‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The mugs on the wonky shelf?’
‘Ah. Yes. Well, so far, they’re managing to cling on fordear life. But one slam of a cupboard door and it’ll be curtains.’ He pauses.‘My Great-Aunt Peg used to have a potter’s wheel in her garage and I tried itout once when I was about ten. With her help, obviously. I’d love to have aproper go at it. Have you been in business long?’
I shake my head. ‘A few months. It was just a hobby for along time. I used to work in London but then I... well, I wanteda change so I took the plunge.’
‘I’m impressed.’ He nods, an admiring glint in his eyes. ‘Ido some portrait sketching in my spare time – just for my own amusement, really– but I can’t imagine ever being brave enough to try and turn my hobby into a business.That takes courage.’
I swallow hard.Or finding yourself in a desperatesituation...
‘I’d love to hear some more about the pottery business,’he’s saying. ‘I could stand you a coffee? If you like?’
‘Sorry?’ I look up at him in confusion. His eyes are somesmerising, I keep finding my thoughts drifting away from the subject.Didhe mention coffee?
He shrugs. ‘It’s up to you. But I happen to know they do thebest fruit cake in the business in the café across the road.’
‘Er, I doubt that.’
‘Really?’
‘I work part-time at the Little Duck Pond Café inSunnybrook?’
‘I see.’ He grins. ‘So clearly theirs is the best, andyou’re not biased in any way, shape or form?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘So I can’t tempt you, then?’ He shrugs, lookingdisappointed. ‘Just so I can pick your brains about pottery, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’ I smile at him. It’s a long time since I hadgood banter with an attractive man. And Mystery Man is most definitely that.Funny as well. A killer combination.
‘I promise I won’t cause another crockery accident.’ He tipshis head on one side and smiles at me so hopefully, I start to laugh.
‘Okay. I’m persuaded. Mine’s a latte.’ I smile up at him.‘But you don’t need to pay.’
‘We’ll see. Come on.’
In the café, we order our drinks at the counter and take atable by the window.
‘So what did you do before you decided to earn your livingfrom making pots?’ he asks, as the smiley waitress sets our drinks down.
‘Oh, this and that,’ I say, deliberately vague. ‘But I’dalways wanted to be a potter, right from the age of about seven when my AuntieMaureen let me help her in her studio.’
‘Help? As in making a bit of a nuisance of yourself?’
I laugh. ‘How did you guess? She let me play with the clayand make things with it, while she turned out vases and jugs on her wheel.She’s very creative, my Auntie Maureen. She used to make beads for me when Iwas little and paint them bright colours and string them together to makesbracelets and necklaces.’ I smile, remembering. ‘One year for Christmas, we allgot a mug with our name on it. I’ve still got mine.’
‘So you got the bug from her?’ He cuts his cake in half.‘Chocolate brownie?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, go ahead. As long as you let me try a bit of yourBakewell tart?’
‘Of course.’ I’m feeling more relaxed as I take the browniehe offers me.
‘So we seem to have more in common than a desire to escapeLondon,’ he says.
‘We have?’ Looking into his eyes is having a strange effecton my pulse, which is galloping along like a thoroughbred horse in training.
