Page 17 of The Happy Hour
‘The best apologies are made with food that’s really bad for you.’
He gave her a sideways look. ‘That is very true.’
‘I’ve used those words in my shop.’
Ash frowned. ‘No Vase Like Home?’
‘No, not there. I have an Etsy shop.’
‘You have a side hustle?’
She nodded. ‘I make motivational prints. I took an arty photo of Kirsty’s stall, all those muffins arranged in their little paper cases, and I wrote that over the top.The best apologies aremade with food that’s really bad for you.It sells really well, but not as well as the cynical version.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The best apologies are heart attacksin disguise. Are theyreallysorry, or just trying tokill you?’
Ash’s laugh was a guffaw. ‘Are you worried I’m a killer, now? Do you want me to eat your half?’
‘No.’ Jess spun away from him, holding the muffin against her chest, then took another large bite to be on the safe side. ‘I wrote a new one last night.’
‘What did it say?’
‘A chanceencounter with a stranger could change your life: make roomfor the unexpected.Today has been unexpected, because first, I didn’t think you were going to turn up, and then you did, and then...’
‘I forced you to prove your status as a local by giving you a spot test on the sights of Greenwich peninsula?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I’m very glad I turned up,’ he said. The conviction in his voice made Jess look at him more closely. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were holding hers, inviting her to tell him all her secrets. ‘I love the sound of your prints. The dark and the light.’
‘I love making them,’ she admitted. ‘I like the thought that something I’ve created is making someone’s home a bit brighter, whether I’m inspiring them or making them laugh.A new dawn is a chance to make ahundred more mistakes; your oldest friends are the ones whohaven’t worked out how to get rid of you.’
Ash laughed. ‘Ouch.’
‘Too bitter?’
‘Too real,’ he said. ‘I think I prefer the positive ones.’
‘OK.’ She gave him a small smile, but inside, it felt as if the world was shifting around her. Ash touched her lightly on the knee, a gentle pressure through her dress, and she went very still, focusing on the sensation, the low rumble of her internal earthquake.
‘Hey, I—’
He was interrupted by a small white dog rushing up to their bench. It reminded Jess of an illustrated edition she’d had of
T. S. Eliot poems, the drawings in ‘Growltiger’s Last Stand’ and ‘The Pekes and the Pollicles’.
The dog bounced in the grass at their feet, scraping Ash’s jeans with its tiny paws.
‘Hey, little guy,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
‘She’s a demon,’ said a tall, thick-waisted woman wearing a cranberry red coat, striding up the hill to join them. ‘It doesn’t matter how securely I fix her lead to her harness, she always manages to escape.’
‘She’s adorable.’ Ash ran his fingers through her candy-floss fur, his hand almost the size of the little dog’s head.
‘She’s too sociable, that’s her problem. Always looking for new friends. Come on, Diamanté, leave these people alone.’
Ash glanced at Jess, amusement shining in his eyes, and Jess put her coffee cup in front of her face to hide her smirk.
