Page 70 of A Brambleberry Manor Christmas
‘No, of course not.’ I endeavour to look offended, but shesees right through me. I’ve never been very good at bare-faced lies.
I start to laugh and I’m relieved when her mouth twists intoa begrudging smile.
‘You like him. I know you do. And he likes you, so…’ Ishrug. ‘Ask him out. Have some fun. It has to be better than sitting in thehouse knitting every night.’Or watching endless repeats of Strictly. Howhypocritical am I?
She shrugs, which I take as a good sign.
‘Oops, here he comes.’ I rise to my feet. ‘I’ve justrealised I’ve got to wash the gerbil’s hair.’
‘You haven’tgota gerbil!’ she snaps, but she’ssmiling.
‘Haven’t I?’
I glance at my watch as Hard Hat Man arrives back. ‘Sorry,Paul, I have to go now. But I’m sure Flo will stay and chat.’
He grins. ‘I think I can handle that.’
‘Right, well, I’ll leave you to it.’
When I step out of the door, I glance back, intending togive Flo an encouraging look. But she’s already laughing at something Paulsaid, and bantering right back at him, by the looks of things.
I walk home, past the stunning Christmas tree on the villagegreen, and my heart aches for two reasons. The tree looks so impossibly beautiful.And I’m probably never going to see Noah again.
But I suppose at least I’ve managed to matchmake two lovelypeople today…
Merry Christmas, Flo!
CHAPTER THIRTY
When I get home, I walk in to find Tavie at the hob inthe kitchen, stirring a pan and looking a bit flustered and red-cheeked.
‘Hi! I thought I’d make tomato soup for lunch. As asurprise.’
‘Wow.’ I wander over to look.
‘Don’t get too excited,’ she warns. ‘It’s not anythinglikethe tomato soup you used to give me when I was a kid. This has gotlumpsin it.’ She shows me the contents of the pan with a look of disgust. Chunks oftomato and onions are swimming in a thin liquid. ‘How did you get yours to beso smooth?’
‘Well, it was a rather complicated process, actually.’
‘I thought so.’
‘Took me years to get it just right.’
‘So tell me.’
I nod solemnly. ‘Hm, well, first of all I had to get in thecar and drive to the supermarket, put tins in a wire basket, pay for them, thendrive home and get the tin-opener out.’
‘That wastinnedtomato soup?’
I laugh at her surprised face. ‘It was, indeed. But if you’dlike your soup to be smooth, why don’t you get the food processor out and whizzit up?’
‘Whizz it up?’
I nod. ‘Grab some double cream and a few basil leaves fromthe fridge and your soup will be perfect in no time.’
Fascinated, she watches as I slosh the lumpy soup into theprocessor. Then she drops in the herbs and some salt and pepper, pours in somecream, puts the lid on and hits the switch.
‘Wow, I can cook,’ she murmurs ten minutes later as we tuckinto her surprisingly tasty tomato and basil soup with hunks of crusty bread.
