Um – not really.’ I sit up again. ‘I’m just about to watch some dodgy-sounding film.’ That you will hate because it’s a sentimental love story . . . please don’t tell me there’s football on the other channel!

  Richard always had to watch the football but he didn’t approve of having more than one TV in the house, so if there was anything I wanted to watch, I had to record it and watch it later.

  Folding my arms, I prepare for a battle over the remote control. I will no longer be a push-over. I’m watching my film, however bad it turns out to be!

  Zak glances around the room. ‘Mind if I confiscate that table and chair?’

  I glance in surprise at the dining alcove. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Great.’ Without another word, he hefts the small round table through to his room. I hear it hit the doorframe followed by a muffled expletive.

  After a moment, I get up and follow him with the chair. He’s standing at the window, staring out, lost in thought.

  I clear my throat and set down the chair.

  For a split second, as he turns, I catch a look of utter despair in those dark-shadowed eyes and my heart leaps in shock. But a second later, he reco
llects himself and thanks me for the chair.

  ‘Busy?’ I ask.

  He smiles grimly. ‘Trying to be. But when you’ve got a severe case of writer’s block, it’s un uphill battle.’

  ‘You’re a writer?’ I stare at him in surprise. ‘Sylvia never mentioned she had a famous author in the family.’

  He laughs ruefully. ‘I’m not exactly famous. My debut novel was “critically acclaimed” as they say, but it ended up selling the grand total of seven hundred and twenty-three copies.’

  ‘And that’s not good?’

  He shakes his head. ‘That’s bad. So now, I write the stuff that sells. Thrillers. Macho man saves the world, that kind of thing. People seem to like them.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Except I seem to have hit a brick wall.’ He frowns. ‘If I don’t finish this book in two weeks, my agent will have me hung, drawn and quartered.’

  ‘Really?’ I stare at him, horrified. I always thought agents were there to support you, not inflict bodily harm!

  He laughs. ‘Well, no. He’ll be his usual tolerant self but underneath it all, he probably does want to kill me. The book was due at the publishers last month. They’ve given me a month’s extension but I’m still struggling to come up with the goods.’

  ‘I must look you up on Amazon.’

  ‘I doubt you’d like the stuff I’m writing now.’

  ‘I’m sure I would,’ I say politely. I definitely wouldn’t.

  He shakes his head wearily.

  ‘Do you like it?’ I ask on impulse.

  ‘Sorry?’ He looks confused.

  ‘I mean, do you like writing the stuff you write?’

  His eyes slide off to the left as he thinks about this. When he looks back at me, there’s a trace of a smile on his face. ‘Do you know, Ellie, I don’t think I do.’

  Our eyes lock, and a funny little shiver runs through me when he says my name. Time seems to stand still.

  Then the noise of the adverts in the next room crashes into the moment and I realise I’ve been holding my breath.

  Zak frowns. ‘What was I saying?’

  ‘You don’t think you do – like what you write.’

  He gives a wry grin. ‘Maybe not, but it pays the bills so I’ve got no choice.’

  I glance at his laptop, ready and waiting on the table. ‘Right, well, I’ll leave you to get on.’

  He smiles at me then - a warm, enveloping smile that totally transforms his handsome face. My heart starts beating at ninety miles an hour, and I quickly make my escape.

  Trying to concentrate on the movie after that is quite a challenge. I can’t stop thinking about the look of deep despair on Zak’s face when he thought I wasn’t watching. Has writer’s block really got the power to devastate him like that? Or is there something else going on?

  Later, as I’m returning from the shower, wrapped in a towel with an armful of clothes and toiletries, I hear Zak on the phone in the next room. I’m about to swish into my own room to get dressed, when my anti-perspirant can falls out of my grasp, hits the wooden floor and rolls over to Zak’s door, clunking against it.

  Bugger!

  I quickly rescue it, and I’m about to make my escape when the door opens. He’s still on the phone and I hear him say, ‘Beth, you’re the most incredible woman I know. I couldn’t do any of this without you.’

  I hold up the rogue can and mouth, ‘Sorry!’

  He nods, his eyes travelling downwards and lingering there for a second, before he withdraws into the room again, closing the door; all the time murmuring down the phone to ‘Beth’.

  I glance down. Without me realising it, the towel has slipped alarmingly. Zak must have had quite an eyeful of bare skin. And more besides. I retreat to my own room and fall against the closed door, fanning myself with the edge of the towel, wondering why I’m feeling so unsettled.

  Who’s Beth?

  Zak’s girlfriend? His wife?

  My head is whirling.

  But as I dry myself off – rather too vigorously - I tell myself it’s absolutely none of my business who Zak Chamberlain thinks is the most incredible woman he knows . . .

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next day is Saturday, so I don’t have to go to the bakery.

  I’m up by eight, though, getting ready to drive over to see Mum.

  Zak has been up for hours already, presumably writing in his room. I heard him in the kitchen making coffee when it was still dark outside. I glanced at the clock. Twenty-past-five? I lay there for a long time, thinking about the conversation I had with him the night before. Eventually, I drifted off to sleep again.

  Now, the mouth-watering aroma of bacon is drifting through to my room. It’s deliciously tempting but something is stopping me going through there while Zak is crashing about in the kitchen. I’ve been thinking about what I said to him last night, and I really wish I hadn’t blurted out that ridiculous question. Are you happy writing what you write? I could see that it unsettled him. What on earth possessed me to ask a relative stranger such a provocative and personal question?

  I’m putting lipstick on at the mirror, wondering if I can get away with just calling out a goodbye on my way out, when there’s a rap on the door.

  Zak appears, wearing a slightly sheepish smile. ‘Fancy a bacon sandwich?’ His hair is ruffled but he looks better than he did last night. Less exhausted. Perhaps the writing is flowing now.

  ‘Er, no. But thanks for the offer.’

  He grins. ‘Is that iron will power or are you a vegetarian? There’s not many can resist the smell of bacon frying.’

  ‘True.’ His cheerfulness is infectious. ‘Oh, go on, then. Yes, I’d love one.’

  ‘Ketchup?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  He disappears, calling, ‘Come through when you’re ready.’

  ‘Okay.’ Last night was intense. This morning feels easier, as if he’s shrugged off some of his worries.

  Joining him in the kitchen, he hands me a plate and I bite into the crusty bread, smiling as the butter and bacon, with just a hint of tomato sauce, hit my taste buds, combining into a little bit of breakfast perfection. ‘I could get used to this.’

  Zak smiles but says nothing, and my cheeks go up in flames.

  Oh God, I hope he didn’t think I was suggesting . . . no, of course he didn’t! It was a purely innocent remark I made, and obviously, he realised that . . .

  I reach for a tea towel to fan my face, then I realise Zak is observing me and I throw it back down immediately. I’m not sure any man has ever flustered me quite this much before. Certainly not Richard.

  I grab my sandwich to hide behind, taking an enormous bite of it.

  Then my mobile rings. Obviously. Because why ever would it ring when I didn’t have the biggest mouthful of bacon sandwich in my mouth ever. Chewing rapidly and trying to swallow down a large lump of bread, I’m aware of Zak’s amused glance.

  It’s Sylvia on the phone and she sounds terrible. She thinks she has some kind of virus. ‘I’m lying on the sofa, hoping it’ll pass. Could you put up a notice in the café, Ellie, saying we’re closed for business today due to illness?’

  I tell her that’s no problem. But after I hang up, I start thinking. The ladies from the craft shop in the village sometimes come in after they close up on a Saturday lunchtime. And usually a few day-trippers drop by. It’s Sylvia’s busiest day, so why don’t I keep the café open for her?

  I tell Zak what I’m thinking and he nods approvingly, and murmurs, ‘As long as you don’t mind. I’d do it myself but last time I tried to work that coffee machine, there was frothed milk everywhere.’

  I smile. ‘There’s a knack to it.’

  ‘Perhaps you should give me a lesson.’

  There’s that hint of a smile again. The one that turns my knees to blancmange. I make my excuses and run for it.

  Before I go over to Sylvia’s to tell her my plan and collect the keys, I quickly call Mum to tell her I’ll be ov
er later than I thought. She’s totally fine about it, as I knew she would be – mainly because she’ll have completely forgotten me telling her yesterday that I’d be over at lunchtime today.

  ‘How lovely!’ she exclaims, when I tell her I’ll see her later. She sounds thrilled that I’ve phoned, as if she hasn’t seen me for months, and a tiny part of me dies inside.

  Walking over to Sylvia’s, I cross the village green, skirting the duck pond, remembering the day I first met Zak Chamberlain and ended up in the water.

  The man has a strange effect on me, that’s for sure. I feel clumsy when he’s around, a bit like an octopus, all extra arms and legs. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been starved of male company for a while! I only hope he leaves tomorrow because then I’ll be able to relax again and walk around the flat naked if I want to. Not that I make a habit of it. But it’s nice to know the option is there if I want to . . .

  I’m so distracted that, ironically, my foot catches on a tree root and I almost take another tumble into the duck pond. I spot the female mallard with the unusual blue-grey beak paddling solo nearby. I think I’ll call her Jessica.

  I smile to myself. Is it weird to feel a kinship with a duck?

  Arriving at the house, I marvel at how strange it is that Mum’s old school friend should have lived in this house all those years ago. And now it belongs to Sylvia!

  She answers the door in an old pink dressing gown, looking pale and fragile - not her usual self at all – and at first, her eyes seem a little glazed when I explain I’d like to open the café up for her.

  Light dawns. ‘How nice of you to offer, Ellie.’

  ‘It’s my pleasure.’

  ‘I’ll pay you, of course.’

  ‘No, you won’t. We’re friends. We help each other out.’

  ‘Well, yes, but . . .’

  ‘Look, you were a life-saver when I needed one. If you hadn’t suggested I move into the flat at a ridiculously low rent, I’d still be living round the corner from Richard and Thing and Bump.’ I shiver at the thought. ‘Seriously, Sylvia, this is the least I can do.’

  Come on in,’ she says. ‘But please ignore the mess. It’s a bit untidy today.’