paper carrier bag with string handles. The bread was still warm and it took all my willpower not to start nibbling away at it as I walked along to the proper old-fashioned grocer’s where they had a wonderful coffee grinder and the smell filled the air.
It was market day, so I spent a happy hour wandering round the stalls, buying crisp local apples, greengages, knobbly carrots and huge creamy parsnips. ‘Try some,’ said the man selling chutneys, offering me a plate of crackers and a spoon to dip into the jars, and I finally settled on Hot Plum Relish and a jar of Malay vegetable pickle, both so good that they hardly needed meat or cheese. I bought homemade savoury wafers and some oat biscuits from a stall called ‘Aunty Annie’s’ and I heard someone actually say, ‘How do, Annie?’ And I was sure she was an aunty, too. We must do another market feature on The Foodie , I decided, it was such a brilliant way to shop.
Standing back from the cobbled marketplace there was a small but very stylish department store; one window was filled almost entirely with scarves I instantly recognised as Becca’s. They were really very good—bright pinksand purples, scarlets and blues, full of style and fun—and she should be charging a lot more than forty quid for them. If she sold them in London, she could make a fortune.
But the best thing of all was that I could get a phone signal here too. I sat squashed into a seat at a crowded café my shopping bags at my feet, and scrolled happily through my messages. There was a number I didn’t recognise. Probably a misdialled one. I clicked on it just to be sure.
‘Hello miss freshface. how r u? lunch was good. c u soon.’
I clutched my phone, stared at it hard and scrolled quickly on to the next message. I didn’t want Clayton Silver in my life. Didn’t want him sending me texts. Then I scrolled back…and read Clayton’s message again. Not exactly a love letter, was it? Not quite up there with great romantic missives of our time. Part of me was irritated by this attention. My finger went straight to ‘Delete’ but then I stopped. Because another part of me was ridiculously pleased that Clayton had bothered to send a text. Maybe the lunch, our conversation, had meant something to him too.
‘For goodness’ sake, girl, you have nothing in common. Stop acting like an impressionable teenager.’ I gave myself a good talking-to, but I’m not sure how much notice I took of myself. I was still staring at the phone and chewing a delicious chunk of parkin when there was a knock on the window. I looked up. Jake was standing outside.
‘It’s all right, pet, he can sit here. I’m just going.’ An elderly lady with half a dozen bulging shopping bags manoeuvred her way out of her seat with some difficulty and Jake slid in next to me.
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘Well I saw that rust-heap of a van parked up the road so knew you’d be here somewhere. I just kept my eyes open. How are you?’
‘Fine.’
‘Are you all right on your own in that house?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘And you’re managing with work?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Tilly. I’m trying to be nice here. At least meet me halfway.’
The phone with the text message from Clayton burned in my hand. I didn’t want to get into this with Jake. But Jake was right; he was trying to be kind. And maybe we needed to talk. And here was as good a place as any. Surrounded by people, we couldn’t shout and yell.
‘Could we have another pot of tea and some more parkin, please?’ I asked the waitress.
‘I don’t want any parkin,’ said Jake crossly.
‘Yes, you do—it’s delicious, all gingery and treacly and chewy.’
‘Why are you always trying to push food onto me?’
I put my cup back in the saucer. ‘Am I? Do I? I mean, did I?’
‘Yes. All the time.’
I thought about it. ‘Maybe, ’ I said slowly, ‘because food has always been important in our family. Even
It was market day, so I spent a happy hour wandering round the stalls, buying crisp local apples, greengages, knobbly carrots and huge creamy parsnips. ‘Try some,’ said the man selling chutneys, offering me a plate of crackers and a spoon to dip into the jars, and I finally settled on Hot Plum Relish and a jar of Malay vegetable pickle, both so good that they hardly needed meat or cheese. I bought homemade savoury wafers and some oat biscuits from a stall called ‘Aunty Annie’s’ and I heard someone actually say, ‘How do, Annie?’ And I was sure she was an aunty, too. We must do another market feature on The Foodie , I decided, it was such a brilliant way to shop.
Standing back from the cobbled marketplace there was a small but very stylish department store; one window was filled almost entirely with scarves I instantly recognised as Becca’s. They were really very good—bright pinksand purples, scarlets and blues, full of style and fun—and she should be charging a lot more than forty quid for them. If she sold them in London, she could make a fortune.
But the best thing of all was that I could get a phone signal here too. I sat squashed into a seat at a crowded café my shopping bags at my feet, and scrolled happily through my messages. There was a number I didn’t recognise. Probably a misdialled one. I clicked on it just to be sure.
‘Hello miss freshface. how r u? lunch was good. c u soon.’
I clutched my phone, stared at it hard and scrolled quickly on to the next message. I didn’t want Clayton Silver in my life. Didn’t want him sending me texts. Then I scrolled back…and read Clayton’s message again. Not exactly a love letter, was it? Not quite up there with great romantic missives of our time. Part of me was irritated by this attention. My finger went straight to ‘Delete’ but then I stopped. Because another part of me was ridiculously pleased that Clayton had bothered to send a text. Maybe the lunch, our conversation, had meant something to him too.
‘For goodness’ sake, girl, you have nothing in common. Stop acting like an impressionable teenager.’ I gave myself a good talking-to, but I’m not sure how much notice I took of myself. I was still staring at the phone and chewing a delicious chunk of parkin when there was a knock on the window. I looked up. Jake was standing outside.
‘It’s all right, pet, he can sit here. I’m just going.’ An elderly lady with half a dozen bulging shopping bags manoeuvred her way out of her seat with some difficulty and Jake slid in next to me.
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘Well I saw that rust-heap of a van parked up the road so knew you’d be here somewhere. I just kept my eyes open. How are you?’
‘Fine.’
‘Are you all right on your own in that house?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘And you’re managing with work?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Tilly. I’m trying to be nice here. At least meet me halfway.’
The phone with the text message from Clayton burned in my hand. I didn’t want to get into this with Jake. But Jake was right; he was trying to be kind. And maybe we needed to talk. And here was as good a place as any. Surrounded by people, we couldn’t shout and yell.
‘Could we have another pot of tea and some more parkin, please?’ I asked the waitress.
‘I don’t want any parkin,’ said Jake crossly.
‘Yes, you do—it’s delicious, all gingery and treacly and chewy.’
‘Why are you always trying to push food onto me?’
I put my cup back in the saucer. ‘Am I? Do I? I mean, did I?’
‘Yes. All the time.’
I thought about it. ‘Maybe, ’ I said slowly, ‘because food has always been important in our family. Even
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