his quality of life. (I try not to dwell on the very best scenario – that the treatment could actually halt the cancer in its tracks and send Dad into remission. I tell myself it would be enough just to have him back to his old, energetic self, able to go fishing and do his wood carving in the man-cave.)
My plan to open a café in Dad’s old shop premises means I can’t join them in London. Instead, I’m coming home to Hart’s End to put my last year in Manchester – training as a pastry chef – to good use.
The advantage of using Dad’s empty shop is that it already has planning permission for a café – so that’s the plan! Hopefully, if it goes well (and to be honest, that’s an ‘if’ the size of a small continent), I might be able to earn enough money to save my parents having to put Honey Cottage up for sale. It all sounds fairly logical in my calmer moments. But waking in the middle of the night, frantic over my family’s uncertain future, the idea just seems pie-in-the-sky ridiculous.
Do people really open cafés and make a living from them? I mean, clearly, they do. There are café owners all over the UK who can attest to it – but my worry is this: Am I deluding myself, imagining I can be one of them?
Honestly, I haven’t a clue.
But since I can’t think of a better idea, then I’m just going to have to go with it. Because Mum and Dad have got quite enough to worry about – in just a few days, Dad starts his treatment – without thinking they’re going to lose their lovely home as well. They’ve lived at Honey Cottage all their married lives and it would break their hearts to leave. Plus, it’s always been a secret dream of mine to open a café and spend my days up to my elbows in flour.
It was my love of baking that led to me giving up my public relations job in London a year ago – at the age of thirty-one – and enrolling at catering college in Manchester, with the intention of becoming a pastry chef. And it’s also why I’ve now decided to change direction again and put those baking skills to practical use.
We will not lose the family home!
I lean back my head, my shoulders slumping, finally giving in to exhaustion. I’ll close my eyes for just five minutes …
*****
I’m woken by a giant pig snorting into a microphone.
What the … ?
My startled gaze falls on Theo. He’s still concentrating on his book but there’s a suspicious tension about his mouth. He’s trying not to smile.
Oh God, the great snuffling pig must have been me. How bloody mortifying.
Theo removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. Then he glances over and I notice they’re an incredible deep blue colour. Quite mesmerising. ‘I was just about to wake you up. We’re here.’ He nods outside as the train glides into Hart’s End and comes to a stop by the big, ornate station clock.
Eek!
I grab my notebook and pen, and stuff them into my handbag, along with all my other bits and pieces. To my surprise, Theo appears to be getting off at this stop, too. I follow him along the carriage, noticing Olivia also getting up to leave the train. Theo courteously ushers her out into the aisle in front of him and she says something I can’t quite catch and they exchange a smile. I feel like a peeping Tom, intruding on a private moment between them, and a feeling of irritation rises up from nowhere. I wish I was off this damned train and walking up the path to Honey Cottage!
I try to peer round Theo to catch sight of my backpack in the luggage rack at the end of the carriage, but he towers above me, his broad shoulders blocking the view, so I give up.
When I get to the rack, panic sets in because I can’t see my backpack at all. Then I realise that someone has dumped their enormous black suitcase on top of my modest-sized bag, squashing it underneath. So then, of course, I have to try and heave the massive monster off, which – ten sweaty seconds later – I’m realising just isn’t going to happen. It’s stuck. There’s probably a dead body in this bloody suitcase, it’s so immovable!
The train is going to leave any second!
I need my backpack!
Suddenly, two strong arms are moving me gently but firmly aside. Dazed, I watch as they proceed to haul the evil black suitcase off the top of the pile. Quickly, I grab my backpack and turn to find Theo sliding the case back onto the rack. Then he guides me firmly towards the doors, leaps down onto the platform, then half-pulls, half-carries me off the train in the nick of time, just as the electronic whistle announces the doors are closing.
As the train moves slowly off, I find myself staring up into Theo Steel’s deep blue eyes, still clasped to his powerful chest and trying – with limited success – to get my breathing under control.
‘Thank you,’ I gasp, and he lets go of me.
‘No problem.’ He smiles lazily. ‘Didn’t want you ending up in Lake Heath. It’s a long walk back.’
‘True.’ I turn to hoist the backpack onto my shoulders, which conveniently hides my blushes. ‘But didn’t you say you live in Lake Heath? Why get off the train one stop early?’
Backpack secured, we start walking towards the station exit. Olivia and her irritatingly pert bottom are sashaying along just a few yards ahead of us and I’m quite certain Theo Steel is taking full advantage of the view. This makes me feel unaccountably cross. Probably because I’m shattered after the long journey.
‘I live in Lake Heath but I work in Hart’s End,’ says Theo. ‘I’m a personal trainer at the sports centre there.’
‘Oh, right. Olivia will be impressed.’
He laughs. ‘But you’re not.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say that. Anyone who can run a marathon then go straight in to work afterwards deserves a medal in my book.’
He shrugs his big shoulders. ‘I’ve just got one client then I’m off home for a soak.’ He grins. ‘Five hours in a hot bath should see to the aching muscles.’
‘True.’ I do a little mini jog to keep up with his long stride, doing my very best not to think about Theo Steel stretched out in the bath. What’s wrong with me? I definitely need a lie-down! ‘Epsom salts are good in the bath. Or so I’ve heard, never having run a marathon.’
‘You should come along to the gym. I could put you through your paces.’
‘Er … ooh, I don’t think so. Me in a gym would be like a giraffe in Sainsbury’s. Just not normal.’
‘No?’
‘No. It’s all those mirrors. Ugh! I mean, I know what I look like. I don’t need my nose rubbed in it.’ I’m wittering on, but I can’t seem to help it.
‘You look all right to me.’
I glance up and Theo Steel is assessing me with an approving look on his face. I blush as red as a letterbox and can’t think of a thing to say. He’s just being kind, obviously. We walk along in silence for a moment.
The fact is, I have been in a gym. Hasn’t everyone? I joined one January along with about twenty-five thousand others determined to make this their year to adopt a healthier lifestyle. I went three times then gave up, mainly because it was winter and far too cold to venture outdoors after work. Which is a pretty pathetic reason, I know.
I give Theo a sneaky sidelong glance. I can’t imagine him letting the temperature put him off working out.
Finally, we catch up with Olivia, despite my very best efforts not to. (I’ve already stopped to rummage around for my ticket – which I knew was safely in my jeans pocket – then wasted more time checking that my backpack was zipped up properly.)
She dazzles Theo with a smile. ‘Don’t forget the 10k.’
He