‘You smile, but that’s not the same.’
‘Isn’t it?’
Fleur folded her arms and leaned against the counter, regarding Cathy for the longest moment. Then she shook her head slowly. ‘We can all smile and pretend there’s no pain going on behind it, and some of the time we can even fool everyone else into believing that too. But I can see it. From what you’ve told me you haven’t had an easy few years, love, so don’t feel bad for me pointing it out; nobody would blame you for faking that smile with what you’ve been through. Hell, I’m sure a lot of people wouldn’t even try to smile. But today… today it’s real enough. Whatever happens at your new class I think it’s good news that it’s got the go-ahead. It’ll be good for you, regardless of whether it’s good for anyone else.’
‘I suppose it will,’ Cathy said thoughtfully. She hadn’t really considered it that way until Fleur had said it, but now it seemed so obvious that this class was probably going to do more to help Cathy than it was anyone else. She couldn’t deny that she was excited too. Since the phone call from Iris her head had been buzzing with ideas for her first session – wondering who would come, what they’d be like, what they might need and want from her, how she could make certain everyone was included, what they could make that would keep the more skilled cooks challenged but not be too difficult for the less skilled ones, and what wouldn’t put off complete beginners.
‘Do you have any idea of numbers yet?’ Fleur wound a scarlet ribbon around the stems of a bunch of snow-white roses before pinning it in place so that it didn’t slip down when they were handled. They were part of an order for a winter wedding, and Cathy half wished she’d been invited to it because, if the choice of flowers was anything to go by, the wedding itself was going to be stunning. Fleur put the bouquet to one side and began work on another, smaller version where the white roses were broken up with carnations – presumably for one of the bridesmaids. She worked quickly and confidently, swapping the flowers with such dexterity that Cathy marvelled, distracted into silence as she always was, no matter how many times she’d seen it before. In a few short moments her boss flicked out a hand and Cathy placed another ribbon into it.
‘Not really,’ she said, remembering now that Fleur had just asked her a question.
‘What will you cook?’
‘I’m not sure about that either – I need to think about it. I’ll go through the recipes I’ve already written down to see if there’s something in there.’
‘I’m sure it would be easier to use something you’ve already got in your book,’ Fleur agreed. ‘Did you think any more about getting it printed?’
‘I haven’t really had time to think about it,’ Cathy said, cutting off another length of ribbon and placing it in Fleur’s waiting hand. ‘There’s just been too much going on.’
‘That sounds like an excuse if ever I heard one. Are you sure it’s not just you being overly modest as usual? Now would seem like the ideal time to me.’ Fleur took a pin from her mouth to fasten the stems of the posy she was currently constructing. ‘You could take copies to your class so that everyone would have the recipes to hand. And if you’re thinking nobody will want your book I’m sure that’s not the case. If they’re interested enough to sign up for the session then it stands to reason they would want a recipe book to accompany it.’
‘Oh,’ Cathy said. ‘I was just going to write it on the whiteboard.’
‘But then how would anyone make it again when they got home?’
‘I thought they might write it down if they wanted to do it again.’
‘Aren’t you going to send them an ingredient list before the class so they know what to bring?’
‘Well, probably, but that’s only ingredients.’
Fleur shook her head. ‘Why not send the method out too? You can’t rely on people getting it down right – you only have to play Chinese whispers to see how easily people can mess things up. I’d give them exact copies if I were you.’
‘But if they have a whole book of recipes at the first class they might not come back. Or if I send out the method then they might just do it at home anyway.’
‘Of course they’d still come. They can get recipes on the internet if they want to stay home; there’s hundreds of them out there. You said yourself it’s about socialising more than it’s about cooking. They’ll come back to see their friends again. They’d come back for you too; people want to be shown how to do things. Why do you think the TV schedules are full of programmes telling us how to make omelettes? Everyone knows omelette is basically a smashed egg, but we still want to be shown how to do it properly.’
‘You think so?’
‘I do. You worry too much.’
Cathy was about to reply when her attention was caught by a figure walking in through the double doors of the market hall. Her forehead creased into a vague frown, and much as she hated the treachery of a heart that shouldn’t have reacted as she recognised him, it began to beat that little bit faster anyway.
Fleur, noticing that the conversation had stopped mid-flow, turned to see what Cathy was staring at, and then her forehead creased into a frown too.
‘Isn’t that your old boyfriend? The one that bought flowers for his wife last week?’
‘Yes,’ Cathy said. And as she continued to watch, she realised with horror that he was coming to French for Flowers again.
‘I’ve got this,’ Fleur said in a low voice. ‘Make yourself scarce if you feel the need to.’
But Cathy didn’t have time to get away, and it would have looked too obvious anyway. She stood, rooted to the spot, unable to stop staring as Jonas walked towards them. He had his hands deep in the pockets of his expensively tailored woollen coat as he stopped at the stall and smiled.
A vague and fleeting thought crossed Cathy’s mind as she noted it. When they’d been together he’d been working as a delivery driver for a local warehouse, but during the five years they’d been apart much had changed. At least it looked that way, because the clothes he was wearing suggested that he didn’t drive delivery trucks these days.
Since the day he’d unexpectedly come back into her life she hadn’t been able to help thinking of him, even though she wished she could, and she’d even searched for him on an old Facebook account that she hadn’t logged into for so long she’d had to get a new password for it. Given her aversion to social media, that was significant in itself. But he’d either taken himself off there or else made himself invisible to the public, because she hadn’t been able to find him. And if she had – what would she have done anyway? Tortured herself with photos of him and his lovely wife and his perfect new life without her – the life she might have been gifted had her own fortunes been different?
In the end she’d decided she was better off not knowing and letting the past lie – it wasn’t like she was going to see him again anyway. So why did he have to go and ruin her one comforting thought by turning up again now? Why couldn’t he just stay away? Did he know what this was doing to her? Did he take some perverse pleasure in making her suffer, because he must have known that his coming here would make her suffer? How could he not know? Was he really that clueless?