Catherine Ferguson - Love Among the Treetops - A feel good holiday read for summer 2018

It seems only polite to take some. ‘Nice.’ I nod, crunching my bite-sized stick. Actually, I’m not joking. It tastes deliciously fresh.

‘Organic,’ she says, offering the box to Theo, who declines with a polite smile.

As she leaves, she glances over her shoulder (obviously not at me) and purrs, ‘Do phone if you’ve any questions about the 10k. My number’s on the back of the leaflet.’

Theo assures her he certainly will and even gives her a cheerful little wink. I conclude he probably fancies her. And let’s face it, it would be a bit rude not to. Olivia is blonde, willowy slim and very pretty. She could be a model.

I bet Theo gets in touch with Olivia, 10k or not. I stare out of the window, wondering why I feel deflated.

The fields and houses rattle past and I think about Mum and Dad in London, facing the biggest hurdle of their lives.

‘The trouble with celery,’ murmurs Theo suddenly, ‘is that it’s ninety-five per cent water and one hundred per cent not pizza .’ I look over and he bestows a wink on me, too, which cheers me up no end.

He gets back to his adventures with crochet and I apply myself with renewed enthusiasm to expanding the list of mouth-watering carbs in my notebook.

But the gentle rocking of the train is dangerously soporific. The words in blue Biro keep blurring into one – ‘chocolate honeycomb slice’ merging with ‘buttery cherry and coconut cake’.

I haven’t slept properly for weeks. I’ve been waking monotonously regularly at some ghastly pre-dawn hour, my brain leaping instantly into worry mode. If I were to close my eyes now, I’d probably end up in Lake Heath, which is the end of the line. I need to stay awake.

In less than half an hour, I’ll be alighting at Hart’s End Station and walking back into the old family home, with all its familiar nooks and crannies and memories. But with one big difference.

There’ll be no Mum to fuss over me and put the kettle on. And no Dad to greet me with one of his big, comforting bear hugs.

A pang of grief hits me.

I wanted to be with them at my aunt’s house in London. That’s where they’re staying while Dad has the pioneering medical treatment that we desperately hope will improve his quality of life. (I try not to dwell on the very best scenario – that the treatment could actually halt the cancer in its tracks and send Dad into remission. I tell myself it would be enough just to have him back to his old, energetic self, able to go fishing and do his wood carving in the man-cave.)

My plan to open a café in Dad’s old shop premises means I can’t join them in London. Instead, I’m coming home to Hart’s End to put my last year in Manchester – training as a pastry chef – to good use.

The advantage of using Dad’s empty shop is that it already has planning permission for a café – so that’s the plan! Hopefully, if it goes well (and to be honest, that’s an ‘if’ the size of a small continent), I might be able to earn enough money to save my parents having to put Honey Cottage up for sale. It all sounds fairly logical in my calmer moments. But waking in the middle of the night, frantic over my family’s uncertain future, the idea just seems pie-in-the-sky ridiculous.

Do people really open cafés and make a living from them? I mean, clearly, they do. There are café owners all over the UK who can attest to it – but my worry is this: Am I deluding myself, imagining I can be one of them?

Honestly, I haven’t a clue.

But since I can’t think of a better idea, then I’m just going to have to go with it. Because Mum and Dad have got quite enough to worry about – in just a few days, Dad starts his treatment – without thinking they’re going to lose their lovely home as well. They’ve lived at Honey Cottage all their married lives and it would break their hearts to leave. Plus, it’s always been a secret dream of mine to open a café and spend my days up to my elbows in flour.

It was my love of baking that led to me giving up my public relations job in London a year ago – at the age of thirty-one – and enrolling at catering college in Manchester, with the intention of becoming a pastry chef. And it’s also why I’ve now decided to change direction again and put those baking skills to practical use.

We will not lose the family home!

I lean back my head, my shoulders slumping, finally giving in to exhaustion. I’ll close my eyes for just five minutes …

*****

I’m woken by a giant pig snorting into a microphone.

What the … ?

My startled gaze falls on Theo. He’s still concentrating on his book but there’s a suspicious tension about his mouth. He’s trying not to smile.

Oh God, the great snuffling pig must have been me. How bloody mortifying.

Theo removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. Then he glances over and I notice they’re an incredible deep blue colour. Quite mesmerising. ‘I was just about to wake you up. We’re here.’ He nods outside as the train glides into Hart’s End and comes to a stop by the big, ornate station clock.

Eek!

I grab my notebook and pen, and stuff them into my handbag, along with all my other bits and pieces. To my surprise, Theo appears to be getting off at this stop, too. I follow him along the carriage, noticing Olivia also getting up to leave the train. Theo courteously ushers her out into the aisle in front of him and she says something I can’t quite catch and they exchange a smile. I feel like a peeping Tom, intruding on a private moment between them, and a feeling of irritation rises up from nowhere. I wish I was off this damned train and walking up the path to Honey Cottage!

I try to peer round Theo to catch sight of my backpack in the luggage rack at the end of the carriage, but he towers above me, his broad shoulders blocking the view, so I give up.

When I get to the rack, panic sets in because I can’t see my backpack at all. Then I realise that someone has dumped their enormous black suitcase on top of my modest-sized bag, squashing it underneath. So then, of course, I have to try and heave the massive monster off, which – ten sweaty seconds later – I’m realising just isn’t going to happen. It’s stuck. There’s probably a dead body in this bloody suitcase, it’s so immovable!

The train is going to leave any second!

I need my backpack!

Suddenly, two strong arms are moving me gently but firmly aside. Dazed, I watch as they proceed to haul the evil black suitcase off the top of the pile. Quickly, I grab my backpack and turn to find Theo sliding the case back onto the rack. Then he guides me firmly towards the doors, leaps down onto the platform, then half-pulls, half-carries me off the train in the nick of time, just as the electronic whistle announces the doors are closing.

As the train moves slowly off, I find myself staring up into Theo Steel’s deep blue eyes, still clasped to his powerful chest and trying – with limited success – to get my breathing under control.

‘Thank you,’ I gasp, and he lets go of me.

‘No problem.’ He smiles lazily. ‘Didn’t want you ending up in Lake Heath. It’s a long walk back.’

‘True.’ I turn to hoist the backpack onto my shoulders, which conveniently hides my blushes. ‘But didn’t you say you live in Lake Heath? Why get off the train one stop early?’

Backpack secured, we start walking towards the station exit. Olivia and her irritatingly pert bottom are sashaying along just a few yards ahead of us and I’m quite certain Theo Steel is taking full advantage of the view. This makes me feel unaccountably cross. Probably because I’m shattered after the long journey.

‘I live in Lake Heath but I work in Hart’s End,’ says Theo. ‘I’m a personal trainer at the sports centre there.’