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But it wasn’t a student, it was Tom, weighed down with a large silver salver of assorted confectionary, and his offerings would not have disgraced a chic Parisian soirée.
‘Wow, Tom, these look awesome. I expected a batch of cupcakes!’
In keeping with the theme, Tom had produced rose and pistachio macarons nestled next to vanilla cream and peppermint jammillefeuille, and a selection of kiwi and raspberry glazed tartlets finished with curls of dark chocolate.
‘I’m grateful for the chance to practise, Sophie. I can’t afford the time to bake these every day and the risk of them not selling makes them financially unviable. So I thought, well… I’m sure the ladies coming tonight all possess discerning taste and I really need your venture to be a success.’
Tom thrust the tray of culinary gems into Sophie’s hands, his reddening face clashing unattractively with his shock of ginger hair.
‘Stay and have a coffee, Tom,’ Sophie offered, desperate to detain him in the empty shop. It was ten past seven and still no one had arrived. What if no one turned up? A helix of nerves began to wind its way through her abdomen, but she gave herself a shake – that path of thought was an idiot’s journey and one which she had no intention of travelling down that evening.
‘Oh, no, I’m not staying here!’
Horror replaced the embarrassment on Tom’s face, now a vivid puce. Before Sophie could say anything else, he rotated on his heels to make a swift exit, only to end up bumping chests with Marc who had arrived weighed down by a profusion of pink Stargazer lilies.
Marc smirked at Tom’s rapid retreat and mortified apology before turning to Sophie.
‘Darling! I brought you these. They will be Gingerberry’s crowning glory and their fragrance is divine.’ He landed a kisson each of Sophie’s cheeks before turning to greet Tom, who had beat a hasty path to the door.
Sensing Tom’s discomfort, Sophie stepped into the breach when she noticed Marc’s black eyes glinting with mischief. ‘Why don’t you help me pop these in water, Marc? They are gorgeous, thank you.’
‘Oh, and what are these scrumptious little delights? Mmm… flowers, sweet treats, and gossip! Now that the holy grail of female delights has been established, the evening is bound to be a dazzling success!’
Marc reached over to select a pale pink macaron, but Sophie slapped his hand away.
‘Not yet, Marc! This tray is just as much a work of art as your magnificent bouquet.’
‘Of course, but us artisans can’t be too precious about our creations, can we, Tom? They are but temporary offerings for our patrons’ delectation. Well, where is everyone?’ He swung his gaze around the refurbished shop, his arms flounced in theatrical style. ‘Oh, I love what you’ve done with the place, Sophie; pink sorbet and peppermint are two of my favourite shades. I’m so pleased I chose those lilies – they’re just perfection. The icing on the cupcake, if you will!’
Delia appeared in the shop. She greeted Tom and Marc and fussed around the flowers.
‘You know, Tom,’ said Marc, ‘you should really have submitted a proposal to be appointed as Lilac Verbois’s wedding cake supplier. You would have definitely been shortlisted. Ms Verbois is known to have the most exquisite taste.’
Marc’s dark eyes met Sophie’s and his hand shot to his mouth. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean…’
‘It’s okay, Marc, but thanks for the motivational direction. And yes, Lilac does have an eye for exquisite design.’ She squeezed a smile into her eyes for Marc and then looked across at Tom who lurked like a frightened lamb caught in a wolf’s lair over by the door. ‘Are you sure I can’t persuade you to stay?’
‘Erm, no thanks,’ and Tom disappeared through the door in a flash.
‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m staying right here. I wouldn’t miss this party for all the tulips in Amsterdam. Joseph is out celebrating with his tennis gang tonight, but I demurred and promised to meet up with him for cocktails when we’re done here.’
Marc strode over to inspect the new merchandise that had been crammed into the freshly painted cubes of shelving and piled artistically into the dipped bamboo baskets. He selected a soft-spun natural lamb’s wool yarn and held it to his cheek, appreciating its texture.
‘Oh, I’m thinking a cream and peach Fair Isle sweater, Sophie. Have you been watching those Danish detective shows? Perhaps I could knit one for Joseph for Christmas? Or maybe I should go for one with a picture of Rudolph on the front? I simply adore the annual craze for festive knits!’
‘Marc, I think we should begin our sessions with something a little more basic, don’t you? But as it looks like it will just be me, you and Delia tonight, perhaps we can…’
Chapter Twenty
When the tinkle of the brass doorbell reverberated through the shop, Sophie was so relieved she resolved there and then never to be annoyed by its cacophony of chimes again.
‘Hi, Sophie. Hi, Delia. Sorry we’re a little tardy, love, but Grace had to wait for her daughter to arrive to sit with Arthur.’
The WI sisterhood of yarn bustled into the shop, shrugging off their coats and hanging them on the gold hooks Seb had attached to the wall behind a bamboo screen at the back of the shop for just this purpose. Delia had reported how anxious they had been to lend their support so their sanctuary would survive, even if its proprietor sadly had not. The three women fussed over the sweet-smelling floral display, swooned over the cakes, and then dragged out the seats at the table with the cushions, chattering the whole time.
They were just settling in for the session when Delia’s Friday night friends arrived, pink-cheeked and breathless, followed swiftly by the giggling trio of teachers from the school, which included Nessa, who had clearly been at the wine.
‘Hi, Sophie,’ they chorused. ‘Wow, didyoumake these?’
