Love Among the Treetops: A feel good holiday read for summer 2018. Catherine Ferguson

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       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 СКАЧАТЬ