Besides, she loved her pretty cottage on the outskirts of town and she was well aware that it would be hard to find anything else that lovely and how lucky she was to have inherited it. The rooms might have sometimes felt too small and the beamed ceilings too low, and the tiny sash windows might have had gaps in the frames where the wind whistled through when it was high, and the front door might have been heavy panelled wood that often swelled during the winter, but to Cathy it all felt so familiar and comfortable that she couldn’t imagine living in a big bright modern house, even though she admired them in magazines and on TV.
Her mum had loved it too, and though she was no longer here, that fact was another reason not to give the place up. And even if it hadn’t been quite as lovely as it was, and even if her mum hadn’t loved it as much, the location and size was just about perfect for Cathy as she lived now, so why would she put herself through the stress of trying to find somewhere else that was probably not going to be as good for her?
Fleur stood in the tiny floor space of French for Flowers now, munching solemnly on a delicate pistachio macaron from a batch that Cathy had spent the previous evening whipping up in readiness for today. They were on their first cup of tea of the day – which they always had once they’d set up the stall with all the day’s fresh flower deliveries. Fleur always made the first cup of tea because she was always in far earlier than Cathy. Being single (after a particularly messy break-up) with no kids, she always said it didn’t bother her to come in at the crack of dawn because her business was about all she had that really meant anything to her. Sometimes that made Cathy sad to hear, though she knew that Fleur was loved by many friends and that she had a huge family both in England and in Barbados, and she was sure that Fleur – while sometimes discontented – wasn’t lonely or unhappy. From the way she talked about her ex, her boss didn’t seem all that interested in another man either, and from that point of view it was easy to see why she’d devote all her energy to her business.
As they stood together waiting for the working day to kick in, Cathy was telling Fleur about the recipe book she was planning to put together for the people she’d met at St Cuthbert’s.
‘That’s a brilliant idea,’ Fleur said. ‘I’ve always thought it a shame that such delicious recipes were only in your head and nobody else could have a go at them.’
‘They were in Mum’s head really,’ Cathy said. ‘And a lot of them I never had a chance to get out before she died. Even when she did share them with me, I can’t always remember exactly what she did or how she did it, so I’m having to fill up a lot of gaps as best I can with what I know about baking.’
‘Which is a lot.’
‘Not as much as some. I’m just an amateur, dabbling on a Sunday for something to do.’
‘Isn’t that what most people who bake are doing?’
‘I suppose so, when you put it like that.’ Cathy paused, the welcome warmth from the tea seeping through the mug and into her numb fingers. She hadn’t realised how cold it had become in the market building until she’d stopped running around. It was always cooler in winter, but today was bitter, even with the extra heater Fleur had switched on and stashed beneath the counter. ‘It was only really a handful of people who wanted recipes anyway and I bet they were only being polite, even then.’
Fleur raised a pair of disbelieving eyebrows.
‘I know,’ Cathy said, laughing. ‘I’m at it again, talking myself down.’
‘And you know what I think about that.’ Fleur was silent for a moment, her gaze trained on the huge double doors that marked the entrance to the old building. ‘You know that printers on the high street?’
‘Yes…’ Cathy wondered where this sudden turn was going to take the conversation.
‘They’ve got an offer on.’
‘Have they?’
‘So you could get your little book printed.’
Cathy took a sip of her tea, unsure how to reply to this. An exercise book full of scribbles was hardly worth anything to anyone, and certainly not worth getting printed.
‘What for?’ she asked finally.
‘You could sell them on here.’
Cathy’s mug stopped halfway on the journey to her mouth this time. She frowned at Fleur, whose pensive gaze hadn’t moved from the entrance doors.
‘On the stall?’
‘Why not?’
‘Who’d want them?’
‘Lots of people.’
‘The people on the cake stall wouldn’t like it.’
‘They can go hang. People are allowed to make their own cakes as well as buy from them. I can’t see anyone over there tearing a strip off Mary Berry if she walked in here now, could you?’
‘Well, no, but… she’s a celebrity.’
Fleur turned to her now. ‘Even Mary Berry had to start somewhere. I’m just saying you could make yourself a little extra and I think they’d go down well.’
‘And you’d be OK with them being on the stall here?’
‘Course I would! If I thought we could get away with it, I’d have you selling the cakes too.’
‘I couldn’t—’
‘I know, but there are no food hygiene issues with selling a little recipe book, are there? You could make a killing if you got them out in time for Christmas. You could even put Christmas recipes in there. I should have thought now’s the perfect time to get started on your Christmas baking. What are we now – about four, five weeks to go? Isn’t that when people usually get started?’
‘I’d have to find the money to get them printed first,’ Cathy said thoughtfully.
She paused, letting herself absorb the idea. But then she shook her head. ‘There’s no time for that – it’s going to take ages to put the book together as it is, and even though I have a lot, I don’t think I’ve got enough to make a proper, decent-sized book – at least, not decent enough that people would want to pay for it. And doesn’t a recipe book have to be all glossy with photographs and wipe-clean pages and stuff? Would the printers on the high street even be able to do that?’
‘You could easily take photos of your cakes for them to put in. They could even put photos of you in there.’
‘Me?’ Cathy burst out laughing. ‘We’re supposed to be persuading people to bake, not putting them off their pavlovas!’
‘I think you’d look lovely in there. Homely, wholesome… a domestic goddess with a secret saucy side… It works for Nigella; she’s made a fortune out of it.’
‘Now I know you’ve got something in your tea,’ Cathy replied, still laughing. ‘Not that I don’t appreciate the compliments. It’s a lovely dream, but it’s just that. Pie in the sky… if you’ll excuse the pun. But I might get some copies made for the next coffee morning; just a few pamphlet-sized ones.’
‘I still think you’re missing a trick there, but if you’re determined…’
‘Thanks, Fleur.’
Cathy put down her tea for a moment and gave her boss a quick hug.
Fleur laughed lightly as Cathy drew back again. ‘What was all that about?’