Page 35 of The Little Flower Shop By the Sea
‘I appreciate the advice,’ I tell him awkwardly, uncertain how to deal with this side of Jake. ‘But I think I’ll just stick with black for now. I’ve kind of got used to it over the years. It suits me.’
‘Fair enough,’ Jake says, shrugging amiably. He crosses one long leg over the other, so his large tan Timberland boot rests on his knee, and he visibly relaxes as he leans back against the bench and looks out to sea. ‘If you want to look like an ageing Goth,’ he says, the merest hint of a smile spreading over his lips, ‘then that’s up to you.’
Phew, I breathe a sigh of relief. Jake’s back to normal. I can handle his banter, but compliments, they’re a different matter.
‘I think you’ll find I’mnota Goth, ageing or otherwise,’ I reply, able to look at him properly again. ‘Being a Goth is about more than wearing dark clothes. I don’t wear heavy make-up, or listen to that sort of music. I don’t do colour, that’s all. It’s just not my thing.’ I lean back against the bench and fold my arms, happy that we’ve returned to behaving naturally with each other.
‘What about your attitude, though?’ Jake asks sombrely, still looking ahead, apparently intrigued by the exploits of a very large seagull ripping up the remains of an unsuspecting tourist’s ice-cream cone.
Miley also watches, probably wondering if she can get in on the action.
‘What do you mean, my attitude?’ I snap, a little too fast.
Jake holds out his hand in a ‘there you go’ gesture. ‘We had a similar conversation in the Mermaid the first evening I met you, if I remember rightly. You called yourself an awkward bitch.’
‘Imayhave said that,’ I reply, remembering. ‘I’m just not a people person, that’s all.’
Jake turns and looks at me in part amusement, part confusion. ‘How can you even say that with a straight face?’
I look at him, not understanding.
‘Do I really have to explain?’ Jake asks.
I nod.
‘Right, examples… OK, here’s one: Since you’ve been here, you’ve welcomed our American friend Amber into your home. And from what I can tell, she seems to love living with you.’
I smile at the mention of Amber; she’s been like a breath of fresh air in my life since she arrived at the cottage. I’m almost jealous of her sunny disposition and unfailingly positive nature.
‘She didn’t have that much choice who she lived with,’ I try, but Jake is having none of it.
He shakes his head. ‘Uh-uh. Don’t even go there with that self-deprecating attitude of yours. I have seen you actually talk to people since you’ve been here. And not only that, you seem to have a knack for it. You were even chatting to my son earlier, and it takes some effort to get more than two words out of him these days.’
‘Charlie’s a nice lad,’ I tell him. ‘He reminds me of someone I used to know.’
Jake waits for me to explain, but I don’t.
‘Well, maybe there’s a few exceptions,’ I admit. ‘But believe me, Jake, I’m better left on my own most of the time. People,ingeneral,’ I add when he opens his mouth, ‘annoy me. I rarely annoy myself.’
‘Rarely?’ Jake enquires, and I notice a slight twitch at the corner of his lips.
‘Only when I try and wear colour!’ I announce, and to my relief this time he smiles.
Then I notice the chip shop.
‘Oh, there’s a light on in Mickey’s,’ I say with delight. ‘Look’s like it’s lunchtime for everyone!’
We carry as many portions of fish and chips back to the shop as we can manage, and I’m relieved and happy to feel relaxed in Jake’s company once more.
However much I protested, I knew he was right: I had interacted with people more in the two weeks I’d been here than I would in two months in London. And more significantly, I’d enjoyed it.
Back at Daisy Chain our paper parcels of lunch are well received, and after everyone has eaten their chips sitting on the floor, in the doorway, or propped up outside in the sunshine against the wall of the shop, we resume work.
‘Poppy!’ Late in the afternoon, Woody, who looks very different wearing casual clothes, calls me over. ‘We found these earlier when we were changing those rotten floorboards out back. They must have been your grandmother’s.’
He hands me a cardboard box containing some old journals and notebooks.
‘Thanks,’ I say, taking a quick look inside. ‘I’ll take them back to the cottage and keep them safe. They’re probably the shop’s old accounts books.’
