Page 59 of The Gingerbread Cafe
She jutted out her chin. ‘You were looking for me?’
‘What’s this?’ He waved the paper in front of him. ‘Have you seen the report?’
‘I don’t know where those photos came from.’
‘Does it matter?’ he barked. ‘Your bloody ferret was running amok all over this café and you know the rules. That was completely irresponsible. You’ll get us shut down.’
She had not missed this side of him. The side that was rude and obnoxious, and made her feel two feet smaller.
‘You and your team took control of the café on Sunday.’
‘You were in charge of that ferret. One job!’
And she couldn’t even get that right. She felt her chin dropping.
‘Imagine how embarrassed I was to have Franny Whimple hammering on my door first thing this morning, brandishing this paper. I had to stand there in my boxer briefs whilst she divulged news about my own café that I didn’t even know.’
‘Being the last to know when everyone’s laughing behind your back. Imagine.’ Gretel snorted, which sounded about as sexy as her greying dressing gown looked. ‘Why aren’t I shocked that you paraded yourself in front of that mean woman in your man pants?’ she muttered. ‘You seem to take these things lightly.’
‘Maybe I’d thought it was someone else.’ He raked a hand through his hair. ‘Anyway, who’s thissource close to Gretel Rosenhartwho filled them in on the story? Apparently they’re saying vermin in food preparation areas is a regular thing around here. We’vespecificallytalked about this.’
‘None of my friends would have said that! And I only have one waitress …’
‘So now you have secret staff? Who else works here – Santa Claus?’
‘Angel Gabriel isnotvermin. And he only sneaks into the food kitchen when I forget to shut the door. It’s not like he jumpsinto the mixing bowl and dances the hoola to the tune of “Jingle Bells”. He’s not even that keen on gingerbread.’
‘Gretel. Rules are rules! Why do you have to be such a child about everything?’
Bloody ouch. ‘I’m twenty-six, you twat. And I’m bored of you suggesting I can’t behave like an adult.’ She pouted, which was admittedly not her most mature face.
‘Why do I get the feeling you’re never all in on anything? At first it was the café, then with saying farewell to your crazy twelve months of Christmas.’ His eyes scanned her festive dressing gown and mince pie slippers. ‘Then you sleep with me, storm out and throw insults in the street. Now this.’ He flapped the paper again. ‘Maybe you’re not the person I thought you were.’
‘I’mnot the person you thought I was? Just get out.’ She could feel her whole body trembling but she was not backing down.
‘Understood.’ He dropped the newspaper to the floor and began to turn away.
The haunted jukebox broke into the bom-bom-bom-ooos of ‘Lonely this Christmas’, and Gretel’s teeth gritted. She’d switched that damned thing off for the gazillionth time, she was sure of it. She did not need the likes of Mud to tell her things were going downhill faster than three fat reindeer in a toboggan.
‘Christmas again in your world, huh?’ Something in his voice sounded like it was out of fight, as he turned and walked through the door.
She ran a hand through her messy blonde plaits, realising they were probably now stained with theCotswold Crier’sblack ink. She exhaled. ‘Close the door behind you,’ she said pointlessly, determined to have the last, childish word.
Real life was messy when you stopped wearing festive deely boppers and dared to put your heart on the line. Now hers was officially broken. What she wouldn’t give to be curled up in hertiny old maisonette in her reindeer onesie. She’d given this café and Lukas her all. But all she’d done was cock things up – for herself and for the whole of Green Tree Lane. The village fair had been tarred with her vermin scandal. She was a failure. And as soon as the universe gave her a fast-track back to her old life, the better.
Chapter 48
If Gretel had wished for a helping hand back to her old life, what she’d received had been more like a shove. Which was fine. A girl could take a hint.
Not long after Lukas had stomped out of the café yesterday, Mr Desmond Peabody from Environmental Health had wombled right in with his copy of theCotswold Crier’svermin scandal and his clipboard. She’d barely had time to get out of her dressing gown and half-heartedly open the place up when he’d arrived. As customers had started piling in, Mr Peabody had begun poking around. It turned out he’d received an official complaint and he took an unhealthy pleasure in carrying out his inspection.
It also turned out Angel Gabriel was taking a snooze in an open tin of biscuits that Gretel had left out in the kitchen. Who wouldn’t want to sleep somewhere that smelled delicious, with great mid-nap snacks?
But Mr Peabody hadn’t seen her point.
Instead, he’d slapped a big, uglyclose this dump downnotice on her forehead, right in front of her customers. At least, that was what it had felt like. Fortuitously, Franny Whimple had been right there sipping her Quickie Coffee takeaway and offering to buy the place from her and Lukas cheaply.
Well, Gretel was damned if she was going to watch Swingy Bob Whimple do her black and gold trainered victory dance all over the cobbles. Gretel had told her to bugger off. She was doing this her own way instead.
