Page 1 of Just for the Season

1

FRANKIE

Finally.

I’ve never wanted a cake so much in my life.

I’ve been waiting for what feels like days and days and days (I mean, definitely well over fifteen minutes) to get to the front of this queue. And finally I’m here. Thank feck.

Simon, the very lovely café owner at whose counter I am now standing, is a good friend of mine and is beaming at me. I’m going to have to go through the formalities of saying hello, I realise.

I am so not in the mood. I just want to yell give me the cake and run.

‘Gorgeous Frankie.’ Simon’s beam is widening to face-splitting proportions. ‘I didn’t know you were coming down this weekend. So lovely to see you.’ He suddenly frowns and peers at my face. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, very good, thank you,’ I lie. ‘How are you?’

He leans over the counter. ‘I’m good. But you? Are you really okay?’ He does a circular motion with his right forefinger in front of his own eyes, clearly indicating that there’s something wrong with mine. I’m guessing they’re red, from crying all the way down the A303 from London to Dorset (apart from when I was swearing).

‘Yes. I am extremely well,’ I say firmly, and then – because Simon is looking like he’s about to go into full dog-with-a-bone mode – I mouth, ‘I’ll tell you later.’

We’re in Milbury Bay, the Dorset seaside village I grew up in, and this afternoon Milbury’s only café is rammed, with both pumpkins, fir cones and the like (Simon loves his seasonal décor), and people. I’ve already lost count of how many times I’ve been greeted since I’ve been in the queue.

The café door opens and a woman I recognise only very vaguely immediately swoops on me.

‘Frankie!’ she says, aiming kisses in my direction. ‘How are you? And how’s your gorgeous fiancé?’ She has definitely never met Rick. ‘Have you set a wedding date yet?’

I mumble a nothing and turn back to Simon, thinking exactly; this is why I’m not saying anything now. Gossip is basically the life blood of the village, and if anyone in here hears me telling Simon about the triple whammy of life disasters I got hit by this morning in one fell swoop, my grandmother will know about it within the hour, and I don’t want her to worry about me.

‘Got it,’ Simon says. ‘So what can I get for you?’

‘The carrot cake, please.’ It’s topped with a sugary mascarpone layer of culinary heaven and decorated with edible purple flowers, and has a layer of butter icing running through the middle, and, having eaten it before, I know that it’s deliciously moist and sugary, with the perfect hint of cinnamon, and I cannot wait to share it with my cousin Ellie.

‘Sorry, but I need that cake,’ says a deep voice from behind me.

What?

I freeze for a second before pivoting slowly round to face the man who just spoke. He’s tall, wide-shouldered and extremely handsome, precisely the kind of man who expects to get his own way just because he has a movie-star-level smile, which he is directing at me now. It’s open and frank, and it contains just a smidge of self-deprecation. I’m sure that smile often does get him what he wants, but not today. The carrot cake is not available to him. I got here first.

‘I’m really sorry, but I need it,’ I tell him, before turning back to face the counter and my cake. It’s the exact thing I need right now. Literally nothing else will do.

‘I have what I’d have to describe as a cake emergency.’ The queue man has injected a little hint of a laugh into his voice. I roll my eyes. He’s labouring under a huge misapprehension if he thinks I can be won round by a handsome man exhibiting a (probably fake) sense of humour. Being won over by a handsome man is exactly why I’m in the mess I’m in now, and I won’t be won over again by such a person, for life, cake or any other kind of matter. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand that I need it.’

I do not understand. I have my own cake emergency, which is that I have had the day from hell and I want and need carbs and sugar in the shape of that specific carrot cake.

‘I’ll take the cake,’ I say firmly.

Worryingly, Simon, who is normally as in-your-face confident as it’s possible for a person to be without you wanting to slap them, has the air of a panicking puppy. His eyes are swivelling between my face and the queue man’s.

‘Ummm,’ he says.

I frown and then decide to ignore his panic and focus on completing my order. I’ll get an extra couple of things for Ellie and her son Jack, because now I think about it it’s highly likely I’ll eat the entire carrot cake myself.

‘I will also take…’ I begin, before I’m very rudely interrupted.

‘I’m happy to pay for your order,’ says Queue Man in the most ridiculously high-handed manner. ‘Anything you like. Every other cake in the shop if you like. But I do need that one.’

Simon gives me a very uncharacteristic face-half-scrunched, pleading little smile.