‘Thank you.’ I hold the shirt up to look at it. It’s clean but un-ironed, and my imagination is running riot. Who does it belong to? Girlfriend? Wife? One of his exes? And how did it end up in Matt’s workshop? Was it flung off during a passionate encounter right here on the workbench? I sneak a look at Matt as I make for the bathroom. He’s leaning over the workbench, sorting through some papers and seems to have forgotten about me.
Great bum. He carries off lycra very well indeed…
The little frisson that rushes through my body takes me by surprise. Like Eva’s favourite storybook character, Sleeping Beauty, my libido has been slumbering peacefully for the last hundred years or so. But I definitely felt it stir just then…
Matt turns and catches me looking.
Oops!
I hurry towards the bathroom but not before I catch the smile in his moss-green eyes.
‘There’s a clean towel in there,’ he calls as I escape behind the closed door.
Plonking the clothes down on a chair, I stare at my flushed face in the mirror, feeling all giddy like a hormonal teenager.
What the hell is happening to me?
When was the last time I reacted to a man like that? Frankly, it’s so long ago, I can’t remember. It must have been when I first met Eva’s dad, Ross…
I wriggle out of my muddy skirt and pull on the black trousers. They’re a little loose and half an inch too long, but I’m sure with my shoes on, I’ll get away with it. The little top I’m wearing was fine with my high-waisted skirt, but the trousers are quite low-slung, so there’s a little gap at my waist. I hold up the red shirt. It’s not a colour I’d usually wear. Being blonde, I tend to stay away from strong colours, but maybe it’s time for a rethink. Unless, of course, the flattering glow on my face has less to do with the complementary shirt colour and more to do with the embarrassing situation I’ve found myself in…
I’m easing myself into the snug shirt, hoping I won’t pop a button off, when there’s a rap on the door and Matt’s deep, velvety tones reach me. ‘I’ve cleaned the mud off your shoes. I’ll leave them outside.’
Flustered, I open the door a crack. ‘You didn’t need to do that. But…thanks!’
‘You’re welcome, Molly.’ He smiles and my eyes zero in on his lips for some reason. They look smooth. Well-shaped. Kissable.
‘Bag?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You’ll need something to put your muddy things in?’
Tearing my eyes away from those lips, I suddenly realise he’s holding out a plastic carrier bag. ‘Oh. Thanks, yes.’ As I grab it, our fingers touch and a funny little shiver skitters along my arm. ‘Right, I’ll just – um – ’ Swallowing, I point back inside awkwardly, and he nods and disappears.
Turning back to the mirror, I almost wail out loud. Two buttons have pinged open, leaving my lacy pink bra on show to the world.
Oh, God!
‘Bra on show’ might be an edgy look for a gorgeous actress on the red carpet, but not for a pale, height-challenged person like me whose ill-fitting, charity shop bra means generous boob spillage where it definitely shouldn’t be.
Quickly doing up the buttons, I step out with my bag of muddy clothes and slip on my newly-cleaned shoes.
Matt looks over from the workbench and nods. ‘Perfect.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile shyly at him. ‘For everything.’
‘No problem. Good luck for your first day.’
I take a sharp breath and straighten up, sucking everything in, my hand gravitating to my minor midriff bulge.
Matt frowns. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Oh, yes, I’m fine.’ I breath out cautiously.
He relaxes. ‘Good. For a minute there, I thought you were going to be sick.’
I laugh. A bit too loudly.
I might well throw up if I have to breathe in like this all day!
Whoever the mystery shirt-owner is, she’s obviously very stylish and exceedingly slim. I actually feel like I’ve been sewn into a corset; one misguided breath out and things are likely to explode in all directions.
‘Thanks again. I’ll return the outfit,’ I call, hurrying for the door.
My mission: to make it out of here before a button pops under the strain…
CHAPTER FOUR
I hurry along to the café, spotting a few cars in the previously empty car park.
It’s dead on ten-thirty. At least I’m not late.
The café feels cosy, thanks to the lowered ceiling and the cosy lighting. Walking in, the servery is straight ahead, with a kitchen beyond, and the long space to the left is filled with around twenty tables, ranged along the walls. Today, light is pouring through the three large windows on one side of the cafe, and there a children’s play area with books and toys at the back of the room.
I arrive slightly out of breath, my coat over my arm, and I’m greeted by Hope, who manages the place in Fen’s absence. I’ve met Hope before, when Fen brought Eva and me here for afternoon tea back in December, as a thank-you for our help with the food bank deliveries. A slim, friendly woman in her forties, with dark hair and an infectious smile, Hope puts me right at ease, giving me a quick tour of the café and the kitchen, and showing me the cupboard where the coats and bags stay.
‘Let me introduce you to the staff.’ She leads me over to an older woman who’s walking around with a tray, putting a sugar bowl and a flower in a vase on each table. ‘I think you know Bertha? Bertha Beavers?’
I smile over at the woman, and she puts down the tray.
‘Oh. We met at Ellie’s café,’ she says, recognition flaring in her eyes. ‘On one of those nights when we all gathered round to watch Fen on that TV baking show. Oh, speak of the devil!’
Fen is walking in at that moment, fresh from her usual morning of baking for Ellie at the Little Duck Pond Café.
Smiling, I shake hands with Bertha. ‘Of course. I thought I knew your face. Katja brought me over to meet everyone and I really enjoyed that night.’ I glance at Fen. ‘Although I’m not sure you did, Fen, having to see yourself on TV.’
Fen groans. ‘Don’t remind me. I definitely wasn’t born to be a celebrity. I just love making cakes, that’s all.’
I grin at Bertha. ‘She still gets recognised in the street as the runner-up on “that baking show”. It happens every time we go out delivering food boxes.’
Bertha nods. ‘I keep telling her she should get her own baking show on TV, like that nice Nadiya girl.’
Fen laughs. ‘Suggest that one more time and you’re sacked.’
Bertha frowns. ‘Please don’t do that. I’d have to talk to Ron if I was at home all day, and all he’s interested in is Manchester United and motorbike mechanics.’
‘How long have you and Ron been together?’ asks Fen.
‘Married forty-two years. And we’ve never had an argument serious enough to consider divorce. Murder, yes. But divorce, never.’ Her face is completely deadpan.
Fen grins at me. ‘She doesn’t mean it. She loves Ron to bits, really. It’s so romantic that you’ve been together all that time.’
‘Ha!’ Bertha gives an incredulous laugh. ‘Romantic? Give my Ron the choice and he’ll take a Marks & Spencer steak pie over a kiss and a cuddle any day of the week.’