‘Hi, you’re an early bird.’ She beams at me. ‘I’m Lorena. I suppose you’re wanting to bag the anti-gravity treadmill before anyone else!’
I give a nervous laugh. ‘Sounds like an instrument of torture if ever there was one.’
‘Have you tried it? No? Oh, it’s amazing. You can beat world records on it.’
‘Really?’
She nods. ‘You run at eighty per cent of your body weight, so you’re much lighter and therefore you can run faster.’
‘Right. But isn’t that cheating?’
Lorena bursts into peals of laughter at my witty jest (I actually wasn’t joking) and waves her hands in the air to dry her nails.
I clear my throat. ‘I just want to join the gym and use an – er – ordinary treadmill if possible. Do you have ordinary treadmills here?’
Another peal of laughter. ‘About a hundred and twenty.’ She looks at me kindly, as if I’m several dumb-bells short of a complete workout.
‘Oh. Great.’ I put my thumb up awkwardly. ‘Well, I just need the one.’ Honestly, I am so out of my depth here. I feel like this girl’s grandma even though we’re probably about the same age.
I must get myself some new workout gear. My outfit today is circa turn of the century, from the one and only other time I joined a gym (although I wisely left the matching sweatband at home in the bag). I’m going to stand out like the complete novice that I am.
I’m also terrified Theo Steel is going to walk in at any moment and think I’m stalking him …
‘I’ll book you in for a seduction,’ Lorena says.
Confused, I whip round to the door. Is Theo here?
Lorena runs a perfect nail down a column and looks up. ‘Induction at ten-fifteen with Gerry?’
Ah! I breathe more easily. An induction.
I actually just want to go home and forget this whole idea. But Lorena is already writing my name in the diary and handing me a membership form.
I go home and fill the time until ten-fifteen making a Bakewell tart cake, which smells heavenly baking in the oven. Not having had time for breakfast earlier, I end up ‘testing’ two large slices of the jammy, almond-cake lusciousness and deciding it should definitely feature on the café menu. I make a note to bake two more for the ‘tasting party’ I’m planning.
Just before my appointment with ‘Gerry’ at ten-fifteen, I brave the gym again, register at the desk with a girl called Charlene, and scuttle through to get changed into my sad gym gear.
Gerry turns out to be a guy of about twenty with a broad Yorkshire accent and a lovely self-deprecating sense of humour, which puts me immediately at my ease. He takes me on a tour of the machines and how they work, and I spend my time nodding and looking knowledgeable, pretending I’ve memorised his instructions perfectly. There’s not a sign of Theo Steel and I start to relax a bit and feel less awkward. Maybe it’s his day off.
Gerry starts me off on a treadmill, very slowly at first then increasing the speed, and actually, I’m doing fine. I was worried I’d collapse, breathless, after ten seconds, but my legendary stamina appears to be serving me well. Gerry leaves me on my own to attend to another novice and that’s when I get a bit too confident, pumping up the speed and almost falling off the back of the machine because my legs can’t go fast enough.
Feeling silly but relieved to still be in one piece, I glance around nervously. I’ve got a muscle-bound Trojan pounding a machine on each side of me, sweat raining down like two mini cloud-bursts, but they’re both so doggedly focused on getting in their mileage, they haven’t even registered my mishap.
I climb back on and do another mile, then decide that’s probably enough for my first day. Feeling rather proud of myself, I grab my towel to wipe my brow and exchange a smile with another novice. I’m not the only new girl – and soon, if I stick with it, I won’t actually be the new girl at all. I’ll show Lucy Slater that I’m more than capable of running for ten kilometres without stopping!
Feeling much better, I loop the towel round my neck, the way I’ve seen other people do, and swig down a cup of water at the drinks machine.
What on earth was I worried about? This is a breeze.
And Theo Steel was nowhere in sight!
Entering the changing room, all I’m thinking about is trying out one of those lovely power showers I spotted earlier, then going home to start painting the café walls with the pretty pale lilac paint I’ve chosen.
As I push confidently through the door, I’m rooting around in my bag for the locker key. So I’ve walked a fair way into the room before I finally look up and notice all is not as it should be.
Realisation engulfs me slowly, like treacle poured onto me from a height.
This – is – not – the – ladies’ – changing – room.
All the men turn in my direction, innocently displaying their nakedness.
I gulp. Suffering bed snakes!
I’m staring at them and they’re staring right back, frozen in time. We’re like some weird tableau in an edgy, fringe theatre production. One man has the presence of mind to whip a bag of crisps in front of his privates. (Sadly for him, his packet of Wotsits does a pretty good job of concealment.) At least three of the men are completely stark bollock naked.
But it’s the one with his foot up on the bench, pausing in the act of drying his thigh with one of the gym’s white towels, who turns my face the deepest shade of crimson.
Theo Steel.
Chapter 8
Plastering on a smile, I raise my hand in a general greeting.
‘Hi. Sorry. Got the wrong door. Sorry.’
They all just stare at me. Except Theo Steel, who’s grinning down at the floor.
I start backing apologetically out of the door, like I’m exiting a room with the Queen in it. ‘Nice to see you. Enjoy your day.’
Fleeing into the corridor, I blunder in completely the wrong direction, then have to double back to find the women’s changing-room door. Just as I’m charging past the scene of my nightmare, Theo emerges with a towel round his waist.
‘Whoa! Steady on.’ He grasps my arms as we collide and it flashes across my mind that if his towel should slip, my humiliation would be complete. ‘Do you know where you’re going now?’
I nod, pointing mutely along the corridor, my power of speech compromised by the experience of glimpsing more naked men in the last thirty seconds than I’ve seen in my entire life.
‘I’ve just finished with a client,’ he says. ‘Do you fancy meeting in five for a drink in the bar?’
I smile regretfully. ‘Bit too early for me.’
‘I meant a soft drink.’
‘Oh. Yes, of course.’
‘They do fresh juices. Very healthy.’
I swallow hard. With my hair plastered to my forehead and my décolletage an attractive shade of blotchy red, due to my recent exertions on the treadmill, I don’t think I’ve ever felt less like being sociable.
‘I’m sure they’d make you a juice with celery if you asked nicely.’ There’s a glint in Theo’s eye and I can’t help smiling back at his reference to Olivia and her little Tupperware box of celery sticks on the train.
I nod. ‘Okay.’
We part and I dash off, wondering if five minutes is enough time to shower, wash my hair and dry it, and reapply my make-up.
When I walk into the bar seventeen minutes later (a personal record), my hair is swishing softly round my shoulders, smelling all herby from the shampoo in the shower cubicle. The blotches on my chest have gone, and I’m glowing with a lovely sense of achievement at having run a couple of miles this morning.
Theo is sitting at a corner table, reading a newspaper, dressed in jeans and a pale green T-shirt. He throws the newspaper onto the table when he spots me. ‘I assume you’d rather skip the celery juice?’ He smiles, his deep blue eyes raking over me, making me glad I washed my hair.
I swallow. ‘You assumed right. Actually, fresh orange would be nice.’ I glance at the
selection of fruit piled up on the bar near the industrial-sized juicing machine.
He nods. ‘Back in a sec.’
My eyes follow him to the bar, although when he turns to point out the table to the bar person, I swiftly avert my gaze and snatch up a menu.
Once we’re settled, me with my deliciously cold orange juice and Theo with watermelon, I feel I have to apologise again for barging into the men’s changing room.
‘I wouldn’t worry,’ he assures me smoothly. ‘It happens all the time.’
‘Really?’
His blue eyes sparkle mischievously. ‘Actually, it never happens. I was just trying to make you feel better.’
I grin sheepishly. ‘Gee, thanks.’
He takes a long swallow of juice and sets down his glass. ‘So how are the plans for the café coming along? Am I invited to the opening ceremony?’
‘I’d like to open in June, as near to the start of the tourist season as possible. But I hadn’t thought about a special opening ceremony. That’s an excellent idea.’
He gives a modest nod. ‘I’ll send you my bill.’
‘Why didn’t I think of it, though? I could invite the village to a ribbon-cutting ceremony with a free glass of Prosecco for everyone and a competition to win a prize.’
‘What’s the prize?’
I frown, thinking. ‘How about a complimentary slice of cake every week for a year?’
He nods. ‘I’d enter. I assume you’re a good baker.’
‘My friends say I am.’
‘Sounds like I might become a regular at your café, then. What’s it called?’
‘The Twilight Café.’
He nods approvingly. ‘Perfect.’
I flush with pleasure at the compliment.
‘You’re based in that shop that used to sell all sorts of country goods, aren’t you?’
I smile, surprised. ‘You’ve been doing your homework. Yes, it used to be my dad’s shop.’
‘Has he retired, then?’
I shake my head. ‘He’s not been well.’ I’m about to leave it at that, but something about Theo Steel’s sympathetic expression makes me continue, and soon, I’m telling him the whole story about Dad’s cancer and how this experimental trial might be his only chance of survival.
‘That’s really tough.’ He shakes his head sadly when I’ve finished. ‘And I suppose the pressure to succeed with the café is so much greater when you’re doing it for the people you love.’
I nod. ‘Got it in one.’ My throat aches with emotion but I swallow hard and cast around for something upbeat to talk about. The last thing I want to do is to break down in front of Theo when I hardly know the man. ‘So, have you always been really creative?’ I ask, remembering him on the train, studying the book on crochet so intently. ‘I could probably knit a scarf but that’s about it by way of making things. Apart from baking, of course.’
He’s looking at me oddly, clearly not having a clue what I’m talking about.
‘The crocheting? I was saying to my friend, Paloma, how unusual I thought it was for a man to be so – er – creative, and she suggested you might make some placemats for the café.’ When he still looks nonplussed, I shrug and smile. ‘She was joking.’
‘Oh, the book?’ Light dawns.
‘Yes. Adventures with Crochet.’
He grins. ‘I don’t crochet. At least, I probably could now, but it wouldn’t be my – um – pastime of choice, shall we say?’
‘So why read it?’
‘I translated it. From Spanish into English. It was my first job as a freelance translator and I’d just had some copies delivered that day, fresh from the printers.’
‘Oh, wow. How exciting.’
He laughs. ‘Actually, the subject matter was dull as ditchwater. But the publisher seemed pleased with my work. And beggars can’t be choosers. If I want to make a real go of a career as a translator, I need to start somewhere.’
‘Do you know lots of languages, then?’
‘I studied Spanish, French and Italian at university with the idea of doing something with languages. But I trained in fitness in order to pay my way through university, and I ended up falling back on that when my plans didn’t pan out the way I hoped. And I’m still a personal trainer to this day. I like it, though. It suits me. It’s good being my own boss.’
‘Having your own business can be scary, though. You’ve got to be successful otherwise you don’t get paid.’
‘I don’t mind the pressure. Or putting in the hours. In fact, I thrive on it.’
‘Paying your own way through university is such an achievement.’ I raise my glass to him. ‘Most people rely on their family to fund them.’
A shadow passes over his face. ‘I don’t have family,’ he says, matter-of-factly, and my heart pings with shock at the words.
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’ Does he mean he’s estranged from his family? I hope so because the alternative is awful …
He’s frowning down at his hands. Then someone laughs loudly at the bar and he looks up. ‘It’s fine. Not having anyone else to please can be a real advantage. And I work better alone, in all areas of life. If you cock up, the only person you’ve let down is yourself.’ There’s a slight bitterness in his tone and when he smiles, it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
‘Right.’ I study him thoughtfully as he swallows down the rest of his watermelon juice.
‘So, has this sudden desire to get fitter anything to do with the 10k Olivia’s hell-bent on me doing?’ he asks, setting his glass down.
I grimace. ‘It has, actually. I went to a pretty horrendous class reunion the other night and found myself agreeing to take part.’
‘So are you doing the boot camp training a week on Sunday?’
I groan. ‘Can’t think of anything worse, to be honest. But maybe I will. I quite enjoyed my run on the treadmill today.’
‘Olivia says she’s persuaded about fifty people to come along to her friend’s training session.’
So he’s been in touch with Olivia, then. Either she must have tracked him down at the gym or he phoned her on the number she gave him on the back of the leaflet that time.
I nod. ‘Olivia’s best friends with the organiser.’ I look down and study my nails. ‘Lucy Slater.’
‘You’re not keen on this Lucy Slater?’
I look up at him, surprised he could tell that from my face. ‘No. I mean, well, she’s—’ I glance down at my hands again. ‘She bullied me at school, that’s all.’
‘Then I’m not surprised you don’t like her,’ he says. ‘Life can be pretty bleak anyway, without people like that making it worse.’ The edge to his tone is back.
I nod, not knowing what else to say.
‘Anyway, can I tempt you to another?’ He points at my empty glass. ‘Celery juice with extra celery on the side?’ The shadow has lifted from his face. He smiles at me, eyes crinkling attractively at the corners.
But I can’t help wondering what private torment Theo Steel is concealing from the world …
Chapter 9
‘You know, what you really need is a USP,’ murmurs Paloma thoughtfully. She stops painting and leans back on the ladder to admire her handiwork. ‘Lovely colour, this Hillside Heather.’
‘USP?’ I glance up from where I’m painstakingly sanding down an ancient brown table in Dad’s old shop. ‘Is that some kind of new-fangled coffee machine? Because I can’t afford that!’
Paloma knows I’m joking and normally, she’d laugh. But she carries on painting as if she hasn’t even heard what I said.
I glance at her, puzzled. Perhaps she’s thinking of her latest graphic design project.
It’s over a week since my unexpected encounter with a naked-but-for-a-towel Theo Steel, and although I’ve pounded the treadmill at the gym a few times since then, our paths haven’t crossed again. Not that I’ve been looking out for him. I’ve had other far more important things on my mind – namely making list upon list and carrying out the t
housand and one tasks that are apparently necessary to get a café up and running.
After much deliberation, and getting the opinion of practically everyone I’ve met – from our regular postman to the woman I sat next to on the bus home from a shopping trip to Chichester – I’ve chosen 1st June as the café’s grand opening day.
I’ve already spent a worrying amount of my savings on paint, cutlery and gorgeous flowery china cups, saucers and plates, transforming Dad’s premises into The Twilight Café.
‘A Unique Selling Point,’ I murmur. ‘Something that makes my business different from the rest. I know! It’s the only place you can buy coffee in the village, now that the ice-cream parlour has closed down!’
Paloma turns with a vague, slightly puzzled look.
I frown. ‘Are you all right? You seem … distracted.’
‘Do I?’ She looks surprised. ‘No, I’m fine,’ she says and turns back to her painting.
Distracted or not, I’m so grateful for Paloma’s help with the café.
She’s full of great ideas and common sense, and because she tends to do her graphic design work in the late afternoons and well into the night, she’s got into the habit of coming over to Honey Cottage at around noon most days. As a result, my plans for the café – less than two weeks after arriving in Hart’s End – are starting to take shape. Which is just as well, since I’m planning to open in ten days’ time!
We spent a hilarious afternoon trawling round what felt like all the second-hand shops in Sussex with Paloma driving the big old estate car she inherited from her mum, Linda. We returned with some old tables and chairs, and boxes of crockery, including lots of lovely old-fashioned china teacups and saucers: mostly mismatching, of course, but I’m hoping that will add to the charm of the place.
The furniture was all in a pretty bad state, but Paloma assured me we could work wonders turning it into ‘shabby chic’ designer pieces. I laughed and said there was surely a limit to what you could do with a pot of paint and a bit of sandpaper, but she only smiled smugly and murmured, ‘Oh, ye of little faith.’
Sadly, despite our best efforts, the three small tables and six rickety chairs still look as if they were bought in a junk shop. Even Paloma was forced to admit that – especially after she sat down too enthusiastically on a chair and one of the legs fell off. I’m trying to stay calm at the thought that in just over a week, I’ll be selling cappuccinos and lattes from our splendid but scary-looking industrial-sized coffee machine (bought second-hand on-line from a former café owner in Brighton), while my customers will have nowhere to sit.
Love Among the Treetops Page 6