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Sophie rolled her eyes at the scepticism and the lacklustre response from this quiet, self-effacing man with the elegant fingers. ‘Well,Iwould, for a start, and so would Delia, and Marcia – oh, and Nessa and her students in the cooking class. Maybe you could offer to give a cooking demonstration to the class at the school, mixed in with a soupçon of gossip from your exploits in the kitchens of Paris and Betty’s?’
Sophie paused in her organisation of Tom’s future business exploits as a look of pure horror invaded Tom’s face which made her laugh for the first time that week.
Chapter Seventeen
The doorbell jangled its introduction and both Sophie and Tom turned their heads to see Marcia, without Iris in tow, blushing at the door.
‘Oh, Sophie, sorry – I didn’t realise you had company.’
Marcia hid behind her hair as she hesitated in the doorway, clearly wanting to flee but not sure if she dared, dragging her mother’s oversized tweed coat across her rounded shoulders like a shield.
‘It’s okay, Marcia. This is Tom Wallington, from the bakery on the corner?’ Sophie shot up to prevent Marcia from leaving and guided her to a seat at the table, realising that if she spent any more time listening to Tom’s take on life then she would be joining him on the pulpit of the village’s bridge. ‘And I was in the process of persuading him to present a few cookery demonstrations to the students at St Hilda’s. Don’t you think that’s an excellent idea?’
‘Sophie, believe me, I’m no good at that sort of thing. I don’t have the time or the confidence to—’
‘Why don’t you draw up a detailed lesson plan for an after-school club? Include a choice of recipes, sweet and savoury, a list of the ingredients each one requires and a set of clear, concise, easy-to-follow instructions. Maybe you could add in some photographs of the finished article and a few words about the history behind every cake, a sort of story of its birth? You know,like where does lardy cake originate from, how do Florentines get their name, that sort of thing. Nessa can then show it to the head teacher. She’s always complaining that all the after-school activities are sports-based. It’s perfect!’
Tom’s face had alarm written across it. ‘A story – for a cake – what a ridiculous idea! No, that settles it, Sophie. Thanks for the vote of confidence, but no way.’
‘I can help you, if you like?’ Marcia offered, her soft voice muffled as she stared down at her fingers twisting the strings of her woollen hat.
‘What do you mean?’ Sophie pressed, keen to involve Marcia.
‘I can help Tom write the lesson plans and the stories. I am something of an expert, after all the official documents I’ve had to complete over the years to get a community care assessment for Mum and my carer’s assessment and allowance. We’ve had to appeal the council’s decision on her personal budget plan on several occasions and that really does sharpen your pen, so to speak.’
Marcia chanced a flick of her jam-jar-covered eyes across to Sophie, studiously avoiding any direct contact with Tom. ‘And I can write the cake histories, too. I’ve had loads of romance short stories published, so…’ Her voice trailed off as she dropped her eyes back to the table and re-hunched her shoulders.
Sophie was forced to address the top of her head.
‘Marcia, that’s wonderful…’
The bell tinkled again and Sophie heaved a sigh. What was the point of closing the shop on a Wednesday afternoon when she had more visitors than she had customers in the intervening days?
‘Saw you were enjoying a gathering so I thought I’d grace you with my presence.’
‘Erm, right, and you are?’
Sophie slid her eyes over the handsome young guy who had already grabbed a chair and turned it backwards to sit astride it. With his immaculately barbered, jet-black hair, skin lightly tanned and clean-shaven jaw, he could have been a catwalk model but for his height. He smelled delicious, too. His pristine, candy-pink shirt had been laundered to perfection and he wore a dove-grey cashmere sweater draped artfully around his shoulders, his black designer trousers moulded perfectly to display a taut behind. But it was his heavy gold-link bracelet that caught Sophie’s eye and caused the corners of her lips to twitch.
‘I’m Marc Bairstow, darling. I own the florist’s shop on the other side of the green – Buds & Bows? Oh, hi there, Tom, didn’t see you there. Oh, and is this your girlfriend?’ he asked with an unmistakable glint in his coal-coloured eyes, his lilting tone curved into a tease.
‘Hi, Marc. No, Marcia is not my girlfriend.’
All three swung their eyes to survey Marcia whose deep flush had suffused her blanched complexion as she dipped her eyes back behind a curtain of hair. Sophie could have happily murdered Marc.
‘Well, anyway...’ Marc’s eyes danced in the knowledge he’d hit his mark. ‘I’ll take a skinny cinnamon latte, Sophie-Louise, my dear, and one of these divine little amuse-bouches! Even though it willnotenhance my waistline, I’m anxious to see what it’ll do to my discerning taste buds. I’ll just have to endure an extra half-hour of Pilates tonight; no punishment, really – the tutor has buttocks of steel!’
Sophie plonked a fresh cafetière of coffee on the table in front of Marc with a challenge in her hazelnut stare. She was notmaking him a skinny cinnamon latte. What did he think she was running here, a Costa franchise?
‘So’ – he flung his palm around the shop – ‘what are your plans for this cathedral of commercial gloom? I do hope youhaverenovation plans, Sophie dear? We are the three musketeers of Somersby High Street, charged with its salvation. Yes, you may laugh, but I ask you this. What if we also took the easy road instead of the right road? What would be left of the Great British High Street then?
‘Here, I’m thinking Marie Antoinette French boudoir, marshmallow pinks and creams, a splash of that delightful peppermint green.Perhaps an espresso machine over there in the corner?’ He raised his neatly plucked eyebrows and rushed on when he saw the expression on Sophie’s face, refusing to be diverted from his interior design project. ‘And Tom, darling, you could supply a baker’s dozen of these delectable French fancies for the discerning customers, couldn’t you? What say you, Sophie? Drag this little antiquated emporium into the twenty-first century?’
‘You just said eighteenth-century boudoir!’ she reminded him.
‘Eighteenth century-inspired! And you know I’d love to assist in this transformation, but…’ – Marc shot a glance around the table to ensure he held everyone’s undivided attention – ‘I’ve just been commissioned to supply Hugo Marston and Avril Carter’s wedding flowers!’
Marc rolled his eyes at the blank expressions around the table. ‘Philistines. Hugo Marston is one of our county’s most talented operatic tenors. And I’ve wheedled two invitations to the evening reception for me and Joseph! It’ll be such a blast. Anyway, must dash. Bye, my sweeties!’
