I want to snicker, she says it so flirtatiously. But Mr Needlepoint seems to be lapping it up.
‘So will you do it?’ she asks.
He smiles. ‘Sure. When is it?’
She gets up. ‘I’ve got some leaflets in my bag.’ Returning, she hands him one, then looks doubtfully at me. ‘Would you be interested?’ Her icy gaze slides over me then lingers on my arms and their distinct lack, in my short-sleeved top, of any obvious muscle definition.
I almost laugh out loud. ‘Er, I don’t think so.’ I mean, I’m all for charity fund-raising, but running when you don’t have to? Isn’t that a bit perverse? No, the only exercise I get these days is transporting tins of cake mix from the bench to the oven, and that’s quite enough for me, thank you very much!
Her eyes are full of disapproval so I lean closer and murmur in a confidential manner: ‘Mind you, I did get on the exercise bike the other day. For a whole forty-five minutes!’ I smile modestly. ‘Next time, though, I’m going to try making the pedals go round.’
There’s an awkward silence as Olivia stares at me in a bemused fashion, not getting the joke at all, and I feel an embarrassed heat washing up my neck. Thankfully Mr Needlepoint lets out a burst of laughter. At which point Olivia, presumably taking her cue from him, makes her mouth smile as if she’s terribly amused, too. Which she quite clearly isn’t.
‘But listen, Dawn, exercise is extremely important to overall fitness,’ she says, eyeballing me urgently, as if I’m in danger of keeling over from ill health at any second.
‘It’s Twilight. And I have got stamina,’ I tell her confidently.
‘Oh?’ She frowns, clearly thrown by this unexpected nugget.
‘Yes, tons of it.’ I once heard my dad telling a neighbour that while my running technique might not be the best, I did at least have great stamina. Admittedly, I was only seven at the time and the race in question was a modest egg and spoon. But for some reason, this idea stuck and has since become part of family folklore. (I imagine my descendants, years from now, being impressed to learn of their great-great-grandmother’s quite astonishing reserves of stamina.)
‘Right. Good.’ Olivia moves swiftly on. ‘And obviously clean eating is also absolutely vital to good health. Do you eat clean food?’
I’m a bit taken aback. What on earth is she suggesting? ‘Well, I always wash my strawberries.’
Theo laughs, obviously thinking I’m cracking another joke.
Olivia shakes her head. ‘No, no, no. I’m talking about a clean diet. No processed junk. Just fresh food and preferably raw, whenever possible. Actually, it’s not a diet, it’s a lifestyle. I never touch sugar these days. Or gluten. Or dairy. Ugh!’ She gives a little shiver of disgust. ‘Clean eating is absolutely the way forward for a healthy mind, body and soul. Wouldn’t you agree?’ She addresses Mr Needlepoint. Obviously. Because why would a chunky, doughnut-scoffing no-hoper like me have anything interesting to say on the matter?
Theo clears his throat. ‘Well, I’m not convinced cutting out whole food groups is necessarily a good idea, but you can’t go wrong with plenty of exercise and your five-a-day.’ He glances at me for confirmation.
Obligingly, I nod and say the first thing that comes into my head. ‘Five-a-day. Absolutely. Wouldn’t touch cake with a bargepole.’
There’s a flicker of approval in Olivia’s eyes – then she lights on my open notebook. ‘What’s this?’ Picking it up, she reads aloud from my list. ‘Sultana scones with raspberry jam and whipped cream (extra thick).’ She gazes at me in mild alarm then goes back to the list, reading each item in a tone of increasing disbelief. ‘Traditional butter cake, layered with white icing and sprinkled with hundreds and thousands. Buttery cherry and coconut cake. Gooey double chocolate fudge cake with a topping of milk chocolate ganache, decorated with chocolate buttons.’ She looks as if she’s about to faint.
Theo is trying not to grin but failing miserably. I wish this Olivia person would just bugger off. I’m feeling about three inches tall and very guilty, which is ridiculous. It’s a café menu, for goodness’ sake. Not what I’m planning to have for my dinner later.
‘Right, well, each to his own, I suppose.’ She drops the notebook as if it’s contaminated and stands up, brushing imaginary fluff from her impossibly neat rear end. ‘Personally, I always carry an emergency salad,’ she confides, reaching into her handbag with a satisfied smile. She draws out a small Tupperware box and snaps it open. ‘Celery anyone?’
It seems only polite to take some. ‘Nice.’ I nod, crunching my bite-sized stick. Actually, I’m not joking. It tastes deliciously fresh.
‘Organic,’ she says, offering the box to Theo, who declines with a polite smile.
As she leaves, she glances over her shoulder (obviously not at me) and purrs, ‘Do phone if you’ve any questions about the 10k. My number’s on the back of the leaflet.’
Theo assures her he certainly will and even gives her a cheerful little wink. I conclude he probably fancies her. And let’s face it, it would be a bit rude not to. Olivia is blonde, willowy slim and very pretty. She could be a model.
I bet Theo gets in touch with Olivia, 10k or not. I stare out of the window, wondering why I feel deflated.
The fields and houses rattle past and I think about Mum and Dad in London, facing the biggest hurdle of their lives.
‘The trouble with celery,’ murmurs Theo suddenly, ‘is that it’s ninety-five per cent water and one hundred per cent not pizza.’ I look over and he bestows a wink on me, too, which cheers me up no end.
He gets back to his adventures with crochet and I apply myself with renewed enthusiasm to expanding the list of mouth-watering carbs in my notebook.
But the gentle rocking of the train is dangerously soporific. The words in blue Biro keep blurring into one – ‘chocolate honeycomb slice’ merging with ‘buttery cherry and coconut cake’.
I haven’t slept properly for weeks. I’ve been waking monotonously regularly at some ghastly pre-dawn hour, my brain leaping instantly into worry mode. If I were to close my eyes now, I’d probably end up in Lake Heath, which is the end of the line. I need to stay awake.
In less than half an hour, I’ll be alighting at Hart’s End Station and walking back into the old family home, with all its familiar nooks and crannies and memories. But with one big difference.
There’ll be no Mum to fuss over me and put the kettle on. And no Dad to greet me with one of his big, comforting bear hugs.
A pang of grief hits me.
I wanted to be with them at my aunt’s house in London. That’s where they’re staying while Dad has the pioneering medical treatment that we desperately hope will improve his quality of life. (I try not to dwell on the very best scenario – that the treatment could actually halt the cancer in its tracks and send Dad into remission. I tell myself it would be enough just to have him back to his old, energetic self, able to go fishing and do his wood carving in the man-cave.)
My plan to open a café in Dad’s old shop premises means I can’t join them in London. Instead, I’m coming home to Hart’s End to put my last year in Manchester – training as a pastry chef – to good use.
The advantage of using Dad’s empty shop is that it already has planning permission for a café – so that’s the plan! Hopefully, if it goes well (and to be honest, that’s an ‘if’ the size of a small continent), I might be able to earn enough money to save my parents having to put Honey Cottage up for sale. It all sounds fairly logical in my calmer moments. But waking in the middle of the night, frantic over my family’s uncertain future, the idea just seems pie-in-the-sky ridiculous.
Do people really open cafés and make a living from them? I mean, clearly, they do. There are café owners all over the UK who can attest to it – but my worry is this: Am I deluding myself, imagining I can be one of them?
Honestly, I haven’t a clue.
But since I can’t think of a better idea, then I’m just going to have to go with it. Because Mum a
nd Dad have got quite enough to worry about – in just a few days, Dad starts his treatment – without thinking they’re going to lose their lovely home as well. They’ve lived at Honey Cottage all their married lives and it would break their hearts to leave. Plus, it’s always been a secret dream of mine to open a café and spend my days up to my elbows in flour.
It was my love of baking that led to me giving up my public relations job in London a year ago – at the age of thirty-one – and enrolling at catering college in Manchester, with the intention of becoming a pastry chef. And it’s also why I’ve now decided to change direction again and put those baking skills to practical use.
We will not lose the family home!
I lean back my head, my shoulders slumping, finally giving in to exhaustion. I’ll close my eyes for just five minutes …
*****
I’m woken by a giant pig snorting into a microphone.
What the … ?
My startled gaze falls on Theo. He’s still concentrating on his book but there’s a suspicious tension about his mouth. He’s trying not to smile.
Oh God, the great snuffling pig must have been me. How bloody mortifying.
Theo removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. Then he glances over and I notice they’re an incredible deep blue colour. Quite mesmerising. ‘I was just about to wake you up. We’re here.’ He nods outside as the train glides into Hart’s End and comes to a stop by the big, ornate station clock.
Eek!
I grab my notebook and pen, and stuff them into my handbag, along with all my other bits and pieces. To my surprise, Theo appears to be getting off at this stop, too. I follow him along the carriage, noticing Olivia also getting up to leave the train. Theo courteously ushers her out into the aisle in front of him and she says something I can’t quite catch and they exchange a smile. I feel like a peeping Tom, intruding on a private moment between them, and a feeling of irritation rises up from nowhere. I wish I was off this damned train and walking up the path to Honey Cottage!
I try to peer round Theo to catch sight of my backpack in the luggage rack at the end of the carriage, but he towers above me, his broad shoulders blocking the view, so I give up.
When I get to the rack, panic sets in because I can’t see my backpack at all. Then I realise that someone has dumped their enormous black suitcase on top of my modest-sized bag, squashing it underneath. So then, of course, I have to try and heave the massive monster off, which – ten sweaty seconds later – I’m realising just isn’t going to happen. It’s stuck. There’s probably a dead body in this bloody suitcase, it’s so immovable!
The train is going to leave any second!
I need my backpack!
Suddenly, two strong arms are moving me gently but firmly aside. Dazed, I watch as they proceed to haul the evil black suitcase off the top of the pile. Quickly, I grab my backpack and turn to find Theo sliding the case back onto the rack. Then he guides me firmly towards the doors, leaps down onto the platform, then half-pulls, half-carries me off the train in the nick of time, just as the electronic whistle announces the doors are closing.
As the train moves slowly off, I find myself staring up into Theo Steel’s deep blue eyes, still clasped to his powerful chest and trying – with limited success – to get my breathing under control.
‘Thank you,’ I gasp, and he lets go of me.
‘No problem.’ He smiles lazily. ‘Didn’t want you ending up in Lake Heath. It’s a long walk back.’
‘True.’ I turn to hoist the backpack onto my shoulders, which conveniently hides my blushes. ‘But didn’t you say you live in Lake Heath? Why get off the train one stop early?’
Backpack secured, we start walking towards the station exit. Olivia and her irritatingly pert bottom are sashaying along just a few yards ahead of us and I’m quite certain Theo Steel is taking full advantage of the view. This makes me feel unaccountably cross. Probably because I’m shattered after the long journey.
‘I live in Lake Heath but I work in Hart’s End,’ says Theo. ‘I’m a personal trainer at the sports centre there.’
‘Oh, right. Olivia will be impressed.’
He laughs. ‘But you’re not.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say that. Anyone who can run a marathon then go straight in to work afterwards deserves a medal in my book.’
He shrugs his big shoulders. ‘I’ve just got one client then I’m off home for a soak.’ He grins. ‘Five hours in a hot bath should see to the aching muscles.’
‘True.’ I do a little mini jog to keep up with his long stride, doing my very best not to think about Theo Steel stretched out in the bath. What’s wrong with me? I definitely need a lie-down! ‘Epsom salts are good in the bath. Or so I’ve heard, never having run a marathon.’
‘You should come along to the gym. I could put you through your paces.’
‘Er … ooh, I don’t think so. Me in a gym would be like a giraffe in Sainsbury’s. Just not normal.’
‘No?’
‘No. It’s all those mirrors. Ugh! I mean, I know what I look like. I don’t need my nose rubbed in it.’ I’m wittering on, but I can’t seem to help it.
‘You look all right to me.’
I glance up and Theo Steel is assessing me with an approving look on his face. I blush as red as a letterbox and can’t think of a thing to say. He’s just being kind, obviously. We walk along in silence for a moment.
The fact is, I have been in a gym. Hasn’t everyone? I joined one January along with about twenty-five thousand others determined to make this their year to adopt a healthier lifestyle. I went three times then gave up, mainly because it was winter and far too cold to venture outdoors after work. Which is a pretty pathetic reason, I know.
I give Theo a sneaky sidelong glance. I can’t imagine him letting the temperature put him off working out.
Finally, we catch up with Olivia, despite my very best efforts not to. (I’ve already stopped to rummage around for my ticket – which I knew was safely in my jeans pocket – then wasted more time checking that my backpack was zipped up properly.)
She dazzles Theo with a smile. ‘Don’t forget the 10k.’
He smiles back. ‘I won’t.’
She turns to me. ‘I could email you the clean diet sheet if you like? And send you some muscle-toning exercises.’
‘Er, no, you’re all right, thanks,’ I say perfectly calmly, while inside I’m literally growling.
Theo is walking along as if he hasn’t heard a thing.
‘Always remember,’ says Olivia, as if she’s addressing a classroom of five-year-olds, ‘that what you eat in private, you wear in public.’ She grips my upper arm and squeezes hard enough to make me yelp. Then she leans closer and says in a loud stage whisper, ‘Banish those bingo wings before they really take a hold, Dawn.’
‘Twilight,’ murmurs Theo and I swing round in surprise and gratitude.
‘Right, I’m off to do some courgette shopping,’ says Olivia. ‘I’ve just bought this incredibly clever machine that turns them into courgetti!’ She gives a mad laugh that would put Mary from Coronation Street in the shade. ‘Just like spaghetti but none of the horrible gluten. And it’s so tasty, you’d hardly know!’
She gives a cheery wave and disappears into the supermarket.
‘I’d know,’ I mutter darkly, and Theo Steel grins.
Chapter 2
Walking along the road from the station to Honey Cottage, after saying goodbye to Theo Steel, I’m feeling a confusion of mixed emotions.
On the one hand, this picturesque little village is the place I associate with all the love, happiness and support of growing up with two wonderful parents. I’m an only child and Mum had three miscarriages before she had me, so it was probably inevitable we’d be a really close-knit family unit.
But passing the schools and the shops, jarring memories from schooldays keep punching their way into my head, making me feel queasy.
Like the time Lucy Slater dragged me into the school
toilets one break time, with two of her mates, and told me they thought my hairstyle was weird so they were going to flush my head down the loo. I must have been about eight. They did it silently, I suppose thinking they might get caught if they made a noise. I can still recall Lucy’s hand forcing me down and the dirty water rushing up my nose and stinging my eyes. And the blind panic I felt, thinking I was going to be drowned. I threw up afterwards, over my shoes, and they all thought this was hilarious.
Usually, the marks didn’t show but this time, with my streaming hair and eyes, it must have been clear to the teachers that something punishable had gone on. But I knew that if I snitched on Lucy, the misery she inflicted would only get far, far worse, so I pretended I’d ducked under the tap for a bet.
The head was obviously concerned enough to phone my parents, though, because I remember when I got home, Mum wanted to know exactly what had happened. I managed to convince her and Dad it was all just a joke. I dreaded them finding out what was going on and marching down to the school, mistakenly thinking they were making life better for me, demanding the bullies be punished.
I thought going to the high school might change things – that Lucy Slater would find other people to pick on. But the sly digs and nasty remarks continued unabated, for a while at least.
And then a boy called Jason Findlay finally turned things around for me.
Jason was a boy in my year, who I’d worshipped from afar for a while, and I finally got talking to him in the library one day. We found we were both huge fans of The X-Files and when he told me he thought I looked like Gillian Anderson’s Scully, I was floating on air for days afterwards.
He found out about the bullying and he basically told Lucy and her mates to stop tormenting me. And, unbelievably, they did. I couldn’t understand it at the time. It seemed amazing that they’d bullied me for so long and then one stern word from Jason and their active dislike turned instantly to indifference.
It was only later that I realised Lucy had a crush on Jason herself and would have done anything he asked her to do.
Love Among the Treetops Page 2