Page 15 of For My Finale
She was going to live here, she was going to eat. And this could be her chance to be one of those people that only ate fresh ingredients and shopped for themselves and put videos of it all on Insta.
It wasn’t until ten minutes later that she realized that she might have drastically overestimated matters.
Walking into the tiny shop on Bankton High Street, the first thing that she saw was a gray-haired woman with a face like a hatchet. A woman that was now watching her every move like she might be about to steal something. Not that there was anything to steal.
Lilah stared at the shelves, mouth slightly agape. No quinoa. No organic cold-pressed juices. No organic anything. No sushi grade salmon. No salmon. She walked around the tiny store three times and found breakfast cereal, cheese wrapped up in greasy paper, and something called Marmite that looked like… well, like shit in a jar, to be completely honest.
She grabbed pasta and bread, those things she could recognizeat least, then made her way to the counter.
“Excuse me,” she said, putting on what she thought of as her most charming smile. “Do you have saffron?”
The woman, who was called Ms. Wilkins judging by the name tag on her overall, frowned. “Saffron?”
“Yes, you know, for risotto? Or perhaps some truffle oil? Or Wagyu beef?”
The woman’s frown deepened. “You what?”
“Wagyu beef, for meatballs,” Lilah said helpfully. “And truffle oil or butter to make a sauce?”
The woman looked at her like she’d just asked for powdered unicorn horn. “We’ve got beef mince and gravy granules,” she said, folding her arms. “Will that do?”
“Um, not really,” Lilah blinked.
“You a chef?” asked Mrs. Wilkins suspiciously, making it sound like an accusation.
“No, I’m…” She reconsidered. “I used to be an actress.”
Mrs. Wilkins gave her a very judgmental stare up and down. “Well then, unless they taught you how to cook that fancy stuff, I’d stick to beans on toast if I were you.”
“Right,” Lilah said unsurely. She looked down at her basket. “Just this then, I suppose.”
“Coming in here asking for truffles,” Mrs. Wilkins said as she scanned Lilah’s shopping. “What’s the world coming to?”
Lilah thought that this was probably a rhetorical question and decided not to answer it.
So much for making friends, she thought, as she shouldered her tote bag and walked out of the shop. She wondered if there was another store close by. Maybe a larger supermarket. She’d have to ask someone.
She turned in what she was fairly sure was the direction of the cottage and almost ran smack into a woman swathed in silk scarves like some kind of expensive mummy. The mummy let out a delighted squeal.
“Lilah Paxton, as I live and breathe, how marvelous!”
“Do we know each other?” Lilah asked, slightly confused.
“Not yet, not yet, but time will be sure to bring us together,” said the woman. “I’m Gloria. Cunningham?” she prompted when Lilah didn’t jump to shake her hand. “Come, you must have heard of me by now. I’m the head of the Bankton Players, the village am-dram society.”
“Am-dram?” Lilah asked, unsure that she’d heard properly.
“Yes, yes, amateur dramatics,” said Gloria. She leaned in. “What you Americans call Community Theater.”
“Ah.”
“And we’ve just decided that we’re going to be doing our rendition of A Streetcar Named Desire,” Gloria went on, oblivious to any sort of facial expression that Lilah might be making. “The only question, of course, is whether I play Blanche, or we do a gender reversal and I wiggle my way into a white t-shirt to play Stanley.” She looked Lilah up and down. “You would, of course, make a wonderful Stella, which could make the decision for us.”
Lilah, caught off guard by this, let out a laugh. “Oh, I don’t really do amateur theater,” she said, without thinking.
A silence fell that was so sudden and so thick that Lilah had to check time hadn’t actually stopped.
Gloria’s eyes had turned icy, and she was staring at Lilah in absolute disapproval. “Ah yes,” she said, haughtily. “I suppose youwereonce a professional, weren’t you?”
