at their outer corners. “Are you trying to tell me I’m looking old?”
The thought I may have caused offence horrifies me. I don’t want to insult anyone, and certainly not Maggie who’s both a boss and a friend.
“No, no, not at all! You’re always really well presented, but then you’re one of those young, funky mums, not like mine. You’re far more open-minded than either of my parents. And you don’t look forty; if I didn’t know you had a son my age, I’d think you were much younger.”
Now it’s my turn to flush red; I can feel the heat spreading up my neck and I silently curse as the familiar flaming sensation takes over. It’s bloody annoying how I can’t stop it happening. But thoughts of Joshua Thornhill have a nasty habit of turning me into a gibbering wreck, and add to that the fear of causing offence, my cheeks don’t stand a chance.
“I’m teasing, Fern,” Maggie replies, reassuringly placing her hand on my shoulder. “And although I’m delighted that you think I’m young and funky, my main concern is this place.” She gestures around the café, to where the young man in the window is still engrossed in whatever he’s reading and a group of middle-aged women are huddled around the long table near the door, sipping cups of tea whilst putting the world to rights. Her eyes rest on the large clock on the back wall. It’s already twenty past eleven. “Speaking of which, the football mums will be coming in any minute now. Would you be a doll and fill up the water jugs? Those little ones look so tired after all that running about and it’s so warm out there. I bet they’ll come in desperate for a glass of water.”
I hurry off, keen to please, but not before catching Maggie sneaking another discreet look at the coach.
She can deny it all she wants – my boss has a crush on him, I’m certain of it. I only hope it’ll be more fruitful than the one I’ve been harbouring for years.
I’m fussing, fidgeting with the collar of my frilly white blouse, but that doesn’t stop me grasping the opportunity to steal one last glance out towards the football session before heading back into the kitchen to rescue a batch of fruit scones from the oven. The coach is smiling broadly as he holds open a large net bag and the boys and girls are gathering up the balls, helpfully putting them away as their training session draws to a close. His head lifts, his angular jaw and high cheekbones visible even from this distance, and I swear he’s looking straight at me. Then he nods, a half nod of acknowledgement that causes me to quickly turn away in embarrassment. I busy my hands by sorting the condiments that sit in a small silver bucket on the table, checking the use-by dates closely although there’s no need. I only bought them last week. If they’re out of date already, the wholesalers will be getting an earful.
How can I let someone I hardly know affect me like this? My stomach’s knotted, my heart pounding wildly. All that over a man I’ve spoken to a handful of times, and then only to say ‘that’s £2.49, please’? What an absolute fool I am. It’s ridiculously childish.
I make my way back to the kitchen, my haven, basking in the pleasurable aroma of the scones.
The kitchen is a safe place to hide, and being out here will give me a chance to regain my composure. I don’t want to be caught eyeing up the toy boy football coach even if Fern does think I’m young and funky.
I know the truth. I’m far too long in the tooth to do something as ridiculous as fall in love.
The lunchtime sun streams in through the window, flooding the café with waves of light. The whole room looks cheerful and welcoming with the natural illumination. The off-white walls radiate warmth, the slivers of thin red curtain that frame the windows casting a soft rosy hue.
It’s another moment that reminds me of how much I love The Lake House Café, and how much I’ve achieved. The place had been a boarded-up eyesore when I took it on. People had said I was crazy to try to turn it around, but I’d always believed it could be restored to its former glory and become a welcoming resting-place for everyone who used the park. I hoped it would become somewhere people could enjoy refuelling before heading back out on their merry way. I’d been right. These days the café is the most popular spot in the park, perfect for people-watching and enjoying a naughty treat. All those doubters had been proved wrong a thousand times over, and I couldn’t be more proud.
The café’s filling up again now. A glut of morning joggers have completed their circuit of the woods and are rewarding themselves with well-deserved lattes, and a young couple walking their two near-identical golden retrievers have popped in for two large sausage sandwiches slathered in generous lashings of tangy brown sauce. The man, a Dermot O’ Leary lookalike with a devilish grin, is secretly feeding titbits to the dogs underneath the table whilst his partner hungrily wolfs her butty down, oblivious.
Then there’s the football mums buying cupcakes with lavish, brightly coloured fondant icing for their ravenous offspring. I make a mental note to put another batch in later, because at this rate they’re going to clear me out altogether. The chatter of the excitable children fills the building with joy, and their mucky boots cover the floor in a dusty trail of dried mud. Fern will have to do a quick mop round when it quietens down a bit.
“Excuse me?”
The interruption snaps me out of my thoughts.
“Oh!” I exclaim, blood rushing to both my brain and my cheeks as I’m face to face with the dishy football coach. I should have guessed it was him by the exotic accent: even those two words were laced with a hint of Italian that reminded me of my current celebrity crush, TV chef Gino D’Acampo. The thought of Gino only makes me blush all the more.
“I’m sorry,” I say, momentarily flustered, “I was miles away. What can I get you?”
I force myself to smile, hoping I look less worked up than I feel. My manic smile can be a bit much: I’m all teeth and gums.
“It’s so hard to choose,” he replies, his voice like a song. “Everything looks delicious.”
Each word causes an excitable flutter low in my stomach, reminiscent of the butterflies I used to get when Clint and I first got together. That seems a long time ago. It is a long time ago, more than half my life. Surely by my age I should be well past crushes that leave me clammy-palmed and stumbling for words? The days of blaming my hormones for my lustful desires are long gone, and surely I’m not menopausal yet? Although that might go some way to explaining the obsession I’ve had with Gino of late…
“The scones are fresh out of the oven,” I offer, “or the lemon drizzle cake is popular. It’s a bit of a favourite with my regulars.”
I immediately regret my choice of words, worrying my comment might come across as big-headed.
“Then I’ll trust their judgement,” he says with a smile. It’s a wide, affable smile over a jaunty, stubble-coated chin, and his dark eyes manage to be both intense and friendly all at once. “A slice of lemon cake and an orange juice please, and one of the cupcakes for Pepe.”
He turns, beckoning a small boy in a navy-blue tracksuit. The child is the spitting image of the man, a miniature version right down to the floppy almost-black hair and the large, lazy smile. The similarity is a timely reminder, a warning, and I immediately chide myself for allowing my far-fetched daydreams to get the better of me. Of course a man like this is married with a family.
