… let’s forget all this. Can we do that, please?’
She slides her hand out from under his. ‘Last weekend, you mean?’
Rob nods. ‘I know how it looked …’
‘Oh yes, your friendly little cleaning lady.’
‘… I want us to move on from this because we have to decide what to do.’
Kerry blinks at him. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘Er …’ He plucks a sugar sachet from the bowl, accidentally rips it and quickly puts it back. ‘The estate agent called me yesterday. That couple, the ones who came round to see the house after the, er …’
‘What, last Saturday?’
‘Yes, them. Well, they’d needed a few days to talk it over and they’ve decided they want it.’
‘They’ve put in an offer?’ Kerry asks, eyes widening.
‘Yes.’ He glances around the tearoom; even the fridge seems to have fallen silent now. ‘The asking price too,’ he adds.
‘Really? Wow, that’s great …’
Rob looks at his wife, thinking how lovely she looks today with her glossy dark hair pulled back and those few strands dancing prettily around her face. She looks relieved, too, about the London house. Rob is trying to seem pleased, but he also owes it to Kerry to be absolutely honest. He pauses, wondering how best to put it, knowing he must get it absolutely right.
Chapter Eleven
Around the corner from Hattie’s, tucked away on a quiet cobbled side street, a new upmarket sandwich shop is struggling to survive. James Delaney, who’s helping his son to get the place in order, was up this morning at 6.35 a.m. He’s already walked his dog, Buddy, along Shorling beach, forced six-foot-three Luke out of bed and sliced a mountain of prosciutto, tomatoes and Emmental. He has also apologised numerous times for the fact that they don’t have any rocket today. Luke messed up the greengrocer’s order (again) so, while he held the fort, James raced around town, amassing as many acceptable lettuce varieties as he could manage. Although he failed to locate rocket, he did track down lollo rosso, butterhead, cos and lamb’s lettuce – how many leaf varieties do people actually need? What would customers do if presented with plain old iceberg – burst into tears or attack him? It’s one of the things that drives James mad about Shorling these days: this utter wankery about food. Which is unfortunate, really, as Luke’s business idea – to set up a sandwich shop to out-posh all the others – was built upon the new residents’ adoration of fine cheeses and hams nestling between organic sourdough.
With the main lunchtime period over – the term ‘rush’ would be over-stating things – James pulls off his navy blue and white striped apron. Hanging it beside the enormous string of garlic behind the counter, he heads for the door of the shop. ‘Just popping home,’ he says.
‘Okay, Dad,’ Luke replies.
‘I’ll only be half an hour. Maybe you could clear the decks a bit, set out some more smoked salmon, chuck some lemon and black pepper over it …’
‘Uh?’
‘Pepper, Luke,’ James says with exaggerated patience. ‘You do know how to operate a pepper grinder. It’s that twisty gadget with the little black things in.’
‘Sure, Dad,’ Luke says with an amiable smile. James blinks at his son, exasperated, yet unable to feel irritated with him for long. Luke is a handsome, stubbly-chinned boy who, while not wildly academic, has the knack of charming the pants off girls and money out of his wealthy friends’ parents’ bank accounts (hence being able to set up his own business at twenty-two years old). James can’t help admiring his entrepreneurial streak; the way he managed to write a business plan, design the shop and amass the funds, when he’d felt sure the whole idea would come to nothing. Unfortunately, though, Shorling residents and day-trippers haven’t gone mad for fillet steak with baby spinach and grilled artichoke hearts. Maybe, James reflects as he strides down the narrow street, it’s just too much. After all, there’s nothing much wrong with a plain cheese sandwich and a packet of crisps. He and Luke are virtually living off unsold food, their fridge crammed with leftovers. James has started waking up at night, nauseous after a supper of smoked trout, stilton and figs.
It also became apparent that, while Luke has never lacked enthusiasm, he needed someone with him in the shop to keep things running smoothly. As he can’t afford to pay one of his floppy-haired friends, James saw no option but to step in, cramming his own freelance website design work into the evenings to get things on track. ‘Just a few weeks,’ he’d told Luke. ‘Six at the most. Then you’re on your own.’ However, they both know that James will never leave Luke in the lurch.
James is back home now, and lets himself into the neat redbrick house with the not-so-neat dangly gutter, making a mental note to get it fixed.
‘Hey, boy,’ he says as Buddy charges towards him. ‘Been on your own too long, huh? C’mon, just a quick walk …’
He clips on the lead, catching sight of himself in the small mirror in the hallway. God, he needs a haircut. He likes it short, no-nonsense, and before his involvement with Luke’s (after much debate, his son decided the simplest option was to name the shop after himself), James would have regular trims at the old-fashioned Turkish barber’s. Lately, though, such non-essentials have slipped off the radar. And, although he’s glad to escape from the shop for a while, he’s beginning to wonder if looking after Buddy is something he could do without too. Luke’s on-off girlfriend Charlotte used to undertake dog-walking duties, but the status is definitely ‘off’ at the moment.
James sets off with Buddy pulling hard on the lead, panting and straining towards a dropped ice cream cone on the pavement. He barks suddenly at an elderly man on a mobility scooter, and James has to quickly haul him away before he pees against a bucket of fresh blooms outside the florist’s. A woman with a wiry grey terrier – impeccably behaved – glares at him as she struts by. ‘Should get him some training,’ she mutters.
Oh, really? James wants to call after her. Don’t think I haven’t tried that. We’ve even seen a behavioural expert – a dog psychologist – who diagnosed severe anxiety caused by trauma. He wasn’t like this before my wife left, you know. Buddy was very much Amy’s dog but, weirdly enough, she wasn’t too keen on taking him when she moved up to Sheffield with her hairdresser – sorry, colourist … Said Brian ‘isn’t good with animals’. Oh, really? James wasn’t particularly ‘good’ with being dumped without warning either, but he’d had to deal with that.
Halting his racing thoughts – the tutting woman has long since disappeared – James takes a short cut through the alley towards the beach. While Buddy stops to investigate a damp patch on the pavement, James glances at the glass-covered noticeboard on the newsagent’s wall. Sandwich Express, he reads. Bespoke buffets delivered to your workplace. Contact Gary for a slice of the action. Hmmm. Should he and Luke start a delivery service? It seems over-ambitious seeing as they’re struggling to keep the shop afloat, but every little helps.
Buddy is pulling again now and starts barking sharply, startling a passing teenager on a bike who gives James a two-fingered salute. Since Amy’s departure, Buddy has become fearful of cyclists, motorbikes and lorries – most vehicles, come to think of it. Despite the fact that he’s gripping Buddy’s lead, James hopes that, if he keeps staring ahead, any passers-by will assume that this dog has nothing whatsoever to do with him. He fixes his gaze on the newsagent’s ads. Most are offering boats for sale, holiday cottages to let, and essential services such as chakra realignment and ‘a full feng-shui survey to breathe life into your home’. Then a small white postcard catches his eye: Piano Tuition.
There’s a burst of laughter from down on the shore. The beach is packed with children, he realises; must be the annual sandcastle competition, which Luke won with an impressive marble run construction when he was seven