You've Got My Number: Warm your heart this winter with this uplifting and deliciously romantic story!
Page 7
Tess knew she looked dreadful. She could feel the heat of embarrassment prickle her face at the thought of seeing him again. She hadn’t checked her make-up before she’d left home. Not since this morning in fact. And she was wearing these stupid cropped trousers with a healthy dollop of regrowth on her legs just for good measure. She lowered her head and prayed that she was far enough away from the bar not to be recognised. Please let their next meeting be after two hours showering, fake-tanning, plucking, filing, buffing, blow-drying, blending and shading.
She glanced up. It was him. Daniel was standing at the bar, tall, lean and magnetically good-looking. He was wearing loose jeans, an oatmeal T-shirt and a soft brown leather jacket – and God, he was looking back at her.
Tess looked down and pretended to text again. Her fingers were shaking as she silently repeated, please don’t come over, please don’t come over. Her heart was pounding.
‘Shit! Shit!’ she muttered at her mobile, still pretending to type a message.
‘Are you okay?’
Tess looked up and was horrified to see Daniel standing in front of her. She noticed that his eyes were the deepest moss green. The attraction was instant and undeniable. The bolt that ricocheted through her body was as real as the time she had touched Farmer Bill’s electric fence as a dare. His dark hair was pushed behind his ears framing his handsome face and high cheekbones. She saw a smudge of a pale scar on his temple, highlighted against his tanned face. His lips were slightly parted with a hint of a smile on them. They were moving. Tess blinked. His lips were moving. He was talking to her.
‘Wh— pardon?’ It occurred to her that he’d only ever seen her red-faced and flustered.
‘I said, it doesn’t sound like you’re very happy with someone.’
Tess remembered she’d been mumbling expletives in panic.
‘Nothing that a pint can’t put right,’ she replied, trying to sound unfazed. ‘I’m waiting for a girlfriend. She’s late.’
Great! Now she sounded like a possessive alcoholic lesbian who suffered from a mild dose of Tourette’s. This wasn’t going well.
That same smile flickered across his lips.
Two dogs walked towards Daniel and started sniffing the air. Whatever scent they’d located, it was slowly drawing them towards Tess’s ankle boots. She tucked her legs further under the table until she was leaning backwards.
‘Meet Goya and Gogh.’
‘You named them after artists,’ said Tess, pretending to stroke their heads when she was really pushing them away from her bristly legs.
‘Seemed appropriate at the time and now I can’t imagine them being called anything else. They like you.’
‘It might be my boots.’
‘Your boots?’
God, now he was bending down looking under the table. Tess cringed.
Daniel stood up straight again. He was tall and Tess was refusing to stand up, so her neck ached from straining her head backwards to talk to him.
He frowned. ‘Have we met?’ He was tilting his head to one side as if he was studying some strange amorphous sculpture in a museum.
Tess cringed. ‘I think I owe you some money.’
‘You do?’
‘At Jackson’s. I didn’t have any money for pasta.’
‘Ah! That’s it. Did the meal go well?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ she lied.
‘The reason I’ve disturbed you is that I’ve heard you’re a great cook. I’ve been asking around for someone local to cater for an event I’m holding in December. I’m hoping to exhibit some artwork. Joe told me that you’ve catered for some charity events here and that your food was delicious. He didn’t have your number or address so he’s just phoned me to let me know that you’re here tonight. Can I give you my number? You can ring me at a better time so we could discuss it.’
Tess took the charcoal-grey business card from him. It was embossed in silver with the words, Daniel Cavanagh. Artist. The Rookery. 0115 9407423.
At least he knew she was good at something, she thought. Maybe not her dress sense, shaving or keeping a tidy bag, but he knew she could cook.
‘Thank you. It sounds very interesting.’
‘Do you have a dog too?’ he asked.
‘A dog?’
‘You know, a small hairy animal with four legs.’
She smiled. ‘Funny. I just couldn’t understand why you asked.’
He leaned forwards and pulled several bits of hair and fluff from her jumper, showing them to her before dropping them on the floor.
She shivered at his touch and hoped he hadn’t noticed.
‘Dog hairs, I presume!’ he said. ‘I have double the problem with my two.’
‘No, I couldn’t find anything to wear and this had been living under my bed for a while.’
Daniel laughed, obviously mistaking her honesty for wit.
‘I’ve got a goldfish called Bob, though,’ said Tess.
‘A goldfish?’
‘You know, orange scales, a tail and with the added bonus that it doesn’t need walking.’
Daniel guffawed, making Tess grin. She was surprised that conversation with him was actually becoming quite easy. He was warm and open and made her feel at ease.
Someone called Daniel’s name from the bar, telling him that his drink was waiting.
‘It was good to meet you. Don’t forget to give me a call.’ He smiled, turned and walked towards the bar before calling over his shoulder. ‘Hope your girlfriend turns up.’
She watched him join a group of friends before sighing in to her glass.
Tess was still wound up when Holly arrived twenty-five minutes after their arranged time.
‘Where’ve you been? You know I hate sitting in a pub by myself.’
Her best friend sat down opposite her, placing two glasses of wine on the table.
‘Sorry, I couldn’t start the car. What’s the matter? You look a bit dazed.’
‘I’ve been talking to Daniel.’
‘What! The Daniel?’
Tess nodded, wide-eyed. ‘I can’t really remember what I said. Something about my goldfish.’
‘Bob?’
‘Yes. Mrs Campbell’s budgie would have made more sense than me. He must think I need therapy.’
Holly looked around the pub’s lounge. ‘Where is he now? What did he want? What did he say?’
‘He left after one drink, about five minutes ago.’
‘Damn.’
‘He wants me to cook for him.’
‘No! As his personal chef?’
She showed Holly his business card. ‘He wants me to cook at an exhibition he’s holding at The Rookery. He must have rented a room there.’
‘Can I be your sous chef?’ She smelt his business card, checking to see if any cologne lingered on it.
‘You’ve never helped me cook in your life.’
‘I have. You were short of eggs once and asked me to pick some up on the way round to see you. Please, Tess. You could introduce me. It’ll be my chance to meet him. We could be a foursome and go for a meal or dancing. It’ll be great.’
Tess’s smile uncurled. She had to stop fantasising about Daniel. She was with Blake. Sick Blake. She looked down at herself in her ridiculous clothes and then looked at her friend. Holly’s blonde bob had been crimped, her eye shadow was perfectly blended, her lips shone with pink lip gloss and she was wearing a pretty pink T-shirt edged in imitation crystal beads. Tess felt plain and silly in comparison. Perhaps she shouldn’t cook for him. The sight of him unsettled her and had awakened a passion in her that she thought had gone into hibernation years ago.
Holly suddenly appeared to notice Tess’s outfit. ‘What happened?’ she asked, peering under the table.
‘It was a mixture of cow pats, running out of washing tablets and Blake choosing this outfit for me.’
‘How is the patient?’
‘Amazingly resilient. Before he was diagnosed, I’d have to talk him out of dialling 999 if
he had a blister. He’s being incredibly brave. I still feel bad that I was horrid to him when he was suffering in silence.’
‘Silence! He never stops moaning.’
‘I mean, considering the enormity of his illness, he doesn’t moan that much.’
‘D’you think his treatment’s working?’
‘I think so but he doesn’t like to talk about his hospital visits. I think it’s his way of dealing with things. Anyway, I haven’t come out tonight to talk about him. Let’s order a bottle.’
Chapter Twelve
Although Tess was bored working at The Blue Olive delicatessen, she enjoyed working so close to Maddox Square. It was a busy fashionable part of town and had grown in popularity following a regeneration scheme. Over the past few years, boutiques and contemporary bars had moved into the area. The Square was a large stylish paved area, shared between several bars and restaurants. Four long cobbled streets all converged into the open space. Food and drinks were served on tables, each adorned with colourful umbrellas that protected diners from the temperamental elements. New apartments overlooked the bustling Square, swathed in huge advertising hoardings proclaiming, stylish apartments offering a luxurious city chic lifestyle. Several mature trees had escaped the demolition men and provided a natural canopy from the sun’s intense rays. Their branches also made perfect supports for hanging fairy lights in the evenings. The atmosphere it created, along with a glass of wine, helped many a romance blossom as the lights twinkled above the diners, like a fibre optic galaxy.
The Blue Olive stood a short distance down one of the cobbled streets and had become popular and successful through being in the right place at the right time. It had been a rundown little newsagent’s shop when Angelo Mancini had bought it and turned it into an Italian delicatessen.
Tess manoeuvred her grumbling Mini into a parking space a few roads away from work, locked her car and dropped her keys into her bag. Every morning as she walked from her car to the delicatessen, she’d stop and gaze into the window of her favourite teashop. One side was used as a dining area. The other side boasted bulging shelves that displayed the most amazing mouth-watering cakes. Tess imagined it was like looking into a bag of dolly mixtures. There were so many different colours, textures and shapes, no doubt all smelling so good that she didn’t know which one to drool over first. There were decorated cup cakes sitting in silver cases, sponges filled with lemon cream, chocolate cakes decorated with marshmallows and fruit cakes bursting with nuts and cherries. Chewy-centred meringues exploded with whipped cream, a coffee cake decorated with walnuts and icing drizzled down the sides of an orange cake. In her dreams, she would own a teashop like this, but as usual, her dreaming could last only a few minutes before she had to hurry to work.
Tess pushed the deli door, but it was locked. She peered through the window, her cupped hand resting on her forehead in order to block her reflection. Spotting Margaret behind the till, she tapped on the window. Her colleague looked up and smiled when she saw that it was Tess, and scurried over to unlock the door.
Margaret was an attractive lady in her late fifties. She worked three days a week, mainly to cover Tess and Holly’s days off. She was like Tess’s surrogate mother here in Nottingham, while her own mother lived miles away in Cornwall.
‘Morning, Tess. Sorry, I just locked the door while I was filling the till with change and notes. Holly’s not here yet.’
‘Guess what? They’ve got the lemon gateau in the teashop again.’
‘Back by popular demand, no doubt. I’ll treat us later.’
‘I’ll go and stick the kettle on. We’ve got ten minutes yet.’
‘Lovely.’
Tess wandered into the staff room, took off her coat and threw her bag onto a settee. She filled the kettle and plugged it in. The settees were strewn with old magazines so she busied herself by tidying up for a few minutes as the kettle bubbled into life. A lazy bluebottle buzzed around the bin and she could hear voices in the shop. Assuming Holly had arrived, she reached for a third cup. The irritating fly buzzed around her head again and then landed on the rim of a cup she was about to use.
She looked for a weapon. Choosing the latest copy of Heat magazine, Tess spun round, her eyes darting round the room in search of the fly. It had settled on the settee. With one quick swat, the fly was squashed onto Katie Price’s cleavage.
Tess heard a thud. She stopped and listened. Raised voices were coming from the shop. Were Margaret and Holly arguing? Tess hurried towards the staff room door, still clutching the magazine. She pushed it open and stopped in horror.
Two hooded men were leaning over the cash desk. One was threatening Margaret and the other was gripping the till and violently shaking it backwards and forwards, trying to dislodge it from its fixings. She noticed that the intruders were teenagers, long and lanky, wearing the latest high street fashion. The youths were shouting and Margaret was leaning against the wall with her hands covering her face.
Without thinking, Tess ran across the shop towards the men. All her pent-up frustrations of the past weeks were now focused on protecting Margaret and the shop’s money. She batted the youths around the head, shouting and swearing with each blow from her magazine. The teenagers appeared not only shocked that someone else was in the shop but were confused by a screaming woman with a rolled up weapon. They cowered against the onslaught, arms raised and looking at each other for unforthcoming instructions. One of them pushed Tess out of the way, enabling them both to run out of the shop and disappear across Maddox Square.
Margaret was sobbing. ‘I’m so stupid. I didn’t lock the door again after I let you in. They must have seen the bags of money on the counter.’
‘Don’t you dare blame yourself,’ said Tess. ‘Leaving a door unlocked isn’t a crime.’
Tess comforted Margaret with a hug. The door opened and they both jumped as Holly entered and saw their pale shocked faces.
‘Did I miss something?’
Fifteen minutes later, two policemen were taking statements and advising against getting physically involved with criminals. Apparently there had been a spate of opportunist attacks in the area over the last few weeks, and leaflets were being printed to inform all local shop owners. Not a lot could be done immediately but the till couldn’t be touched until someone had come and taken fingerprints. The police had some prints from a couple of other small shops that had been targeted and they wanted to see if they matched.
After the police had left, they were all feeling a little shaken and bewildered.
‘We can’t open the shop until the scene of crime chap has been,’ said Tess. ‘Why don’t you finish making the tea and I’ll go and buy us some of that lemon cake?’
This suggestion raised two smiles. Tess fetched her purse while Margaret sat down on the settee to recover. Holly made three strong teas and fetched her mobile phone.
A short time later Tess returned with a box containing three slices of lemon gateaux. She took three plates out of the cupboard and they all sat around the table, feeling a lot calmer.
‘I’ve telephoned Angelo to tell him what’s happened. His cleaner said he’s gone to visit family in Amalfi for a couple of weeks and that she’d call him,’ said Holly.
‘At least the little blighters didn’t get any money,’ said Margaret.
Tess was about to speak, when a loud knocking made them all look up.
‘It’ll be the fingerprint people. That was fast,’ Holly said, getting to her feet.
‘Don’t open it unless they show you I.D,’ Margaret warned.
Holly smiled at her. ‘We can’t make everyone show us their I.D. Those youths won’t come back now they know the police have been.’
Tess and Margaret finished their teas and were about to join Holly, when she came back in to the staff room.
‘They’re from the Evening Gazette.’
The woman was already removing the lens cap from her camera, while the man hovered by the door, pen poised for quotes.
For the next five minutes Jake scribbled rapidly, his tongue protruding from one side of his mouth as he wrote down what had happened. Margaret was embellishing the story, telling of Tess’s bravery and fight back against the hooded raiders with only a rolled up magazine as protection. Mortified, Tess was then asked to hold her Heat magazine in the air while grimacing for a photograph.
The next day, Tess popped out of the shop to buy the Evening Gazette from a nearby newsagent. The papers weren’t available to buy until after twelve, so she and Holly had been clock watching all morning and looking forward to reading about her fifteen minutes of fame. Margaret wasn’t at work that day so Holly urged her to hurry in case there was a rush of customers. Tess left her best friend jumping up and down and clapping her hands excitedly, like a wind-up toy.
The newsagent’s shop was across Maddox Square and behind Caffè Nero. Tess hurried past the tables where al fresco diners were sitting. The restaurants were filling up with people meeting friends and entertaining clients for lunch. Wafts of garlic smelt wonderful as she passed a group of women who were tucking into their dishes of penne pasta. She crossed the road and walked past the bustling coffee shop.
Inside the newsagent’s shop there was a long queue. She stood in line, becoming impatient as the minutes ticked by. She’d never been in the paper before, let alone for a heroic deed. Irritatingly, the queue had to wait while the cashier turned to shout through a hatch for some more change. Another customer was served and then it was Tess’s turn. She bought three copies of the local paper.
Despite struggling with the papers that were slipping and unfolding, Tess managed to catch a glimpse of her photograph. She stopped, her jaw dropping in disappointment. Her mind was a fog of humiliation.