Portia MacIntosh - Summer Secrets at the Apple Blossom Deli

‘You did it, you did it,’ he chirped, bursting with pride, sort of like I did when he took his first steps.

The only problem was, Frankie figured I’d be fine after that, so he skated off on his own again. That’s when the fear kicked in. I think half my problem with ice-skating was a confidence thing, and without Frankie to hold on to, I was too scared to move. Kids and adults were zipping past me with ease so, after psyching myself up for a few minutes, I made my move, skating out, taking it a few inches at a time, and I was doing it, I was really doing it…and then I got too confident, I forgot to be careful, and I lost control. It felt like I was flailing around, completely out of control for a long time, but I don’t suppose it was more than a few seconds. By some miracle I managed to not only stay upright, but glide into the arms of a tall, blond, handsome man, and for someone who struggled to meet men – let alone introduce herself – this was almost too good to be true.

‘Hi,’ I blurted.

‘Hey,’ he replied.

‘Do women always fall at your feet or am I the first?’ I joked awkwardly, like I do.

‘Erm, just my wife,’ he replied, nodding to the leggy brunette to his left.

The flirting might not have been great, but the fall – and the recovery – were excellent.

My least graceful fall to date was six months ago, in Tesco, where I literally slipped on a banana skin and ploughed into a display of toilet rolls. The landing was soft, at least.

The main street has a real mixture of shops, from quirky little gift shops to a shop, hilariously called Fruitopia, that appears to sell nothing but jam.

There’s a shop that sells women’s clothing, but if the mannequins in the window are anything to go by, it’s probably not to my taste. The next shop along, though, is a cool gallery cum bookshop that looks like it might have some interesting stuff inside.

I step inside the large white room to the murmur of a classical music tune that I recognise, but couldn’t name. It feels lovely in here, with the cool air blowing down on me as I browse the photographs and paintings on the walls. It seems like most of them were taken or painted locally, which is cute. The books all seem to be similar in theme too – perhaps I could pick up something to give me an insight into the local area.

‘Hello,’ I say brightly to the man sitting behind a desk in the centre of the room.

‘Hello,’ he replies, taking off his glasses. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I was after a book about the local area.’

‘We have lots of them,’ he replies straight-faced.

‘Yeah.’ I laugh awkwardly. ‘I was hoping you could maybe recommend a specific one. Whichever is your favourite.’

‘Oh, sure,’ he replies.

He casts an eye over a table of books before picking one up and handing it to me.

‘This one should do it. It’s all about the history of the area, places for tourists to visit, local customs, etcetera.’

‘Brilliant,’ I reply. ‘I’ll take it.’

The man, an awkward thirty-something who, for some bizarre reason, is wearing a beanie hat on a sunny day, scans the book.

‘Can I interest you in some postcards featuring stunning local scenes for the folks back home?’ he asks, loosening up a little, as he points to a rack of cards to his left.

I glance at them.

‘No thanks,’ I reply, my smile dropping.

I can’t help but think about the postcard in my bag, the one from someone back home, and if there’s one thing I don’t wish, it’s that he were here.

Chapter 9

Standing in the playground, waiting for Frankie to finish school, I fantasise about taking my shoes off, and maybe soaking them in the bath for a couple of hours before dinner. It’s been a long day at the deli, making sure that everything is going to be ready in time, but at least the plumber turned up and fixed whatever problem was causing the smell. I damn near gave him one of my kidneys and he left, pound signs rolling in his eyes as he counted his money (which included his travel bonus). This only reminds me that I would never, ever, in a million years be able to afford to open my own deli, because even if I could gather some money together, you never know when you’re going to have to pay a big plumbing bill – if this really were my place, I probably would have had to give him a kidney. It’s all good though, because tomorrow when I turn up for work, it’s going to smell glorious, like fresh wooden counters, and it’s going to remind me that, even though we’re running into problems, I’m solving them.

I notice the gaggle of women from this morning, staring at me once again. They’re probably just curious, wondering who I am. If it were up to me I’d stay here, at the opposite side of the playground, hiding behind my sunglasses, but I know that I have a lot of work to do here, and it would probably be good for the business if I go over and introduce myself, show them that I’m a normal mum, just like them, and not at all ‘evil’.

By the time I walk over there are just three women left, all standing in a line, facing me, anticipating my introduction.

‘Hello, ladies,’ I say, wearing the biggest smile my face can accommodate. ‘My name is Lily Holmes, I’m Frankie’s mum. We’ve just moved into Apple Blossom Cottage and, erm, I’ll be running the new deli on Main Street.’

I continue to smile as I wait for their reply.

‘We know who you are,’ the woman in the middle says. It’s funny she should say that, she looks familiar to me too. ‘We knew you were coming, we just didn’t know who you were. Now we can put a face to the person who is trying to ruin this town.’

And, here we go. It’s so funny, the way she describes my arrival, like it’s some prophecy you hear at the start of a horror film before the monster turns up.

‘Listen, I know there’s a lot of animosity towards the deli—’ and me, apparently ‘—but I’m not here to make trouble. There’s nothing even close to a YumYum Deli in town, and there are lots of hungry tourists. There’s room for all of us. I promise, I am no threat to your or your families’ livelihoods.’

I feel my face fall into a more relaxed smile, happy with my response.

‘Do you know who I am?’ the woman in the middle asks.

If she’s asking, I must know her from somewhere.

To her left is a short, plump woman with a mess of black curls on her head. She’s wearing a beautiful pair of tortoiseshell Gregory Peck-style glasses that I would love if I didn’t wear contact lenses most of the time. I’d ask her where she got them from, although I suspect a compliment right now would seem insincere.

The mum to the other side is tall and skinny, with her mousey brown hair in two plaits that go down almost all the way to her waist. With her make-up-free face and her plaid shirt and jeans combo, she looks fresh off the farm.

And then, in the middle, there’s the ringleader of the three angry stooges. I stare at her for a moment when it hits me – I have seen her before. She looks a little different, without her Forties dress and her victory rolls, but it’s her all right. The woman from the seafront, who was staring at us the day we arrived. Oh, and these two must have been the women standing either side of her that day. Wow, I wonder if they always have to stand in the right order, like Ant and Dec do.

I’m just about to tell her where I recognise her from when she speaks again.

‘This is Jessica,’ she says, nodding to her short friend. ‘Jessica Dawson, as in Dawson’s Butchers, that she and her husband own.’

‘Oh, “burger me”,’ I blurt giddily. ‘I found one of your husband’s signs outside the deli. He’s a very pun-ny man.’