Page 21 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
“That’s right.”
“Well I never!” She was deftly wrapping his purchases as she spoke. “I was at school with him! How’s he doing now?”
“Very well. He moved to Canada, you may know?”
“Really? Oh yes, I remember hearing that. Years ago, weren’t it?”
“That’s right. He’s a television producer — a quiz show. It’s very popular.”
“Goodness, he has done well for himself. Give him my best. Tell him Annie Bickle, as I was in those days. Though I don’t suppose he’ll remember.”
“I’ll tell him.” He took the paper carrier she handed over to him. “Goodbye.”
“’Bye, my luvver. Don’t forget now — Annie Bickle.”
“I won’t forget.” He smiled back over his shoulder as he stepped out into the sunshine . . . and almost collided with Shelley.
“Oh!” She gasped in shock, quickly stepping back. “I’m sorry . . .”
“No, it was my fault. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“Uh . . . Ah . . .” She was blushing, embarrassed.
He smiled, trying to convey reassurance. “Actually, I was just thinking of getting a coffee. Will you join me?”
She hesitated, that wary look in her eyes.
“Please?” He laughed. “It can be a bit lonely sitting on your own.”
Another hesitation, then she conceded with a small smile. “Well... okay. I was just going to get one too.”
“Good. Where . . . ?”
“Not the hotel,” she insisted quickly. “Debbie’s café’s right here. It’s really nice.”
She indicated the small café next door. It was a charming place, the window frame painted ice-cream pink, with the words CupCake Café on the board above, alongside three dancing cupcakes.
“Excellent.”
Shelley’s heart was thumping so hard she was afraid he would hear it. Why had she agreed to have a coffee with him? Of course, it wasn’t so bad going into Debbie’s place. She really couldn’t have a coffee with him in the hotel.
She liked the little café — it was clean and bright, but had an old-fashioned charm, with its cool black-and-white tiled floor, Formica-topped tables and white-painted chairs. The pale-blue walls were hung with colourful framed 1950s-style posters: ‘Welcome to Sturcombe’.
The glass-fronted cabinet at the back displayed a very tempting selection of cakes and scones, all sorts of savouries, and the famous cupcakes.
“This looks nice.” Alex smiled as he glanced around. “Especially those scones.”
“They’re all homemade.”
“Great!”
Debbie’s mum Kate was serving a table, and she glanced over, smiling. “Hi, Shelley. Sit down. I’ll be with you in half a tick.”
There was an empty table by the window. Shelley sat down before Alex could hold her chair out for her and picked up a paper sachet of sugar, twisting it in her fingers, feeling it crunch as she sought for something easy to talk about.
“What have you bought?” she asked.
“A couple of presents for my folks. Earrings for my mom, and a picture of Sturcombe for my dad. The lady in the shop said it was painted by her husband.”
