Page 29 of Not That Ridiculous

Pippa did not.

Pippa interpreted the uniform, by which I mean that Pippa wore tailored black capri pants to show off her delicate ankles, ballet flats, and a white silk blouse that, along with her expensive, pixie-cut mahogany hair, made her look less Cotswolds barista and more classic-Hollywood Audrey Hepburn.

I didn’t even think about arguing with her. She classed up the joint.

I did draw the line at letting her class me up, though. I wasn’t wearing a shirt and waistcoat to work on a daily basis no matter how ‘dashing’ I’d look.

“You’ve been utterly distracted all morning,” she said.

I set the tray down on the counter. “I’ve got things on my mind. Just…things. Personal stuff. Nothing to worry about.”

She didn’t seem convinced. “I’m here if you want to talk about it.”

“Thanks. I’m fine, though. Hey, did Kevin Wallis come in at all this morning?” I refused to spend anymore time fretting about it. Enough was enough. If she asked why I wanted to know, I’d fob her off with a vague gym-related comment.

“Kevin? Of course he did. That boy loves his pastries. I’ll tell you what, though.” She raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “He had a latte rather than a flat white.”

“Weird,” I said, because she was clearly expecting some sort of commentary.

“That’s what I thought. Now, I know he likes to get a bit adventurous with his pastries, but he’s never once ordered anything to drink other than his flat white. I said to him, ‘Kevin, are you sure you want a latte?’ And he said to me, ‘Ms Carrington, I’m moving on from the flat white. I’m big into lattes now.’ AndIsaid, ‘What brought this on, you haven’t been to Starbucks or anything have you because you know Charlie will lose his shit if you have and he finds out,’ and he said no. Said he was talking to a friend about lattes over the weekend and he got curious.”

“Huh,” I said.

A customer came up to the counter and Pippa turned to them with a welcoming smile. A quick glance around told me that everything was under control. I slipped into the kitchen to lean against the back wall and stare at my Crocs.

Well.

He didn’t soundangry.

7

Afew months ago, I’d let Milly talk me into putting a suggestion box by the till. As it turned out, the residents of Chipping Fairford had a lot of stupid fucking ideas about what a coffee shop should and shouldn’t do, from hosting book clubs to hiring the venue out for weddings, parties and raves—who the hell in Chipping Fairford was trying to bring back raves?—to hiring out a table or two in a hotdesk deal for work-from-homers who wanted to get out of the house every now and then.

Despite what he said, that last note was definitely from Ray.

There were also a number of suggestions about what I, personally, should do: get laid, get over myself, smile.

Overwhelmingly, people wanted me to stay open later.

Chipping Fairford was a lovely little town to stroll through of a summer evening, or in the winter when the council strung the tree-lined streets with fairy lights. The problem was, strolling was all you could do. After half past five, everything was shut apart from the supermarket and the pubs, which closed at ten and eleven respectively.

I was considering it.

Reluctantly.

I didn’t want to stay open later. I already worked truly ridiculous hours, and I’d like to actually see my dog now and then.

I didn’t bring Phil to the shop with me. I’d tried it a few times when I first got him, but it wasn’t practical, and then there was that awful spat with little Dougal Hughes, Mrs Hughes’ Westie.

Dougal was about a hundred years old and had to wear cute little red boots for his arthritis. You wouldn’t think he had that level of violence in him.

Apparently, he took what he considered to be his territory very seriously, and on their first encounter had sent Phil running for the kitchen with his ears pinned back and his tail firmly tucked.

Having a dog hadn’t been in my life plan any more than being left to run the coffee shop alone had, but I’d acquired Phil under unusual circumstances.

Suzanne Lawson, who ran the newsagent’s across the road from The Chipped Cup, had tricked me into it.

Suzanne had been friends with Deirdre Sharpe, the ninety-four-year-old previous owner of my house. When Deirdre fell from her loft ladder, broke a hip, and died six months later, Suzanne had taken Phil on even though she lived in a flat and he was not what you’d call a flat-sized animal. It was that, or let the lawyers of Deirdre’s heirs, a nephew and niece who both lived abroad, drop him off at the nearest adoption centre.

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