The Café in Fir Tree Park. Katey Lovell
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late…
“The scones are fresh out of the oven,” I offer, “or the lemon drizzle cake is popular. It’s a bit of a favourite with my regulars.”
I immediately regret my choice of words, worrying my comment might come across as big-headed.
“Then I’ll trust their judgement,” he says with a smile. It’s a wide, affable smile over a jaunty, stubble-coated chin, and his dark eyes manage to be both intense and friendly all at once. “A slice of lemon cake and an orange juice please, and one of the cupcakes for Pepe.”
He turns, beckoning a small boy in a navy-blue tracksuit. The child is the spitting image of the man, a miniature version right down to the floppy almost-black hair and the large, lazy smile. The similarity is a timely reminder, a warning, and I immediately chide myself for allowing my far-fetched daydreams to get the better of me. Of course a man like this is married with a family. He’s way too attractive not to be. Plus he spends his Saturday mornings coaching other people’s children. A catch like that was never going to be single.
“Coming right up.”
I busy myself with the order, placing a gleaming glass filled with ice cubes on to the smooth, round tray before adding a chilled bottle of juice and two matching small, white side plates. Reaching for the tongs to select a cupcake, I carefully clasp the frilly yellow bun case between them before purposefully placing it in the very centre of one of the plates. Picking up the mock-marble-handled cake slice, I carefully nudge one of the more generous slices of lemon drizzle along the cake stand, jimmying it on to its side to transfer it to the plate.
“I can already smell the lemon,” he says as the cake balances precariously atop the cake slice. “I like it. It reminds me of home.”
I look up to offer a smile and politely ask where home is, but before I can say a word the cake has slid straight on to the counter. It crumbles sadly as I exclaim “Oh!”, hurriedly reaching for a serviette to tidy the mess, as though hiding the evidence will somehow undo my clumsy error.
Scooping the largest remnant of the cake into the white tissue paper, I exhale, feeling every inch an absolute idiot. But I don’t have chance to dwell on it as an olive-skinned hand skims my own.
I jolt back, acting on instinct. It’s as though a shock has been sent through my body by his fleeting touch.
“Let me help you.”
Pulling his hand towards him, he brushes the rogue crumbs into the palm of his other hand.
“I’m sorry,” I stutter nervously. “I’ll tidy the mess, then I’ll get you another slice.”
The little boy, Pepe, is wide-eyed at the mere thought of his cupcake.
“Why don’t you two sit down and I’ll bring it over to you?” I say, mortification charging through me.
“It’s fine,” the man insists, brushing his hands against the silky black material of his shorts. Stray crumbs fall to the floor. “We’re in no rush, we can wait.”
His eyes lock with mine and I nod graciously. I throw the cake-filled paper napkin into the bin before washing my hands in the small sink that lines the back wall. This small act gives me a moment to regain my composure. Heaven knows I need it. Inside I’m a mess: a jibbering, cake-dropping mess.
“Anything I can do here, Maggie?” asks Fern, her rounded cheeks aglow after cleaning the tables. She’s a delicate English rose with her creamy complexion, dark hair and natural blush, a real beauty. It’s just a shame Fern can’t see for herself how pretty she is, but that’s the reserve of the confident. Shy, retiring people rarely appreciate how beautiful they are.
“This gentleman’s waiting on a slice of lemon drizzle cake. I had one of my ditzy moments and managed to smash a slice to smithereens on the counter.” I bring the heel of my hand to my forehead. “If you could finish serving him whilst I go and check on what’s in the oven, please?”
Fern gives me a loaded look, one that shows she knows full well there’s nothing in the oven and that I’m scrabbling for an excuse – any excuse – to escape the shop floor after my faux pas; but she takes over anyway, managing to slice and serve the cake in one effortless manoeuvre.
I’m very nearly in the kitchen when the man’s voice calls out to me, polite and genuine. “Thank you, Maggie.”
Twisting on the spot until our eyes connect, I pause before speaking.
“Thank you…?” I say, my voice trailing off questioningly.
“Paolo,” he responds, his Italian accent stronger than ever. “My name is Paolo.”
I push the swing door open just a fraction, peeping cautiously through the gap. I don’t want to make a fool of myself yet again, but can’t resist sneaking one last look at Paolo and his son. They’re sat at the same table as the attractive young man with the pierced lip and dimples. I wonder how they know each other: they seem an unlikely friendship. Maybe it’s nothing more than both working in the park.
The little boy is scooping the buttercream from the top of his cupcake with his index finger before deliberately licking it off, whilst Paolo is cupping his glass of juice as he talks. They are proper man’s hands, big and protective, but even from here I can see it, the tell-tale gold band on the third finger of his left hand. It’s thick and glistening and screams ‘married’.
I close the door, disheartened. I refuse to allow myself to so much as daydream about a married man; it doesn’t feel right. Those trollops who had affairs with Clint all the while knowing I was sat at home looking after Josh and Kelly, well, I don’t want to be like them. What little froth of excitement I’d allowed myself to feel at this crush (or whatever it is) is starting to dissipate already. Even thinking about him is wrong if he’s not available, and the ring, not to mention Pepe, show that available is something he most definitely is not.
Fern appears from nowhere, making me jump.
“What are you doing?” Fern asks curiously, her brow furrowing as she examines my face.
“Nothing!” I hiss, my heart still racing from being unexpectedly disturbed. “And stop sneaking up on me!”
“I wasn’t sneaking.” She looks put out at the suggestion. “I came to see if there was any more gingerbread in the kitchen, that’s all. It’s selling fast today.”
“In the red tin in the cupboard. I made a double batch.”
“And how was the cake?” Fern asks innocently. Her large brown eyes are wider than ever with exaggerated virtue but there’s a knowing look on her face. Not quite a smirk – Fern isn’t the sort to smirk – but almost. “You were in such a rush to get away, I hope you got to it before it burnt.”
“All right, all right,” I say, throwing my hands up. I know when I’ve been rumbled. “There was no cake. I wanted the ground to swallow me up and escaping into the kitchen was the closest I could get to disappearing.”
“Thought as much,” Fern answers with a quiet triumph.
“But don’t you go getting any ideas,” I say sternly, waggling my index finger in warning, “and don’t you dare breathe a word either. He’s a married man. That in itself means I wouldn’t go near him with a bargepole, and you know how people around here love to gossip. I’ve been part of enough rumours to last a life time, so don’t go fuelling any more.”
“Hmmm,” Fern replies noncommittally. “But what if he wasn’t married? You must admit you’re attracted to him.”
“That’s neither here nor there: he’s a married man so there’s nothing to discuss. And that’s an end to it.”
Jutting out my chin, I take a deep breath to prepare myself before walking into the café. Stealing one quick, stealthy glance at the Italian’s table, I see the little boy high-fiving the young man with the sweeping blonde hair and pierced lip before stepping out