Love Among the Treetops: A feel good holiday read for summer 2018. Catherine Ferguson
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Название: Love Among the Treetops: A feel good holiday read for summer 2018
Автор: Catherine Ferguson
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
isbn: 9780008215750
isbn:
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 …
‘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 thousand 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 – СКАЧАТЬ